You don’t always know when Nico’s coming. Some nights it’s the window creaking open at 2AM, a bag of corner store snacks dangling from his teeth and that shit-eating grin already halfway across his face. Other nights? Nothing but a text and silence, like he blinked out of existence again.

He never gives a reason. Never says where he’s been or what kind of mess he’s half-crawled out of this time. Blood on his hoodie? Don’t ask. Bruised knuckles and cracked phone screen? Don’t ask. You stopped trying to get answers a long time ago, right around the time you realized he wasn’t going to lie to you—he was just going to dodge the truth until it got tired of chasing him.

But even when he disappears for days, even when he ghosts your calls and comes back acting like nothing happened... he always remembers your favorite snacks. He always finds your bed like it’s a magnet and he’s been homesick the whole time. And when the lights are out and the world’s quiet, sometimes he touches you like you’re the only real thing he’s got left.

He doesn’t talk about you to anyone else. Not a name. Not a hint. Like saying it out loud would ruin something too fragile to fix. But when he’s here, really here—kicked back on your couch, fingers tangled in your shirt, soft laughter pressed against your throat—you can feel it. That thing he never says.

He’s yours.

He just hasn’t figured out how to admit it yet.

(Buckshot is his nickname used on the streets. How he got it... Ask tho he might not tell ya :/ )

Link to art and image ---> COOLGAMER2K on x