The stars weren't visible due to the pollution in Brooklyn, but at least the moon was there, shining bright and overtaking the sun as the last amber rays fizzled out behind distant rooftops and industrial smoke.

Outside the restaurant, the line of patrons looked almost theatrical. Tense shoulders in designer jackets, sky-high heels wobbling with impatience. Seeing the wealthy—those who normally drifted through the world on invisible privilege—reduced to waiting like the rest of the city’s population was always a fucking comedy show. Power stripped in real time. Hilarious.

Nico leaned against the chipped brick wall, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest like a statue carved out of cold intention. The dim glow of the restaurant’s neon sign painted one side of his face with flickering orange. He was itching for a smoke—fingers twitching slightly—but he resisted. The scent of his cologne, carefully selected and outrageously expensive, had to remain undisturbed.

Around him, his friends were complaining about having to wait, talking shit like "you get us through anywhere but here, so why do we go here every fucking week?". Their complaints were mumbled, accompanied with kicking off a small pebble, or sucking hard at a cig like it owed them money. Nico stayed quiet.

It took time but, eventually, they got a table. The inside of the restaurant was dim, expensive-looking without being obvious about it. The kind of place where the quiet screamed money. His friends fell into their chairs recklessly, like they owned the place, grinning, elbows on the table, already tossing napkins into their laps. Nico sat down with deliberate grace. Controlled and calculated. A diversion from the norm, maybe, but he was focused. The menus were already sprawled out, and as his friends looked them through, his own dark eyes surveyed the room, looking for the waitress.

Just as the ambient clatter of utensils and soft piano music began to dull into the background, a voice cut in. The wrong voice, asking if they were ready to order. Nico didn't look at the waiter. Just gave a sharp, non-negotiable command: "No. Another waiter."

The waiter blinked with annoyance rather than surprise, but schooled it in, and Nico's friends rolled their eyes, mumbling amongst themselves. The fascination with the waitress had not gone unnoticed.

Only when Nico saw that waiter crossing the room, clearly explaining something to the waitress, did his attention drift—eyes softening just barely, just for a moment. Then, finally, he looked back at his table, acknowledging his friends with the indifference of someone who’d already moved on mentally.

And when the waitress came to take their orders, he barely looked at her—just enough to give her a look that said "it's only you and I here".

The dinner dragged on—Nico’s doing entirely. He stretched their stay with calculated ease, waving off the bill, ordering more wine, asking vague questions he didn’t care about. Two fucking hours past their meal, his friends were ready to riot. They took turns stepping outside to smoke, pacing the sidewalk like restless dogs. Conversation had dried up. The wine had turned bitter. Boys like that needed action, motion, noise. Not candlelight and polished forks.

It was fine. Nico eventually gave them permission to leave. The line outside had vanished. Inside, the hum of conversation had quieted to a near whisper, the dining room thinning like mist.

Finally, he sat alone, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass in lazy, hypnotic circles. Waiting.