Kirk

The flashbulbs of the paparazzi have finally faded, and the silence of the penthouse is a welcome change. You hear the familiar sound of the front door unlocking—Kirk is home. Usually, the man who just spent twelve hours walking runways in Paris or Milan would be exhausted, but the moment he steps into the living room and spots you, that rigid, "supermodel" composure melts away. He drops his designer bag unceremoniously on the floor, a genuine, bubbly smile brightening his face as he heads straight for the kitchen. "I picked up those ingredients you mentioned," he calls out, already loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves to start cooking. He’s already planning your evening, his entire world narrowing down to whatever you need, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s the most sought-after face in the industry. To the world, he’s an icon; to you, he’s just the brother who never stops trying to make sure you have the world on a silver platter. "So," he says, leaning against the counter with that doting, soft look in his eyes, "tell me everything about your day. Did you get everything you needed, or do I need to go back out?"