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“K-404. We got a flier eastbound on the 95.”
Till’s sirens wail as he weaves through the inexplicable Monday evening traffic. He’s got his foot on the gas, one hand on the wheel, and the other slapped over his forehead because seriously, what the fuck went wrong?
“Guess he doesn’t like twinks.”
Sure as the sky is old dishwasher gray, a theatrical jerk’s hijacked his comms just as his patience’s been spread thinner than roadkill on the interstate.
If he could flip Luka off, he would. Ignoring him has a similar effect. “Backup from East?”
The guy on the Ninja’s shoddy excuse for not having a plate had been a panicked: “Oh shit, it must’ve fallen off a few miles back.” When Till had offered to go look for it, the rider snatched his keys right off the ground at Till’s feet, playing him for a damn fool. His captain Hyuna would blame it on his naivety; Till would blame it on his cognitive lag; it’s clear either way why he graduated bottom of his class and needs vets to put greasy fuckers in their place.
Because in hindsight, there’s no chance that guy’s ID was real! Even the upper echelon nut jobs in this city would be out of their minds to name a kid Acorn, of all things, right?
“Aye aye, captain. You know what they say, birds of a feather, uh, don’t flock together…or something. Didya know that I’m 100% switch?”
“Did you know that I don’t care?”
“Cute. But you know I’m the person who cares about you most in the world right now.”
Ah.
Well, damn. He’s not wrong. The nice thing about radio is that you’re not physically obligated to respond, so Till lets the silence ride, chewing on the unexpected sour taste in his mouth.
Issac’s voice cuts through his thoughts like cold steel.
“… K-417, intercepted green Ninja on the D overpass”.
All hail the man, the myth, the legend.
Till pulls up beside the brunette’s cruiser a minute later. To his utmost relief, Acorn’s face says it all: a below-zero possibility of another chase. Sometimes Issac’s resting I-will-ruin-your-life scowl does wonders in their field. Till, on the other hand, can only sulk about the non-threatening looks his mom blessed him with.
He knows this type; stomp on those they think they can disrespect and cower when they meet a bigger fish. Troublemakers like Pinecone will plead, “I made a mistake,” to which Till will respond, “So did your parents.” Tonight, though, he only thanks the high heavens that the guy avoided a crash and escorts him to Dewey’s Duplex.
By the time the paperwork’s done, his eyes and back ache in 1920s instead of his 20s. Still, he drags himself back into the cruiser, scrubs it down of Acorn’s lice and tears, and readies it for the next sorry sucker on shift.
“Hey Till, you doin’ alright?”
“Y-yeah.” No, not really. “I’m clocking out, so quit hovering over me and make good use of taxpayer dollars.”
“Whatever you say, rookie. Don’t mind if you think about me at night, if you’ve got no one else.”
And damn him, the harmless jokes. Because sure enough, when Till unlocks his front door in the wee hours of the morning, drops his belt in a hollow thud on the floor, and half-stumbles through a shower in the dark. Doesn’t even make it to the phone to finally call her back, or the bed before collapsing on the couch.
Luka’s words echo louder than the empty apartment.
“F-404. Bike clocked at 80 in a 55 northbound on Route 1. Code 4.”
“F-404.10-4. Crossin’ my fingers they’ll get a good look at you and behave.”
Just another day of chasing fuckboys on wheels, while everyone else’s on homicide or welfare or some societally productive shit. It’s the end of his shift and Till’s tempted to disengage, but a single look at the bike’s license plate has steam pouring out of his ears.
Fuck this guy for endangering the entire highway; Fuck him for making him work overtime; and Fuck him for naming his bike SEXGOD.
“Dispatch, run S-E-X-G-O-D. I’ve got a matte black Ducati with a red pinstripe.”
Static, then, “Till…are you flirting with me?” Luka’s voice is disgustingly soggy.
Till makes no effort to mask his groan. “Negative.”
“I’m just playin’. Registered to a 24-year-old named Ivan, no wants. Two speeding violations within the last four months.”
Alright, he can work with that. As long as he doesn’t run. Sighing, Till steps out of the cruiser, adjusts his belt, and walks up to the alleged “sexgod” while tossing a couple of professional pleasantries his way.
“You know the drill, bud,” he gestures for the biker to pass him his keys this time, pushing his sunglasses and bangs to the top of his head. “I know you that you know,” he glares him down for effect, “that you were going 80 in a 55. But do you realize that you almost caused a multi-vehicle accident?”
The biker tilts his helmeted head, crossing his arms, jacket bunching in the crook of his elbow.
“Badge number?”
The lilting voice is muffled through the cracks of his visor, and Till resists the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head.
“Seventy-one-one-one,” he drones. “Officer Till.”
And in hindsight, he really should’ve known.
“Good boy,” the biker drawls, smugly—well, Till can guess. He dismounts, standing a head taller than Till. Fantastic. A cocky giraffe bastard.
Till’s examining ID and registration when the biker lifts off his helmet to reveal soft, tousled black hair, hard features, and—
And— alright, Till will admit, he’s got a pretty nice voice. His looks aren’t half bad either but it’s not like he could be on the cover of Vogue or cast as live-action Nightwing, not that Till cares or anything.
Smells fuckin’ hot too, like crackly fire, but again, nothing to write home about. He’s just making a statement, point-blank period.
“Hey officer, there something on my face?”
His taser burns a hole in his waist. Or maybe he’s just in pain because of how long his belt’s been digging into his hipbone.
“No, sir,” Till starts, voice cracking on exhaustion. “Just need you to slow down,” he says, turning to write up the citation.
Till’s tried his best. He’s offered a peaceful way out as he always does, but when it’s time to hand Ivan back his papers, the man lunges at him.
“What the fu-“
Till has half a mind to smoothly side step and hook Ivan’s feet backwards before shoving him over the hood of his cruiser. Once he’s got his massive fucking wrists pinned, he realizes he’d used his handcuffs on a certain nut job yesterday. His zip ties are still in his trunk.
“Sorry! I swear, I tripped—I wasn’t trying to pull anything!” Ivan babbles.
The day’s grime squeaks behind Till’s ear as if to warn him not to volunteer any extra paperwork, so he gives Ivan the benefit of the doubt and shoves him and his leather to the side, not because he’s good-looking and Till wanted to see him stumble or whatever. Clips some extra handcuffs to his belt and reattempts handing back the paperwork.
“Don’t mess around,” he grumbles, side eyeing the raven, again, not because he’s attractive but just to double-take on whether he’ll cloak and dagger Till (an incident he’d rather not recount).
“Would never do such a thing, officer. You’re crazy strong for such a small guy. I’m sorry for doubting you earlier.”
Till snorts. “Yeah? Then stop speeding and save us the trouble of scraping your guts off the pavement.”
Ivan grins, hair falling into his eyes, sunset catching his dark pupils.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why? Is it really that hard?”
Ivan hums thoughtfully.
“Better to feel something than nothing at all, you know?”
“You know your insurance has been and will continue skyrocketing, right?”
“I can pay it,” Ivan shrugs. “So… it's whatever.”
Jesus. It’s whatever.
“Your license is gonna get suspended, your precious bike will be impounded, and the traffic judge’s not gonna go easy on you. These are real consequences,” Till explains, mind-boggled. Ivan doesn’t seem to notice his distress, shrugging coolly.
“I can be bailed out and get another bike. I’ve got talented friends.”
“That’s-“ — not how life works , Till wants to finish. But it’s like he’s speaking a foreign language or playing classical music to a bug. He hasn’t felt this helpless since a lovesick Mizi barged into his apartment freshman year of her university, puking out her feelings over a girl with the emotional quotient of a brick. “Don’t you value your own life?”
Till’s not some therapist trying to fix speed demons who are keen on self-destruction, but something deep down in his gut is pushing out a moral urgency to help the guy out, even though he’s probably the last who’d take any.
“Not really,” Ivan says, smiling at Till a little distantly. Point proven.
“It’s not about just you, okay? Think about all the collateral damage you might cause. What makes your recklessness come before the safety of others?”
“Can’t help it,” Ivan concedes as Till reluctantly hands back his keys. “Once you’ve had a taste, you can’t go back.” His eyes sweep Till up and down, up and down, and up. “On second thought, you might wanna follow me home tonight. My stomach’s rumbling to break the sound barrier.”
At least according to the police radar, Ivan doesn’t go seven over the speed limit as they weave through the streets of the city. While Till is fucking mortified to be babysitting a grown ass man, he even feels a prickle of pride when Ivan slows down in the school zone. The bar is truly on the damn asphalt.
By the time the sun slips over the horizon, Ivan pulls up to a driveway in an expectedly grandiose neighborhood lined with wrought iron fences, the roofs of McMansions hidden behind intricate landscaping.
“Hey!” Till calls out through the open window. Ivan turns his helmeted head, fingers splayed on his thigh.
“Find a way to have fun while not hurting anyone else!” Half an hour ago, Till’d be ripping this guy a new one, but it's another night ending in prayer. He silently praises his mother's strict parenting, because how does this level of entitlement even manifest? “Not sure if you knew, but some people are more important than you—families, kids we’re supposed to protect. I never want to see you again, okay?”
Ivan blows him a kiss through his helmet. “See you later, alligator,” he flutters his fingers in farewell.
The ride back to the precinct is packed with Till’s colorful language and Luka’s watercooler gossip. “You did that…for him!?” and “He was that cute??”, and “Oh baby, you’re playing with fire.”
On Saturday, Hyuna gifts him ripstop cargo pants with five extra pockets!— and the unfortunate reasoning that his “tiny ass waist” makes it impossible to hang anything from his belt.
It’s a lifesaver. Everything and anything is accessible for once, including an extra donut wrapped in a napkin from a stash that one of the wives dropped off at the station. And uh, he’s definitely not stuffing his face in one right now, sitting at a red light.
He’s mid-chew when he hears the pleasant hum of an engine outside his window, and he won’t lie, those engineers knew what they were doing—making a machine sound like fucking sin. All that power between your thighs.
Like, damn.
He’s admiring it rather sordidly, completely aware that the rider has his head turned, staring at him curiously. But Till continues taking delicious mouthfuls, licking he powdered sugar off his lips, checking out the bike from behind.
There are two problems that make themselves apparent. First, the bike is one he’s definitely pulled over before. It’s that distinct black and red Ducati. SEXGOD, right? But the second is evidently that said license plate is nowhere to be seen.
Till profiles the rider once more: black AGV, black t-shirt, faded black pants, white sneakers, silver chain, tattoos snaking around his arm. He swears the guy winks under the helmet. Annoying fucker. Why do the hottest people have the most piss-poor personalities?
Till shoves the last bit of his donut into his mouth, chewing aggressively as he sits upright and snaps his fingers outside the window. He points emphatically toward the side of the road, furrowing his brows in an attempt at intimidation.
Don’t even think about it, he mouthes.
The biker slouches dramatically and drives over, slowly and carefully, killing his bike and tossing the keys by the curb. He then flops down on the green lawn, star fishing his limbs such that his thin shirt rides up.
“Hey man!” Till shouts, storming angrily up to the guy. “Where’s your plate?” Biker jumps to his feet and scurries to check the back of his bike in surprise. “Eh, let me guess, it fell off yesterday.”
His gloved hands fly up to his helmet in despair.
“No, I promise you, it was there!”
Hell, it really is him.
“You sure? Because I distinctly remember telling you I never want to see you again.”
“That’s not true,” Ivan says, taking off his helmet. “Imean– the part about you never wanting to see me again.”
Till rubs his temples. “Where and when’d you lose it?”
“I was grabbing lunch with a friend. She and the guys at the café saw it in the lot. Someone must’ve swiped then.”
He’s pretty sure this is textbook for doubt. Ivan’s puppy eyes are wide and earnest, so Till sighs, “Fine, let’s go after it.”
Till turns—and feels a vice-like grip on his arm. Instinctively, he reaches for his retractable baton, but fuck a truck, he’s picked the wrong pocket. This one's got diabetes instead of retribution in it.
Ivan pulls back his hand, grinning nonchalantly. “Sorry. Did you know you’re kind of cute when you’re gullible?” He walks around to the front of his bike and unclips his plate to hang it on the back.
Till is this close. This close. Did nothing he had said sink in? He stomps back to his car, fiddling with his belt, willing down the flush creeping up his neck. The audacity—just because they’re the same age!
Ivan’s helmet is back on when he saunters over to Till’s side of the window and leans in. Till pretends he doesn’t exist and is about to peel away, possibly knock the man into his ass and make a dent in his Ducati, but then Ivan reaches inside, and get this,
Starts playing with his hair.
The–the absolute audacity! He’s so— he’s so, “AAHRHHGH ”, he screams silently into the panel of his car.
Ivan stops him as he reaches for his radio for Luka.
“Till, you can’t even stop me from speeding, and you’re gonna stop me from being interested in you?” He’s laughing, chuckling at Till from underneath his helmet, Till knows for a fact.
He’s so dead. He’s so fucking dead. Till seethes to his next call, swearing to the high heavens that the next time he sees the piece of shit, he’ll be behind bars, crying for his daddy.
At night, the sounds of V-twins swirl in his mind. And a leather glove, dragged down his bare sternum until it settled around his lap, around his pistol. Almost intoxicated, Till allows it to move every which way it pleases.
Sometimes, in his dreams, the wind caresses his hair. He’s holding something rock solid but warm and craves it a bit more each time he closes his eyes.
Sometimes, he drives by Ivan’s neighborhood just to make sure the Ducati is sitting under the cover on his thousand-yard driveway. Often, he sees parents and their children coming out of Ivan’s mansion, to which he assumes he runs something akin to a Montessori school, and then realizes he doesn’t know the guy at all. And should he?
Would he like to? Yes, he actually would.
Him and his problems are rather intriguing.
But then Luka calls him in and the job takes precedent, as always.
Don’t get Till wrong, Ivan still pisses him off profoundly.
First of all, the guy rides like absolute shit.
Till ends up behind SEXGOD for a few miles during rush hour, and Ivan will NOT keep his eyes on the goddamn road in favor of looking back at Till in his cruiser, resulting in one too many near rear-ends. He’s also got a terrible habit of announcing his presence by revving his bike like a damn peacock fluffing its feathers. His exhaust is too fucking loud, long, and illegal, it makes Till’s ears bleed. Eats a couple of red lights and stop signs after getting off the highway right in front of Till’s salad, as if to challenge him to do something about it.
“If I light you up, will you run?” Ivan’s often in his 9 o’clock, splitting the lanes beside Till’s cruiser.
“I’d never run from you, officer. Never,” he says, eyes curled in the way that Till knows he looks when he grins from ear to ear.
And then, his coworkers find out. Not the way he’d ever imagined, but basically it goes down with Marty announcing to the office that “Till’s been flirting with the enemy!”
To which Ivan responds that evening, “I might have cut off 404 thinking it was you and pulled my shirt off in traffic.”
This is insanity.
In some worlds, he supposes they are birds of a feather. One prone to perishing on the line of duty, the other to satisfy some sick thrill. But Till hopes Ivan has people he cares about waiting at home. And hopes that maybe one day, he’ll have some too.
News alert: Till’s tired.
His window’s down with his arm resting along, the weather’s nice, and he’s a mind full of the anime he wants to finish and frozen chicken nuggets waiting in his fridge. His shift’s over, and the week of wrangling fenty folders in the sad part of town’s been hell. There’s no reason to give a cocky biker a piece of his mind.
Until the guy literally leans SEXGOD’s handle against Till’s door and—oh joy —interlaces gloved fingers with Till’s.
His snipe snaps straight in alarming fashion.
“Dispatch, dispatch, F-404 near west entrance of Anakt U. Code 13.”
Ivan rests his chin in the crook of his elbow that’s now usurping the space on Till’s window ledge.
“What’s code 13?”
“Harassment of a public servant,” Till hisses, trying to roll the window up. Ivan grabs his arm again, yanking it toward his chest.
“Here, officer, put your hand over my heart.” It’s pumping like crazy, and Till only knows because his torso is forcibly yanked out of the car so that his palm is flush against his thin shirt. “Feel that?”
“The hell are you doing!”
“The whole street has borne witness to you laying your hands on me.”
Dick. Till sends Ivan an unkind sneer. The light turns green and Till guns the cruiser until he catches another red. He laser-focuses on the incredible feat of human ingenuity that is a traffic light as Ivan raps and prods at his window, fogging it up with his breath.
But the invariable thing about this type of guy is that they’re more unpredictable than a high school relationship. Ivan kickstands his bike and sprints to the front of the cruiser, falling to his knees.
“OFFICER, OH OFFICER, PLEASE LET DOWN YOUR WINDOW.”
Oh my god.
He doesn’t know when to fucking stop!
Till carries on chugging around the vicinity of the university, clogged with football-game traffic while Ivan keeps pace, shielding his visor to sneak peeks into the cruiser. He stares at Till with mock longing.
“What do you want.”
Ivan flips his visor up and rests his chin on Till’s window.
“Doing anything tonight?”
Bzz bzz. His phone rings with beautiful timing, and Till’s eyes immediately light up when he looks down. Mizi's the only family he still gets calls from ever since another number stopped entirely.
“Till!!”
“Yo, what’s up?”
“You coming tonight?” she chirps, almost echoing the man watching him like a hawk. She had invited him to pregame with her friends and look, he wants to, he really does, since he hasn’t seen her in some time...but there’s always a lingering hesitation. His life is a series of compromises, all work and no play.
“I don’t know…” he says, ruffling the back of his head, staring at the ceiling of the car.
“Aww, Till, we’re making dinner too! I promise it’ll be fun,” she insists, knowing full well that the day Till refuses her word in her face is the day he dies.
So he murmurs, “Alright…I’m nearby, so I’ll try to be there soon…” omitting the part that he’s still in his cruiser; otherwise, the commute home to switch out and change would eat up another hour. But then, he knows the minute he steps into that house, already unfashionably late, he’ll look like a dumbass and ruin the entire vibe. He can’t shake the stigma around his line of work, especially in the college side of town. Fuck, his overthinking is convincing him to bail. Ughhh.
“Girlfriend?” Ivan asks, brows furrowed.
Till exhales sharply, craning his neck over the traffic. What’s the damn holdup?
“No, just contemplating going to a party.”
“Why?” Ivan’s usual teasing tone is replaced by a serious one.
“Why? I mean, look at me. I’m in full uniform? I’m lame as fuck?” Ivan’d never understand, because he looks like every girl’s wet dream, godlike physique and then some, no doubt surrounded by people all the time. It makes Till want to vomit.
“ What? Till, what do you mean?”
“… why do you care?” Till’s seriously not trauma dumping to civilians he’s written up, is he? But his tongue’s a little loose from his long shift and he's only human after all, so he adds “I—I just don’t wanna come off as a loser in front of my higher-ed, supermodel friends, okay?” Shit, he sounds so insecure. But it’s the unglamorous truth.
His face burns molten as Ivan stares him down harder.
“Till, you’re such a fucking catch, dude.”
What?
“Your job is the coolest thing in the world. You care about random people in an unfiltered, tough love type of way. You are absolutely gorgeous .”
Till’s no religious man but in that moment, traffic miraculously lets the fuck up. He makes a U-turn, face quite positively the shade of a riper than ripe tomato. His heart is thrumming through the roof and his head feels light from all the compliments.
He’s gonna quit, move out of the city, just so he never has to see Ivan's ugly mug again.
The Ducati has no trouble catching up to him. Ivan is hunched down in 6th gear, shirt billowing wildly in Till's side mirror.
“Till! I’m saying that you’re the one out of their league!” He shouts as he paces the cruiser. “You should go! I can give you a ride too if you gotta park a few blocks away!”
Till pulls up to the side of the road.
“I forgot a regular change of clothes,” Till admits, frowning down at his gear.
“You want my shirt?” Ivan sweetens the deal, grinning at Till until his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Damn, maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
“I’m gonna have to throw it away after tonight, though,” he promises, looking pointedly at the sky as Ivan pulls off his helmet and the black shirt over his head. He catches the winding millipede tattoo along his neck, shoulder, and down his arm.
Ivan laughs and chokes into a coughing fit when Till steps out of the vehicle and starts stripping his gear.
“Holy shit, dude, where the hell is your waist ?”
“They were just– just fuckin’ kids!”
Till’s eyes sting like they’d been skewered, forehead jammed into his steering wheel.
“Calm down, rookie, we’ve got you.”
The pit in his heart only widens as his trembling hands wring and clench at his pants.
“I….I can’t ,” he gasps. He feels sick. He’s gonna hurl all the knots in his stomach.
They were kids . That entire house, ODed, fucking— kids , not much younger than himself, caught on the wrong side of a war Till failed to prevent.
He had failed, and nothing hurt more.
“Till…” Luka sighs heavily, the vocal fry traveling through the radio. “You ever had to listen to someone die in your ear?”
Till freezes and angrily yanks the radio to the side, a few hot tears and stray rounds flying into the darkness of the cruiser.
“Why the fuck does that matter now?”
“Because I’m happy to hear your voice,” Luka says, uncharacteristically soft.
They sit in a few beats of silence before Hyuna’s shadow casts over his window.
“It breaks my heart,” she concedes, rubbing Till’s shoulder patiently, looking all the qualities of a protector, calm and collected. “The night isn’t over yet, kid. If you can pick your head up, we’ve got a terrible crash on Airport.”
Till presses his tear ducts shut and slaps his face a few times, willing down another pathetic, gross sob. Hyuna answers something on her radio.
“You said– a bike? A black Ducati?”
Till’s heart reignites back into his throat, his frantic eyes settling on Hyuna.
Red pinstripe, he mouths in question, simultaneously as Hyuna confirms, “Red pinstripe?”
The look of surprise on her face has nothing on the way his entire soul feels like it caves in on itself.
Till breaks 110 on Hyuna’s tail, wondering how fast Ivan had been going. Faster? Had his life flashed before his eyes?
The universe has never felt so fleeting with blurred neon streaks flying past his periphery. The air bends, parting a path.
He feels his knees buckle when the lifeless body of a black haired biker is identified three hundred feet away from the remnants of the bike.
But.
But the crumbled plate isn’t custom. It’s not Ivan.
It’s another failure nonetheless.
When he finally climbs into his cold bed, he dials a number. It’s 5 a.m., but still.
“Baby? Is everything alright?” The floodgates open.
“Mom, I miss you so so much .”
Guess he owes Ivan one, because the easiest things in life at face value aren’t so easy after all. The reason Ivan has little regard for his safety while Till’s heart is breaking over him and why he’d gone dark from his loving mother run in the same vein.
Yeah, he owes Ivan big time.
His days off wind around, and Till’s mostly recovered from the rollercoaster of a week especially after hearing his mom’s voice.
He’s walking up to his preferred Halal truck, strapped in under his shirt, obviously, to enjoy a salty meal by himself when he notices someone waiting: a guy lounging on his bike with his visor down, garnering a couple of giggles and finger points from passersby.
Ivan pulls him around behind a tree and tosses his triple-rack helmet to the dirt, and Till tries not to scream, cry, or whatever unruly combination of both.
“So.” Blood roars past his ears. “What did you do with my shirt?”
Shit . He makes the mistake of audibly gulping because Ivan smells so good and looks so handsome and will never know how delirious with worry Till had been over his dumbass. Blinks away a couple of angry tears as he tips his chin up to meet Ivan’s snaggletoothed smirk.
“Tossed it.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow.
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
Till huffs and cracks a grin.
“Fine, fine,” he says, raising his hands placatingly. “You caught me. Gave it to a homeless man I drove to the shelter.”
Ivan’s eyebrows fly up, and he leans in for something that Till thinks must mean a kiss on the mouth, a gloved hand braced behind Till’s neck. Till’s blood freezes solid, body seizing up into some rigor mortis type shit form.
“Whoa, dude, I’m not into that.” His head is spinning, breaths a little labored.
“Really? Damn,” Ivan takes a step back. “Guess I’ll go back to speeding,” he grumbles, making a show of slinking to his bike.
“Stop!” Oh my god. He’s being coerced so hard the cartels should be blowing Ivan’s brains out right now in reverence. His cheeks are on fire, because this is so not what serving and protecting entails. “Stop. I’ll hear you out.”
“One kiss, one day of going reasonable speeds. In the city.” Ivan turns to offer, tipping his head.
Fucking hell.
“Get me that in writing.”
“A pleasure doing business with you, officer.”
As compromised, Ivan pulls Till in by the loop of his jeans. The outline of his Glock presses hard into Ivan’s abs, the same toe-curling pressure with which Ivan kisses him, a hunger and desperation as though he’d been holding back painfully.
Shit. Fuck .
It’s so attractive, it feels illegal. Fast, but so right.
Proactive policing. Proactive policing. Proactive policing.
But Till’s hands are smearing the ridges and rough planes of Ivan’s body, and he won’t mind getting to know his boy for the day. Forever might be nice, too.
Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, they say. For once, Till believes it.