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The day had already committed several personal offences against Till before the motorbike appeared.
To begin with, the sun was performing with the theatrical intensity of an overpaid stage actor, glaring directly through his windshield as though it had taken issue with him specifically. The air conditioner, meanwhile, had chosen this morning to start wheezing lukewarm sighs that smelled faintly of dust and whatever had died in there last. Traffic was dense, slow, and deeply committed to being insufferable, which meant Till was trapped in a steel box, stewing gently in his own patience and quiet frustration.
He was not, as a rule, a violent person. He believed in restraint — in composure. In the quiet dignity of not committing crimes.
Unfortunately, he also believed in road etiquette, and road etiquette was currently nonexistent.
The sound arrived first.
A sharp, invasive rev cut through the air beside him — loud, deliberate, theatrical. It was the kind of noise that announced itself like a drumroll rather than the accidental growl of an engine doing its job too loudly. Till felt it vibrate faintly through his door, the way one feels the bass at a concert they didn’t consent to attend.
His eye twitched. Slowly, with the solemn dread of someone turning toward an approaching natural disaster, he angled his head.
There was a motorbike.
Of course there was.
It was sleek, dark, unnecessarily dramatic in silhouette, and straddling it like he’d been sculpted there, was a man in a helmet with a tinted visor, posture relaxed, one boot planted on the asphalt as if he owned the road, the lane, and possibly the concept of forward motion itself.
Till looked away immediately, because he refused to be drawn into whatever personality disorder was happening over there.
Another rev came. Longer this time.
Till’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
He did not look. He would not look.
He was a grown adult with self-control and a driver’s licence he intended to keep.
The engine roared again, louder, richer, like the machine was clearing its throat.
Till’s jaw shifted. His gaze slid, traitorously, to the side.
The man's visor was pointed directly at him.
Directly.
At.
Him.
Till held the stare, because retreating would imply defeat, and defeat implied that this stranger had authority, and Till did not want to give him that kind of satisfaction.
They continued to stare at each other through two layers of glass: Till through his window, the stranger through his visor. The silence between them thickened, stretched, became something almost tangible, like a piece of elastic pulled to its snapping point.
Till narrowed his eyes.
The visor did not move, but he could feel the man’s attention sharpen, like a cat noticing a laser pointer.
Oh, absolutely not.
Till lifted his chin a fraction. It was not a challenge. It was not. It was simply the natural motion of a man adjusting his posture. The fact that it happened to communicate I see you and I dislike you profoundly was incidental.
The motorbike revved again.
Till, with the serene calm of someone making an entirely reasonable decision, inched his car forward three centimetres.
The bike rolled forward three centimetres.
Till stilled.
The bike stilled.
This was ridiculous.
Till exhaled sharply, turning his gaze forward again. The light was still red. He turned back around, leaning into his seat, expression flattening into a look he reserved for telemarketers and people who said “expresso.” He lifted one eyebrow very slightly, the kind of movement that in polite society meant mild curiosity but in Till-language translated to are you done embarrassing yourself.
The visor tilted. The fact that it obstructed his face from Till's view did not conceal the fact that the man was smiling beneath it — Till could feel it.
Oh, this man was doing it on purpose.
Till exhaled slowly through his nose. Fine. Fine. If this stranger wished to behave like a peacock with access to machinery, that was his constitutional right. Till, however, would not be participating. He turned his head with deliberate calm and fixed his gaze straight ahead, posture immaculate, profile radiating indifference.
The engine roared — a full-bodied, attention-seeking, listen-to-me bellow.
Till’s knuckles whitened.
He did not look.
He would die before he looked again.
A soft tap tap sounded against his window.
Till turned.
The motorcyclist had leaned in and was tapping his helmet lightly against the glass like someone knocking on an aquarium to see if the fish would react.
There was a pause. A long one.
Till lowered his window exactly halfway, because if he was going to entertain nonsense, he would do so with boundaries.
“Yes?” he said, voice cool and precise, the verbal equivalent of placing a document on a table and sliding it across.
Up close, the man’s presence was worse. Or better. Objectively worse. Or subjectively— Whatever. It didn't matter. It was totally irrelevant. The visor lifted with a soft click, revealing a face that looked distressingly pleased with itself, all sharp lines and amused eyes and a grin that suggested he had never once in his life resisted an impulse.
“Well,” the stranger said lightly, as if they were old friends reunited under charming circumstances instead of two people currently stuck in traffic and engaged in mild vehicle warfare, “you seem tense.”
Till stared at him.
He thought of many possible responses to that. Unfortunately, none of them were legal.
“I’m driving,” Till replied.
“Yes,” the man said, glancing around theatrically, “I noticed. You’re doing wonderfully. Ten out of ten. Strong commitment to the concept of sitting still.”
Till’s eyelid twitched. “Is there a reason you’re speaking to me.”
“I was worried,” the man said solemnly. “You looked lonely.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Mm,” the man hummed, clearly unconvinced. His gaze flicked over Till’s face with open curiosity, not even pretending to be subtle about it. “You’re sure? Because from over there it looked like you were staring at me.”
“I was assessing a threat.”
The grin widened. “And what’s the verdict.”
Till held his gaze, expression perfectly flat. “Still assessing.”
The corner of the man’s mouth tilted higher, delighted. He leaned an elbow casually on the edge of the window frame, entirely too comfortable for someone Till had known for thirty seconds and disliked for thirty-one.
“I’m Ivan,” he said.
Till blinked once. “Congratulations.”
A laugh escaped him, warm, surprised, and genuine. He straightened slightly, clearly entertained. “You always this friendly with strangers, or am I getting special treatment?”
“I reserve this tone,” Till said, “for people who rev their engines like they’re auditioning for a documentary about poor decision-making.”
Ivan’s eyes lit up.
“Oh,” he said softly, “I am getting special treatment.”
The light above them shifted from red to green. Neither of them moved.
A horn blared somewhere behind Till, long and offended.
Ivan glanced past him, then back, unhurried. “Looks like you’re holding up traffic.”
Till’s smile was thin as paper. “Looks like you’re standing in it.”
Another honk came, longer this time. Someone shouted something unintelligible.
Ivan pushed off the door and swung his visor down again, sealing his expression away, though the curve of his shoulders still radiated mischief. “Drive safe,” he said, voice muffled now, teasing threaded through it. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Ivan's bike revved once more. Till's car rolled forward.
For a brief, treacherous second, as they accelerated side by side through the intersection, Till became aware of two things simultaneously: first, that his bad mood had sharpened into something brighter, stranger, almost electric; and second, that in his peripheral vision, the motorbike was keeping perfect pace with him.
Ivan was not overtaking. Nor was he turning. He didn't fall back or switch lanes. He was matching.
Till stared straight ahead.
The engine beside him revved, playful as a nudge.
His grip tightened.
This, he thought grimly, was going to be a problem.
...10 minutes later, Till realised he was right.
At first, he tried to tell himself he wasn't. People drove next to each other all the time. That was how lanes worked. That was how roads functioned. Society would collapse if vehicles were required to maintain emotional distance as well as physical spacing, and Till was nothing if not a supporter of civilisation.
So when the motorbike remained beside him for the next block, he did not react.
When it remained beside him for the block after that, he continued not reacting.
When it accelerated slightly every time he accelerated, and slowed slightly every time he slowed, maintaining a position of maddening, deliberate parallelism, Till remained normal. Natural. Like a man who was not reacting.
He adjusted his grip on the wheel. Casually.
Another glance sideways confirmed it — Ivan was still there. Helmet forward, shoulders loose, his entire posture screaming that he was enjoying this more than any adult with a life should.
Till faced forward again and exhaled through his nose.
Fine. Fine. If Ivan wished to play Follow the Leader, Till would simply cease being interesting to follow.
He signalled and turned left.
The bike turned left.
Till’s eye twitched.
Coincidence, he told himself.
He drove another block, then turned right. The bike turned right.
Coincidence was beginning to look suspiciously intentional.
Till adjusted his rearview mirror with brisk efficiency, angling it just enough that the bike slipped out of frame. There. Problem solved. If he could not see the man, the man did not exist.
A moment later, the motorbike smoothly accelerated, gliding forward into his blind spot before drifting back into visibility like a smug moon rising.
Till tightened his jaw.
At the next red light, the bike rolled up beside him again. He could feel the attention boring into the side of his head. Till did not look. He would not look.
Something tapped lightly against his side mirror.
Till turned his head before he could stop himself.
Ivan, visor up again, was smiling at him and blowing a kiss.
Till stared.
Ivan wiggled his fingers in a small wave, like they were neighbours passing each other at the mailbox.
Till rolled his window down one inch. “Are you unwell?"
“I’m having a wonderful time,” Ivan said cheerfully. “You’re very engaging for someone pretending I’m not here.”
"I'm not pretending. You're not here."
Till rolled his window back up with quiet, deliberate resolve, the motion of a man sealing a tomb.
The light turned green. They drove.
Till accelerated.
Ivan accelerated.
Till changed lanes.
Ivan changed lanes.
Till’s composure, which had until this point been holding itself together through discipline and spite, began to fracture.
This was no longer coincidence. This was targeted.
He risked another glance.
Ivan caught it immediately and brightened like a lamp being switched on.
He liked being looked at.
That, Till realised with a sinking sensation, was the problem. Annoyance did not discourage this man. Annoyance rewarded him. It fed him. He was, apparently, powered by irritation the way some vehicles ran on petrol. Till pressed his lips together and executed a sharp, elegant turn onto a narrower street clearly designed for people with destinations and not for motorcyclists who needed better hobbies.
The bike followed. Of course it did. Till exhaled slowly.
For the next several blocks, Till attempted to conduct himself like a man who was not being stalked recreationally. He drove with composure. With dignity. With the upright moral bearing of someone who absolutely did not check his mirrors every seven seconds only to confirm that yes, the motorbike was still there, gliding along behind him with too much unearned, lazy confidence.
He signalled and took a sudden right turn into a side street he did not need, did not want, and had never used before in his life.
The bike turned with him.
Till’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel until the leather creaked faintly in protest.
He slowed.
The bike slowed.
He sped up.
The bike sped up.
He executed an unnecessarily elegant lane change.
The bike followed with the smooth precision of something that enjoyed being told where to go.
This was fine. This was manageable. This was merely a stranger with poor hobbies and a reckless attachment to parallel positioning. There were worse problems in the world. There were taxes.There were mosquito bites. There were people who clapped when planes landed.
He glanced in the mirror again. Ivan was still there.
At the next red light, the motorbike rolled up beside him again, unhurried, inevitable, like a recurring thought he had failed to suppress. Till looked straight ahead. This time, he would not engage. He would not give him attention. He would not—
Beside him, the engine gave a soft, pleased rev, the mechanical equivalent of someone leaning close just to see if you would flinch.
Till did not flinch.
Something moved in his peripheral vision. Against his better judgment, he glanced sideways.
Ivan — helmet tipped back now, chin resting lightly on his hand where it perched atop the handlebars — was watching him with the open fascination of someone observing a particularly expressive museum exhibit. When he noticed Till looking, his face lit with unmistakable triumph, as if eye contact were a prize he’d just won at a fair.
He raised two fingers in a lazy salute.
Till stared at him. Ivan blew him another kiss.
Till turned his gaze forward again with such force it was a miracle his neck did not audibly click.
This was harassment, he decided.
The light turned green. Till accelerated with purpose. Ivan matched him.
They drove in silence for another minute, then two, then three, until Till spotted salvation in the form of a wide parking entrance ahead: a shopping centre, sprawling and anonymous, the architectural equivalent of a neutral third party. Fine. New terrain. If this man wanted a spectacle, Till would give him the most aggressively boring afternoon imaginable. He turned into it decisively, the movement crisp with intent, ignoring the fact that he did not have a clue what to do inside a mall.
The bike followed. Till cursed beneath his breath.
He parked in a spot with clean lines and respectable symmetry, shut off the engine, and sat for half a second gathering his composure like a lawyer preparing closing statements.
The motorbike pulled into the space directly beside him.
Till closed his eyes briefly.
Patience, he reminded himself. Grace. Prison sentences were long and tedious. Lawyers were expensive.
He stepped out of the car.
The afternoon air was warm, carrying the distant smell of asphalt and fried food. He shut the door with controlled precision and turned.
Ivan was standing there.
They were no longer separated by glass or helmets or the safe emotional distance of traffic lanes. He stood there, pulling off his gloves with unhurried fingers.
Till’s brain, which until this point had been functioning primarily as an irritation-processing unit, stalled.
It was, he realised abruptly, a mistake to observe this man at conversational distance. At traffic-light range, Ivan had been an annoyance. A provocation. At human proximity, he was— well.
Annoying, obviously.
But also, unfortunately, built with the kind of careless symmetry that suggested the universe had assembled him while in a generous mood. His eyes were sharper than Till remembered, bright with mischief that looked less like arrogance and more like invitation. His mouth carried the ghost of a grin even at rest, as though smiling were simply its default setting. A lock of hair, rebelliously unaffected by the helmet, fell across his forehead.
Till stared.
Ivan noticed immediately. Noticed, processed, and brightened like someone who had just heard excellent news about himself.
“Hi,” he said, tone warm with delight, as if they’d arranged to meet.
Till’s brain restarted with a violent lurch. “No.”
Ivan’s grin widened. “No hello?”
“No you.”
“Mm,” Ivan said thoughtfully, stepping closer and hooking his helmet over one finger. “I was hoping we’d run into each other.”
“You followed me.”
“I prefer coordinated arrival.”
Till folded his arms. “You turned every time I turned.”
Ivan tilted his head. “Did I? Funny. I could have sworn you kept turning wherever I was going.”
Till stared at him in silence, weighing the moral and legal consequences of pushing him gently into traffic.
Ivan slipped his gloves into his jacket pocket, entirely at ease, like a man who had never once in his life been discouraged by hostility. Up close, Till noticed his hands — long fingers, steady movements, the kind of hands that looked like they belonged to someone good at doing things on purpose. It was a deeply irrelevant observation and Till resented having made it.
“I have errands,” Till said flatly.
“Perfect,” Ivan replied. “Me too.”
“You do not.”
“I might.”
“You don’t know where I’m going.”
Ivan gestured toward the mall entrance behind them. "Statistically, inside."
Till stared at him. His eye twitched again.
“That is not how statistics work.”
Ivan leaned slightly closer, conspiratorial. “You’d be surprised how often I’m right.”
Till held his gaze, fully prepared to maintain eye contact until one of them aged visibly.
Up close, however, the effect was worse. Infuriatingly, catastrophically, unforgivably — Ivan was not just smug. He was pretty. In a sharp, bright, deliberately unfair way that made annoyance feel suspiciously like static under Till’s skin. His eyes were dark, flecked gold where the light caught them. There was a faint crease near his mouth that suggested he smiled often and meant it. Even his posture was irritatingly graceful, weight settled like he existed in a perpetual state of relaxed confidence.
This, Till realised with horror, was a dangerous observation to be making.
He did not like dangerous observations.
Especially when they complicated existing grudges.
Ivan’s grin sharpened slightly, as if he could see the exact moment Till’s irritation faltered and something else — something warmer, more dangerous — slipped in to take its place.
“Ready?” Ivan asked lightly.
“For what.”
“Our errands.”
“We are not—”
Ivan started walking toward the entrance.
After a brief, outraged pause, Till followed, because allowing him to wander unsupervised felt like a public safety risk.
They reached the doors together. The glass reflected them side by side: Till, composed and severe, and Ivan, relaxed and luminous with mischief, like trouble that had dressed nicely for the occasion.
A passerby smiled at them. “You two make a cute couple.”
Till stopped walking.
Ivan beamed. “Thank you.”
“We’re not—” Till began.
But the stranger had already continued on, leaving behind only the echo of their assumption and Ivan’s visible delight. Till looked at him slowly.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m having the best day of my life.”
Till turned toward the mall interior with grim resolve. “You won’t be.”
Ivan fell into step beside him, unbothered, hands in his pockets, expression bright with anticipation.
Behind his ribs, Till’s heartbeat had developed a traitorous quickness he refused to acknowledge.
This, he told himself firmly, was still a problem.
It was just, unfortunately, no longer only a problem.
The mall interior greeted them with the bright, climate-controlled neutrality f a place designed to erase both weather and dignity. Light gleamed off polished floors, music drifted down from hidden speakers in a tune so inoffensive it bordered on suspicious, and the faint scent of cinnamon sugar lingered in the air. Till stepped inside, irritation flaring hot and sharp in his chest, determined to lose Ivan.
Ivan strolled beside him.
Till did not look at him. Looking encouraged him. Encouragement led to persistence.
He veered sharply toward the nearest elevator, because elevators had doors, and doors closed, and closed doors theoretically prevented motorcyclists from accompanying you. He pressed the button with calm decisiveness and fixed his gaze on the glowing number panel overhead like it might award him a medal for restraint.
Ivan stepped up beside him.
Till did not react.
The elevator dinged open.
Till entered.
Ivan entered.
Till selected a floor at random with the brisk authority of someone making an executive decision under duress, then crossed to the farthest possible corner and positioned himself there with geometric precision, spine straight, expression neutral, eyes fixed firmly on the opposite wall as if he had always intended to admire the brushed steel.
Ivan leaned casually against the railing, hands in his pockets, posture loose and pleased, watching Till with the fond attention of a man observing a particularly expressive weather pattern.
The doors slid shut.
Silence settled, warm and expectant.
Till focused on the wall. He could feel Ivan looking. It was not a vague look, nor did it come in intermittent glances. He was staring. Directly. With interest. Probably with delight. With the unmistakable patience of someone who had nowhere else he would rather be.
This, Till thought, was psychological warfare.
The elevator hummed upward.
In the mirrored panel beside the control buttons, a reflection betrayed him. He saw Ivan lift one eyebrow.
Till shifted half an inch to the left so the reflection angle no longer included him. The reflection angle adjusted again. Ivan waved at him in the mirror.
Till stared harder at the wall.
The elevator dinged. The doors opened. Till exited with quiet urgency, the pace of a man fleeing a scene that had technically not yet become a crime.
Footsteps followed. He walked faster. So did the footsteps. Till turned a corner. The footsteps turned too.
He took another corner, then another, weaving through displays and kiosks with strategic unpredictability. He slipped past a sunglasses stand, pivoted around a column, and ducked behind a rack of scarves with the subtlety of someone who had absolutely never practiced evasive manoeuvres in a shopping centre before.
For one glorious second, there were no footsteps.
Till exhaled.
A hand appeared over the top of the scarf rack and waved.
Till looked up slowly.
Ivan’s face rose into view above the display like a cheerful apparition. “Hi.”
Till stared at him with the hollow calm of a man who was seconds away from getting back into his car and reversing over his bike.
Ivan beamed, delighted with the success of his reappearance. “You’re very agile when motivated. It’s impressive.”
Till stepped out from behind the scarves and continued walking, posture rigid with purpose. “Go away.”
“I am away,” Ivan said pleasantly, falling into step beside him. “This is away. I could be much closer.”
Till did not dignify that with a response. Instead, he executed a sudden turn into the nearest store, a bright retail space filled with shelves of miscellaneous household objects that appeared to exist primarily to justify their own existence. He stopped at the first display he saw and picked up the nearest item, which turned out to be a ceramic pineapple.
He examined it with intense concentration.
Beside him, another ceramic pineapple rose into view.
Till did not look.
Ivan’s voice drifted warmly into his ear. “We have the same taste.”
"I don't have taste," Till said flatly.
Ivan turned the pineapple thoughtfully. “It suits you.”
“It’s a fruit.”
Till set it down with controlled precision and moved to the next shelf. He picked up a candle. The label read Ocean Philosophy. He stared at it as though it might confess something.
Another identical candle appeared in Ivan’s hand.
“Oh look,” Ivan said lightly, “we’re matching again.”
Till inhaled slowly through his nose. “Put it back.”
“You first.”
A woman browsing nearby glanced between them and smiled, the warm, approving smile of someone who believed she was witnessing domestic familiarity. “You two are adorable.”
Till froze.
Ivan’s answering smile could have powered a small city. “Thank you.”
“We are not,” Till began, but she had already turned away. He refused to look at Ivan.
Instead, Till set the candle down. Ivan set his candle down beside it, carefully aligning it so their labels faced the same direction.
Till walked deeper into the store.
Ivan walked backward in front of him, maintaining perfect pace, gaze fixed on Till’s face with open curiosity. He did not once glance over his shoulder, navigating displays and corners with eerie confidence, as though spatial awareness simply bent itself around him out of respect.
“Do you always shop like this,” Ivan asked conversationally, “or is this a special performance?”
“I’m browsing.”
“You’ve rejected everything you’ve touched.”
“I’m selective.”
Ivan’s grin softened, pleased. “I noticed.”
Till reached for the nearest object without looking and discovered too late that it was a plush octopus wearing a tiny hat. He held it with grave seriousness.
Ivan picked up an identical octopus. They stood there, two grown adults silently holding matching stuffed animals.
Ivan tilted his head. “If we buy them, they could be friends.”
Till set his octopus down with quiet finality.
Somewhere behind his ribs, irritation and something far less manageable were beginning to tangle together like crossed wires. Ivan was still smiling at him like this was the best coincidence of his week.It would have been easier if he were insufferable. Instead, he was insufferable and charming, which was frankly an abuse of privileges Till had not granted.
Ivan’s gaze flicked briefly to Till’s hands, then back to his face, as though cataloguing details for later use. “You know,” he said lightly, “for someone trying to escape me, you keep choosing places I also want to be.”
Till raised an eyebrow. "You're following me."
Ivan smiled at him with that same delighted curiosity, like he genuinely found Till fascinating instead of merely convenient. There was a faint crease at the corner of his mouth from smiling too much, and his hair, freed from the helmet, had settled further into soft disarray that looked accidental but suspiciously flattering. This close, he smelled faintly of wind and soap and outside.
Ivan’s expression shifted, not smug now but attentive, like he’d noticed the exact second Till’s attention changed flavour again. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter, threaded with amusement that felt less like teasing and more like recognition.
“Hi,” he said again, gently this time.
Till blinked once, sharply, as though rebooting.
"Go away," he said automatically, because it was the only defence he had left.
Ivan’s smile returned, slow and radiant, clearly delighted to have collected yet another reaction for his growing archive.
Till considered, briefly and sincerely, the practical logistics of fleeing the country.
It was becoming increasingly clear that escape was no longer a viable strategy. Regardless — he turned sharply on his heel.
Ivan followed.
Of course he did. Of course he did with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once in his life been deterred by resistance, as though following people who clearly wished not to be followed were a hobby he listed under skills on official forms.
Till walked faster. Ivan lengthened his stride without appearing to. Till changed direction abruptly. Ivan adjusted like water poured into a new glass.
Till spotted a grocery store entrance ahead and veered toward it with the grim decisiveness of someone diving into a crowd for cover. Fluorescent lights greeted him. Refrigerated air wrapped around him. Shelves stretched in orderly aisles of labels and packaging.
He grabbed a shopping basket he did not need and marched inside.
Ivan grabbed a basket too.
Beside him, Ivan examined a display of snack bars with scholarly interest.
Till selected the nearest item from a shelf without looking. Ivan picked up the same bag.
He turned down another aisle. Ivan turned down another aisle.
Till stopped abruptly beside a display of pasta.
Ivan stopped beside a display of pasta.
Till reached for a box purely to have something in his hands. Another hand reached at the same time. Their fingers brushed. It was neither dramatic or cinematic — it was simply skin against skin for the briefest fraction of a second, warm and startling and entirely unnecessary. Till looked up before he could stop himself. Ivan was already looking at him, expression bright with interest, like he had just discovered a new constellation.
For one treacherous beat, Till forgot what he had been planning to be annoyed about.
“OH MY GOD.”
The third voice arrived like confetti. Till turned. An employee had materialised beside them with the radiant enthusiasm of someone whose blood type was caffeine. He wore a store apron and the unmistakable expression of a man who had just witnessed the opening scene of a romance and intended to ensure it reached a satisfying conclusion.
“I knew it,” the employee said, clasping his hands together. “I knew you two were together.”
“We’re not,” Till said immediately.
The employee beamed. “You’re fighting.”
“We’re not fighting,” Till said. “We’re not anything.”
Ivan lifted one shoulder in an easy half-shrug, as if disclaimers were beneath his notice. “We’re browsing.”
The employee’s eyes sparkled. “Uh huh. And I’m the president.”
Till inhaled slowly through his nose.
“I’m Luka,” the employee announced, as though this were a gift. “And I just want to say it’s really brave of you two to work through your conflict in a produce-adjacent environment. Communication is so important in relationships.”
“There is no relationship,” Till said, each word polished to a reflective sheen. “This man is following me.”
Ivan gave a small, absent wave, the gesture airy and dismissive, like a celebrity acknowledging paparazzi.
Luka leaned conspiratorially toward him, completely ignoring Till's previous statement. “What did you do."
“I existed,” Ivan said.
Luka nodded solemnly. “Classic mistake. Okay, don’t worry. I can fix this.”
“You can’t,” Till said. "Because we are not—"
Luka pointed gently at him without looking away from Ivan. “He likes calm gestures. I can tell. He’s got a structured aura. You need something apologetic but meaningful. Something that says, I respect your emotional boundaries but I’m also charming.”
“I don’t need—” Till began.
Luka raised a finger. “Shh. I’m strategising.”
Till stared at him.
Ivan leaned closer to Luka like a student eager for lecture notes. “Go on.”
Till turned his head very slowly.
Ivan’s expression was attentive — focused and sincere in a way that was frankly unacceptable given the circumstances. He was actually listening. Absorbing. Considering, like this mattered.
Luka scanned the shelves, then lit up and grabbed a chocolate bar. “Gift offering is universally understood as the symbol of remorse."
Ivan accepted it gravely. “Of course.”
Till folded his arms. “If you hand me that, I will throw it away.”
Ivan nodded thoughtfully. “Noted."
He leaned closer to Luka, lowering his voice to a whisper, gesturing at Till with the bar. "I don't think he likes chocolate."
Luka leaned closer to him too, lowering his voice to what he clearly believed was a subtle whisper and what was, in reality, not a whisper at all. “He responds to persistence. I can tell."
Ivan’s eyes flicked to Till, amused. “That does seem to be happening.”
Till looked at Luka. “You’re encouraging him.”
“I’m helping love,” Luka corrected brightly. Then, to Ivan, “Also he definitely likes eye contact. See how he keeps looking at you even when he’s mad.”
Till looked at a shelf. At the ceiling. At a nutritional label. Anywhere but Ivan.
Which unfortunately proved Luka’s point.
Luka clasped Ivan’s shoulder. “You’ve got this. I believe in you.”
Something in Till’s chest shifted, subtle and unwelcome. Ivan hadn't laughed it off or mocked the advice. He nodded, thoughtful, like he was genuinely filing it away for later use. His attention, usually playful, glancing, mischievous, had narrowed into something that felt deeply, inconveniently, like intent.
For half a second, Till felt his irritation loosen its grip, like a knot slipping. The noise of the store softened. Ivan looked at him not like a game, not like a challenge, but like a question he actually wanted answered.
It would have been a nice moment.
Luka ruined it.
“So,” Luka said cheerfully, clapping his hands, “what kind of apology does your boyfriend usually respond to?”
“He is stalking me! He is not my—” Till began, for what must've been the hundredth time that day.
At that exact moment, a voice behind them said, “Someone being stalked?”
All three turned.
A security guard stood at the end of the aisle, posture straight, expression professionally unimpressed. Her badge read HYUNA, and she had the air of someone who had been waiting her entire career for a situation interesting enough to justify paperwork.
Till pointed immediately. “Yes. Me.”
Hyuna stepped closer, eyes sharp. “Sir, are you being followed against your will?"
“Yes.”
She looked at Ivan.
Ivan looked back pleasantly. He gave a small wave.
She looked at Till again.
Her gaze traveled slowly between them once. Twice. A third time, slower, like she was reviewing security footage only she could see.
Then she sighed.
“This,” she said calmly, “is not stalking.”
“It is,” Till said.
“It’s flirting,” she corrected.
Till stared at her. “He followed me through traffic.”
Hyuna nodded thoughtfully. “Bold opener.”
“He keeps appearing next to me.”
“Consistent presence.”
“He won’t leave.”
“Committed.”
Till opened his mouth.
Hyuna folded her arms. “Sir, if he were stalking you, you wouldn’t be making this much eye contact.”
Till did not turn his head. He could feel Ivan smiling beside him.
Luka clasped his hands dreamily. “I love my job.”
Till set his basket down on the nearest shelf with the quiet finality of a man resigning from reality.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
Ivan perked up. “Great. I was thinking of going that way too.”
He walked out of the aisle without another word, heartbeat traitorously uneven. Footsteps followed. Again.
Till told himself he was only still sitting because standing up would constitute a reaction, and reactions were precisely what the menace across from him wanted.
This was a matter of principle now. Of discipline. Of psychological warfare. He chewed with the stern focus of a man attempting to prove a philosophical point to the concept of spite itself, gaze fixed firmly on the middle distance while Ivan, seated at a completely different table like a model citizen who had never once committed a traffic violation or emotional disturbance in his life, watched him with the relaxed interest of someone attending live theatre.
It would have been easier if Ivan had been obnoxious about it. If he’d leaned forward, or winked, or done literally anything that could be categorised as irritating in a straightforward, prosecutable way. But no. Ivan simply existed. Casually. Patiently. Drinking his soda. Occasionally glancing around the food court like a man who had nowhere to be except exactly where he was.
Which, Till suspected darkly, he didn’t.
Till stabbed at his food with renewed intensity. He would finish eating. He would dispose of the tray. He would leave. He would walk out of this mall, into the parking lot, into his car, and into a future blissfully free of motorbikes, smug expressions, and men who treated personal boundaries like suggestions. He finished the last bite with grim finality, wiped his hands, and stood, tray lifted like a shield. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivan’s head tilt. Observing. Again.
Do not acknowledge him, Till ordered himself. You are above this. You are evolved. You have impulse control.
He turned toward the trash station... and immediately misjudged the angle of a half-empty sauce cup perched near the edge of his tray. It tipped. Time slowed. The lid popped free. A violent arc of bright red sauce launched itself directly toward his sleeve. Till froze, staring down at the spreading stain.
For one suspended second, the universe held its breath. Then, from directly beside him, a hand appeared holding a stack of napkins.
Till turned his head.
Ivan stood there like he had always been there, eyes attentive in that infuriatingly perceptive way that suggested he had noticed the impending catastrophe approximately three seconds before it occurred and had chosen not to intervene because, presumably, he respected Till’s right to make his own mistakes.
"Your sauce management could use work," Ivan remarked conversationally.
Till stared at the napkins.
Then at Ivan.
Then back at the napkins.
There was a long, silent negotiation between pride and practicality. Pride made a valiant speech about self-sufficiency and moral fortitude. Practicality pointed at the stain.
Practicality won.
Till snatched the napkins with clipped efficiency and dabbed aggressively at his sleeve. “This,” he said tightly, “does not count as a positive interaction.”
“Of course not,” Ivan agreed easily. “This is crisis response. Entirely different category.”
He didn’t move away. He also didn’t loom. He stood close enough to be useful, attention fixed not on Till’s face but on the stain like it was a shared problem.
Till scrubbed harder.
Ivan tilted his head slightly. “You’re smearing it.”
“I'm cleaning it.”
“You’re distributing it.”
“I'm solving it.”
“You’re expanding it.”
Till stopped dabbing and looked up slowly. “Do you want the napkins back?”
“No,” Ivan said calmly. “I want you to rotate the fabric and blot instead of wipe.”
Against all reason, Till rotated the fabric and blotted. The stain lifted almost immediately. Ivan’s mouth curved, like he was pleased a hypothesis had been confirmed.
“…That,” Till said, voice edged with suspicion, “does not mean you were right.”
“I didn’t say I was right,” Ivan replied. “I said you were smearing.”
They stood there for a moment beside the trash station, one holding a tray, the other supervising stain removal like this was a routine they performed every Thursday after grocery shopping.
A nearby child dropped a fork. Someone laughed in the distance. The overhead lights hummed.
Till became aware, with mounting alarm, that the situation felt… normal. Functional, like they were accidentally participating in a tiny, wordless choreography neither of them had rehearsed yet both somehow knew.
He cleared his throat, abruptly dropping the used napkins into the bin with unnecessary force. “There. Crisis resolved. You may return to whatever hobby you were pursuing before this, which I assume involved harassing wildlife or provoking traffic cones.”
Ivan considered him thoughtfully, hands sliding into his jacket pockets. “You’re welcome.”
“I did not thank you.”
“You accepted assistance. That’s basically a thank you.”
Till picked up his tray again purely so he would have something to do with his hands. “You are deeply delusional.”
“Mm. Probably.” Ivan’s gaze flicked briefly to the faint damp mark on Till’s sleeve, then back to his face. “Still worked, though.”
It had. That was the problem.
Till turned toward the tray return shelf, jaw tightening as he stacked his dishes with meticulous precision. He could feel Ivan nearby without looking, the awareness humming along his nerves like static electricity.
Till slid the tray into place. Ivan, without comment, reached past him and nudged a crooked stack of discarded trays into alignment so they wouldn’t topple.
This, he thought with growing unease, was new territory. Annoyance he understood. Pursuit he understood. Smug flirting he understood and resented with great passion. This quiet, wordless coordination, however, where Ivan anticipated problems and fixed them before they became problems, was new.
And it was dangerous.
He stepped back from the counter.
Ivan stepped back too, matching the distance without looking like he was matching anything at all.
Their eyes met. For a moment neither of them spoke. Till felt, absurdly, like he had just glimpsed something he wasn’t supposed to see.
Something in his chest shifted, subtle and traitorous.
He scowled at it internally.
“This,” he said briskly, turning toward the mall exit corridor, “changes nothing.”
Ivan fell into step beside him with effortless compliance. “Naturally.”
Till walked.
Ivan walked.
They emerged from the food court corridor into the wide arterial stretch of the mall the way survivors of a minor natural disaster might emerge from a bunker: intact, faintly disoriented, and pretending the last hour hadn’t happened. The space ahead of them breathed with weekend noise — footsteps, chatter, the distant shriek of a delighted child, the low murmur of retail music engineered to make people forget both time and financial restraint. Light poured down from the skylights in broad, innocent sheets, illuminating polished tile and drifting bodies and the general chaos of civilian life. It was, Till thought, the perfect environment for a clean escape.
He could leave now. That realisation arrived with startling clarity. The day’s objective — which, admittedly, had never been an objective so much as it had been a desperate attempt at escape — was complete. He had eaten. He had wandered. He had successfully not murdered anyone despite prolonged provocation. There was, therefore, no legitimate reason for him to remain in the presence of a motorbike menace whose primary hobby appeared to be psychological warfare.
Beside him, Ivan adjusted his pace automatically to match Till’s stride, hands loose in his pockets, expression calm in that infuriatingly neutral way that suggested he could either walk beside Till for the next three minutes or the next three decades and feel equally unbothered by either outcome.
Till narrowed his eyes at a decorative plant as they passed it, as if the ficus were personally responsible for this situation.
You can go, he told himself firmly. You can simply leave. That is a thing people do. Adults depart locations all the time. They exit buildings. They get into their cars. They do not acquire stray motorcyclists.
He angled slightly left toward the main thoroughfare.
Someone with a stroller cut between them. A group of teenagers flowed past in a loud, glittering cluster. A man carrying three shopping bags and a pretzel veered sideways with the reckless confidence of someone who had never once looked where he was going.
Till turned.
Ivan was gone. The space beside Till, which for the last several hours had been occupied by warmth, motion, and an ongoing threat to his blood pressure, was suddenly occupied by nothing at all.
Till kept walking. Obviously. Naturally. This was ideal, after all. It was perfect, in fact.
He continued forward with the brisk efficiency of a man embracing freedom. His shoulders loosened. His jaw unclenched. His stride lengthened in what was undeniably the posture of someone thriving.
Good, he thought. Excellent. Finally. Silence. Peace. Personal space. Emotional stability. No more commentary, no more staring, no more—
He slowed. Just slightly.
His eyes flicked, unbidden, to the reflection in a darkened shop window as he passed it. Only himself looked back.
He walked another few steps.
The mall noise pressed in around him, loud and impersonal and strangely flat. Like a stage after the actors had left it.
It felt suspiciously like waiting.
He lasted approximately twelve seconds before glancing over his shoulder.
Nothing.
He faced forward again immediately, expression tightening with the offended composure of someone who had absolutely not just checked.
Good, he repeated internally, more pointedly this time. That’s good. That’s what you wanted. You wanted him gone. Congratulations. He’s gone. You win.
He walked five more steps. Someone laughed behind him. Till turned his head before he could stop himself.
Still nothing.
An unfamiliar sensation crept in, quiet and unwelcome.
He slowed again.
This was ridiculous.
He did not care where Ivan was. Ivan’s location was irrelevant. Ivan’s existence was, in fact, ideally distant. Ivan could be on another floor. Another block. Another continent. Preferably one separated by water and complicated visa requirements.
Till came to a stop beside a pillar and stared very intently at a mall directory map he had no intention of reading.
A moment passed.
Then, from somewhere to his right, mildly and as if continuing a conversation they had never actually started, a familiar voice said, “You walk slow for someone who doesn’t want to be followed.”
Till turned.
Ivan stood a few feet away near a vending machine, posture easy, gaze steady, expression touched with something quieter.
Relief hit first. Immediate, reflexive, and bright. Fury followed half a second later, offended and indignant that relief had dared show up at all.
“You lost me,” Till said coolly.
Ivan tilted his head. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
That was all he said. Just hm, like he’d been given a piece of information he intended to examine later under better lighting conditions.
They stood there facing each other while foot traffic flowed around them in polite currents. For the first time all day, neither of them moved. The stillness felt oddly formal.
This was it. The logical stopping point.
Errands — fictitious as they had been — were over. The mall had been navigated. The mutual harassment had reached its natural conclusion. There was no more narrative excuse for Ivan to keep orbiting him unless he planned to upgrade from menace to permanent, 24/7 stalker.
Till became acutely aware of the exit signs visible down the corridor behind him. Glass doors. Sunlight beyond. Freedom, framed and waiting.
He shifted his weight.
Ivan did not step closer. He didn't step away. He didn't do anything, in fact, except watch him with a calm attentiveness that felt less like pursuit and more like patience.
It dawned on Till, slowly and suspiciously, that Ivan was not going to follow. Not this time. The realisation landed with the soft, disorienting thud of a book dropped open to a page you hadn’t meant to find.
Till cleared his throat, because his body had apparently decided this moment required sound effects. “Well,” he said, with the clipped finality of someone attempting to close a conversation that had never technically opened, “this has been… deeply unnecessary.”
Ivan’s mouth curved faintly. “Usually is.”
The silence came again. The exit doors glowed patiently in the distance.
Till turned toward them. He took one step. Then two. Then three. The absence of footsteps beside him was jarring. There was no engine-hum or matching stride. Just the ordinary rhythm of his own shoes against tile.
He kept walking. This was what he wanted — freedom, solitude, peace.
He reached the midpoint of the corridor and slowed. Then stopped entirely.
Till sighed. It was a long sigh. The kind of sigh produced by a man who had just realised he was arguing with himself and losing.
Pros of leaving: peace, dignity, lower blood pressure.
Cons of leaving: …irritating motorcyclist no longer looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day.
Till stared straight ahead. He hated this. He hated it with the intensity of a person recognising a pattern in his own behaviour but refusing to do anything about it anyway.
After a moment, he resumed walking. Slower this time, like the pace itself was an invitation.
Behind him, there was the faintest sound of movement. Footsteps. Again. They drew level with him only after he had very clearly not sped up.
Ivan slid back into place at his side like he’d never left, matching Till’s adjusted pace with quiet precision. He didn’t look at him immediately. Acceptance, wordless and mutual, settled between them like an agreement.
Till kept his eyes forward, expression composed with visible effort. “You’re very persistent.”
“I’m very patient,” Ivan corrected gently.
“That’s worse.”
“Usually.”
They reached the glass doors. Sunlight spilled across the floor beyond them, warm and bright and promising consequences.
Till pushed one open. Ivan stepped through beside him.
The parking lot greeted them with the warm, sun-dazed atmosphere of late afternoon and the faint smell of asphalt and sunburnt optimism. Heat shimmered faintly above the concrete, turning distant cars into wavering mirages. The automatic doors sighed shut behind them, sealing in the noise of the mall and releasing them into an open-air quiet that felt, to Till’s immediate suspicion, far too intimate for two people whose relationship had so far consisted primarily of vehicular hostility and competitive eye contact.
They walked side by side down the painted lane, their shadows stretching ahead of them like accomplices. Somewhere a car alarm chirped. A shopping trolley rattled in the distance. The world, annoyingly, continued existing with complete indifference to the fact that Till was currently experiencing the emotional equivalent of standing on a rug he suspected someone might pull.
Ivan glanced around the lot with mild curiosity, as if he frequented parking structures for leisure. “Well,” he said, tone light, “you didn’t sprint for the exit. I’m choosing to take that personally.”
Till kept his gaze fixed ahead. “I was conserving energy."
Ivan shrugged. "I'll take that as a compliment."
“You shouldn’t.”
“I usually do.”
Till’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. He immediately pressed his lips together again in a show of restraint that fooled absolutely no one, least of all the man walking beside him with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent the day collecting his reactions like souvenirs.
They passed a row of cars. Ivan’s motorbike came into view first, angled neatly between two vehicles like it had posed itself there. Next to it sat Till’s car, patient and ordinary and blissfully unaware that its owner’s day had spiralled into what could only be described as the strangest shopping trip of his life.
Their pace slowed.
Till stopped beside his driver’s door and rested a hand on the handle, not opening it yet. Ivan halted near his bike, one hand settling casually on the seat, posture easy, expression unreadable in the golden light. For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence settled like a held note waiting to see who would resolve it.
Till cleared his throat, immediately annoyed that his body insisted on doing that whenever he was thinking too hard. “So,” he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pointed curiosity, “do you usually dedicate entire afternoons to harassing strangers, or was today a special event?”
Ivan tilted his head slightly. “Harassing?”
“You followed me across multiple districts.”
“You drove very interesting routes.”
“You revved your engine at me.”
“You looked like you needed entertainment.”
Till narrowed his eyes. “Do you stalk everyone, or should I feel singled out?”
Ivan’s answer came without hesitation, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual teasing lilt.
“No. Just you.”
The words didn’t land dramatically. He didn’t lean closer or lower his voice conspiratorially or do anything theatrical at all. He just said it, simple and factual, like he was stating the weather. Something in Till’s chest misfired. He stared at Ivan, brain briefly buffering like an overworked computer. Sarcasm he could counter. Smugness he could deflect. But sincerity, delivered without flourish, slipped past his defenses with alarming efficiency.
“Well,” Till said after a beat, because silence was beginning to feel suspiciously revealing, “that’s concerning.”
Ivan’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re very memorable.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a compliment.”
Before Till could decide whether to argue that point or file it away for later analysis, Ivan reached into his jacket pocket and held something out.
Chocolate.
Not just any chocolate — that chocolate. The same one from the grocery store. The peace offering Luka had practically narrated like a sports commentator. The wrapper caught the sunlight as it dangled between them, bright and conspicuous and absurdly ceremonial.
Till blinked at it.
“You still have that,” he said.
“I was given very specific instructions about timing,” Ivan replied. “I’m told this is the romantic window.”
Till stared at the chocolate like it might explode.
Accepting it would be acknowledgment. Acceptance. Participation in whatever bizarre courtship ritual this day had accidentally become.
Not accepting it would be— well. It would be not accepting chocolate.
He took it. His fingers brushed Ivan’s for half a second longer than necessary.
“If this is poisoned,” Till said, slipping it into his pocket with brisk finality. “I will haunt you."
“Mm,” Ivan said, watching him in that quiet, attentive way again. “That sounds like a second date.”
Till glared at him. "There was never a first."
He opened his car door, sliding into the seat quietly as he glanced over the glass where Ivan sat, tugging his helmet on. Then he paused.
A thought, sudden and sharp, had just occurred to him with all the subtlety of a dropped piano.
He didn't know Ivan's last name. He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t know what he did. Didn’t know if this bizarre, sunlit parking lot encounter was the last time he would ever see him or if he would spend the next three months instinctively checking intersections for motorcycles like a man haunted by chrome-plated déjà vu.
The realisation sat heavily in his chest. He did not like how much he disliked that possibility.
Behind him, metal clicked. Till turned.
Ivan had swung one leg over his bike and pressed the ignition.
The engine responded with a sound that could best be described as failure. Ivan tried again. The bike made a thoughtful choking noise.
Till bit the inside of his cheek.
Ivan adjusted something near the handlebar with calm precision and tried once more. The engine produced a valiant sputter, before dying out completely.
Silence hung over them.
Till looked at the sky. The pavement. A nearby shopping cart. Anywhere except Ivan’s face, because he could already feel the traitorous smile attempting to form.
Ivan exhaled slowly through his nose, then patted the bike’s handle like a man soothing a temperamental horse.
“Huh,” he said quietly, “this is unexpected.”
“Mhm,” Till agreed, voice perfectly neutral. “How unfortunate.”
"Looks like I may need a ride," Ivan said, fingers already working at his helmet eagerly. Almost too eagerly. Till could practically hear the grin on his face.
His own smile escaped. Till opened his car door the rest of the way and said quickly, over his shoulder, "Get in before I remember I value solitude."
Ivan didn’t rush. He dismounted with unhurried grace, like this had been the plan all along, like the entire day had merely been an elaborate prelude to this exact invitation. He walked around the car, opened the passenger door, and inclined his head slightly as he slid inside.
"Thank you," he said, staring at Till. "I'll try not to stalk you from the passenger seat.”
Till shut his own door, started the engine, and stared straight ahead, acutely aware of Ivan’s presence beside him, warm and solid.
“This,” Till informed the windshield, “is still not a date.”
“Of course not,” Ivan agreed pleasantly.
There was a beat of silence.
“Where are we going?” he added.
Till’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He pulled out of the parking space.
“We’ll see,” he said.
And he didn’t miss the way Ivan smiled.