☆My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare☆

“You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.” You smiled to yourself and set down the book you’d been pretending to read.

Javi didn’t look up from the open law book spread across the library table. “I’m reading.”

“You haven’t turned a page.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

You slid into the chair beside him. The library was quiet except for the occasional shuffle of pages and the squeak of a cart somewhere between the shelves. “That’s lawyer code for ‘I forgot what I was reading,’ isn’t it?”

He finally looked over, one eyebrow raised. “You always this annoying?”

“Only around you.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his notes were scattered across the table in no particular order.

Without saying anything, you reached for his hand beneath the table.

His fingers curled around yours almost immediately. “You don’t have to babysit me,” he said, though his thumb was already brushing slow circles over your knuckles.

“I know.”

“I’ll finish this.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll pass the exam.”

You squeezed his hand. “I know.”

For the first time all evening, the tension in his shoulders eased.

A few minutes later, he gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go. Then he closed the book with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Come here.”

“We’re in a library.”

“So…?”

“So people are trying to study.”

“They’ve been watching me suffer for three hours.” His mouth twitched into a grin. “I think I’ve earned one hug.”

You rolled your eyes, but stood anyway and stepped closer. Javi turned toward you, and the second your arms wrapped around him, he buried his face against your shoulder like he’d been waiting all day for exactly this. “You’re impossible,” you whispered.

“Maybe,” Javier murmured. “But I’m passing that exam.”

“You better. I’m not dating a guy who made me read contract law for nothing.”

thank you for reading!

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“Happy birthday, old man,” you say with a grin, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Lucien closes his eyes, relishing in the way your lips feel against his skin, and he aches to tilt your chin towards him and claim your mouth in a searing kiss.

“Oh, c’mon. Is forty five really that old?” he asks, his hands wrapping around your middle, toying with the hem of your shirt as if testing to see if he could get away with his fingers skating over the strip of exposed skin at your back. 

“Yes,” you respond matter of factly. “In fact, I made our dinner reservation for 4:30 because I know how much you love an early bird special.” You finally pull away and set your bag down on his kitchen counter. 

“Ha ha,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes, already missing your embrace. “Very funny. What time is our actual reservation at?”

“9:30.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he asks teasingly. 

You break out into a smile and Lucien swears his heart skips a beat. You’re stunning. “You love me, birthday boy,” you jest, poking him in the chest.

Lucien looks down at your finger and then back up at you, nodding. He wishes he could tell you the truth – how you make him feel and how you’ve made his life better in every way. “Of course I do,” he admits. Lucien licks his lips and lets his gaze flit down to your mouth, his brain screaming at him to close the distance and just kiss you already. He finds himself unconsciously leaning in but then you’re gone, moving towards your bag and removing a silver party hat that you place precariously on top of his head.

“Watch him. Seriously.” John passed him the glass of water and Tylenol he’d requested.

“You really think he’s dangerous?” They both watched Shane for a second, making obscene gestures in the mirror and smirking at himself. “He looks like just another punk kid.”

That wasn’t quite true. He happened to have a smooth, angular face, cheekbones that could cut glass, plush pink lips, and big brown eyes–shit.

“I don’t know. Spooked Connie after one conversation. And that Satanic mumbo-jumbo he was spewing at Jones…”

Tim glanced at him. “Don’t tell me you believe in that shit?”

John shrugged, “No, but he does. Gave me the creeps, if I’m honest.”

“Well, alright.” Tim squared his shoulders. “Wish me luck, I guess.”

He pulled the door back and stepped through, letting it swing shut behind him with sharp finality. The kid stiffened, though he tried not to. Tim’s shoes echoed hollowly in the cement box as he approached the table.

The kid’s eyes were trained on him instantly, like a prey animal in a snare. Pupils blown wide, dark pools swallowing most of the dark brown iris. Pills, maybe. Oxy, benzos…

Tim set his file, along with the water and pain meds, on the table, just out of Shane’s reach.

“Alright, Shane–”

“Dio.” He corrected instantly.

Tim drew his glasses from his breast pocket and put them on before opening his file to read. “Name: Shane Alexander Morrissey, Date of Birth: April–”

“Okay, man. Whatever.”

Tim glanced at him over the rim of his glasses. “Sure you don’t want me to keep going? I mean, there’s some real interesting stuff in here…”

“Can we skip the bullshit?” Shane picked at the taped edge of his bandage absently. He wasn’t sweating yet. He was breathing steady, but too steady, like he was regulating it on purpose.

“We can, yeah. You tell me what I want to know.”

“I already told the uniforms. I don’t know anything.”

Tim huffed a breath, setting the file aside again. “I thought we were skipping the bullshit, Shane?” He leaned half on the edge of the table, taking the weight off his bad hip, still throbbing from last week’s takedown.​

He tried to hide the wince, but Shane caught it anyway. Kid’s eyes were too quick for his own good. He was doing the tough-guy act now, leaning back in his chair, slouched, or as much as the cuffs would allow. But every muscle in him was tight, coiled.

Tim let the silence hang for a while, long enough for the kid to get nervous, antsy. When he spoke, his voice was lower. “Can I ask you something?”

Shane scoffed. “That’s why I’m chained to this table, right?”

Tim gestured at the piercings and studded jewelry glinting in the harsh light, the shitty pentagram tattoo on his hand. “You really into all this shit? Or is it camouflage?”

“This…shit?” Shane tilted his head, hardware jingling. He inhaled, the motion pulling his thin black shirt tight across his lean chest. Nipple rings. Jesus Christ. What else had the kid pierced?

It was the wrong thought to have. Tim’s throat went dry. He pulled his eyes away, back up to meet Shane’s. Just in time to catch his sly, knowing smile. Dammit.

“Exactly what shit is that, Detective?”

“You tell me.” Tim kept his tone steady, flat. “I got one detective saying you tried to hex him, spewing some satanic mumbo-jumbo.”

“Yeah?” Shane’s laugh was short and bitter, but his gaze moved down Tim’s frame slowly, intentionally, before returning to his face. “He tell you the part where he tried to choke me out?”

The kid’s gaze was potent as physical touch. “Don’t tell me you expect sympathy.”

Shane shrugged. “Not from some pervy old gimp who says mumbo-jumbo unironically.”

“Ah. There’s that winning personality they warned me about.”

Tim eased off the table and circled behind the chair. Not fast, not threatening. Just close enough to make the kid’s shoulders tighten. Close enough now he could smell the gel in his hair, his cheap cologne, the sweat beneath it.

“You’re nervous.”

Shane didn’t turn his head, but the muscle in his jaw jumped. Tim filed that away.

“Man, this is bullshit. Just like last time. How’d that turn out again?”

He had a point there; Tim couldn’t deny it. Turned out the ‘victim’ was wanted under various aliases in multiple states for sexual assault. Probably would’ve done a number on both Dio and his girl if he hadn’t stopped him when he did. In light of that, it was ruled self-defense. Case dropped. Whole thing had been a shit show for the department, but none of it was relevant now.

Tim leaned in behind him, close enough his breath stirred the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. “You’re clearly a smart kid, Shane. Not smart enough to learn your lesson the first time, though.”

“I’m 22.” Shane’s voice dropped half an octave. “Not a kid.”

“To this pervy old gimp, you are.”

Shane’s lips twitched. “What lesson, then?”

“Stop hanging with, what do you call ’em? Posers?”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Rats then. People who turn on you when shit gets hot.”

“That’s all there is, man.”

Tim stepped back into Shane’s line of sight. “So this warehouse on 14th,” he said conversationally, leaning on the table again. “What were you and your little coven doing there?”

Shane’s posture stiffened for a second, but then he leaned in, face alarmingly close to Tim’s thigh, looking up at him with those big dark eyes.

“Why, Detective…” Shane murmured, warmth breathed across Tim’s thigh. “You interested in our working?” His smile sharpened. “I could show you sometime.”

Tim held his gaze. Kids broke into abandoned buildings all the time. Smoked a little, scared each other with spooky rituals. Harmless, mostly. But his tone sent a small shiver down Tim’s spine.

“I’m mostly interested in why your working ended with a warehouse on fire.” He let that sit a moment. Then added, almost casually, “Fire marshal says it started inside.”

“Well, if he said it, it must be true.” Shane huffed, still picking at the edge of his bandage.

“That hurt?” Tim nodded at his arm.

Shane shrugged noncommittally.

Tim slid the glass and pills toward him. Shane hesitated, as if waiting for the catch, but after a few seconds he scooped the pills up–awkwardly, cuffs scraping the table–and tossed them back, followed by the water. He downed the glass in a few gulps, throat working.

Tim looked away a second too late.

Shane set the glass down slowly. “Enjoying the show, Detective?”

“Three of your friends got second-degree burns; one’s still in the burn unit. And every single one of them is pointing at you, saying you knocked over the kerosene when you got ‘possessed’ or whatever the fuck story you were selling.”

Shane’s posture stiffened. “They’re lying.”

Tim held his gaze. Shane didn’t look away.

“Three separate statements, same story. You chanting, then flames.”

Shane exhaled sharply through his nose. “I was there, yeah. But I didn’t start the fire.”

Tim pulled the chair out and sat. He studied the younger man’s face in the flat light. “You’re high.” It wasn’t a question.

Shane’s mouth curved wryly. “You gonna add public intoxication to the charges?”

“If you keep bullshitting me.” Tim tapped the table once. “You were high then, too. Weren’t you? That’s why your friends are so quick to hang you out to dry. ‘Dio was fucked up, man, he didn’t know what he was doing…’ Convenient.”

Shane’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t start the fire, and I wasn’t the one who brought the kerosene.”

“Then tell me who did. Unless you want to take the fall for them.” Silence stretched; neither moved. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. “I need a name, Shane. Or I start treating you like the arsonist your friends say you are.”

Shane held his gaze a moment longer before dropping his eyes to the table. When he spoke, his voice was so low Tim had to lean in to hear it. “Blade…I guess his real name’s Brent. Check his phone, 929 area code, starts with 386, I think. That’s all I got.”

Tim wrote it down, nodding once. He crossed the room, reached for the door.

Behind him, Shane spoke. “This is gonna fuck me over, Detective. You know that, right?”

Tim’s hand paused on the door handle. “Yeah, I know.”

—

That had been what? Eight months ago? Turned out the kid’s information was legit. Brent’s phone led them to a mid-level fence in Queens and several other cases of insurance arson. Shane got misdemeanor trespass and reckless endangerment; they dropped the rest. Two hundred hours community service, mandatory twelve-step meetings everyone knew wouldn’t do shit.

Now Tim was watching him again through the same one-way glass. Time hadn’t been kind to the kid. He was cuffed and chained to the chair again. He looked thinner, sharper, clothes hanging off him like they belonged to someone else. His cheekbones were hollow, his hair shaggier, dirty, brown roots showing beneath the black, nail polish mostly chipped away.

Tim rubbed his jaw, stubble rasping under his palm. He sucked in a breath as he straightened and pushed through the door.

“Fuck.” Shane muttered when he saw him. “You gotta be shitting me…”

“Long time no see, kid.” Tim set the file down and leaned on the table.

“Miss me, Detective?” The words came out half challenge, half something else.

“Was hoping I wouldn’t see you in here again.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Shane’s gaze slid slowly down Tim’s body, then back up. “You look good, old man. Still limping?”

Tim ignored the jab and the heat crawling up his neck. “Let’s get down to it. Uniforms roll up, victim bleeding out. You, ten feet away, covered in blood. Seems cut and dry to me.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told those fucking pigs. I didn’t stab anyone.”

Tim leaned down, forearms braced on the table so their faces were level. “If you didn’t, who did?”

Shane didn’t lean back. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.” Tim straightened. “What were you doing in that park at 3am, Shane?”

“It’s Dio.”

“We’ve been through this before, Shane. What were you doing in the park?”

Shane swallowed, throat working. “Sleeping.”

“In February? Try again.”

Shane’s eyes flicked to the one-way glass, then back. “No colder than the shelter, and a hell of a lot quieter ‘til your boys showed up.”

The kid was holding it together fairly well, but the pulse in his neck was jumping. “You look like hell, Shane.”

“Fuck you.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “Tough guy routine didn’t work last time, and it’s not gonna work now. Not when there’s a body on a slab, and your name’s already top of the list.”

Shane swallowed again, harder this time. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Then tell me who did.” Tim pulled out the chair opposite and sat, elbows on the table. “Because right now, your story’s looking thin. Real thin.”

Shane stared at the table, breathing shallowly.

“Clock’s ticking, and my patience is running out.”

Shane’s fingers curled into fists. “I was sleeping,” he repeated, but the words sounded smaller now.

Tim let the silence stretch another ten seconds, watching the kid twitch like he was about to crawl out of his own skin. Shane kept his eyes on the table, but the bravado was fraying.

“You’re shaking,” Tim observed quietly.

Shane’s head jerked up. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Tim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Pupils like pinpricks, skin’s clammy, you’re chewing the inside of your cheek raw. How long since your last hit?”

Shane’s laugh came out cracked, too high at the edges. “Whatever, man.”

Tim pulled a battered pack of Reds and a lighter from his trousers pocket, setting them on the table between them.

Shane’s eyes locked on them instantly.

“They won’t fix what’s wrong with you, but they might take the edge off.”

The leg bounce picked up speed. “You trying to play good cop now? After all the ‘clock’s ticking’ shit?”

“I’m trying to wrap this conversation up before you start puking on my shoes.” Tim tapped the pack once with a fingertip. “Your call.”

For a long beat, nothing happened. Then Shane’s cuffed hands slid forward, his knuckles grazing Tim’s hand as they closed around the pack. The contact was brief, hot, before Tim drew back.

Shane fumbled a cigarette out, and got it between his lips, but his hands shook so bad he couldn’t work the lighter. Tim took it from him, flicked it, and held the flame steady. Shane had to lean close to reach it. Tim had the strangest urge to cup the back of that pale neck.

The first drag was desperate, cheeks hollowing. He held it in his lungs, then exhaled through his nose in a long stream. The smoke curled up toward the buzzing light. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Better?” Tim asked.

Shane took another long pull and didn’t answer right away.

“I wasn’t lying about the park,” he said finally. “Couch-surfing ran out. Shelter’s full of assholes. I was sleeping there.”

“In February?”

“Yeah, in February.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Guy came up to me. Started talking. I talked back. That’s it.”

Tim waited, leaning in a fraction. “Talked about what?”

Shane’s jaw flexed; he kept his eyes on the table. “Does it matter?”

“It matters if he ended up bleeding out ten feet from you.”

“I didn’t stab him.”

“I didn’t ask if you stabbed him. I asked what you were doing with him at three in the morning.”

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face; the chain rattled. “He wanted something. I was considering it. He got handsy. Pinned me. I couldn’t get him off.” His voice stayed flat, detached, but the words came faster toward the end. “Then someone else showed up. Deep voice. Started yelling. I didn’t see a face. I was busy trying to get out from under the first guy.”

“Some guy came to your rescue? Who? Batman?”

“Fuck you, man. Did I say that? I said he started yelling at the john.” The word slipped out; neither acknowledged it.

“Yelling what?”

“Threats. Money. I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly taking notes.”

The cigarette had burned down to the filter. Shane stared at it like he didn’t know how it’d happened. He crushed it out on the table’s edge, leaving a black streak.

“Take another if you want it.”

Shane barked a laugh. “You think a few smokes are gonna make me confess to something I didn’t do?”

“Just tell me what happened, Shane.”  

“I did, goddammit! I’m telling the truth!”

“I need something more, Shane. A description, anything.”

Shane’s hands curled into fists on the table. For a second he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was lower, thinner. “It was dark. He was on top of me. I couldn’t see shit. I heard the other guy, and then the knife–” He stopped, throat working. “There was blood everywhere.”

He reached for the cigarette pack, fingers shaking, then seemed to forget it. Instead his hand closed around Tim’s wrist. The grip was tight, almost painful. Their eyes met.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Shane whispered. “I swear.”

Tim didn’t pull away. “Alright, kid, I hear you.”

The door groaned open. Shane flinched and dropped his hand. Tim straightened, jaw tightening.

“Rockford.” John poked his head in, tired eyes flicking first to the kid, then Tim. “Need you a minute.”

Tim swallowed back a curse. “Hang tight, Shane. Don’t go anywhere.”

Shane’s laugh was a dry rasp. “Where the fuck would I go, exactly?”

Tim stepped out, letting the door thud shut behind him. His mind was still on the heat of Shane’s grip and the way the kid’s eyes had gone dark and pleading. The hallway smelled like burnt coffee, old sweat, and industrial cleaner that never quite won the fight.

“What?”

“We think we got the perp. Tried to stick up a liquor store a block from the park. Knife still had wet blood on it when patrol rolled him.”

Tim’s stomach clenched. “Did you send it to the lab?”

“Yeah, rush order. Tech said prelim match could be back in an hour or so.”

Tim glanced through the glass. Shane was hunched now, elbows on the table, forehead almost touching the scarred metal. His fingers had finally closed around the cigarette pack. He was shredding it methodically, peeling off thin strips. Curls of paper drifted to the floor around his boots.

“Little shit’s telling the truth,” Tim muttered.  

John shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just good at playing victim. Hold him till we know. Can’t cut him loose and have him rabbit on us.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s coming apart in there. Withdrawal’s hitting hard. If we keep him much longer without something, he’s gonna puke or seize or both.”

John gave him a flat look. “He’s a material witness at best, suspect at worst. We don’t run a detox center.”

Tim sighed shortly. “Yeah. I know.”

He pushed back inside, closing the door behind him. Shane didn’t look up. His breathing was shallow, ragged; every few seconds, a shiver ran through him like current. One cigarette remained from the pack he’d shredded, bent.

Tim slid back into his chair. “We got a knife with blood on it, might be a match. Lab’s running it now.”

Shane’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “So I’m free?”

“Not yet, gotta wait for the match. Could clear you, could bury you. Either way, you’re not walking till we know.”

Shane pressed the heel of his hand to his stomach, hard, like he was trying to hold something in. “Fuck. I can’t–I can’t stay here like this.” His voice dropped, thin. “It’s hitting bad, man. Like knives in my guts.”

The kid’s hands shook as he tried to straighten the last cigarette. It snapped in half. Shane stared at the broken pieces, then dropped them. His breathing hitched like he was fighting not to cry or puke or both.

“You know I didn’t kill him, right? I–I’d never…” A full-body shudder ripped through him; he doubled over, forehead to the table, chains clinking.

Tim reached across the table and slowly closed his hand around Shane’s forearm.

Shane froze, but he didn’t pull away.

“I know.” His thumb brushed once along the inside of Shane’s wrist, over his racing pulse. “Hang on, kid. Just a little longer.”

Shane's breath hitched at the touch, his eyes locked on Tim's, dark, pleading.

"Alright." Tim straightened, coming around the table to unlock his cuffs from the bolt. "I’m calling it. We're moving you.”

Shane blinked, confusion cutting through the haze. "Moving me where?"

"Lock up ‘til the lab comes back,” he explained, “come on.”

Shane swayed as he stood, chains clinking. Tim’s hand came up automatically, taking his elbow, steadying him. The kid’s skin was too warm, almost feverish. He kept his hold, escorting him out of the room and through the maze of fluorescent-lit hallways toward lockup.

Shane glanced sideways at Tim, "This your idea of chivalry, Rockford?”

Tim didn't rise to it.

They reached the holding area, and the detention officer buzzed them through. He glanced over the paperwork, then stepped forward, “I can take him from here, Detective.”

“No.” Tim’s grip tightened briefly on Shane’s arm. “No, that’s alright. Just page the on-call. Kid's crashing hard.”

Lock up reeked like bleach poured over piss, but at least the cells were only half-full tonight. A couple drunks snoring it off, a tweaker muttering to himself in the corner, a woman curled fetal on her bench… Tim led Shane to a single cell and opened it, guiding him in. As soon as he removed the cuffs, Shane collapsed onto the thin mattress. He curled in on himself, knees to chest, breathing ragged.

"Doc'll be here soon." The door closed with a metallic clang. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, watching Shane through the steel grid. His condition was worsening by the minute.

"You ever been through this shit?" Shane muttered, not looking up.

Tim had once. An undercover gone wrong, but that was a lifetime ago. "Yeah, sucks."

Shane let out a weak laugh that turned into a groan. "Understatement of the year, old man." He shifted, uncurling enough to meet Tim's eyes. "You really gonna stand there and watch me fall apart? Or is this where you ride off into the sunset?"

Tim’s jaw clenched. He felt the pull, the urge to unlock the damn cell and... what? Hold him through it? Bullshit. He was a cop. Shane was a satanist druggie mess, with eyes that promised trouble Tim didn't need.

"Hang in there," Tim murmured. "Doc's coming."

It took fifteen minutes, but it felt like hours, before the on-call nurse showed up. A no-nonsense woman in her fifties named Carla, scrubs rumpled from the night shift. She carried a medical kit, a clipboard tucked under her arm. Tim briefed her: withdrawal symptoms, history of oxy and benzos, but could be something worse these days.

Carla peered through the bars. Shane was doubled over now, dry-heaving into the steel toilet. "How long's he been like this?"

"Building for hours, but hit full tilt in the last thirty."

She nodded. Tim unlocked the cell, and she stepped inside. "Alright, Mr. Morrissey. Let's get a look at you."

Shane flinched at her touch but let her check his vitals–temperature, pulse, blood pressure, the works–muttering curses under his breath the whole time. Carla jotted it all down in her notes, then straightened, glancing back at Tim. "He's in rough shape. Methadone could ease it, but I need the doc's sign-off. He's not seizing yet, but if it escalates..."

"Page him.” Tim pulled the door open for her. “Tell him it's on my req. Material witness, can't have him incoherent if we need more from him."

Carla nodded, stepping out.

Ten minutes later, approval came through for low-dose methadone, enough to taper the edge.

"Under the tongue," she instructed, handing it to him. "Let it melt. Should kick in pretty fast."

Shane took it with shaky hands, eyes flicking to Tim as he complied. The relief wasn't immediate, but the promise of it softened the tight lines around his mouth immediately.

“Keep an eye on him,” Carla instructed. “If he gets worse–seizures, vomiting blood–page me. Otherwise, ride it out."

She left, footsteps fading down the long hall. Tim pulled up a folding chair and settled onto it.

Shane lay back on the bunk, one arm draped over his eyes. "Thanks,” he said after a long silence, no sarcasm this time.

"Don't thank me yet. You're still here till the lab clears you."

Shane shifted, arm dropping so he could look at Tim sideways. The methadone was starting to work its way in, tremors easing. "What is this, guarddog duty?"

Tim leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't choke on your own bullshit."

Shane's lips curved slowly, almost seductive despite the wreck of him. He rolled onto his side, facing Tim fully, one hand trailing lazily down his own chest. "Or maybe you just like the view."

Tim swallowed, but held his stare. "Careful, kid. You're playing with fire."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

The methadone took its time, but it worked, smoothing off the worst edges. Tim stretched his legs out, taking the pressure off his hip. Neither spoke; silence was easier, safer.

An hour and some change later, the radio on Tim’s belt crackled. Lab results were back, a preliminary match. The blood on the recovered knife was the victim’s, type and markers consistent. There was no secondary contributor in the visible stains. Prints on the handle were partial, smudged, unusable, but under the circumstances, the evidence was more than enough to clear Shane. Tim keyed the radio once, acknowledged, then stood.

Shane lifted his head at the sound, eyes clearer now, though still tired. “That it?”

“Yeah.” Tim unlocked the cell gate with an echoing clang. “Blood matches, you’re in the clear.”

Shane pushed himself upright, testing his limbs. He stood, wavering for half a second before steadying. He stepped out of the cell.

Tim jerked his head toward the stairs. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

They moved through the station in near silence, out of the holding area, through the bullpen where a couple night-shift detectives glanced up, then away. Shane kept pace, shoulders loose for the first time since they’d dragged him in.

They stopped at booking, the woman behind the desk returning his belongings to him. Shane pulled on his duster immediately, the oversized coat hanging off his lean frame. He checked his pockets, swearing under his breath when he realized whatever he’d been looking for wasn’t there. “Hey, they took my–” he started.

“Don’t push it.”

“Shit, man, don’t you know NYC is supposed to be 420 friendly now?” He held Tim’s gaze now, less guarded, a little mischievous, still carrying that low simmer of heat.

Tim’s pulse kicked. “Cops are still cops.”

“Bastards…So, this where you tell me to stay out of trouble? Go to meetings? Find Jesus?”

Tim huffed a short breath, almost a laugh. “Would you listen if I did?”

Shane’s mouth curved into a small, crooked grin. “Probably not.” He stepped closer, too close. “But it’s more tempting…coming from you.”

Tim didn’t step back, didn’t speak.

“Thanks for, you know...”

Tim nodded. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Shane started toward the doors.

“Wait,” Tim blurted before he could stop himself, “You got a phone?”

Shane stopped short. “I…it’s disconnected.”

Tim fished a scrap of paper and pen from his pocket, jotting down his number. “This is my personal cell. Call me. If you’re ever in a serious jam.”

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re serious? Call a fucking cop?”

“Sometimes you need a fucking cop, Shane.”

I never thought of this pairing before, but seeing it now, I'm realising that their dynamics really work 😋 a menace and a tired middle aged man who's just trying to do his job (+ pervy according to dio 🤭)

satanic son-of-a-bitch twink trying to pass as a dom

the only way I'll be seeing him from now on honestly 😏🤣

He gave Tim a salute that turned into a middle finger

Bahahaha I can absolutely imagine him doing this 🤣