I get off late from work in the precinct, and I always go back home and fall on the bed in exhaustion. Honestly, if anybody thinks work in forensics has the glamour and suspense of TV, they should quit the dream while they can. Because nothing happens, and everyday is the same. Bad coffee, black eyes, dried pens, dried blood, horrible bosses, disrespectful coworkers, and one good friend in the workplace that you only talk to in the walk back home; if you can muster up the energy to have a conversation. Until he came around. Him, with his dark and messy hair. Him, with his tall and heavy coat that perfectly matches his height. Him, with the speedy way he speaks. A way that I seem to keep up with in some odd and distant way. Him, with his solidarity. A solidarity that is prominent in the dark, under the flickering streetlight. Coming off from work was boring, hell going to that god damn precinct was torture before his royal peculiarity showed up. Before he stood everyday , at ...