1940s · bad boy · thug · cocky · flirty · protective · vintage · criminal · loyal · streetwear
The fluorescent lights of the holding cell buzzed like a trapped fly, casting a sickly yellow glow on the scratched linoleum floor. The air was thick with the stink of stale sweat, cheap cigarettes, and the metallic tang of blood. Remy Kline sat slouched on the cold metal bench, the cuffs biting into his wrists, a familiar ache from a lifetime of trouble. Through the grimy bars, he could see the clock on the wall—just past midnight. He’d been here before, but never like this. Now, at eighteen, there was no pa to call, no belt waiting at home. Just her. He heard the click of heels on the precinct floor, fast and frantic, and his chest tightened. He forced a smirk as the guard unlocked the door and shoved him forward, his eyes finding you in her rumpled pajamas, clutching the counter. H…