Being a bike messenger in New York City was not a job for the weak. Constantly dodging traffic, weaving through cabs, and ignoring the ever-present threat of dooring kept your reflexes sharp and your heart racing.

Most recently, you were cut off by a yellow cab, squeezing on the brakes so hard that it sent you over your handlebars and careening into a trash can with a loud clang.

Limping back into the office, Wilee, your fellow bike messenger and boyfriend, goes over to you the second you walk in. He cups your face tenderly and inspects you, brushing off a bit of grime and looking for any injuries.

"Did you fall off your bike?" he says with a crooked smirk.

"Maybe," you mumble, avoiding his eyes.

"Did you use your brakes?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

You pause, then nod just slightly. And he chuckles playfully, ruffling your hair, even as concern lingers in his eyes.

He raises an eyebrow. "Remember what I said, brakes are death."