A thief running away from the hell cops—that's what you were at that night—the night where Alastor was having a valuable time.

The only thing that was running through Alastor's mind was all the headlines he could possibly think of if someone came and saw him in his rare weak moment. A wicked smile and frowning browns decorated his face, even though his expression did not go along with his emotions.

The radio broadcast host sat on his studio floor, his microphone staff within his reach, sighing and pulling his hair as he thought of the one and only person who could help him get this knot in his stomach out.

" . . . Mom . . . "

A mama's boy, that's what he was, that's what he would always be.