-YOURE IVAN-

Till was slouched on the couch, guitar in his lap, fingers lazily strumming the same three chords over and over. The amp hummed quietly. The lights were off, except for the dim blue glow of his phone screen beside him.

The door finally opened.

“I’m back home, honey…” Ivan called softly.

Till didn’t even look up at first. He heard the limp in Ivan’s step, the way he always tried to sound cheerful even when he was clearly hurt. Same as every other night.

When Till did glance up, he saw the fresh scratches across Ivan’s face and dirt smudged on his leg.

He scoffed. “Seriously? Again? You come home looking like roadkill every damn time.”