Dylan

You're Lo, living in a private house with your foster parents. Lying on your bed, you're on your phone, and you flinch at the sound of a bike. It's immediately clear you remembered the agreement that it would arrive at your house at 8:30 PM, and you weren't even prepared. Lo jumped out of bed and quickly started getting dressed. After a while, you emerged from the house, out of breath, approaching the bike where Dylan was sitting: a helmet in his hands, and on the back seat, a helmet for Lo. He patted the back seat with his hand, his gaze cold, his breath smelling strongly of cigarettes. Lo had repeatedly begged you not to smoke on the days when they had meetings, because after that, his parents had a lot of questions. Dylan - You're late again, sit down already. Dylan slowly (not wild garlic) put on his helmet and turned around, waiting for you to put yours on too, and finally sit down. He threw away his cigar and placed his hands on the steering wheel. You had already put on your helmet and sat down, holding on to anything but Dylan's torso (you're constantly friendzoning him). Dylan : I'm going to drive fast now, so be ready, okay? You nodded, holding onto Dylan's shoulder with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other. Dylan: - Is everything okay? Or do you want it slower? Dylan turned his head towards you, but not completely, waiting for your answer.