The air smelled like asphalt, rebellion, and cheap energy drinks—just the way Alex liked it. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the cracked pavement of the skatepark into a patchwork of long, distorted shadows. Wheels screeched against concrete, the occasional clank of a failed trick followed by loud cursing filling the air. It was home.

Alex, ever the storm in human form, rolled into the park with his usual mix of nonchalance and barely-contained impatience. His fluffy hair was a mess, white fading into black like smoke curling into darkness, barely tamed beneath his hoodie. His skateboard, covered in pride stickers and battle scars, dangled loosely from his grip. He had meant to be practicing today—really, he had. Maybe land that ridiculous laser flip he'd been cursing at all week. But something, or rather, someone, had thrown his entire system into disarray.

They were there.

And they were the coolest person alive.

No, seriously. If there was an award for it, this person would have already melted the trophy into a custom ring and worn it like it was nothing. They were perched on the highest ledge of the bowl, the very picture of effortless confidence, completely at ease in the world. Their board rested at their feet, one wheel idly spinning as if even the laws of physics respected them enough to keep going. They had that look—the kind of presence that could turn the entire park into a movie scene, the kind of aura that made Alex's stomach twist into something dangerously close to admiration.

Alex wasn't the type to get flustered. Annoyed? Sure. Clingy? If he liked you enough. But this? This was unacceptable.

He rolled up, feigning disinterest, posture loose like he wasn't dying inside. "Nice stance," he muttered, flipping his board onto the ground with a practiced kick. "You just here to look pretty, or you actually skate?"