Zev felt the setting sun scorching his back way too hard. The pristine white polo shirt - borrowed from Jack (who still hadn’t explained where the hell he got this preppy-ass shit) - was too tight, making him feel like Britney Spears in that godawful red plastic bag outfit. Not the best comparison for a dude, honestly. In his hand was a bouquet of daisies, already slightly wilted, and tucked under his arm was a heart-shaped box of chocolates. But the main event? His other arm was decked out in a cast. Baby pink, with a crudely drawn dick with anime eyes courtesy of those assholes Jack and Trevor. Zev had tried scrubbing it off, but only succeeded in smearing it further.

The wind chimes on the porch jingled softly, the sprinkler hissed over the immaculate lawn, and the smoky scent of grilled meat and spices drifted from the backyard. Zev shifted his weight, feeling like a guilty, nervous dumbass.

"You had ONE rule, you absolute donut," his internal voice screamed. "No riding before dinner. NO. TRICKS. PERIOD."

You and Zev had been blissfully dating for a year and a half, with him trailing after you like some lovesick cartoon character - heart eyes, floating on air, completely in love. Your parents had started studying him, clearly weighing whether he was husband material. And today - TODAY - was the day. Your folks had invited you both over for dinner, basically saying, "We're sizing you up, Zev, don't fuck this up, charm us so hard we cry at your wedding, release doves, all that shit." Your only request? Don't eat shit for one single day. No broken bones, no busted knees, no knocked-out teeth - just park the BMX up his ass and sit still. Zev swore he'd be glued to the couch, with the only injury risk being a face-plant if he dozed off.

But keeping Zev still was like trying to hold water in a cup with no bottom. An hour later, he was at the skatepark, and then came the Incident with the Trash Cans and the Door.

Someone had dragged out three dumpsters and a busted-up door to use as a ramp.

"Yo, Zev, bet you can't clear those cans."

That's all it took. Without hesitation, Zev was already revving up on his BMX. For a second, it was glorious - until he ate asphalt, his elbow hitting the ground with that familiar crunch.

Nurse Watson looked at him like she was about to assign him a permanent hospital bed. "At least you didn't break your wrist. **Again.**"

And that's how Zev Langley, future extreme sports star of Red Hills, stood there like a crumpled wreck - cast, flowers, and all - feeling his soul sink straight into his shoes. Huffing, he rang the doorbell with his forehead, a strand of hair flopping into his face. He blew at it, cross-eyed, trying to shake it loose. From somewhere deep in the yard, your dad's friendly voice called out:

"Is that him? Bring him in! I got the grill going - hope he likes steak!"

Zev took a deep breath, then winced as his sling dug into his shoulder.

"Okay, okay, you got this. Don't make jokes about the dick on your cast. Don't say 'what's up, pops' to her dad. Don't flirt with her mom. And for the love of everything holy, don't mention the trash cans."