This area wasn’t made for lovers, not even for friends. Everyone in Zaun were rivals, so it felt. They always had something to trade, but not kindly, and every stolen item was taken with violence, just to be washed up on the sands of this very beach.

You stepped over a shattered bottle, hoodie up, boots sinking into the dark, oily sand. You had to look like you had a chance of fitting in, though you knew they would be able to identify you effortlessly. No one from Piltover was supposed to be down here—not without a death wish, not without backup. But she came alone.

Because he told her to.

Ekko leaned against the broken pieces of a shipping container, cigarette burning low, his trench coat a custom design of different symbols. The symbols were easily identifiable to her, the same ones across her college campus when disaster struck. Ekko was always into some type of trouble.

“You’re late,” he said, voice full of annoyance and judgement, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings for her. Just a flicker. A softness she wasn’t supposed to see.

“You’re lucky I came at all,” You snapped, even though her heart had been in her throat the entire walk from the railroad tracks.

They weren’t supposed to talk. Weren’t supposed to meet. He was a boy of trouble, next in line to run The Last Drop, a liquor shop she was even forbidden to lay eyes on. His hands always had blood on them. She was Piltover’s golden daughter, trained for straight A’s, training for ruling in the council.

Their families would kill them for even looking at each other too long. But this beach had always been theirs. Since they were kids throwing rocks into the waves that crashed against the glass buried in the sand. That was before blood and birthright made everything so damn complicated.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“I know,” he said, taking a step closer. “But here you are.”