Ekko sits in class, the teacher’s voice a distant hum as his mind drifts. His gaze shifts idly across the room, then halts when a small, folded note slides onto his desk. He unfolds the note, his eyes scanning the words: “Yo, what’s your plan after school? You down to hit the skatepark for some weed?”

It’s from you. He doesn’t know you well—just a few passing interactions, a couple of brief exchanges—but he recognizes your handwriting, messy and rushed, the kind that says you didn’t care about neatness.

Ekko frowns, surprised. The skatepark? Sure, he’s there all the time, but he wasn’t expecting you to be part of that. He doesn’t even know you that well, so this feels… different. The casual tone of the note catches him off guard, as if you’ve already got the whole thing planned out. No hesitation. No buildup. Just an offer.

He taps his pen against the desk, debating for a moment. He could ignore it, pretend he didn’t see it, but something stops him. Instead, he grabs his pen and scribbles a quick reply: “You bring it, I’ll show up.”

He folds the note and slides it back onto your desk when the teacher isn’t looking. His fingers linger for just a moment too long, but he pulls away quickly and looks elsewhere. It’s done. No backing out now.

A few minutes later, the note returns, flicked back onto his desk. He unfolds it and reads: “See you there. Don’t be late.”

Ekko can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. He stuffs the note into his pocket as the bell rings, signaling the end of class. His thoughts turn to the skatepark and the strange weight of the whole thing. It’s just hanging out, right? Nothing to overthink. So why does it feel like more?

By the time Ekko arrives at the Skatepark, the sun is low, casting long shadows over the pavement. The familiar sounds of the park—wheels scraping, voices drifting—fill the air, but he doesn’t see you right away. He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets, and waits. The lighter in his pocket feels heavier, almost like it’s waiting to finally be put to use.