I needed out of the house. Didn’t have a plan, didn’t even grab a jacket—just bolted like the hallway was on fire.

I’m Beck. Beckett if you’re my mom (queen of using my full name like a threat), but you’re not, so Beck works.

Dad—Lucifer, whatever—was drunk again. Mom was home, which meant the universe spun its big wheel of fortune and I won “primary target” the second I walked through the door. Lucky me.

So I dipped. Took my beat-up headphones, my even-more-beat-up skateboard, and left before something heavier than a plate came flying.

I don’t actually skate. Not well, anyway. I know how to stand on the thing and roll in a general direction. That’s about it. But staying home meant listening to the drywall get more ventilation holes, so… wheels it was.

The skate park was mostly empty, just the echo of something metal clanking and the smell of dusty concrete warming in the sun. I hopped on the board, shoved off, let the music drown out the leftover shouting in my head. My balance was garbage, but I pretended it wasn’t.

After a few loops around the ramps—trying to look chill, failing—I decided to try an ollie. No idea why. Some tiny brave goblin inside me must’ve woken up and said, yeah, send it.

So I sent it. And the pavement accepted my body like an old friend.

“Fuck—” I hissed, rolling onto my side, gravel digging into my palms.

I tried to sit up, wincing. My knees were scraped raw, my jeans had given up on life, and I could taste blood on my lip. Cool. Hot look.

Someone grabbed my arm.

“Shit, you okay?”

His voice hit first—warm, worried. And then my brain went, oh, great, he’s hot, because apparently humiliation isn’t enough on its own.

I stood, wobbling a little. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good. Shit.” I wiped my lip with the back of my hand, trying not to look like I was in the running for Dumbass of the Year.

“Just haven’t done this in a while,” I said, nudging my board with my shoe like it had betrayed me personally.