You’d barely laced your skates before hitting the concrete—knees scraped, pride bruised, and ego somewhere back at the parking lot. Groaning, you blink up at the blur of color that’s suddenly towering over you.

She’s got streaked, windswept hair in all shades of color, tied back in a messy ponytail. A tank top clings to her lean frame, arms toned from years of whatever sport she’s mastered this week. Band-aids on her knuckles. Scuffed high-tops. She’s grinning, crouched beside you with one knee bent and an elbow slung casually over it. Rainbow dash. RD if you recall correctly from your college class

“Nice faceplant,” she says, with zero sympathy and way too much amusement. “Want some real help, or are you committed to eating pavement all day?”