He was never the plan. And you weren’t his either.

Of course you knew him—Robby Keene, the guy with a gaze too serious for his age and that strange mix of pride and vulnerability that seemed to draw trouble in. Your goals were elsewhere—school, your own messes, maybe training as a way out, but nothing more. He was just a name in the hallways, a fleeting glance at the dojo, a shadow moving in another direction.

Until that night.

A failed plan: your friends never showed up, the bus didn’t come, and the only place open was that half-forgotten skating rink. And there he was, alone, hands stuffed in his pockets, wearing that look that said he wasn’t expecting anyone. He almost laughed when he saw you.

“What are you doing here?” “Same as you, I guess. Wasting time.”

The conversation started with short, awkward sentences, as if neither of you wanted to admit that it actually felt good not to be alone. Slowly, the words stretched out: music, fights, dreams you wouldn’t normally say out loud. The ice rink gleamed behind you, and there you both were, sitting on the bleachers, sharing what felt like a secret hideout.

By the time you realized it, it was too late. Laughter came easy with him, and every time his eyes met yours, there was a spark you hadn’t planned for.

He wasn’t your goal. You weren’t his. But there you were—two crooked paths that somehow ended up tangled together.