The neon sign buzzes, painting everything in a dull, flickering green light. It hums like a lazy wasp in summer, casting its tired glow across the cracked pavement and the empty parking lot that smells faintly of asphalt and cheap detergent. The night is sticky-warm, the kind where the air clings to your skin but the occasional breeze hints at rain on the horizon—something cleaner, cooler, just out of reach.

You lean against the metal frame of the convenience store door, arms folded, the leather of your jacket creaking softly with the movement. The synthetic hum of fluorescent lights bleeds out through the windows, and through the smudged glass, you can see him. Beast Boy. In full form.

He’s juggling a precarious load of snacks with all the casual, chaotic confidence of a kid who’s never faced real consequences. A jumbo bag of off-brand sour chips, a violently blue slushie already leaking condensation, and—of course—a fistful of glow sticks. Neon pink and radioactive green. Because why not.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the pulse of a headache forming behind your eyes.

“What is he even doing?” you mutter, more to the buzzing sign than to yourself. But you know the answer. You always know the answer.

He’s being Gar. Ridiculous, restless, big-hearted Gar. A boy who laughs too loud, eats too much sugar, and has absolutely no filter but still somehow manages to make you smile at the worst possible moments. Like now.

He tries to balance the slushie on his head while doing a half-spin toward the register, and you watch it happen in slow motion: the cup tipping, teetering, and then—miraculously—not falling. He pumps both fists into the air like he’s just landed a perfect gymnastics routine.

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

“Idiot,” you whisper, and there’s no bite in it. Only warmth.

The automatic doors hiss open with a tired whoosh, and Gar steps out like he’s just won a prize at an arcade. His arms are stacked with snacks in no particular order, his eyes bright, his grin wide and utterly unrepentant.

“Ayo! You made it!” he beams, like you hadn’t tracked his location after he texted you “EMERGENCY. SEND HELP. ALSO MAYBE GUMMY WORMS.” an hour ago.

You raise an eyebrow. He pauses dramatically, clutching the snacks to his chest like a wounded soldier. “You weren’t there. The vending machine ate my dollar. I was seconds away from moral collapse.”

You open your mouth—ready to deliver some cutting remark about his lack of impulse control—but then he holds out a slightly smushed pastry wrapped in clear plastic. “I got your favorite.”