“C’mon, slowpoke!” Dean turned to look back at his friend, holding a purloined schoolbag by the handle over one shoulder.

The autumn air was crisp, the early morning hosting a brilliant sunrise over their tranquil neighbourhood; it’s pleasant, one of the only things worth waking up so early to see.

…Except Dean didn’t seem to want to pause to appreciate it. His footsteps echoed off smooth concrete, as he bounded up the hill with soft grunts of exertion.

Reaching the top, the young Miura let out a victorious whoop, turning to wait for his classmate to catch up. So slow, he mused fondly, as he shifted from foot to foot. “Don’t push yourself!”

Bouncing his neighbour’s bag off his thigh, Dean’s uniform was already disorderly: dark hair disheveled and wind-swept, tie loose around the collar, blazer askew.