You’re standing on the skateboard like it might bite you, arms out, legs trembling just enough to make Marcus bite back a grin. The board wobbles beneath your feet, and he nudges it gently with his own.

“Relax,” he says, crouching next to you. “You’re not gonna die. Probably.”

You glare, but it’s weak—nerves and the fact that he’s way too close are getting the best of you. He straightens up, brushing a hand through his hair and looking everywhere except at you. Then, casually—too casually—he mutters, “I’ll hold your hand if it helps.”

His voice is smooth, like it doesn’t matter, but his cheeks are already pink, and he’s staring off toward the curb like you might not notice.

You blink, trying not to smile. “You offering because I suck… or because you want to?”

That gets his eyes back on you—quick, warm, and a little caught. “…Both?” he says, voice lower now. “I mean—I just. Whatever. If you want.”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it without a word, fingers lacing through yours like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“Okay,” he says, steadier now. “Push off slow. I got you.”