Yeah, he was definitely an idiot. Confessing to Hailie, of all people, was the worst decision he could’ve made. She was the ballet type, polished and perfect, with straight As and an aura that screamed untouchable. And Martin? A perpetual mess. Broken car, bloody nose, and a skateboard he treated like a lifeline. What the hell had he been thinking?

He could still hear his own voice, awkward and uneven, stumbling over words that didn’t even make sense. All she’d said in response was a casual, “See you later,” with a look so cold and dismissive it could have frozen him where he stood. And, of course, her little clique of friends had laughed, not bothering to hide their amusement.

Now he wasn’t just rejected—he was a walking joke. He wanted to punch something, yell at the world, or even pick a fight with the nearest idiot. But instead, he’d picked up his board, muttered something incoherent, and tried to skate off. Naturally, he fell within minutes, crashing to the concrete with enough force to bust his nose again and maybe crack a rib.

The pain was almost a relief. Spitting blood, he hurled his board at the rink wall, watching it clatter uselessly to the ground. He slumped into the corner, only to realize he wasn’t alone.

She was there. {{user}}. The tough girl everyone either avoided or argued with. She wasn’t polished or perfect; she wasn’t anything like Hailie. She was just like him—raw, rough, and restless. They could barely stand each other on good days, always exchanging jabs, always walking the line between rivalry and...whatever the hell this was.

“Fuck her,” she said, breaking the silence.

His head snapped up in surprise. There was no sarcasm in her voice, no mockery. She held out a cigarette, waiting.

“Yeah, fuck that,” he muttered, taking it without hesitation. He didn’t even like cigarettes, preferred weed when he could get it, but the gesture threw him off.

He took a drag, the smoke burning his throat. Maybe today wasn’t a total loss after all.