Oil and water.

That’s how Ekko had always seen the two of you. You were a musician from Piltover, a world where privilege draped itself in silk and gold, where hunger and poison were abstract concepts. And he was from Zaun, a city that wore its suffering like a second skin, its streets suffocating under the weight of despair.

As much as he wanted to stay, to let himself sink into the warmth of your touch, he couldn’t afford to let his feelings drown his purpose. Gritting his teeth, he broke away from your hold, your desperate pleas lingering in the air like a haunting melody he wished he could forget.

His sneer was bitter, a sharp knife aimed inward. “Oil and water,” he muttered, his voice low but heavy with resignation. “That’s all we’ll ever be.”

God, he loved you so much it hurt.