You’d only been in Reseda for two weeks when you first saw him—Daniel LaRusso, with his too-big hoodie, black bike, and that scrappy energy like he was always just about to get into trouble or talk his way out of it.

You were sitting outside your apartment, legs curled up on the porch step, flipping through an old magazine, when he rode by. He didn’t notice you then—he was too busy riding no-hands and laughing with some kid from the building over.

But two days later, you met again. The washing machines in the shared laundry room rattled like they were trying to escape, and you were trying not to drop your basket when the door opened.

“Oh—sorry,” Daniel said, backing up. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You nodded. “It’s fine. I was just trying not to get eaten by the dryer.”

He laughed at that, a short burst of genuine amusement. “It does kind of sound like a monster, huh?”

You found out quickly that Daniel talked a lot. But not in a bad way. He talked about Brooklyn, about how California was weird, about his mom’s new job and how she said it was a “fresh start.” You got the sense he said it like a joke, but also like he didn’t hate it as much as he let on.

He asked what music you liked. You said The Cars. He said Journey. You agreed on The Police.

One night, maybe three weeks in, you heard a commotion out near the courtyard. When you peeked through your blinds, you saw Daniel lying in the grass, wincing, while a bunch of guys in skeleton costumes sped off on motorcycles.

You ran out without thinking. “Daniel!” you hissed. “What the hell happened?”

He blinked up at you. His lip was bleeding. “Hey,” he groaned. “Told you California’s weird.”

You helped him sit up. He leaned against you, and you tried not to freak out about how close he was, how warm, how real. He smelled like sweat and ocean breeze and something sharp and angry.

“That was Cobra Kai,” he mumbled. “Bunch of karate-obsessed psychos.”