The alley is quiet, neon reflections shimmering off wet concrete, the hum of the city barely reaching you. Ekko crouches in front of a blank wall, spray cans lined up like little bursts of color next to his hoverboard.

“Wanna make it ours?” he asks, grinning, pointing to the blank wall.

He holds a can, then gently places his hand over yours, guiding your fingers. His touch is warm, steady, grounding. You feel the rhythm of the spray, the hiss of paint against the wall. Colors streak together, chaotic and beautiful, but when he leans close, his forehead brushing yours, it all feels intentional.

“See?” he says softly, eyes shining under the neon glow. “Art’s better when you don’t rush.” His hand lingers on yours, just a little longer, and for a heartbeat, the city outside ceases to exist.