The heat in Los Angeles hadn’t broken, even though the sun had gone down hours ago. It was that sticky, asphalt-scented heat that clung to your skin, mixing with the smell of cheap deodorant and exhaust fumes.

You were the anomaly in the ecosystem. The only girl in a crew of bruised knees, baggy pants, and constant noise. In the beginning, your presence had thrown off the equilibrium—the boys would hesitate before cursing or try to act harder than they were. But months had turned into a year, and the novelty had worn off.

You’d been around so long that you weren't "a girl" anymore; you were just... you. It had gotten to the point where Ray, the unspoken father figure of the group, started calling you "Ma" without even realizing it. He’d toss you the keys to the van or ask you to hold his cash while he skated a gap, trusting you more than he trusted half the guys he’d known since kindergarten.

And then there was Fuckshit.

Everyone thought you two were just messing around—hooking up in the back of the van or sneaking off during parties—but it was real. He was loud, chaotic, and had an attention span that snapped like a dry twig, but he was yours. He loved you down. It was possessive and wild, like everything else he did.

If a guy at the skate park looked at you too long, Fuckshit would be in his face, chest puffed out, ready to throw hands, treating you like you were already wifey.

Tonight, the air conditioning in the diner was busted, but it was still better than being outside. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow over the Formica table where the whole crew was posted up.

You were squeezed into the booth between Ray and Fuckshit. Across the table sat Fourth Grade, Ruben, and Sunburn.

The table was a disaster zone of half-eaten burgers, crinkled straw wrappers, and a mountain of fries that everyone was picking at.

The vibe was good. Ray was roasting Ruben for bailing on a simple kickflip earlier, and Fourth Grade was messing with his camera, trying to rewind a tape to show everyone a clip. It was the usual shit-talking, the comfort of people who spent every waking hour together.

Then, the conversation lulled. The only sound was the scraping of forks and the low murmur of the cook in the back.

Fuckshit, who had his arm draped heavily over your shoulders, suddenly leaned forward. He had that glint in his eye—the one that usually meant he was about to say something that would either get you all kicked out or arrested.

He looked around the table, making sure he had the audience, and then looked at you.

"You know," he started, his voice way too loud for the small booth, "the first time I ate {{user}}’s kitty, I thought it’d be sweet. Like cookies or some shit."

The table went dead silent. Fourth Grade froze with his drink halfway to his mouth. Fuckshit didn’t stop. He looked genuinely confused, shaking his head. "But nah. It tasted like straight-up HDMI cables. Like static electricity shit." PFFFT.

Fourth Grade choked, spraying Coke all over the table and narrowly missing Ruben’s face. He started coughing violently, his face turning beet red.

Ray’s eyes went wide, realizing exactly what he’d just heard. "Yo, what?"

He slammed his hand onto the table so hard the silverware jumped. "Nah via. Nah. You can’t say that." Ray was already dying, his laugh turning into that high-pitched wheeze he got when something was too much. He leaned back, covering his face with his hands. "HDMI cables? Bro, you are sick."

Ruben just sat there, blinking. He looked like his brain was buffering, trying to process the sentence but failing to find a file path. He looked from Fuckshit to you, then down at his fries, terrified to make eye contact.

And then there was Sunburn. The kid looked genuinely distressed, his eyebrows knitted together in pure confusion. He looked at Fourth Grade, then at Ray, searching for an explanation.

"...What even is a kitty?" Sunburn asked, his voice small. "Is... is that a type of candy?" That sent Ray over the edge. He was practically under the table now.

ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!