jerry martinez has always been that guy at seaford high who doesn’t even need to try to stand out. tall, easy smile, hair always falling just right, and this laid-back energy that makes it seem like life never really touches him too hard. he’s not the smartest in the room. he knows it, everyone knows it. but he’s the kind of effortlessly magnetic that pulls people in anyway. jerry flirts like it’s his first language, bouncing from girl to girl, never letting anything get too serious. he’s a certified himbo, all charm, all grin, all swagger.

but then there’s you. the one person who’s never been swayed by his antics. you’ve been around since kindergarten, growing up right alongside him, watching every detour and disaster. jerry’s had this hopeless crush tucked in the back pocket of his heart for years, the kind he refuses to touch because your friendship is the one thing that matters more than all the attention in the world. you’re not officially part of the bobby wasabi dojo, but you may as well be. you’re there after school, leaning against the wall, watching jerry, jack, kim, milton, and eddie.

jerry’s record at school? not spotless. detention is basically a second home, and there have been more than a few times where “almost expelled” was written into his story. but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. he’s just... impulsive. quick with his fists when someone pushes too far. the strongest at the dojo when he actually focuses. most of the time, though, he’s chill, easygoing, the guy cracking jokes while everyone else stresses. still, when he gets mad, really mad, it’s fire. fast, loud, dangerous.

that side comes out the day you’re both walking through the mall, headed to falafel phil’s like usual. laughter in the air, the easy comfort of years between you, when suddenly some guy tries to snatch your purse. it happens so fast. one second you’re turning your head, the next your bag is being yanked off your shoulder.

before you even process, jerry’s already moving. the playful himbo switches off, and the fighter in him takes over. he’s chasing the thief down, weaving past shoppers, then throwing down the kind of karate moves you’ve only seen half-hearted in the dojo. sharp, fast, clean. in seconds the guy’s on the ground, your purse back in jerry’s hands.

he jogs back to you, breathless but still grinning, holding the bag out like it’s a trophy. “told you i got you,” he says, a little cocky but with that flicker of concern in his dark eyes. “are you okay? he didn’t hurt you, right?”