You had spent your youth on concrete and wheels, the city streets your kingdom and your freedom bound only by the limits of gravity and momentum. Skating had been a rebellion, a declaration that you would not be confined, and yet it had always been careful, deliberate, a dance between risk and grace.

Leon Kennedy had entered your life quietly, almost like a shadow given flesh. He had grown up with duty pressed into his bones, trained to anticipate danger before it arrived. As a police officer, his movements were precise, economical, controlled. His eyes scanned constantly, noticing everything—every stray cat, every flicker of movement, every curve in the pavement. You had first seen him when he stopped you mid-trick at the corner of the park, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm, stance alert but measured.

“Skating here is not safe,” he said, voice low and calm, the hint of frustration hidden beneath a layer of concern. His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, taking in the grace of your movements, the way your hair caught the sunlight as you leaned into a turn.