Fan Behavior

The vinyl spun on Powder's record player, a steady, rhythmic rotation that sent soft crackles drifting into the air, mingling with the soothing melody that poured from the speakers. It wasn't a perfect sound—some notes wavered beneath the static, and the occasional pop broke through—but that only made it feel more alive, more intimate. To Ekko, it felt like the room itself was breathing along with the music, and yet, he couldn't quite find the same calm. The evening outside was warm and golden, the kind of light that painted the world in soft, honeyed hues. It bathed Zaun's sharp edges and grimy corners in an illusion of gentleness, transforming the view beyond Powder's window into something that looked stolen from a postcard or a dream.

It was the last day of summer vacation, a moment that should have carried a bittersweet kind of urgency. In Zaun, most teenagers spent this night wringing out the final drops of freedom, chasing after fleeting moments with their friends. There'd be rooftop parties filled with laughter, music, and stolen drinks, the tang of burnt marshmallows at bonfires, or last-minute plans to race out of town on half-fueled scooters for a taste of adventure that always felt grander than they actually were. But here he was, not out in the city with its neon promises and reckless energy, but in this quiet room with Powder.

And somehow, that felt right.

Ekko sat cross-legged on Powder's bed, his elbows resting on his knees, watching the sunlight pour through the window. It fell in wide, lazy beams, cutting across the room in golden streaks that stretched longer with every passing minute. Even the motes of dust caught in the light seemed to dance with intention, swirling lazily like they had nowhere else to be. They made everything look ethereal, from the chipped paint peeling off her walls to the piles of comics and half-finished projects scattered around the room. The place wasn't glamorous—not by a long shot—but under the soft glow of twilight, it felt like the kind of space where magic could happen, where ideas could spark and bloom.

Powder was sprawled beside him, her head propped on a pillow, her blue hair a vibrant tangle that fanned out like an accidental halo. She was humming softly along with the music, her voice a quiet thread that wove into the melody. Her fingers traced absentminded patterns on the worn bedspread, little swirls and zigzags that probably meant nothing, but Ekko couldn't help but watch anyway. She looked serene, like she belonged entirely to this moment, as if the passage of time had no hold on her.

Ekko, on the other hand, felt anything but serene. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, darting from one half-formed idea to the next, never landing anywhere long enough to settle. It wasn't just the end of summer vacation that had him feeling this way, though that certainly played its part. There was something about being here, in this room with Powder, that filled him with a strange mix of contentment and restlessness.

She always had that effect on him.

The record crackled again, a soft, warm sound that seemed to nudge at the silence. Powder's eyes flicked toward him, her humming pausing for just a second. She offered him a small, lopsided smile—nothing grand or calculated, just a quiet moment of acknowledgment. And in that smile, Ekko felt something shift, something he couldn't quite name but knew he wouldn't forget.

This wasn't a grand, final hurrah to mark the end of summer. There was no wild party or reckless escapade. Just this quiet, golden evening, with music filling the air and Powder's soft voice weaving through it. And somehow, against all odds, it felt enough.

He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat. What was there to say, really? That he didn't want the summer to end? That he didn't want this moment to end? That she made the room, the world, the everything, feel a little bit less heavy? Instead, he stayed quiet, letting the music and the fading sunlight speak for him, hoping it was enough.

From below, the familiar murmur of voices and laughter drifted up from the Last Drop, mingling with the clink of glasses and the soft hum of conversation. The bar was a living thing, its energy pulsing in waves, a constant rhythm of joy, sorrow, and everything in between. There was always something happening down there—loud conversations, bursts of laughter, heated debates, and the occasional drawn-out silence that seemed to hold a story of its own. It was a place where everyone could lose themselves, if only for a while, and yet, it was never quiet. The noises drifted up in waves, like a heartbeat that beat steadily, grounding the world around it, reminding those who dwelled above that life was always moving, always chaotic, and yet somehow always comforting.

Ekko had asked Powder once, during one of those late-night conversations that always seemed to stretch into early mornings, how she managed to sleep with all that noise. He had never been able to get used to it himself—the way it always seemed to creep into the corners of his thoughts, the way it made the night feel alive in a way he couldn't always understand. But Powder? She had shrugged, her face a mask of indifference, save for the brief flicker of something softer in her eyes. It was the kind of look she only allowed when she thought no one was watching.

"It helps me sleep," she'd said, her words matter-of-fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Knowing people are down there, living their lives, dealing with their own stuff. It feels… less lonely."

The simplicity of her response had stuck with him long after that night, looping in his mind during the quiet hours when sleep eluded him. Her words had been strange to him then—he had always craved silence, the stillness of a room devoid of sound, of chaos. The idea that the noise, the bustle, could offer comfort, could ease loneliness, had seemed foreign, almost incomprehensible. But tonight, as he sat there in the dim glow of the room, surrounded by the faint strains of music and the chatter drifting up from below, he thought he understood.

The music shifted, the needle catching the grooves of a new song, its mellow tones spilling out like a slow river. The lyrics were sad, though Ekko wasn't sure if it was about lost love or the lack of it. He didn't much care for the song—it wasn't the kind of music that usually stirred something in him—but there was something about it that seemed to fit the mood. His eyes wandered lazily over the room, tracing the familiar details that had slowly become a part of his own personal landscape.

This place—her place—had become so familiar to him that it no longer felt like someone else's world. It felt like an extension of his own.

The shelves, crammed with trinkets, half-finished projects, and books piled haphazardly like abandoned thoughts, were a familiar sight. He had seen these things countless times, but they never failed to make him feel a sense of belonging. The posters on the walls, slightly crooked and faded, formed a collage of her fleeting interests and forgotten obsessions. They carried memories of times long past—of their youth and their shared experiences, which now felt like echoes of something important, something that shaped them into who they were today. Powder had never bothered to straighten them, always content with the perfectly imperfect nature of the space.

Then there were the plushies. So many of them, all cluttering the bed like an army of strange, inanimate companions, like they were old friends who had overstayed their welcome. Every one of them had a name, a backstory that Powder had insisted on sharing, as though each of the stuffed animals was a character in some long-running saga. He had listened to each tale with the kind of patience only a childhood friend could manage, as if the stories were somehow sacred, something worth remembering.

In a way, this room had become his sanctuary, just as much as it was hers. It was a strange thought at first, but as he sat there, surrounded by the chaos of her space, it was undeniable. He had spent countless hours here, whether watching her tinker with her latest project or simply existing in the same space, saying little, but understanding more than words could express. It felt more like home than his own room ever had.

He knew them all, every little detail of this room, as if he could close his eyes and still navigate it without a second thought. The faint smell of candles, of old books, of something sweet and slightly metallic—these things grounded him, made the world outside this space feel miles away. 

The way her laugh could fill the empty spaces, bright and unrestrained, as though the world itself couldn't contain the joy that bubbled up inside her. The way she seemed to turn even the most chaotic corner of the room into something warm, something alive, just by being there. It wasn't the perfection of the place that made it his home; it was the way she had filled it with so much of herself that it was impossible to imagine it without her.

Ekko ran a hand through his hair, feeling the softness of the room's light settle around him. For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. This place—this room, these moments—were like anchors, holding him steady in a world that was often too fast, too unpredictable.

His eyes lingered on the trinkets scattered across the room, the mismatched furniture, the chaos that Powder had somehow made her own. There was something comforting in it, something that made him feel like he belonged. Even if he didn't quite understand everything about it, even if it wasn't his style, it was hers. And somehow, that was enough for him. He let the soft music wash over him, letting the steady rhythm of the world outside cradle him into a strange, peaceful stillness. Here, in this room, he was no longer just an observer—he was part of the noise, part of the life that filled this space, and it felt like home.

He leaned back, resting his weight on his palms, his eyes drifting toward Powder. She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing at her lips.

"What?" she asked, her voice low and teasing, yet soft, as though she was well aware of the effect her presence had on him.

He felt the warmth rise to his face, his heart giving a sudden, unsteady beat. "Nothing," he muttered, trying to force his gaze elsewhere. But it wasn't nothing . Not even close.

It was everything. It was the way the setting sun framed her in the window, like some kind of ethereal portrait, casting long shadows that danced across the room. It was the way the light touched the curve of her face, soft and gentle, as though the universe itself conspired to make this moment perfect. The world outside the window blurred, leaving only the image of her, vivid and beautiful in the fading glow.

More than that, though, it was the way Powder made him feel—like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Like in this moment, nothing else mattered. The weight of his worries, the chaos of the world, all of it faded away, replaced by something deeper, something he didn't have the words to describe.

He wasn't just sitting there. He wasn't just watching her. He was existing with her in this suspended moment, a moment where everything seemed to align perfectly.

She was still watching him, waiting for him to say something, but for once, he didn't have the words. All he could do was let the silence settle between them, comfortable and warm.

Powder's smile softened, no longer teasing but gentle, understanding. She didn't press him for an answer. Instead, she simply turned back to the window, the soft glow of the evening sky washing over them both.

It wasn't nothing; it was the way Powder made him feel, like maybe, for once, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He often wondered if she had any idea—any inkling —of how deeply he felt every second, every fleeting moment, every insignificant little everything when she was around. In a group, he could maintain the illusion of composure. He could keep his emotions in check, shielded behind a practiced mask of casual ease, the kind that spared him the embarrassment of visibly unraveling every time she smiled or glanced his way. It was his armor, his only defense against the way she utterly, completely disarmed him.

But the moment they were alone, that armor crumbled to dust. He was a goner. A lost cause. Any semblance of control shattered like fragile glass under the weight of her presence. It wasn't anything she did intentionally. No, that was the magic of it. She didn't have to try. She didn't even have to notice. She just was , and somehow, that was enough to leave him speechless, his thoughts a jumbled mess, his heart stumbling over itself like a clumsy, lovestruck fool.

That girl. She did something to him—something he couldn't name, couldn't pin down, and certainly couldn't explain. She stripped him of rationality and left him raw and vulnerable with a single glance or a laugh that lit up the room like a firework. When she was just being herself—effortlessly and unapologetically so—he felt like the world tilted off its axis, spinning him into some alternate reality where all he could see was her .

To him, she was perfect. Not in the way people casually threw around the word, but in a way that felt profound, sacred, and completely irrational. She was perfect in a way he never thought possible for anyone, least of all a human being.

At first, back when they were kids, he dismissed it as an innocent crush. It had to be. A fleeting thing, simple and harmless, something he'd grow out of once time and reality sobered him. But time only betrayed him. Every year, every month, every day—every single moment—deepened the pit he had fallen into. He didn't just like her anymore. He ached for her, for the way she made the mundane feel magical, for the way her laugh lingered in his mind long after she'd gone.

And her hair—oh, her hair. He could write entire novels about her hair. That impossibly vivid blue, rich and luminous, like liquid sapphire. It seemed to shine with its own light, a light he was hopelessly drawn to, as if it could warm his very soul. He loved how she wore it, the way it seemed to reflect her moods. In buns, when she was feeling playful or focused. In braids, when she wanted a touch of order. But his favorite? When she left it down. Loose, unrestrained, cascading around her like waves of freedom.

He couldn't quite put his finger on why it affected him so much, why the mere sight of her made his chest tighten and his breath hitch, as if she held the power to steal both in an instant. Maybe it was because, in those rare moments when she let her guard down, he saw a part of her that was pure and untamed—a glimpse of who she really was beneath the surface, beyond all the layers and complexities she wore so effortlessly. In those fleeting moments, she seemed so free, so completely herself. And it was intoxicating. He wished, more than anything, that he could tell her what that did to him. That she was a delicate paradox.

And then there was her smile. It wasn't just a simple curve of the lips. No, it was a language of its own, a conversation that spoke volumes without a single word. Every time she smiled, he felt like he was hearing something only meant for him—a secret only they shared. It wasn't just the physical shape of it; it was the way it made him feel, the way it seemed to light up the world around her.

Her smile could take on so many forms. There was the bright, carefree grin that made her dimples appear, deepening her cheeks in that way he found so utterly endearing. And that little gap between her teeth—he had never admitted it aloud, but it was the most charming thing he'd ever seen. Then there was the mischievous, playful smirk, the one that seemed to carry the weight of secrets and inside jokes only she knew. It was that smile that always made his heart skip a beat, as if it held the power to make the world tilt just slightly. No matter the expression, her smile was always irresistible, a force of nature that pulled him in like a magnet.

But it wasn't just her lips that smiled. Her eyes did, too. He could always tell by the way they crinkled at the corners, a telltale sign that the joy in her heart was too big to be contained in a single place. Her eyes shimmered with the kind of warmth and emotions that made everything around her feel alive. They had a way of looking at him—like she could see right through to the very core of him—and every time, it made him wonder if she knew. If she somehow knew just how deeply he felt for her, how much he cherished every glance, every moment shared.

And when she laughed—when she truly laughed, not just the soft chuckle or the polite giggle, but the kind of laugh that came from deep within her soul—it was like the universe itself was set right again. It wasn't just her sound that made everything feel better; it was the effect it had on everything around her. Her joy was contagious. It spread like wildfire, illuminating the shadows in his heart and making the world feel brighter, lighter, as though her happiness had the power to chase away the darkness. He swore, with every fiber of his being, that he could live a thousand lifetimes and never grow tired of it. It was a sound, a presence, a feeling that never failed to lift him up, to remind him that, in those moments, everything was as it should be.

But her brilliance, it wasn't confined to the way her smile could light up a room, or how her laugh could make his heart race. No, it was so much more than that. Her brilliance lived in the way her mind worked—sharp, nimble, and always several steps ahead. She had a way of thinking that was both mesmerizing and intimidating, as if she could grasp the threads of a problem, unravel them, and weave together solutions with the kind of ease most people could only dream of. He found himself in awe of the way her thoughts flowed, effortlessly connecting ideas and seeing patterns and possibilities that he had never even noticed. It was as though her mind was a labyrinth of ideas, and he was just a wanderer, lost in its intricate beauty.

Her intelligence wasn't the loud, imposing kind. It didn't announce itself with arrogance or force. It was quieter, more subtle. But in its quiet grace, it was even more dazzling. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She didn't need to. Her brilliance was simply there , a part of who she was, as natural and unassuming as the air she breathed. It made her even more incredible to him. It wasn't just her looks that captivated him—it was the sheer force of her mind, the way she could take something as simple as a passing thought and turn it into a brilliant revelation. Sometimes, all he had to do was listen to her talk, and he was left speechless, humbled by the sheer depth of her understanding and the effortless confidence with which she expressed it.

He often wondered, in quiet moments when the world was still and his thoughts turned inward, if he could ever find the courage to tell her all of this. To open his heart and let her know how deeply he admired everything about her—the way her mind worked, the way she made the simplest things feel extraordinary, the way she just was .

But there was always that question, the one that lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow he couldn't shake. Was the gain worth the risk? Was the chance of sharing all this with her worth the potential of losing it—losing her, or the delicate balance they had? That question haunted him, day and night, in moments of clarity and in moments of doubt. He had agonized over it so many times, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle he couldn't solve. The same thoughts, the same fears, the same uncertainties swirling in his head, trapping him in an endless loop of indecision.

In the end, he never had the answers, and every time he thought he might be ready to speak up, the fear would settle back in, like a weight on his chest. Would she see him the same way? Would she even understand the depth of what he felt? Or would it change everything between them? He wasn't sure.

When it became too much to bear, he turned to Vi. He didn't know why, but her older sister always seemed to have answers—or at least the kind of grounded perspective he needed to hear. She was his confidant, the one person he trusted enough to spill his tangled thoughts and insecurities to. And while he probably should have been more cautious about confessing his feelings to the sister of the girl he was hopelessly in love with, he just couldn't help himself. It was like holding in a flood; sooner or later, it had to escape.

He would vent, pacing back and forth, asking her the same questions over and over, searching for something—advice, a plan, maybe even a miracle. Vi always told him the same thing: that Powder wouldn't hate him if he confessed, and she didn't feel the same way. She was sure of it. But how much truth was there in that?

"She's not like that," Vi would say, her tone firm and unwavering. "If anything, she'd respect you for being honest. But Ekko… you gotta figure out if you can handle it, no matter how she reacts."

Her words made sense, but that didn't mean they gave him any comfort. What if she was wrong? What if confessing to Powder changed everything—not just between them, but in their entire dynamic? He couldn't bear the thought of losing what they had, the easy camaraderie, the shared jokes, the moments where it felt like the world consisted of just the two of them.

If the choice came down to two paths—telling her and risking it all, or staying silent and carrying the weight of his feelings forever—Ekko already knew which one he'd take. Every time. In every timeline. In every possibility. He would stay quiet. He would keep those feelings locked away, tucked safely in the corners of his heart where they couldn't hurt her, where they couldn't hurt them . Because even if it meant carrying that ache with him for the rest of his life, it was worth it to protect what they already had.

And so, for now, he'd settle for quiet admiration. For stolen glances, fleeting smiles, and the knowledge that, even if she never knew, his heart belonged to her entirely.

"Ekko. Are you listening? I'm bored."

Her voice sliced through the haze of his thoughts, dragging him back to reality with the force of a sudden downpour. He blinked, shaking off the remnants of his daydreams, the ones where he was lost in her presence, where he could pretend that everything between them was as simple as it was when they were kids. Gods, he was pathetic. Again, he'd gotten lost in the fantasy, assuming too much, wishing for things that weren't his to wish for. His heart gave a small pang, a reminder of how far he had fallen, yet he could never bring himself to pull away.

He sighed, staring at the ceiling, trying to collect himself. The music had stopped, leaving only the steady ticking of the clock on Powder's wall and the distant sounds of laughter from below. It was too quiet. Too still. Too real.

"Don't tell me the 'I'm bored, do something' phase starts already," he muttered, letting his head tilt back. "I thought I had at least until tomorrow, when school starts."

Powder let out an exaggerated sigh, throwing her arms up dramatically, only for them to fall limply onto the blanket beside her with a soft thud. "Don't even remind me! I want to cry. School's the worst. It's not my fault lessons are so boring."

Ekko couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. "They would be less boring if you actually tried listening to what the teacher has to say, Pow. Just a thought."

She shot him a look, one eyebrow arched as she glared at him through her tousled blue hair. "Says who, huh? Don't lecture me about paying attention in class while you're the one who spends half your time glued to your phone. And not sharing, by the way."

He chuckled, leaning forward and resting his chin in his palm. "It's called multitasking, Pow. I can listen with one ear and play at the same time. That's called being smart ."

Powder let out an exaggerated huff, crossing her arms over her chest. "Sure, sure, keep telling yourself that. You're only fooling yourself."

"Maybe," Ekko shrugged nonchalantly, "but it works. You know, there's more than one way to survive the boring stuff. And I'm just way ahead of you on that front."

"Oh, right, Mr. Cocky," Powder shot back, crossing her arms and fixing him with a challenging look. "If you're as brilliant as you say you are—which you're totally not —then come up with something for us to do. I'm bored!"

Ekko groaned, leaning back on his hands as he threw her an exasperated glance. "What do you expect from me, Pow? Why is it suddenly my job to come up with all the ideas? That's not fair, lady!"

"Because you never like mine!" Powder exclaimed, jutting out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

"Not my fault your ideas range from dangerous to, uh, even more dangerous," he quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Like, seriously, no, Powder—setting off fireworks in some random abandoned alley is not a brilliant idea."

Powder let out an exasperated groan and flopped back onto her bed, sliding off it slowly and with deliberate drama. "Gosh, what a bore you are," she whined, stretching the last word as she dragged herself to the floor in what was probably meant to be a display of utter defeat. Her antics, though, were more adorable than anything else. "I just like the colors, okay? And the way they explode! Like, whoosh ! Boom !"  She punctuated the sound with a wild flourish of her hands, mimicking the burst of fireworks.

Ekko couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "I promised I'd take you to a fireworks show, didn't I? A real one. It's safer, and it won't risk you losing a finger—or, y'know, two. Or more. You just need to be patient, Powder."

Powder propped herself up on her elbows, giving him an exaggerated look of disbelief. "Geez, Ekko, I thought you knew better by now. You can't put the words' patient' and 'Powder' in the same sentence. They cancel each other out, little man!"

He chuckled at her words, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right, my bad. How could I forget?"

Powder grinned triumphantly, plopping down on the floor with a loud thump and a dramatic sigh. "See? You're learning. Slowly. But you're learning."

He hummed in mock surprise, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back against the edge of her bed. "Fine, you win," he said, his tone light, letting her bask in the satisfaction of a 'won debate.' He paused for a moment, drumming his fingers against the mattress as he rattled off ideas. "Well, I don't know what we could do. Cooking? Watching a movie?" He threw out whatever came to mind, even if he wasn't particularly sold on them. "Or we could always hang out with Vander. Eavesdropping on drunk ramblings is top-tier entertainment."

Powder's lips curled into a small smirk, but she shook her head. "While I do agree that Vander's place has its charms, I want something calmer this time." She tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling as though it held the answer. "A walk, maybe?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, his expression halfway between amused and skeptical. "Since when do you want to do anything calm? You thrive on chaos. You love everything that's even mildly questionable."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Powder replied, waving him off with a laugh. "But tonight feels different, you know? Bittersweet, kinda. Last day of freedom and all that. Soon everything will be cold and ugly and gloomy. I just wanna enjoy it while it lasts. Besides," she added, her voice dropping into something quieter, more thoughtful, "there's somewhere I want to go."

Ekko straightened, his interest piqued. "Oh, really? Why didn't you just say so before? You know I'm always down for whatever." He grinned, but quickly added, "As long as it's legal."

Powder rolled her eyes, a laugh bubbling out. "You're no fun."

"Debatable," he quipped, pushing himself off the bed. "Come on, then. Get up."

"Too lazy," she groaned, stretching out on the floor like a cat basking in the sun. A chuckle escaped her as she peeked up at him, revealing that she wasn't entirely serious. "Help me?"

And yet, Ekko couldn't stop himself from indulging her. She was impossible—too adorable, too pretty, too… perfect . She was his weakness, and she probably didn't even know it. Every little thing she did tugged at his heart in ways he couldn't control. He couldn't say no to her, not when she smiled like that, and even when he did, guilt clung to him like a shadow.

Sighing in mock exasperation, he reached out, grabbing her hand with a firm but gentle grip. Her arm was slender and light, and it felt as though she might float away if he let go. He tugged her upright with ease, pulling her to her feet in one smooth motion.

"Thanks," she said, her voice soft but teasing as she steadied herself, her fingers lingering just a second too long in his before letting go.

"Anytime," he replied, the words carrying more weight than he intended. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and flashed her a grin, masking the way his heart raced.

He hated his heart for feeling so much, for betraying him with every ache, every quickened beat that screamed her name. He hated his brain even more—for overthinking, overanalyzing, and spinning her every word, every gesture, into an intricate web of false hope. It was a cruel kind of hope, the kind that whispered she might feel the same way, that maybe her actions hinted at something more. It was foolish, he knew, but it was also intoxicating. The thought of her liking him back was stupid, sure, but it was also warm and comforting, like sunlight on a cold day.

He reminded himself, again and again, that Powder was naturally clingy. She leaned on people, draped herself over them, claimed their attention and proximity without hesitation. It was just who she was, and he had no problem with that. In fact, he loved it. But it muddled everything, leaving him tangled in a mess of mixed signals he couldn't quite unravel. He prided himself on being good at problem-solving—quick on his feet, sharp enough to figure out almost anything. But this? This left him floundering.

Did the casual brushes of her hand against his mean nothing? Or did they mean everything , the way they did to him? Did she feel the same warmth he did when her fingers lingered against his palm? Because for him, it was electric, a spark that stayed with him long after she pulled away. Even now, he could still feel it, like the ghost of her touch had etched itself into his skin.

That's what scared him most. How completely she had him wrapped around her finger. How every little thing she did left him questioning, hoping, and hurting all at once. He wanted to ask her, to just come out and say it— Does this mean something to you? Or am I just another person you trust, another friend in your orbit? But the words lodged in his throat every time.

It probably didn't even register with her, but that moment had taken root in his mind, playing over and over like a favorite song. Even as she crouched to tie her shoes, her braid falling over her shoulder, and even as they slipped out the back door like two sneaky kids up to no good, the phantom warmth of her hand still lingered on his.

The funny part was they didn't even need to sneak out. Vander wouldn't have cared. As long as they came back in one piece, he never raised much of a fuss. But Powder had leaned in close, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she whispered, "Let's go. " And that was all it took. He didn't ask why, didn't try to reason with her. He just followed. He always followed. She could've asked him to do something ridiculous—like jump off a cliff—and he probably would've hesitated for all of a second before convincing himself that she had some kind of plan. She always had a plan.

It took him a while to regain his footing—both literally and mentally. They had been walking for a while before he managed to shake off the haze of her casual touch and focus on something other than how hopelessly gone he was for her. The neighborhood was unusually quiet tonight, the kind of stillness that felt peaceful rather than eerie. The occasional chirp of crickets filled the air, mingling with the soft sound of Powder's offbeat whistling as she skipped a step ahead of him.

"You know what, little man?" her voice cut through his thoughts, catching him off guard. He turned to her, raising an eyebrow as he fiddled absentmindedly with some coins in his pocket.

Her tone was casual, but there was a teasing lilt to it, like she knew something he didn't. And maybe she did. If Powder somehow had the ability to read his thoughts, it would've been game over for him. He might as well start digging his own grave.

"Hm?" 

"I'm really excited to show you something!" she said, bouncing a little as she walked, her energy as infectious as ever. "I can't wait to see your reaction."

Ekko gave her a skeptical look, tilting his head. "Stop being so mysterious, Pow. What is it? Another cool graffiti spot? If you went and did it without me, I'll cry. Like, actual tears. Ugly ones."

She let out a light laugh, shaking her head. "Not this time! But it's something similar. I mean, not really , but also kinda very similar."

"That doesn't make any sense," he said, sending her a look that was equal parts confused and amused.

"Oh, just shut up! You'll get it when you see it," she teased, glancing over her shoulder to stick her tongue out at him. "You just need to be patient, Ekko."

The way she quoted his own words back at him—mocking yet endearing—earned a groan from him, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness. "Yeah, yeah. You're hilarious."

The closer they got to the destination, the heavier the weight of nostalgia pressed against Ekko's chest. At first, it was faint, a vague and unplaceable feeling tickling the edges of his mind. But with every step, it grew stronger, sharper, until it felt like he was walking back in time, retracing memories that had long since faded into the background.

When they finally stopped, he blinked at the sight before them. "A playground?" he asked, eyebrows raising as he took in the worn equipment framed by the dim glow of a flickering street lamp. The light sputtered occasionally, casting the empty space in alternating shadows and soft illumination. It felt surreal, like stepping into a dream, or a moment plucked from some distant, hazy memory. "What are we, five?"

"Oh, stop being such a fun destroyer!" Powder shot back, rolling her eyes in exaggerated annoyance. But her tone was light, playful, tinged with excitement. She was already moving, her steps carrying her to the set of swings just beyond the entrance gate. "Don't you remember? We spent almost every afternoon here back then. Even Vi joined us sometimes. You loved it. Don't pretend you didn't."

Ekko watched her as she reached out, her fingers brushing against the rusted chains of one of the swings. Her touch was careful, almost reverent, as though the swing might dissolve if she wasn't gentle enough. She let out a soft, breathy laugh before lowering herself onto the seat. The swing groaned faintly under her weight, a sound that tugged at something deep in Ekko's chest.

"Of course I remember," he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. His eyes scanned the playground, taking in the familiar slide, the seesaw, the faded paint on the jungle gym. "This place hasn't changed at all." 

She kicked her legs out, testing the swing with small, hesitant motions, her smile growing wider with each creak of the chains. "Come on, Ekko," she said, her voice softening as she glanced over at him. "What's the point of coming here if you're just gonna stand there?"

For a moment, he hesitated. The idea felt silly, childish even. But then he saw the way her eyes sparkled, the way she looked so alive, so free. And in that moment, he realized this wasn't just about revisiting a place. It was about reclaiming something they thought they'd lost.

With a quiet sigh and a small shake of his head, Ekko walked forward, his footsteps deliberate. "Fine," he muttered, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "But if it snaps and I break my neck, it's on you."

Powder's laughter rang out again, warm and infectious, as Ekko reached for the swing beside her. The chains were cold under his hands, the seat smaller than he remembered, but as he sat down and began to sway, the years seemed to fall away. For a little while, it was just the two of them, the quiet creak of the swings, and the soft glow of the streetlamp. 

"But… why here?" he asked finally, his voice soft but curious. "Why did you want to come back to this place?"

Powder didn't answer right away. She hummed softly as she continued to swing, her movements barely perceptible, the tips of her toes skimming the ground. "It just got to me, you know?" she said eventually, her voice carrying a strange mix of wistfulness and resignation. "How fast everything's aged. How fast I've aged."

She paused, her fingers curling tighter around the chains as the swing creaked faintly beneath her. "I remember running around here, going down the slide, playing tag, and trying to outrun you." A faint smile tugged at her lips, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "And now? Now, we're practically adults. Isn't that… I don't know… sad?"

"Yeah," he said softly, finally breaking the silence. "I guess it is."

For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the quiet creaks of the swings, the faint hum of distant traffic, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. But the silence wasn't heavy—it felt right, as though the playground itself was holding its breath, waiting for them to fill it with life again.

He looked over at her, the golden strands of the dying light catching in her hair, her expression half-hidden in the shadows. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected this from her, this quiet vulnerability, this sudden acknowledgment of how much had changed between then and now.

Finally, he glanced over at her, watching the way her eyes shimmered in the dim light, her face soft with reflection. "Powder," he said quietly, almost hesitantly, "you're not sad about growing up, are you?"

She turned her head to look at him, her lips quirking into a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Not sad, really. Just... wishing I'd held on to some things longer. Like this place. Like the way it felt to be a kid."

"That's not all, though!" her voice cut through the still evening air, her excitement spilling over as she quickly added, not giving him the chance to respond. "There's something else you need to see."

She was already pointing, her finger tracing a line toward the swing's base. His eyes followed, a sense of curiosity piquing in him. The fading light made everything harder to distinguish, the shadows creeping longer as the day gave way to dusk. He squinted, straining to catch the details. And then, there it was—a small, familiar mark etched into one of the logs that held the swing in place.

At first, it didn't seem like much. The carving was rough, haphazard even, as though done with little thought or precision. But as his eyes adjusted, recognition hit him like a wave.

Their initials.

His and hers. Together, carved into the weathered wood. The edges weren't clean, the strokes uneven, but it didn't matter. It was them, in its own raw, imperfect way. A fleeting but meaningful moment, preserved against the slow erosion of time.

"As I was walking by the other day," Powder continued, her voice softening as she spoke of the memory, "I noticed a girl playing here alone, and I asked if I could join her. While I pushed her on the swing, I saw it. At first, I wasn't sure—it didn't ring a bell. But then I saw it, and I thought, no way. That 'E'—it looks so weird, so unique—it could only be yours. I took a photo, but I thought it'd be better if you saw it for yourself."

Ekko's gaze lingered on the carving, his heart sinking a little as the weight of the memory flooded back. The handwriting was unmistakable—wonky, rushed, a little messy, but undeniably his. And it made him smile, just the smallest curve of his lips, as the recognition sank in. Time had not been kind to the log. The wood had weathered, faded, and cracked under the strain of years and the casual disregard of children playing too hard. Yet, there it was, their secret, etched into its surface as though it were never meant to fade.

In that moment, he could almost feel the warmth of the sun on their faces again, the rush of wind against their skin as they played here all those years ago. The swing creaking under their weight, the laughter ringing out between them. Back then, they were invincible, wrapped up in the simplicity of the world. They were kids, free to run wild in their neighborhood, allowed out only as long as Vi was with them to keep them in check.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet, being there now, it felt like no time had passed at all. The memory was so vivid, so real.

"You know, Powder..." Ekko began, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he could trust himself to say what he was thinking. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, catching the way the golden light of the setting sun played across her features. She turned toward him slightly, her curious gaze settling on him, and that was all the encouragement he needed to keep going.

"While I do miss being a kid sometimes," he continued, his voice steadying despite the flutter in his chest, "I'm not really sad about it. I don't mind growing up... because I'm doing it with you."

He dropped his gaze then, his fingers beginning to fidget nervously in his lap. His usual confidence was nowhere to be found, replaced by a vulnerable honesty that scared him more than anything else ever had. He knew he was a coward for holding these feelings back for so long, for not saying the words he'd rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over. But something about this moment—the quiet intimacy they shared, the stillness in the air—made him feel like it was now or never.

His mind was running on autopilot now, words spilling out before he had a chance to second-guess them. And somehow, it felt... okay. For once, it felt natural, like the truth had always been waiting for the right moment to surface.

"Honestly, it doesn't matter what we're doing," he said, his voice dropping just slightly, as if confessing a secret. "Whether we're running around a playground, cramming for some dumb test, or going shopping and—" he let out a nervous chuckle, "—and I end up carrying all your bags. It's all the same to me."

He dared to look up then, meeting her eyes. There was something unreadable in her expression, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper that made his heart skip. He took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage he had left.

"Every moment with you feels easy," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just... so right. You make everything right, Powder. You make the hard stuff seem not so bad, and the good stuff even better. You're just so..." He faltered for a moment, his throat tightening, but he pushed through. "You're so special. I don't know how else to say it."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw. He felt the weight of them pressing on his chest, but it wasn't a bad feeling. It was a relief. Catharsis. And then, finally, the truth he'd been holding back for what felt like forever spilled out, unfiltered and earnest.

"I just... I love living life with you, Powder, and I think there's something you should know."

"Oh, how sweet! You know, I feel the same!" Powder exclaimed with a giggle, her grin as wide and bright as the sun. 

He froze. His heart stuttered mid-beat, his mind struggling to catch up. "Wait—wait. You do ?" he stammered, his eyes wide. Was it really this simple? Had all it taken was a bit of honesty?

"Of course, silly!" she said, rolling her eyes playfully. "Why are you so surprised? Do you think I'd spend so much time with you if I didn't find you fun to be around?"

"No, but—" he tried, but she steamrolled right over his words.

"No buts, Ekko! You're too modest. You need to learn how to take a compliment or two. " She punctuated her words by wagging a finger at him like some kind of overly cheerful teacher. "You're, like, really damn cool. And I'm so glad to be your friend. Like, genuinely! I'm honored ."

His chest tightened. The word friend hit like a gut punch, shattering the fleeting hope that had started to blossom. "Powder—" he tried again, desperate to steer this in the direction he'd meant, but she didn't let him.

"I didn't know you were so good with words," she continued with a grin, clearly oblivious to the emotional turmoil playing out on his face. "It almost sounded like a proposal!" She giggled, her laugh like music, but this time it felt like it mocked him.

Ekko's shoulders sagged. Of course, she thought it was a joke. Why would she think otherwise? This was Powder , after all—his childhood best friend, the girl who could light up a room and twist his insides into knots without even trying.

"And before I forget!" she said, her hands clapping together excitedly, as if she hadn't just derailed his entire emotional stability. "Since you mentioned shopping together, you're not escaping it this time! I saw these gorgeous shoes the other day—oh my god, Ekko, they're perfect ! I begged Vander for extra pocket money for ages , and I finally have enough! But I need a second opinion. And obviously, I can't ask Vi, because she's, like, the most underdressed person I know. You get me, right?"

He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as his head fell forward in defeat. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it sure as hell wasn't this. He'd thought that maybe his words would finally make her see what had been right in front of her all along. But, of course, she remained utterly oblivious.

"Ekko? Helloooo?" Powder leaned in closer, waving a hand in front of his face.

He sighed again, this time pinching the bridge of his nose in defeat. "Yeah, yeah. Shoes. Got it."

Powder beamed, completely missing the resignation in his tone. "You're the best! I knew you'd help me."

As she launched into a detailed description of the shoes in question, Ekko couldn't help but glance at her, his chest tightening again. How could someone so sharp and clever not pick up on something so painfully obvious?

How could she not notice? How could she miss the way he looked at her , the way his words were practically dripping with the feelings he couldn't bring himself to say outright?

He loved Powder. He loved everything about her. The way she lit up a room. The way she made him feel like the world wasn't as heavy as it seemed. The way she could talk for hours about the smallest things and still make it the most interesting conversation he'd ever had.

But there was one thing—just one thing—he couldn't stand.

She couldn't take a hint to save her life .