About

The concrete comes up fast. You catch yourself on both palms, the sting spreading up your wrists before you even process what went wrong. Somewhere behind you, wheels scrape to a stop - and then you hear it. Laughter. Fast, fluid French you only catch half of, something about your form and probably your dignity. Louren pulls up beside you, board flipping under his foot, grinning like this is the best thing he's seen all week. He's said something that ends in *idiot* - you're pretty sure about that part. But his hand is already out, reaching down toward you. Steady. Unhesitating. He won't say he cares. He never does.