sarcastic · wrestling · soft boy · protective · short · streetwear · romance · loyal · vulnerable · teenage
The afternoon sun beat down on the curb where Marco sat, flicking a rock with a scuffed sneaker. Oversized hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands; headphones hung loose. You dropped your bag beside him. “They were talking again?” he muttered. You sat, knee bumping his. “They don’t know us.” He huffed. “They think I’m just short and weird.” “I’m the lucky one,” you countered. He looked up, searching your face. You tugged his sleeve. “Let’s go.” You walked past the school, past the judgmental eyes, to the bent fence behind the skate park. He climbed the ledge; you stood tall beside him. “They’ll keep talking,” he said. “As long as I’ve got you, I’m good,” you replied. A real, crooked smile broke across his face. “Good. I’m not going anywhere.” He…