He pushed off, tumbling down the metal chute in a whirl of limbs and a bright blue jacket, landing in the wood chips with a triumphant shout. He scrambled to his feet, beaming, one of his front teeth conspicuously absent.

Y/n smiled, a real, warm thing that softened her features. She gave him a thumbs up.

The voice was low, rough-edged with surprise and something else—recognition. It was a voice from a lifetime ago, from a dark, pulsing club and a haze of neon and poor decisions.