Asher Moreno | Curb Rats

The curb was still warm from the day, holding onto the last of the heat as the evening settled in slow and quiet. The light had gone soft, that hazy orange that blurred everything just enough to make it feel distant, like the world had stepped back a few feet and decided not to interfere. It was quieter here at this hour. Not empty, not abandoned—just... less watched.

Patch sat near the edge of the curb, one knee pulled up, the sleeve of his hoodie half-covering his hand where it rested against his leg. He wasn’t doing anything in particular. He rarely was. His gaze drifted between the cracked concrete, the scuffed lines of the skate spot, the faint marks Static had left behind earlier. Most of it had been scrubbed away, but not completely. It never was. Pieces always stayed.

He liked that.

There was a board lying a little off to his side—not his. It had been left there earlier, forgotten or claimed later, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t touched it. Just... kept it close enough that it didn’t feel like he was entirely alone.

The sound of footsteps came before the voices, sharp against the quiet in a way that didn’t belong here. Not like this.

Patch didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to.

“You guys seriously still hang around here?” Nyra’s voice cut in first, flat and amused in a way that never meant anything good. “Thought someone would’ve told you to move by now.”

There was a pause, like the space itself held its breath.

Ivory followed, softer, smoother, almost thoughtful. “I think they like it,” she said, though it didn’t sound like she was talking to anyone in particular. “It’s... fitting.”

Patch’s shoulders tightened, just slightly. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to be felt.

He kept his gaze down.

A shoe nudged the edge of the board beside him, not hard—just enough to send it rolling a few inches across the pavement. The sound was small, but it echoed louder than it should have.

Nyra again. “This yours?” she asked, even though it obviously wasn’t.

Patch shook his head once, barely noticeable. “No.”

“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced. Or maybe she just didn’t care. The board shifted again under her foot, scraping lightly before she kicked it just far enough that it clattered against the side of the curb.

Patch’s fingers tightened inside his sleeve.

Ivory stepped a little closer, though her attention didn’t quite settle on him. It hovered somewhere just above, like he wasn’t worth the effort of looking at directly. “You’re here a lot,” she said, almost idly. “Even when they’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

“Doesn’t that get... boring?” she continued, tilting her head slightly, as if genuinely curious. “Sitting here. Waiting around.”

Patch swallowed, slow. “I’m not—” He stopped, the rest of the sentence falling away before it could form. There wasn’t a version of it that would land right.

Nyra let out a quiet laugh, stepping closer now, into his space in a way that made it harder to ignore her presence. “You don’t even skate,” she said, like it was something obvious, something wrong. “So what are you actually doing here?”

The question lingered, heavier than it should have been.

Patch didn’t move. Didn’t look up. His shoulders drew in a little more, like he could make himself smaller, less noticeable, if he just stayed still enough.

A hand reached out—quick, careless—and caught the edge of his sleeve, tugging it just enough to expose his fingers before letting go again. Not hard. Not enough to leave a mark. Just enough to make a point.

“Seriously,” Nyra pressed, quieter now, like she was trying to pull a reaction out of him. “What’s the point?”

Patch’s breath caught, just for a second. He shifted slightly, pulling his sleeve back down over his hand, the movement small but deliberate.

“I just—” he started, softer this time, barely audible. “I just sit here.”

Nyra huffed, unimpressed.

Ivory finally looked at him then, properly, for the first time. Her gaze flicked over him, quick, assessing, and then away again just as fast. “Right,” she said, like that confirmed something for her. “That makes sense.”

Another step forward. Another inch closer.

The space felt smaller. And then footsteps. Different this time. Not sharp. Not intrusive. Just... there.

The sound cut through the moment in a way that shifted it, just slightly, like something had been interrupted mid-thought.

Nyra’s attention flicked up first, irritation flashing across her expression before it smoothed out again. Ivory didn’t turn immediately, but the pause in her posture said enough.

Patch noticed too. Of course he did.

His gaze lifted, just a fraction, enough to catch the movement at the edge of his vision. Enough to recognize that someone had stepped into the space that hadn’t been there a second ago.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

But something in the way he held himself changed—barely noticeable, subtle enough that it could’ve been nothing.

Or maybe not.

Nyra shifted her weight, attention now split, her stance loosening just enough to suggest the moment had been thrown off.

Ivory exhaled softly, like this had become inconvenient.

And just like that, the quiet wasn’t the same anymore. It wasn’t empty. It wasn’t one-sided. It was waiting. And Patch—still sitting on the curb, still half-hidden in his sleeves—finally looked up.

The light had dropped low enough to blur the edges of everything, the sky thinning into that muted orange-gray that made the world feel quieter than it really was. The alley sat in that in-between stillness—no boards hitting pavement, no laughter echoing off brick—just the distant hum of traffic and the faint scrape of wind dragging loose trash along the ground. It was the kind of quiet that usually meant everyone had already left.

Patch hadn’t.

He sat at the edge of the curb like he always did, one knee drawn up, sleeve pulled halfway over his hand like it might hide the way his fingers curled in on themselves. His hood had slipped back at some point, strands of green hair falling into his eyes, catching the dim light in uneven streaks. He wasn’t doing anything. Not skating, not moving—just watching the empty space like something might come back to fill it if he waited long enough.

He didn’t react when footsteps approached. Not immediately. Maybe he heard them. Maybe he just didn’t want to acknowledge them.

“Still here?”

The voice cut through the silence cleanly.

His shoulders tensed—just barely—but it was there. He lifted his head a fraction, enough to confirm what he already knew, and then his gaze dropped again like he hadn’t meant to look at all.

Nyra stood directly in front of him, too close to be casual. Ivory lingered a few steps behind, leaning back against the wall like she had all the time in the world, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the fading light. They didn’t fit here. The way they held themselves made that obvious—too sharp, too controlled, like they were stepping into something beneath them and choosing to stay anyway.

“I thought you’d figure it out by now,” Nyra said, tilting her head slightly as she looked down at him. “No one wants you here.”

Patch swallowed, slow, his throat tightening before he could stop it. His fingers shifted inside his sleeve, curling tighter, but the rest of him stayed still. “I’m not—” he started, voice quiet enough it barely carried.

Nyra didn’t let him finish.

Her foot came forward without warning, catching the side of his leg in a quick, careless motion. It wasn’t hard enough to do real damage, but it didn’t need to be. It knocked his balance just enough to send him tipping sideways, forcing his hand down against the pavement to steady himself. The movement was abrupt, clumsy in a way that made it obvious he hadn’t expected it.

A small laugh slipped from her, sharp and unimpressed. “God, you’re so easy.”

Patch pushed himself upright again, slower this time, shoulders folding inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t respond. Just reset his position like nothing had happened, like he could pretend it hadn’t mattered.

That only made her linger longer.

“What, you’re not even gonna say anything?” Nyra pressed, stepping in closer, crowding into his space like she could force a reaction out of him if she got close enough. “No attitude, no comeback—nothing?”

Ivory’s voice drifted in from behind her, quieter but just as cutting. “Why would he?” she said, glancing off to the side like she was already bored. “He doesn’t have one.”

Patch’s jaw tightened at that, subtle but there, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite hide.

Nyra caught it instantly.

“Oh,” she murmured, leaning down just slightly, trying to catch his eyes. “There it is.”

Patch turned his head away before she could. That was enough.

Her hand shot out, catching the front of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric as she tugged him forward just a few inches. It wasn’t a full grab—not violent, not messy—but it didn’t need to be. The message was clear in the way she held him there, in the way she forced the movement out of him like it belonged to her.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” she said, her voice sharpening just enough to cut.

Patch froze. Not pulling away, not leaning into it—just caught in the space between, breath going shallow, fingers tightening again inside his sleeves like that was the only place he could hold onto anything.

Ivory shifted slightly against the wall, watching the whole thing with detached interest. “You’re wasting your time,” she said after a moment. “He’s not going to do anything.”

Nyra didn’t let go right away. Her grip lingered, tension hanging in the space like she was deciding how far she wanted to take it.

Then she shoved him.

It wasn’t a full force push—just controlled enough to keep it from looking messy—but it sent him back a step anyway, enough to break his footing, enough to force him to catch himself again. This time he didn’t drop back down to the curb. He stayed standing, even if it looked like it took effort, even if his posture folded tighter around itself in the process.

He still didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. Didn’t give her anything. And that silence stretched, heavier now, something uncomfortable creeping into it that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t clean anymore. It wasn’t controlled.

It was starting to slip.

“You’re seriously just gonna stand there?” Nyra snapped, irritation bleeding through where amusement had been.

Patch didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t break. And for a second, it looked like she might push again. Like she might actually try to force something out of him, one way or another. Footsteps sounded behind them.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just present. Solid enough to cut through the tension without trying.

Nyra’s attention flicked back first, her grip loosening as she turned slightly, just enough to see who had stepped into the space. Ivory followed a second later, slower, her gaze narrowing just a fraction as she shifted her weight off the wall.

Patch noticed too.

This time, when his head turned, it was just enough to acknowledge the presence behind them. Not fully. Not openly. But enough. Enough to feel the shift.

Nyra clicked her tongue under her breath, stepping back half a pace, though she didn’t fully disengage. Not yet. “Seriously?” she muttered, quieter now, more annoyed than anything.

Patch didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look away either. Not from the space behind them. Not from the fact that someone had stepped in. And the moment, stretched thin and unfinished, hung there waiting to see what the stranger would do.

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