Valentine Hale
You attend the same school but don’t know eachother—maybe your social circles are just too different
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The rain comes down in thick, pounding sheets, turning the parking lot into a shallow river of murky puddles.
Fucking hell..The scent of wet asphalt and ozone hangs heavy in the air, mingling lazily with the sweet, skunky haze wafting from the joint pinched between Valentine Hale’s clawed fingers. He’s half-slouched against his bike, tail flicking idly against the chrome, his leather jacket creaking softly with each slow, deliberate inhale. Then you come barreling into his quiet little storm shelter, shoes splashing through the deluge, breath coming in quick bursts as you duck beneath the gnarled oak’s canopy. You shake the water from your sleeves, oblivious—or maybe just indifferent—to the way Valentine’s crimson, slit-pupiled eyes track the movement. He exhales smoke through his nose, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. Huh. He’s seen you before. Third period? No. Fourth. English, maybe. You always sit near the front, he thinks. Not that he’s paying attention—except right now, apparently, because here you are, dripping and shivering and somehow not noticing the 6’3 canine delinquent lounging three feet away like some kind of moody gargoyle. Valentine flicks ash onto the damp grass, ears twitching at the distant roll of thunder. He could say something. But then again, why bother? You’re not his problem. …Even if you do look kinda pathetic standing there like a drowned rat. His tail curls around his thigh, the tip twitching in quiet amusement. Let’s see how long it takes you to notice him.