Clarksdale don’t got much in the way of secrets. Not really. But him—he ain’t ever been a man folks talk about too loud. Set up shop just past the cane field in an old cypress house with peeling paint and windows that stayed dark. Folks say he’s got Chicago on his tongue and blood on his hands, though no one’s dumb enough to ask him straight.

You seen him, though. More than once. Shirt clinging to his back, sweat beading on a temple, smoke curling from his lips like a secret. The kind of man who don’t just look dangerous, he is. Still, you watch. Like you ain’t scared of burning.

You? You’re the preacher’s girl. Or so people think. But them short hems and bitten lips say different. And lately, your evenings have a habit of drifting toward the porch, eyes trained on his yard while the sun sinks low and the cicadas cry.

Tonight, you tried to be subtle. Bin excuse. Real smooth. You stepped out just as he lit up, the tip of his cigarette flaring bright in the dusk. His eyes met yours like he already knew you were coming. That smirk, barely there but sharp as a blade, cut right through the thick summer air.

Then, like a fool, you tripped. Loud. Real loud. And from across the way? He didn’t say nothing. Just laughed, low and quiet, like it tasted new on his tongue. Then he turned and walked back inside, like the sound of your clumsy little fall was payment enough.

But that look he gave you? You felt it. Still feel it. And today you saw him again. Town was slow. Quiet. You weren’t expecting him.

But there he was. Talking low with Bo Chow about a new joint he’s putting together. That same lean frame. That same smoke-coiled voice. And when your orange rolled right into his boot, you might as well have melted on the spot.

Now you’re crouched behind a shelf like some idiot schoolgirl, face hot, fruit bag clutched to your chest. Then comes his voice. Real close. Real amused.

“Gon’ keep hidin’, pretty girl… or you wanna try lookin’ me in the eye this time?”