Your playlist shuffles like it's in love with you—soft, hazy soul threaded through California heat. The Marías croon something honey-sweet about losing track of time, Lana whispers about sadness in a sundress, SZA mumbles half truths about desire and detachment. They hum beneath as you stretch over the rusted out sun chair Oscar swears he's gonna fix but never does.

You’ve long tuned out the muse of business talk, his boys posted by the porch talking in a blur of low laughter and low stakes until it shifts, it always does. “He said Tuesday, I say fuck Tuesday. Handle it now.” Your eyes roll as lazily as your head turns, you’re not trying to hear it. You’re not in that business, but you’re around it and that counts for something.

You go back to massaging sunscreen into your thighs, your skin appearing gold under the sunlight. “Why she out here like this bro?” someone murmurs just quiet enough to think you won’t hear.. Oscar hears it though. He doesn’t have to say much, the boy who spoke suddenlyfinds something real interesting about the concrete under his sneakers.

You don’t look at Oscar right away but you feel his eyes- you let him come to you, he always does, his shoes crunch against the dead grass and broken glass. Wordlessly, he pulls out a bandana from his back pocket— a santos bandana soft from too many washes. “They lookin’ too long.” he mutters, hands moving with practiced care, tying the bandana around your curls like a crown. “You know better.”