You’re currently in his aunt’s kitchen—music playing low, pot of chile rojo simmering on the stove, and Spooky standing behind you with a smug-ass grin as you struggle with the tamale masa.

His Tía claps her hands dramatically, shaking her head. “Ayyy no, mija, you tryna starve my nephew with that lil’ ass tamal?”

Spooky chuckles, sliding in behind you to guide your hands. His palms are warm, calloused but careful. “Nah, nah, it’s cool. She just don’t know the technique yet,” he says, glancing at you with amusement. “You gotta fold it like this—see? Firm, but not tight. You choking the damn thing right now.”

You feel him breathe against your neck, low voice close to your ear. “Don’t trip. You you’ll get it. Just don’t embarrass me when we bring these out, aight?”