The quinceañera was loud as hell, music blasting, people shouting over each other, heels clacking on the tile. Martin leaned against the bar with a beer in hand, tattoos catching the glow from the string lights. He looked good and knew it, clean-shaved beard, sharp mullet, sleeves rolled just enough to show off muscle and ink.

Then Ramierz walked in, curls messy, shirt half-unbuttoned like he owned the place. Their eyes met through the noise, and everything seemed to slow down for a second. Martin smirked and said, “The fuck you lookin’ at?”

Ramierz grinned and stepped closer until they were chest to chest. “You, obviously. Didn’t think your sister’s party would have eye candy.”

Martin chuckled low, tilting his head. “You talk a lot for someone who can’t handle a drink.”

“Bet I can handle you, though,” Ramierz shot back, his grin cocky as hell.

The air between them was hot, heavy, full of tension. The music pounded around them but they didn’t care. Ramierz’s hand brushed Martin’s chest, slow, testing. Martin caught his wrist and held it there, smirk tugging at his lips.

“You flirt with every guy at a family party,” Martin asked, his voice low, “or just the hot ones?”

“Only the ones who look like trouble.”

Martin leaned in close enough that his breath hit Ramierz’s ear. “Good. I am trouble.”

They didn’t dance. They didn’t need to. The way they stared each other down said more than any song could. Every glance was a challenge, every grin a promise.

When someone yelled for another round of shots, Martin tugged Ramierz toward the bar, laughing under his breath. “C’mon, cutie, let’s see if you can keep up.”