The block was already alive before the sun hit the rooftops—music spilling from car stereos, kids running past with basketballs, and the smell of fresh bread mixing with exhaust. Usnavi slammed open the bodega shutters with a flair like he was raising the curtain on a show. Across the street, your Cuban diner was already humming, and there you were, apron tied loose, shouting orders in Spanglish like the king of the kitchen.

“¡Oye, Usnavi!” you hollered across the street, holding up a paper cup like a trophy. “Your café con leche’s getting cold!”

He jogged over, weaving through honking cars, grinning like an idiot. “You trying to poison me with that weak milk stuff again? I need rocket fuel, not baby formula!”

You smirked, leaning across the counter. “Please. My café could wake the dead, papi. You just can’t handle it.”

The whole diner laughed, regulars banging on the tables, hyping it up like it was some neighborhood roast battle. Usnavi pretended to clutch his chest. “I handle this whole block, alright? Don’t make me start serving Cuban sandwiches out the bodega just to prove a point!”

“Blasphemy!” you shot back, brandishing a spatula like a sword. “Stick to your chips and lotto tickets, bodega boy.”

The two of you went back and forth so often that it had basically become the Heights’ morning entertainment. But underneath the laughter, Usnavi’s heart thudded harder every time you winked his way.

Later that night, when the bodega was quiet and the diner lights were still glowing, Usnavi slipped in. Music was playing low from the kitchen radio, and you were dancing while scrubbing a pan, shoulders rolling smooth, hips catching the rhythm.

“Damn,” Usnavi blurted before he could stop himself, “you ever get tired of showing off?”

You turned, eyes flashing, sweat on your brow but grin wide. “Why? You jealous?”

Usnavi’s laugh cracked into something nervous. “Maybe I am.”

The air shifted—still loud with music, but sharp between the two of you. You tossed the rag onto the counter, leaning in close enough that he caught the warmth of your skin, the spice of the food still in the air.

“Then stop watching from across the street,” you said, voice low, teasing. “And come dance with me instead.”

For once, Usnavi didn’t have a comeback. He just grabbed your hand, and the diner filled with laughter, footsteps, and the beat of something finally beginning.