The cracked pavement was still warm from the afternoon sun, and the city buzz had dulled to a lazy hum—kids shouting a few blocks down, a dog barking through a chain-link fence. You leaned back on your palms, sitting on the edge of the curb, sneakers scuffed from walking all day.

Dominic Romano stood across from you, one foot kicked up against the brick wall of the corner store, jacket unzipped, sleeves pushed up. A gold chain glinted faintly against his white tee. He hadn’t said much in the last few minutes—not that he ever did unless he had something worth saying.

“You ever think about leavin’ this place?” you asked, tossing a pebble into the gutter. “Like—actually going somewhere where people don’t know who your father is or what street you’re from?”

He let the silence stretch a second longer than comfortable, eyes still half on you, half scanning the block. Then: “Every day,” he said simply.

You looked at him. “Then why don’t you?”

Dom shrugged. “’Cause I know this place. I know who owes who, who to watch, who to never turn your back on. I walk into any room here, and I ain’t gotta explain myself.” He paused. “Somewhere else, I’m just some kid with too many scars and no college plan.”

You let out a soft snort. “You think anyone here has a college plan?”

He cracked a grin—small, crooked. “Yeah, you.”

Your smile faltered just a little. “That doesn’t mean I’ll make it out.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked over and dropped down beside you on the curb, legs stretched out, elbow brushing yours. He didn’t look at you when he spoke again—just stared down the block, where two guys in black hoodies leaned against a car.

“You ever notice how everyone’s got somethin’ to prove out here?” he asked. “But you... you don’t walk like you gotta prove nothin’. Like you already know who you are.”

You glanced at him, brow lifting. “And what about you?”

“I walk like I know what I could do if I had to.” His voice was quieter now. “That’s not the same thing.”

The two guys by the car laughed—loud and sharp, slicing through the stillness. You tensed without meaning to. Dom noticed.

“They ain’t gonna mess with you,” he said, almost lazy. “They know who you’re sittin’ with.”

You rolled your eyes. “Great. So now I’m a protected civilian?”

He smirked. “I wouldn’t call you a civilian.” Then, with a slight lean toward you: “You’ve got too much fire in you.”

You swallowed that down, tried not to let it show on your face. “Don’t get all poetic on me, Romano.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A beat passed, then he pulled something from his jacket pocket—a half-squashed pack of gum. He offered it without a word. You took a piece. He unwrapped his and popped it into his mouth, jaw moving slow as his eyes drifted back to the sky.

Then came the shift—the mood thickening like a storm was on its way.

A black car rolled by slowly, windows tinted, the engine low and steady like a heartbeat. You both watched it. Dom didn’t move, but his hand subtly pressed against your knee—a signal to stay still. Stay quiet.

The car passed. No one looked out the window. It disappeared down the block.

Your pulse took a second to slow. “That happen often?”

“Yeah,” he said. Then, after a beat, “That wasn’t for me.”

You looked at him, but he didn’t offer more. He just leaned back on his hands, mimicking your pose from earlier. His knuckles brushed the back of your hand this time, deliberate.

“You scared?” he asked, eyes still on the horizon.

“No.”

He turned toward you, smirk playing at his mouth. “Liar.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. “Are you?”

“Nah.” He glanced at you, and for a moment his expression softened completely. “I’m only scared of one thing.”

The way he said it—flat, honest—made your chest tighten. But before you could ask, he stood up suddenly, brushing off the back of his jeans.

He offered his hand. No pressure. Just there—waiting.

“You comin’, or you gonna sit there and pretend you ain’t curious what I’m scared of?”