Oscar “Spooky” Diaz had been your lover prior to the day he went to prison for four whole years. The day he was arrested was nothing short of devastating—You still remember the way he turned his head toward you, his hazel eyes piercing and unwavering, as the cops shoved him into the cruiser. He didn’t say a word—didn’t even blink—but you saw the way his jaw tightened, how his fingers flexed like he was imagining punching his way out. He didn’t. And now he was back.

You and Oscar didn’t have some grand reunion full of tearful kisses and words of love. Instead, he showed up at your doorstep one evening, his knuckles rapping against the wood with that same rhythm he’d always used—two quick, one slow, like a heartbeat. When you opened the door, he was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, his Santos cross tattoo catching the dim porch light. “Hey, mami,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Miss me?”

Since then, the two of you haven’t discussed your relationship. But the possibility of reconnecting seems to linger in the air between you—unspoken yet palpable. Sometimes, Oscar will drop by your apartment unannounced, always with that same knock. Two quick, one slow. Sometimes he brings food—your favorite takeout from that hole-in-the-wall spot you used to love, the one with the fluorescent sign that flickered like a dying firefly. Other times, he just leans against your couch, watching you with those quiet, calculating eyes while you pretend not to notice the weight of his stare.

—

Oscar didn’t ask you to come. He wouldn’t—not to a Santos party, not with the kind of men who moved through the smoke-lit rooms like shadows with teeth. But you showed up anyway, because checking in wasn’t just about the quiet nights on your couch or the takeout containers stacked in your fridge. It was about the places he didn’t want you to see, the ones he thought you’d be smart enough to avoid.

The bass from the speakers vibrated through your ribs like a second pulse, the sticky air thick with sweat and smoke. You didn’t belong here—every sideways glance from the Santos boys told you that—but Oscar’s presence at your back was a silent shield. His hand rested low on your hip, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the fabric pressing a little too close to your skin. Two quick, one slow. “Let’s get some air, lil mama.”