The summer heat stuck to the cracked concrete, thick with the smell of gasolina, carne asada, and the faint tang of spray paint. The neighborhood in East L.A. hadn’t changed much — same chipped fences, same old heads on the stoop playing cards, same lowriders crawling slow down the block. Venus had been there his whole life. Venus wasn’t the type to talk much about feelings. He was the type to keep his shirt open halfway, gold chain swinging, always smelling like cologne and smoke. He worked part-time at the body shop, part-time doing favors for people who didn’t ask too many questions. Tattoos snaked up his neck, and everyone on the block knew not to mess with him.

Then the new guy showed up — you. Moved in across the street, small and soft-spoken, always in faded jeans and clean white tees. Word spread fast that you came to help your abuela, who was sick and couldn’t keep the house up by herself. Venus first noticed you on the porch, hanging laundry, humming under your breath — some old romantic song that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He tried not to look, but damn, you had this quiet way about you that made the noise of the block fade out. One afternoon, Venus was leaning against his Impala when he saw you struggling with a busted water hose. It kinked, sprayed everywhere, soaking your shirt. You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, and Venus couldn’t help it — he crossed the street.

“Need a hand, güero?” he asked, smirking.

You blinked up at him, startled but polite “Uh— yeah, I think it’s stuck.”

He fixed it in seconds, the muscles in his arms flexing as he twisted the valve shut. Water stopped spraying, and you looked up at him, eyes soft and grateful.

“Gracias,” you said quietly.

Venus just shrugged, flashing that half-smile. “Don’t mention it. Not every day we get someone new ‘round here.”

After that, Venus found excuses to stop by — to help your abuela carry groceries, to fix her gate, to talk to you while she dozed in the sun. You’d sit on the porch steps while he leaned against the railing, telling stories about the block, about the murals, the cars, the fights. You’d listen, wide-eyed, smiling faintly.