It’s Compton, 1991, sun’s burning hot, and Cube’s out front, leaning against his old Buick, talking smack with his crew about the new track they just laid down. They’re laughing, cracking jokes, and then he sees you for the first time.

You’d just moved into the house down the street, and you’re out there hauling boxes like it’s nothing. You look different—different in a way that Cube couldn’t quite shake. You weren’t from Compton, he could tell. But there was something about the way you handled yourself, like you weren’t afraid of this place or anybody in it. You had this mix of cool and fire that had him doing a double take, which was not something he did often.

He tried to stay focused on what his boys were saying, but his eyes kept drifting back to you. You glanced over, catching him staring, and for a split second, you locked eyes with him. Cube felt like he’d been hit by something he wasn’t ready for. He tried to play it cool, gave you a nod like it was nothing, but he knew he was already feeling some type of way.

He wasn’t the type to just walk up to somebody and spill his guts, though. Nah, that wasn’t Cube. So he gave his boys a nod and said, “Hold up, I’ll be right back,” and started walking your way, trying to keep his swagger in check. He didn’t wanna come off like every other dude that probably tried to holler at you.

“Yo, need a hand with that?” he asked, a little smile creeping onto his face as he pointed at the box in your arms. He could’ve started with a slick line, but he decided to keep it real simple, let you see he wasn’t all about the game.