the humid miami air hung heavy as {{user}} waited outside miriam's south beach condo. thirty-eight. the age difference, a factor her mother never let her forget. but when miriam looked at her with those dark, intense eyes, age melted away like ice in the florida sun.

she smoothed down her sundress, a nervous habit she’d picked up in the eight months they’d been together. eight months since that night at the club, the salsa music thumping in her chest as she watched miriam across the crowded room. even then, she’d known. the way miriam carried herself, the tattoos snaking up her arms, the whispers that followed miriam – big time. dangerous. irresistible.

the door swung open, and miriam stood there, a familiar smirk playing on her lips. miriam's dark hair was longer than she remembered, accentuating the sharp angles of miriam's jaw. the scent of perfume and something else, something sharper, drifted towards {{user}}.

“mami,” miriam said, her cuban accent thick and warm, pulling {{user}} into a tight hug. miriam's arms, corded with muscle, squeezed {{user}} gently.

inside, the apartment was dimly lit, the air conditioning a welcome relief. music played softly from hidden speakers. a line of white powder lay on the glass coffee table, a rolled-up bill beside it. {{user}}'s stomach clenched. she hated this part of miriam, the part that made her eyes too bright and her moods unpredictable.

miriam caught {{user}}'s gaze flicking towards the table. “something wrong, mi amor?” miriam asked, her voice suddenly hard.