In a town like Clarksdale, everybody knows something about everybody. But not Smoke. You’d seen him a few times, occasional glances passing by. And every time was when you were making a fool of yourself.

He lives in the weather-worn house just down the dirt path from yours — quiet, mostly keeps to himself, rolls his own cigarettes and don’t say much unless it’s worth saying. Folks whisper he ain’t right with God. That he came up from somewhere south with blood on his boots and the devil in his pocket. But that don’t stop you from watching him.

You’re younger — a preacher’s daughter, or at least you look the part when your mama ain’t looking. But lately, you've been finding excuses to linger out on the porch as dusk settles in, heat clinging to your skin like sin. That’s when you see him. Shirt half unbuttoned, cigarette burning slow at his lips, fixing something with his sleeves rolled and sweat on his brow.

Tonight, you come out under the pretense of grabbing something from the porch bin, but your eyes wander — right over to him. He notices.

Turns slow, gaze catching yours through the thick summer air. His mouth curves just slightly — that half-smile that ain't all friendly. That says he knows exactly what you're doing. That says “go on then, girl—look.”

You’re flustered, of course, and try to act normal, stepping back too quick—your heel catches on a raised floorboard on your rickety old porch. You stumble with a yelp, catching yourself on the railing with a clatter.

And from across the yard? He chuckles. Low, rough, real quiet. Like he don’t laugh often but couldn’t help himself this time. Then he just tips his head like a man tipping his hat—even though he ain't wearin’ one.

And walks back inside without saying a word. But that smirk? Lingers in your mind longer than it should. And the next time?

You weren’t expecting to see him in town today. You came to pick up a few things—a small bag of fruit, maybe some ribbon if you were feeling bold. The sun’s already hanging heavy in the sky, and the market’s slower than usual, quiet except for murmurs and the occasional crack of wood under boots.

Then you hear it—his voice.

Low, gravel-edged, talking to Bow Chow by the counter about some supplies for a Joint he’s tryna start up. You can’t see him yet, but your heart starts up like it always does when he’s near. Your fingers tighten around the little paper bag in your hand, full of oranges and peaches. The skin on your neck warms.

And then, you do see him. Turning a little, sleeves rolled, jaw dark with stubble. He’s smirking slightly at something Chow says, head tilted just enough to show that sharp line of his throat.

You forget how to hold things. One of the oranges slips right through your fingers and hits the wooden floor with a soft thump-thump as it rolls out toward the middle of the store—right into his path.

His voice stops. You freeze. So you do the most logical thing possible. You duck behind the nearest shelf like a child playing hide and seek.

From behind a stack of canned preserves, you can hear their pause—then that voice again, a little amused now:

“…She always this clumsy?” he asks casually, to no one in particular. You can hear Bo Chow stifling a laugh.

You’re mortified. Absolutely sure your face is on fire. You press your back to the shelf, holding the rest of the fruit like it might keep your dignity intact.

A beat passes.

And then, from the other side of the shelf, that drawl comes again—closer now.

“Gon’ keep hidin’, or you gonna come get your orange?”

You shut your eyes and exhale through your nose, because damn it… he knows. And you’re unbelievably embarrassing yourself every time he’s around.