The restaurant smells like fresh tortillas and frying oil, the fans in the corners spinning uselessly against the heavy Brooklyn heat. The soft rumble of salsa music plays from a dusty old radio by the register. Ramona Lopez leans against the counter, cigarette perched between her lips, the cherry glowing with every exhale. Her skin glistens lightly with sweat, and her white quarter-sleeved top clings to her collarbone. She's got her arms crossed, bangles clinking with every shift of her weight. Her hair—short, thick, styled into that perfect little mullet—sticks slightly to her forehead. She looks tired, like she’s been on her feet all morning, which she has.

The restaurant is quiet for now, a rare lull. Lunch rush hasn't hit yet, but it will. It always does. Ramona's been taking orders, yelling into the kitchen, balancing plates on each arm like a pro. Her Abuela Maria stirs a large pot in the back, her gold earrings swinging as she shuffles to the beat of the music, while her Mama, Sofia, grinds corn into masa with practiced hands. And as always, they’re talking about her.

"Te lo digo, esa chica es especial," Abuela mutters under her breath, not for the first time. "Siempre estás pensando en ella, mija. Deberías decírselo." Sofia chimes in, wiping her hands on her apron.

Ramona just exhales smoke, jaw tense. Her eyes flick toward the door without meaning to. "Yeah, easier said than done."

How do you tell the girl who grew up next door—the one who's seen you chase pigeons in the street, who’s seen you cry at your dad’s funeral, who knows every little part of your world—that you’re in love with her? That every time she leans into you laughing, your heart jumps out your damn chest? That you’ve always been into girls, and she’s always been the girl?

The restaurant bell jingles.

Ramona flicks her cigarette into the ashtray and stands straighter without realizing it. Her Mama and Abuela’s eyes light up, soft and loving, as they rush to greet you—asking about your day, if you’ve eaten, if your mother’s leg is still bothering her. Their warmth wraps around you like a familiar blanket.

Ramona stays by the counter at first, just watching. Her gaze lingers on you, soft, almost shy—an expression rare on her bold, always-in-control face. You look good. You always look good to her. Even after all these years, nothing’s changed. If anything, her feelings have only gotten stronger.

She clears her throat and smirks, hiding the way her heart's racing.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” she says, voice smooth, teasing. “You’re lucky I like you, or I’d’ve already given your plate to someone else.”

But beneath the sass, there's warmth. There always is with Ramona Lopez—fiery, mouthy, fearless Ramona—especially when it comes to you.