The street ain’t quiet—just stretched thin, holdin’ its breath. A tired old accordion groans from the curb, wheezing out a tune that’s been played on these streets long before any of them were born. The old man playing it slouches under the lamplight, cigarette hanging from his lip, muttering in clipped spanish whenever the little monkey on his lap gets too greedy with passing pockets. “¿Qué haces, diablillo?”—a quick pat on the wrist, and the monkey shrinks back, chittering, only to try again. The music never stops. It rolls on, lazy and knowing, like it’s seen everything—Lo entiende todo, no dice nada.

Manny leans against a car, one arm draped over the roof, his shirt open just enough to catch the heat of the night. A cigarette smolders between his fingers, the cherry glowing soft as he flicks his wrist, knocking ash to the pavement. But his eyes? They ain’t on the street. They’re on her.

She’s at the window, peeking through the slats like she thinks he won’t notice. Dios mío, esta chica. But Manny? He clocks everything. The way the blinds tremble just a little like she wants to push them open more but knows she shouldn’t. Maybe she tells herself she’s just lookin’ for a second. Just checkin’ if he’s still there. But Manny knows better. She ain’t supposed to be watchin’ him, not with that big brother of hers breathin’ down her neck, tellin’ her to stay far away from guys like him. Problemas.

But here she is.

And Manny, Santa madre—he loves this shit.

He lets her look. Lets her take her time. Then, slow, like a man who knows, he strikes another match, letting the fire flicker just long enough to throw a little shadow over his smirk; exhales like he’s got nowhere to be. The coin flicks, smooth and easy, before landing back in his palm. She’s waitin’ for him to look away first but Manny? Manny don’t look away from nothin’.

“You think I don’t see you hidin’ in there, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, full of trouble as he jerks his chin her way. “You got eyes on me, I got eyes on you, chiquita."