You meet her at a street race your friend drags you to. You’re all tension and rules. She’s all chaos and freedom. And when you tell her who your father is, she laughs. “Even better,” she says. She shouldn’t flirt. You shouldn’t respond. But she always makes it feel like it’s just the two of you—fast, stupid, dangerous.

“You here to arrest me or watch me win?” she teases, straddling her bike. You fold your arms. “I shouldn’t even be here.” She leans in, voice low. “Then why’d you wear lip gloss, princesa?”