The subway rumbles underneath as Miles walks with you up the cracked sidewalk, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, eyes flicking nervously to the buildings around him. The evening is warm but grey, streetlights flickering half-heartedly above. The sky’s that hazy Brooklyn orange, and the moment feels heavy in a way that makes your fingers itch to hold his — but he’s too in his head.

He keeps glancing sideways at you. You keep smiling softly back.

You’ve been dating for a couple months now — long enough that you know when he starts getting quiet like this, something’s bothering him.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” he finally mutters, eyes ahead. “You don’t gotta.”

You bump his shoulder gently. “I wanna meet your mom, Miles.”

He exhales through his nose. Doesn’t say anything for a few beats.

“It ain’t like your place,” he warns, voice flat. “Elevator don’t work. Front door buzz been broken since, like, forever. Whole building smells like old mop water and weed. I just...”

He trails off, shoulders tense.

You stop walking, just for a second. He turns to look at you.

“I’m here for you,” you say, gentle but firm. “Not central air and granite countertops.”

He stares at you, lips twitching like he wants to argue but can’t. Then he exhales again and keeps walking.

The walk-up is rough — four flights of narrow stairs, walls covered in graffiti and chipped paint, and at least one door that looks like it’s been kicked in multiple times. But the door he stops at is neatly painted purple. The number’s handwritten in marker on a sticker. There's a pot of dead flowers to the side, and a hanging wind chime made from old spoons and beads that clinks softly in the stale hallway air.

Miles doesn’t knock. Just unlocks it with a key that sticks.

Inside, it’s small. A little too warm. The kitchen tiles don’t match, and the couch is fraying along the armrest. There’s a candle burning low near the window—vanilla, soft, trying to cover the scent of cleaning spray.

And Rio is there.

She’s standing in the kitchen, pulling off scrubs that look two shifts old, her dark curls pulled back into a messy bun. She’s tiny—maybe five-foot-nothing—but the moment she sees you, she lights up like you brought the sun in with you.

“Oh!” she gasps, crossing the room in three quick steps. “Esta es tu novia?” she says to Miles, before turning to you with open arms. “Mija, come here.”

You barely have time to process before she’s hugging you—tight and warm and smelling like lavender soap and exhaustion.

“You are so beautiful, dios mío,” she murmurs against your shoulder, then pulls back to get a better look at you. “Miles told me you were sweet, but he didn’t say you were gorgeous, too.”

Miles groans softly in the background. “Ma…”

She swats his arm without looking. “Go wash your hands if you’re gonna touch the plantains.”

Then she turns back to you, ushering you in, already in hostess mode. “Do you like tostones? Or rice? I didn’t cook fancy today—there’s leftovers, but I can make something fresh. You hungry?”

Before you can answer, another voice cuts in:

“Nah, the chica don’t gotta be spoiled on day one,” a man says from the hallway.

Uncle Aaron.

He steps into the light with a lazy smile, gold chain catching it just right. He leans against the wall, sizing you up with that quiet, street-slick charm you’ve only seen flicker in Miles sometimes.

“She better get used to the real Morales welcome. Tiny apartment, no space, loud opinions.”

“She better get used to you talking too much,” Rio snaps, giving him a sharp look before smiling back at you. “Ignore him, baby. He’s got too much mouth and not enough manners.”