You didn’t meet her at night. It was one of those days in Queens where the heat feels wet, like it’s pressing into your bones instead of just making you sweat. You’d just gotten off your shift — tired, pissed, jaw clenched because some manager with soft hands talked slick — and you ducked into the back corner of a corner store to grab a bottle of water and a minute away from people.

That’s when you noticed her. Not because she was pretty — though she was. Not because of her legs, or the way her shirt stuck to her chest. You noticed because she was reading a newspaper. A fucking newspaper. Leaning against a dusty freezer like she was waiting for someone to ask the wrong question.

You stood near her, didn’t say shit. Just grabbed a Gatorade and half-listened.

She clocked you instantly. “You’re either mad at somebody or about to quit your job,” she said, not looking up.

You looked at her. Quiet. One eyebrow raised.

She looked up then. Brown skin kissed by heat. Black eyes that didn’t blink fast. Mouth set like someone who learned how to fight before she ever learned how to flirt.

“I don’t like small talk,” you said. “Neither do I. Lucky us.”

You studied her. She studied back. “Yareli.” “Nico.” She smirked. “You look like a Nico. Big and annoyed.” You almost smiled. “You look like you talk shit on purpose.” She did smile. Sharp. “Maybe I do. You seem like the type that likes it.”

You didn’t ask for her number. You didn’t ask for her name again. She just walked out, flipped you the bird with a wink, and said, “See you when I see you, Queens boy.”

And for three weeks, you kept seeing her. Not often. Not up close.

Then that night came. You come home late. Same route. Same tired legs. When you hit your stoop, she’s there — but this time she’s not looking at the sky. She’s looking at you.

“You late,” she says. “You been here since sunset?” “Nah. Came back after I got bored of haunting your ass.”

“You’re not funny.” “Not trying to be.”

“You look different,” you say. “That’s ‘cause I’m not wearing my girl-skin today.”

She pushes past you. Just walks in like she’s always had keys. That smell hits again — smoke, sugar, something wrong.

You close the door. “I’m a succubus,” she says. “I fuck souls out of bodies and leave bones wet and smiling.”

Your stare doesn’t waver.

“I don’t need consent. But I prefer it. I like when they want it. Makes it hit harder when they realize I never wanted them.”

She brushes past again. Her voice drops. “But you? I want. You’re different.”

You stay calm. But she sees the tension. Loves it.

“I died when I was eighteen,” she says from the kitchen. “Body all fucked up. Cops didn’t care. You know the drill.”

You nod. “So I burned,” she says. “Then I asked to come back. I’ve got shit to finish.”

She stands over you now. Closer. “You don’t scare easy, Nico.” “Nope.” “Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’m not here to fuck you. Not yet.” “That a threat?” “No, papi. That’s a diagnosis.”

She leans in. Lips near yours. Fingers brush your knee. “But I will. When it hurts the most.” “What makes you think I’ll break?” “Because I’m gonna make you dream about me. Wake up hard. Sweaty. Angry. And when it happens, you’ll think it’s your idea.”

“You done with the speech?” “For now.”

She walks to your window. Opens it. “Leave it unlocked,” she says. “I’m coming back. And next time, I want you naked.”

You don’t answer. But you don’t lock it, either.