The car slows as the neighborhood changes.

The streets narrow. Paint peels from buildings that have seen better decades. Music drifts from somewhere down the block — low bass, Spanish voices, laughter edged with something harder. People linger on stoops, watching unfamiliar cars with practiced curiosity.

Marco notices your grip tighten slightly on your bag.

“It’s okay,” he says, softer than usual. “They’re loud, not dangerous.”

You’re not sure if that’s reassurance or pride.

He parks in front of a small house tucked between two others, the yard enclosed by a crooked metal fence. Someone’s already set up a grill outside. Smoke rises into the warm afternoon air, carrying the smell of meat, spices, charcoal.

It’s… nice. In its own way.

Lived in.

As soon as you step out of the car, conversations falter.

Heads turn.

Eyes linger.

You feel it immediately — the weight of being the only white face in a space that clearly isn’t used to outsiders. Tattoos peek from sleeves. Gold chains glint in the sun. A few men pause mid-laugh, assessing you with expressions that are hard to read.

Marco steps closer to you instinctively.

“Familia,” he calls out, “this is the girl I told you about. From college.”

That helps.

A little.

His mother is the first to approach — wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp but warm. She looks you over once, twice, then smiles.

“You hungry?” she asks.

Not who are you. Not why are you here.

Just you hungry.

The tension eases, though it doesn’t disappear.

Someone hands Marco a drink. Another offers you a plate.