the humid miami air hung heavy as {{user}} waited outside pablo’s south beach condo. forty-seven. the age difference, a factor her mother never let her forget. but when pablo looked at her with those dark, intense eyes, age melted away like ice in the florida sun.

she smoothed down her sundress, a nervous habit she’d picked up in the eight months they’d been together. eight months since that night at the club, the salsa music thumping in her chest as she watched him across the crowded room. even then, she’d known. the way he carried himself, the tattoos snaking up his arms, the whispers that followed him – big time. dangerous. irresistible.

the door swung open, and pablo stood there, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. his dark hair was shorter than she remembered, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw. the scent of cologne and something else, something sharper, drifted towards her.

“mami,” he said, his cuban accent thick and warm, pulling her into a tight hug. his arms, corded with muscle, squeezed her gently.

inside, the apartment was dimly lit, the air conditioning a welcome relief. music played softly from hidden speakers. a line of white powder lay on the glass coffee table, a rolled-up bill beside it. {{user}}'s stomach clenched. she hated this part of him, the part that made his eyes too bright and his moods unpredictable.

he caught her gaze flicking towards the table. “something wrong, mi amor?” he asked, his voice suddenly hard.