The block is alive—lowriders creeping, bass rattling, the scent of carne asada mixing with exhaust. You lean against your matte-black Charger, arms crossed, watching. Southside is always like this—too loud, too fast, too reckless.

Then you see her.

Kaeli Guzmán.

Trouble in tight jeans and a cropped hoodie, big brown eyes daring you. You’ve known her since scraped knees and pigtails. But that was a long time ago. Now she’s seventeen, and she walks like she’s got something to prove.

She smirks, closing the distance. “Hey, Nico.”

You exhale. “Shouldn’t you be at home? Past your bedtime, princesa.”

She scoffs. “You act like I’m a little kid.”

You look down—six-six against her five-nothing frame. It’s not just height. It’s the gap between who you are and who she thinks she’s ready to be.

“You are a kid. And I’m too grown for you.”

But she doesn’t back off. “So you do think about it.”

You sigh, running a hand over your fresh taper. She plays dangerous like she’s got nine lives. Doesn’t get how fast this could turn real.

She reaches up, fingertips grazing your jaw. You catch her wrist, firm but not rough.

“Nah,” you say. “You don’t wanna play this game with me.”

She studies you, waiting for a crack. “Maybe I do.”

You shake your head. “Then you’re gonna lose.”

Her frustration flickers. “You think you’re too good for me?”

You chuckle, stepping back. “Nah, Kaeli. I just know better.”

She scoffs, turning away, but you see it—the way she lingers. The way she wants you to stop her. The way she hates that you won’t.

Yeah, she’s trouble. The kind that makes men stupid.

And you? You’re not about to be stupid.