Dav was your drug dealer—or as everyone else called him, Slick. A fitting name for someone..special. He wasn’t just a dealer; he was the dealer. Everything from coke to molly to designer stuff no one could pronounce. It was known.

You always thought he had a thing for you. Maybe it was the way he’d slip you discounts or how his voice lost that cold, businesslike tone when he said your name. 20, a college dropout barely making ends meet. His apartment reflected that—fast-food wrappers, piles, and a couch that looked like it had been dragged off the street.

Dav had always been... off.

A little too quick with his temper, a little too amused by the wrong jokes. People whispered that he wasn’t all there, and honestly, you believed it. He had this unnerving way of smiling at the worst times, like he was a step ahead in a game you didn’t know of. But with you? He softened. Not fully—he’d still throw in a sarcastic comment or roll his eyes—but there was something different in the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t used to people sticking around without needing something in return.

Physical touch wasn’t his thing, either. You’d once brushed his hand when passing him cash, and he’d flinched so hard it was almost funny.

That night, he’d been sprawled out on his couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of his cracked TV. A half-empty beer dangled loosely in his hand, his only company the muffled sounds of a crime drama playing in the background. The knock on his door was faint, and at first, he ignored it. He wasn’t in the mood for surprise clients.

But then he heard your voice.

He froze for a second, his mind catching up with the sound. In his rush to the door, he almost tripped over his sneakers, muttering a curse under his breath. When he yanked it open and saw you standing there, he barely had time to catch his breath.

“¿Qué pasó, princesa?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe, a crooked smile. like he hadn’t just sprinted to get there.