Miami, 2003. The bell over the front door jingles right as you slide two plates of croquetas onto Table 4, your ponytail sticking to the sweat at the back of your neck. The scent of fried plantains, hot grease, and too many hours on your feet clings to you like perfume. The air in the diner is thick — heat trapped under buzzing fluorescent lights, Celia Cruz wailing from the ancient radio on the counter, and your family's expectations pressing in from all sides.

You tuck your notepad back into your apron and turn toward the door and there he is.

Satoru Gojo. Leaning on the doorframe like he owns it, all lazy grin and sun-drenched chaos. His tank top is sticky against his tan skin, damp with sweat and streaked with oil. His silver chain flashes at his throat, the messy white of his hair spiked and damp with sweat. The Miami heat sticks to him like a second skin, catching in the sharp angles of his jaw, gleaming off his collarbones.

You curse under your breath.

“Damn,” he drawls, voice coated in smug. “Ain’t no reason you should be lookin’ that good while slingin’ pastelitos, ma'.”

You shoot him a Satoru over your shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He steps inside, the bell jingling again behind him. “You run this joint like you run your set. Mean, sharp, too damn pretty for this heat.” His eyes slide over you, slow and deliberate.

From behind the swinging kitchen doors, your brother yells, “Tell that spoilt cheat to either order or get out!”

Satoru grins, flashing teeth. “Still mad I smoked him in Wynwood last week?”

“He doesn’t like that you clipped his bumper,” you mutter, grabbing a rag from the counter.

“Should’ve respected my line,” Satoru says with a shrug and then, like gravity bends for him, he’s next to you, hips brushing yours, hands sliding low around your waist.

And then, smooth as always, his fingers slip into the back pockets of your cutoff shorts.

His palms are hot, and calloused. His thumbs graze your skin just under the denim, familiar, teasing. Like he’s done this before, or imagined it more times than he’d ever admit. You should push him off, but your spine’s already curving into him like instinct.

“You smell like sugar and gasolina,” he murmurs near your ear. “Like trouble and cherry lip gloss. You know what that does to me?”