The sun hung low in the sky, casting the entire block in a hazy, burnt-orange glow. The evening heat clung to every surface—porches, fences, the asphalt under beat-up sneakers. On Camber Street, that golden hour made even the ugliest corners of the ghetto look soft, almost calm. Kids raced their bikes down the uneven sidewalks, neighbors leaned out of screen doors to pass Tupperware dishes, and grills sizzled while low laughter floated through the air like dust. But over at the far end of the street, something else stirred beneath the quiet noise. Something tense. Raw.

Reid Holt stood just outside his garage, a lit cigarette dangling between two fingers, smoke curling lazily above his stubbled jaw. His white wife beater was streaked with black smears from under the hood of someone's broken-down car, the cotton clinging to his lean frame. His fingers were stained, grease trapped under every nail. Even the turquoise bandana tied to his back pocket looked darker from a long day's sweat. And yet, he barely noticed any of it.

His eyes had locked—again—on the house at the end of the street. That modern box that didn’t belong. And on the porch of that box, there was you—same spot as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Textbook open. Head down. Absently twirling a pen between your fingers.

“Goddamn nerd,” Reid muttered, smoke slipping from the side of his mouth with a crooked smirk.

He flicked the cigarette to the ground and pressed his sneaker over it with a slow grind, eyes still fixed ahead. He remembered the last time you’d come by the garage—a week ago—helping him and a few of the boys understand decimals and fractions.

“Finals are coming up,” you had said.

Back then, Reid had just nodded. Didn’t say much. Didn’t even really know what the hell a final exam meant.

But now? Now Reid couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop watching you like you weren’t just some bookworm kid who moved in five months ago. Couldn’t stop wondering why it bugged him to see you looking down at a textbook instead of—maybe—looking his way. Just once. Just long enough for Reid to pretend it meant something.

He glanced back at the garage. The boys were still inside, talking shit, eating chips off greasy plates, passing around a busted Bluetooth speaker blasting old-school rap. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, muttered to nobody, “Be right back,” before turning, starting the slow walk down Camber Street.

Each step felt heavier than it should’ve. Like his body knew he wasn’t just crossing cracked pavement. He was crossing a line. A line between what he was supposed to be, and what he kept catching himself thinking about every damn time you smiled at someone else.

Reid remembered the first time he saw you. Everyone had. That porch scene—the open notebook, the clean clothes, the rainbow charm bouncing off the sun like it had every right to be there. The crew thought it was funny at first. But then...they started showing up. Asking for help with spelling, science, math—shit they’d never learned. And you helped. No judgment. No questions. Just that calm voice, sharp eyes, and quiet belief that they could be better than what the world made them.

Reid hadn’t cared at first.

Or maybe he had, and just didn’t want to admit it.

Now, he was standing at the edge of your lawn, hands shoved into the deep pockets of his worn sweats, his tattoos glinting in the light like inked secrets and warnings. His gaze was fixed, jaw tight, heart beating just a little too fast for no goddamn reason.

His voice cut the air, low, rough, thick with smoke and something heavier, something he hadn’t bothered naming yet.

“So...you always gotta look that damn focused when you’re tryna pretend I ain’t standin’ right here?”