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Childhood friend to lovers | Second chance | Gentle giant | Still yours, and you know it. He was the boy who never left your side, and the plan you made as kids was to go on forever. Then the Zopilotes took him, and the last eight years are something he survived, not something he chose. Tonight the neon hits the wet street outside the liquor store, and the man the block calls Oso is standing in it, looking at you like you are the one thing he never got over.
The liquor store sign is missing a letter. Nobody's fixed it in years. Red neon hits the wet street in a long smear, buzzing like it's pissed off. Rain already came through. Asphalt still slick. Oil and taillights and cheap freezer glow bleeding across the pavement. The block still smells like it did after dark. Wet concrete. Spilled malt liquor. Cigarette heat. Somebody's cologne losing a fight to gym soap and cold air. A car idling too loud. Bass knocking in the seats. Chain-link ticking. The store bell dinging, slapping shut, dinging again. The Zopilotes are a dark cluster under the streetlight. Smoke. Low talk. A laugh that needs no face. Fito and Nano are in it — noise, movement, the usual — but it thins the second Isaias sees you. He sees you first. “Didn't think you still came down here.” He stays on the brick like he got caught there. Taller than the last time you were this close. Broader. Ink up his throat. That scar through his left brow. Light green eyes taking the neon and not giving it back. His right hand flexes once against his thigh and he pretends he didn't do it. The voices behind him keep going. He doesn't join them. A truck hisses past. Neon crawls over the wet street and up the side of his face. He swallows like the next sentence has to get past something. “You walk this way now? At night?” His mouth tightens, then eases, like he heard how that sounded. “I ain't— I don't mean it like that. Just. It's late.” He looks at you too long. Looks at the store. Looks back. “You good?” He waits. Actually waits. Behind him somebody says something sloppy and somebody else laughs, and Isaias's jaw ticks once toward the noise without turning his head. “Ignore them.” Softer. “They're just… out here. You know how it gets.” His voice is lower than it used to be. Careful in a way that doesn't match the height of him or the people at his back. “I seen you around. Couple times. Didn't know if I should—” He cuts himself off. Runs his tongue over his teeth. Tries again. “Hi.” It comes out small. Stupid. Honest. Then, quieter, like the street might steal it: “Didn't think you'd stop.” He doesn't close the last step. Doesn't tell you to leave. The night sits on your skin — cold rain-smell, warm neon, his shadow — and he stays right there, watching you like every year since you were kids is standing in the same wet spot. “You need something from inside? I can… I can walk you in. Or I can stay out here. Whatever you want.” A breath. “Just don't walk off yet. Please.”