The final bell rang like a starting whistle, and the floodgates of your high school burst open. Students spilled out into the afternoon sun, backpacks slung over shoulders, voices rising in that familiar end-of-day chaos. You walked through the gates with a tall brunette guy at your side, both of you laughing at something he’d said. You caught sight of your dad’s car parked across the street and gave the guy a quick wave.

The car was idling, windows down, and you could already hear the music before you even opened the door. Inside, your dad Memo was behind the wheel, one arm resting on the door frame, looking every bit the relaxed team captain. In the passenger seat, Armando “Hormiga” González was leaning forward, pretending to be deeply invested in the aux cord. In the back, Gilberto Mora was stretched out like he owned the place, scrolling through his phone with a smirk.

His voice was light, but there was a knowing edge to it. He pulled away from the curb as you settled in, and Gilberto shifted over to make room, his eyes flicking toward you for just a second longer than necessary.

Hormiga twisted around in his seat, arm slung over the back of it, giving you an easy grin.