The summer heat clung to everything like a bad attitude, making the cracked concrete steps of Building C feel like they were fresh out the oven. Corey flicked his lighter again, the third time in five minutes, not because his Newport needed it but because his hands needed something to do. The flame danced for a second before he snapped it shut, the metal warm against his palm.

"Yo, you been checking your phone every two minutes for the past hour," Marcus said, leaning back against the railing that probably should've been replaced sometime during the Clinton administration. "What's good with you today? You acting all weird and shit."

"Ain't nothing," Corey muttered, taking a long drag off his Newport. But his eyes drifted to his phone screen again anyway. 2:47 PM.

DeShawn caught the movement and started grinning. "Nah, nah, nah.You lying. Look at him! Boy got his phone out like he waiting on his mama to call him home for dinner."

"Fuck outta here," Corey said, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"Ayo, who is she?" Marcus leaned forward, smelling blood in the water. "And don't say 'who' cause we see you cheesin' over there."

Corey flicked his cigarette, watching the ash fall to the cracked pavement. "Man... I met somebody."

"OHHHHH SHIT!" DeShawn jumped up from the steps, pointing at Corey like he'd just confessed to murder. "I KNEW IT! This black dude met a girl!"

"Shut the fuck up before the whole complex hear you," Corey said, but he was laughing now.

Marcus was shaking his head, grinning wide. "Where you meet her at? Please don't tell me it was at the club cause you know them club girls ain't shit."

"Nah, it wasn't like that," Corey said. "Met her at some café outside the city. It was raining hard as hell and I ducked in there to wait it out."

"A café?" DeShawn's eyebrows shot up. "Co, what you doing at a café? You don't drink no coffee."

"I know, right?" Marcus added. "This fool probably ordered a Pepsi and called it a day."

"Actually I got some fancy ass latte and it was trash," Corey admitted, which made both his boys crack up.

"But check it," Corey continued, "she walked in all soaked from the rain, right? And all the tables was full except mine. So she asked if she could sit, and I'm thinking this girl bout to order her shit and leave."

"Hold up, hold up," DeShawn interrupted, grinning like he just heard the funniest shit ever. "So you telling me this random girl sat down with yo ugly ass and y'all just started talking? Out of nowhere?"

"I didn't say she was white—"

"Man, please. You was at a café. She white." Marcus was shaking his head. "And she probably felt sorry for you sitting there all alone with your broke ass latte."

"Nah, it wasn't like that," Corey said, getting defensive. "We talked for like three hours straight. About real shit."

DeShawn let out a loud laugh. "Three hours?! Bro, she was probably waiting for her real date to show up and got stuck listening to you talk about your feelings and shit."

"Fuck y'all, man. She was genuinely interested."

"Interested in what?" Marcus asked, still laughing. "Your extensive knowledge of the streets? Your promising career in... what you do again? Oh wait, nothing!"

"Y'all some hating ass black dudes" Corey muttered, but the smile was gone from his face now.

Corey checked his phone again. "Should be here in like ten minutes."

"Oh shit, for real?" DeShawn's eyes lit up with mischief. "We bout to meet the charity case? The girl who thinks she can save a hood gangster?"

"It ain't like that—"

"Nah, nah, this is perfect," Marcus interrupted, rubbing his hands together. "I can't wait to see what kind of girl thinks Corey is boyfriend material. She probably one of them activist types who think dating black guys makes her interesting."

"Or maybe she doing research for college," DeShawn added. "Writing a paper on urban youth or some shit. 'My Experience Dating Someone From The Projects.'"

"Y'all really some fucked up friends," Corey said, but his voice was losing its conviction.

"We just keeping it real with you," Marcus said, not backing down. "You think this girl really want you? Or you think she want the idea of you? The 'dangerous' black boy from the hood experience?"

The courtyard stretched out in front of them, all sun-bleached concrete and struggling grass trying to grow through the cracks. Kids were running around the playground equipment that had seen better decades, their voices mixing with the distant thump of music from somebody's car stereo. Mrs. Johnson was hanging laundry on her third-floor balcony, the clothesline sagging under the weight of what looked like enough towels to supply a small hotel.

This was home. Messy, loud, sometimes dangerous, but home. And in about ten minutes, she was going to see all of it.

Before Corey could respond, Marcus straightened up, his expression shifting. "Yo, who the fuck is that?"

Corey followed his gaze to the entrance of the complex. A figure was walking through the gap in the fence, moving with the kind of careful confidence that screamed outsider trying not to look lost. Even from a distance, he could tell it was her—something about the way she carried herself, the way she seemed to take in everything around her without making it obvious.

But she wasn't alone.

Three dudes had materialized from somewhere near the dumpsters, moving with that particular predatory swagger that every kid from the hood learned to recognize before they learned to tie their shoes. They were closing in on her like sharks smelling blood in the water.

"Shit," Corey muttered, already pushing himself up from the steps. His Newport hit the ground, still smoldering.

"Yo, that's them YNs from Building F," DeShawn said, recognition dawning in his voice. "They been wilding lately."

Corey was already moving, his sneakers slapping against the hot concrete as he jogged toward the scene. His boys were right behind him—that was just how it worked. One moves, they all move.