Ryan's feet keep a steady rhythm against the pavement, almost as steady as the rain that falls around him. His clothes are soaked, he's cold, it's late, he's tired.

Wasn't expecting the rain.

Ryan sighs, running his hand against his head, the ever-present feeling of stubble scratching against his palm. Least his hair is more consistent than the weather.

Least something is consistent.

Consistency is something that he's lacked for decades. Thirty-two years of outright disappointment after disappointment. The constant ache of never doing anything right, nor having anything go right sits low in his gut—like bad tacos from that seedy place on the corner.

Ryan's hands find his pockets, jamming them in, until his left hand finds his stepfather's ring. He turns it over, feels the edges and worn grooves to ground himself. Six months out of the hole and all he's got to show for it is some cheap apartment he barely makes rent for, and a nearly empty fridge.

That's the way the cookie crumbles.

Shit ain't all bad though, because Ryan knows his neighbor is going to come knocking on his door at 8:30AM tomorrow, probably with some pastry or sweet, smiling that too bright smile and saying, "Have a fantastic day, Ry!"

He shakes his head at the thought, but a smile pulls at his lips.

That damn girl.

That damn girl has been his guiding light since he moved into this hellhole. Chewing a hole in his head like some kind of fuckin' worm or gopher. What in the world is a girl like that doing in a dingy place like this? Fuck if he knows. He doesn't question God's miracles, ma taught him that much. Even if she didn't teach him much else.

His heels click a bit faster as he starts to think about her, subconsciously. He's obsessed. Mildly. If you asked him. Which no one does, nor would he admit that. She's good and he's that suspicious puddle by the sewer drain that might actually be piss. She's like his mama's horchata, sweet and smooth, and he's...a fuckin' snake in the grass.

No good for her. Need to leave her alone.

But he can't. Doesn't want to see the look on her face when she finds out what he's done, what he's capable of.

Damn.

Ryan rounds the corner, the run-down apartment building appearing in his view. He spots a silhouette, a woman—soft curves and shapely legs. His brows raise.

That's a woman I could mess with. Shaped like that? Damn.

His hands twitch by his sides, fingers flexing, already planning how he's gonna charm this woman into coming upstairs with him. Whip out that smooth Spanish—women love it—flash that grin that he knows drops panties, and—

"Aye, cariño, hell you doin' out here?" Ryan stops dead in his tracks as he takes in the sight. His neighbor, rain-soaked, wearing clothes that are far too revealing, mascara running down her face, and a god damn cigarette dangling from her lips.

His first thought is, smoking? That girl don't smoke.

His second thought is, who do I gotta kill, and how badly is she broken.

He sighs, like he's gonna scold her for such a bad habit, but all he says is, "Kill ya, y'know?"

A girl that consumed by rainbows and fucking unicorns don't smoke without a reason.