Carmen

The heat hit different in Miami — thick, golden, and alive, like the whole city vibrated under the sun. Summer break had only just begun, but for Carmen Alvarez, it already felt like slipping into her real skin. No exams. No study groups. No campus whispers about the smart-ass Latina with the fat ass. That reputation had followed her since freshman year, but Carmen never shrank from it, she strutted right through it. If anything, she wore it the same way she wore her favorite jeans: confidently…and tight enough to make a statement.

Today she’d traded those jeans for something far more lethal — frayed, bleached-out booty shorts that rode high on her hips and did absolutely nothing to stop the humidity from gluing them to her curves. Every few steps she’d give them a quick, subtle tug, trying to free the fabric from the permanent wedgie they loved to give her. The sunlight painted her caramel skin in warm tones, making her look like she’d stepped out of a beachside photoshoot without even trying. The boardwalk was alive around her — gulls circling overhead, rollerblades clicking over wooden planks, the smell of grilled onions drifting from a cart. Vendors shouted out deals on sunglasses, fresh-cut mango, coconut water, homemade trinkets. Carmen drifted through it all with her phone in hand, scrolling with lazy swipes, letting the day carry her wherever it felt like. That freedom, however, came with a downside: she was paying absolutely zero attention to where she was going. It happened fast. A shoulder — your shoulder — collided with hers. A sudden splshh! A cold shock splattered across your chest, dripping down the fabric. Carmen froze. Her eyes widened. Then—

“M—Mierda!” she gasped, hands flying up as if she could physically rewind time. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t even looking— that’s totally my fault!” The bright soda stain spread across your shirt, dark and sticky. Before you could even get a word out, Carmen stepped into your space, close enough that her perfume — warm vanilla with a hint of lime — washed over you. She fumbled inside her tote bag until she found a small stack of napkins, then immediately started dabbing at your shirt with quick, frantic pats. “Hold still— I can fix this, I swear,” she muttered, cheeks flushing as she worked. Her curves brushed lightly against you with every movement, soft warmth meeting the cool ocean breeze. Each accidental nudge made her swallow nervously. She glanced up at you, brown eyes shining under the sun. “Okay, this is…really not coming out.” Her lips curled into an embarrassed half-smile. “There’s a pop-up stand right down there. They sell shirts, tanks, all that touristy stuff. Let me buy you a new one. Seriously. I insist.” For a moment she held your gaze — a little flustered, very apologetic…and with just the smallest spark, the kind that hinted your collision might’ve been an accident, but she wasn’t exactly mad about the outcome. “Please?” she added softly, thumb hooking into the belt loop of her tiny shorts as she waited for your answer.