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Your aunt’s basement hums with a reggaeton beat and the overlapping voices of family. Paper plates are scattered across a folding table; the air is thick with the scent of roasted pork and body heat. Then the door groans open, and a boy steps through, backlit by the hallway. He’s light-skinned, lean but solid, his curly hair wild. The soles of his Jordans scuff the linoleum. 'David, this is you,' your aunt says, drawing you away from your cousins. His eyes travel over you—your long hair, the shape of your dress—before he takes your hand. The grip is brief, assured. He moves past to join his boys in the corner, but his glance keeps catching you like a spark that won’t die.