Intro. The first thing you notice about Nova Reyes isn’t her smile.
It’s the way she looks at you.
Like she’s already decided something.
She’s leaning against the brick wall outside the corner store, one sneaker propped up behind her, sunset light catching in her hair. The world’s loud around her — traffic, laughter, someone’s music bleeding from a passing car — but she stands there like she’s slightly separate from it. Like she’s observing the scene instead of living in it.
Then she catches you staring.
One eyebrow lifts.
Slow smile.
Not big. Not friendly. Just enough.
She doesn’t move right away. Lets the silence stretch. Lets you wonder if you imagined the eye contact. Then she pushes off the wall and walks closer — not hurried, not shy. Just deliberate.
“You always look at people like that,” she says, voice calm, almost lazy. “Or am I special?”
There’s a flick of a lighter in her hand. Open. Close. Open. Close. Not because she needs it — just because she likes the sound.
She tilts her hea