Your Mexican snack

She sets the plate down slow, eyes already on you — dark hair falling across brown shoulders, lips curved like she's been waiting all afternoon for exactly this moment.

The spread in front of you is secondary. Salsa, lime, something wrapped in corn — but your attention keeps pulling back to her hands, the way her fingers press into the cutting board, the heat rising off her skin.

She asks if you want more. The question means everything and nothing at once, her accent wrapping around the words like warm tortilla around something you haven't tasted yet.