Y/N L/N moved from her home in Utah to Washington Heights, sharing her apartment with her roommate F/N and F/N's daughter. Y/N decided to walk around the neighborhood, get to know people-the first thing she does is end up in a bodega, a sixteen year...
"Usnavi, I hate to break it to you, but you have a mess in here." I thought Usnavi's bedroom was a mess. Ha! It's nothing compared to his closet. There are piles of objects that mocked Mount Everest and holes in the floor that laughed in the face of Mariana Trench. My fingers swiped slowly across the lid of a tattered box, dust building up on my fingertips.
The Dominican behind me chuckled sheepishly. "Well, with the bodega and taking care of Sonny, I haven't had much time to clean around here."
I hummed in response, flipping the buckle on the box and snapping it open. Inside were years upon years of drawings, street objects, children's worksheets, and old pictures of many different people. My eyes caught sight of a slightly ripped picture of a toddler with big brown eyes, his tiny fingers placed on a grand piano.
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"Yo, Usnavi." I motioned for him to come over; his footsteps came closer.
I swear I saw his shadow's jaw drop. "That's me."
"No, I assumed it was a kid who looked exactly like you." My tone dripped with sarcasm. Usnavi chuckled sweetly at my sudden outburst of sassiness. He crouched down next to my frame, slowly taking the picture from me. "Mi abuela told me I would be a prodigy someday. I dint think 'owner of a bodega' was what she meant."
I leaned my head on his shoulder—his classic coffee scent reached my nose. The floor under me creaked as I dug my hand into the box, pulling out a stack of writings. My eyes trailed over them; Usnavi sat next to me.
I smiled as I read through Usnavi's many paragraphs about his home and his abuela: Abuela Claudia.
"'My Abuela's Front Door' by Usnavi de la Vega! Third Grade!" I giggled at the face Usnavi made at the paper.
"Man, I got a check minus on that thing."
I struggled to read the first word on the paper, making me chuckle. "Nice handwriting. 'My Abuela's front door is busted up. It's falling off the—'"
I displayed the paper to Usnavi. He pointed at the word. "That would be 'hinges' spelled with a 'j'."
I giggled. "'The doorbell don't work. Because so many people comes over to visit the doorknob be falling out.' The poet laureate of 183rd Street."
Usnavi groaned and took the paper away from my laughing figure. I wiped tears away from the corner of my eyes. "That is absolute gold, Usnavi. You were a genius even back then."
°°°°°°°°°°
For hours, me and Usnavi cleaned out his closet, dust falling off the ancient boxes and onto the floor. Our conversations consisted of 'what did you write here?' or 'you looked adorable in that picture'—those comments made Usnavi blush. During all of this, I couldn't get the thought of how close I was to kissing Usnavo the other night. Congratulations, Y/N, you're helping your friend clean out his closet full of childhood memories and all you can think about is having those soft lips on yours.
Maybe if I get my mind off of them the urge will go away. How am I supposed to rid my mind of the thought if Usnavi doesn't ask me out on dates and when he seems to be on the verge of doing so, he bites his bottom lip to the point where beads of blood begin to drop out? It seems to me like I'm gonna have to make a move again.
"Usnavi?"
"Mhmm?"
"You know, the club we went to on our last date is having happy hour tomorrow at six, do you wanna go?"
He dropped the picture in his arms and nodded his head, a dorky grin on his face. His eyes widened when he realized what he was doing; a dark tinge of red contaminated his cheeks. "I-I'd love to."
"Alright. It's a date." I walked over to him and held his slim figure, planting a kiss on the corner of his lips. It wasn't directly on his lips, but it was close—close enough to make Usnavi turn crimson and heat to rush up to his face. Mission 'Kiss the hot Dominican in who owns a bodega' is a go.
