elle @aellesa - Tumblr Blog

May 24

The Mixtape

Summary: She had it the whole time. A CD with her name written across it in his handwriting. She just never pressed play. Years later, she finally does and realizes it was never just a mixtape. It was a timeline. A confession. Everything he couldn’t say while she was still close enough to hear it. The beginning. The almost. The moment it became something real and what it turned into after she left.

Somewhere between the first track and the last, Annie understands one thing too late—he never stopped choosing her.

She just never answered.

But now… she might.

A/N: This idea came from a fic prompt via @sunshinerepublic 💜 Please let me know what y'all think.

C/W: Explicit sexual content (18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT). Consensual first-time sex between two young adults, including foreplay (oral sex, fingering, breast play), virginity loss with realistic discomfort, penetrative sex, and emotional vulnerability.

W/C: 12k

“Moving!?”

The word comes out sharper than Annie means for it to, her voice catching somewhere between disbelief and panic. She’s already halfway out of her seat, hands braced against the edge of the mattress, searching for something solid under her.

“Why?”

Her mother doesn’t answer right away. She stands in the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest, holding herself together in a way Annie recognizes immediately. That same look she gets when something has already been decided and there’s no use trying to undo it.

“We can’t keep stretchin’ what ain’t there,” she says finally.

That’s it—that’s the answer.

But it doesn’t feel like enough to hold everything it means.

Annie stares at her, the words landing, her fingers digging into the comforter beneath her as though she can anchor herself there if she tries hard enough.

“What about school? It’s my senior year,” she says, her voice smaller now, but no less urgent. “What about—”

She stops herself before she says his name.

Her mother sees it anyway.

Something in her expression changes, softening for half a second before it hardens again.

“You’ll finish there,” she says. “New start. New opportunities.”

New.

The word hangs there, clean and simple, reducing everything Annie already has to something unworthy of staying for.

They didn’t plan to leave.

Years later, that’s what she returns to, years later, when the edges of it have softened enough to hold without cutting into her the same way. Back then, it didn’t feel like building. It felt like something that happened all at once.

Her mother lost her job first.

Not in a single moment. In pieces. Cut hours. New management. Promises that never made it past the next schedule. By the time the layoff came, it almost felt expected, except expectation didn’t make it easier to carry.

Bills stacked anyway.

Her “father” had been gone longer than he was ever there. Military, technically. That was the word they used when people asked. It sounded better than the truth. He came and went in uniforms and silence, bringing structure with him when he stayed, distance when he didn’t. By Annie’s junior year, his visits had thinned down to calls that came less often than they should’ve.

So when her mother said they were moving to North Carolina, where her sister had been asking her to come for years, it wasn’t really a discussion. It was a decision that had been waiting for the right kind of breaking point.

Annie sits there, the weight of it pressing in from all sides, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t feel like it’s asking to be understood.

She’s seventeen.

Old enough to understand what’s happening.

But too young to stop it.

Smoke had been in her life long enough that she couldn’t remember when he wasn’t.

They grew up on the same street. They weren’t next door neighbors, but close enough that their paths kept crossing until familiarity turned into something quieter. Something constant.

He wasn’t loud. Never had to be.

People knew him anyway.

Elijah Moore, though nobody called him that unless it was his mother or somebody trying to make a point. To everybody else, he was Smoke. Moved slow, spoke less, watched everything. The kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway.

Annie didn’t notice when he started paying attention to her. It showed up in small things.

A door held open before she reached it. A drink already waiting for her at the corner store because he saw her walking up the block. His jacket handed over without comment when the temperature dropped faster than expected.

He didn’t flirt the way other boys did—no loud declarations, no teasing meant to draw a reaction.

With Smoke, it was quieter.

More certain.

By junior year, people assumed. Not in a way that forced anything into place. More in the way they moved around each other. The space they shared without thinking about it. The way he walked her home and didn’t leave until she was inside.

They never labeled it.

Didn’t sit down and name what they were to each other.

But Annie knew.

And so did he.

The closer it got to the move, the more he showed up. He didn’t ask questions he already knew the answer to, or push her to say anything she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

He just… stayed close, as if proximity could change something, as if his presence alone might keep her in place.

The night before she left, the air hung heavy and still, carrying the smell of cut grass and sun-warmed asphalt.

Boxes filled the house behind her. Tape sealed across the tops in uneven strips. Here laid her life, broken down into pieces that could be carried.

The porch light buzzed overhead, casting a warm, uneven glow across the front steps.

Smoke stood a few feet away, shoulders relaxed, hands low at his sides. White tee, dark jeans, the same chain he always wore catching the light when he moved.

His gaze stayed on her. Memorizing. That’s what it felt like, as if he were fixing her in place somewhere he could return to later.

She should’ve said something then. Something that matched the weight sitting between them. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He stilled for half a beat before his hands came up, settling against her back and waist. Firm. Grounded. Familiar.

She felt his breath against her temple—slow, controlled, measured.

“I’ll call you,” she said into his shoulder. She meant it. Every part of her believed it in that moment.

“You better,” he murmured, low.

It wasn’t a joke.

She pulled back just a bit, just enough to look at him.

“I will,” she said.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Neither of them moved.

Annie’s hand slid from his shoulder to his chest, resting there, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. Smoke’s gaze dropped briefly to where her hand sat, then lifted back to her face.

Something changed… inevitable.

Annie leaned in first. Slow and certain. Her mouth found his, soft at first, then deeper when he met her there, his hand tightening at her back as he pulled her closer.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t unsure.

It felt like everything they hadn’t said, everything they hadn’t figured out how to hold onto with words.

Her fingers curled against his shirt, grounding herself in him, in the moment, in something that felt solid even as everything around it was about to change.

Smoke’s hand moved along her back, sure, holding her there as though grip alone might keep this from slipping away.

They broke apart slowly, their foreheads resting together for a second, breaths uneven but quiet.

“You gon’ be good?” he asked, low.

She nodded, even though she didn’t know what that meant yet.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“I’m comin’ back,” she added, softer now. “For breaks… summers… I’ll be back.”

It wasn’t a plan—but it sounded like one.

He nodded once. “Aight.”

Her hand lingered against his chest for a second longer before she let it fall. This time, when they stepped apart there was nothing left to say. She turned first, walking towards the door.

She didn’t look back right away, but she felt it. That same awareness.

Unchanged.

Still on her.

When she finally turned to look back, he hadn’t moved. He was still standing where she left him.

Just… there.

Annie held his gaze for a second longer. Then she turned back and went inside.

Eight years later…

The apartment still smells new. Fresh paint layered over older wood. Dust stirred up from movement. A faint trace of something chemical that hasn’t had time to settle yet.

Annie sits on the floor in the middle of it, legs folded beneath her, surrounded by open boxes in different stages of being dealt with.

She’s twenty-five now. Older in the ways that matter. More certain. Her life is her own in a way it wasn’t back then.

North Carolina gave her and her mom what they needed. Her mother found work within months. Stable. Consistent. Enough to breathe again. Annie finished school. College after that. Built something that belonged to her, and still—

Some things stayed packed.

Untouched.

The box sits off to the side. Brown cardboard, edges worn soft from being moved more times than opened. Her mother’s handwriting stretches across the top in fading permanent marker:

HIGH SCHOOL

She meant to leave it there—start with the kitchen, the bathroom. The pieces of a space that make it functional before anything else. But her hands reached for it anyway.

Now it’s open.

Photos sit on top. Faces she hasn’t seen in years. Paper curled at the corners. A program from a school event she barely remembers. A bracelet she forgot she ever owned. She moves through it slowly, but not lingering too long either.

Until—her fingers stop.

A CD case rests near the bottom. Clear plastic. One side cracked along the hinge. The surface dulled from time and handling.

Her breath shakes before she even picks it up, because she knows. She turns it over in her hands.

There it was.

Black Sharpie pressed firm into the disc inside. No decoration. No extra effort to make it pretty. Just—

Annie

Something in her chest pulls tight, something… familiar. It’s settled deep enough that it feels like it’s always been there. Her thumb runs along the edge of the case, tracing the worn spot where it’s been opened and closed enough times to smooth the plastic down.

He made this. Somewhere else. Without her there. Chose every song. Put her name on it.

She never heard it when it mattered.

For a moment, she considers putting it back. Closing the case. Sliding it beneath everything else in the box and sealing it up again. Letting that version of things stay where it’s been all this time.

Untouched.

Unanswered.

Because she knows how it ended. It wasn’t in one moment she could point to and say—that’s where it broke.

At first, it didn’t feel like anything was changing. They talked. Late at night mostly, when the house was quiet on both ends and the distance felt smaller than it was. He’d call. Or she would. Sometimes both, missing each other by minutes and laughing about it after. He’d ask about school. She’d ask about home. It felt… held together.

Until it didn’t.

Calls got missed. It wasn’t on purpose. Bad timing. Different schedules. Long days that turned into longer nights.

“I called you.”

“I ain’t see it.”

“You could’ve called back.”

“I did.”

Small things, like that. Nothing big enough to fight over, but enough to feel. Texts got shorter. Then slower. Then sometimes—

Not at all.

Annie told herself it was fine. That this is what distance does. That they’d figure it out when she came back. But she didn’t come back as much as she thought she would.

There was always something preventing it. School. Work. Money. Timing. So when she did—It felt different. Off. Like trying to step back into something that had already changed without asking either of them first.

She wondered sometimes if he met someone.

Never asked.

Didn’t want to hear the answer if it was yes. Didn’t want to sound like she was holding onto something that didn’t belong to her anymore if it wasn’t. She knew he wondered too. Could hear it in the way he asked certain questions.

Who she was with.

What she was doing.

Who she spent her time around.

He wasn’t accusing. Just… listening for something he didn’t want to find.

They didn’t fight and that’s the part that stayed with her the most. Nothing ever exploded. Nothing ever broke clean. It just… slipped. Or maybe loosened.

Until one day, there wasn’t anything left to hold onto that felt the same.

Neither of them could or would say it out loud.

The CD came later.

Not right away. A year, maybe two.

Long enough for the silence between them to settle into something real. Long enough for the calls to stop feeling expected. Long enough for him to understand what wasn’t coming back the way it left.

She didn’t know what to do with it when it showed up.

A small package. Her name written across the front in handwriting she hadn’t seen in months but recognized immediately.

No return address.

Inside—

A CD.

Slim case. Clear plastic. No note. No explanation.

Just her name written across the disc in black marker.

Annie.

She turned it over in her hands back then too. Sat with it longer than she meant to.

Then set it aside.

Told herself she’d listen to it later.

She never listened to the CD. Realization hit—

She had it the whole time.. and never opened it.

The apartment is quiet now. No TV. No music. No voices filling the space.

Just the low hum of the refrigerator from the next room and the faint sound of traffic moving somewhere below her window.

And now this CD, sitting in her hands.

Waiting.

The stereo sits on the floor across from her. Small. Functional. One of the last things she unpacked. She moves forward, pressing the power button. A soft click answers her. The tray slides out with a low mechanical whirr.

She pauses again. Breath held longer than necessary.

Then she places the CD inside. Closes it. The room settles around her. A brief crackle.

Then—music.

Annie goes quiet because she knows this song. Knows it in a way that bypasses thought and goes straight to memory.

And just like that—

She’s seventeen again.

Track 1: Didn’t Cha Know

The opening notes settle into the room, low and warm, wrapped in a faint layer of static that time didn’t quite smooth out.

Annie doesn’t move.

Her hand stays braced against the floor beside her, fingers spread, grounding herself in something solid as the sound fills the space.

The speakers hum softly. Close. Contained. The melody stretches. Slow. Familiar.

Erykah Badu

The words come in soft, almost slipping past if you’re not paying attention—something about knowing. About recognizing a feeling before you have words for it.

Annie’s eyes drift closed. The apartment loosens its hold on her. The boxes. The fresh paint. The quiet. It all fades at the edges.

Heat replaces it.

Late afternoon sun pressing into pavement that’s been holding it all day. The air thick with it, carrying the smell of asphalt and something sweet drifting from somewhere down the block.

She’s walking.

Bookbag slung over one shoulder, strap digging into the same place it always does. Her steps slow, unhurried, because she already knows.

He’s there.

Leaning against the chain-link fence across from the corner store. One foot propped back, shoulders loose, head tipped forward like he’s been there a while.

Waiting.

She knows. A quiet awareness that settles over her whenever he’s near. Present.

Her gaze lifts.

Finds him exactly where she expected.

White tee. Faded jeans. A thin chain around his neck. His hands tucked into his pockets, posture easy in a way that doesn’t ask for attention but holds it anyway.

His eyes meet hers and stay. He doesn’t wave or call out to her. Just straightens off the fence, pushing himself up with a small roll of his shoulder, her attention apparently all the signal he needed.

By the time she reaches the corner, he’s already moving. Falls into step beside her, matching her pace without asking.

“Thought you had practice,” she says, glancing over.

“Got out early.”

She nods, adjusting her strap. “Mhm.”

Their arms brush when the sidewalk narrows. Neither of them moves away.

“You eat?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

He angles them toward the store without a word. The bell above the door chimes when they step inside. Cool air washes over her skin. The hum of refrigerators lines the walls, drinks stacked in neat rows.

Smoke reaches in, grabs something without asking. Hands it to her. Their fingers brush. Cold plastic presses into her palm.

“Thank you,” she says.

He shrugs, but he’s watching her.

They don’t stay long. Just enough to pay and step back into the heat. They walk a little further before he slows, stopping near a low brick wall along an empty lot.

“Sit for a minute.”

She looks at him, then the wall. A small smile tugs at her mouth. “A minute?”

His lips twitch. “Yeah.”

She sits.

He drops down beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. Close enough that she can feel the heat of him without leaning.

The city hums around them. Cars. Voices. Something distant that blends into the background.

Smoke reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a pair of headphones. Worn. Cord twisted. He untangles them with practiced fingers. Then hands her one side.

Annie looks at it.

Then at him.

“Just listen,” he says.

She slips the earbud in. Adjusts it. He does the same. Then presses play. The song settles in her ear, closer this time. Intimate. Wrapped around her instead of filling a room. Her shoulders ease. The music sits between them, shared.

She glances at him.

He’s looking forward, elbows on his knees, hands loose, but there’s something in the way he’s listening. Not to the song.

To her.

“This your favorite or somethin’?” she asks quietly.

He shakes his head. “Nah.”

A beat passes.

“Just reminded me of you.”

The words land easy. Unforced. He says them without checking them first.

Annie settles into it.

The song hums in her ear, voice smooth, carrying that same quiet pull—wanting something, holding it close, not quite naming it.

It lands differently now.

Didn’t then.

“What about it?” she asks, softer now.

He shifts beside her—closer.

“Don’t know.” A small pause. “Just do.”

Her fingers trace the condensation on the bottle resting between them. The music stretches on, warm, unhurried, holding something underneath it that feels bigger than the moment they’re sitting in.

She leans back slightly, bracing her hands behind her. Her shoulder brushes his. This time, neither of them moves.

“Okay,” she says. Quiet. Accepting it for what it is, even if she doesn’t fully understand it.

Smoke nods once.

They sit like that until the song fades. Neither of them rushing to move. Neither of them saying what’s already there.

Annie’s eyes open slowly, her breath easing out like she’s surfacing from somewhere deeper than she meant to go. She hadn’t realized she closed them.

The music is still playing. Still filling the room. But it lands differently now. Fuller. Heavier. Her chest rises, falls. That same place under her ribs pulling tighter than before. “Just reminded me of you.” The words echo back, clearer now than they were then.

Annie swallows, because it’s making sense now.

The feeling.

The way something settles in you before you understand what it is. The way it lingers, even when nothing’s happened yet to explain why.

That’s what he meant. Not that it sounded like her. That it felt like her. Something he couldn’t name yet. Something he didn’t try to.

Just—there.

Annie exhales slowly, her fingers curl into the floor beside her.Because he felt it first. Before she ever stopped long enough to recognize it.

The track fades. The next one begins and this time—

She lets it.

Track 2: The Light

The next track slides in without pause. No crackle this time. Just a smooth transition—drums, soft, steady. Something warmer. Lighter on its feet.

Annie exhales before she realizes she’s been holding her breath.

Common.

She knows this one too. All the way through.

The beat settles into the room, easy, unforced. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t ask for attention but keeps you anyway.

Something in her shoulders loosens.

And just like that—She’s somewhere else again.

Early evening.

The sun sits lower now, casting everything in that soft gold that makes even the most ordinary things look like they matter. The street hums with life. Kids cutting through yards. A car idling too long at the corner. Somebody calling out from a porch two houses down.

Annie stands at the bus stop, arms folded loosely across her chest, her bag slung over one shoulder. She shifts her weight between her feet, eyes drifting down the street.

Waiting.

A car pulls up slow. Familiar before she even looks. She doesn’t move right away. Just lets it settle in her chest first. The passenger door unlocks with a soft click.

“Get in.”

She turns her head.

Smoke leans over from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the gear shift. His gaze stays on her, calm, certain enough to make it feel already decided.

“My bus—” she starts.

“Gon’ be late,” he says knowingly

She narrows her eyes. “You don’t know that.”

He lifts one shoulder. “Bet.”

Annie huffs under her breath, but there’s no real resistance behind it. She opens the door. Slides in. The car smells like him. Clean. Faint cologne. Something warmer underneath that’s harder to place. The door shuts with a solid thud, sealing her into the space with him.

“You been waitin’ long?” she asks, pulling her seatbelt across her chest.

He glances at her briefly before looking back at the road. “A minute.”

She tilts her head, studying him. “A minute,” she repeats.

The corner of his mouth lifts—almost.

The music is already playing. Low. Filling the car without crowding it. She recognizes it immediately.

“You and this song,” she murmurs, settling back into her seat.

He doesn’t respond. Just turns the volume up a fraction. They drive without rushing. Windows cracked just enough to let the air move through. The evening slipping in, carrying the scent of the street with it.

Annie rests her elbow against the door, her fingers tapping against the glass in time with the beat.

She watches the houses pass. Then—she glances at him. His hand stays easy on the wheel. One finger tapping against it, keeping time with the music. His attention split in that quiet way of his—focused on the road, but aware of everything else too.

Her included.

“You be listenin’ to this for real,” she says, half teasing now.

He shrugs. “It’s cool.”

She hums, unconvinced.

A few seconds pass. “You like it?” he asks.

The question lands different. Simple, but it sits there, waiting. Annie looks forward again. Listens. Really listens this time.

The way the beat carries something constant underneath it. The way the words move—easy, certain, with nothing to prove.

Just telling the truth as it is.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment.

Soft.

Real.

Smoke nods once. The car slows as they near her street. He pulls up in front of her house, engine still running.

Annie doesn’t reach for the door right away. “Thank you,” she says instead.

He glances at her. “Anytime.”

And there’s something in the way he says it.

Anytime.

It carries more than this one ride. It reaches further than either of them is willing to define out loud.

Annie studies him for a second.

The set of his shoulders. The way his hand rests against the wheel now that the car is still. The quiet way he holds space without filling it.

“You ain’t have to come get me,” she says.

“I know.”

No hesitation.

She lets out a small breath, something close to a laugh but softer than that. “Okay,” she says. Her hand moves to the door.

She pauses.

“Text me when you get home,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Smoke looks at her then. Really looks this time. “Aight.”

She nods once. Pushes the door open. The evening air wraps around her again as she steps out. She closes the door behind her, the music still drifting faint through the cracked window. She walks up the path toward her house. Doesn’t look back right away.

But it settles in before she confirms it.

That awareness.

Still there.

At the door, she glances over her shoulder. He’s still sitting there.

Watching.

Their eyes meet. He gives a small nod. She returns it. Then she goes inside.

Annie doesn’t move right away, her fingers settling into the floor as the feeling settles in a way she can’t ignore this time.

The song plays on, but it doesn’t feel like background anymore. It feels like proof. Not of something loud or something declared. But proof of something present. Something that showed up. Over and over again.

Her gaze drifts to the CD case beside her. Then back to the stereo.

“You like it?”

The question echoes now. Clearer than it did then.

Annie exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” she murmurs to the empty room.

This time—she understands what he was really asking.

Track 3: You Got Me

The next track settles in slower, lower, smoother. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t drift… it holds. Annie’s head tilts, recognition pulling at her before the words even come in.

The Roots.

Her fingers rest against her knee, the beat finding its place in her body without effort, and then she’s there again.

Night. Not late, but late enough that the street has changed.

Annie steps out of the corner store, a small plastic bag looped around her fingers, the cold of a bottled drink pressing through it. The bell above the door jingles behind her. Inside, everything had been bright, loud enough to feel normal. Out here, the air sits differently. She pauses just outside the door, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, scanning the street out of habit more than fear.

They’re across the lot.

Three of them, leaning against the side of a car that’s been parked too long without moving. Same boys from school—loud in the hallways, louder when they think no one’s checking them. One nudges the other when she steps out. She catches it without looking directly.

The shift.

The attention.

Annie turns down the sidewalk anyway, keeping her pace even.

“Hey—” one of them calls out.

She doesn’t respond.

“Where you goin’?”

Their voices carry too easily in the open air. Annie adjusts her grip on the bag, her shoulders pulling in just slightly—bracing. Her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down.

Smoke.

Her thumb moves before she can think too hard about it. “Hello?”

“You just left the store?”

Her steps falter for half a second. “…Yeah.”

“I seen you.”

She turns her head just enough to scan the street behind her but doesn’t spot him. “Where?”

“Down the block. Keep walkin’.”

Her chest settles. Behind her, footsteps now, closer than before.

“Damn, you can’t speak?”

Annie keeps moving, her voice quieter now. “They just… talkin’,” she says into the phone, more to herself than him.

“I know.”

And there’s something in his tone—measured, already decided.

“Stay on the phone,” he adds.

“Okay.”

The street stretches ahead, longer than it did a minute ago. Then headlights turn the corner. Slow. Controlled. The car pulls up alongside her, engine low, familiar before she fully looks. The passenger door unlocks.

“Get in.”

Annie reaches for the handle and slides inside, pulling the door shut behind her in one smooth motion. The outside noise dulls immediately. Smoke’s hand adjusts on the wheel as he pulls off. Just moving. He glances in the rearview once, then back to the road.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Her grip on the plastic bag loosens, tension leaving her fingers in pieces.

“They ain’t touch you?”

She shakes her head. “No, Smoke.”

He nods once. The music plays low through the speakers, that same steady rhythm threading through the quiet. Annie leans back into the seat, the fabric warm from the day.

“You was just… there?” she asks after a moment.

He shrugs. “Seen you go in.” Pause. “Waited.”

Annie turns her head, studying him—the way his hand rests easily on the wheel, the way his attention splits without effort between the road and everything else.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says.

“I know.”

Same answer. But it sounds different now, because this time, she understands it.

He pulls up in front of her house, the engine idling. Annie doesn’t reach for the door right away.

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods. “Anytime.”

That word again.

She opens the door and steps out, the night air wrapping around her. The car stays running behind her as she walks up the path, the porch light already on. She reaches the door, pulls it open, then pauses with her hand still on the frame.

Something pulls at her.

She glances back as their eyes meet across the distance. He gives a small nod and she returns it. Then steps inside and closes the door.

Smoke doesn’t pull off right away.

Annie exhales slowly, her shoulders lowering as the song settles into its final stretch. Her gaze drifts, unfocused, but she’s not seeing the room—she’s seeing him. The way he pulled up without hesitation. The way his voice didn’t rise, didn’t rush. “Stay on the phone.” Like he already decided where he was going to be before she even answered.

Her fingers curl against her palm, because now it’s obvious. Not just what he did, but what it meant.

He was already paying attention.

Already watching for her. Already moving in a way that made space for her before she ever asked for it.

Annie swallows. Back then, she told herself it was nothing. Just him being him. Just convenience. Just timing.

But it wasn’t.

It was care.

The kind that shows up.

Her chest tightens, just a bit because he didn’t just say it. He proved it.

The track fades, but the feeling doesn’t.

Annie sits in it a second longer before the next one comes in.

Track 4: Golden

The next track comes in brighter, warmer, carrying a lift that settles into the room without forcing it.

Annie’s lips press together in quiet recognition before the first full line lands.

Jill Scott.

Her shoulders ease where she sits, her back settling as the music fills the space.

There’s something open in it, something that moves without resistance, and just like that—she’s there again.

It’s daytime. The sun stretches across everything without apology, laying heat over the block in a way that makes even the ordinary feel alive. Music spills out from somewhere down the street, layered over laughter and voices that rise and fall without pattern.

The smell of food hangs in the air—something fried, something sweet, somebody grilling for no reason other than the day feels like it calls for it.

Annie moves through it easily. She’s laughing at something someone said, head tipped back just enough for the light to catch along her cheekbones. Her micro braids are pulled up into a high ponytail, the length of them swaying down her back, a few fine pieces at her edges loosening and softening around her face. A fitted top, denim shorts, nothing that asks for attention—and still, she has it.

People call her name as she passes, pull her into conversations she didn’t plan on having. She answers, sways, moves on without effort, the space making room for her before she has to claim any of it.

Smoke stands off to the side under the edge of a porch, one shoulder resting against the post, a red solo cup loose in his hand.

He’s not in the middle of it. Never is. But his attention moves with her.

It wasn’t constant or obvious, but every time she turns, every time she laughs, every time her voice carries just a little further than the rest he catches it. Stack says something beside him, quick, meant to pull him in. Smoke hums in response, low, distracted. “Nigga, you not even listenin’,” Stack mutters, following his line of sight, and then he sees it too.

Sees her.

A short laugh leaves him under his breath. “Oh, aight.”

Smoke doesn’t respond.

Across the yard, Annie dips down slightly to fix the strap of her sandal, unbothered, unaware of the attention she holds.

Someone says something to her and she looks up, smiling, answering easy.

The music swells, louder now, fuller, and it settles into her like it belongs there.

Golden.

Annie straightens, rolling her shoulders back without thinking. She moves with it, not performing or checking to see who’s watching, she’s letting the rhythm take her where it wants. Her hips sway once, twice, her hands lifting briefly before falling again, a soft laugh slipping out as someone nearby joins in.

There’s nothing forced in it.

Nothing measured.

Just ease.

Smoke’s grip tightens around the cup in his hand.

Stack nudges him. “Go on over there.”

Smoke shakes his head once. “Nah.”

“Why not?” Stack presses.

A beat passes.

“She good.”

Simple.

Certain.

Stack watches him for a second longer, then lets it go, turning back to the yard.

Smoke stays where he is. Doesn’t interrupt or insert himself into her space. He just watches the way she moves through it, the way people orbit her without her ever asking them to, as though she belongs to a rhythm he already understands.

Annie turns, scanning the yard like she’s looking for someone. Her eyes land on him.

There’s no surprise there.

Just recognition.

She smiles, big and real, lifting her chin toward him in quiet acknowledgment.

He nods back. That’s it.

No call over, no need to close the distance.

The moment holds anyway.

Annie’s chest rises slowly, her fingers resting loose against her knee. The song fills the room with that same warmth, and something in her expression softens as she listens.

Because she sees it now.

Not what he did, but how he saw her. Before she ever stopped long enough to see herself that way.

Her gaze dips briefly, then lifts again toward the stereo. Of course he picked this. Not for how she looked, but for how she moved through the world—like she already belonged in it.

The track continues, and Annie leans back, letting it settle over her. Four songs in, and something is starting to take shape.

It’s not clear yet or something she can name, but close enough that she feels it building under the surface.

She doesn’t interrupt it.

She lets the next track come.

Track 5: U Send Me Swingin’

The next track settles in slower, deeper, carrying a weight the others didn’t. Annie’s breath catches almost immediately.

Mint Condition.

Her fingers still where they rest against her knee, the movement from before fading out of her body as something else takes its place.

This one—she hasn’t thought about this song in a long time. And then she’s there.

It’s evening, but not outside. Inside. His house. The air is quieter here, cooler, the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, just contained. A faint hum runs somewhere in the background, a clock ticking deeper in the house. Annie stands just inside the doorway to his room, her hand resting against the frame like she hasn’t fully decided to step in.

“You can come in,” Smoke says from where he’s sitting.

She looks at him. He’s on the edge of his bed, elbows resting against his knees, hands loose between them. A textbook sits open beside him, untouched.

“I am in,” she answers, her tone light.

His mouth lifts barely, not quite a smile. “Then stop standin’ in the doorway.”

She rolls her eyes but steps in anyway.

The room feels familiar. Not because she’s been in it often, but because it feels like him. Clean without trying too hard. A few things set out that matter, everything else kept simple. She moves toward the desk, setting her bag down, glancing over scattered papers. “You actually studyin’?” she asks.

He leans back, picking up the book like he might prove it. “Trying to.”

She hums, unconvinced. The silence that settles after isn’t awkward. It stretches easy.

Smoke reaches over, flipping something on beside him. Music. Low. That same smooth pull. Annie pauses for a second before turning her head toward the sound. “You always got music playin’,” she says.

He shrugs. “Helps.”

“With what?”

He glances at her. “Thinkin’.”

She watches him for a long second, then turns back to the desk. “Or not thinkin’?” she mutters. That earns a quiet huff from him. She smiles to herself.

The song stretches through the room, wrapping around the quiet in a way that fills it without crowding it. Annie moves without thinking, her fingers brushing across the edge of his desk, then the back of his chair as she passes. Smoke’s attention flickers—subtle, but there. She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. She ends up near the bed, turning slightly as she looks down at something on the floor. “Your handwriting is still terrible,” she says, picking up loose paper.

He leans forward, reaching for it. “Give me that.” Their hands meet in the middle and pause, not long, but long enough. Annie’s fingers don’t pull back. Neither does his. The music hums low around them, something in it stretching, pulling, holding. Her eyes lift and find his, and something settles between them—undeniable.

Smoke’s gaze drops, just briefly, to her mouth, then back up.

Her breath falters.

“Annie,” he says, low.

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t answer with words. His hand loosens around the paper, not letting it go, but he wasn’t holding onto it the same way. He leans in, slow enough that she can stop it. She doesn’t. The space between them closes, and when his mouth meets hers, it’s careful, almost like he’s making sure she’s still there when it happens.

Annie stills for half a second, then softens into it. Her fingers slide against his, the paper slipping between them as her attention drifts somewhere else entirely. The kiss is brief, but it’s not small. When he pulls back, it’s just enough to look at her again, like he needs to see what changed.

Annie exhales softly, her eyes still on his. “Okay,” she murmurs, aware now.

Smoke nods once, but he doesn’t lean back the way he did before. He stays close for a second longer than necessary, then finally pulls away, clearing his throat under his breath. The room doesn’t return to what it was. It can’t. The music keeps playing, but now it sits closer, heavier, marked by something they’ve already crossed.

Annie steps back a fraction, her hand brushing against her lips without thinking.

Smoke notices that, but doesn’t say anything. He just watches, and this time, there’s no hesitation left in it.

The music keeps playing, but now she hears it. Really hears it. Something in the way the song leans into feeling, into being pulled somewhere you didn’t plan on going, something you don’t fully understand yet but can’t ignore either. Her chest tightens with awareness.

Annie’s breath catches, then stutters. Her hand lifts like it remembers the shape of that moment. The room settles back around her, but it doesn’t feel the same. Her gaze drops to the CD case, then back to the stereo.

Track one. Track two. Track three. Track four. And now this. Annie sits up a little straighter. Because it clicks. This wasn’t random. The order. The feeling. The way each song holds a moment she hadn’t named at the time.

He was telling her something. Piece by piece. Her throat tightens because now she can’t ignore it—what he couldn’t say then.

Annie exhales slowly as the song continues. He didn’t just make her a mixtape. He built a story.

And she’s only halfway through it.

Track 6: Brown Skin

The next track comes in softer, but it doesn’t feel light. It settles close, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission before it lands. Annie’s breath slows as soon as she recognizes it.

India.Arie.

Her shoulders sink back against the wall behind her, but there’s a new awareness sitting in her body now, quieter than nerves, heavier than comfort. Something that wasn’t there before. This one feels closer than the others.

This one is personal.

And then she’s there again.

It’s quieter this time. Late afternoon slipping into evening, the light outside softened, filtering through the windows in a way that turns everything a little warmer than it is. Annie stands in front of the mirror in Smoke’s room, one hand resting against the dresser as she adjusts the small gold hoops in her ears. She’s been there a while, long enough for the house to settle into something familiar around her. Her mama’s working late again, and instead of going home to an empty house, she ended up here the same way she always does, without needing to ask. His mama already made a plate, already told her to sit, already talked to her like she belonged there.

But something is different now.

Annie notices it in small ways. The extra second she lingers when she catches her reflection. The pause near her mouth before her fingers drop, the memory of something still sitting there. The room itself feels closer than it used to, the air carrying more than it did before.

The door is open behind her.

“Ma said tell you dinner ready.” Smoke’s voice carries in first, low, even.

Annie glances at him through the mirror. “I already ate,” she says, her voice even.

He leans against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides. “She said eat again.”

That almost makes her smile, but she doesn’t move right then, because now—she feels him there. Not just in the room. Her gaze lifts in the mirror and this time—she doesn’t just see him.

She meets his eyes and it lands differently this time. There’s no distance in it anymore. No buffer. No pretending this is just what it’s always been.

He’s looking at her with the knowledge of closeness now, with the certainty of someone who’s already crossed into something he can’t step back out of.

Annie swallows, her fingers dropping from her earring. “What?” she asks.

Smoke pushes off the frame, stepping one pace into the room. Closer than he stood before. “Nothing,” he says. But it’s not nothing.

Not anymore.

Annie turns then, slowly, facing him instead of the mirror. The room feels smaller like this, the space between them more defined now that they’re both inside it.

“What?” she asks again.

This time, he doesn’t brush it off. He looks at her. Really looks. The light catches across her skin, warm and even, settling into the natural tones of her face, her shoulders, the curve of her arms. Her hair pulled back, exposing more of her than usual. Simple. Uncomplicated.

And still—he holds it.

“You… look good,” he says.

The words come out level, but there’s something under them now, something shaped by what’s already passed between them.

Annie blinks.

There’s no space to pretend it’s casual. No way to tuck it into something lighter. It sits between them.

Clear.

She shifts her weight, her fingers brushing against the side of her shorts. “Thank you,” she says, softer now.

Smoke nods once, but he doesn’t move. His gaze lingers a second longer than it needs to. Then another, taking her in, like he already knows how she feels close.

Annie feels it. That awareness is returning, stronger now. “You just gon’ stand there?” she asks, a small edge of nervousness slipping into her voice without her meaning for it to.

His mouth curves. “Yeah.” The answer is quiet.

Honest.

Annie lets out a small breath, something caught between a laugh and something else. “You so weird,” she says, but there’s no weight behind it.

Smoke shrugs. “Probably.”

That almost pulls a real smile out of her.

Almost.

The music hums low somewhere else in the house, drifting faintly down the hallway, wrapping around the moment without interrupting it. Annie turns back toward the mirror, but slower this time. More aware of him behind her.

She adjusts nothing.

Touches nothing.

Just… looks.

And this time—she sees it differently. Not through her own lens. Through his. The way he just did and the way he already has. Her shoulders square without her realizing it. Her chin lifts just a fraction.

Smoke watches that too.

The change.

Subtle.

But there.

“Come on,” he says after a second, his voice returning to something more normal. “Before my mama start callin’ both of us.”

Annie nods, grabbing her phone off the dresser. “Okay.” She walks past him, close enough that her arm brushes his as she moves through the doorway. This time it lingers a fraction longer. Neither of them pulls away.

Annie slows. Just enough. Her hand lifts without thinking, fingers grazing against his shirt as she turns her head, and before she can talk herself out of it—she leans in.

It’s quick.

Soft.

Her mouth brushing his like she’s testing something she already knows the answer to, but this time—it’s her.

Choosing it.

Choosing him.

Smoke stills for half a second, caught in the moment of it, then turns toward her as she pulls back. He didn’t stop her or question her. He was meeting her there.

Annie exhales softly, her eyes flicking up to his for a second, something unspoken passing between them. Then she steps away. Keeps moving down the hallway like she didn’t just change something. But the air behind her feels different and when Smoke follows, it’s not the same distance as before.

Just… closer than it used to be.

Annie doesn’t move when the memory lets go of her. Her eyes stay open, fixed somewhere ahead, but her focus is elsewhere entirely. Her fingers rest still against her knee, the quiet in the room settling around her differently now.

Because that—that wasn’t small.

He wasn’t just looking at her.

He was seeing her. The way she stood. The way she carried herself. The things she didn’t say, and the things she didn’t even realize were there.

Her gaze drops, unfocused. She understands that this wasn’t just a moment. It wasn’t something that happened because they were close. Or something that could be folded into everything else and left there.

This was the shift.

The line. The point where everything stopped being what it was before. Annie exhales slowly, but it doesn’t release anything.

Because back then—she treated it like it could stay light. Like they could step back from it if they needed to. Like it didn’t change anything unless they said it did. But it did. It changed everything.

Her fingers curl against her palm. She sees it now in the way he stayed close after. The way he looked at her like he was waiting for something, not from her words, but from her understanding. Like he was giving her the space to meet him there.

And she didn’t.

Her throat tightens, just slightly. She didn’t have the language for it then. Didn’t know how to hold something that felt that real without it needing to be explained. So she let it sit between them.

Undefined.

Untouched by anything that would’ve made it harder to ignore.

Annie closes her eyes briefly, because now she knows what that was. The moment they stopped being almost and became something that needed to be chosen.

The track fades, but the weight of it stays, pressing in just enough that the next one doesn’t come in clean.

And this time—

She feels the difference before she’s ready for it.

Track 7: Fortunate

The next track comes in smoother, warmer, but there’s something steadier underneath it. It settles in like something that already knows where it belongs. Annie’s eyes lift as soon as she recognizes it.

Maxwell.

Her fingers press into the floor beside her, grounding herself as the music stretches into the room, and this time she doesn’t hesitate. She lets it take her.

She’s there again. Night, but not late. The air has cooled just enough to settle against her skin without making her reach for anything heavier. The street is quieter now, most of the movement pulled inside, lights glowing through windows instead of spilling out onto porches.

Annie sits on the hood of his car, one leg bent, the other hanging just off the edge, her hands braced behind her, holding her steady. The metal is still warm from the day, the heat lingering beneath her palms. She tilts her head back looking up at the sky.

Smoke leans against the front of the car across from her, arms folded loosely, one foot crossed over the other. His gaze moves, tracking the street, the houses, then settling back on her. They’ve been out there a while. Talking at first. Then not. And neither one of them rushed to fill it back in.

“You ever think about leavin’?” she asks, her voice soft but clear in the quiet.

His gaze shifts back to her. “Leavin’ where?”

She shrugs, still looking up. “Here. This block. All this.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Takes a second. “Nah.”

Annie lowers her head, looking at him now. “Never?”

He shrugs, pushing off the car just enough to shift his weight. “Ain’t really thought about it like that.”

She studies him for a second longer, then looks away again, her fingers tapping lightly against the hood. “I have,” she says.

That lands differently. Smoke straightens, something in his posture shifting without him naming it. “Yeah?” he asks.

She nods, small. “Sometimes.”

Silence stretches again, but it isn’t the same. There’s something in it now. Something that wasn’t there before. Smoke watches her, really watches her, the way she’s looking out past the houses now, past the street, like her mind is already somewhere else even if her body hasn’t followed yet.

For the first time it doesn’t sit right with him. Not because he doesn’t understand it, but because he does. “You’d leave?” he asks.

She exhales. “If I had to.”

Smoke’s jaw twists, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to her. “If,” he repeats.

Annie glances at him, catching the way he said it. “Yeah. If.”

Another pause settles between them before she nudges his foot with hers. “You’d stay here forever?”

That pulls the smallest smile from him. “Probably.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s crazy.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Cause there ain’t shit here,” she says, gesturing loosely around them. “You don’t ever wonder what else is out there?”

Smoke looks at her longer this time. There’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just something settled.

“I know what’s here,” he says.

The words are simple, but they land differently now, because this time—it’s not about the block, the street or staying because shit’s familiar.

He’s looking at her and choosing it. Choosing her. Without needing to say it any louder than that.

Annie hesitates, because she hears something in it, even if she doesn’t fully unpack it. Her gaze softens just a little. “Okay,” she says.

For a second, it feels like that could be enough.

The music drifts low from inside the car, the door cracked just enough for it to carry out into the night. Annie adjusts on the hood, her hand sliding closer to her side, closer to him, not touching but close enough that it feels like it could.

Smoke notices that too. His hand drops from where it was resting, settling beside him on the edge of the car, closer. The space between them narrows without either of them naming it.

“You think too much,” he says after a second.

She smiles faintly. “Somebody got to.”

He shakes his head, but he’s still looking at her. There’s nothing held back in it. No question. No almost. Just certainty. Like something found its place and stayed there.

Annie’s breath comes out slower, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the song anymore. Her gaze stays fixed ahead, but she isn’t seeing the room—she’s seeing that moment, hearing it again.

“I know what’s here.”

Annie swallows, because she gets it in a way she didn’t then. He wasn’t talking about the block. He wasn’t talking about staying because he didn’t know anything else.

He was talking about her.

Her hand shifts against the floor, fingers curling in.

Fortunate.

Of course.

Annie exhales slowly, her head leaning back as the realization settles deeper, because now there’s no confusion left in it. He didn’t stumble into how he felt.

He chose it. Chose her and she didn’t see it until it was already something he was holding on his own.

The track continues, carrying that truth with it, and Annie lets it play all the way through.

Tracks 8-10: Be Without You, So Sick, Miss You

The next track settles in heavier than the others, building low—the kind of weight that doesn’t rush itself. Annie’s body stills as soon as she recognizes it.

Mary J. Blige.

Her fingers press into the floor beside her, grounding herself as something shifts in a way the others didn’t. This one doesn’t pull her into a single moment. It stretches wider than that, holding more than one feeling at once, something about staying even when distance makes it harder, something about believing in something that isn’t in front of you anymore.

And then—she’s there.

Watching it.

Smoke sits on the hood of his car, same street, same spot, but nothing about it feels the same. The air is quieter. Still in a way that doesn’t bring peace with it. His elbows rest against his knees, his hands hanging loose, his head tipped forward slightly like he’s been there longer than he meant to.

His phone rests in his hand. The screen lights up. Then it goes dark. Nothing. He doesn’t move right away. Just sits there, giving the silence more time than it deserves. It doesn’t. Because he already said everything he had to say.

Just not in a way she ever answered.

The sound changes, cleaner now, sharper, and Annie hears it before she places it—

Ne-Yo.

The tone changes. Something tighter. Frustrated. Like the feeling won’t leave no matter how many times you try to move around it.

Morning.

Light filtering through the blinds in thin lines across the room. Smoke sits on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand again. He checks it. Nothing. He sets it down. Then reaches for it again a second later, like he forgot he already looked.

Not to call. Not anymore. Just to check what he already knows isn’t there.

The room hasn’t changed, but it feels different because she’s not there, and this time that absence doesn’t sit quiet. It follows him. It presses. It doesn’t let him settle into anything else. The music plays, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

Annie feels that part differently, sharper, because she knows what she was doing in those same mornings—getting ready, moving through new routines, telling herself she was adjusting, that this was normal, that it would all even out if she just gave it time. But it didn’t even out. Not for him.

The sound switches again, softer now, quieter, and she recognizes it immediately—

Aaliyah.

The edge is gone, because he learned how to carry it differently.

Night.

Later than before. The porch light hums overhead, casting that same soft glow across the steps. Smoke sits there, elbows on his knees, hands loose, posture easy in a way that doesn’t ask for anything anymore. He’s not waiting anymore. There’s no phone in his hand. No checking. No holding onto something that might come through. He just sits. A breath leaves him, slow, even.

Nothing left to send.

Nothing left to explain

Just.. what remains.

His shoulders adjust as he leans back just a fraction, his hands pressing briefly against the step behind him before settling again. There’s space around him now. Quieter.

Different.

Something moves across his face for a second. Like a memory passing through instead of settling in.

He lets it. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t hold it. Just lets it move.

And keeps going.

Annie’s breath catches, then steadies, then catches again, like her body doesn’t know how to hold all of it at once. Her eyes stay open, but they don’t focus.

She’s there, watching him, watching time move in a way she never stopped to see before. And for the first time—she understands the difference between what they both felt.

Her fingers curl against her palm because she remembers what she was doing during all of that.

Moving.

Adjusting.

Learning new people, new routines, new ways to fill the space he used to take up. Telling herself it was normal. That this is what distance does. That they’d figure it out eventually.

Her throat tightens because while she was trying to move forward, he was trying to move through it.

Annie exhales slowly, her hand pressing against her chest again, because she never knew, never asked, never stopped long enough to see what it was costing him to stay connected to something she was slowly learning how to live without.

And he still sent it.

Even with all that distance. Even with all that silence.

He still chose to say it.

She just… never listened.

Her gaze drops to the CD case, then back to the stereo, and now—she hears all of it. The way he used the songs. The way each one said something different about what he was carrying. Holding on. Breaking. Learning how to live with it.

Her chest tightens again, softer this time, because she knows what she did with that same time. She filled it. With everything but him.

While he was putting her into something meant to last.

The song continues, low and unhurried, carrying all of it at once, and Annie doesn’t move to stop it. She lets it play. She lets herself feel all of it.

Bonus Track: Untitled (How Does It Feel)

The CD should’ve ended.

It does.

Silence settles into the room, soft at first, expected. Annie’s chest rises slowly, her body still carrying everything she’s just heard, every moment laid out in a way she never stopped to see before. Her hand moves toward the stereo, ready to turn it off.

Then—a click. The next track begins. It’s different immediately. Slower. Closer. The kind of sound that doesn’t fill a room, it wraps around you.

Annie freezes.

Her inhale comes shallow before she can stop it.

Her room.

The lights are low, a single lamp casting a soft amber glow that warms everything it touches. The window is cracked just enough to let the night air slip through, the curtain moving gently with each quiet stir of wind. Annie stands near the bed, still, her fingers loosely curled at her sides, her pulse steady but present in a way she can feel. Smoke stands a few feet in front of her.

…and this isn’t new.

Not anymore.

They’ve been moving toward this in pieces, in moments that stretched longer each time they let them. The first kiss that felt like crossing something neither of them named. The second that lingered, deeper, less careful.

The way his hands started to find her without asking—her waist, her back—like they belonged there. The way hers learned him in return, resting against his chest, sliding along his arms, tracing without thinking about what it meant.

Time passed like that, happening in a way that felt inevitable. Nights spent too close, too long, where conversation faded and silence held more than words ever could.

Where his hand would slide just enough to feel more of her, and she wouldn’t move it away. Where her breath would catch, but she stayed anyway. Where kisses stopped being something they tested and became something they knew.

Now there’s nothing left between them but the decision.

The music hums low in the background, slow, smooth, pulling something deeper into the room. Annie steps forward first, closing the space that’s barely there anymore.

Her hands find him, resting against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, grounding herself in something real.

Smoke exhales softly, his hands coming up a second later, settling at her waist with certainty, thumbs brushing like he’s anchoring himself to her.

Their eyes meet, and this time there’s no question in it. No hesitation. No almost. Just understanding.

Annie leans in, her mouth finding his in a way that isn’t searching anymore. It’s sure. Smoke meets her immediately, pulling her closer, the space between them gone completely now.

The kiss deepens, slow, unhurried, stretching the moment instead of rushing through it. Annie’s hands move upward, her fingers sliding along the side of his neck, into the back of his hair, holding him there. Smoke’s hand moves along her back, firm, strong, keeping her close not letting her drift away from this.

The room feels smaller, warmer, everything narrowing down to this moment, to the way they fit together now without thinking about it. Annie exhales softly against his mouth, her forehead resting briefly against his when they pull back just enough to breathe, but neither of them moves far.

“You good?” he asks, low, giving her space inside the moment.

Annie nods, small but certain. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Smoke’s hand moves against his back, his thumb brushing once, like sealing something into place. And when he leans in again, it isn’t new.

It’s deeper.

The music carries through the room, wrapping around them as Annie lets herself fall into it fully this time. Ready.

Smoke’s mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, and Annie feels the change in him—the way his hands tighten at her waist, pulling her flush against his body. She’s trembling already, a fine shiver running through her arms and legs that she can’t quite hide. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.

He notices.

Smoke pulls back just enough to look at her, his forehead still resting against hers, breath warm against her lips. “Annie,” he says, voice low and rough, “you shaking’, girl.”

“I know,” she whispers. Her voice cracks a little. “I’m nervous.”

His thumb strokes slow circles against her lower back, steadying. “We don’t gotta do this. Not tonight. Not ever, if you not sure.”

“No—no, I’m sure,” she stammers quickly, eyes meeting his. The amber lamp light catches in them, making everything feel softer, closer. “I want this. With you. Before I… before I move away.” Her throat tightens. “I want to show you how much I love you. How much I’m gonna miss you. I don’t wanna leave without knowing what this feels like—with you.”

Smoke exhales, something raw flickering across his face. He nods once, slow, then leans in to kiss her again—gentler now, like he’s sealing a promise. “Okay,” he murmurs against her mouth. “We go slow. You tell me if you wanna stop. Anytime. Aight?”

“Aight.”

His hands slide up her sides, warm through her thin shirt, and he starts undressing her carefully. Fingers finding the hem, he lifts it slowly, giving her time to raise her arms. The fabric whispers over her head and drops to the floor. Cool air brushes her skin, and she feels exposed, heart hammering. Smoke’s eyes move over her—reverent, slow—before he pulls his own shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing the familiar lines of his chest and shoulders that she’s touched so many times before.

They’re still half-clothed when he guides her back toward the bed. Annie sits on the edge, then scoots back and lying down, and Smoke follows, settling over her, but keeping most of his weight on his forearms. He kisses her again, long and deep, until some of the tension in her body eases. His mouth trails lower along her jaw, down the side of her neck, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses that make her breath hitch.

When he reaches her bra, his fingers trace the edge first, asking without words. Annie nods. He unhooks it with controlled hands, sliding the straps down her arms, and sets it aside. The moment her breasts are bare, she feels the flush creep across her skin. Smoke doesn’t hesitate, he lowers his head, lips brushing one nipple before he takes it into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue circling slow and warm. Annie gasps, her back arching off the bed. His hand covers her other breast, thumb brushing the peak in time with his mouth, warm and gentle.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers against her skin, switching sides, sucking a little harder now, drawing a soft moan from her. “So fuckin’ perfect, Annie.”

Her hands find his hair, fingers threading through it as the sensation builds—warmth pooling low in her belly, chasing away some of the nerves. Smoke keeps going, patient, until she’s breathing heavier, hips twisting restlessly beneath him.

Only then does he move lower.

He kisses a slow path down her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel for a second, making her twitch. His hands work at her pants next—unbuttoning, unzipping, peeling them down her legs along with her panties in one careful motion. Annie lifts her hips to help, suddenly aware of how bare she is, how vulnerable. She starts to close her legs instinctively, but Smoke’s palms settle on her thighs, gentle but firm, holding them open just enough.

“Easy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of one knee. “I got you. Just feel it.”

He settles between her legs, broad shoulders spreading her wider. Annie’s breath thins as she feels the first warm exhale against her most sensitive skin. Then his mouth is on her pussy—soft at first, just lips brushing her folds, then his tongue licking a slow stripe up through her center. She jolts, a surprised sound escaping her.

Smoke hums in response, the vibration making her thighs tremble. He takes his time, exploring—licking, sucking lightly at her clit, then dipping lower to taste her properly. One hand stays on her hip, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other slides up to lace with hers, squeezing tight. He finds a rhythm that has her hips rocking gently against his face, soft whimpers falling from her lips.

“Smoke…” she breathes, voice shaky.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glistening. “Good?” His eyes meet hers, dark and focused. “You still good?”

“Yes—don’t stop,” she manages.

He doesn’t. His tongue works her clit with pressure now, two fingers gently circling her entrance before sliding in slowly, one at a time, stretching her carefully. The fullness is new, intense, but the way he curls them, the way his mouth never leaves her—it builds something deep and aching inside her. Annie’s free hand fists the sheets, her body tightening, trembling harder as the pleasure coils tighter.

When she comes, it’s sudden and overwhelming. Her back bowing, a broken cry leaving her as waves roll through her. Smoke stays with her through it, gentling his touch, until she’s panting, boneless against the bed.

He kisses his way back up her body, slow and gentle, tasting her skin as he goes. By the time he reaches her mouth again, Annie’s eyes are wet. She can taste herself on his lips, and somehow that makes everything feel even more intimate.

Smoke brushes a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Yo… you okay? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

Annie shakes her head, more tears slipping free. “No. It’s just… I’m leavin’ soon. And—and this feels like everything. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose—”

His expression softens, something pained and tender crossing his face. He kisses her forehead, then her eyelids, catching the tears. “You got me,” he whispers. “All of me. You ain’t losin’ me. Aight?”

She nods, pulling him closer. “Aight.”

They finish undressing each other then—her hands shaking as she helps push his pants and boxers down his hips. His dick springs free, hard and heavy against her thigh, and Annie’s chest tightens at the sight. Smoke is patient, letting her look, letting her touch if she wants. Her fingers wrap around him tentatively, stroking once, twice, feeling the heat and the way he twitches in her grip. He groans softly, forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“Hol up…” he says, voice strained but still in control.

She nods. He leans down to grab his pants from the floor, retrieving his wallet and pulling out the square foil packet, rolling it on with steady hands while she watches, heart pounding.

When he settles between her thighs again, the head of his dick nudging against her slick entrance, he pauses, looking down at her. “Annie. We don’t gotta do this, if you don’t wanna. I love you. Just tell me what you want?”

“I want you,” she whispers, legs wrapping loosely around his hips. “All of you.”

Smoke nods. He pushes in slowly—inch by careful inch—watching her face the whole time. Annie winces sharply at the stretch, the burn of it, her nails digging into his shoulders. It hurts more than she expected, a sharp pressure that makes her breath stutter.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, holding still once he’s fully seated, buried deep inside her. One hand strokes her hair back from her face, the other gripping her hip to keep her close. “You doing good, baby. So tight… fuck, you feel incredible. Just relax for me. I’ve got you.”

He stays there, kissing her softly—her mouth, her neck, her collarbone—until the worst of the discomfort fades and she starts to move beneath him, testing the feeling.

When she nods, he begins to move—slow, shallow thrusts at first, rocking into her with control that looks like it costs him. The pain ebbs, replaced by a deep, full ache that starts to feel good, then better. Annie’s hands slide down his back, feeling the muscles flex under her palms with every thrust.

Smoke talks her through it the whole time, voice low and ragged. “That’s it… just like that. You takin’ me so well. Feel how deep I am? All yours, baby. All for you.”

Her tears come again as the pleasure builds—slow, rolling waves this time, mixing with the bittersweet ache in her chest. She’s moving away. This might be the only time. The thought makes her cling to him tighter, hips rising to meet him as the rhythm grows steadier, deeper.

Smoke’s pace picks up gradually, still careful but more urgent now, one hand slipping between them to circle her clit gently. “Come with me,” he whispers against her ear. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

Annie does—crying out as another orgasm crashes through her, softer and deeper than the first, her walls fluttering around him. Smoke follows moments later, groaning her name as he buries himself deep and stills, pulsing inside her.

They stay locked together afterward, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. Smoke doesn’t pull out right away. He kisses her tears away, murmuring soft I love yous—how beautiful she is, how much this meant, how he’ll never forget it either.

Annie holds him close, the music still playing low in the background, the night air cool against their heated skin. In this moment, with him still inside her, the world outside—the move, the distance—feels far away. There’s only this: raw, real, and theirs.

For now, it’s enough.

Back in the apartment, Annie exhales slowly, her breath unsteady in a way it hasn’t been before, her hand resting against her chest like she can still feel the echo of it there. Her eyes open gradually, her gaze lowering toward the stereo, then to the CD.

This one sits differently. Something was shared. Something real that didn’t exist on one side alone. Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t look away.

Now she understands all of it. Not just what he felt. What she felt too. Even then. She just didn’t stay still long enough to name it.

Annie swallows, her fingers curling against her shirt, because it didn’t go anywhere. That’s the part that lands hardest.

Her feelings stayed.

Quiet. Unmoved.

Her eyes drift shut for a second and something in her settles into place.

Clear.

Unavoidable.

She’s been carrying him this whole time.

The song continues low in the background, but it doesn’t hold her the way the others did. This time—

It pushes her.

Annie leans forward, reaching for her phone where it rests beside the open box. Her thumb hovers for half a second before she unlocks it.

Scrolls.

Stops.

Pearline.

She taps it.

Types.

Sends.

The room goes quiet again, but it doesn’t feel the same. Her leg bounces once before she stills it, her gaze fixed on the screen like she might miss something if she looks away.

Then—

A response.

Quick.

Annie exhales, sharper this time, her fingers tightening around the phone as she reads it. Another message follows. She stares at it. Just long enough for doubt to try to settle in.

It doesn’t stay.

Her thumb presses down. The number fills the screen. She lifts the phone to her ear.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Her breath stalls, her eyes closing for just a second.

Then—

“Hello?”

Annie inhales.

And this time—

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Hey… Stack,” she says, her voice controlled, even with everything moving underneath it. “It’s Annie, I need your help.”

End Note: Sooo.... Part 2 or nah? 🫣

Dividers By: @saradika-graphics

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#smoke x annie

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