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Sep 8, 2025

Chapter 8: The Weight of Truth

Remedy: The Series

Modern AU Annie & Smoke

Summary: Annie asked for the truth—and Elijah gave it to her. Now the weight of Smoke’s past collides with the warmth of his touch, leaving her torn between love and fear. When the streets start whispering his name, Annie realizes she may not be strong enough to hold both sides of him.

A/N: Please don’t hate me for this one—had to let the truth and the silence hit hard. 💔

Word Count: 5.2k

Annie adjusted her stethoscope and tucked a chart under her arm, trying to focus on the beeping vitals monitor in Room 12. She’d been on shift since dawn, and yet she still carried the faint, phantom weight of his arm across her waist.

Except when she woke at 4 a.m., the bed was empty. No arm. No warmth. Just a cold dent in the sheets and the toothbrush in her cup, like he’d never been there at all.

He hadn’t said goodbye. Not even a note.

“Girl,” Monica’s voice broke through, low but sharp as she passed Annie at the nurses’ station. “If you keep starin’ off like that, Dr. Singh gon’ think you coded out too.”

Annie blinked, forcing her attention back to the chart. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” Monica smirked, sliding a fresh stack of discharge papers onto the desk. “You distracted…again. Get it together.”

Annie ignored her, scribbling notes. But every time she passed a waiting room, CNN or C-SPAN droning from a corner TV, she thought of him—the way he left it running in her apartment like background music, claiming he needed to know how the market was doing. It had been funny then. Endearing, even. Now it just felt like a ghost trailing her steps.

By the end of her shift, she was drained. Home was supposed to feel like relief, but her apartment only echoed louder with the silence he’d left behind. The takeout containers were gone, the candle burned down to a stub, but his toothbrush still leaned against hers in the bathroom.

She sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his name in her messages. She typed three different versions of the same thing—

Where’d you go?

You good?

I thought you’d stay.

Each one she deleted before she could hit send.

Her chest ached with it. The push-pull of wanting to hear his voice, to know where he was, and the stubborn whisper that said don’t chase him. Not when he’d walked out without a word.

Still, the screen lit her face as evening hit, his name waiting at the top of her thread. And for all her resolve, her thumb lingered there, betraying her.

_________________________________________

The smell of garlic, thyme and other spices filled the apartment. Annie moved around her little kitchen with a kind of frantic focus, stirring the rice, checking the chicken in the oven, anything to keep her mind off the fact he’d slipped out in the middle of the night without a word.

Her hand kept twitching toward her phone on the counter. She wanted to text him, to ask where he’d gone, but the pride in her chest wouldn’t let her. So instead, she chopped, stirred, and tried to cook the knot in her stomach away.

The knock came low and steady.

Her heart jumped. She smoothed her hands down her leggings before opening the door.

And there he was. Not in a hoodie this time, but a fitted black tee that clung to the lines of his chest and shoulders, muscles flexing with even the smallest movement. Black slacks hung easy on his frame, and the silver watch and chain he wore caught the light, glinting like they had their own gravity. He looked good—too good—and it pissed her off that her pulse leapt at the sight.

Elijah’s eyes flicked to the pots simmering on the stove, steam curling into the warm air. A grin tugged at his mouth as he rubbed his hands together, voice carrying a rare note of boyish excitement.

“You cookin’?” he asked, stepping past her like he already belonged there.

Annie tucked a curl behind her ear, forcing her voice steady. “Yeah… you know I love to cook. Just don’t get the chance as much as I’d like.”

She set the pan on the table between them, the steam carrying a mouth watering aroma into the small room. For a moment the only sound was the scrape of chairs and the clink of silverware as they filled their plates.

They ate in silence at her small table. He ate steady, cleaning his plate like he hadn’t had a real meal in weeks. At one point he glanced up, nodded. “This good, baby.”

But she couldn’t enjoy it. Not when every bite tasted like questions.

Finally, she set her fork down, the scrape sharp against the plate. Her eyes fixed on him, heat rising to her cheeks. “Where’d you go last night?”

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, then set it down. “Handled some things.”

That was it. Flat. Closed. Like she was supposed to accept it and move on.

Her chest tightened, frustration spilling over. “No, Elijah.” Her voice cracked sharp across the quiet. “Tell me.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

Annie pushed forward, the words tumbling before she could stop them. “Monica—she told me about you. About Smoke. She said you’re not just some corner boy, not just another nigga in the crew. She said you’re… a hitta. A killer.”

Her throat felt like it wanted to close, but she forced herself to keep going, eyes locked on his. “So just tell me the truth. I’m already fall—” She stopped herself, breath snagging, the word too dangerous to finish. She cleared her throat, softer now. “The truth. Please.”

The air between them went heavy, thick as the silence that followed. He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. And Annie felt her pulse hammering in her ears, because she knew there was no taking it back now.

Elijah’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he finally spoke.

“Where I went last night…” He exhaled slow, chain catching the kitchen light. “I went to see a woman.”

The words hit like a stone dropping in water—sharp, heavy, rippling through the quiet. Annie’s heart sank straight to her stomach. She froze, fingers tightening around the edge of the table before she even realized it.

But before she could breathe, before she could ask, he kept going.

“Not how you think,” he said quickly, eyes steady on hers. “I needed to end it. Her and me? We got history. Too much of it. Fell into each other when we was lonely. But it’s done now. I told her. There ain’t nothin’ left between us.”

Annie’s chest tightened. She wanted to believe him, but her lips stayed pressed shut. Her eyes stayed on his face, searching, waiting.

Elijah leaned in, voice low, firm. “And I swear to you—I ain’t touched her since you and me started. Not once. You the only one.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, wide-eyed, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs.

He drew in a breath, then went on. “But I know that ain’t all you wanna hear. You asked for truth, so I’ma give it to you.”

His hands clasped together on the table, shoulders hunched slightly forward now.

“I been with Brew’s crew since I was fifteen.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Stack too.”

He drew in a breath, voice low. “We started off hustlin’—small stuff. But Brew saw somethin’ in me. Saw I could stay calm when shit got loud.” Another pause. “Precise… when other niggas got sloppy.”

His gaze dropped to the table, then back up, steady. “That’s where Smoke came from.”

“In the streets, I’m the one they send when shit need to be handled. When shit need to be…” He swallowed. “…over wit permanently.”

He leaned back a little, jaw tight. “I don’t just hustle. Don’t just move product.” His voice thinned, almost bitter. “I finish problems.”

His hands flexed once, then stilled. “That’s who Smoke is.” A long silence. “That’s what I’ve been all these years.”

Then he pushed back from the table and stood, lifting the hem of his shirt. The kitchen light caught the black ink on his ribs—the clock face frozen at a certain hour, bold hands cutting through faded numbers. His thumb brushed it once before his eyes lifted to hers.

“Remember you asked me about this one?” His voice was low, heavier than before. “This was my first kill.”

Annie’s breath stilled, her chest rising sharp.

“Fifteen years old.” His voice dropped, rough. “A man pulled on Stack.”

He paused, shoulders tight, eyes far away. “I ain’t think. Just… reacted.”

A beat of silence. “One shot.”

His hand drifted to his ribs, finger tapping the inked clock etched into his skin. “Time stopped for me right there.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“So I put the clock on me.” His finger pressed against the ink, lingering.

A breath. “To remind myself… I couldn’t go back after that.”

His eyes lifted then, steady, heavy, carrying the weight of years.

“Every second after…” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “…belonged to Smoke.”

He let his shirt fall back into place and lowered himself into the chair again, his elbows resting on the table, eyes fixed on her now.

“I never wanted to bring that here.” His gaze flicked around the room, then back to her. “To you.”

He drew in a breath, voice low. “But you asked for the truth.”

A pause, his shoulders sinking a little. “And I’ma always be honest wit you.”

His hand pressed against his chest, faint. “This me. Elijah… in here with you.”

His jaw tightened as he looked away. “Smoke out there with them.”

Silence stretched before he finished, softer, almost breaking. “And I been tryin’ real hard… to keep those two from collidin’.”

He stopped, chest rising hard, watching her reaction. Bracing. Because saying it out loud felt like handing her a loaded gun—she could walk away, right here, and he wouldn’t have a word to stand on.

Annie sat frozen, fork in the same place it landed when she asked him where he went last night. The food was cooling on the plates, untouched. The room felt smaller somehow, walls closing in around her, heavy with the weight of his confession.

He had said it so plainly, like facts stacked one after another. That he went to see another woman. That whatever they’d been, it was over. That he hadn’t touched her since he and Annie began.

He had reassured her. Promised he hadn’t crossed that line. And she believed him—God help her, she did. The look in his eyes when he said it, the weight in his voice, had been too steady to be a lie. Right? Still, belief didn’t dull the sting. Didn’t quiet the picture in her head of him standing in front of another woman, explaining himself, giving pieces of him away that Annie had thought were hers alone.

They hadn’t put a name to this thing between them. No promises, no claims. She had no right, not really, to feel as if something sacred had been broken. And yet—her chest ached like it had. Low and steady, pulsing in her ribs as if it belonged there now.

But it was the rest of it that cut deeper.

Smoke. That he was Smoke, the one people whispered about in corners. The man Monica said was dangerous. The man who made problems disappear. And now he’d said it out loud. Confirmed it. Not just a rumor, not a story passed down by somebody else’s ex. Truth.

Annie’s pulse trembled at her throat. She stared at the inked letters on his skin she’d kissed just nights ago, the silver chain catching the light, and wondered how the same man could feel so safe pressed against her but so dangerous in the world outside her door.

She wanted to say something—anything. That she couldn’t do this. That she didn’t know how to love a man who carried blood on his hands. That she didn’t even know if she had a choice anymore, because her heart had already leapt without permission.

But nothing came. Her mouth stayed shut, her eyes hot, her breath uneven.

And then, without warning, one single tear slipped free and tracked down her cheek.

She wiped it away quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen, but the truth was already heavy in her chest.

So she just sat there, silent, the ache blooming sharper with every breath.

And inside, where he couldn’t hear it, she admitted the thing that scared her most: she was already falling.

Falling for a man who lived by taking lives, while she spent hers trying to save them.

So there she sat, staring at her plate, until she couldn’t anymore. Her chair scraped softly as she stood, gathering dishes with hands that shook just enough for her to notice. She carried them to the sink, turned the water on too loud, and tried to wash the weight of the moment down the drain with the soap suds.

Behind her, she felt him move. His chair shifted. Heavy boots crossing the floor. She tensed when his hand slid gently across her lower back.

“You ain’t gotta clean up now,” he said, voice low.

“I do,” Annie answered, but it came out thin. She braced her palms on the edge of the counter, eyes shut, fighting the sting at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want him to see her cry. Didn’t want to give him that. But one tear slipped free anyway, tracing a hot line down her cheek before she could catch it.

Smoke saw. She knew he did. His hand lingered at her back, but he didn’t push closer. He just stood there, quiet, like he was waiting for her to tell him to leave.

Annie drew in a shaky breath and finally turned, leaning her hip against the counter. His face was unreadable, shadows tugging at his features, but his eyes were steady—steady on her, steady in a way that almost made her believe him.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or fold into him. So instead, she just let the silence stretch between them until he reached out and brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching the last trace of that tear.

Neither of them said anything after that.

When the dishes were finally stacked, kitchen clean, and the candle on the sill burned low, Annie climbed into bed. She didn’t ask him to stay. She didn’t tell him to go either. Smoke stretched out beside her without a word, his arm heavy across her waist like he was anchoring himself there.

Annie lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Her heart was still aching, still trembling with the confession she couldn’t unhear. And inside, where he couldn’t reach, she admitted the thing that terrified her most.

She was in love.

_________________________________________

The morning light cut pale through the blinds, stripes across the floorboards, across the sheet tangled around her waist. Annie stirred first, eyes opening slow, the heaviness of last night still wrapped around her. Her chest tightened when she realized he was still there.

Smoke. Elijah.

Stretched out beside her, one arm slung heavy over his chest, breaths deep, jawline shadowed with sleep. He looked unbothered, like nothing he’d said hours before had fractured her chest. Like he belonged there. And that—that was the part that shook her most.

Her body moved before her doubts could root. She slid out of bed, peeled the shirt she’d slept in over her head, then eased her leggings down her hips. She stood naked in the soft light, her pulse tripping when she felt his gaze on her.

He hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. Just lying there, eyes half-closed, letting the sound of her breathing steady him. When she slipped out from under the covers, his lashes lifted.

The sight of her undressing in front of him made his throat tighten. She didn’t speak, didn’t glance back, just put her clothes in the laundry basket in the corner before walking toward the bathroom. She didn’t have to say anything—he already felt her pulling him with her.

And he went.

Steam rose quick, curling over the tiled shower. She pulled back the curtain and stepped under the spray, water pouring hot over her shoulders, her face tipping into it. She tried to breathe the knot out of her chest, tried to wash away the sting of last night.

Then she felt him.

Broad heat behind her, sliding into the small space of the bathroom like he owned it. His shirt hit the floor outside, then the soft thud of his slacks. Her chest fluttered. She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. But she knew when he reached for her.

He stepped in, crowding her against the tile, water slicking down their skin. His chest pressed to her back, his hand skimming low to her hip. She finally turned, eyes wide, face wet from more than just the shower.

For a moment, they just stared. No words. No explanations. Just breathing.

Then he shifted their positions, backing her out from under the stream and pulling himself into it. Water cascaded over his shoulders, glistening down the ink on his chest. His hands caught her waist, steady and sure, turning her until her palms braced the subway tile.

Her breath hitched when he slid into her from behind, the stretch sudden, deep. Her forehead pressed to the cool and wet tile, her body arching back into him instinctively. The sound that tore from her was half-grunt, half-plea.

He drove into her slow at first, savoring the feel of her body gripping him tight, the water hissing over them both. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his lips grazing wet skin as his hips found a steady rhythm. Every thrust was harder, deeper, his grip anchoring her like he couldn’t let her go even if he tried.

Her nails scraped faint against the moist tile, her mouth opening with each surge of heat inside her. No words came—only gasps, small cries drowned by the hiss of water. She pushed back into him, greedy, desperate, matching the force he gave her.

Her hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trembling under the spray. Smoke slid his right hand over hers, pressing palm to palm. His fingers laced between hers, holding tight, securing them both.

He kissed along the curve of her neck, down her shoulder, every sound she made dragging more from him. His groans rumbled against her skin, low and raw, as if the truth he couldn’t speak had carved its way out through his body instead.

The bathroom filled with the sound of water, wet skin, sharp breaths colliding. No lies. No questions. Just two bodies giving in.

When it broke over them—her shuddering, trembling; him growling low against her ear—they stayed locked together, trembling under the spray, holding on like the world outside the bathroom didn’t exist.

And for that moment, it didn’t.

The water kept running, steam curling thicker around them, fogging the mirror over the sink until nothing outside the bathroom could be seen.

No words followed. Only the weight of silence, heavy as the truth they still hadn’t spoken.

________________________________________

The warehouse smelled like oil, damp concrete, and cigar smoke. Maps and blueprints stretched across the long wooden table, corners held down by ashtrays and empty bottles.

Brew sat at the head, silver beard catching the flicker of the bare bulb above, cigar gripped between two fingers. Stack stood by the window as usual, chewing a toothpick, his fitted cap low. Demetrius and Malik leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, their bulk like silent punctuation.

And Smoke sat near the center, black tee clinging to his frame, chain glinting whenever the light swung. A Newport smoldered between his fingers, his eyes locked on the spread of papers.

Brew tapped the ash off his cigar onto the map of First Federal Bank. “This muthafucka here ain’t no smash-and-grab corner store. We hittin’ the vault. That mean timing tight, clean execution, no weak links. We got one shot at this, and if it go wrong—” he looked up, eyes sharp, “—it’s not just the job we lose. It’s our lives.”

Stack shifted, flicked his toothpick into an ashtray. “So we do a dry run. Test the plan before we put our necks out.”

Brew nodded. “Exactly. I got a smaller spot in mind. Check cashin’ joint off 19th. Not big money, but good for rehearsal. They got cameras, silent alarm, and security guard, nigga think he tougher than he is. Perfect place to stress-test the system.”

Malik cracked his knuckles. “So we hit the check-cashin’ shit, see where the weak spots are, then tighten up for the bank.”

“Right,” Brew said. He leaned forward, smoke curling around his head. “I want each of y’all movin’ in the role you’ll play on the bank job. If somebody freezes or fucks up, better we find out on a fifty-thousand-dollar lick than a million-dollar vault.”

Stack glanced across the table at his brother. “What you think, Smoke?”

The room stilled, all eyes shifting toward him.

Smoke dragged on his cigarette, exhaled slow. His gaze swept the blueprints, the routes drawn in red ink, the timing scratched in black. His voice came quiet but steady.

“Check-cashin’ first,” he said. “We do it clean, in and out, nobody dead unless it gotta be. That tell us what we need for the big one.” His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing. “But when it come to the bank? No second chances. Either we ghosts… or we bodies.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Brew smiled faintly, the kind that never reached his eyes. “That’s why you my blade, boy.” He stubbed out his cigar, leaned back. “We run it Friday. Midnight. Everybody in place.”

The meeting broke slow, chairs scraping concrete, voices low. Stack clapped Smoke on the shoulder as they walked out. “Test run, huh? Better hope yo’ lil’ nurse don’t keep yo’ head too far in the clouds.”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just lit another Newport and kept walking.

Because Stack wasn’t wrong. Annie was in his head, steady as a heartbeat. But when it came to the streets? Smoke knew—he couldn’t afford to miss a beat. Not now.

________________________________________

The night air was thick with humidity, clinging to skin and clothes like a second layer. The check-cashing joint sat squat at the corner of 19th and Jamison—brick walls tagged in faded paint, steel bars over the windows, one tired security guard pacing out front with a flashlight he barely used.

From the alley across the street, the crew watched.

Brew leaned against the wall, cigar glowing red in the dark. “Remember,” he said, voice low but sharp. “This ain’t about the money. This about execution. Timing. Trust. Everybody moves in the role they gon’ have at First Federal. You slip here? You don’t come to the bank job. Simple as that.”

He flicked ash onto the ground, nodded toward the guard. “Let’s work.”

Roles

Brew: Command, outside eyes, running the clock.

Stack: Perimeter—watch the back alley, shut down anyone who wanders close.

Demetrius & Malik: Inside muscle—control the floor, keep everyone down.

Smoke: Precision. Entry. Clean. Handle the guard. Move to the register.

Smoke adjusted his gloves, slid the pistol from under his waistband. No ski mask tonight—just a plain black bandana tied loose around his neck, ready to pull up. He moved first.

The guard barely noticed until it was too late. Smoke stepped from the shadows, one hand clapping over the man’s mouth, the other pressing cold steel into his ribs. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t move.”

The guard froze, wide-eyed, flashlight clattering to the ground. Smoke’s voice stayed calm, almost bored. “Turn around. Walk.” He marched him toward the alley, handed him off to Stack, who tied his hands quick with a zip tie and shoved him behind a dumpster. “Nap time, nigga.” Stack grinned, pulling the bandana over his own face as backup.

Smoke was already moving.

He pulled his mask up, pushed the back door open with one solid kick. The door smacked loud against the wall—enough to turn every head inside.

Demetrius and Malik swept in right behind him, voices booming.

“Everybody down! On the fuckin’ floor!”

“Hands where I can see ‘em!”

Customers screamed, ducking low. The two tellers behind the glass froze, eyes wide. Malik slammed his palm against the plexiglass window. “Don’t think about it, bitch. Open it!”

One teller fumbled, hit the button, and the lock clicked.

Smoke slid through first, gun steady in his hand, movements efficient. He wasn’t frantic—he was surgical. “Bottom drawers. Now. No dye packs. Don’t get stupid.”

The woman nodded fast, tears streaming as she stuffed stacks of cash into the black duffel he laid on the counter. His eyes never left her hands, scanning quick for a trick, for hesitation. None. Just fear.

Meanwhile, Demetrius kept the customers quiet on the ground, his shotgun sweeping side to side. Malik stood near the entrance, shoulders squared, ready for anything.

Stack’s voice crackled low over the comm from the alley. “Car rollin’ by. Slow. Might be nothin’.”

Smoke muttered into his mic, calm. “Handle it.”

Two minutes. That was all they needed.

The bag filled. Smoke zipped it, slung it over his shoulder, and nodded to Malik. “Time.”

Malik barked to the floor. “Stay down ‘til you hear the sirens. You move, you don’t make it home.”

They backed out clean, steps sharp, no rush but no hesitation. Out the door, down the alley. Stack already had the guard gagged and still breathing, shaking his head like the man was pathetic.

“Clock?” Smoke asked.

Brew checked his watch, smoke curling from his cigar. “Two minutes, thirty-four seconds. Not bad. Sloppy on the back door. Too loud. Guard too easy. Bank ain’t gon’ be that simple.”

He eyed each of them in turn, his voice heavy. “But y’all kept it clean. No casualties. No heat. That’s what I wanted.”

He dropped the cigar butt, ground it under his heel. “Job’s done. We ain’t keepin’ this money. Burn it if you want. What matters is the test. And I seen what I needed.”

The crew loaded into the cars, the adrenaline still hot in their blood. Stack laughed low, clapping Smoke’s shoulder. “Nigga, you was cold in there. Tell me it don’t feel good to run shit clean like that.”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes were already somewhere else—Annie’s kitchen, her quiet voice asking for truth. He flexed his jaw, stared out the window as the city lights blurred past.

Because Stack was right. He was cold. He’d been cold his whole damn life. But for the first time, he didn’t want that to be the only thing he was.

_______________________________________

The fluorescent lights in the ER hummed overhead, flat and endless. Annie moved through her rounds, chart balanced against her hip, but her ears caught the voices before her brain even registered the words.

Two boys—couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen at most—slouched in the waiting room chairs near the vending machines. One had a busted lip with his arm in a sling, the other nursing a stitched-up hand, knuckles were raw and swollen. They wore the kind of cocky smirks that didn’t last long in this city, but for now, they were loud. Too loud.

“Yo, that shit was crazy,” the one with the busted lip said, laughing like he was still high off something. “Heard they were in and out that bitch like it was nothin’. Grabbed stacks before them rent-a-cops even knew what was up.”

The other leaned forward, eyes wide, talking with his hands. “Man, they said when Smoke stepped in? Bruh. Whole room froze. Nigga don’t even gotta talk. Just… bang, bang—handled. Shit was like a movie.”

“Facts,” busted lip said, grinning. “Nigga so cold wit it, I swear, he ain’t even human. Like… that’s Smoke for ya. Nigga don’t miss. He don’t even blink.”

They snickered, slapping hands, like they were talking about a football highlight reel instead of men’s lives.

Annie’s stomach turned. Her chart blurred, the numbers on the page meaningless as their voices carried, careless and excited.

“Bank next, I heard,” busted lip added, grinning. “Big money, big play.”

The other one hissed through his teeth, laughing. “Shut up, nigga, you talkin’ too loud. But yeah… Smoke gon’ be the one leadin’ that too. You already know.”

They dropped their voices into muffled laughter after that, leaning close, but Annie didn’t need to hear more. Her chest was already tight, her palms clammy.

She excused herself from the hall, ducked into the supply closet under the pretense of grabbing gauze. Inside, she leaned against the shelves, her pulse pounding in her throat.

She had asked Elijah for the truth, and he had given it to her. But hearing it from the mouths of kids—laughing, bragging, talking about him like a ghost story they thought was cool?

That was different.

Her hand flew up to her mouth before she even realized it, trying to cage the sound in her throat. But the tremor running through her fingers spread quick, breaking through the brittle control she’d been clinging to.

The single tear became two, then more, until they blurred her vision. Her chest hitched, sharp, and the sob tore out before she could stop it—raw, broken, echoing in the small supply closet. She bent forward, pressing her palm against the shelves like she needed them to hold her up, shoulders shaking as the truth crashed over her.

This wasn’t just nerves. Wasn’t just doubt. It was grief. The kind that came from knowing too much now, from hearing boys laugh about him like he was a story to pass around, when to her he was flesh and breath and warmth in her bed.

Her whole body shook with it, a low, muffled cry she couldn’t swallow down. And still, the words she’d overheard clawed at her, playing over and over until the sobs hollowed her chest.

Because no matter how tightly she held onto Elijah, the world would always see Smoke.

And she didn’t know if she was strong enough to hold both truths at once.

Her hand was still pressed to her mouth, muffling the sobs that wouldn’t stop, when the door cracked open.

“Annie?”

Monica’s voice was soft but startled, and before Annie could turn away, before she could wipe her face, Monica was already inside. The breakroom light spilled across the shelves, catching Annie’s wet cheeks, the way her shoulders shook.

“Baby girl…” Monica breathed, closing the door behind her.

Annie shook her head fast, trying to form words, but nothing came—only another sharp cry that escaped against her palm.

Monica didn’t push. Didn’t ask again. She just crossed the small space and wrapped her arms tight around Annie, pulling her in close. Annie collapsed into her chest, the sob breaking wide open now that she wasn’t alone. Her fingers gripped Monica’s scrub top like a lifeline, her body trembling as the tears soaked fabric.

They stayed like that, silent except for Annie’s cries. No questions. No judgment. Just Monica holding her steady, rocking them both slightly, her chin resting on Annie’s curls.

Finally, Annie’s sobs quieted into shaky breaths. Monica smoothed a hand down her back, whispering, “Whatever it is, you don’t gotta carry it by yourself.”

Annie just shook her head again, pressing her face into her friend’s shoulder, unable to explain, not ready to speak it out loud.

So they stood there, in the dim supply closet, the world outside humming on without them. Annie clung tighter, and Monica held tighter back—because sometimes the only answer was the hug itself.

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akjonthebeat

TBR

akjonthebeat

Jun 18, 2025

authorddreamz

More Than Words Left Between Us... Part 2! Coming Soon 🤞🏾💨🧚🏾

Listen....I'm on a very strict journey to discipline myself as a writer. So, I'm going to drop this on Friday June 20th, 2025 8 PM CST

The grand opening of Club Juke proves to be too much for Annie. Seeing Smoke interact with other women so soon after reuniting with her sets off emotions she's far too fragile to process.

Smoke, riding a high from his reunion with his love, misses all the signals that their paradise is slowly going from a peninsula to a sinking island.

Preview:

Annie forced a smile to her face as Pearline, a locally known singer, pranced in her direction.

"Can you believe it!" Pearline crooned, cat eyes pulled tight as she grabbed Annie's hand. "I've heard so much buzz about this place opening and it's finally happening."

Annie's eyes shifted from Pearline to Smoke as he stood not too far off, in a close conversation with Stack. "Yeah, umm. It's great. I-haven't heard a thing about it though." Annie allowed the vulnerability to slip into her tone.

Pearline stood straighter, frowning. "You ain't know your man and his twin were opening a club?"

Once again, Annie felt like an outsider in Smoke's world. "Nope." Her lips popped as she returned her eyes to Pearline. "No biggie though."

Pearline's shoulders bounced. "Well, you're here and I saw you two walk in arm and arm. Don't let these hoes shake you. That man loves you down." Before Annie could say more, Pearline walked away.

A task. One presenting itself to be impossible. Each time a woman approached him, seductive eyes and intimate gestures, Annie's pulse quickened. Jealously danced in her gut, unapologetic twist and turns as she struggled to keep the rage from her expression. These emotions although new, were perpetual, undeniably draconian.

How does he do this so effortlessly?

Smoke's ability to unravel her both emotionally and physically deserves a prolific dissertation. Someone...anyone would sit through it, take notes and somehow use it to heal the world or set it on fire. She'd die peacefully as a sacrifice, not wanting anything else.

Rudely, her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of yet another woman approaching Smoke. Annie's eyes took in the deep plunge in her dress, coupled with a slit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Manicured fingers curled around his wrist before she leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek. She wasn't the first woman to kiss him tonight and Annie knew she wouldn't be the last.

She couldn't stomach it.

"Fuck this." She grabbed her purse from the table, snapping it close before she started towards the door. The moment she began to move, she knew he was following her, yet she didn't stop in her stride to the exit.

Smoke cut in front of her, gently grabbing her arm before turning her to him. Intense eyes hit her as smoke from his cigar lingered between them like words unspoken. His gaze was centered on her as she shifted her weight in her stance. He stepped closer to her, invading her personal space like it was his to do with as he pleased. His hands moved from her arm to her waist, a gesture of intimacy that didn't hit her the way it usually did.

"Another hour or so before we can go." Smoke stepped closer to her, pulling her into a quick kiss as Annie struggled with returning his passion. Smoke instantly frowned. "Talk to me."

"I was gonnna call a Lyft. I'm a little tired."

He nodded. "Aight. Let me grab my shit and we can go."

"No." Annie grabbed him before he could move. "You should stay with Stack, you know he functions better with you in close proximity."

Smoke's brows touched. "You wanna leave alone?"

"It's a short ride..."

"You going to check on ol' boy?" His brow lifted, eyes hard and focused. Such a contradiction to the loud and loose club goers surrounding them. Loose tension moved between them, silently brewing as their eyes had a standoff.

"No." Annie answered finally. "I'm going home."

"To him?" Smoke refused to allow her to leave without real answers.

"No." Annie groaned. "I'm actually just sick of seeing bitches in your face. I need a break."

Smoke's jaw clenched. "I just had my face between you legs for eight hours, Annie. I plan to put your pussy right back in my face when we leave here." Smoke looked around, confused by her words. "I've been licking my lips so much they're chapped because I can still taste you on my tongue. Your juices still linger in my beard and I ain't doing shit to get rid of them because that's where they belong." He stepped into her, forcing her against the wall. "What bitches are you referring to, my love?"

.....

Friday, I swear! On momma grave! - Stack Moore 🥰

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