Michael reacting to the most beautiful scene between Smoke and Annie. 🥹🥹🥹 One of my dreams came true I always wanted to see his reaction to the scene.
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Time didn't exist anymore.
It was just heat, the smell of diesel, and the agonizing, suffocating silence inside Smoke’s own head.
He had been sitting on the concrete ramp for six hours.
Stack sat a few feet away. Thirty minutes ago, a National Guard unit had arrived by boat, carrying a heavy, military-grade satellite phone. Stack, desperate and running on fumes, had begged the commanding officer for exactly sixty seconds to call the staging area in Biloxi, Mississippi, where his wife, Mary, had evacuated.
Biloxi had been caught in the deadly right-front quadrant of the hurricane. The storm surge there had reached thirty feet. For three days, Stack had operated under the terrifying assumption that he was a widower, too.
Smoke sat with his back against the brick wall of the hospital, staring blankly at his own blood-stained boots as Stack paced the ramp with the bulky black phone pressed to his ear.
"Come on," Stack muttered, his voice shaking. "Come on, Mary, pick up the line."
Static crackled. Then, a faint, tinny voice bled through the receiver.
Stack froze. His breath hitched so violently it sounded like a sob.
"Mary?" Stack choked out, dropping to his knees right there on the concrete. "Mary, is that you? Oh, God. Oh, thank God."
Smoke slowly lifted his heavy, soot-stained head.
He watched his twin brother completely unravel in the blistering sun. Stack was weeping openly, pressing his free hand over his mouth, nodding frantically to a voice Smoke couldn't hear.
"I'm at Charity," Stack cried, his voice pitching up with a pure, unadulterated joy that cut through the misery of the ramp like a knife. "I'm safe. Yeah, we're okay. I love you so much, Mare. I love you."
Stack handed the phone back to the soldier and collapsed against the brick wall, burying his face in his hands, shaking with the absolute, euphoric relief of a man who had just had his entire world handed back to him.
Smoke watched him.
He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to feel the relief of a brother.
Mary was family.
But as Smoke looked at Stack’s tears of joy, a dark, ugly, suffocating wave of pure envy rose up in his chest. It tasted like battery acid.
Why him? The thought was venomous, and Smoke hated himself the second it formed, but he couldn't stop it. Why does his wife get to be safe in a shelter while mine is bleeding out on a rusty gurney? Why does he get to hear her voice?
Smoke looked away, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ground together. He stared at the dark glass doors of the hospital. He felt a terrifying, widening gap opening up between him and his twin. For thirty years, they had shared everything. They had felt each other's pain. But right now, Stack was standing in the warm, beautiful light of a miracle, and Smoke was drowning alone in the pitch-black water.
Smoke looked down at his massive hands. They were still coated in the dried mud, plaster dust, and the blood from Annie's delivery. He refused to wash it off. He felt that if he washed away the physical evidence of her, the universe would realize how close she was to the edge and finally push her over.
Stack wiped his face, letting out a wet, breathless laugh of relief. He turned to look at his brother, his eyes shining.
"She made it, Eli," Stack said, his voice trembling with hope. "The shelter held. She's safe."
Smoke didn't look at him.
He couldn't.
If he opened his mouth, the bitter, agonizing unfairness of it all would spill out and poison them both. He just gave a single, rigid nod to the concrete.
Stack’s smile faltered. He saw the cold, dead emptiness radiating off his brother's massive frame. Stack shifted closer, reaching out to put a hand on Smoke's shoulder.
"Eli—"
The heavy glass doors of the hospital suddenly pushed open.
Smoke flinched, his head snapping up.
Standing in the doorway was the triage nurse. Her scrubs were completely ruined, her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she looked like she hadn't slept since Saturday.
But the look in her eyes had changed. The frantic, clinical panic from six hours ago was gone.
"Lieutenant Moore," she said softly, stepping out into the brutal heat.
Smoke couldn't stand. His legs, which had carried him through miles of toxic floodwater, refused to work. The bitter jealousy, the terror, the sheer exhaustion it all pinned him to the ground.
Stack grabbed Smoke by the thick canvas of his turnout coat, hauling his massive, frozen brother to his feet.
"Is she..." Smoke choked. The razor blades in his throat made it impossible to speak. He couldn't say the word dead. He braced his massive frame, waiting for the executioner's axe to finally fall.
The nurse looked at the giant, filthy firefighter, and offered a small, exhausted, beautiful smile.
"She's a fighter, your wife," the nurse said, her voice a quiet balm against the noise of the ramp. "We pushed three liters of fluid. We got her core temperature down, and the broad-spectrum antibiotics are holding the sepsis back. Her blood pressure is stabilizing."
Smoke squeezed his eyes shut.
A massive, shuddering breath tore out of his chest, carrying six hours of absolute terror and the ugly, bitter envy with it. His knees buckled, and this time, he leaned heavily against Stack, the giant finally allowing himself to be supported by the brother he had resented just two minutes ago.
"And the baby?" Stack asked, his own voice thick with fresh tears.
"Hypoglycemia is corrected," the nurse nodded. "She's small, and she's early, but she's got lungs like a siren. Come on, Lieutenant. I'll take you to them."
The inside of Charity Hospital was a stifling, shadowed labyrinth. With the basement generators completely drowned, the corridors were illuminated only by the harsh afternoon sunlight bleeding through the dirty windows. The air was thick, stagnant, and heavy with the metallic scent of iodine and sweat.
The triage nurse led Smoke and Stack through the maze of stretchers lining the walls, finally stopping outside a repurposed post-op recovery room.
"She's in here," the nurse whispered, keeping her hand on the door handle. She looked up at Smoke, her eyes full of a quiet, profound respect. "She just woke up a few minutes ago. She's weak, Lieutenant. Her body went to the absolute limit. Don't push her."
Smoke nodded dumbly. His massive hand reached out, his fingers trembling so violently they rattled against the metal doorframe.
He pushed the door open.
The room was quiet.
The frantic, deafening roar of the city, the helicopters, and the dying crowds felt a million miles away.
Annie was lying on a narrow hospital bed. She was hooked up to three different IV bags, the clear plastic tubing winding down into her bruised, battered arms. The plaster dust and river mud had been carefully wiped from her face by the nursing staff, leaving her dark skin looking terrifyingly pale against the stark white hospital sheets.
But her chest was rising and falling.
It was a deep, steady, rhythmic cadence.
Smoke stood frozen in the doorway.
He didn't look like a savior.
Covered in dried toxic mud, old blood, and the soot of a ruined city, he looked like a monster that had just crawled out of the swamp. The bitter, ugly envy he had felt on the ramp just twenty minutes ago crashed over him, replaced by a suffocating wave of unworthiness. He felt like he didn't deserve to step into this room.
Annie slowly turned her head on the thin pillow.
Her glassy, exhausted eyes fluttered, adjusting to the shadows, until they locked onto the giant standing in the doorway.
For a terrifying second, she didn't move. Then, the corner of her chapped, bruised mouth twitched upward into a weak, fragile smile.
"You look terrible, Lijah," she whispered.
Her voice was raspy, broken, and barely more than a breath of air. But to Smoke, it was the most beautiful, earth-shattering sound he had ever heard in his entire life.
The giant finally broke.
Smoke crossed the floor in two massive strides. His knees hit the hard ground right beside her bed with a heavy, echoing thud. He didn't care about his size, his strength, or his pride. He carefully, desperately buried his face in the crook of her neck, terrified of pulling her IV lines, and wept.
It wasn't a quiet cry.
It was the deep, chest-heaving, agonizing purge of a man who had stared directly into the abyss, felt the devil's hands on his throat, and had his soul handed back to him at the absolute last second.
Annie let out a soft, shuddering breath. She slowly lifted her heavy, bruised arm. Her fingers, still carrying the tiny, jagged scabs from the attic glass, found the back of his neck. She tangled her fingers into his short hair, anchoring him to her, just like she had in the pitch-black of the Convention Center.
"I'm here, baby," she soothed, her own tears finally spilling over, running hot and fast into her hairline. "I'm right here."
"I'm so sorry," Smoke sobbed into her skin, his massive shoulders shaking so violently the metal bedframe rattled. "Nette, God, you gotta understand somethin I'm so sorry. I done went to the Dome yeah? . Boudreaux told me you were at the bridge, and I went to the Dome. I looked in the wrong place. I left you alone in that dark. Baby im so sorry."
"Hey. Look at me," Annie whispered. Her voice tightened, drawing on that fierce, stubborn Ninth Ward authority he loved so much. She tugged weakly on the hair at the nape of his neck until he was forced to lift his head.
Smoke looked at her through bloodshot, overflowing eyes. The tear tracks had cut clean, bright rivers through the thick soot on his face.
"You didn't leave me," Annie said, her thumb gently reaching up to wipe a tear from his filthy cheek. "The water took the house yeah. It took the plan. We were both lost in the dark, Eli. But you found me yeah? . You walked straight into hell, and you carried us out."
"You died on that floor so I could have her, sunflower," Smoke wept, the crushing guilt still clinging to his bones like lead. "Your heart stopped against my chest."
Annie swallowed hard. Her eyes drifted past him for a moment, looking toward the window, out at the drowned, ruined city beyond the glass.
"I had to get her to you, Lijah," Annie whispered, her voice trembling with the absolute, terrifying truth of what she had done. "I knew my body was failing. I could feel the fire in my blood. But I knew if I could just hold on... if I could just get her out and put her in your hands... I knew you would never let her go. You're my protector."
"I am never letting either of you go yeah?," Smoke vowed. He grabbed her bruised hand in both of his massive ones, pressing his lips to her knuckles, his tears soaking her skin. "I swear to God, Annie. I will spend every single day of the rest of my life making this up to you."
Annie squeezed his thick fingers as hard as her exhausted body would allow. The fierce, unbroken fire slowly returned to her dark eyes, shining through the trauma and the tears.
"You don't owe me a thing, Elijah Moore," she smiled softly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Just buy me a new yellow dress."
The heavy metal door to the recovery room clicked open.
Stack stepped inside, quietly shutting the chaos of the hallway behind him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his filthy undershirt, a profound, watery smile breaking across his exhausted face.
Behind him walked the pediatric nurse.
In her arms, she carried a small, tight bundle wrapped in two pristine, stark-white hospital receiving blankets.
Annie gasped.
Her breath hitched so violently it sounded like a sob.
She tried to sit up, her bruised hands reaching out blindly, the clear IV lines pulling dangerously taut against her skin.
"Careful, baby, don't pull the lines," Smoke said instantly. He shifted his massive frame, slipping his thick arm behind her shoulders to gently support her back, helping her sit up against the thin pillows.
The nurse stepped to the side of the bed. She looked at the battered, exhausted mother and the giant, weeping father kneeling on the floor.
"She's a miracle," the nurse whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she gently lowered the bundle into Annie's trembling, waiting arms.
Annie pulled the blanket back.
Ruby was asleep. She wasn't the terrifying, mottled blue she had been in the dark of the Convention Center. She was a warm, healthy, vibrant pink. A tiny, striped hospital beanie was pulled down over her head to keep her core temperature up. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a perfect, steady rhythm.
Annie stared at her daughter. She had fought the rising black ocean. She had swung a heavy iron axe until her hands bled. She had baked on blistering asphalt, walked through a nightmare of human suffering, and allowed a fever to literally stop her own heart, all just to see this face.
She pulled the baby tight against her chest, burying her nose against the top of Ruby’s head.
"Hey there, little bird," Annie wept, rocking the tiny bundle gently, her tears falling freely onto the white blanket. "I told you daddy would come. I told you he'd find us."
Smoke leaned over the bed.
His massive, soot-stained arm wrapped entirely around Annie’s shoulders, pulling both his wife and his newborn daughter flush against his chest.
Stack stood quietly at the foot of the bed, giving them their moment, and turned his gaze to the window.
Beyond the glass, the reality of August 31, 2005, was unfolding in biblical proportions.
Eighty percent of New Orleans was entirely underwater.
The levees... the concrete walls meant to protect their culture, their history, and their lives, had completely and utterly failed.
Stack watched the twin rotors of a Coast Guard helicopter chop through the thick, humid air, lowering a basket toward a submerged roof in the distance. Columns of thick, black smoke rose from the East, marking fires that would burn for days because the city had absolutely no water pressure to fight them.
Below them, the streets were a toxic lake of gasoline, raw sewage, and the bodies of those who hadn't been able to kick through their ceilings.
The weight of it hit Stack like a physical blow.
Hundreds of thousands of people were displaced.
The mighty Engine 42 was gone.
The Lower Ninth Ward, the vibrant, pulsing heart of their community, where generations of their family had lived, cooked, laughed, and died was wiped off the map.
They were no longer residents of a city; they were refugees of a catastrophe.
Stack looked back at his brother, holding his wife and his daughter in the dim, quiet light of the hospital room.
The joy was absolute, but the grief was an ocean.
They had nothing but the wet clothes on their backs.
Smoke lifted his head, following his brother's gaze out the window. He saw the black water swallowing the horizon. He saw the destruction of everything he had ever known. But as he looked down at the tiny, breathing girl in Annie's arms, his jaw set into a hard, unbreakable line.
The black water had taken the wood, the brick, the cars, and the photographs. But it hadn't taken his girls.
Smoke closed his eyes, pressing his lips to his wife's temple, his tears soaking into her dark hair.
The storm was over, and they were stepping into a terrifying, unknown void.
But as long as they had breath in their lungs, they were a house that no flood could ever wash away.
Saturday, August 24, 2025
Twenty-Five Years Later
The Lower Ninth Ward, New Orleans
The August sun beat down on the overgrown grass of the empty lot, hot and unyielding, but the breeze coming off the Industrial Canal carried the sweet, familiar scent of magnolias and wet earth.
A black Ford pickup truck idled by the curb on what used to be a bustling residential street.
Today, the street was quiet.
While parts of the Ninth Ward had rebuilt in the decades since the water receded, many of the lots remained emptygreen, silent monuments to the ghosts of 2005.
Elijah stepped out of the driver’s side.
He was fifty-five years old now. The thick, dark hair at his temples had turned to a brilliant, striking silver, and the lines around his eyes spoke of decades of hard work, but he was still a giant. He moved slightly slower, the old injuries from a lifetime of firefighting aching in the humidity, but his shoulders were just as broad.
He walked around the front of the truck and opened the passenger door.
Annie stepped out.
She was wearing a beautiful, flowing coastal sundress, her dark hair tied back elegantly. She looked stunning, carrying the confident, graceful air of a woman who had survived the end of the world and spent the next twenty-five years absolutely refusing to let it define her.
"It looks so different," Annie whispered, putting her hand in Smoke’s large, calloused grip. "Nature took it all back."
"Roots run deep, sunflower," Smoke smiled softly, kissing the back of her hand.
The back door of the truck opened, and Ruby stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk.
She was twenty-five years old, a brilliant, fierce young woman who had inherited her father's imposing height and her mother's terrifying, unbreakable stubbornness. She was in her second year of medical school a path she had chosen long ago, driven by the stories of an old Charity Hospital nurse named Miss Veda.
"Is this it?" Ruby asked, adjusting her sunglasses as she looked at the empty, overgrown lot.
"This is it, yeah" Annie said, her voice catching slightly.
Houston had been good to them.
When the helicopters had finally lifted them off the roof of Charity Hospital, they had been evacuated to Texas. Houston had given them a soft place to land, a place to heal, and a place to raise their daughter far away from the levees. Smoke had joined the Houston Fire Department, and they had built a beautiful, thriving life.
But their blood was in this soil.
The three of them walked into the tall grass. About thirty feet back from the curb, hidden beneath a layer of creeping ivy and clover, was a flat, cracked square of concrete.
The original foundation slab.
Annie stopped at the edge of the concrete.
She looked down, the memories rushing back with a breathtaking ferocity. She could almost see the walls. She could see the foyer where the black water had first crept under the door. She looked up at the empty blue sky, right where her attic roof used to be.
Smoke stepped up behind her, wrapping his massive arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest just like he had on a dark, filthy floor twenty-five years ago.
"I broke the ceiling right about there," Annie whispered, pointing to the empty air above the center of the slab.
Ruby walked to the center of the concrete. She looked at the spot her mother was pointing to.
She had grown up hearing the legend.
The axe.
The blistering roof.
The terrifying journey to the Convention Center. To her, her parents weren't just a mother and father; they were titans.
"You did all of that just to keep me safe?" Ruby said, her voice thick with emotion, looking back at her parents.
Smoke reached into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.
He pulled out a small, framed shadow box. Inside, pressed flat behind the glass, was a single, ragged, faded strip of pale yellow cotton fabric.
He walked over to his daughter and placed it gently into her hands.
"She did," Smoke said, his deep voice rumbling with an immense, profound pride as he looked at Annie, then at Ruby. "Your mother chopped through the sky to give you life, and I tore through a broken city to come and find you both. That’s the legacy of this house, Ruby. Not the wood that washed away. Not the tragedy."
Ruby traced the glass over the yellow fabric, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Annie walked forward, wrapping her arms around her daughter, while Smoke wrapped his arms around them both. They stood together on the cracked foundation of their past, anchored by the love that had defied the ocean.
The black water had tried to bury them, but it didn't know they were seeds.
America had left them to drown, and the flood had tried to wash their history away, treating the Black families of the Ninth Ward like footprints easily swept out to sea.
But standing on that concrete slab, raising a daughter who was born from the darkest night of their lives, they were living monuments to a people who simply refuse to be erased.
The levees had failed them, but their BlackWater Promises never would.
A/N:
Writing this story was the gift of a lifetime. I’ve always poured my soul into writing surreal, unapologetic Black love and heavy, character-driven fiction, but Smoke and Annie... they completely wrecked me. Sitting with them in the dark water of Katrina, feeling the suffocating weight of that history, and watching their absolute, feral refusal to let go of each other.. WHEW!
Thank you for holding your breath with me. Thank you for reading, for grieving, and for surviving this journey right alongside me. I hope their blackwater promises touched your chest as deeply as they cracked open mine.
It was a rare, sacred kind of silence that only descended after the chaotic bedtime routines of three children. Leo and Maya had crashed an hour ago, and baby Sam had finally succumbed to sleep after a noble, thirty-minute battle against his crib.
Smoke stood in the doorway of their master bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, watching his wife.
Annie was standing at the vanity, humming softly to herself as she brushed out her long, dark hair. She was wearing a thin, silk nightgown that clung to the soft curves of her body, the body that had carried his children, the body he knew better than his own. Even after fifteen years together, just the sight of the slope of her neck and the smooth, bare skin of her shoulders made his pulse completely abandon its rhythm.
He didn't just love her.
He worshipped her.
"You're staring, Mr. Moore," Annie murmured, catching his reflection in the mirror. A slow, wicked little smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Guilty," Smoke said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre that he knew worked on her every single time. He crossed the tile floor, his footsteps silent, until he was standing right behind her.
He placed his hands on her bare hips, his thumbs brushing the soft skin right above the silk. Annie let out a quiet sigh, her head tilting back automatically as he leaned down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Kids are asleep?" she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips trailed down the column of her neck.
"Out cold," Smoke murmured against her skin, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her vanilla lotion and warm skin. "Which means I finally have my wife all to myself."
He let his hands slide slowly up her sides, tracing the delicate line of her ribs before his fingers gently grazed the swell of her breasts. Annie gasped softly, the hairbrush slipping from her hand and clattering onto the vanity. She turned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss that tasted like a promise.
It wasn't a frantic, desperate kiss. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly thorough. It was the kiss of a man who knew exactly what his wife liked, taking his time to savor the taste of her. Smoke’s hands tangled in her hair, holding her face steady as he poured fifteen years of adoration into the way his mouth moved against hers.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed against her lips, backing her up until her thighs hit the edge of the marble counter. He stepped into the space between her legs, pressing his hips flush against hers so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.
Annie’s breath hitched, her dark eyes entirely dilated with desire. She reached down, her fingers boldly hooking under the edge of his towel. "Take me to bed, Daddy."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Smoke swept her up into his arms, carrying her easily into the bedroom. The only light came from the moon spilling through the blinds, casting shadows across the tangled sheets as he laid her down.
Smoke followed her down immediately, settling his heavy frame over hers. He didn't rush. He dragged his mouth down her jaw and over her collarbone, his tongue tracing the swell of her breasts before taking a hard peak into his mouth, sucking gently. Annie let out a ragged gasp, her back arching off the mattress as she tangled her fingers in his hair. The cool silver of her David Yurman cable bracelet pressed sharply against the back of his neck as her hands frantically gripped him, silently urging him higher.
He shifted his weight, parting her thighs with his knee, and settled deeply into the cradle of her hips. Annie gasped his name into the quiet room, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back as he filled her.
"Look at me," Smoke demanded softly, his voice rough with restraint.
Annie opened her eyes, hazy with pleasure, locking onto his. He began to move, setting a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm. With every thrust, the friction built, the heat between them turning suffocating and heavy. Smoke watched her face, entirely addicted to the way her lips parted and her eyes glazed over as he drove into her. He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against hers, pushing them both closer to the edge.
"Smoke," she whimpered, her legs wrapping tight around his waist to anchor him deeper. "Please—"
"I've got you, baby," he grunted, his own control snapping. "Let go for me."
He slid a hand between their bodies, his thumb finding her center and applying a firm, rhythmic pressure. It was all it took. Annie cried out, her body bowing upward as the climax ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching tightly around him. The intense sensation sent Smoke right over the edge with her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a harsh, guttural groan as he poured himself into her, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild thing.
They stayed tangled together as the aftershocks slowly subsided, their bodies slick with sweat and chests heaving. Smoke eventually rolled to the side, pulling Annie tightly against his chest, pulling the cool white sheets up over them both.
"I love you," she whispered into the dark, her voice heavy with sleep.
"I love you more, Mrs. Moore," Smoke murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "More than my own life."
He lay there for a long time, listening to the steady, peaceful rhythm of her breathing.
Life was perfect.
He had the beautiful house, the loud, messy, wonderful kids, and the woman of his dreams sleeping safely in his arms.
Smoke shifted slightly, reaching out with his left hand to grab the glass of water on his nightstand.
He never made it to the glass.
Without warning, his left hand jerked in mid-air. A violent, uncontrollable tremor seized his fingers, making them spasm fiercely against his will.
Elijah froze.
He stared at his trembling hand in the dark, his brow furrowing in confusion. He tried to clench his fingers into a fist to stop it, but the muscles refused to obey.
Then, the pain hit.
It wasn't just a headache.
It was a blinding, ice-pick agony that shot directly behind his left eye, so sharp and sudden that it stole the breath from his lungs. The room seemed to tilt violently on its axis, a loud, high-pitched ringing filling his ears. He clamped his jaw shut, swallowing back a groan of agony, his vision swimming with dark spots.
Beside him, Annie stirred, sensing his sudden tension. "Baby?" she mumbled sleepily, her hand sliding up his chest. "You okay? Your heart is racing."
Panic flared in his chest. With a massive, desperate effort of will, Smoke shoved his convulsing left hand under his pillow, pinning it down with his own weight. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to slow down, fighting through the blinding pain in his skull.
"I'm fine, baby," he lied, his voice tight but remarkably steady. He brought his good hand up to stroke her hair, hoping she couldn't feel the cold sweat suddenly breaking out on the back of his neck. "Just... shifted a little too fast. Think I pinched a nerve in my neck at the gym today."
Annie let out a sympathetic little hum, snuggling closer and pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "You need to take it easier, old man," she teased softly, already drifting back to sleep. "Remind me to massage it for you tomorrow."
"I will," he whispered. "Go to sleep."
He held her tightly against him, waiting. It took two full minutes for the violent twitching in his hand to finally subside, leaving his fingers weak and numb. The sharp pain behind his eye slowly dulled into a heavy, throbbing ache.
Smoke stared up at the ceiling in the dark bedroom, his heart pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs.
It’s just a migraine, he told himself, swallowing hard against the sudden, cold knot of dread forming in his stomach. Just a migraine and a pinched nerve. Nothing to worry about.
But as he held the love of his life in his arms, staring into the pitch-black shadows of the room, Smoke couldn't shake the chilling, instinctive feeling that something inside him had just fundamentally broken.
Morning arrived with the chaotic, beautiful noise that Smoke usually loved.
Sunlight poured through the sheer linen curtains of the kitchen, bouncing off the light oak floors and the white marble island. The sliding glass doors were cracked open, letting in the cool, salty breeze of the Southern Florida coast. It was a picture-perfect morning.
But Smoke felt like he was walking underwater.
He stood near the espresso machine, watching his family buzz around him. Leo and Maya were arguing over who got the blue cereal bowl, their bare feet slapping against the wood floor. Annie was bouncing baby Sam on her hip, her dark hair thrown up into a messy bun, wearing one of Smoke's oversized Ralph Lauren button-downs as she efficiently flipped pancakes with her free hand.
She looked radiant.
Effortless.
She caught his eye from across the kitchen and flashed him a warm, knowing smile that made his chest physically ache.
You're quiet this morning," Annie noted, sliding a plate of pancakes onto the counter for the kids. She walked over to him, resting her free hand on his chest. "Neck still bothering you?"
"A little," Smoke lied smoothly. In truth, his neck was fine, but a dull, persistent pressure had settled behind his left eye, like a heavy stone sitting on his optic nerve. His left hand felt strangely sluggish, wrapped tightly around his ceramic coffee mug to keep it steady.
"You should get it checked out," she murmured, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "If you pinched a nerve lifting at the gym, you don't want to make it worse."
"I will. Actually, I told the guys I'd be late to the site today. I’m going to run by an urgent care clinic down in Carson just to make sure I didn't tear anything."
"Good," Annie said, her eyes softening with relief. She turned back to the kids. "Alright, monsters, eat up. We have fifteen minutes before the bus gets here!"
Smoke lifted his mug to take a sip of his black coffee.
Twitch.
It happened fast. His left hand seized, the fingers involuntarily springing completely open. The heavy ceramic mug slipped straight through his grip.
It hit the floor with a sharp, violent CRASH, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces, splashing scalding dark coffee across the pristine white baseboards.
The kitchen went dead silent. The kids stopped bickering. Annie whipped around, her eyes wide.
"Smoke?" she asked, immediately stepping forward. "Are you okay? Did it burn you?"
Smoke stared at his empty, trembling hand. His breath caught in his throat. Panic, cold, primal, and suffocating; clawed its way up his chest. He quickly shoved his left hand into the pocket of his jeans, clenching his jaw to maintain a mask of mild annoyance.
"I'm fine," he muttered, forcing a heavy sigh. "Damn it. Just slipped. My grip is totally shot from yesterday's workout. I’ll clean it up."
"I've got it, baby, go get dressed," Annie insisted, already grabbing a roll of paper towels. She didn't suspect a thing. Why would she? He was thirty-four, healthy, strong. Men like him didn't just break overnight.
As Smoke walked out of the sunlit kitchen, leaving his wife kneeling on the floor to clean up his mess, he realized with sickening clarity that it was a metaphor for the rest of their lives.
Four hours later, the coastal warmth of his house was replaced by the freezing, sterile air of a neurology clinic at a Level II hospital in West Palm Beach.
Smoke sat on the edge of the examination table, the thin paper crinkling beneath his jeans. He had bypassed the urgent care entirely, using a favor from a friend to get an emergency MRI after a terrifying episode in the parking lot where he had lost the ability to speak for ten straight seconds.
The door clicked open. Dr. Aris, a neurologist with tired eyes and graying temples, walked in. He didn't look at Smoke. He looked at the iPad in his hands, his expression grim and tightly controlled.
"Mr. Moore," the doctor started, pulling up a rolling stool and sitting down. He took a slow breath. "Did you come here alone today? Is your wife in the waiting room?"
Those words hit Smoke harder than a physical blow. Is your wife in the waiting room? That wasn't a question doctors asked when you had a pinched nerve. That was a question they asked right before they ruined your life.
"She's at work," Smoke said, his voice sounding hollow, like it belonged to someone else. "Tell me."
Dr. Aris tapped the screen of his tablet, syncing it to the monitor on the wall. A grayscale image of a human brain appeared. Smoke’s brain.
"You presented with unilateral tremors, acute aphasia, and severe localized headaches," the doctor explained quietly. He pointed a pen at a large, bright white mass blossoming ominously in the dark gray space of the right hemisphere. "This MRI with contrast confirms why. You have a significant mass in your right temporal and parietal lobes. It is causing severe mass effect—swelling and pressure against the surrounding healthy brain tissue."
Smoke stared at the white bloom on the screen. It looked like a storm cloud. It looked like death.
"Is it cancer?" he asked. The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
Dr. Aris lowered his pen. "Based on the aggressive growth pattern, the irregular borders, and the necrosis we are seeing in the center of the mass... I am highly confident this is a Glioblastoma Multiforme. Grade IV."
"Okay," Smoke managed to say, his chest tight. "So, cut it out. Give me the chemo. Whatever it takes."
"Elijah," the doctor said gently, using his first name for the first time. The pity in the man's eyes was absolute agony to look at. "The location of the tumor is deeply intertwined with the motor and cognitive centers of your brain. It is completely inoperable. Chemotherapy and radiation might slow it down, but the side effects will be brutal, and it will only buy you a margin of time. It won't cure you."
Silence swallowed the sterile room.
"How long?" Smoke finally asked. His voice didn't shake. He needed facts. He needed to know how long he had to secure his family's future.
"Without treatment? Three to four months," the doctor replied softly. "With aggressive treatment... maybe six to eight. But the quality of life during those final months will rapidly decline. You will lose your motor skills. Your memory. Your autonomy."
Smoke didn't hear the rest of the appointment. The doctor talked about steroids to reduce the swelling, oncology referrals, palliative care, and bringing his wife in for a family consultation. Smoke just nodded numbly, taking the printed prescriptions and walking out of the double sliding doors into the blinding afternoon.
He walked to his truck, unlocked the door, and climbed inside.
He didn't turn the key. He just sat there in the sweltering heat of the cab, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
Six months.
In six months, Annie would be a widow. In six months, Leo would have to learn how to throw a baseball without him. Maya wouldn't have him to scare away the monsters under her bed. Sam wouldn't even remember his face.
And Annie... God, Annie. She would hold his hand as he withered away in a hospital bed. She would watch the man she loved turn into a stranger who couldn't feed himself, draining their savings, destroying her own youth just to keep him comfortable while he died. She would be utterly destroyed by hope, fighting a war she was mathematically guaranteed to lose.
Smoke closed his eyes. The memory of her from that morning—radiant in his oversized shirt, smiling at him across their beautiful, light-filled kitchen—flashed behind his eyelids.
I am not letting this disease take her down with me.
He opened his eyes. The tears were gone, replaced by a cold, hardened resolve. He reached for his phone, avoiding the text from Annie asking how his appointment went, and opened a new browser tab.
With a shaking hand, he typed in the words that would officially begin the end of his life: How to file for a divorce.
The harsh, blue light of a twenty-dollar prepaid smartphone illuminated the dark cab of Smoke’s truck.
He had been parked two blocks away from his house for an hour, the engine cut, suffocating in the stifling heat of the evening. His massive hands, which had spent the last fifteen years building a home, holding his newborn children, and fiercely loving his wife, were now doing the most destructive work of his life.
He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, his hand trembling so violently he had to grip his wrist to steady it. It wasn't the tumor causing the tremor this time. It was sheer, nauseating self-hatred.
He opened a text thread with his own personal number and began to type.
[Burner Phone]: I can’t stop thinking about last night.
Smoke hit send. The burner phone chimed in his left hand. Two seconds later, his real phone, sitting in the cup holder, buzzed.
He picked up his real phone, opened the message from the unknown number, and saved the contact name as Elena. Then, he forced himself to type the reply that would assassinate his marriage.
[Smoke]: Me too. It’s getting harder to pretend at home. I just want to be with you.
He hit send. He watched the message bubble turn blue. He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat as if it had physically burned him, leaning over the steering wheel and violently dry-heaving.
There was nothing in his stomach to throw up. He hadn't eaten since the diagnosis. He just stayed hunched over, gasping for air, the phantom pain of the glioblastoma throbbing behind his left eye like a sadistic metronome counting down his remaining days.
Three to four months without treatment.
Six months with it.
He sat back up, wiping a cold sweat from his forehead. He reached into the passenger seat and picked up a crumpled receipt. He had driven to a luxury boutique hotel downtown earlier that afternoon, walked up to the front desk, and paid for a room in cash. He didn't even take the key. He just took the folio receipt with his name on it.
Suddenly, his real phone lit up again in the cup holder.
Smoke’s heart slammed against his ribs. The screen displayed a picture of Annie from last summer, laughing with her head thrown back, the sun catching her dark hair.
[Annie]: Babe, are you almost home? Kids are finally down. Also, I was looking at the logistics for next week—did you book the direct flight from LAX to Cabo yet? I can’t wait for three whole days of just us. Come home soon, I miss you.
Smoke stared at the glowing screen until his vision blurred.
The Cabo trip. It was supposed to be their three-day getaway, a rare, sacred weekend without the kids to reconnect and celebrate the life they had built. Now, it was just another casualty. He wasn't going to Cabo. By next week, he wouldn't even be living in their house.
A single, hot tear finally escaped, sliding down his cheek and dropping onto his collar. He quickly wiped it away. He couldn't afford to cry. If he looked like he was in pain, Annie would sense it. She would dig, she would push, and she would uncover the truth. He had to be a monster. Cold, distant, and irredeemable.
Smoke reached into the plastic pharmacy bag on the floorboard and pulled out a cheap, sickeningly sweet bottle of floral perfume. It smelled nothing like Annie’s warm vanilla and luxury lotions. It smelled like a stranger.
He uncapped the bottle, squeezed his eyes shut, and sprayed it twice onto the collar of his shirt. The scent immediately filled the cab, cloying and foreign, sticking to the back of his throat like poison.
He gathered the burner phone, tossing it into the glovebox and locking it. He took the hotel receipt and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He took one last, long look in the rearview mirror. The man staring back at him had dead, hollow eyes.
Smoke opened the door of his truck and stepped out into the cool coastal air, walking the two agonizing blocks toward his front door to destroy the only woman he had ever loved.
A/N: I hope you enjoy the heat in the beginning, because the heartbreak at the end is just the start of this ride.Enjoy the chapter, and please scream at me in the comments!
Summary: In the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s backyard, with half of Clarksdale watching, eight years of silence finally cracks open and neither of them is prepared for what comes spilling out. Neither of them has been telling themselves the same story. For the first time though, they're finally forced to compare notes.
W/C: 14k
A/N: Be gentle with me…. 🫠
Jada Wilson wasn’t the type of girl who liked to lose.
It wasn’t because she was mean, and it wasn’t because she thought she was better than everybody else. She liked working hard and seeing results. If she studied for a test, she expected a good grade. If she auditioned for something, she expected the spot. If she walked into a room, she expected to leave an impression. Most of the time life made sense to her because effort and reward usually moved together. Teachers remembered her because she participated. Boys noticed her because she was pretty. People gravitated towards her because she was funny. None of that felt complicated.
It felt earned.
That was probably why Anissa “Annie” Landry irritated her so much.
She didn’t dislike her at first. At first Annie was barely a blip on her radar. Nothing more than another smart girl in her Honors Biology. They sat near each other, partnered on projects occasionally, and shared enough classes that familiarity came naturally. Jada liked her then. Everybody liked Annie. The problem was Annie seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on people. Teachers, classmates, and even complete strangers trusted her, confided in her, and listened when she spoke. Annie never seemed to chase attention, yet attention found her anyway.
By October, most of the freshman class already knew whose names lived at the top of the grade rankings. Annie. Jada. Malcolm. Sometimes another student slipped into the conversation, but those three stayed there consistently enough that everybody noticed. Jada noticed because she cared. Annie only seemed to notice only when somebody pointed it out.
Jada could admit that she paid more attention to Annie than Annie ever paid to her. Annie shrugged off good grades like they were nothing to celebrate, like success was something that simply found her whether she reached for it or not. She didn’t treat life like a competition. In fact, Jada found it frustratingly difficult to tell whether Annie ever competed for anything at all. Every conversation she had with Annie left her feeling like she was in a race by herself. Annie never bragged, gloated or rubbed anything in anybody’s face. If she had, Jada might’ve found it easier to straight up dislike her. Instead, Annie never seemed to fight for attention, yet attention found her anyway. That made everything worse.
And then there was Elijah “Smoke” Moore.
She had World History with him and Stack, and found herself gravitating toward him. It wasn’t just because he was fine. All the girls thought he was fine as hell. Stack too. The difference was that after a while, his looks stopped being the thing she noticed first. He was quiet without being shy, smart without showing off, and funny whenever he actually felt like talking. She mentioned him in conversation casually enough that nobody thought much of it, including Annie. Looking back, she wasn’t even sure when curiosity became attraction. She started looking for him in crowded hallways and listening for his laugh across cafeterias. Which would’ve been embarrassing if it hadn’t happened to half the girls at school. It was the fact that he didn’t react to her the way other boys did. Most boys either flirted immediately or spent so much time trying not to stare that it became awkward. Smoke did neither. There was a quiet confidence about him. A steadiness that felt older than seventeen. The kind of confidence that never needed announcing.
He talked to her like everybody else. He remembered things she told him. Laughed at her jokes. Held entire conversations without once making her feel like he was trying to impress her or fuck her. At first she found it refreshing. Then she found it confusing.
The more time she spent around him, the more she paid attention to him. She noticed that the “quiet reputation” people gave him wasn’t entirely true. Smoke wasn’t shy. He just didn’t waste words. So when he did speak, people listened. There was a steadiness to him she didn’t find in other boys their age.
Mike was sweet.
Isoo was funny.
Stack was…Stack. Impossible to ignore.
But Smoke was something different. Being around him felt easy, and she wanted more of it. More of him.
By the middle of freshman year she started doing things she’d never admit to out loud. Lingering after class. Choosing seats closer to him when she could. Finding reasons to continue conversations that should’ve ended five minutes earlier. The frustrating part was that Smoke never treated her like a girl he was trying to avoid. He talked to her. Laughed with her. Sat beside her in class when the seating chart put them together. If he’d been rude, she probably would’ve gotten over her crush on him.
Instead, he was kind.
And kindness left far more room for imagination than rejection ever could.
If somebody had watched them from a distance, they probably would’ve assumed he liked her. Hell…she almost convinced herself of the same thing.
But she never expected Annie to factor into the equation.
One afternoon after school, a crowd of students lingered outside waiting for rides while the Mississippi heat rose from the pavement in visible waves. Stack was in the middle of a story and Smoke stood nearby having his own conversation with Mike. Jada walked over and joined them, enjoying the small satisfaction of making Smoke laugh at something she said.
Then something happened. Something that anybody else would’ve overlooked. It should’ve been forgettable. Instead it became one of those memories that stayed rent free in her mind for years.
Stack yelled something from across the parking lot and Smoke turned. Jada expected him to look at his brother. Instead his attention drifted somewhere over her shoulder. The movement was subtle enough that most people would’ve missed it, but she didn’t. She followed his line of sight and when it landed, her heart dropped. Annie stood near the curb with Pearline and a few other girls, her backpack hanging from one shoulder laughing at something one of them said. Smoke was looking right at her. Annie wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t loudly trying to get anyone’s attention. In fact, she looked completely unaware that Smoke was even looking hee way at all.
Jada glanced back toward him and felt something in her chest tighten unexpectedly. His expression hadn’t changed much. There was no grin. No obvious reaction or giveaway that would’ve made the answer easy. What she saw instead was interest. Pure interest. The kind that settled naturally and comfortably, like he’d found exactly what he was looking for without meaning to. When Jada looked back, Annie looked up. Her and Smoke’s eyes met for barely a second before surprise crossed her face in that honest, unguarded way people managed when they weren’t expecting to be seen. Smoke looked away first and the moment disappeared so quickly that nobody else seemed to notice it had happened. The conversation picked right back up. Everything went back to normal as though a five-second interaction in a parking lot hadn’t just rearranged something inside her.
And Jada couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just seen.
The truth landed harder than she wanted it to. Smoke liked Annie. And not in the casual way boys claimed to like half the girls at school. It wasn’t in the temporary way crushes came and went every few weeks. He liked her. Liked her.
The part Jada couldn’t understand wasn’t that Smoke liked somebody. It was that the somebody was Annie. Annie wasn’t louder than anybody else. She wasn’t chasing him. Half the time she seemed completely unaware of him. And yet, out of all the girls walking those hallways every day, his attention found her.
Why Annie?
The question stayed with Jada long after that afternoon ended. Not because she thought Annie wasn’t pretty, smart, or worth liking. Annie was all of those things. What bothered her was that she couldn’t figure out what Annie had that made Smoke look at her differently.
The more she watched them over the following months, the more that question followed her around, and the harder it became to pretend she didn’t already know the answer. Once she noticed it, she started seeing it everywhere—in the way Smoke listened when Annie talked, in the way his attention settled on her naturally no matter who else was around, and in the quiet consistency of his choices. There were no grand gestures, no public declarations, nothing dramatic enough to become gossip. What existed between them was built from a hundred small moments most people would’ve overlooked and a hundred more that Jada couldn’t stop noticing.
At some point she started testing it. Nothing obvious or anything she couldn’t explain away afterward. A comment here. A joke there. Sitting a little closer than necessary. One time at a party she picked up Smoke’s cup and took a sip while she was talking, mostly because she could. Smoke didn’t notice. Annie didn’t react the way she envisioned. The conversations kept moving. At first she thought she’d proven nothing. Later she realized she’d proven exactly what she’d been afraid of. Neither of them acted like there was anything to compete for because they belonged to each other already.
That was the part Jada hated most.
Whatever existed between them had been there long before either one of them said it out loud.
Life eventually moved on the way life always did. High school ended. Annie left for North Carolina during their senior year and, for a while, it felt like she took part of the town with her. It wasn’t because people sat around talking about her every day, but because certain stories suddenly stopped being told. People changed.
Smoke most of all.
Jada noticed that too.
The version of Smoke everybody knew after Annie left wasn’t an angry one. If anything, he became quieter. More closed off. He still laughed when something was funny, showed up when people called, and still worked, helped, and handled business the way he always had. But something about him felt absent, as though a door had closed somewhere inside and nobody knew how to open it again.
But life carried Jada away too, before she had much time to dwell on it. College came next. An engagement. Then a marriage. Neither lasted the way she’d hoped. By the time she moved back home and started building a career in real estate, she was older, smarter, and considerably less interested in fairy tales.
Then she ran into Smoke again.
One of his construction crews had been working on a property she was helping list and for a second she thought she hadn’t recognized him. Then he looked up and gave her a half smile and just like that, she was sixteen again. The attraction came back embarrassingly fast. Older now. More controlled.
But still there.
The difference was that adulthood gave her advantages she hadn’t possessed in high school. She didn’t have to sit around wondering whether a boy liked her. She could simply ask him to dinner. So she did. One dinner turned into another. Then another. At some point the conversation drifted toward old classmates the way it always did when people got older.
“Whatever happened to Annie?” Jada asked.
The reaction was immediate. Something closed. Smoke took a drink and looked away. “She live in North Carolina.”
Jada laughed. “I thought y’all would’ve been married with twenty kids by now.”
Smoke didn’t laugh. The silence that followed answered more than words ever could. A few minutes later he changed the subject entirely.
Jada never brought Annie up again. Later that same night she asked if he was seeing anybody.
“No.”
“You lookin’?”
“No.”
The answer should’ve discouraged her. Instead she smiled. “Well, lucky for you, neither am I.”
The arrangement that followed worked because neither of them pretended it was anything else. They spent time together. Ate dinner once in awhile. Called sometimes. Shared her bed often enough. Smoke was kind to her. Respectful. But from the beginning he made one thing clear.
He didn’t want a relationship.
He told her more than once that she deserved somebody capable of giving her what she wanted. More than once he told her that if she found that person, she shouldn’t let him stand in the way of it.
Jada heard every word.
The problem was…she kept hoping.
Not because Smoke encouraged it, but because she thought time might. She thought consistency might. She thought enough good days stacked together could eventually become something neither of them planned. Maybe that was foolish. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, she had started believing they still had time.
Then Mary called the day of the cookout.
Jada had been at the showing she was covering for a colleague. The conversation started normal enough, which should have been her first warning sign. Mary was never normal when she had gossip. By the time she finally got to the point, Jada wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Bitch, Annie’s back!”
Suddenly all those years she hadn’t spent thinking about high school came rushing back at once. The words settled somewhere unexpected. Surprising. The surprise lasted exactly three seconds before Mary delivered the second piece.
“The cookout at Pearline’s aunt house… it’s a party for Annie coming back home.”
That was the moment everything else disappeared. The noise of the clients asking about square footage faded into the background. The showing stopped mattering. Even Mary’s voice asking her what she was going to do became distant as another thought slid immediately into place.
For the first time since hearing Annie’s name, she wasn’t thinking about high school anymore.
She was thinking about Smoke.
He had been acting strange. Distracted. Quieter than usual. Looking at his phone more than normal. Now she understood exactly why he hadn’t seemed like himself. Some old shit came back up…. I ain’t figured out what to do with it yet. The pieces connected so quickly that Jada almost laughed.
Annie.
By the time she pulled into Aunt Cheryl’s yard, she already knew who she was looking for. The problem was she hadn’t expected to find them standing together.
And she for damn sure hadn’t expected to find them holding hands.
Smoke was holding Annie’s hand.
On its own, that didn’t mean anything.
People touched, hugged, and got caught up in conversations and forgot who was watching.
What unsettled her was everything wrapped around the gesture.
The look that had passed between them before Smoke finally let go. The way neither of them seemed aware of anybody else until she spoke. The strange sense that she’d walked into the middle of something already in progress.
For a moment nobody said anything.
The sounds of the cookout continued around them as though nothing unusual had happened. Children ran through the yard screaming over water guns. Two men at the dominoes table accused each other of cheating. Mrs. Cheryl was threatening bodily harm if they didn’t quit acting stupid. The music changed somewhere behind her. Life continued moving.
Yet standing there, looking between Smoke and Annie, Jada couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d interrupted a conversation neither of them had wanted to end.
The hand didn’t bother her nearly as much as Smoke’s face had. Over the past year she’d seen him tired, irritated, amused, distracted, and halfway asleep after a fourteen-hour workday. She’d seen him fresh off job sites and fresh out of the shower. She’d seen him after bad days and worse weeks. What she’d just seen standing across from Annie felt different.
There had been a lightness to him she couldn’t remember seeing, as though some invisible weight had disappeared without warning. Now the distracted silences, the moments he’d stared at his phone and seemed somewhere else entirely, made perfect sense.
What unsettled her more was how he looked at her. The surprise on his face had disappeared quickly enough.
The irritation hadn’t.
It was subtle. Most people would’ve missed it. Smoke wasn’t expressive enough for dramatic reactions. But Jada had spent too much time learning his moods not to recognize one when she saw it.
Every time she spoke, his attention drifted back toward Annie. When Annie looked away, his eyes followed her. And when he did look at Jada?
The expression wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t guilty either. It looked closer to frustration. Like she’d walked into the middle of something he wasn’t finished with yet.
The realization settled heavily in her chest. She recognized that look too.
From high school.
Back when she’d stand beside him talking and catch him looking over her shoulder at Annie. When she’d convince herself she imagined it.
Back when she still thought being patient would eventually change the outcome.
Still, Jada smiled. She had spent too many years learning how to smile through discomfort to stop now.
“Annie.” Her voice came out warm and easy, exactly the way it was supposed to. “It’s been a long time.”
Annie smiled back automatically, but there was a delay to it that immediately caught Jada’s attention. She looked like somebody still trying to catch up to a conversation everyone else had already started. “Yeah. It has.”
“When did you get in town?”
“Thursday.”
“No kidding.” Jada adjusted the strap of her purse and glanced briefly toward Smoke before looking back at Annie. “Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.”
The sentence left her mouth easily enough, but she knew exactly why she’d said it.
She wanted to see.
So Jada watched Annie carefully. The confusion arrived first, then recognition. Then something else.
Jada recognized that look because she’d worn versions of it herself before. The moment when information rearranged itself into understanding. If she was being completely honest, some small, selfish part of her wanted Annie to understand. Wanted her to know she wasn’t just another person at the cookout. That Smoke existed in her life too.
Maybe that made her petty or even insecure. Maybe it made her exactly the same girl she’d been in high school. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny the small flicker of satisfaction when she saw it finally click for Annie.
Whatever Annie had expected when she came back to Mississippi, this wasn’t it. Jada watched her expectations crumble behind her eyes and Jada immediately felt guilty for her own smugness that followed. It wasn’t Annie’s confusion she enjoyed. It was the confirmation that she wasn’t invisible. For years she’d been the girl standing on the outside of whatever existed between Annie and Smoke. Now, for the first time, Annie was being forced to acknowledge that Jada occupied space in his life too.
Across the yard, movement caught her eye. Mary had finally wandered close enough to be useful and dangerous at the same time. The woman was carrying a red cup and looking entirely too pleased with herself. One glance toward Stack confirmed he had already figured out exactly who was responsible for this shit. Pearline looked ready to strangle somebody. Probably Mary. Maybe Stack. Maybe Jada. Possibly all three.
Jada almost laughed.
Almost.
Because standing there between Smoke and Annie, she had the uncomfortable feeling that this situation was about to become everybody’s problem.
“No kidding... Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.”
Annie wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The statement felt simple enough on the surface, but something about it snagged in her chest.
Jada laughed softly and shook her head.
“Then again, he ain’t really been himself lately.”
The comment was delivered so casually Annie almost missed it.
Almost.
Annie looked toward Elijah before she meant to. His attention was already on her.
Not Jada.
Her.
The conversations around them hadn’t stopped, but something in his posture had changed. His shoulders were tighter now. His expression quieter. Like he was listening to a conversation he couldn’t quite hear but already knew he wasn’t going to like the ending of.
Annie tried to focus on what Jada was saying to her. She really did. Jada was standing right there asking normal questions in a normal voice, smiling the same way she always had, and nothing about the interaction should have felt strange.
People moved on. People dated. People built lives. Eight years had passed since Annie left Mississippi. She knew all of that. She understood it so completely that she almost became angry at herself for struggling with something that should have been obvious.
Still, her attention kept snagging on small things she couldn’t seem to ignore. The ease in Jada’s posture. The familiarity in her voice. And now that one sentence kept replaying itself in Annie’s head.
He ain’t really been himself lately.
It wasn’t what Jada had said. It was how she’d said it. Like she knew what normal looked like. Like she’d been close enough to notice the difference.
But Elijah wasn’t looking at Jada at all. Every time Annie glanced up, his eyes found her again. Concern. Like he could see something growing and didn’t know how to stop it.
Annie couldn’t process that at the moment. She couldn’t stop noticing that nobody around them seemed surprised Jada was standing there. Not Stack and definitely not Pearline. The realization arrived gradually, settling into place one piece at a time.
Jada wasn’t visiting Elijah’s world. She was already a part of it.
“Mississippi must seem different now,” Jada said with a small laugh.
Annie looked at her. “What?”
Jada smiled. “I said Mississippi must seem different now.”
“Oh.” Annie forced a smile. “Yeah.”
The conversation continued around her, but Annie found herself looking past Jada and toward Pearline. The glance was brief. It didn’t need to be longer. Something flickered across Pearline’s face the moment their eyes met, and Annie felt her stomach drop before her mind fully caught up.
Suddenly the entire day looked different.
Pearline sitting on the edge of the bed while Annie changed clothes for the hundredth time. Her listening to her talk about Elijah. Her watching her spend an entire afternoon slipping back into old memories she should have known better than to trust.
None of those moments had felt unusual at the time. Standing here now, they rearranged themselves into something else entirely.
Pearline looked away first.
And that hurt more than anything Jada had said.
Annie smiled automatically when somebody laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard. The expression felt strange on her face. Around her the cookout continued without interruption. Auntie Max was waving a paper plate around while telling a story loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear. Everything looked exactly the same as it had fifteen minutes ago, yet everything felt completely different now.
She looked toward Elijah before she could stop herself and immediately regretted it.
He was still looking at her.
He wasn’t really talking anymore. Stack had said something. Mary laughed. Jada answered somebody’s question. Elijah hadn’t reacted to any of it. His attention remained fixed on Annie, his expression growing more troubled the longer she stood there pretending everything was fine.
Concern sat plainly across his face now, and the sight irritated her more than it should have. Concern meant he knew something was wrong. Concern meant he could see it happening. Concern meant he was watching her fall apart in real time.
That was the final straw.
Because Annie could handle disappointment. She could handle awkwardness. She could even handle finding out Elijah had moved on.
What she couldn’t handle was standing here feeling exposed.
Feeling foolish.
Feeling like the only person who hadn’t known what was happening.
The humiliation crept in quietly, attaching itself to every memory she’d made since getting off the plane. Every conversation. Every question. Every moment she’d allowed herself to hope for something she had never said aloud. By the time she finally spoke, her voice sounded perfectly normal.
“Excuse me.”
Nobody would have noticed anything wrong. Nobody except Elijah and Pearline.
Annie saw it immediately when Elijah straightened and took a small step forward. The movement was instinctive, the kind people made when they sensed trouble coming. For a second it looked like he might say something. Explain something. Stop her. Annie didn’t give him the chance.
“Y’all enjoy yourselves.”
The smile never left her face as she turned toward the house. She heard Pearline call her name before she reached the steps, but she kept walking anyway. The screen door opened and closed behind her, muting the sounds of the cookout almost instantly. Only then did she allow herself to stop pretending she was fine.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, muting the noise from the backyard without silencing it completely. Music still drifted faintly through the floorboards. Every few minutes a burst of laughter floated up from downstairs, followed by the low hum of conversation and the occasional shout from Aunt Cheryl whenever somebody touched food they weren’t supposed to touch. The sounds were familiar enough to be comforting. Instead they made Annie feel trapped. The cookout was still happening. Everybody was still down there.
The world hadn’t stopped just because hers suddenly felt off balance.
She crossed the room and dragged her suitcase onto the bed. The zipper caught halfway open and she jerked it harder than necessary, dislodging the contents inside. A shirt disappeared into one corner. A pair of jeans landed on top of it. One sandal followed before she stopped and stared at the mess she’d created. Nothing about it resembled packing. The blue sundress she’d rejected earlier that morning still hung over the chair near the window. Seeing it there brought back the memory of standing in front of Pearline’s mirror for nearly an hour while her friend laughed and told her she looked fine. At the time she’d told herself she was nervous about coming home. Looking at the dress now, she realized that hadn’t been entirely true.
Nobody spent forty-five minutes deciding what to wear to a family cookout unless some part of them cared who might be there.
The thought followed her to the dresser. The bottle of tequila sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, half-forgotten beside a hairbrush and a tube of lip gloss. For a second she just stared at it. Then she twisted the cap off and took a long swallow straight from the bottle.
The liquor burned all the way down, sharp enough to make her wince. She stood there waiting for it to do something useful. Numb her. Distract her. Slow her thoughts down. Instead the burn faded almost immediately and left everything else untouched.
Jada’s face remained exactly where Annie had left it.
So did the sound of her voice.
Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.
That was the problem.
Jada had said them the way people said ordinary things, the way people spoke when they weren’t thinking twice about what they were revealing. There had been familiarity in the statement. History. Conversations Annie hadn’t been a part of. Enough conversations that her return to Mississippi had become information Jada expected to have. Annie took another drink and walked toward the window before she could think too hard about it.
The backyard stretched beyond the trees in patches of movement and color. She couldn’t make out individual faces from here, only clusters of people gathered around tables and lawn chairs while smoke drifted lazily upward from the grill. Somewhere down there Elijah was probably sitting beside Jada.
The thought arrived uninvited and irritated her immediately.
Smoke could date whoever he wanted. He wasn’t married. He wasn’t obligated to explain himself to her. Eight years was a long time. Long enough for people to build entirely different lives.
She knew that.
She believed that.
The problem was that knowing something and feeling it turned out to be two very different things.
Every time she tried to reason her way through it, her mind circled back to the same uncomfortable place. Not that Elijah had moved on, it was that she’d spent the entire day realizing she never had.
She took another shot. The tequila burned less this time, or maybe she was just getting used to it.
What she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about was Jada.
It was because it was Jada.
The same girl who always seemed to be measuring herself against Annie back in high school. The same girl who smiled while making comments that left Annie wondering whether she’d imagined the insult. The same girl who spent years trying to figure out why Smoke paid attention to Annie and not her.
Annie closed her eyes. Immediately she hated herself for thinking it. It wasn’t fair. Elijah didn’t know any of that.
Not really.
He knew Jada the same way everybody knew Jada. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. He hadn’t been standing beside Annie during those hallway conversations. He hadn’t seen the looks. He hadn’t felt the subtle edge hiding beneath the smiles.
Still, the thought lingered.
Did he know?
Annie stared back out the window.
Didn’t he know how she felt about Jada? Didn’t he know she’d never really trusted her? Didn’t he know enough about Annie to know that this, out of everything, would fucking hurt?
The questions sounded ridiculous the second they formed, because what exactly was Elijah supposed to do with information like that?
Avoid a woman for eight years because his high school girlfriend didn’t like her?
The idea was absurd. Annie knew it was absurd. Yet somehow that didn’t stop it from hurting.
The truth was she hadn’t spent the day grieving what Elijah had with Jada. She’d spent the day imagining what might still exist between her and Elijah. That was the part she couldn’t forgive herself for.
Not the jealousy.
The hope.
That truth settled over her slowly as she sat on the edge of the bed. The photographs. Geneva talking about Elijah carrying her inside when she fell asleep on his shoulder. The way everybody at the table had spoken about them like they were inevitable. The way Elijah had looked at her after learning she never wanted to leave.
The warmth of his hand around hers.
None of those moments would’ve mattered if some part of her hadn’t been carrying hope onto that plane from North Carolina. She hated admitting that, even to herself. Hope felt childish at twenty-five. Hope felt irresponsible after eight years. Yet the evidence sat all around the room. The dress she’d changed out of three times. The suitcase she’d never fully unpacked. The mixtape buried somewhere among her things. She hadn’t come to Mississippi looking for closure.
She’d come looking for possibility, and now she felt stupid for pretending otherwise.
Another swallow of tequila disappeared before she realized she’d picked up the bottle again. The burn barely registering anymore. What did register was the growing discomfort that had nothing to do with Jada and everything to do with Pearline.
The longer Annie sat there, the more the last two days began rearranging themselves. Pearline encouraging her to come. Pearline listening to every story about Elijah. Sitting on the edge of the bed that morning while Annie changed clothes. Watching her spend an entire afternoon slipping back into old memories she should’ve known better than to trust.
None of those moments had felt strange when they happened. Looking back now, they felt different. Heavier. Like pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was assembling.
Annie stared at the bedroom door and tightened her grip on the bottle. She didn’t know exactly how long she’d been sitting there, but she knew Pearline well enough to know what would come next.
Pearline hated conflict. Hated disappointing people even more. There was no chance she was leaving Annie up here alone. Sooner or later those footsteps would come down the hallway. Sooner rather than later the door would open. The thought should’ve prepared her.
Instead it made the hurt settle deeper.
Because for the first time since walking into the house, Annie stopped thinking about Jada standing beside Elijah and started thinking about her best friend downstairs, the one person who had known exactly how much hope Annie had carried back to Mississippi and said nothing at all.
Pearline didn’t knock.
The door opened slowly before Annie could tell her not to come in, and the look on her face was so familiar Annie almost hated her for it. Concern. Caution. The expression Pearline wore whenever she thought somebody was about to make a bad decision.
Unfortunately for both of them, Annie had already made several.
Neither of them spoke at first. Pearline’s eyes moved from the open suitcase to the tequila bottle resting beside Annie’s leg before finally settling on Annie herself. Annie knew exactly what she saw. Red eyes. A half-packed suitcase. Clothes scattered across the bed. One sandal near the bathroom door and the other somehow buried beneath a blouse sleeve hanging halfway out of the luggage. The packing wasn’t real. Annie knew it. Pearline probably knew it too. She’d managed to put three shirts into the suitcase and somehow remove four. Every few minutes she found herself folding the same piece of clothing she’d already folded before throwing it into a different corner of the room.
“How much of that you done drank?”
Annie glanced down at the bottle. “Enough.”
Pearline sighed and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
The sound made something tighten in Annie’s chest.
“You ain’t finna leave.”
Annie laughed under her breath and reached for another shirt. “The hell I’m not.”
“You drunk.”
“I’m buzzed.”
“Annie.”
“I’m grown.”
Pearline rubbed a hand across her forehead.
The movement irritated Annie so bad. The careful voice irritated her. The patience irritated her. The concern irritated her. All of it felt like somebody trying to calm her down before she’d even been allowed to be upset.
She shoved another armful of clothes into the suitcase and immediately regretted it when the zipper refused to cooperate. The tequila bottle found its way back into her hand before she even realized she’d reached for it.
Pearline watched her struggle with the suitcase for another minute before speaking again.
“I was gonna tell you.”
Annie stopped. She couldn’t help it. The words settled somewhere deep enough to hurt.
Slowly she looked up. “No you wasn’t.”
“I was.”
“When?”
Pearline opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Annie laughed. The sound wasn’t pleasant. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t know how.”
The answer hit Annie harder because it sounded honest. Honest and useless at the same time. She looked away before Pearline could see it landed.
Outside Annie could hear laughter. She hated them for laughing.
“You could’ve started with the truth.”
“I didn’t know what the truth was.”
Annie took another swallow from the bottle. The burn was gone. “What truth?”
Pearline hesitated. “Them.”
The word sat between Annie and Pearline.
“I thought they was just fuckin’.”
Pearline shifted from foot to foot. “It didn’t look serious.”
Didn’t. Past tense. Annie heard it. Her stomach dropped.
“What changed?”
Pearline froze.
The hesitation told Annie almost everything.
“What changed, Pearline?”
For a second it looked like Pearline might refuse to answer. Then she sighed. “I saw them Thursday.”
Annie frowned.
Thursday.
The word rolled around in her head before settling into place. The restaurant. That strange feeling she’d had all night. The uncomfortable certainty that somebody familiar was nearby. The way she’d caught herself looking around for no reason she could explain.
Pearline acting strange afterward. Starting a sentence and never finishing it. Looking at her like she wanted to say something before changing her mind.
The pieces connected so quickly Annie almost felt sick. “He was there.”
Pearline didn’t answer.
“He was there with her.”
Still nothing. The silence told her everything she needed to know.
Annie stared at the bottle in her hand before taking another drink. The tequila was more than half gone now. At some point she’d stopped counting. Her face felt warm. Her thoughts felt loud. Every emotion she’d spent the last eight years carefully suppressing seemed determined to show up all at once.
“You saw them and still said nothin’.”
“I wanted to.”
Annie laughed.
The sound came out sharp enough to make Pearline flinch.
“No you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t, ’cause if you did, you would’ve.”
“I really did, Annie.”
Annie shook her head and looked away.
Outside, the yard erupted into laughter after. The sound drifted through the screen window and landed in the room like an insult.
She took another swallow from the bottle.
“Fuck, Pearline, I could’ve handled him messin’ with ANYBODY else.”
Pearline’s face changed immediately.
“Annie—”
“No. I’m serious.” She laughed again and wiped at her eyes. “I could’ve handled some random girl.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Some girl from Jackson. Memphis. Atlanta. Hell, California.”
Pearline stayed quiet.
“But Jada?” Annie shook her head. “Jada of all people?”
The room fell silent, because Pearline knew. Maybe not every detail.
But more than enough.
Enough to remember the little imsults disguised as jokes. The competition Annie never agreed to participate in. The way Jada always seemed to know exactly where she stood with Elijah. Enough to understand why hearing her name hit differently.
“You should’ve told me from jump.” Annie looked down at the bottle in her hand. “You should’ve told me the second you saw them.”
Pearline sighed. “She ain’t hate you, Annie.”
“Don’t do that shit.” The warning came fast. “Please don’t sit up here and act like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Pearline looked away.
Exactly.
“That’s what I thought.” Annie laughed and immediately wished she hadn’t, because now she sounded bitter.
Maybe she was.
“I know it sound stupid.” Her voice cracked. “I know he don’t owe me shit.” Another laugh. Smaller this time. “And I know he got every right to move on.” She stared toward the window. “But for some reason hearin’ it’s Jada make me sick to my fuckin’ stomach.”
The confession hung between them. Raw. Embarrassing.
Honest.
“And that’s why I’m mad at you.”
Pearline frowned.
“Cause you knew that.” Annie looked back at her. “You knew exactly how that was gonna hit me.”
Annie sank onto the edge of the bed and looked down at the shirt in her hands. At some point she’d stopped packing and started moving things around just to keep her hands busy. The same shirt had gone into the suitcase three separate times and somehow kept ending up back on the bed. The tequila wasn’t helping anymore. It had moved past the point of making her feel better and settled into that dangerous place where every thought felt louder than it should.
“You know what the crazy part is?”
Pearline looked up. “What?”
Annie laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I still would’ve came.”
For a minute neither of them said anything.
Annie picked up the shirt and started folding it. Then unfolded it. “I would’ve still got on the plane.”
The words surprised her because she hadn’t realized they were true until she’d said them out loud. She would’ve come for Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Lewis. For Geneva and Auntie Max. For Pearline. For Stack. For the cookout. For every piece of home she’d spent years pretending she didn’t miss. And somewhere in that list sat Elijah too. Not that she expected anything from him. Or because she thought eight years could disappear in a weekend. But because he mattered whether she wanted him to or not.
Pearline watched her carefully.
Annie laughed again and wiped at her face. “That’s the part that got me.” She looked down at the bottle. “You should’ve told me anyway.”
Pearline lowered her eyes. “I thought if y’all talked—”
“There you go.” The words came out tired more than angry. Annie shook her head. “That’s the part you keep missin’.”
Pearline started to talk, then stopped.
Annie looked toward the window where the sounds of the cookout drifted in through the screen. “You keep tellin’ me what you thought.”
Her voice cracked. “What about me? What about what I wanted?”
Pearline’s face tightened immediately.
Annie hated herself a little for saying it. The regret didn’t make it less true. “You knew.” The words came quieter now. Which somehow made them worse. “You knew and watched me get off that plane.”
Silence.
“You knew and watched me talk about him.”
Pearline looked away.
“You knew and sat on this bed while I changed clothes fifty fucking times.”
The tears finally came. Hot. Embarrassing. Impossible to stop.
“And you still brought me here.”
Pearline looked devastated now.
Good.
A terrible thought. An ugly thought. One Annie hated the second it crossed her mind. But it was there anyway.
“You watched me hope.”
The room seemed to shrink around them as Annie’s words settled into the space between them. Outside, somebody shouted something followed by laughter. The sound drifted through the screen window and disappeared into silence neither woman seemed willing to break.
Pearline stared at her. Then something in her expression changed.
Exhaustion.
“You think I wanted this?”
Annie looked away.
“You keep talkin’ like I sat around plottin’ on how to hurt you.”
“I ain’t say that.”
“You don’t gotta say it.” Pearline wiped at her face with the heel of her hand before crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “For two fuckin’ days I’ve been watchin’ this happen knowin’ eventually you was gonna look at me exactly like this.”
Annie didn’t answer because she was looking at her exactly like that.
“You think it was easy watchin’ you get off that plane smilin’?” Pearline laughed once, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You think I didn’t know why you was really nervous?”
“Pearline—”
“No. Let me finish.” The words came out sharper than anything she’d said all evening. “You wasn’t nervous about no cookout and you know it.”
Annie looked down at the shirt twisted in her hands.
“You talked about him the whole ride from the airport.” Pearline’s voice softened again. “You talked about him while you unpacked.”
Another breath. “You talked about him when we went to breakfast.” Another. “You talked about him every time his name came up like you was tryin’ real hard to convince yourself it didn’t matter.”
The tears Annie had been fighting rose all over again.
Pearline shook her head. “And every time I thought about tellin’ you, I’d look at your face and think maybe I was wrong. Maybe Smoke and Jada wasn’t serious. Maybe they would’ve ended whatever they had goin’ on by now. Maybe y’all could finally sit down and talk.”
Annie swallowed hard. The words should’ve made her feel better. Instead they somehow made everything worse. For the first time since the argument started, she could see exactly how Pearline had convinced herself to stay quiet. Not that she thought she knew best, but she wanted the same impossible thing Annie wanted.
“I was hopin’ too, Annie.”
Annie closed her eyes.
The confession hit differently than everything else Pearline had said. Anger she knew how to carry. Embarrassment too. But this felt heavier. It forced her to acknowledge something she’d been trying very hard not to look at. Pearline hadn’t been trying to hurt her. Pearline had been hoping right alongside her, building entire possibilities out of half-finished conversations and old memories that she wanted so badly for them to be true.
Pearline looked down at her hands. “Remember when I told you I left my charger at Stack’s apartment?”
Annie frowned. The question felt random enough to pull her briefly out of her own misery. “Yeah.”
“I ain’t leave no damn charger.”
Annie stared at her while her facial expression said DUH.
Pearline laughed once and shook her head. “I went back and straight up asked him.”
The room grew quiet.
“I wanted to know if what I saw was real.”
Annie’s stomach tightened.
Pearline rubbed her palms against her jeans. “I asked Stack straight up.”
“What’d he say?”
“That Smoke and Jada wasn’t together.”
The answer came immediate. Like she’d replayed the conversation a hundred times already.
“He said they wasn’t serious. Said they wasn’t in no relationship.”
Despite herself, Annie almost laughed.
Pearline kept going. “I asked him twice.” The confession sounded pathetic now. “I kept askin’ different ways hopin’ he’d tell me somethin’ else.”
Annie looked away.
“Cause if he would’ve told me they was serious…” Pearline swallowed. “If he would’ve told me Smoke was in love with that girl or plannin’ a future wit’ her or somethin’ like that, I’d have told you right then.”
The words settled heavily between them.
“Shit, Annie, I would’ve told you before we even got to Cheryl’s house.” Pearline’s voice cracked slightly. “That’s why I didn’t know what to do.”
Annie stared at the floor because that sounded exactly like something Pearline would do—convince herself this was reasonable. It sounded exactly like something done with love that still managed to hurt anyway.
“You still didn’t let me choose.”
The words came out quiet.
Pearline’s shoulders dropped. For a second she looked as tired as Annie felt. Her mouth opened slightly before closing again. Whatever explanation she’d been holding onto all evening seemed to collapse beneath the weight of those six words.
Annie reached for another pile of clothes and shoved them into the suitcase harder than necessary. The zipper caught again. Frustrated, she yanked at it. Something beneath the clothes came loose, and a plastic case slid free, tumbling across the comforter before bouncing onto the floor near her feet.
Both women looked down.
The mixtape.
Not the mixtape Elijah made her all those years ago. Not the one she’d refused to listen to all those years ago, but somehow carried with her through college, breakups, apartments, and every version of herself she’d become after leaving Mississippi.
This was a new one.
The one she’d spent weeks putting together before coming home. The one hidden beneath folded shirts because she hadn’t been brave enough to admit why she’d packed it in the first place.
For a long moment neither woman moved. Then Annie bent down and picked it up.
Pearline’s eyes followed the plastic case before lifting back to Annie’s face.
Something flickered there. Understanding. Somehow Annie hated that most of all, because now Pearline knew.
Not that she still loved Elijah.
But how much.
The truth settled quietly between them. Annie wrapped her fingers around the mixtape, tucked it beneath her arm, grabbed the suitcase, and forced the zipper closed.
“Annie—”
“Fuck all y’all.”
Pearline took a step forward. “Annie.”
“No.” She wiped angrily at her face. “I came down here lookin’ stupid as fuck.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” Her voice cracked hard enough to make her wince. “I did.”
The tears started again. Hot. Humiliating. Impossible to stop.
“And I blame you for lettin’ me.”
Pearline flinched.
Annie hated herself for saying it. Hated herself even more for not taking it back.
Then she grabbed the suitcase handle and headed for the door before Pearline could stop her.
Smoke kept his eyes on the house long after Annie disappeared inside.
Around him the cookout continued without interruption. Some old head at the dominoes table accused a young nigga of cheating. Again. Tired of hearing Aunt Cheryl fussing, Uncle Lewis stepped in and threatened to throw both of them out of the yard if they didn’t shut the fuck up. Children ran through the grass screaming while music drifted lazily from the speakers near the patio.
The normalcy of it all felt strange considering how quickly the afternoon had changed. Ten minutes ago he’d been standing beside Annie listening to her laugh. Now she was inside the house and Pearline had gone after her wearing the same expression people wore when they already knew trouble was waiting on the other side of a door.
He replayed the last few minutes in his head whether he wanted to or not. Annie’s hand in his. Jada’s voice. The way Annie’s guard went up the moment she understood Jada wasn’t standing there as an old classmate. The look she’d given Pearline afterward stayed with him most. There had been hurt in it. Confusion too. But beneath both sat recognition, like she’d suddenly understood something nobody had bothered to explain to her.
Smoke didn’t know every piece of what had just happened, but he recognized the result. Annie thought he and Jada were together. Not casually seeing each other. Together-together. The certainty settled heavily in his chest because it explained the expression he’d seen on her face before she walked away.
What unsettled him wasn’t that she’d misunderstood the situation.
It was that seeing him with another woman had hurt her at all.
Somebody shoved a plastic cup into his hand.
Stack.
“The good shit,” his brother said before dropping back into his chair.
Smoke glanced down at the bourbon. Aunt Cheryl only brought it out for family and special occasions. Under different circumstances he probably would’ve appreciated it. Instead he took a swallow and tasted almost none of it.
A few minutes later he found himself reaching for a cigarette.
The lighter clicked.
Smoke took a slow drag and watched the front porch through a haze of smoke that did absolutely nothing to settle his nerves.
Beside him, Jada smoothed a hand over her blouse and adjusted her position in the chair.
“Thought you had a showing today.”
The question made her blink. “I did.”
“You said you wasn’t comin’.”
“I changed my mind.”
Smoke nodded once, but his attention had already drifted back toward the house. The answer sat wrong with him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. She hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Some part of him couldn’t stop wondering whether things would’ve unfolded differently if he’d known she was coming. The thought irritated him. Jada hadn’t done anything wrong by showing up to a public cookout. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon had veered off course the moment she stepped into it.
“You mad I’m here?”
That pulled his attention back to her.
“No.”
The answer came easily because it was mostly true. He wasn’t mad she came. He just couldn’t understand why she hadn’t mentioned it. Over the last year they’d fallen into routines. Nothing serious. Nothing that required explanations. Still, telling somebody you were showing up somewhere after saying you weren’t seemed like information worth sharing.
Jada studied him for a moment. “You ain’t really looked at me since I walked over here.”
The words were light. Teasing. At least they tried to be.
Smoke glanced at her. “What?”
“You keep starin’ at that house.”
His jaw tightened around the cigarette. The expression vanished almost immediately, but not before Jada caught it.
He knew she did. Over the last year she’d gotten good at reading him. Unfortunately, Annie had always been better.
Before Jada could say anything else, Mary wandered over carrying a red cup and entirely too much satisfaction. Stack noticed her at the exact same time.
“There she go.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord.”
“Nah.” Stack pointed directly at her. “Nah. Bring yo’ ass over here.”
Smoke looked between them. Mary suddenly became very interested in her drink. That alone made him suspicious.
“You ain’t change your mind.”
Jada’s eyes flickered. “Elijah—”
“You was already comin’.” The words landed quietly. “You could’ve told me.”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Something tightened in his chest. He turned his attention to Mary. “What you do?”
“I ain’t do shit.”
“That’s a muthafuckin’ lie.” Stack exclaimed.
“It ain’t.”
Stack laughed. “Jada just magically decided to show up after tellin’ my brother she wasn’t?”
Jada’s head turned. Mary looked away. Smoke’s eyes narrowed. The silence lasted a little too long.
“Mary.”
“I was just talkin’.”
“There it is.” Stack threw his hands up. “There it is right there. That’s the shit I be talkin’ about. You stay runnin’ yo’ fuckin’ mouth.”
Mary looked offended. “How was I supposed to know she’d actually come?”
Stack stared at her. Then at Jada. Then back at Mary. “You serious?”
The pieces settled into place one by one. Smoke looked at Jada. Then Mary. Then back toward the house.
Something tightened in his chest.
Pearline still hadn’t come back outside. The front door remained closed. The upstairs windows remained dark. From where he sat, the entire house looked still. Meanwhile his mind kept returning to Annie’s face. Not the smile she’d forced before excusing herself. The look right before it. The moment she’d looked from Jada to him and then toward Pearline. The hurt in her eyes had been so quick most people probably would’ve missed it.
He hadn’t.
That was the problem. He hadn’t missed any of it. Not the confusion, the disappointment, or the moment it all clicked.
The feeling settled heavy in his stomach because he knew exactly what she’d seen. Maybe not every detail. Maybe not the history. But enough. Enough to think he and Jada were something they weren’t. Enough to believe she’d shown up in Mississippi only to discover he’d moved on.
The thought bothered him more than it should have.
Life kept moving around him, but Smoke couldn’t. Every few seconds his eyes found the house again. The cigarette burned down between his fingers. The bourbon now gone.
Stack watched him do it. Then he sighed. “You need to go talk to her.”
“Pearline with her.”
“For now.”
Smoke leaned back in his chair. “What that supposed to mean?”
“It mean Annie upstairs cussin’ Pearline the fuck out right now.”
Despite everything, a small smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
Stack pointed toward the house. “You know I’m right.”
Unfortunately, he was.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.
Smoke rubbed a hand across his jaw and looked back toward the front door. The longer Annie stayed inside, the worse the feeling became. Something closer to dread. Annie had spent eight years running from difficult conversations. He knew because he’d spent eight years wishing she’d stayed for one.
Then the front door opened.
Every thought in his head disappeared at once.
Annie stepped onto the porch with a suitcase in one hand and a plastic case tucked beneath her arm.
Before he realized what he was doing, Smoke crushed the cigarette beneath his sneaker, set the cup on the nearest table, and started walking.
“Annie.”
Smoke was calling her name halfway across the yard before he realized people were starting to watch. At first it was only a few people. Aunt Cheryl paused beside the grill with the tongs still in her hand. Geneva lowered her cup. Maxine turned away from whatever story she had been telling. Then more heads began to turn because Annie was not exactly subtle carrying a suitcase through the middle of a family cookout, and neither was the look on her face. Even from thirty feet away he could see she had been crying, and the sight settled heavy in his chest before he could prepare himself for it. Pearline had barely made it back onto the porch behind her, wiping at her own face, and Stack was already moving toward her with concern written plainly across his. Whatever had happened upstairs had gone bad enough to leave both women in tears.
Smoke was not surprised. The moment Annie had looked at Jada, then at him, then at Pearline, he had known something was coming. What surprised him was how quickly everything had unraveled. Less than an hour ago she had been laughing beside him beneath the shade tree. Less than thirty minutes ago he had been standing there holding her hand without thinking about it. Now she was heading toward the driveway with a suitcase like she planned on disappearing before sunset, and the familiarity of that made something old and bitter twist inside him. Annie leaving before a conversation could catch her was not new. He knew that move. He had lived with the damage of it for eight years.
“Annie.”
She didn’t stop. The suitcase rolled awkwardly through the grass as she continued toward the driveway, and whether she genuinely hadn’t heard him or was pretending not to hear him didn’t matter. Smoke knew her too well to believe either would be enough to stop him.
“Anissa!”
That stopped her.
When she finally turned around, the look on her face hit him hard. The tears were obvious. The anger was not. That lived deeper, somewhere behind the red eyes and tight jaw, tangled up with something older and far more familiar. It was the same hurt he had caught a glimpse of before she disappeared into the house, only now it wasn’t masked anymore. The music still played behind them. Somebody laughed near the dominoes table before realizing nobody else was laughing. Children ran through the yard with a water guns bigger than them. Life kept trying to continue around them, but Smoke could feel the whole cookout slowly holding its breath.
“Can we talk?”
The laugh that left Annie wasn’t loud, which made it worse. Loud would have been easier. Loud would have given him something obvious to answer. Instead, she sounded tired, like someone who had finally run out of ways to be disappointed.
“Oh, now you wanna talk?”
The words landed uncomfortably because he knew exactly what she meant. Not the sentence itself. The accusation underneath it. When she finally called him after eight years. Eight years of missed conversations and assumptions. Eight years of silence neither one of them had been able to outrun.
Smoke opened his mouth, but Annie was already shaking her head.
“No. Don’t do that.”
His brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“Act like this ain’t exactly what you wanted.”
Confusion flashed across his face before frustration followed close behind it. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
Annie stared at him as though she couldn’t decide whether he was lying or genuinely that oblivious. Then she laughed again, wiped angrily at her face, and pulled something from beneath her arm and threw it at him. The plastic case struck his chest hard enough that instinct took over before thought could. Smoke caught it automatically and looked down. For a moment, he didn’t understand what he was holding. Then his eyes moved over the case, the handwriting, the familiar shape of something he had once given her in another lifetime, and it dawned on him slowly.
Annie pointed toward it before he could speak.
“I made that for you.”
Smoke looked down at the plastic case.
The words came out sharper than she probably intended, not because she was trying to hurt him, but because she was already hurting and had nowhere else to put it.
“I spent two damn weeks makin’ that.” Annie laughed. The sound was ugly. “Ain’t that some shit?”
She wiped angrily at her face. “I’m twenty-five years old makin’ a mixtape.” Annie shook her head. “I brought it all the way from North Carolina.”
Her voice dropped. “I brought it because some stupid part of me thought…” The sentence died there.
Annie laughed again. “Never mind.”
Around them the cookout had grown noticeably quieter. Smoke was aware enough that Aunt Cheryl was no longer pretending to focus on the grill. Geneva had stopped mid-conversation and Maxine stood beside her with her mouth pressed into a tight line. He was aware enough that Mary suddenly looked like she regretted every decision she had made that afternoon, and Jada had gone completely still in her chair. Annie didn’t seem to notice any of them, or maybe she did and simply couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Go ’head,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the backyard. “Maybe you and your girlfriend can listen to it together.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened immediately. “Jada ain’t my girlfriend.”
The look Annie gave him was so full of disbelief it almost would’ve been funny under different circumstances. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Don’t.”
He took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”
The hurt in her face deepened, and Smoke knew before she even spoke that whatever came next had been sitting inside her for years.
“Oh, now we don’t wanna do that?”
The memory hit him before he could stop it. The conversation. The frustration. The moment he had shut something down instead of opening it, thinking silence would keep them from making things worse. Annie saw the recognition cross his face and nodded once, her eyes shining with a kind of hurt that made his stomach tighten.
“What happened to ‘we ain’t doin’ that, huh?’”
This time there was no laughter in her voice. No sarcasm either. Just eight years of hurt finally finding somewhere to go. Around them, the cookout kept trying and failing to pretend nothing was happening. Aunt Cheryl had completely abandoned the grill now. Geneva stood beside her with one hand pressed against her chest. Across the yard, Stack had reached Pearline and was asking questions she clearly was not answering. Even the dominoes game had stopped, the players still seated around the table with untouched tiles between them.
Annie wiped angrily at her face again and shook her head. The tequila had blurred the edges of her embarrassment enough to make honesty feel easier than silence, but Smoke could see the cost of it. She looked exposed. Furious about it. Hurt because of it. Still, she stood there with the suitcase in one hand and the rest of the cookout watching while years of silence crowded up behind her.
“You know what pisses me off the most?”
Smoke didn’t answer. The question felt rhetorical.
“Everybody knew but me.”
The words hung there longer than Annie intended. Once they left her mouth she couldn’t take them back. It felt like saying them out loud made the humiliation feel real in a way it hadn’t five minutes ago. She looked past Smoke toward the crowd gathered behind him. Pearline stood beside Stack with red eyes and a guilty expression. Aunt Cheryl had completely abandoned the grill. Geneva looked like she was debating whether to intervene or pray.
Everybody.
Everybody had apparently known except the one person standing in the middle of it.
“Pearline knew. Stack knew. Mary’s ass obviously knew.”
“Why I gotta be in this?” Mary called from somewhere behind Smoke.
“Cause yo’ ass always in everythin’.”
The response came from so many directions at once that a brief burst of laughter rippled through the yard before disappearing just as quickly. Annie wasn’t laughing. The knot in her chest had only grown tighter. Every time she replayed the afternoon in her head she found something new to be embarrassed about. Every conversation. Every look. Every moment she’d spent thinking she was simply reconnecting with old friends while apparently everybody else was aware of something she wasn’t.
“I spent all day lookin’ stupid.”
“You wasn’t lookin’ stupid.”
The answer came immediate. Too immediate. Annie laughed and pointed at him. “There you go.”
Smoke frowned. “There I go what?”
“That thing you do.”
“What thing?”
“When I tell you somethin’ and you decide it ain’t true just ‘cause you don’t like hearin’ it.”
His jaw tightened. “Annie—”
“No.” Her voice cracked hard enough that she hated it. “You asked to talk. So let’s talk.”
The yard went quiet again. Annie looked at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “You know what makes this shit worse?”
Smoke waited.
Annie laughed without humor and glanced toward Jada. “Her.”
Jada visibly stiffened.
“Annie—”
“No. Cause ain’t nobody finna sit here and act confused.”
The alcohol had long since stopped making her feel better. Now it was just making honesty easier.
“Outta everybody, Elijah?” Her eyes landed on Jada again. “Her?”
Smoke frowned. “What that supposed to mean?”
Annie laughed. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.” She wiped at her face. “You ain’t even know.”
The words weren’t really directed at him anymore. “You never paid attention to none of that.”
Smoke’s brow furrowed deeper.
Annie shook her head. Her laugh sounded tired. “Why would you?”
The alcohol was doing most of the talking now. Not enough to make her incoherent. Just enough to lower every wall she’d spent years building.
“You don’t know what it felt like bein’ around her.”
Jada stiffened slightly.
Annie noticed. But kept going anyway. “Maybe she didn’t do nothin’. Maybe it was all in my head.” The words sounded doubtful even to her. “But every time she walked into a room, I felt it.”
She looked back at Smoke. “And now I come back home and find out you’re with her?”
The question hung between them.
For a while Annie wanted it to be about Jada. Wanted to be able to point at one woman and blame her for the way her chest hurt. But the longer she stood there, the harder it became to pretend Jada was the real problem.
Jada had simply been the thing that cracked everything open.
The hurt and the truth sat somewhere deeper than that.
The real truth was that seeing Elijah with anybody would’ve hurt. Him being happy and moving on with anybody else would’ve hurt. Seeing him living a life that no longer had room for her would’ve hurt.
Nobody spoke or moved. Everyone seemed to understand at the same time that Annie and Smoke were no longer talking about Jada, or the cookout, or the mixtape in his hand. They had moved backward without warning. Back into the years nobody in that yard had been able to touch for them.
Annie laughed again and shook her head. “You know what North Carolina was like?”
The question caught him off guard. For the first time since she had walked out of the house, uncertainty crossed his face because the answer was no. He didn’t know. Not really. He knew where she had lived. He knew the city she moved to. He knew she had graduated. He knew random pieces gathered over the years through social media, mutual friends, and accidental conversations he pretended not to care about. But he didn’t know what it had been like. Not the real version.
Annie looked away briefly before looking back at him. “I hated it.”
Smoke felt something in his chest twist because that was not what he had expected her to say.
“I hated every fuckin’ minute of it.” Her voice shook now, but she did not look away again. “I didn’t know nobody. I didn’t have Pearline, Aunt Cheryl, Stack. I didn’t have…”
She stopped long enough to swallow, and when she looked directly at him, the rest of the yard seemed to fade around them.
“I didn’t have you.”
Smoke wasn’t prepared for that. He had spent eight years telling himself she had moved forward because that was the only way to make sense of the silence. Annie in North Carolina had become a version of her he could survive imagining. Busy. Happy. Adjusting. Growing into a life that no longer had space for him. But standing in front of him now with tears on her face and a suitcase in her hand, she was telling him something completely different, and the new version did not fit into any of the places he had built for the old one.
For a moment Annie saw it.
Really saw it.
The years she had spent imagining Elijah untouched by her absence suddenly felt less certain. She could see the hurt sitting on him now. Not fresh hurt. Old hurt. The kind people carried so long they stopped noticing the weight of it.
And yet none of it changed what came next. Because understanding that he suffered wasn’t the same thing as knowing he had.
Annie laughed and immediately seemed to hate the sound of it.
Smoke blinked.
“So what, Elijah?”
The use of his name landed exactly the way she intended it to. A warning.
“You think I was supposed to know that?” she asked, pointing at him. “You think I knew what the hell you was feelin’?”
His jaw tightened. “You ain’t ask.”
“Neither did you.”
Stack looked away. Pearline closed her eyes. Smoke felt the hit land exactly where she meant for it to, and the worst part was that she wasn’t wrong.
Annie wiped at her face again and shook her head, her voice breaking around the edges as the anger started turning into something less controlled.
“You keep standin’ here talkin’ like I wasn’t alone. You think I wasn’t drivin’ around a city I ain’t know? You think I wasn’t callin’ Pearline cryin’? You think I wasn’t sittin’ in my mama’s house every holiday wishin’ I was home?”
Smoke’s expression switched before he could stop it, and Annie saw it. Good, her face seemed to say. Let him hear it.
“You keep talkin’ like I chose all this.” The tears were coming faster now, and she stopped trying to hide them. “I was seventeen. I was seventeen, Elijah. I was a kid. I was scared!”
Smoke closed his eyes briefly, and Annie saw that too. Saw the way his face tightened. Saw something flicker across it before disappearing again. For the first time since this started, she understood that he was not angry because he did not care. He was angry because he did. Maybe because he always had. The answer should have made her feel better. Instead, it seemed to make her furious because if that was true, then eight years suddenly felt even more unnecessary.
“You know what I kept waitin’ on?” she asked.
Smoke didn’t answer.
“I kept waitin’ on you.”
Even Mary looked stunned by that. Annie looked away as soon as the words came out, embarrassment crawling up her throat too late to stop anything now. “I kept thinkin’ maybe one day you’d show up. Maybe one day you’d come get me.”
Smoke stared at her, and the disbelief moved across his face before he could hide it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she had waited. He couldn’t believe what she had been waiting for. Annie saw it. Saw exactly what he was thinking. Something passed between them then, heavy and terrible, and for the first time since she got off the plane, Annie looked like she was realizing neither of them had been waiting for the same thing. Neither of them had been telling themselves the same story.
Smoke stood there for several seconds without speaking. He could still hear the cookout somewhere around them. A baby started crying near the patio before someone scooped them up and carried them away. Music drifted from the speakers like it belonged to another yard entirely. Aunt Cheryl probably still standing beside that grill, food getting colder by the minute, but none of it felt real anymore. The only thing that felt real was Annie standing in front of him talking about waiting as though he had simply let her go without trying.
“You waited on me?”
The question came out quieter than he intended.
Annie laughed bitterly. “Yeah.”
Smoke looked away, dragging a hand across his jaw while the hurt he had been holding onto all afternoon changed into something sharper and older. Nothing about this conversation was unfolding the way he had imagined. Not once. Not in eight years. Not today. Not now.
“Annie…” His voice cracked slightly, not enough for most people to notice, but enough for Stack to notice. Enough for Pearline. Enough for Smoke himself. “You think I wasn’t tryin’?”
The confusion on Annie’s face stopped him cold. For a second neither of them moved, and then Smoke realized she genuinely didn’t know. She had never looked more honest or more confused, and the sight twisted painfully in his chest.
“You think I just let you go?”
Annie opened her mouth, then closed it.
“I called you every fuckin’ day.”
The words left him before he could stop them. Annie blinked once, then again, and the color seemed to drain from her face in real time.
“What?”
Smoke laughed, but the sound came out broken. “I called you every day.”
The memory came back all at once. His room. The phone. The ringing. The waiting. The voicemail. Again and again and again until the sound became part of the shape of those months. “I called so much my mama started askin’ if I was goin’ to pay the phone bill.”
The crowd around them seemed to understand at the same time that they were no longer listening to an argument. They were watching two people discover that they had lived through entirely different versions of the same heartbreak.
Smoke couldn’t stop now. Not after eight years. Not after hearing Annie say she had waited. “I wrote you.”
Annie stared at him. “What?”
“I wrote you.” His jaw tightened because the word sounded ridiculous now. Ancient and pathetic and still true. “Letters. Birthday cards. Christmas cards. I sent every fuckin’ thing I could think of.”
Annie looked like she had forgotten how to breathe. Smoke noticed. He simply could not stop anyway.
“You think I was sittin’ around muthafuckin Mississippi havin’ the time of my fuckin’ life?” His voice rose for the first time, not much, but enough. “You think I wasn’t lookin’ and waitin’ for you?”
Fresh tears started slipping down Annie’s face, confused now more than angry. Smoke saw them and kept going because the truth had finally cracked open, and if he stopped now, he was not sure he would ever say it again.
“Then one day you stopped answerin’.” His voice dropped again, the sentence wounded in a way anger could not cover. “You stopped callin’ back.”
Annie shook her head slowly like she could not understand what he was saying. “I never—”
“Yeah.” Smoke laughed again, rougher this time. “That’s what I thought too.”
For the first time all afternoon, fear appeared in Annie’s eyes. Not fear of him, but fear of the possibility that something had happened neither of them knew about, because suddenly neither version of the story made sense. Smoke could see her realizing it at the same time he was.
“I never got them.” Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. “I never got those letters.”
Smoke stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “Yeah, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You had to.”
“Elijah, I didn’t.”
The certainty in her voice chipped away at some of his anger. Not enough to erase it, but enough to confuse it. Annie wiped at her face, looking younger somehow. “My mama would’ve gave ’em to me.”
Smoke looked away because maybe she was right. Maybe she wasn’t. But the problem was that the possibility didn’t change what those years had felt like from his side.
“I called,” he said, quieter now.
“I know.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You don’t.”
At first she answered. He remembered that part too clearly. The strange phone calls where neither one of them knew how to speak naturally anymore but tried anyway. The pauses. The awkward laughs. The ache that settled in his chest every time they hung up. Annie remembered too; he saw it in the way her eyes closed briefly, the way guilt moved across her face before she could hide it.
“You answered,” he said. “Then you got busy. Then you started callin’ back less.”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
“One day I realized I was the only one still callin’.”
Annie flinched. The movement was small, but Smoke saw it, and some wounded part of him was glad she did. He still remembered exactly what that had felt like.
“I wasn’t doin’ it on purpose,” she said.
The defense sounded weak the second it left her mouth. Not because it was not true, but because the truth of it did not undo the damage. Smoke nodded slowly.
“I know.”
Annie frowned. “You know?”
“Yeah.” He looked at her for a long moment, and the anger she seemed to expect was not there anymore. “I know. You was seventeen. You was scared. You was in a new place. You was tryin’ to figure shit out.”
For a second she could not breathe because he was not describing her now. He was describing the girl she had been. The girl he had somehow understood all along. Then his eyes met hers again, and the hurt surfaced in him fully.
“And I knew every one of them reasons,” he said. “But they ain’t stop the shit from hurtin’.”
Everyone remained where they were. The whole yard seemed to understand that this was no longer an argument. This was grief. Eight years of it standing in the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s backyard.
“I kept makin’ excuses for you,” Smoke said, and the confession seemed to surprise even him. Annie’s face crumpled immediately, but he kept going. “I told myself you was busy. I told myself school was hard. I told myself you’d call tomorrow. And then eventually I had to stop tellin’ myself that shit.”
Annie had no answer for that. For the first time since she walked out of the house, she seemed unable to find one. The tequila was not helping her anymore. Whatever warm numbness she had been chasing upstairs had disappeared completely, leaving every emotion exposed and every memory sharper than before. She hated that everyone was watching and seeing her crying. Hated that Elijah was standing in front of her looking just as miserable as she felt. Most of all, she hated that some part of her believed him, because believing him changed things. Not everything, but enough.
“You could’ve came.”
The words left her before she could stop them. Smoke blinked, and Annie immediately looked away because the sentence sounded childish now. Stupid. Still, it was true. It had always been true.
“You could’ve came and got me,” she said, the hurt returning instantly, seventeen-year-old hurt and twenty-five-year-old hurt all tangled together. “You knew where I was.”
Smoke stared at her until the confusion on his face slowly gave way to recognition. Now he understood what she had been waiting for, and somehow that broke his heart worse than anything else she had said.
“You wanted me to come get you?”
Annie laughed through her tears, the sound cracking halfway out. “I don’t know. I just…” She shook her head, struggling to organize a truth that had probably never made sense outside her own chest. “I thought if you loved me bad enough, you’d come.”
The confession settled over them with the weight of something painfully young. Childish. Seventeen. The impossible expectation people place on love when they are too young to understand that love still requires words. The belief that if something is real enough, the other person will somehow know exactly what to do.
Smoke dragged a hand across his face, looking exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour or the heat. “Annie,” he said, barely above a murmur. “I was seventeen too.”
The words hit her harder than anything else he had said. In every version of the story she had told herself, Elijah had always seemed older somehow. Stronger. More certain. More capable of handling things. But he was right—he had been seventeen too. Just as lost. Just as scared. Just as heartbroken.
“You keep talkin’ like I knew what to do.” Smoke laughed once, no humor in it, and a few people actually smiled despite themselves because it sounded like him. Real. Unfiltered. “I didn’t know shit. I didn’t know how to fix shit.” His eyes found hers again.
“I didn’t know how to make you stay.”
The tears Annie had finally gotten under control started again because none of this was supposed to happen. She was supposed to come home, see old friends, survive one awkward conversation with Elijah, and go back to North Carolina pretending she had finally moved on. Instead she was standing in the middle of a backyard realizing neither one of them ever really had.
For one impossible moment, it felt like they were seventeen again. Not because anything had been repaired, but because they were staring at each other with the same unfinished ache they had carried out of high school and into adulthood, and neither one of them seemed to know what to do with it now that it had finally been named.
Then Smoke broke eye contact, and Annie watched something change in his face. The softness that had been there moments earlier slowly disappeared beneath something older and far more dangerous. The understanding faded next, followed by the grief that had kept his anger tempered throughout most of the conversation. What remained was not rage. It was exhaustion. The kind that settled deep inside a person after carrying the same hurt for so long it stopped feeling separate from them.
Smoke looked at her for a long moment before finally shaking his head.
“You keep talkin’ like I left you.”
The words were not loud, and that made them worse. Annie froze because for the first time all afternoon, she was not sure what her response was supposed to be. Smoke laughed once under his breath and looked away, but nothing was funny. After everything they had just said, he still couldn’t believe they were standing here having this conversation.
“You keep tellin’ this story like I walked away.”
Annie opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Smoke looked back at her. His eyes were red now too, though she was not sure when that had happened. “You talk about North Carolina. You talk about missin’ me. You talk about waitin’.” He shook his head, his voice steady in a way that made every word harder to hear. “But every version of this story end the same.”
Annie tightened her grip around the suitcase handle.
“You leave.”
Smoke didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even sound angry. If anything, the absence of anger made the words harder to hear. They landed between them with the weight of something he had repeated to himself so many times it no longer felt like an opinion. To him it was simply fact. Annie left. Everything else had happened afterward.
“You leave,” he said again. “You stop answerin’. You stop callin’.”
Annie shook her head immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”
Smoke laughed, and the sound broke halfway through. “See?” His eyes closed briefly. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Tears gathered again, blurring Annie’s vision. “I was seventeen.”
“SO WAS I!!!!!”
The response came so quickly it startled both of them. Years of hurt sat between them, heavier than anything either one had said before. Smoke dragged a hand across his face and looked away toward the house, toward the trees, toward anywhere but her. When he spoke again, his voice sounded rougher.
“Do you know what the fucked up part is?”
Nobody moved. Nobody interrupted. Stack stood beside Pearline with one hand hovering near her back. Aunt Cheryl had lowered her eyes. Mary had finally stopped fidgeting. Jada sat very still, watching a man she knew in one way grieve a girl he had clearly known in another.
Smoke looked back at Annie, and whatever she saw in his face made her stomach drop.
“All these years…” His voice cracked once before he caught it. “…I thought you knew.”
Annie stared at him.
Smoke laughed again, but this time there was nothing left in it to protect him. “I thought you knew how much I fuckin’ love you.”
The tears hit Annie instantly. Hot. Merciless. Impossible to stop. Smoke nodded slowly, like he had known this was going to hurt them both before he ever said it.
“And somehow…” He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving hers. “…you still look at me like I’m the one who left.”
The silence that followed didn’t t feel empty. It felt full of every year they had spent telling themselves stories that only held up because the other person had not been there to challenge them. Nobody spoke.
Annie stared at Smoke, and Smoke stared back, and for the first time since she came home, she realized she had absolutely no idea what happens next.
End Note: I promise we are almost done....cause I can't take it. But let me know what you think in the comments, please! I love every one of your thoughts. 💜
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 7
Contains: Explicit language, slow-burn/build romance, mentions of Hoodoo
Word Count: 9.9k
📝 This chapter really turned me every way but loose because it went a completely different direction than I originally planned, but it's necessary in kickstarting things between the two of them. Please let me know what you think in the comments! & Sidenote: The Harvest Party is coming up soon!
Masterlist
The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots.
It was late.
The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover.
Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.
Something was on Aunt Della’s mind.
Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.
Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.”
There it was.
Annie looked up.
Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.
Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why.
“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.
Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm.
“You like him?”
Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.
“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.
Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.
Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded.
“Yes you do,” she answered back.
Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking.
But she was so young. Barely 18.
She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.
It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son.
She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.
The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.
Elijah and Elias.
She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry.
She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece.
She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.”
A moment passed. Then two.
Aware.
That’s how Annie felt when he was around.
Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound.
Loose.
Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things.
But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.
Seen.
She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.
She tried a different angle. “He good to you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard.
“Respectful?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He pressure you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”
Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”
Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You intact?”
“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.
“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”
“Yes ma’am.”
A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off.
It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too.
“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.
Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious.
Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.
Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”
Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.
“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”
Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?”
“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.
“The truth do just fine.”
Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles.
“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.
“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.
“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.
Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?”
“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”
“So you remember what they look like?”
“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”
Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood.
She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?”
The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.
Annie blinked. “Ma’am?”
“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?”
Annie blinked twice this time.
All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen.
Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once.
Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way.
She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home.
But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.
She kept getting four when she added two and two together.
But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.
“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.”
Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently.
Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”
The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”
Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”
The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip.
The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it.
“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.
“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.”
Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.”
The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”
Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”
She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm.
“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.
“Goodnight, Annie.”
Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen.
“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.
The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon.
Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.
The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say.
Two questions came to mind.
What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her?
What made her change her mind?
It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment.
Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note.
Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids.
She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night.
Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin.
Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.
That was hers.
Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.
The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination.
She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.
The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation.
An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.
Then he was gone.
All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside. No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.
She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.
The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day.
“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.
The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.”
“I been sleep this whole time?”
“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…”
“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back.
Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.
One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.
Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.
“So you gon’ tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”
Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.
“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.
Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip.
“What about her?”
Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”
The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation.
“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.
“About?”
Smoke didn’t reply.
Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”
Smoke shot him a look.
Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?”
It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times.
“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady.
Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”
“That’s right.”
“This ‘bout my girl?”
“It is.”
Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.
“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.”
“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms.
Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.
“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.
“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”
Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”
“Not yet.”
“You need to.”
“I will. Wanted to ask you first.”
She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”
“I don’t do half.”
Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”
“She did.”
“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”
“I won’t,” Smoke replied.
Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room.
Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper.
Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.
“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even.
“Yes ma’am.”
“How much?”
“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.”
Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”
“I am,” he said with finality.
Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.
“Still seein’ other women?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Ain’t what I heard.”
Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.
“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.”
Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”
“It ain’t?”
“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.”
“Then why they still talkin’?”
Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.
Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.”
Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.
Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.
Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously.
“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?”
“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.”
“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.”
Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Della started.
“Miss Della—” he started.
She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.”
Della sighed. “Alright.”
Smoke’s face relaxed.
“There’s rules.”
“Okay.”
“Handle that business, first.”
“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.
Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?”
He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted.
She didn’t flinch. “That it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him.
“You ain’t gotta worry about that.”
“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”
“Can I leave this for her?”
Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.
“What is it?”
His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”
“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.
Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”
“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet.
Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat.
Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields.
Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt.
Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.
Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.
Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.
Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied.
Memphis appeared thirty minutes later.
The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise.
There was a lightness here.
But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.
“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.
“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t.
“Whatever it is.”
Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”
Smoke waited.
He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”
Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”
Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”
Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly.
“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.”
“Who, Annie?”
Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”
“Nigga.”
Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by.
“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…”
“Aight….” Smoke mumbled.
“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”
Smoke didn’t answer.
Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street.
“You know she good for you, right?”
Smoke’s eyes cut over.
Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.
“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.”
Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.”
Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”
Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.
They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper.
Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”
Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”
“Nervous?”
Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”
The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.
“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.
The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.
“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up.
“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her.
“You ‘bout to find out.”
The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”
Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze.
Then the daylight.
Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers.
Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.
More shelves.
Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things.
Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish.
“This where we gon’ start.”
Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”
“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.”
She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.”
Annie’s eyes narrowed.
“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.”
Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her.
She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing.
Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said.
“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”
She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”
Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.
Aunt Della gave her a look.
“Not sage,” Annie winced.
Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”
Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.
“You askin’ or tellin’?”
“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.
Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”
Annie smiled despite herself.
“What’s it for?”
“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.”
Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.” She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.”
She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”
They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.
“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You was.”
Annie huffed softly, frustrated.
“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”
Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.
“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted.
Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands.
“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.”
Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.
The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind.
There was no wind down here.
Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs.
Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly.
“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.
“Not today.”
“Really?”
“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.”
She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?”
Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”
Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand.
Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”
“A promise?”
“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”
Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left.
Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”
le 31 octobre 1919
Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there.
Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her.
“Name it.”
Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.
She smelled first.
Looked second.
And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.
It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.
It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger.
An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business.
“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”
Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.
His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.
His hand shook suddenly on the second.
He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.
Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm.
He exhaled with relief.
It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.
He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.
Annie.
He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on.
Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.
He had to think about something safer.
Like lips or eyes.
But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?
Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.
He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.
“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—
“You good?”
The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side.
It was Stack.
“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”
”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.”
Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs.
One Week Later…
It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.
Especially people’s relatives from up north.
There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south.
And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing.
That ‘Northern’ polish.
Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun.
Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.
She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.
Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.
Especially about the women they dealt with.
Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered.
“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”
“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”
Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.
Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?
“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.
She looked up.
“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket.
“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.
Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”
She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside.
The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food.
Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.
Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.
Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open.
Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him.
Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.
The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.
“Afternoon,” she said softly.
“Afternoon.”
“You hungry?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them.
Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.
“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”
“Long.”
“That it?”
“Mostly.”
Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.
“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.
“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.
“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.
Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.”
“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.
“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question.
She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie.
“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”
Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly.
“Better now.”
She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers.
Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut.
“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.
Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache.
He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head.
“You leavin’?”
Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.”
He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.
“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.
“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.
He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”
Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment.
Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money.
“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!”
“Got it,” Felicia huffed.
The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks.
She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out.
—
Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away.
Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.
When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.
That was what Stack would think later — not the men, not the route she'd taken, not any of the hundred small decisions that had compounded into catastrophe. The wisteria. Because if Annie didn't love those ridiculous purple flowers the way she did, she wouldn't have made the detour she made every Tuesday, and if she hadn't made the detour, none of the rest of it would have happened.
But Annie loved her wisteria, and there was nothing to be done about that.
She had discovered the vine three springs ago, growing wild along the fence line of an abandoned lot on the far end of Decatur Street — a great sprawling tangle of it, untended, extravagant, spilling purple down the rotted wood like it had decided to be beautiful despite everything. She had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at it for a full minute. Stack had been with her that day, and he had watched her stare, and even then he'd known it was over.
She had gone back every Tuesday since.
Sometimes she brought cuttings home for her workroom. Sometimes she just stood there for a while, among the smell of it. Sometimes she brought a small cloth and wiped the blooms down — which was, Stack maintained, the most Annie thing that had ever happened in the history of Annie things.
"You cleaning flowers," he'd said once, watching her from the gate.
"They dusty," she'd said, without turning around.
"They outside, mama. They supposed to be dusty. They don't know the difference."
"I know the difference."
He had laughed until his ribs hurt. Had told Smoke that evening, and they'd both laughed again. And the next Tuesday she'd gone back, and the Tuesday after, and it had simply become part of the architecture of their week.
Tuesday was Annie's wisteria day.
That particular Tuesday morning, she'd been in good spirits.
Stack remembered that too — the specific quality of her mood, light and anticipatory, the way she'd hummed while she dressed and come to find him in the warm tangle of the bed where he was still trying to talk himself into consciousness.
She'd perched on the edge of the mattress and put her hand on his arm. "I'm heading out. Market first, then Decatur."
"Mm." He'd found her hand without opening his eyes. "Your flowers."
"My wisteria," she corrected, with the primness of a woman defending something she knew was ridiculous and had decided not to care. "They were coming in beautiful last week. I want to take some cuttings before the heat gets to em’."
"You and them flowers, I swear." He'd cracked one eye open to look at her. She was already done up — hair pinned, a pale yellow dress, looking like the kind of morning a man would want to wake up into. "Normal women collect dishes. Spoons. You out here unnaturally attached to a weed."
"Wisteria ain’t a weed."
"It's growing on an abandoned fence, in the middle of—"
"It is not a weed," she said, with great dignity, and he'd laughed and pulled her down and kissed her temple and her cheek and the corner of her mouth until she was trying not to smile and failing completely.
"You a crazy woman," he'd murmured into her hair. Fond. Helplessly fond.
"You in love with this crazy woman," she'd said back, soft and certain, and pressed her lips to his jaw before she stood and smoothed her dress and went.
He'd listened to her footsteps move through the house. The quiet of the front door.
Then he'd turned his face back into the pillow and gone back to sleep, easy and untroubled, because it was Tuesday and Annie was going to the market and then to her flowers and then home.
That was how Tuesday worked.
The juke was quiet in the late afternoon — the interim hour between the day men leaving and the night crowd arriving, when the place belonged mostly to the staff and the sound of chairs being set right.
Stack was going over the week's receipts at the back table when Deacon Hollis wandered in, which was not unusual. Deacon was seventy-something and had been drinking at this particular establishment through three different owners and two of his own wives. He came in most afternoons for one glass of something and whatever conversation was available.
He settled at the bar and said to the boy wiping down the counter, "Busy on Decatur Street today. Had to go all the way around."
Stack didn't look up.
The bar boy made a sound of mild interest.
"Some kind of commotion," Deacon continued, with the relish of a man who had no urgent business anywhere and could therefore linger on details. "Couple hours back, maybe more. Police come through, asked some questions. Seemed like somebody saw something they shouldn't have, or something got moved that shouldn't be."
Stack turned a page.
"Right near that empty lot," Deacon added. "The one with all them purple flowers on the fence."
Stack's hand stilled on the page.
Just his hand. Nothing else visible changed — not his expression, not his posture, nothing that the room would have clocked as meaningful. But his hand stopped moving, and in the space behind his eyes something very cold and very focused began assembling itself.
The lot with the purple flowers.
Annie's lot. Annie's Tuesday. Annie who had left that morning with a cloth in her bag for wiping down the blooms and had said I want to take some cuttings before the heat gets to them and whom he had not heard from since.
He set the receipts down.
"Deacon," he said, and his voice came out even. Measured. "What time you say that was?"
Deacon turned on his stool, pleased to have an audience. "Oh, two o'clock maybe? Half past? The officers was already gone by the time I come through, but old Ruth from the dress shop was still standing outside talking about it. Said she'd seen a woman—"
Stack was already standing.
Deacon blinked. "You alright, son?"
But Stack was already moving through the back, already pulling the curtain aside that separated the main room from the office where Smoke was doing what Smoke was always doing — sitting with numbers and a cigarette and that particular quality of stillness that could mean anything or nothing.
Smoke looked up.
He took one look at his brother's face and put the cigarette down.
"Talk," he said.
Stack talked. Smoke listened with the unnerving focus he brought to all things that required it, and when Stack finished, Smoke didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at the middle distance. Doing the same arithmetic Stack had already done and arriving at the same unbearable sum.
Then he stood, picked up his coat, and said, "Let's go find out."
They found out.
A man named Lenny Briggs, one of their runners, who had heard something he hadn't known what to do with and had been working up the courage to come to the juke when Stack found him first on the corner of Fifth and Marsh. Lenny had the look of a man who would have preferred not to be found.
He told them what he knew.
Slim’s men — a rival outfit who had been circling the east side numbers territory for the better part of a year, looking for a pressure point, looking for the particular lever that would bring the Moore brothers to a table they hadn't chosen. They had found their lever. They had taken her off the street somewhere between the market and the lot — right around the wisteria, which Stack would think about for a long time after — and they had her at the old Beaumont property on the south road.
Lenny gave the address with the energy of a man trying to make a down payment on his own continued wellbeing. Stack received the information without expression, said "Thank you" in a voice that was quiet and even and somehow worse than shouting, and turned south.
Smoke fell into step beside him and put one hand briefly on his brother's arm. The old signal. Wordless. Be smart. We get her first. Everything else after.
Stack's jaw was granite. He nodded once.
They were smart. They were fast.
There were two men outside and three within.
Smoke handled the outside — efficient, practiced, the kind of violence that begins and ends cleanly because it has a purpose and knows what that purpose is. Then he pushed through the door.
Stack was still in the room with the last one.
The man was on the floor. Had been on the floor for a while, by the look of it. Stack was crouched over him, one knee on the ground, and he was not finished. The man had stopped being a threat some time ago and Stack had continued anyway, methodical and terrifyingly quiet — no rage in his face, which was somehow worse than rage. Just something hollow and absolute, like a door that had been opened onto nothing.
Smoke stood in the doorway for a moment and watched.
Then he said, "Stack."
Stack didn't stop.
"Stack." Harder this time. Not a shout — Smoke didn't shout — but weighted. The kind of voice that expected to be heard.
Stack's hand stilled.
He stayed crouched for a moment, breathing. The sound of it filled the room — ragged, too fast.
Smoke crossed to him and put one hand on the back of his neck. Firm and present. "She's in the back," he said, low. "She's okay. We got her. Come on back now."
A long beat.
Stack looked down at what was in front of him. Something shifted in his face — not quite recognition, not quite regret. More like a man surfacing from very deep water and finding the light strange.
He stood. Didn't say anything. Just turned and walked toward the back of the building, and Smoke followed, and neither of them looked back at the room.
The door came off its hinges.
Not broken — removed. Stack had simply decided it was in his way and dealt with it accordingly, and Smoke caught it without breaking stride and set it against the wall with the quiet efficiency of a man long accustomed to making the world cooperate, and stepped through the threshold behind his brother.
The room was dim. Smelled like damp wood and kerosene and something metallic that neither of them dwelled on.
And there, in the far corner —
There she was.
Their matriarch. Their woman. Their Annie.
Smoke exhaled. Just the one breath. One single moment of relief so complete it was almost physical, before he folded it away and put it somewhere safe.
Stack didn't bother with any of that.
He crossed the room in four long strides. Annie barely had time to register him before he pressed her back against the wall — not rough, not cruel, but absolute. Like he needed something solid behind her. Like he needed to know she couldn't be taken anywhere else.
"Stack—" Smoke started.
The younger twin didn't hear him. Or if he did, it didn't matter.
His hands came up to her face. Both of them. Palms bracketing her jaw, thumbs moving across her cheekbones, fingers pressing back into her hair. Frantic eyes cataloguing everything — the dried tear tracks, the slight swelling at her wrist, the small cut at the corner of her lip that made something behind his eyes go very briefly and very darkly wrong before he forced himself onward. Keep checking. Keep confirming.
Here. Alive. Breathing. Theirs. Home.
Annie had never felt more precious than in that moment. Not cherished — that was too soft a word for what was happening. Something rawer. Something that lived below language.
Once he had confirmed what he needed to confirm, he swept down and claimed what had always been his.
Blood still painted his face. She could smell the iron as he descended, and some distant sensible part of her registered that it should frighten her — the state of him, what it implied, the fact that none of that blood was his.
But she was not always a sensible woman when it came to these men.
She let him have it. Let him take the kiss like it was owed — because it was. Raw and primal and a little gruesome the way all true things are a little gruesome. His chest heaved against hers, and his hands were trembling — Stack's hands, which she had never once seen tremble — moving over her arms, her sides, her face. Touching. Feeling. Verifying.
She felt it all move through her like weather. His fear. His fury. His absolute, immovable devotion.
I know, she thought. I know, baby. I know.
She murmured it into his hair when he finally broke, forehead dropping to her shoulder, a shudder moving through him she felt with her whole body.
"I know. I'm here."
Smoke stood back and watched.
Because Stack needed this. Maybe Annie needed it too — to be held this completely, this desperately, after hours of not knowing when or whether. But Stack needed it most. So Smoke stayed where he was and gave the man the room.
Annie met the older twin's eyes over Stack's bowed head.
Nothing passed between them except everything. She saw the tightness at the corner of his jaw. The controlled version of the same thing Stack was barely containing. She held his gaze until she saw his shoulders drop a single fraction of an inch.
I see you. I'm alright. He's alright. We're alright.
Stack made a sound then — small and cracked and quiet, pressed into her shoulder. The kind a man makes only when he doesn't mean to. She felt it like something giving way.
She pulled him in tighter.
"It's okay," she murmured, hand pressing flat between his shoulder blades. "I'm here, baby. I ain't goin' nowhere."
He held on.
Annie had been the one taken.
But it was Stack who felt like he had lost his heart.
A long moment passed. Then, muffled against her shoulder, rough and still unsteady — somewhere between a reprimand and a man who had been terrified into raw honesty:
"And you ain't gon’ do no shit like that again."
Annie closed her eyes.
Her hand moved slow and steady through his hair.
"No," she said softly. "I ain't."
Smoke pulled the lamp low before he sat at the foot of the bed.
It was well past midnight. The house had gone completely quiet. Annie lay in the middle of the bed, Stack curved against her back with his face tucked into her hair, one arm thrown across her waist like a man holding on even in sleep.
Cleaned up now. Dressed down. The blood long gone — Annie had done it herself at the basin, quiet and methodical, and Stack had sat on the edge of the tub and let her. Had not said a word while she washed his hands and his face and his split knuckles, which told their own particular story that she had received without comment and without flinching.
She was awake. Smoke had known she would be.
"He out?" Smoke asked, low.
"Mm. Fought it some." Her hand moved slowly through Stack's curls. "But he's out."
A beat of quiet between them. The lamp flame held steady.
"You alright?" he asked.
"I'm whole," she said. Her particular answer — the one that meant something more than fine and less than undamaged and asked him to understand the distance between those things.
He accepted it. He would look at her properly in the morning.
"Elijah." Soft but weighted.
"I'm listening."
She was quiet a moment, eyes on the ceiling.
"I ain’t never seen him like that," she finally said.
Smoke was quiet too, for a long stretch of seconds.
He had been there. He had witnessed what Annie had not fully seen — what had happened in those rooms before they reached her. He knew the shape of what his brother had done, and he knew that Stack, of all people, of all the men Smoke had stood beside in all the years of their lives — Stack was not supposed to be the one who went that far past the line.
"No," Smoke said. "Neither have I."
She absorbed that. Let it settle.
"Was it bad?" she said.
"Depended," Smoke said, "on which side of it you were on."
A breath that was almost a laugh. "That ain't an answer."
"It's the honest one." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at his brother's sleeping face. The furrow still between his brows, even now. "He went past what was needed. Kept going after it was done. I had to call him back." A pause. "Twice."
Annie's hand stilled in Stack's hair for just a moment. Then resumed.
"He was ahead of me the whole way there," Smoke continued, quieter now. "I known Stack all my life. Watched him in situations that would've laid other men down. He's always had something working up here even when he's pushed — he thinks. He's always been able to think." He paused. "Tonight he wasn't thinking."
"What was he doing?" she said.
"Feeling," Smoke said simply.
Annie closed her eyes.
Stack shifted against her in his sleep, brow tightening, and she made a soft sound and his face smoothed again, like he could hear her even under everything.
"He knew something was wrong before anyone told him," she said. Not quite a question.
"Yes."
"How?"
Smoke was quiet for a beat. "Your flowers."
Annie stilled.
"Deacon came in talking about a commotion on Decatur. Near the lot." Smoke glanced at her. "Stack was across the room. He heard the words purple flowers and that was all it took."
Something moved across Annie's face. Too complicated to name.
"All those Tuesdays," she said softly.
"He knows your Tuesdays, Annie." Smoke's voice was matter of fact, the way he said things that were simply true and required no decoration. "He knows how long the market takes and which way you walk and what time you're usually back. He noticed before any message came. Before anyone came to us at all. He put it together himself."
She was very quiet for a moment.
"Lord," she breathed.
Outside, the wind moved through the pecan trees, that soft sound of a summer night settling into itself.
"You need to say something to him when he wakes," Smoke said. "Not about what happened in that room — he doesn't need to explain himself and you don't need the details. But he needs to hear that you see him the same." He looked at her steadily. "That tonight ain’t change your eyes when you look at him."
"It didn't," she said. And then, smaller: "It just — added to what's already there."
Smoke held her gaze for a moment. Then nodded once, slowly.
"And me," she said, after a breath.
"And you," he confirmed.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he agreed. "When he's with us and you've both rested. But Annie." His voice dropped a register, quiet and absolute. "What you love doing, where you go — none of that changes. But how you move through the world when we not with you?" He held her gaze. "That's the conversation we're gon’ to have."
Annie's chin lifted slightly. She didn't argue it. But she held his gaze long enough to communicate that it would be a conversation and not a sentencing, and Smoke acknowledged that with the smallest dip of his head.
Good enough for tonight.
He rose and came around to his side — the familiar geography of their life, every night for years — and settled in.
The bed held all three of them, as it always had.
Annie lay in the dark and looked at the ceiling and listened to the two men breathing, one deep in sleep, one slipping toward it.
She thought about that morning. The yellow dress. The cloth she'd tucked into her bag for the blooms. Stack's voice still rough with sleep, laughing at her — you and those flowers, I swear — and pulling her down and kissing her like she was something ridiculous and wonderful and entirely his.
Crazy woman.
Your crazy woman.
She pressed her lips to his temple in the dark. Soft as a secret.
His arm tightened across her waist even in sleep.
Love should be calm, she thought. Peaceful. The kind of thing you can sleep inside of and wake up still held by.
But she thought about the words purple flowers landing across a quiet room. About the hand going still on the receipts. About Smoke’s thirty-some years of knowing someone so well that the wrong silence sounded like a scream.
The act of love, she thought, was something else entirely.
She exhaled.
She was home.
They were home.
Outside, somewhere, her wisteria grew on its rotting fence — untended, extravagant, stubbornly beautiful — and knew nothing about any of it.
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A/N If you could find it in your hearts to forgive me? 🥺 Don't know what to say that would explain this absence so I'm not going to say anything. Feels like all I give ya'll is excuses for real. I am okay. Doing well. Life is just lifeing, interviewing for a new job (pray I get it!) I'll be in Chicago next week actually. So I'll def do some writing there :) Hope you're all well. Hope you enjoy this bite sized piece of our lovely trio. Love you <3
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This work of art is part of "The Moore Kind" universe. Where Smoke, Annie, and Stack exist as a Trio. If you'd like to learn more about them, check out My Masterlist 😘
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All Fic Taglist - Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. (Also lmk if you want me to remove you. No hard feelings I promise.)
summary: there’s only so much you can do with hate, and after ages spent despising one another, smoke and annie finally give in. but what does that mean for those around them? and how can they keep their hearts from getting involved?
cw: smut, enemies to lovers, lil degradation, harsh language, use of the nword
a/n: i’ve been wrestling with writer’s block for over a month now, but this idea grabbed ahold of me and wouldn’t let go! i’m hoping to be back fully operational soon!
masterlist
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Cloying—the one word he’d use to describe her.
Rich. Decadent. Too much of a good thing. But there was no way he’d start complaining about it right now.
Fingers indented the flesh of her ass and thighs while nails pierced his shoulders, tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck.
They were supposed to hate each other. They were supposed to despise one another. She was his twin’s annoying best friend. He, her best friend’s uptight older brother who couldn’t help but turn his nose up at her short shorts and crop tops. But she wore them for him—just as he wore his low-hanging sweatpants for her.
When she’d come over to the twin’s shared apartment, they’d parade around for each other: Annie in her booty shorts and tight shirts, Smoke in sweatpants and a tank, a chain if he was feeling particularly interested in her attention. He’d come out of his room “for a bottle of water” or “to ask about plans for later,” but he was really just trying to get a look at Annie’s long legs. And she’d roll her eyes at him and make smart ass comments just to rile him up, but she was always looking at him a little too hard, too.
They hated each other for no good reason. For simply being around. For taking up space. For speaking and smelling divine and looking good enough to eat even though they knew they couldn’t have each other.
And now—despite all that—they were tangled up in Smoke’s sheets, and Annie was sitting thick and pretty on his palate like a good meal when you’ve been starved for ages.
“Smoke,” the young woman whined, clawing at his upper body. He had her thighs pried open and her legs thrown over his shoulders, and every time she attempted to catch her breath, he was halting her action by dousing her in more pleasure. She squirmed in his hold, but her efforts were in vain. The young man held on too tight, but even though Annie was struggling against him, she didn’t want to go too far anyway. He felt too good, fucking her with his tongue, sucking on her clit with those plush lips. When he practically began to swallow her arousal from the source, she shook against the bed aggressively. And just as she felt the wave begin to wash over her exhausted, needy body, the man stopped.
A huff escaped his lips—gruff, angry, and resentful.
“I can’t fuckin’ stand you,” Smoke growled, mind reeling from the delicious sound of her moaning his name and the too sweet taste of her on his tongue. He sat back on his haunches, but all that did was give him a better view of her bare body. The man rolled his eyes, growled once more from the sweat-slicked sight.
“Well, I can’t stand yo’ ass neither,” Annie shouted, propping herself up to get a better look at him.
They wore matching scowls, eyes full of contempt. Beneath the surface, their bodies were buzzing for a release that seemed too distant now, but Annie’s thighs were wet with her arousal—a puddle in the sheets—and Smoke’s length was throbbing with every glimpse he allowed himself to take of her.
The woman’s scowl turned to a wicked grin. And one glance at the time had her mind made up.
“Come on, Smokey,” Annie teased, crawling toward where Smoke had decided to land—at the edge of the bed with his back toward her. “You obviously need to let some steam off,” she hummed, hooking her arms around his neck from behind, “and Stack won’t be back from that li’l date for a minute. Stop bein’ pussy.”
She started kissing up the back of his neck, heavy, thick kisses that had his eyes fluttering shut. But her words were like ice, chilling his system and bringing that contempt back to the surface. He growled once—just once—then he grabbed her and swung her into position on his lap.
“I ain’t no pussy,” he condemned, smacking her ass and watching the way she tried her best not to flinched. He watched her grind her teeth, her hatred of him being just as strong as his for her. “And I don’ told you about callin’ me that name.”
“What? Smokey,” she threw in question, already knowing the answer. He’d said it time and time again, but that was what she used to successfully piss him off every time—she wasn’t about to stop now. Watching the man closely, she couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw tightened at the sound of the nickname again, and at that, she set her hips in motion.
Her wet arousal rocked against his—slow, teasing, angry. She did nothing to remove the sly grin on her lips. She let it melt into her skin and stay planted there as she indulged in the way the man’s eyes were rolling back from the feel of her.
Smoke gritted his teeth at the feeling of Annie’s clit sliding along his dick, and he did his best not to let the pleasure show, but she had moans escaping his lips and tears pricking in his eyes before he could stop it. His hands held her in place atop him, attempting to command the situation. But annoyingly enough, Annie was too good at maintaining control—over him and the task at hand.
“I hate seein’ yo’ stupid fuckin’ face when I come over here,” the woman huffed, rising up on her feet. She sank down onto his length, shuddering at the stretch, chuckling when he groaned. “You must don’t ever go out ‘cause you always here,” she added, breath quickening as her body began to move at a steady pace. Her words were laced with hatred, but beneath the anger, resided that small part of her that anticipated seeing him every time she came over, the part that chose her outfits according to what would turn his head the most, the part that was ecstatic to finally have him buried inside her and at her mercy.
Smoke shifted their position. He moved back up the bed, rested his body, planted his feet, lifted her slightly. He laughed at the surprised look that took over her face, but he immediately turned cold once more.
“You the one that’s always over here in my face,” he argued, pulling her in close. His nails pierced the flesh of her ass punishingly, and with his regaining of control, he forced her to meet his thrusts as he pounded into her from below. “You stay up in my house, bothering me. But I’m the problem?” Each word bit. Each statement true. But Annie wasn’t ready to back down.
“Yeah,” she choked, fuming in a unique mix of hate and lust. “Yeah, you the fuckin’ problem.”
Her hips snapped harsh. Her hands pressed into his shoulders as she rode him silly, refusing to let him win. And he wasn’t letting up either.
The air of the room turned dark and dense as the two fought to make the other crumble. They wouldn’t allow themselves to be the first to break—the first to cum, to show how much they desired the other—but someone had to be the one.
Meeting each other thrust for thrust, their breaths mingled, their tongues fought, their bodies began to shudder viciously. Annie’s teeth bit into the meat of Smoke’s bottom lip, and his palms claimed her ass with an ease neither of them would talk about outside of this room.
“You finna cum,” the man barked, waiting for an answer in the form of moans and trembling. He smacked her ass, fucked her with aggression.
“Hell naw,” Annie hurled back, queuing up her insults. “Nigga, this shit weak. But I know this pussy ‘bout to have you ruined.”
And ruined he was—right alongside Annie, too.
For the next few weeks, they poked at each other, prodded, towed that line between disgust and desire. When they saw each other, their eyes flashed with hatred, and when Stack turned his back, drifted too far away, they were on each other hot. They couldn’t deny the need. They couldn’t stuff down the craving.
That’s why they were back at it again.
Smoke’s bed.
Stack long gone.
Annie with her face down—ass up.
“You need this shit like a greedy li’l slut,” the man taunted, stroking her deep. Her arch became more pronounced as her arms slid forward and her mouth fell open. She couldn’t protest because when he texted her and said Stack ‘went out,’ she immediately jumped from her comfortable position in bed, slid her shoes on, and drove her ass over to that apartment. She was greedy—yes. A slut—absolutely.
Her hips worked to bring them both closer to the edge, falling back into his strokes because she was a pro at this shit now. They’d done it plenty of times: always here in his bed where they could be caught at any moment. She knew how he liked it, knew that when his mouth got slick he was close to burying himself deep in her.
“Smoke,” Annie slurred, words weak from all the wails he’d pulled from her tonight. Her hand wrapped around his wrist in an effort to seek out connection, and as much as he despised her, he let her have it. Their fingers intertwined, bodies creating a delicious rhythm. And they let go—together.
As they winded down from the effects of their orgasms, their hands remained connected. Annie’s thumb stroked the side of Smoke’s hand, working diligently to pull sharp breaths from him. He couldn’t push away that feeling she gave him: like he was going to eventually lose his life in her but that it would be worth it in the end. He shifted his position, turned on his side to watch her, but Annie was already looking at him.
“I gotta go,” the young woman spoke matter-of-factly. She dragged her body away from his, and as she sat of the edge of his bed, he watched her stretch. Her arms rose above her head, pulling her worn out muscles gently. She shifted to the side and he could make out the curve of her breast—delicate and hefty at the same time. It made his mouth fall open, but he soon gained the woman’s attention. “The fuck you lookin’ at,” Annie hurled in his direction. She began to pull her clothes back on, starting with her undergarments, but she couldn’t find her shirt anywhere.
“What we doin’ for real, Anne,” Smoke leveled, standing up on wobbling feet.
“We fuckin’,” she answered with a roll of her neck. “Duh.”
“This ain’t just fuckin’, and you know that,” he continued. He stepped in her direction, beginning to help in the pursuit of her long lost shirt. “If this is just fuckin’ then why you don’t wanna tell my brother?”
“‘Cause I don’t want Stack in all my damn business,” Annie turned quick. She shot through him with her eyes, but he couldn’t hardly take anything serious as she stood before him with her upper half nearly bare: her bright pink bra was the only thing covering her chest.
“But you tell Stack everything,” Smoke threw out—completely confused. She and his twin had been close for a long while now, and there was nothing the other didn’t know—except for this. He had also never been much of a liar, but since Annie insisted this remain a secret, he listened.
But now, the man was conflicted by his feelings.
He couldn’t fucking stand Annie, but looking at her big, brown eyes and having held her hand so dearly earlier, he was experiencing a new, rawer emotion.
He watched her continue to scrounge for her shirt as a way to not look him in the eye, but that didn’t mean he was done with his line of questioning.
“What you want from this? From me and you,” Smoke whispered. His voice was low, tone dripping in a seriousness that seemed to be plaguing him right now. Annie turned completely in his direction, her search for the shirt fully thwarted now. She crossed her arms under her chest and leaned against the dresser on the opposite side of the room, sighing with a strangled breath that seemed to not want to come out.
When she looked at him, her eyes were big and round, wet with emotion.
“It started as me wantin’ to prove something,” she shrugged, eyes stuck on his. “I wanted to prove that I was more than just a nuisance, that I could make you feel something other than your hate for me, that I could dive headfirst into this and walk away unscathed.” She shook her head, diverted her gaze. “And now,” she continued, words catching on the way out, “now I feel silly for lettin’ this continue for so long, knowin’ what you do to me.”
“Anne—” the man tried, but she kept speaking, kept spiraling.
“I’m just so stupid! Of course this was just sex for you,” Annie pointed in his direction before smoothing her hair down away from her face. Her body seemed to be vibrating, and Smoke’s fingers trembled with a need to reach out for her, but he knew that would only worsen the situation. “And now I’ve just made it weird because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check. And I can’t find my damn shirt no where!”
She searched frantically—high and low—but she came up empty every time. And as he watched her, Smoke stood there stunned. He didn’t have a clue what to say. Partially because he was still using that excuse of hating her. Partially because he was still oscillating between his difficult emotions. All he thought about now seemed to be Annie. Annie’s annoying voice. Annie’s annoying laugh. Annie’s annoyingly pretty smile. He continued to find himself trapped in their moments together, how easily they came together in his bed, how they could communicate with such ease at times before getting caught up in what they thought they were supposed to want.
He hated her. But her adored her. And he definitely understood what she meant about feeling silly.
When he noticed the tears falling from her eyes, Smoke finally let himself step forward. He reached for her in an attempt to calm her down, but the sound of keys in the front door halted that effort.
“Oh my God,” Annie breathed heavily, moving to cower in a corner. She had no shirt on, was crying like a fool, and was in her best friend’s brother’s room after fucking him behind the other man’s back. She didn’t know what to do, and one look at Smoke showed that he didn’t have a clue either. They remained quiet—didn’t dare make a sound first—but Stack’s words rang out loud.
“Aye yo’,” he laughed into the near quiet apartment. “Annie, where you at, girl?! I saw yo’ car in the lot!”
Their hearts sank to their feet, the inevitable finally coming face to face with them. Annie shook in her spot, terrified of the consequences of lying to the person closest to her, and as frightened as Smoke was as well, he forced himself to put on a brave face for her.
As Stack kept shouting her name, mumbling how she must be in the bathroom or something, the older twin tossed her one of his shirts.
In the living room, however, Stack was leaning back against the couch as a flash of color gained his attention. A bright baby blue crop top sat on the other side of the room, and without picking it up, he already knew who it belonged to.
He stopped speaking all together—because there had to be an explanation, because he was just not understanding what the situation was. His brother was here too; He had to be. Stack had seen his car parked in its usual spot, but maybe that hadn’t been his best friend’s vehicle at all. She had parked too far away, on the opposite end of the lot tucked into a corner. But he’d worked on her car enough times to recognize the unique dents and scratches.
And now, he was in his home, calling her name to no answer—from either of them. But there had to be an explanation, right?
Down the hall, a bedroom door, croaked open.
Two sets of feet set in motion. Slow. Trembling. Guilty.
Tears flooded one person’s eyes. Fear flooded another’s.
But there was no going back now.
Stack’s eyes bounced between the pair. From Smoke to Annie. From the shirt the woman wore to the one she’d obviously forgotten was in the living room all along. Confusion etched into his features. It was a strange type of understanding because of course he knew what this meant—Annie was wearing his brother’s shirt and they were both looking guilty as fuck—but how had this all happened? They hated each other. They had hated each other from the moment they first met.
The younger twin shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips. Then he laughed—disbelief shining through.
“Man y’all fucked up,” he cackled, tossing his head back. Standing to his feet, the young man continued to laugh and joke and admonish, and the embarrassed pair watched with wide eyes. He wouldn’t stop or let up, and they just had to stand there and take it. “This is what happens when you pretend like you hate somebody,” he continued, hands rising in the air. “You end up fuckin’ ‘cause ain’t shit else to do wit’ all that pent up energy.”
He turned toward the hallway, still shaking his head in disbelief, laughing to keep himself together. When he reached his bedroom door, he took one look at them. How they stood at an awkward distance from each other. How it seemed to be something else going on that he didn’t want to get into right now. Seriousness took control of his features, returning him to the moment he first realized something wasn’t right. With their backs to him, he sighed, and clearing his throat, he turned his doorknob and spoke once more before departing.
“All I got to say is y’all better get y’all shit together and not make me choose between y’all. For real though.”
The room fell quiet. With Stack gone, the pair were left to reckon with what they were doing, with the fact that their dirt had seen the light of day. Smoke, eyes picking up the glare from Annie’s long lost shirt, leaned forward to grab it. And as his fingers connected with the fabric, he reveled in the softness, the roughness, the unmistakable Annie-ness of the feel.
“Here you go,” he extended his hand. His volume was low, afraid to rustle the quiet air, and the woman thanked him in a tone just as soft.
Annie watched his eyes carefully, trying to find his lingering disdain for her, but there was none.
“I appreciate it,” she offered her thanks again, much more confident this time, and as a soft grin filled Smoke’s lips, Annie allowed hers to match.
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word count: ~3,200
a/n: i hope y'all enjoyedddd and thank you for readinggg
summary: elijah belongs to annie, but what will she do when she finds out that her man is splitting his time with another woman? tension boils over into lust, and bodies crumble as bonds forge themselves.
cw: smut, domme!annie, sub!smoke, domme!reader, lil mommy!annie, lil knife!wielding!annie, sweet!soft!whining!smoke, masturbation, bondage, edging, degradation, fight for power/dominance, violence, stack being messy as always, use of the nword
a/n: final part! yes—this is what sent me into my writer's block for no damn reason, might i add ://. this was adapted from a request + subsequent comments by @nysrevenge!
part one
masterlist
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Smoke was going through a lot. Ever since that night at Messenger’s and ending up on his back in Annie’s bed, the man has been incapable of calming his wired body.
Every single thought was consumed by you and Annie. He’d been so close to having you both—on the verge of having his wildest dreams come to fruition—but when you pulled back, that dream shattered. Since then, Annie has put him on punishment: no sex until she thought he was deserving of it. And with Annie, there was no telling how long that would be. She had him on a tight leash, one that he wanted to tug on and tug on until he was able to free himself. But he so badly wanted to be good for her, though every time he thought about the two of you pressed together, it got harder to behave.
With you working so much, it wasn’t like he could turn to you anyway. Your body was too tired to play with him, but he understood the fatigue you were experiencing, the stress on your system. He tried his best to alleviate it by sliding you money here and there, but you loved your independence and he begrudgingly chose to respect that.
Smoke Moore was never the most sunshiny of man, but now that he was being denied reprieve from Annie and was unable to seek refuge in you, he was insufferable. Every sound that left his mouth was a grunt, and every look he directed toward another was a mix of scowls, lowered eyes, and bulging veins. He was snapping at any person who crossed his midst—most notably Stack who kindly encouraged him to get his shit together before he told you and Annie about his nasty attitude.
And even then, that tactic only worked for smaller instances. Smoke would be yelling down somebody's throat because they bumped into him or talked too loud or plain ole existed, and Stack would bump his shoulder before mumbling, "Don't make me into a snitch, nigga. You know I'm scared of them women, but I'll do it." As a result, Smoke would hush up, grumble under his breath, and move on before the whole event was repeated again and again and again. The cycle was exhausting and annoying, but it continued only because the older twin hadn't done anything too egregious.
But then the inevitable happened, and Stack couldn't bite his tongue any longer.
The stifled man stood near the end of his small cot, bedroom door locked, hand braced on the chest of drawers ahead of him, abs trembling, shirt captured between his teeth, and permanent crease parting his eyebrows. He had held on as long as he could, but everything went out the window when he walked into town yesterday. It had been early morning, and as much as he wanted to welcome the singing of every Clarksdale bird, all he could do was drone his own song of displeasure.
He kicked a rock as he bypassed Ada's salon. Murmured when he reached the tailor's. But when he looked into the window of Maybelle's General Store, his heart and body vibrated tremendously. Annie was leaned over the counter, hand on her chin as she looked at your face with a smug, all-too-knowing expression; and you had your head cocked to the side, eyes skirting down to her chest and undressing her like you'd been given the roadmap to her body.
It had sparked that dream up in his system once more, and all he wanted was to fit himself behind Annie or beside your coy grin. He felt the heat beginning to rise below his belt, his arousal making itself evident, and before he became indecent for a public space, he made his way home.
He'd been locked in his bedroom since, shunning Stack away, telling Cornbread to get his ass out of his house. He'd tried, truly tried to abstain from his need, but once he got started, there was no stopping him.
With the shirt between his teeth, he worked to muffle the sound of his whines. No one was home, but he didn't even want the empty walls around him to hear how desperate he was for the pleasure of those two women. They'd each given him something to crave, and while they were similar, they each allowed him a different aspect of the submission he learned to love.
You were the one that held him close, praise at the tip of your tongue more often than not. Annie was the one that punished him like he knew better—because he did. Her degradation and harshness is what he loved the most—how she could grab his neck, tug on his ear, and call him everything but a Child of God and still get a rise out of him. He could only imagine how your sweetness plus her harshness would work to stir that side out of him even more, and as he worked at his length, he couldn't stop where his mind decided to take him.
"Fu—fuck," he released trembly, muffled by the stretched fabric. His body glistened in sweat from his efforts to get himself off. He'd been at it for what felt like hours, orgasm after sweet orgasm as he treated his body in the way he was being refused. He was angry but too wrecked to complain to the powers that be. It was his own fault for why he was in this situation in the first place. He shivered each time his palm dragged closer to the tip, oversensitive and fucked out. But he persisted.
Each stroke was in perfect timing. Each moan was followed by the names of two women he couldn't seem to forget. The picture of you and Annie leaned toward each other with dark, alluring eyes remained at the front of his mind, and he could feel the next climax on its way.
He chased it feverishly, begged for it, pleaded to whoever could hear his small cries to let his body know some sort of peace.
He was so damn close.
It was right there.
But, of course, the front door had to snap on its hinges and footsteps had to ruined the already troubled air. They were quick, the notable sound of Stack's brand new wingtip oxfords and two other pairs of feet crossing the length of the home.
Smoke let out a groan that was deafening before punching the air with as much energy as he had available. His shirt covered his chest and abs once more. His pants moved back up to his hips. And his back defiantly met the cushion of his padded cot.
Nigga can't have shit 'round here, he thought to himself, arms crossed over his chest. He stared into the ceiling with might that turned to straight violence when his brother knocked on the door.
"Aye, man," Stack shouted through the wood. "You 'posed to be hangin' wit' the fellas tonight. When you gon' leave this room?" As much as the man's tone was full of annoyance, there was concern beneath it, but Smoke was too angry to hear anything other than his heartbeat in his ears.
"I ain't goin' out," he lashed, words hot in their delivery. It made Stack turn toward the two people behind him who shook their heads in disapproval. He huffed, eyes down as he thought of the best way to get his brother out of his funk. With nothing coming to mind, he chose fighting words, resorting to that sibling teasing he knew too well.
"Man, you gotta cut this out for real," the younger twin tried again. "You gon' spend the rest of your life in this room 'cause you mad about some pussy? Stop bein' a li'l bitch and pull yourself together!"
On one side of the bedroom door, three people heard everything go silent in sound and emotion, only the sound of their own breaths moving the air.
But on the other side, Smoke raged.
In a flash of a second, the door went from closed with Stack completely out of harm's way to it nearly flung off of its hinges as Smoke barreled through it to set Stack's ass straight. His body was full on top of his, laying hit after hit that was far too light to do any real harm. It was the older twin's stamina that was doing the younger man in. He couldn't get a smack in to save his life, and as he resolved to covering his face, the other two people in the room were hunched over. They belly-laughed at the scene before them: how Smoke was practically blowing smoke from his ears, how Stack was praying to God for safe-keeping.
"Fuck y'all laughin' at," the younger brother shouted, interrupting the fun. "Save me!" And they did the best they could, pulling Smoke back and propelling his body away long enough for Stack to run out the front door. Smoke was obviously hot on his tail though, leaving the two onlookers to cackle even more.
Cornbread and Bo grabbed at their stomachs in an attempt to suppress the hurt of laughter, but nothing helped. Because as they looked in the distance, Stack was running in the direction of Annie's home, and Smoke was so rage-filled that he was none the wiser.
Stack bounded toward the woman's home, only hoping that she was there and could rid him of whatever evil had obviously been placed on his brother. His legs moved in a long stride, knees high as his arms helped to propel him. He and his brother were damn near the same person physically, so he restrained himself from looking backward. He could feel the man hot on him, getting closer the more his anger soared through his veins, but the younger of the two could see Annie's home in the distance. So close but so damn far.
He kept up his speed, heart ringing in his ears. When he got within shouting distance is when he was tackled to the ground. Dirt was thrown into the air. Rocks pressed into his cheeks as his brother smushed his face into the ground. Stack's head was turned to the side, so he could see the fist raise high, ripping through the air at lightening speed.
But then, Calvary came.
"Elijah Moore!" Two voices sounded at once. Loud. Piercing. Angry with disappointment. And the sound of it is what brought the man's fist back to his side. He scrambled to his feet, embarrassed more than anything at this point. Stack laid there. Blinking dirt from his eyes and heaving more than his brother thought was necessary. He processed the way his life had completely flashed before his eyes.
Smoke—terrified and seeing his own life flash away—met the disgruntled eye of two women. Annie was normally the one who showed no mercy with him for a plethora of reasons, but the look you gave was one he wasn't ready for. You could be rough in bed—intense, cruel, sadistic—but you were sweet in your delivery. You praised him for breaking and made him feel special when he couldn't do anything other than obey. You'd smile up at him: grin, laugh, pull him close. The person before him now was absent of all those things.
It was then that he noticed just how similar you and Annie really were. You could be just as brutish as she could, and he could practically feel the near punishment on his soft skin already.
You and Annie had been spending a lot more time together since she walked you back to her home. That night was full of pleasure and desire being met. While you thought it would satiate you, all you wanted was more of it. She'd visit you at Maybelle's: bring you lunch when she knew you wouldn't get a proper break, help you pass the time in the evenings when it got slow. And you'd almost always end up walking home with her.
You both agreed to be callous with Smoke. He'd been playing games to get you two in one room, and while he had succeeded in making the both of you acqaintances, he didn't need to know it just yet. The two of you wanted to know each other outside of your Elijah—hoping that when you did finally let the man in, you'd be able to ruin him in a way he never expected.
It was your first weekend off in ages when you traveled to the woman's home. You'd knocked on her door politely, waited on her to answer, and when she did, there was a bright smile on her lips.
"You don't work today," she had asked breathily, but she knew the answer. At that time of the day, you'd be knee-deep in tasks at the store, but you were standing right in front of her. Well rested. Stress free. And hungry in a way only she could satiate. You took your time with her, slowly moving your way into her home, laying soft kiss after soft kiss against her neck. She was addicted to your sweetness, how your dominance could land hard and coated in honeyed words. She tipped her head back as you moved toward her chest, lips seeking her out in a way to say you were going to take your time with her.
You hadn't been too deep into her pleasure yet when you heard the commotion. It started out as a distant voice, but the closer it got, it turned into yells for help, grunts of anger, rocks kicking up as two heated bodies advanced down the road.
Your head turned toward the window, heart stirring, and that's when you both saw it: Two identical figures racing the length of the road. Annie was the first one to the door, already knowing from years with the twins that if the older one got his hands on the younger, Stack was a goner.
By the time Smoke had tackled him to the ground, you both had stepped off of the porch, hands on your hips or arms crossed under your chests as you shook your heads. The man's name left your mouths simultaneously, and that brought you to now.
"You just can't act right, can you, 'Lijah," Annie taunted, towering over the man in his bound position. You stood behind her, one eyebrow raised as Smoke looked worriedly between the both of you. His muscles flexed against the ropes, his body trembled as he fought to break loose. But there was no use—y'all had bound him too tight. His eyes were sad and angry and accusatory at the same time, and it made you purse your lips.
"Don't look at me like that, baby," you moved forward, bending down so you were eye level with him as he sat in the chair. "You brought this on yourself."
It hadn't been hard to get him in this position. After his name had been yelled across the yard, he walked into the home like a dog with its tail between its legs. And when you pulled the chair away from the kitchen table, dragged it down the hall, positioned it right in front of Annie's bed, and told him to sit, he questioned nothing—not even how you knew your way around the woman's home and why you'd been there in the first place. As you did this, Annie brought her blade to his neck, threatening him to resist as the two of you worked the rope around his body. His arms and legs were completely bound to the chair, and the rope across his chest restricted his full mobility.
And he looked gorgeous tied up for you.
Eyes on Annie now, you moved in her direction. A hand landed on her hip, and your lips connected with her ear.
"I think we should finish what we started," you hummed suggestively to which the woman responded with a needy moan. You hated having been interrupted with such foolishness before, but now, you had a captive audience. "I say we make him watch," you added. You could feel his attention locked on the way your hand moved up Annie’s body, traveling up her leg, between her thighs, across her hip.
The kisses started softly and teasingly with both of your eyes refusing to give the man any more of your attention. This was about the two of you now, and his cries were just background noise, adding to the tension and heat in the room. You took control first, grabbing Annie’s neck and tipping her head back. Engulfing her, you swallowed every groan she could muster, mouth to hers, chest to hers. You could feel her head swimming with need.
Annie’s hands flailed to meet your body, but once they did, her touch turned to straight greed. Your dress was pulled over your head in record time, body half-bare when she began to guide you to the edge of her bed. Sitting down facing the room’s middle, you kept your eyes on the woman as she planted heavy kisses on your skin. Your jaw. Your neck. Your chest. Your stomach and thighs. She commanded you in a way that didn’t require your submission, in a way that allowed space for your dominance to breathe.
From the chair, Smoke salivated. Experiencing his two lovers in a position like this was a dream come true, but the further Annie went with her kisses, the more frustrated he was becoming. He wanted a taste; He wanted to feel every inch of skin between you, but the ropes held him back. He watched you pant as the woman fully settled onto her knees.
With your legs over her shoulders and a hand in her hair, you released a decadent sound when her tongue explored your folds. It was half moan and half song, but the sound of it warmed everyone’s ears. Annie grabbed your ass for better leverage, stuffing her face in you. Her tongue was confident—because she’d done this before. She knew what you needed and how you needed it, so when your breath caught as she swiped your clit, Annie only went harder.
“Just like that, beautiful,” you nodded, words coming out breathily. Your held her head in place, her eyes locked on you as her full lips trapped your clit in a kiss. Sucking the bundle of nerves into her mouth, you felt your body begin the tremble. It started out small with just your fingertips quivering, but when she began to practically swallow you, you became sensitive all over. “Fuck, yes,” you cried, nodding your head from the pleasure. Your eyes were locked on her, and as good of a job as you’d done blocking the man from your mind, his whining was starting to break your bubble.
Annie’s ears twitched as she felt the shift. Smoke was calling out y’all’s names, expecting you to answer. He was rocking in the chair, trying his best to free himself and over power the hold. The sound was beginning to distract. His desperation and disobedience was beginning to annoy.
But she kept her eyes trained on you as her tongue swirled around your clit. Two fingers traveled up your thigh, landing near your entrance. Annie teased you with them, letting the anticipation boil over. By the time her fingers were coated in your arousal, ready to capture you, Smoke had become incessant.
“Please,” he yelled, teeth gritted, face angry.
But Annie kept going, and you just moaned like his voice was an added sensation.
“I’m fuckin’ serious,” he added darkly, but it only made you laugh and toss your head back. At the same time, Annie fingers were conquering your pussy, and you let it happen, arching into her fingers and mouth.
Chair legs scraped the floor.
Greedy grunts filled the air.
Heavy moans pulled at heartstrings.
Pussy juices added to the cacophony.
Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t uttered his next words—peachy keen in all seriousness—but the man just had to open his mouth and disturb the peace.
“Just wait ‘til I get outta this chair,” Smoke threatened, throbbing length pressing against the fabric of his pants from the display. He bared his teeth, each word punctuated by his anger. “When I get out,” he breathed smoke, “I’m ruinin’ everybody fun.”
You and Annie didn’t stop all at once. It started with her tongue twitching against your folds and your lips opening in a disbelieving gasp. It continued with you releasing the back of the woman’s head and her pulling away to gaze up into your eyes. You shared a look, one that had been cultivated by nights spent together in sweet agony. A command passed over her face, quiet yet serious, and as she fully pulled away, you remained in your spot as she expected you to.
“You gettin’ real bold, Smoke,” she grumbled. Her feet crossed the small space, each one landing like fire against the wood. “This ain’t the streets of Chicago or the back roads of Clarksdale. This is my damn house. Who do you think you are to be makin’ empty threats?” She meant it retorically, but the empty air plus your amused eyes on him made the man stutter out a reply.
“I-I’m your Elijah,” he quipped, reverting into himself already. Her dominant aura was too strong.
“Naw,” Annie raised her chin. She put her hands on her hip, beginning to circle the man in the chair. “My Elijah, knows better,” she began. “My Elijah knows how to act. He knows what I expect from him.”
“I’m so-sorry,” the man choked out, wrists pressing against the binds. The sound of his voice made the woman scoff in disgust, but when she looked over to you, your eyes were bright and full of intrigue. She shook her head, watching as your hands traveled the length of your body. You removed the minimal fabric she’d left behind, and as she leaned down over the man’s shoulder from behind, a smirk pulled at her lips.
“Do something for me, baby,” Annie demanded, mouth to his ear and words coming out soft.
“Anything! I swear I’ll do anything, Mama,” he pleaded hoarsely, muscles straining in need. At the sound of the woman’s title, your expression lifted, and Annie laughed as you straightened your posture on the mattress. You knew a small amount about Annie and Smoke’s relationship, but that was something that had been concealed. Watching his chest heave in anticipation, your fingers couldn’t help but to skirt between your open legs. You toyed with your clit, raised your chin as you watched them, shivered when their eyes locked on you.
When the domineering woman spoke again, she muttered the words too close to the man’s ear for you to hear, but you could tell that that was how she intended it.
His eyes widened. His head moved to nod profusely before his voice rose above the tension in the air.
“Can Annie touch me,” he chirped, the question catching in his throat. “I’ll be good,” he added, pressing against the ropes. “I swear, I will, baby.”
Unable to hold back your laugh that wanted to escape, your fingers sped up their pursuit. Your body was too heated from the weak man’s cries, how he begged with his words and his eyes. His hips thrusted when you opened your legs even wider. There was no way you could deny him, so you allowed him to have it—with stipulations, of course.
“You don’t cum until after I do,” you breathed heatedly. Fingers moving with the pace of his rising chest. You watched him nod profusely once more, your words sinking in. “You don’t cum until Annie tells you yes,” you cemented, attention drifting toward the woman. Her smile was approving and wicked, ready to lay the man’s punishment on thick.
She stuffed her hands in his pants with a quickness. Refusing to remove his clothes right away, she toyed with his length, nimble fingers dancing along his wet skin.
"How that feel, suga'," Annie questioned, thumb skirting across his tip before retreating. His thighs quaked, too bound to provide him the movement he really needed, but he didn't dare complain.
"It feel so good, Mama," he blushed, heat rising to his cheeks. Even with how much of a tease the woman was being, Smoke allowed his head to loll back. It hung loosely, reclined against the back of the chair while Annie played with the idea of giving him more. On the bed, you watched with eyes glowing with desire, the opportunity of finally seeing the two in action adding to every bit of pleasure you felt.
You moaned their names, fingers working through your heat feverishly. You were determined, intensely focused on how Annie had pushed the man's pants down his thighs and was stroking his dick with passion, on how Smoke was still crying out for the both of you. He urged you to cum, urged Annie to let him have it, begged for both of your sympathy and forgiveness.
But you weren't ready for all of that.
Halting your fingers and pulling them away from your cunt soberly, you fixed your eyes on Smoke.
"You want a taste, baby," you cooed, moving in close. Annie leaned over him from behind, stroking his length in quick bursts. She watched with greedy eyes as your fingers glistened in the faint light, mouth watering. She knew you were talking to the man, but God did she want it. She could still taste you on her lips—sweet, tangy, rich—and she needed more.
Smoke whined in response, and when you grabbed him by the neck and stuffed your fingers in his mouth, his cries turned to growls. He sucked your arousal off like his life depended on it. His eyes rolled back just to show you how much he was enjoying himself and he gagged the slightest bit when you went farther down his throat. It was a glorious sight: Elijah with a wet face, taking your fingers down his throat with Annie fucking him into oblivion.
You shifted your attention away and to the woman in enough time to see her eyes shimmer. Then she leaned in and turned Smoke's head with her non-dominant hand and feasted off of his lips just to get a taste of you. She consumed him fully, hand stroking his length at the same time.
She didn't pay attention to how his cries turned raw or how his thighs tensed up or how he strained against the rope holding him in place; and when the man came, he moaned directly into her mouth, body unfurling before the both of you because he had completely forgotten what he'd been told. No cumming before you do. No cumming before Annie allows it.
Thirty minutes into his second round of torture and Smoke was regretting every mistake he'd ever made. He was regretting not telling Annie about you. Not telling you about Annie. Not being honest about wanting the two of you at once. Not being able to calm his anger toward his brother. But even more than that, he was regretting not following your orders, for letting his body succumb to need.
Tears sprang from his eyes as another orgasm was stolen from him. Much to his chagrin, neither of you would let him have it. And even though he was glad to be on his back with both of your lips around his dick instead of in the chair, he couldn't celebrate just yet. You and Annie had been edging him, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold on.
Two pair of lips traveled the length of him. Two tongues caressed his growing need.
“Please,” Smoke choked out, the word strangled as if it didn’t want to be heard at all. But he had to have it, and he needed to make that known. “I’m so sorry,” he shouted, jaw dropped wide open, heart beating fast.
“What are you sorry for, sweetheart,” Annie growled against the meat of his thigh. She moved her fingers toward his shaft to hold it while you continued to swallow him whole. You took him down your throat, eyes trained on the way his were shut tight in ecstasy. Annie's sultry tone was lulling you, encouraging you to bring the man to the edge once more even without intending to.
You cursed around him, sending vibrations through the man's core. Tears sprang from his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mama," he pleaded. "I'm sorry for not listenin'. I'm sorry for cummin'. I'll be better, I swear it!"
With a wicked smile, the woman turned to you, eyes gleaming. She leaned into your side, kissing your neck as your eyes rolled back from the pressure of him at the back of your mouth.
"Do you believe him, baby," she whispered breathily, and all you could do was moan with the man in your mouth. You tried your best to communicate nonverbally because with the pulsing of him in your mouth, you wouldn't dare pull back, you wouldn't dare stop until he was releasing his load down your throat.
Your efforts turned dangerous, a desperate fight for him to give in under you. You worked to suck him dry. You bobbed your head with finality. You swiped your fingers across his wet, needy skin. And Annie joined in, lips meeting yours in a greedy kiss with his dick between you.
When he came this time around, his body felt like it was a wave crashing onto a distant shore. It rocked him, muscles convulsing as the two of you kept going, bringing him to the edge again. You wouldn't stop, not until he fully understood, not until the two of you were fed and satiated.
And with you and Annie, there was no telling how long that would end up taking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
word count: ~5,000
a/n: two uploads in a day??? idk how i let this sit in the drafts for over a month cause this straight fire
Description: Spending a lazy domestic Sunday with your love ones.
Warnings: maybe suggestive a bit. cursing . Dats all
~~~
The first thing you noticed was warmth. Not the blazing humid heat that lingers through the Mississippi delta in the summer. But the warmth of plush skin clinging to your side.
Annie
This was a typical Sunday morning in your household. You sleep in, Annie's heat softening your muscles and swaying you into a deep rest. That and the remembrance of the lack of work you had to complete was a recipe for a lazy day.
She curled into your side, breathing slow and steady. The sunlight filtered through the window displayed tiny dust mites in its trail. The room casted in goldlight. For just a second you enjoyed moments like this. When things were quiet. Nothing needs to get done. Nothing needed fixin. Just silence and peace.
The household had its routine. Saturday was a workful day. Collecting herbs, running the small shack you and Annie sold goods out of. Listening to the neighborhood kids tell stories on what their moms and pops were up to. Between running around and the suffocating heat by the time you both arrived home Annie would shoo you into the bathroom to 'Wash the day of yourself' and get started on dinner.
Smoke would usually be home by now. You never knew what he went off and did but he always came back right in time for dinner. Something bout 'if his ladies worked all day and prepared a nice dinner for him then at least he oughta be at the table with the day's cash in hand.' Smoke was the kinda man who believed in providing. He hated that you and Annie were on your feet all day but he respected your decision to continue to work. So Smoke would work all day, make the money for the house, slap the money on the table and after giving you both a knee shaking kiss.
"Y'all breathin in there, or all that workin done finally killed yall?"
Smoke's voice echoes from somewhere in the house causing Annie to groan awake. Your laughing mixed with Annie's obvious annoyance from yalls husband's loud mouth. A second later the door swung open. There Smoke was fully dressed and leaning against the door frame with his signature smirk.
"Would ya look at that, yall are alive." he said smugly
"Leave us alone boy" Annie muttered without opening her eyes.
"Nope" he replied, moving closer to the side of the bed closest to Annie.
"I guess I'll just have to get in bed with yall." He shrugged
Annie opened her eyes quickly and glared at him.
"You get on my bed with ya outside clothes and I swear id bleed ur black ass dry "
Your body shook with laughter at their usual antics. Smoke's eyes softened and he leaned over to give you both a gentle kiss before moving back to the door.
"Morning chores are done, Kitchen is clean and ready to go. Yall take yall time getting up. I'll be outside working on that leak in the shack." With one last look he walked out the room.
We both let out a sigh of content.
"What a man," Annie swooned.
"Yes he is" You agreed
"Lets go get some breakfast started for our hard worker" You both agreed swinging your feet over the side of the bed and sliding your slippers on.
"But first shower" Annie groaned out while stretching her muscles.
"Want some company" You flirted
"Always" She offered back
"Guess our man is gonna have to wait a second for breakfast" You both giggled and made your way to the bathroom.
After the shower you both made your way to the kitchen. Freshly washed, freshly fucked, with skin slathered in sheabutter and your prefered smell goods.
Annie stood at the stove, flipping bacon while you stood beside her whisking the eggs and making sure the grits didn't stick to the bottom of the pan and burn. Through the kitchen window you could see Smoke hammering something. Then came the occasional clang and muffled curses.
You smiled while adding cheese to the eggs.
"Sound..promising" You grinned
"As promising as our man coming back inside with a nail through his hand."
You both giggled at that.
Smoke had been determined to fix the leak in the shack. The problem is he refused to admit when he needed some help.
Another clang rang through the house.
"Son of a b-" quickly followed after.
"You think he's actually fixing it?" Annie asked
"I think he's eventually going to after tweaking it a bit more first."
Annie slid the bacon on the plate. Handing it to you while you plated the grits.
She maneuvered around you to put the eggs on the skillet next. You both loved cooking together. You knew how to flow around the kitchen barley bumping into each other unless intentional.
The screen door creaked open after a couple of minutes.
Smoke stepped inside the second the eggs hit the plate looking exhausted and irritated. The second he laid eyes on both of you, setting the table, placing a plate in his seat, his shoulders relaxed and he smiled. A dramatic sigh escaped his lips followed by a chuckle.
"How's it going?" you asked.
"I say we burn it down and start fresh" He joked walking towards ANnie wrapping his arms around her.
Annie gasped and stepped out of his hold and turned to face him.
"You like trying me dont you smoke" She waved the nearby knife at him
"Yes ma'am" he grinned proudly
You chuckled and shook your head.
You and Annie burst out laughing and continued setting the table. Smoke stopped talking and took the time to stare at you both. Taking in the way your skin flistenined in the rays of the sun. He loved him some you and Annie and that would never change.
🥹🤎🤎 @therealruthecarter “The people who created the most nominated film in Academy Awards history. Sinners is Forever iconic.” #andthatsthetruthruth @sinnersmovie
READ WITH CARE. | READ WITH CARE.| READ WITH CARE.
Seven-year-old Aubin's laugh drifted through the open kitchen window, followed by the sound of eight-year-old Aubrey tackling his little brother in the grass. It was the soundtrack of a beautiful life.
Smoke gripped the edge of the granite counter until his knuckles turned white, praying the violent tremor in his left hand would stop before Annie walked in. It didn’t.
The violent, pulsing ache behind Smoke’s left eye was a reminder. The tumor was growing. The doctors said it would take his motor skills first, then his memories, and finally, his dignity. He would become an infant in a grown man’s body, leaving his wife to wipe his chin and explain to their three little kids why Daddy couldn't remember their names.
Forcing his wife to become a grief-stricken nursemaid, draining their life savings just to watch him slowly suffocate in his own body.
He would not let his children's last memory of their father be a terrifying, hollow-eyed ghost. And he would not let his wife sacrifice her future to rot alongside him.
He had to set her free.
And the only way to make a woman like Annie let go, was to make her hate him.
"The papers are on the counter. I’ve already signed them."
His voice was a dead, flat thing. He didn't turn around to look at her. He couldn't. If he looked into those soft, brown eyes, his resolve would shatter.
"Stop it," Annie whispered. Her voice was trembling, thick with a week’s worth of unshed tears. She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his back. She felt so small, so warm, so desperately familiar. "Smoke, please. Just tell me what’s wrong."
Smoke kept his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets so she wouldn't see the tremors. He forced his face into a mask of bored indifference, staring at the kitchen tile rather than looking at the woman who had been his entire universe for fifteen years.
Annie didn't even look at the divorce papers on the kitchen island. Instead, she stepped into his space, her trembling hands reaching up to cup his face. Her wedding ring pressed cool against his jaw.
"Look at me," she pleaded, her voice cracking, completely stripped of pride. "Smoke, please, just look at me."
Every instinct in his body screamed to pull her into his chest, to bury his face in her hair and confess everything.
I'm dying, Annie.
I'm so scared.
Please hold me.
Instead, he forced his eyes up. He met her gaze with dead, hollow ice.
"I know you," Annie whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes, tracing the worry lines he had put there over the last month. "I know this isn't you. You’re stressed, you’re pulling away, but I am your wife. We swore for better or worse, Smoke. Whatever is broken, we can fix it. I will fight for us until my last breath. Please, don't throw us away."
She pressed her forehead against his chest, right over his violently racing heart, and let out a broken, desperate sob. "I love you. I know you still love me."
God, I love you so much it’s suffocating, he thought, his throat tight with suppressed agony.
But her devotion was a death sentence. If he let her stay, the disease would drag her down into the dark with him. She was too fierce; she would spend her life savings on hopeless treatments. She would sacrifice her joy, her youth, and the kids' childhoods just to keep his corpse breathing an extra month.
He needed to destroy her love for him.
Completely.
Brutally.
Terminally.
I'm doing this for you, he chanted in his mind. I am burying myself so you can live.
He forcibly peeled her hands off his waist and stepped away, putting the kitchen island between them. He finally looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide and begging, entirely stripped of her pride.
"There is no us to fix, Annie," Smoke lied, forcing his jaw to unlock. "I'm not depressed. I’m just suffocating. I am tired of this house. I'm tired of this life."
"You're lying," she choked out, shaking her head frantically. She reached across the marble counter, desperately trying to grab his shaking hand. "I know you. You are a good man. You love me. You love our kids. You’re just lost right now—"
"I don't love you anymore!" he shouted.
The echo of his voice violently silenced the kitchen. Outside, the kids kept playing, entirely unaware that their universe had just been assassinated.
With a hand that felt like it was made of lead, Smoke reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked it, opened a text thread he had spent an hour agonizingly faking with a burner phone, and slid it across the island to her.
Annie looked down.
[Elena]: Can’t wait for tonight. Did you tell her yet?
[Smoke]: Doing it now. I’m packing a bag. I’ll be at your place by six.
Smoke watched her read the words. He watched the exact, excruciating millisecond where her fierce, relentless hope snapped. Her knees gave out. She grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from hitting the floor, a guttural, agonizing wail tearing out of her throat. It wasn't just a cry; it was the sound of a soul being ripped in half.
"Fifteen years," she gasped, clutching her chest, looking up at him with a face so pure and complete it made his vision go black at the edges. "We built a life... and you threw it away for nothing."
"Sign the papers, Annie," he whispered, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
He didn't pack a bag. He just turned and walked out the front door, leaving everything he had ever loved behind. He climbed into his truck, drove three blocks down the street, and pulled over.
Only then did the mask crack.
Smoke slammed his fists into the steering wheel until his knuckles bled, screaming into the empty cab of the truck, tears pouring down his face as the physical pain in his head merged with the catastrophic agony in his chest.
He had six months left to live.
But as he sat alone in the driveway, listening to the silence of a future he would never get to see, Smoke knew the truth.
The cancer wouldn't kill him. He was already dead.
A/N: I hope y'all are ready for this one. Sit back, grab a box of tissues, and get ready for a deep dive into the darkest sides of unconditional love, betrayal, and anticipatory grief. I am so incredibly excited to write this series for you all. Let me know what you think so far! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!
The only sound Smoke could hear was the terrifying shift in his daughter’s voice.
Ruby’s initial, furious wails had slowly degraded over the last twenty minutes. The sharp, demanding cries of a newborn had turned into a weak, rhythmic, breathy mewling.
Stack gripped the massive steering wheel, his knuckles white as bone. He was navigating the forty-thousand-pound apparatus through the flooded intersections of the Central Business District, the massive tires churning through three feet of black, debris-choked water.
"Lijah," Stack yelled over the engine, his eyes darting to the floorboard. "Her cries are changing. She's getting tired."
Smoke sat on the metal floor, his massive legs splayed out. Annie’s lifeless body rested across his lap, her head cradled in the crook of his arm. He didn't look up at his brother. He was staring at Annie’s face, his thumb gently, obsessively stroking her cold cheek.
"She's just hungry," Smoke murmured, his voice completely untethered from the horror of the cab. "We're almost to the hospital, Nette. They'll get you some IV fluids. They'll get you fixed up, and then you can feed her."
Stack swallowed a sob, the bile burning the back of his throat.
"Eli, listen to me," Stack pleaded, his voice cracking. He was a first responder; he knew exactly what that weak mewling meant. "The baby is burning through her brown fat stores. Her blood sugar is tanking. She's going hypoglycemic, and she's wet. She's gonna drop her core temp. You have to put her against your skin."
Smoke blinked. The clinical words—hypoglycemic, core temp—pierced through the thick, cotton-like delusion wrapping around his brain.
He looked down at the V-neck of his turnout coat. He unzipped the heavy canvas another two inches.
Ruby was shivering violently. Her tiny chest was heaving with the effort to breathe, her skin taking on a terrifying, mottled bluish-gray tint.
Panic, icy and sharp, finally sliced through Smoke's grief.
"Okay. Okay, daddy's got you," Smoke breathed.
He didn't have a blanket.
He didn't have a towel.
With one arm still tightly supporting Annie, Smoke used his other hand to rip the buttons off his own filthy, sweat-soaked uniform shirt. He pulled the tiny, blood-covered infant out of the rough canvas pouch and pressed her directly against his bare, massive chest, right over his heart.
He wrapped his turnout coat tightly over both of them, trapping his body heat inside.
"Hold on, little bit," Smoke wept, rocking back and forth on the metal floor, holding the dead mother and the dying daughter. "Stack, push the rig! Push it!"
"I'm flooring it!" Stack screamed, the diesel engine howling in protest.
They turned onto Tulane Avenue.
Through the windshield, the brutal reality of the city's collapse rushed up to meet them. The water here wasn't three feet deep; it was five. The avenue had become a churning, black river. Abandoned cars bobbed in the current like discarded toys.
CLUNK-SCREEECH.
The heavy rescue rig violently shuddered. The front axle slammed into a submerged concrete barrier hidden beneath the black water. The engine roared, the massive tires spinning uselessly, kicking up a geyser of toxic sludge.
Stack slammed the gearshift, trying to throw the rig into reverse.
CRACK.
The transmission groaned, and the engine stalled out with a heavy, final hiss of air brakes. The sudden silence in the cab was deafening.
Stack pumped the ignition. Nothing.
"It's dead," Stack said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. He looked out the windshield. The massive, brutalist concrete facade of Charity Hospital loomed three blocks away, isolated in a sea of black water. "Eli, the rig is dead. We're three blocks out."
Smoke didn't hesitate. He didn't complain.
He zipped his coat up to his collarbone, securing Ruby tightly against his bare chest. He slid his massive arms firmly back under Annie’s knees and shoulders.
He kicked the heavy passenger door open. The black water immediately flooded into the floorboard.
"Let's walk," Smoke growled.
Smoke stepped down from the cab into the flood.
The water hit him mid-chest. It was freezing, a shocking contrast to the suffocating August heat above the surface. It smelled of raw sewage, ruptured gas lines, and copper.
He held Annie high, lifting her lifeless body up out of the toxic gumbo, resting her dead weight across his shoulders and collarbone so she wouldn't get submerged.
"I got you, sunflower," Smoke panted, his boots fighting for security on the slick, unseen asphalt below. "I'm keeping you dry."
Stack splashed into the water beside him, holding his heavy club, taking the lead to break the current and clear the debris.
Wading through chest-deep water is exhausting for an unburdened man.
Carrying one hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight while harboring an infant inside a heavy canvas coat was an act of pure, superhuman defiance.
Smoke’s muscles screamed. The water dragged at his legs like liquid lead. A submerged shopping cart scraped violently against his thigh, tearing his pants and slicing his skin, but he didn't even flinch.
Mew... mew...
The sound from inside his coat was getting fainter.
Ruby was slipping away.
"Stay awake!" Smoke roared, his voice echoing off the flooded, abandoned buildings. "Stack, keep moving!"
"I see the ramp!" Stack yelled back, spitting dirty water. "I see the ER ramp!"
They turned the corner toward the ambulance bay of Charity Hospital.
It was a scene from a war zone.
The basement generators had flooded days ago. The massive hospital was completely dark, a monolithic tomb rising out of the water. The emergency ramp leading up to the second-floor entrance was packed with hundreds of desperate people seeking shelter.
At the top of the concrete ramp, a makeshift triage center had been set up. Exhausted, hollow-eyed nurses and doctors in filthy scrubs were working in the brutal heat, using hand-pumped ambu bags to keep patients alive, their stethoscopes draped over their necks like heavy chains.
Smoke hit the incline of the ramp. The water receded to his waist, then his knees, then his ankles.
He marched up the concrete incline, water pouring off his heavy turnout coat in waterfalls. He looked like a titan rising from the underworld, carrying his casualties.
"MEDIC!" Stack screamed, running ahead of his brother, waving his arms at the triage desk. "NOFD! We need a doctor! We have a newborn!"
A triage nurse..
a woman in her thirties with dark circles under her eyes, wearing a scrub top stained with iodine and blood spun around. She took one look at the giant firefighter and the limp woman in his arms, and her clinical instincts fired instantly.
"Clear a stretcher!" the nurse barked, pointing to a rusty gurney near the doors. "Bring her here! Now!"
Smoke marched to the gurney. He didn't drop Annie. He laid her down with an agonizing, heartbreaking gentleness, supporting her head until it rested on the thin, plastic mattress.
"Help her," Smoke begged, his massive chest heaving, water pooling around his boots. "She had a fever. She was burning up."
The triage nurse didn't hesitate. She stepped up to the gurney and pressed two fingers deep against Annie’s carotid artery.
Smoke stopped breathing. The entire world narrowed down to the nurse's two fingers. Annie’s skin was terrifyingly pale, the blood pooling away from her extremities.
Three seconds passed. Five seconds.
The nurse’s eyes widened slightly.
"I have a pulse," the nurse snapped, her voice cutting through the noise of the ramp like a whip. "It's thready. Rate is in the forties. She's in profound hypovolemic and septic shock. Her pressure is bottomed out."
Smoke gasped, his knees buckling slightly as the words hit him.
Alive.
She is alive.
"I need two large-bore IVs, wide open!" the nurse yelled to an orderly rushing over with a trauma kit. "Get me a liter of normal saline, stat! We need to dump fluids into her to get that pressure up before her organs fail! Prep dopamine, we might need pressors!"
"On it!" the orderly shouted, tearing open sterile packaging.
Smoke grabbed the metal rail of the gurney, his hands shaking violently. He watched the orderly expertly sink an IV needle into the crook of Annie's bruised arm.
Then, a faint, breathless squeak came from inside his coat.
The triage nurse's head snapped up. She saw the slight bulge under the heavy canvas, right against the NOFD badge.
"Lieutenant," the nurse said, her voice shifting focus. "The newborn."
Smoke couldn't speak. He was drowning in the sheer, overwhelming adrenaline of the fight. He slowly unzipped the coat with trembling, bloodstained fingers.
The nurse reached in and gently lifted Ruby out of the dark, heavy canvas.
The infant was limp. Her skin was mottled blue and terrifyingly cold to the touch.
"She's hypothermic and hypoglycemic," the nurse assessed instantly, passing the baby to a second pediatric nurse running out from the lobby. "Get her to the warmer! Heel-stick for glucose, and push dextrose if she's under forty! Go, go, go!"
The pediatric nurse turned and sprinted through the dark glass doors of Charity Hospital, vanishing into the pitch-black lobby with his daughter.
"Lieutenant, step back!" the first nurse ordered, hanging a bag of fluids on a rusty IV pole attached to the gurney. "We need to elevate her legs and push this saline!"
"I'm staying with her," Smoke growled, his hand locked onto the metal rail.
"You're in the way of her surviving!" the nurse fired back, completely unfazed by the giant man. "Let us work!"
Stack grabbed Smoke's shoulder, pulling him back with all his weight. "Eli, let them do their job! She's got a pulse, Eli! They're saving her!"
Smoke reluctantly took a step back, his chest heaving violently.
He stood on the concrete ramp in the blinding August sun, watching the fluid drip rapidly down the plastic tubing and into his wife's arm. Slowly, agonizingly, the gray pallor of Annie's skin began to shift. It wasn't a miraculous recovery, but the harsh, absolute grip of death was loosening. The fluid was working.
Stack put a hand on the back of his twin's neck, squeezing hard.
Smoke lowered his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, and finally let out a long, shuddering, broken breath. The blackwater had taken the house, it had taken the city, but it was not taking his family.
Smoke stood exactly where the nurse had pushed him. He didn't move an inch. He couldn't.
The adrenaline that had fueled his march through the black water was crashing, leaving behind a cold, violent trembling that wracked his massive frame. He stood on the sun-baked concrete, his heavy rubber boots leaking toxic river water into a puddle around his feet, watching the frantic, desperate violence of emergency medicine.
There were no machines. The hospital’s backup generators had drowned. There were no steady, rhythmic beeps of heart monitors to offer comfort. There was only the brutal, mechanical reality of human hands fighting to keep a soul tethered to a body.
An orderly was standing on the lower rung of the gurney, physically squeezing the thick plastic bag of saline with both hands, forcing the fluid into Annie’s collapsed veins under pressure.
"She's tachycardic but the pressure is still in the boots," the triage nurse yelled, a stethoscope pressed hard against Annie’s chest. "I can barely hear it over the ambient noise! Squeeze that bag harder! We need volume!"
Smoke stared at Annie.
She looked so incredibly small.
The fierce, terrifying Ninth Ward woman who had weaponized a heavy iron axe and bullied an armed police officer was gone. On the rusty gurney, stripped of her torn yellow dress to allow access for the IV lines, she was just a fragile, broken shell covered in plaster dust and bruises.
Her chest was barely rising. Her head rolled limply to the side as the nurses worked, her dark, matted hair clinging to the wet plastic of the mattress.
"Annie," Smoke whispered.
The word caught in his throat, tearing on the way out.
He instinctively brought his massive, calloused hand up to his chest, right over his silver NOFD badge.
He pressed his palm against the heavy canvas of his turnout coat.
It was empty.
The ghost weight of his daughter the frantic, tiny, fluttering heartbeat that had been pressed against his ribs just five minutes ago was gone. The sudden absence of her was a physical amputation. He had carried his entire universe out of that dark hall, and now, he was holding nothing but air.
Smoke looked down at his hands. They were stained dark with river mud, dried plaster, and his wife's blood.
He was a Lieutenant of Heavy Rescue.
He had pulled men out of collapsed burning roofs.
He had ripped the doors off crushed cars with the jaws of life.
He was a giant.
But as he watched a stranger desperately squeeze a plastic bag of saltwater to keep his wife from slipping into the dark, Smoke realized the horrifying, agonizing truth: his strength was completely, utterly useless. He couldn't lift the sepsis off her. He couldn't punch the hypovolemic shock.
He was a spectator to the end of his own world.
A ragged, agonizing sob tore out of Smoke's chest. His knees finally gave way.
He collapsed onto the hard concrete of the ramp. He didn't try to catch himself. He hit the ground hard, pulling his knees up, wrapping his massive, bloody arms around his head as if trying to shield himself from a falling building.
"Eli," Stack wept, dropping to his knees right beside him in the dirty puddle of river water.
Stack threw his arms around his brother's trembling, broad shoulders. He pulled the giant man against him, anchoring him to the concrete.
"She's fighting, Eli," Stack sobbed, pressing his face against the wet, heavy canvas of Smoke's coat. "Listen to me. She's fighting. They both are. You just gotta let 'em fight."
Smoke squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body shuddering with the force of his weeping. The sounds of the triage ramp the shouting nurses, the groans of the displaced, the distant thrum of military helicopters overhead all faded into a dull, rushing roar in his ears.
"Please," Smoke begged, his voice a raw, broken whisper directed at the concrete beneath him. It wasn't a prayer to God; it was a desperate, pleading negotiation with the universe. "You took the house. You took the city. You can take the badge. Just don't make me live without her. Please. I can't breathe without her."
Ten feet away, the triage nurse tossed the empty, flattened bag of saline onto the ground.
"Hang the second liter!" she barked. "And get me a manual cuff! I need a pressure reading right now!"
He was only ten feet away. He had walked through a drowning city, he had smashed a fire engine through a concrete barricade, and he had carried her out of a tomb. But he couldn't cross those last ten feet.
He couldn't hold her hand. He couldn't wrap his massive body around hers to warm her freezing skin. He was forced to kneel in a puddle of the same toxic water that had ruined their lives, completely paralyzed, watching a stranger drive a needle into his wife’s collapsed vein.
Smoke stared at her arm hanging limply off the edge of the mattress. The silver wedding band he had slipped onto her finger three years ago was loose now, slipping down her cold knuckles.
The guilt rose up and crushed his windpipe.
She had chopped through her own ceiling. She had fought the ocean in the pitch black. She had ripped herself apart on a filthy concrete floor to give him a daughter, all while believing he was miles away at the Superdome. She had given every single drop of her life to fix his mistake.
"I'm sorry," Smoke wept, the words bubbling out in a broken, agonizing litany. "I'm sorry, sunflower. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
He pressed his massive, dirty hands over his mouth, trying to muffle the raw, animalistic sobs that were tearing his throat apart. The invincible giant of the Ninth Ward was completely gone. He was just a terrified, broken man kneeling in the brutal sun, staring across an agonizing, impassable divide, begging a silent sky not to make him a widower on the exact same morning he became a father.
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this much-needed chapter. Thank you so much for all the kind words, support, and messages throughout this past month — they truly mean more than you know. We’re officially nearing the end of this series, and I’m excited for you all to see how everything unfolds.
As always, let me know your thoughts below. Until next time 🤍
Behind the bar, Nyla moves smoother now—faster, more confident, pulling in attention and tips without trying too hard.
Zariah watches her for a second.
“You settling in,” she says.
Nyla smirks.
“I told you.”
Her eyes drift though, landing on VIP.
Stack is there tonight, talking with a few people, relaxed but still carrying that same presence.
Smoke’s not with him right now.
That matters.
Nyla grabs a couple drinks off the service well.
“I’m running this,” she says casually.
Zariah gives her a look.
“…just do your job.”
Nyla grins.
“I am.”
Stack’s mid conversation when Nyla steps in.
This time…
She doesn’t lead with anything obvious.
No bold comments. No leaning too close.
She sets the drinks down clean.
“Here you go,” she says, easy.
Stack glances at her, gives a quick nod.
“Appreciate it.”
He goes right back to talking.
Nyla lingers just a second.
“Everything good over here?” she asks.
Professional.
But there’s a softness under it.
Stack looks up again, actually taking a second this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “You doin a good job.”
That catches her.
He gestures lightly toward the bar.
“Seen you movin all night. Customers been sayin the same.”
Simple. Genuine.
No extra meaning. Just acknowledgment.
Nyla’s lips curve slightly.
“Thank you.”
Stack nods once.
“Keep it up.”
Then he’s already turning back to his conversation.
Done. No pause. No follow-up.
No shift in energy.
But Nyla doesn’t take it like that.
She steps away, heart beating just a little faster.
Not because of what he said, but how she heard it.
Back at the bar, Zariah glances over.
“That was quick.”
Nyla leans against the counter, trying to play it cool, but there’s a spark in her eyes.
“…he noticed me.”
Zariah raises a brow.
“He the owner. He notice everybody.”
Nyla shakes her head.
“No… it was different.”
Zariah pauses.
“…how?”
Nyla leans in slightly.
“He said I’m doing a good job. Said customers been talking about me.”
Zariah shrugs.
“That’s called management.”
But Nyla’s already smiling to herself.
“Mm… I don’t know.”
Zariah studies her.
“You reading into that.”
Nyla tilts her head, confident.
“Or I’m getting somewhere.”
Zariah lets out a small breath through her nose.
“…you not.”
But Nyla just laughs softly.
“We’ll see.”
A moment passes.
Then she adds—
“I just gotta be patient. That’s all.”
Zariah watches her for a second longer… then shakes her head slightly.
“You like playing with fire.”
Nyla grins.
“I like knowing I can win.”
Zariah’s eyes flick toward VIP—
Then past it.
Toward where Smoke usually sits.
“…aight,” she says quietly.
Nyla glances at her.
“What?”
Zariah folds her arms.
“If you working on him…”
She nods subtly toward Stack.
“…I’ll take the other one.”
Nyla’s grin widens.
“Oh, so now you really interested?”
Zariah shrugs, calm as ever.
“I like a challenge too.”
Nyla laughs, bumping her shoulder lightly.
“Good luck.”
Zariah’s gaze drifts across the room again, thoughtful.
“…I don’t need luck.”
Across the club…
Stack laughs at something someone says, completely unaware of the narrative forming around him.
Because to him?
That moment meant nothing more than good work being recognized.
But to Nyla?
It felt like the first crack.
And that’s where the misunderstanding starts.
♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸
Sunday morning…
Dajia is in the backyard, planting flowers, hands deep in the soil. The sun kisses her skin, making it glow, and Stack stands at the patio door just watching—quiet, locked in, taking her all in like she’s something sacred. The way she moves, focused and gentle, like she’s building something real from the ground up.
He steps outside slowly, crossing his arms as he studies her.
Dajia feels him before she even sees him.
“What you want, Elias?”
Stack chuckles under his breath.
“I want you, baby girl. I need to give you something.”
She smirks a little, not even turning around yet.
“I bet you do.”
“I do. You look so damn good out here doing this shit. This is talent, baby girl. I already know you gon have it looking real nice back here.” He pauses, shaking his head with a grin. “Now you know when JR. come, he gon be back here ripping all the flowers up.”
Dajia’s head snaps around.
“Jr?”
Stack nods like it’s obvious.
“Yeah, Jr. I thought we discussed this already? I want him to be a junior.”
She exhales, straightening up.
“I mean, we talked about it a little bit, but we didn’t say for sure.”
“Here you go,” he mutters. “You literally said you was okay wit Elias Junior.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah aight,” he shrugs, brushing it off. “Anyway, come clean off. I wanna show you somethin.”
Dajia studies him for a second, trying to read him. Then she dusts her hands off and follows him inside.
She heads straight to the bathroom, washing the dirt from her hands. When she comes out, Stack is standing there waiting, two boxes in his hands. One small, one a little bigger.
He opens them both.
Inside the larger box is a platinum Diamond Cuban necklace with a matching bracelet and Ankle bracelet. The smaller one? Big diamond earrings, shining like they got their own light.
Dajia gasps, her hand coming up to her mouth.
Stack watches her reaction, then says simply,
“A wedding gift.”
She immediately shakes her head.
“Stack, no. This is too much.”
“Stop it,” he says, firm but calm. “What I tell you? You my wife now. It’s never too much.”
Dajia sighs, already overwhelmed.
“Stack, you turnin into Smoke. These are the things he does for Annie. I’m not a big jewelry person—you know that. Never have been. It feels like you tryna compete or some shit.”
Stack’s jaw tightens, ticking as he looks off to the side for a second before coming back to her.
“First of all, Ledajia, stop comparin’ me to Smoke. We are twins, and I don’t do shit to compete wit him—I AM him.” His voice is steady, but there’s weight behind it. “I do shit for you ‘cause I love you, and I want you to have nice things. I always loved jewelry, even before I met you. Now I got a wife, and I want her to have beautiful jewelry too.”
He steps a little closer.
“And yeah, me and Smoke like a lot of the same shit. Same jeweler, same taste, same love language. That ain’t new. So the sooner you realize that shit, the better off we gon be.”
Dajia just looks at him, quiet, taking it in.
He softens a little, his voice dropping.
“Besides… these statement pieces. Not shit you gotta wear every day. Just when we step out somewhere nice. It’s supposed to compliment you, baby girl. That’s all.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Now can you just accept it for me?”
Dajia exhales, the tension easing out of her shoulders.
“Yes, Elias.”
“Now,” Stack says, eyes locked on hers. “You gon let me fuck you right now, wearing this and this only?”
Dajia’s insides twist. He always knew how to draw her in.
She bites her lip and nods.
She doesn’t even try to protest.
Ten minutes later…
She’s naked as the day she was born,
necklace and earrings gleaming on her skin.
He has her on the couch, on her back,
with him on his knees above her,
one leg on his shoulder, stroking her long and deep. Her ankle bracelet dangles and twinkles.
He kisses her ankle.
“Fuck, you look good wit that shit on. Stubborn ass. Always wanna argue wit a nigga about some shit.”
Dajia holds her breast and moans.
“Move them fuckin hands. I wanna see that chain and them titties bounce.”
She doesn’t listen. Of course she doesn’t.
He swipes her hands out the way.
“I said move ’em.”
He snaps his hips hard up against her,
watching her chest bounce while the chain twinkles against her sternum.
Stack’s dominance takes over, needing to feel like he’s in control, as always.
“Tell me you gon wear what I gave you. Say you like what I bought you,” he pants.
“Here you fuckin’ go. You love pissin me off. I’m gettin’ ready to really fuck you, Lee Lee. I’m tryin’ not to, baby. Why can’t you just do what I ask?”
She decides to soften for him today, ’cause she knows his intentions were good.
“Yes, baby, I liked it.”
His brows furrow. He was fully expecting a fight.
“See? That wasn’t hard. Now I wanna see you ride me, wit that shit on. Come on.”
They switch places, and Dajia rides him slowly.
The chain hangs as she bends forward slightly.
“Fuck, baby. You look so good. That light bouncing off yo skin.”
He yanks it a little, bringing her down toward him. He kisses her hard and fast.
She sits up and rides him faster.
Dajia wraps her hand around his neck.
“Say you gon stop buyin me shit I don’t care about.”
She bounces on him.
“Lee Lee—”
She smacks his face—hard.
“Say it! I don’t wanna hear shit else.”
“Shit! Why?” He questions.
She smacks him again, and Stack grins.
She bounces harder while squeezing his throat.
He feels himself about to come.
“Aight! Aight! Slow down!”
“No, nigga. Say what I told you to say!”
“I’m gon stop, Lee Lee, damn!”
Stack grabs her hips, growls, and busts inside her.
Dajia follows right after…
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The following Friday night….
Club Flexx moving like usual.
Lights low. Music steady.
Behind the bar, Zariah watches the floor—quiet, observant like always.
Her eyes land on Smoke.
He’s posted up near the edge of VIP tonight, not talking much, just watching the room like he always does.
Still. Unreadable.
Zariah dries her hands slowly.
“…aight,” she murmurs.
Nyla glances at her.
“You serious?”
Zariah doesn’t answer.
She just moves.
She steps out from behind the bar, smooth, unhurried.
No tray this time. No drinks. Just intent.
Smoke’s attention shifts slightly when she gets close—not because he’s interested…
Because he notices everything.
Zariah stops just inside his space.
“Can you help me real quick?” she asks.
Her tone is calm, almost neutral.
Smoke looks at her.
One quick glance. Then a nod.
“What you need?”
She gestures lightly back toward the bar.
“Something on the top shelf.”
That’s it.
No extra. No softness. No playfulness.
Just a reason.
Smoke pushes off the wall without hesitation.
“Come on.”
Behind the bar—
Zariah steps onto the inside, pointing up toward one of the higher shelves.
“Right there.”
Smoke reaches up easily, grabbing the bottle without effort.
Hands it down to her.
“Anything else?” he asks.
Flat. Professional.
Zariah doesn’t answer right away.
She’s just… looking at him.
Really looking.
Trying to catch something. Anything.
But his face?
Still. Calm. Nothing to read.
“…no,” she says finally.
A small pause.
Then she adds
“Thank you.”
Smoke nods once.
“No problem.”
And that’s it.
He turns to walk off—
No lingering. No second look.
No shift.
Zariah stands there for a second longer than she should.
Bottle still in her hand.
Mind turning.
Because that?
Didn’t go how she expected.
Nyla comes back to the bar and leans in immediately.
“…and?”
Zariah sets the bottle down slowly.
“…nothing.”
Nyla blinks.
“What you mean nothing?”
Zariah shakes her head slightly.
“He helped… and left.”
Nyla lets out a small laugh.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Nyla grins.
“Oh, he worse than Stack.”
Zariah exhales through her nose, but there’s a hint of intrigue now.
“Way worse.”
Nyla nudges her.
“So what, you giving up?”
Zariah’s eyes flick back toward where Smoke walked off.
Watching him blend right back into the room like nothing happened.
“…no.”
Her voice is quieter this time.
More thoughtful.
“That one…”
A pause.
“…different.”
Nyla smirks.
“I told you. You picked the hard one.”
Zariah crosses her arms slightly, still watching.
“He don’t even try.”
Nyla laughs.
“Try what?”
Zariah doesn’t answer right away.
Because she’s realizing it in real time
“He don’t care.”
Not about attention.
Not about being approached.
Not about being seen.
And somehow?
That makes him harder to read.
Harder to reach.
Across the room—
Smoke is already back where he was, like the interaction never happened.
Focused. Still. Unmoved.
Zariah looks down at her hands for a second…
Then back up.
“…yeah,” she murmurs.
“That one gonna take time.”
🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸
Sunday morning sunlight spills softly into the kitchen, catching the curve of Annie’s bare thighs as she stands at the sink, humming to herself while washing dishes. Her nightgown brushes high against her legs, as she moves easy, unbothered.
Smoke leans in the doorway, quiet, just watching her.
The sight alone has his jaw tight, chest rising slow. Mornings were always like this with her—no warning, no easing into it. Just need.
He pushes off the frame and walks up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her back into him. His lips find her neck, warm and slow.
Annie leans into him with a soft smile.
“Mmm… good morning to you too, Smoke,” she murmurs. “I made yo coffee, babe. Yo breakfast’s in the microwave.”
He presses another kiss just below her ear, voice low.
“Appreciate that, mama… but that ain’t what I want right now.”
She smirks, still rinsing a plate.
“Oh yeah? What is that you want, Elijah?”
His grip tightens slightly at her waist.
“You,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I want you to be my coffee this mornin.”
Annie’s eyebrow lifts, playful.
“Is that right?”
“Mhmm.”
His hands slide along her hips, slow and certain, as he dips his head, brushing kisses along her shoulder, down the back of her neck. The room feels warmer, quieter, like everything narrows down to just the two of them.
He drops to his knees and raises her gown. He begins to plant kisses all over the back of her thighs.
Annie lets out a soft breath, her movements at the sink slowing.
“Smoke…” she murmurs, half warning, half invitation
He smiles against her skin.
“Bend a lil for me, mama.”
She hesitates just a second—then bends, just enough—glancing back at him with that same teasing look.
He grabs the inside of one of her knees and moves her leg outward.
Then he kneads her ass cheeks while he kisses them.
“Can you be my breakfast and coffee this mornin’, Annie?” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk.
Annie nods while she grips the sink, dishes long forgotten.
Smoke taps her ass cheek.
“Words, baby. How you keep forgettin’? After three years? You don’t know what yo husband demand of you by now?”
“I-I do, Smoke. I just be so caught up in the moment.”
“Mhm, I get that, but I still need words from you. I love to hear that soft, sweet voice of yours when I ask you a question. Now answer me—You ready to be my breakfast and my coffee this mornin’, baby?”
“Yes, Elijah,” Annie breathes.
Smoke flicks his sharp, thick tongue out and tastes her clit.
Annie gives a heavy sigh.
It immediately becomes engorged and peeks out through her lips.
“There she go,” he mumbles.
He sucks it between his soft lips.
He turns around and sits down, sliding down the cabinet some. He lifts her left leg to the side, bent at the knee.
He goes to work on her clit.
Annie’s feeling lightheaded at how good it feels. She clutches the sink so hard her knuckles change color.
Smoke is hungry, and boy, does he eat.
Annie’s knee goes weak as she struggles to hold herself up with one leg.
“Elijah… daddy, hold on. Let me get my footin’, baby,” she says in a desperate plea.
He slows down and lets her adjust. He pulls her into his face.
He proceeds to gorge, giving her slow filthy licks to her bundle of nerves.
He stands up and puts himself inside her, giving her calculated strokes while he grips her ass.
He grunts and groans.
“That feel good, baby?” he asks.
Annie nods.
“Hell yeah.”
“I’m woke now, mama. I’m gon miss gettin’ this pussy any time and any place I want it.”
She leans back into him.
Smoke kisses her neck and fondles her breast.
“It’s so wet. That’s what my mouth do to you?” he growls. “Huh?”
“Yessss,” Annie breathes.
Her pussy makes loud, wet noises.
“She talkin’ to me, baby. You hear that?” he murmurs in her ear.
“Mhmm.”
“What you think she sayin’ to me? Tell me.”
“It’s so damn big, and it feels so good.”
“Where you feel me at? Hmm?”
“I feel you everywhere.”
Smoke lets a rough grunt.
Smoke grips her hips and pulls her back into him harder.
Annie chokes out a sob and explodes.
“Oh—oh, Smokeeee.”
Smoke holds her back on him and buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed all into her…
🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸
A couple nights later—
Club Flexx steady.
Not as wild as the weekend, but still full enough to keep the energy alive.
Behind the bar, Zariah moves like usual,
But her eyes?
They track Smoke.
Not obvious. Just… aware.
He’s at a table this time, going over something on his phone, occasionally speaking low to one of the managers.
Focused.
Always focused.
Zariah dries her hands, then grabs a water bottle.
No tray.
No excuse this time.
Just… timing.
She walks over, stopping just outside his space.
“Here,” she says, setting the bottle down near him.
Smoke glances at it… then at her.
“I didn’t order this.”
Zariah shrugs lightly.
“You didn’t drink anything all night either.”
A small pause.
“I figured you should.”
Smoke studies her for a second.
Not long. Just enough.
Then he nods once.
“…appreciate it.”
Zariah leans slightly against the edge of the table, but not too close.
Measured.
“You always like this?” she asks.
His brow shifts slightly.
“Like what?”
“Quiet.”
A pause.
Then she adds
“Watching everything.”
Smoke doesn’t react much.
Just unscrews the cap of the water.
“Tend to be.”
He takes a sip.
That’s it.
Zariah waits for more.
It doesn’t come.
She adjusts her stance.
Trying again, but softer.
“Seems like a lot to carry every night.”
That one?
Lands a little different.
Not flirtatious. Not surface level.
Smoke’s eyes flick up to her again.
Brief. But sharper.
“…it’s my job,” he says.
Simple. No complaint. No explanation.
Zariah nods slowly.
“I get that.”
A pause.
Then she adds
“But you don’t ever… relax?”
There’s the opening.
If there is one.
Smoke leans back slightly in his chair, looking at her for a second longer this time.
Like he’s deciding how much to give.
Which isn’t much.
“…I do.”
Zariah tilts her head slightly.
“When?”
Another pause.
Then—
His answer is short.
“Off the clock.”
And that’s the end of that.
Zariah lets out a small breath through her nose.
Not frustrated.
Just… clocking it.
“Fair enough.”
She straightens slightly.
“No hidden side in here, huh?”
Smoke’s expression doesn’t change.
But his voice?
Just a touch firmer.
“What you see in here is what you get.”
Clear. Not rude.
But closing the door.
Zariah nods once.
“…aight.”
No push. No extra.
She steps back.
“Enjoy your night.”
Smoke gives a small nod in return.
“You too.”
And just like that—It’s over.
Back at the bar.
Nyla’s already waiting.
“Well?”
Zariah grabs a towel, shaking her head slightly.
“…he don’t open up.”
Nyla laughs.
“I told you.”
Zariah leans against the counter, thinking.
“No… it’s more than that.”
Nyla raises a brow.
“How?”
Zariah glances back toward him.
“He don’t need to.”
A pause.
Then she adds—
“And he not about to for nobody in here.”
Nyla folds her arms.
“So you done?”
Zariah smirks faintly.
“…nah.”
Nyla groans.
“Girl—”
Zariah cuts her off lightly.
“I’m not trying to get him like that.”
That’s new.
Nyla squints at her.
“…then what you doing?”
Zariah’s eyes stay on Smoke.
“…figuring him out.”
Across the room…
Smoke picks up the water bottle again, taking another sip.
Calm. Unbothered. Unmoved.
And for the first time…
Zariah’s not frustrated by it.
She’s intrigued.
Because whatever part of him exists beyond that?
She knows now—It’s not for strangers.
🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸
The following Friday night…
Behind the bar—Music hitting. Crowd thick.
But for a moment, Zariah and Nyla got a little space between orders.
And their eyes?
Locked on VIP.
Stack and Smoke posted like always.
Clean. Calm. Untouchable.
Nyla leans in first, shaking her head slightly.
“…I’m sorry, but they too damn fine.”
Zariah lets out a quiet laugh.
“Way too fine.”
Nyla watches Stack move, adjusting his watch, talking like he got all the time in the world.
“…and they smell good too,” she adds. “Every time they walk past? Yeah… that shit dangerous.”
Zariah nods slowly, eyes still tracking them.
“Mm. That expensive cologne type. You can tell they near you before you even see ‘em.”
Nyla smirks, lowering her voice just a little.
“Have you seen how full they lips are?”
Zariah cuts her a look, already knowing where she going.
Nyla grins.
“I’m just saying… I know they can do some things with them.”
Zariah laughs under her breath, shaking her head.
“Girl…”
Then her eyes drift back to how Smoke moves—slow, confident, like nothing rushes him.
“Oooh… and the way they walk,” she adds. “Like they own everything in here.”
Nyla nods quick.
“Because they do.”
Zariah smirks slightly.
“Mm. And you can tell… they the type to have you folding for em.”
Nyla laughs.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” Zariah says, voice low but amused. “I just know they’ll take you through dere. Have you beggin em.”
Nyla leans back, folding her arms, still watching.
“I love how they dress too,” she adds. “Simple, but everything fit right.”
Her eyes land on Stack again.
“…Stack would look real good next to me.”
That’s when—Keisha cuts in without even looking up.
“Y’all thirsty as hell.”
Both of them turn.
Keisha still wiping down a glass, unbothered.
“And look good with you?” she adds, finally glancing at Nyla. “You ain’t even seen his wife.”
Nyla rolls her eyes slightly.
“Here we go…”
Keisha doesn’t stop.
“That’s the baddest woman I ever seen in my life. Her and Annie.”
Zariah’s brows lift a little.
“For real?”
Keisha nods once, serious.
“You’ll see.”
Then she gestures toward VIP.
“Both of them. They picked well. Believe me.”
Nyla sucks her teeth softly.
“I’d have to see that to believe they comparing to us.”
Zariah glances back toward the men, more thoughtful now.
“…I don’t know.”
Nyla looks at her.
“What that mean?”
Zariah shrugs slightly.
“They wives gotta be beautiful if they wifed them.”
That lands differently.
Nyla narrows her eyes a little.
“Whose side you on?”
Zariah lets out a small laugh.
“I’m just being real, Nyla.”
A pause
Then she adds
“You like to live in fantasy land.”
Nyla rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smirk there.
“Whatever.”
Across the room…
Stack and Smoke still moving the same.
Unbothered. Unreachable.
And for now?
Still a mystery they think they can solve.
🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸
Sunday morning…
The brunch spot is loud in that soft, upscale way, glasses clinking, low music humming, sunlight pouring through wide windows and laying gold across the table.
Annie and Dajia sit on one side, glowing in that unmistakable way…full, soft, radiant. Across from them, Smoke and Stack look like they own the room without trying. Protective. Observant. A little too aware of everything.
There’s a spread of food between them—waffles, eggs, fruit, something sweet Annie insisted on ordering “for the babies.”
Dajia leans back in her seat, smiling as she sips her drink.
“I’m not gon lie… havin the baby shower together? That was a good idea.”
Annie grins immediately, lighting up.
“Right? I told you! Double the decorations, double the food, double the fun.”
Stack shakes his head, smirking.
“Double the money too.”
Dajia nudges him under the table with her foot.
“Negro hush. You can afford it.”
Smoke chuckles low, eyes on Annie.
“As long as y’all happy, that’s all that matter.”
Annie reaches over, lacing her fingers with his for a second, squeezing.
“We will be. It’s gonna be perfect.”
There’s a warm pause. Easy. Full of love.
Then somehow—like conversations always do—it shifts.
Dajia tilts her head, thoughtful.
“Have you made up yo mind about how you wanna do it? Like… delivery wise?”
Annie doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah. I have.”
Smoke glances at her, casual at first.
“Oh yeah?”
Annie nods, sitting up a little straighter.
“I wanna have the babies at home.”
Silence.
Not loud. But heavy.
Smoke blinks.
“…At home?”
“In the tub,” Annie adds, like it’s nothing.
That’s when his whole face changes.
Stack lets out a short laugh, thinking it’s a joke.
“Man, stop playin—”
“I’m serious,” Annie says calmly.
Now it’s quiet for real.
Smoke leans back slowly, studying her like he’s trying to figure out if she’s playing.
“You serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“Annie…” his voice lowers, controlled, “why would you do that?”
She meets his gaze, steady.
“Because I’ve been doin my research. And because the mortality rate for Black women in hospitals is higher.”
Smoke’s jaw tightens almost instantly.
“Okay… but that don’t mean you safer at home.”
“It can be,” Annie says gently. “With the right support. I want a doula. Someone experienced. I want to be comfortable, in my own space—”
“What if somethin go wrong?” Smoke cuts in, sharper now.
Annie’s expression softens, but she doesn’t back down.
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” he shoots back.
Stack nods immediately, leaning forward.
“He right. That ain’t somethin you just gamble with.”
Dajia shifts in her seat, eyes moving between them. Then she speaks, calm but firm.
“I mean… I get what Annie’s saying.”
Stack turns to her so fast it almost snaps.
“You do?”
She nods slowly.
“Yeah. I actually want to do it too. That’s why I asked her.”
Now Stack’s face changes.
“Dajia…”
“I’m serious,” she says. “I like the idea of being in control. Being comfortable. Not feeling rushed or ignored—”
“Not in a hospital?” Stack cuts in, disbelief creeping into his tone. “With doctors? Machines? Everything right there if something go left?”
Dajia exhales, trying to stay calm.
“Sometimes that don’t mean better, Stack. You know that.”
Smoke shakes his head, running a hand over his mouth.
“Nah. I’m not wit that. I’m not.”
Annie’s voice stays even, but there’s steel underneath now.
“You don’t have to be ‘wit it.’ It’s my body.”
Smoke looks at her like that stung.
“And those my babies.”
“And I’m the one carryin them.”
Stack leans forward, palms flat on the table now.
“This shit ain’t just about comfort. This is life or death.”
Dajia leans in too.
“And that’s exactly why we gotta make the best choice for us—not just what’s standard.”
“Best choice is a hospital,” Stack snaps.
“For who?” she fires back.
The air shifts—sharp, electric.
Voices are still controlled, but just barely.
Smoke’s staring at Annie now, hurt creeping into his frustration.
“You ain’t even tell me you was thinkin like this.”
“I’m tellin you now.”
“In front of everybody?”
Annie’s brows pull together.
“Does it matter?.”
“It do,” he says tightly. “And I don’t like it.”
Stack nods.
“Not at all.”
Dajia folds her arms, sitting up straighter.
“Well we do.”
And just like that—lines are drawn.
Back and forth.
Low voices getting tighter. Words getting shorter. Emotions getting louder even when the volume doesn’t.
Until—
“Hi! Everything good over here? You guys wanna order any dessert?”
The server’s voice cuts through it like a blade.
All four of them go still.
The tension is thick. Suffocating. You could feel it sitting in the empty chair at the table.
Annie slowly leans back.
Dajia looks down at her dessert menu, even though she’s not reading it.
Stack runs a hand over his face, jaw clenched.
Smoke doesn’t even look at the server at first. He’s still looking at Annie.
Then finally, without breaking that stare, he speaks.
“Yeah…they want dessert.”
His tone is calm. Too calm.
A pause.
Then he adds, low enough that it’s just for them—
“We’ll finish this conversation in private.”
And everybody at that table knows—
This isn’t over. Not even close.
🌺🌹🌸🌺🌹🌸🌺🌹🌸🌺🌸🌹🌺🌸🌹🌺
When Smoke and Annie walk into their house, it’s dead silent.
Too quiet.
Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
Annie kicks her shoes off by the door, exhaling hard, her whole body heavy with the weight of everything that just happened.
Smoke slips his shoes off slower, controlled, but there’s tension in every movement.
Annie starts to head toward the bedroom.
“Wait a minute.”
His voice stops her cold.
She closes her eyes briefly, already tired.
“I wanna finish our conversation”
Annie sighs, turning around slowly.
“What, Smoke?”
He crosses his arms, jaw tight.
“So you thought it was okay to just discuss that openly in front of everybody without even tellin’ me first?”
Annie rolls her eyes, already irritated.
“I was goin to tell you, Smoke. Dajia just so happened to ask me before I could.”
“So when did you decide this?”
She shrugs, like it shouldn’t be this big.
“I went back and forth about it… but I settled on it a week ago.”
Smoke’s head tilts, disbelief flashing across his face.
“A week ago? So you couldn’t tell me—yo husband a week ago? I had to fuckin find out wit Stack and Dajia? What the hell?”
Annie’s expression hardens.
“I waited because of this right here.”
“Nah, Annie, don’t even try and use that shit as an excuse,” he snaps. “We talk about everything. And for me to be in the dark about this? That’s unacceptable. We are married. We are partners. I deserve to know about things like this.”
That hits, but instead of softening her, it sets her off.
Annie claps her hands together in frustration, pacing once before turning back to him.
“You are making a big deal out of this and it’s not that big of a deal.”
“Not that big of a deal?” Smoke repeats, incredulous. “You havin’ twins, Annie. You sayin’ you wanna have my babies at home—”
His voice rises, emotion bleeding through now.
“—and you didn’t even ask me what I thought!”
Annie fires right back, louder.
“Yes, it’s my fuckin body, Smoke! Not yours! It’s my life at risk—not yours!”
“Exactly! I know that!” he yells. “You say that shit every time I even express concern and that’s not fair! You mine—and those babies are mine. I’m worried! I’m responsible for y’all!”
“You not hearin me, Elijah!”
“No—you not hearin me!”
He smacks the back of his hand into his palm, pacing now, trying to contain himself and failing.
“You wanna have our babies somewhere wit no medicine, no machines! No life-saving measures—no doctors, no nurses! Having twins is already risky. I just can’t understand why you would wanna put our babies’ lives at risk like that?!”
“I’m not!” Annie shoots back immediately. “I’m gonna have a doula. A plan. Women been havin babies before hospitals even existed—successfully. I’m not just wingin it!”
Smoke’s jaw ticks, anger sharpening.
“Nah! I don’t wanna hear none of that shit. This sounds crazy as hell! I’m not havin it.”
That does it.
Annie steps forward, closing the space between them, getting right in his face. She’s furious now, chest rising and falling fast.
“Well hear it, Smoke…cause I’m doin it whether you want me to or not.”
His eyes flash.
“So it’s just fuck me now? I don’t have a say in anything?!”
She taps his forehead with her finger—hard and pushes his head back slightly.
“Not when it comes to my body. Get that through yo thick ass skull.”
Everything in the room freezes.
Smoke goes still. Too still.
His anger doesn’t explode—it drops.
Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
He takes a slow step back, eyes locked on her, studying her like he’s seeing something different now.
“Don’t you ever in yo life do that shit to me again.”
His voice is calm.
But it lands heavier than anything he yelled.
Then he turns, walks off without another word and slams the bedroom door.
The sound echoes through the house.
Annie stands there, frozen for a second.
Then her chest starts heaving, breath uneven, adrenaline still rushing through her veins.
The silence comes back.
But now…It’s louder than before.
🌸♥️🌸🌹🌸♥️🌸🌹🌸♥️🌸🌹🌸♥️🌸🌹
Stack and Dajia are laid up in bed, the room dark except for the faint glow slipping in through the curtains.
He’s quiet. Too quiet.
Dajia can feel it without even looking at him—the tension, the weight sitting on his chest that he ain’t letting go.
She shifts, turning onto her side to face him.
“You good?”
Stack turns his head slowly, eyes already on her.
“You know I’m not.”
Dajia exhales softly.
“Then talk.”
He stares for a moment then speaks.
“I’m convinced you and Annie just love to stress me and Smoke the fuck out.”
Dajia rolls her eyes in the dark, already irritated.
“How, Stack? Because we’re tryin to do what’s right for our bodies?”
“There you go,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Weaponizin that shit. ‘Our bodies.’ So because we men, we just don’t get a say, right?”
She pushes herself up slightly on her elbow.
“That’s not what I said—”
“But that’s how it feel,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “We y’all husbands. The fathers of these kids. Y’all ain’t get pregnant by y’all selves.”
Dajia’s jaw tightens.
“We should have a say in this too,” he continues. “But nah… y’all just went ahead and made a whole decision without us. That shit don’t sit right wit me. At all.”
He lets out a sharp breath, frustration slipping through.
“Me and Smoke had to find out at that table together like some damn inside joke instead of hearin it from our own women. That’s fucked up.”
Silence stretches between them.
Dajia swallows, then says quieter—
“Way to make it about y’all. It’s about us. Can’t you just support me on this?”
Stack turns his head fully now, really looking at her.
Studying her.
A long pause.
Then—
“No.”
It’s simple. Firm.
“I don’t agree wit it. I want us in a hospital.”
Dajia’s expression hardens instantly.
“Well that’s too damn bad, Stack.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He suck’s his teeth and glares in the dark.
“Remember that when it comes time for you wantin me to fuck you. You don’t need me. You can do it all alone.”
Dajia huffs
“Wowww. That’s how you feel?”
Stack doesn’t say anything else.
She turns her back to him, pulling the covers with her just a little.
“ And just so you know, I damn sure don’t need you.”
Stack stares at her for a second longer, jaw tight.
Then he turns his back too.
Now they’re laying there—back to back.
Close enough to touch.
But feeling miles apart.
For the next week…
The tension doesn’t ease.
It settles in.
Heavy. Stubborn.
Between Smoke and Annie.
Between Stack and Dajia.
Conversations stay short.
Looks linger too long or don’t happen at all.
Nobody bends. Nobody apologizes.
Both sides dug in deep, standing ten toes down in what they believe.
And the love is still there, but right now?
It’s buried under pride, fear, and a whole lot of unspoken shit.
♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹
It’s a Wednesday afternoon, the kind where the restaurant is busy but not loud—soft chatter, clinking glasses, sunlight pouring through the windows.
Annie, Dajia, and Dominique are tucked into a corner booth, menus pushed aside, plates half touched. It’s one of their their usuals spot—midweek reset, no men, no chaos.
Just them.
For a second, it’s light.
Then Dajia looks between Annie and Dominique and sighs.
“…So how bad is it over there?”
Annie lets out a humorless laugh, leaning back in her seat.
“Bad.”
Dajia winces.
“Damn.”
Dominique raises a brow, already sensing mess.
“What happened?”
Annie hesitates for half a second… then just says it.
“I pissed Smoke off even more.”
Dajia snorts softly.
“Obviously. How?”
Annie shrugs, but there’s tension in it.
“I mean… besides the whole me not budging on having the twins at home?”
Dominique narrows her eyes.
“Yeah, besides that.”
Annie sighs, rubbing her temple.
“…I put my finger on his forehead.”
There’s a moment of silence
Then Dominique’s whole face changes.
“You did what?”
Dajia turns her head fast.
“Annie…”
Annie rolls her eyes immediately.
“It wasn’t even like that. I just—pushed his head back slightly. He was doin the most.”
Dominique sits back, shaking her head.
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Downplay it,” Dominique says, firm. “You don’t put your hands on that man like that. Especially not in his face.”
Dajia nods in agreement.
“Yeah… I ain’t gon lie, Annie. You crossed the line wit that.”
Annie looks between them, disbelief creeping in.
“Y’all draggin it.”
“No, you are,” Dominique shoots back. “You know how men take that. That’s disrespectful.”
Annie exhales sharply, folding her arms.
“He exaggerated.”
Dajia shakes her head.
“He didn’t.”
Dominique leans forward slightly.
“And you know he didn’t. Cause had he done that to you, it would be a different story.”
That lands.
Annie doesn’t say anything for a second, just stirs her drink.
Dajia sighs, leaning back.
“Stack still mad too.”
Dominique glances at her.
“How bad?”
Dajia lets out a dry laugh.
“Barely talkin to me.”
Annie winces.
“Damn… Smoke actin the same way.
“And when he do talk?” Dajia shakes her head. “It’s slick shit.”
Dominique raises a brow.
“Like what?”
Dajia looks between them, already annoyed just thinking about it.
“Man it’s a lot of shit but this man really told me, next time I wanna have sex, I need to do that shit by myself since I don’t value his input.”
There’s a pause.
Then Annie busts out laughing.
Dominique tries to hold it in—fails
and laughs too.
Dajia stares at both of them, unimpressed.
“That shit was not funny.”
Annie wipes under her eye, still laughing.
“I’m sorry—no, it wasn’t, but it kinda was.”
Dominique exhales, shaking her head.
“That was a low blow.”
“Exactly!” Dajia says, pointing. “That’s what I said. And I told him I don’t need him anyway.”
Dominique’s laughter dies immediately.
She looks at her.
“…Yeah. You wrong too.”
Dajia blinks.
“Excuse me?”
“I said you wrong too,” Dominique repeats calmly. “Y’all both just saying shit to hurt each other now.”
Dajia leans back, quieter now.
Dominique looks between both of them, her tone shifting, less playful, more grounded.
“Listen… I get what y’all trying to do. I do.”
They both look at her.
“But y’all arguing the wrong way.”
Annie frowns slightly.
“How?”
“You’re just saying what you want,” Dominique explains. “Not why you want it in a way they can actually understand.”
Dajia crosses her arms.
“We’ve explained—”
“No,” Dominique cuts in gently. “You’ve said it. That’s not the same as making them feel it.”
That makes them pause.
Dominique continues—
“If this is really about safety… about y’all feeling heard… then you need to show them that. Break it down. Give real examples. Real stories. What women have actually gone through.”
Annie’s expression softens slightly.
Dajia looks down at the table.
“Because right now?” Dominique adds, “all they hearing is ‘we making this decision without you.’ And that’s where they stuck at.”
Annie exhales slowly.
“…So what, we just fold?”
Dominique shakes her head.
“No. Not fold. But meet them halfway.”
She leans in a little more.
“Marriage ain’t about winning. It’s about understanding the other person’s side…even when you don’t agree and finding a way to meet in the middle.”
Silence settles over the table.
Not tense. Just… thoughtful.
Dajia taps her nail lightly against her glass.
“…I could’ve handled that better.”
Annie nods slowly.
“Yeah… me too.”
Dominique leans back, satisfied.
“That’s all I’m saying.”
Annie glances at Dajia.
Dajia glances back.
A small, knowing look passes between them.
“…We gotta talk to them,” Annie says.
“For real this time,” Dajia adds.
Dominique smirks faintly.
“Yeah. And maybe don’t poke nobody in the forehead this time.”
Annie rolls her eyes,but she smiles.
“Aight, whatever.”
And just like that—
They’re not all the way fixed.
But they’re finally ready to try.
🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️🌸♥️
The office at Moore Life Lounge is heavy with tension. Antonio’s behind the desk, sleeves rolled, a glass of something dark in his hand,
Stack is pacing.
Smoke is slouched on the couch, elbows on his knees, rubbing his face like he’s been through war.
Antonio watches them both for a minute before he even speaks.
“Y’all done?” he asks, voice smooth, almost amused.
Stack stops pacing, throwing his hands up.
“Done? Nah, we just gettin started. You tell me why these women—our women—decided they wanna have these babies at the house. The house, Antonio.”
Smoke lets out a low groan.
“Not a hospital. Not doctors. Not none of that. Candles. Towels. Breathing exercises and shit.”
Antonio raises a brow, takes a slow sip.
Stack starts pacing again.
“I’m talkin about no epidural, no machines, no backup plan. Just vibes and shit. You hear me? VIBES.”
Smoke points toward Stack without even looking up.
“Exactly. And Annie talkin about ‘women been doin this for centuries.’ Yeah? And people was dyin for centuries too.”
Antonio chuckles under his breath at that, shaking his head.
Stack turns to him, dead serious.
“Say somethin’, man. You the only one in here not losin your mind.”
Antonio sets his glass down, leans back in his chair, folding his hands like he’s about to teach a class.
“First of all,” he says calmly, “y’all are losin your minds.”
Stack scoffs. Smoke exhales hard.
Antonio continues, unbothered.
“You hear yourselves? This ain’t about candles or hospitals. This about control.”
That makes Stack pause.
Smoke finally looks up.
Antonio nods toward them.
“You scared. Both of you. And instead of sayin that, you tryna dress it up like it’s about safety.”
Stack frowns.
“It is about safety.”
Antonio tilts his head slightly.
“Partly. But let me ask you this—if a doctor stood in front of you and said everything would go perfect at home, no complications… you still mad?”
Stack hesitates. Doesn’t answer.
Smoke leans back, quieter now.
“…yeah.”
Antonio gives a small, knowing nod.
“Exactly.”
Silence stretches for a second.
Antonio leans forward now, elbows on the desk.
“Listen… them women carryin y’all babies. Not you. Them. Every kick, every ache, every sleepless night, they livin in it.”
Stack drags a hand over his mouth.
Antonio continues, voice steady but firm.
“So when they say how they wanna bring that baby into the world? That ain’t a random decision. That’s them tryin to feel in control of somethin their body already took over.”
Smoke looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers.
Antonio softens just a little.
“Now, do that mean you don’t get a say? Nah. You their men. You supposed to protect, ask questions, make sure everything lined up right. Midwife certified, backup plan in place, hospital not far if needed… all that.”
Stack nods slowly.
“But barging in like ‘nah, we not doin that’?” Antonio shakes his head.
“That’s where you lose.”
Smoke lets out a quiet breath.
Antonio leans back, picking his glass back up.
“Talk to them. Not at them. Ask what they need to feel safe. Then you figure out how to stand in that with them.”
Smoke nods slowly.
Stack stares at the floor, then shakes his head with a quiet huff.
“…I hate when yo ass is right.”
Antonio smirks.
“That’s why you asked me to say something cause you know I’m always right….”
The house is quiet again, but this time it’s not loud with anger… just heavy.
Dajia’s already in bed, laid out on her back, staring up at the ceiling. The lamp on her side is off, leaving the room dim except for the bathroom light spilling out across the floor.
The shower cuts off.
A few minutes later, Stack walks out, towel slung low on his hips, another one rubbing through his hair.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look her way.
He just moves around the room, gets dressed in a pair of sweats, then slides into bed like she’s not even there.
Clicks the TV on. Volume low.
Dajia’s eyes flick toward him.
Four days.
Four whole days since they’ve been intimate.
For them? That’s damn near unheard of.
She shifts slightly, adjusting on the mattress, but he doesn’t react. Just watching the TV like he’s locked into it.
Her jaw tightens a little.
Oh… so we doing this for real?
Fine.
She turns her head, studying him quietly for a moment.
She knows her husband.
Knows his moods. His body language.
Knows exactly how stubborn he can be and exactly how to crack that shit.
Slowly, she reaches over to her nightstand.
Slides the drawer open.
Stack’s eyes flick for half a second—but he doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t acknowledge it.
Dajia pulls something out, then closes the drawer just as quietly. She settles back like nothing happened.
Then she turns on her Rose and Stack hears the vibration.
A moment passes.
The TV keeps playing.
Stack shifts slightly, adjusting his position, but now there’s a faint tension in his shoulders.
Dajia bites back the smallest smile.
Yeah… you not as locked in as you pretending to be.
She places the rose to her second set of lips and she twitches.
Stack exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening just a little.
“…You childish,” he murmurs under his breath.
Dajia hums softly, like she didn’t even hear him.
She moves the rose slightly as her breathing picks up.
“What the fuck are you doin’? Are you fuckin’ serious right now?” Stack questions as he looks at her in disbelief.
He can’t believe she’s using a toy right next to him without him even being a part of it.
Dajia chokes out,
“Mhmm, you said I can do it alone, right?”
His agitation rises.
Dajia moans loud, and now Stack’s dick is so hard he can’t even see straight.
He knows what he told her, but her moans are making him come undone—making him ready to go back on his word.
Before Dajia can even get into it, Stack reaches over and grabs her wrist, stopping her. He sits up on his knees and takes the rose from her.
He tosses it to the side while Dajia laughs in triumph.
“You always think some shit funny. You love playin’ wit me. C’mere.”
He yanks her down toward him and bends her legs back slightly at the knees. He rushes to pull his pants down
He shoves into her hard.
She yelps and pushes out.
“Wh-what are you doin, Stack? I thought—”
“Shut up.” He cuts her off “You knew what the fuck you was doin’. You wanna be funny, then I’m about to be hilarious.”
He rams into her over and over.
Stack growls at how tight and wet she is already.
“Don’t you EVER touch my pussy wit a toy again without me involved. Unless you want me to stick this dick so far in you, that it comes out yo mouth.”
Dajia lets out a giggle.
He slams into her and Dajia shrieks.
“That shit funny to you? Turn over” he demands
She takes her time flipping over and Stack finishes helping her turn over on her hands and knees.
He sticks his thumb in his mouth and sticks it in her ass.
Dajia gasps and clenches the sheets.
He works it in and out while he toys with her clit.
He’s quiet right now, listening to her moans.
He bends down and eats it next.
Wiggling his tongue in her rim.
Getting her ready for him.
Once he feels like she’s ready and open for him, he flips her back over on her back and lifts her legs slightly again.
He sticks his fingers in there one more time. Making sure she’s ready.
Then he replaces his fingers with his dick.
He starts off painfully slow.
Dajia can barely breathe, lost in how good it feels.
He holds her legs tight so she can’t move.
Then he starts plunging into her.
Dajia grabs his arms
“Nah, don’t grab me now, Lee Lee. You gon’ talk to me about shit from now on? Hmm?”
“Ahhhh,” she moans in response.
“I can’t hear you, baby girl. That’s not an answer—that’s a sound.”
She nods, her eyes starting to cross.
Stack smacks her cheek lightly.
“Hey, hey. Look at me. Focus. I can tell this dick feelin’ real good to you. This ass grippin me”
He leans over her, hands planted on either side of her hips, careful not to put any weight on her stomach.
Close. Too close.
His eyes search her face, taking in every little reaction—every flicker, every breath.
“Yeah…” he murmurs, voice low, a hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Yo slick ass got me to fold.”
Dajia’s lips part slightly, watching him, feeling that shift in him.
He reaches up, gripping her cheeks gently but firm enough to make her look straight at him, then he pulls out and slams back in.
She jumps out her skin.
“Stack—what the fuck?!” she yelps, eyes wide, heart racing.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him.
“Now who’s folded though?” he asks, tilting his head, eyes locked on hers. “Hmm?”
There’s a challenge there.
But it’s softer now. Warmer.
“Say it.”
Dajia stares at him for a second, still catching her breath, then narrows her eyes just a little.
“You are,” she shoots back, trying to be funny.
Stack’s grin widens.
“Nah,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer, his voice dropping. “Try again.”
She huffs softly, but her hands come up, resting lightly against his arms.
“…I am,” she admits.
That’s what he was waiting for.
His expression shifts—less teasing now, more satisfied. Grounded.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s better.”
He starts pounding her ass, giving it to her how he knows she likes it.
Moans tear from Dajia’s throat.
“You see how good I fuck you? That toy can’t do shit like me. You know it. You knew I was gon give in and get what’s mine. You played. You done playin?”
Dajia nods, veins popping out of her forehead. She can’t seem to catch her breath.
Stack notices and stops immediately. Concern flickering across his face
“Breathe for me.”
She finally catches her breath
“You good? You want me stop?”
“Mhm, I’m good Stack. Don’t stop”
He gradually starts moving again.
“Now,” he says, voice lower, steadier, “Can I be considered next time? Before you decide some shit?”
Dajia swallows, her attitude softening in real time.
“Y-yeah…”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Yeah?”
She exhales, giving in just a little more.
“Yes… Eli—Elias.”
That does something to him.
Stack lets out a low groan, dropping his head back for a second like her saying yes like that hit deeper than he expected.
“I love you, baby girl. You know that?”
She nods, voice softer now.
“I knowwww…”
“I just want the best for you baby,” he murmurs. “You know I’m yo husband, right?”
“Of co—course.”
He shifts, lifting her chin slightly so she has to look at him.
“Then tell me I matter,” he says. He thrust slightly harder. “Tell me my opinion matters.”
She gasps and her eyes flicker for a second—then she gives it to him.
“You matter, Stack,” she breathes out.
A small, satisfied smile pulls at his lips.
“Yeah… that’s what I’m talkin about,” he murmurs. “Me bein all soft wit yo ass got you surrenderin to me.”
There’s a hint of humor in it now.
“You catch more bees wit honey, they say.”
Dajia looks up at him, her expression changing—real this time. No attitude. No edge. Just passion and empathy.
“Eliassss…” her voice cracks just slightly. “I’m so sorry.”
That stops him. Completely.
His brows knit together, something flickering across his face—surprise, more than anything. His heart stutters because he wasn’t expecting that. Not without a fight. Not without having to pull it out of her.
“…I forgive you, baby,” he says, softer than before.
Dajia exhales like she’s been holding that in for days, finally letting go of the tension sitting in her chest. Then she shutters and breaks under him while he watches.
Stack coaxes her
“This shit shit feels so good. Keep comin for me.”
He rubs her clit stimulating her even more.
Her back arches and she squirts all over his fingers.
He comes not too far behind.
🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸
That Friday….
Shaad’s stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone over his face.
He’s been staring at the screen longer than he wants to admit.
Typing. Deleting.
Typing again.
Finally…
You going to Stack and Dajia house warming later?
He hits send before he can overthink it.
Three dots pop up almost instantly.
His chest tightens just a little.
Legacy☀️:
Yeah. You?
He smirks, rolling onto his side.
Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.
A pause.
Then—
Just needed to know if it was worth going fr
He stares at the screen, waiting.
The typing bubble pops up again.
Stops. Starts.
Then—
Legacy☀️:
Oh so it’s like that? 🤔
He grins, rubbing his jaw.
You know it is.
A few seconds pass.
Longer than the last ones.
Legacy☀️:
Well… I’m going now for sure. 😏
Shaad lets out a quiet laugh, sitting up a little.
Good. I been meaning to see you anyway.
There’s a pause on her end this time.
He watches the screen like it might disappear.
Then—
Legacy☀️:
Yeah?
His thumbs hover for a second.
Then he decides not to play it safe.
Yeah.
Miss you a little bit.
As soon as he sends it, he exhales hard, dropping his head back.
“Damn…”
The typing bubble pops up again almost immediately.
Legacy☀️:
A lil bit?
He laughs under his breath.
Aight… more than a little.
A longer pause now.
He sits up straighter.
Waiting.
Then—
Legacy☀️:
I miss you too.
That one hits different.
Shaad freezes for a second, reading it twice like he didn’t trust it the first time.
Then a slow grin spreads across his face.
He runs a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.
Yeah?
Legacy☀️:
Yeah.
He exhales, a quiet, satisfied breath.
I been thinkin about you. 🤔
There’s no hesitation this time.
Legacy☀️:
I know. 😎
He raises a brow.
Oh you know? 🤨
Legacy☀️:
Mhm. 🙂↕️
Cause I been thinkin about you too.
That does it.
Shaad sits all the way up now, energy shifting instantly.
“Yeah… okay,” he murmurs to himself, grinning like he just won something.
He types back quick this time.
Yeah you definitely need to pull up now.
Legacy☀️:
I was already comin.
Shaad:
Nah… now you coming for me.
There’s a pause.
Then—
Legacy☀️:
Don’t get ahead of yourself now. 😅
He laughs, standing up now, already moving around his room like he’s got somewhere to be.
Too late.😈
A pause.
Then softer—
I can’t wait to see you though. Fr.
The typing bubble lingers a little longer this time.
Then—
Legacy☀️:
Me either.
Shaad locks his phone, still smiling to himself. Yeah.
He’s definitely showing up now.
🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹
Stack and Dajia’s house still smells new.
Fresh paint, polished wood, something warm in the oven that Dajia swore she “wasn’t doing too much” even though the island is lined with food like she’s hosting a full event.
Music hums low through the speakers. Nothing too loud—just enough to fill the space between conversation and laughter.
Everybody’s scattered at first.
Antonio and Stack are near the bar, talking low, glasses in hand.
Shaad and Legacy are posted up on the couch, halfway watching something on mute, halfway people-watching.
Dominique’s in the kitchen with Dajia and Annie, sampling food she didn’t help cook.
“Mm,” Dominique hums, pointing her fork at Dajia. “You definitely did too much. Don’t even lie.”
Dajia grins.
“I had to. It’s our housewarming.”
Annie laughs softly, one hand resting over her belly.
“And you wanted to show off.”
“Exactly.”
They all laugh.
It’s easy. Warm. Safe.
Until— Legacy’s voice floats over from the living room.
“Aye… Annie have y’all finally decided on whether you doing hospital or home birth?”
The room pauses just a little.
Annie and Dajia glance at each other.
Stack groans under his breath.
“Man…”
Shaad sits up, suddenly interested.
“Nah, that’s actually a good question.”
Dominique leans against the counter, eyes flicking to Annie.
“Well?”
Annie takes a small breath, then shrugs lightly.
“I wanna do a home birth. With a doula.”
Shaads brows lift immediately.
“At the house?”
“Yeah.”
Stack shakes his head, already rubbing his temple.
“Here we go…”
But Annie’s calmer this time. Prepared.
Dajia steps closer to her side like she already knows what’s coming.
“And I’ve been thinkin about it too.”
They all walk into the living room together.
Legacy sits forward now, elbows on her knees.
“Okay, hold on… explain that to me. Like really explain it.”
Annie nods.
“Okay.”
She reaches for her phone.
“Because I know how it sounds at first.”
Smoke is quiet on the other side of the room, watching her carefully.
Annie taps her screen a few times, then looks up.
“Stack, can you put the TV on real quick?”
He sighs, but does it anyway.
A second later, the TV flickers on.
Annie mirrors her phone to it.
A headline fills the screen.
Statistics. Articles. Faces.
The room shifts.
“This,” Annie says softly, “is why.”
She scrolls.
“Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications in hospitals.”
Legacy’s expression changes immediately.
“Wait… what?”
“It’s real,” Annie says. “And a lot of it comes down to not bein heard.”
She taps another video.
A woman appears on the screen—tired, emotional.
“She kept telling them something was wrong,” Annie explains quietly. “They dismissed her. She almost died after delivery. She had preeclampsia which is common in women carrying multiples.”
The room goes still.
Shaad murmurs under his breath,
“That’s crazy…”
Dajia steps in gently.
“It’s not just one story either. It’s a pattern.”
Annie nods, scrolling again.
Another clip. Another woman.
“They ignore pain. They rush labor. Always quick to make us have a C-Section. They don’t always listen when we say something feels off.”
Shaad leans back slowly, shaking his head.
“So the doula is like… what? Backup?”
“Advocate,” Annie says immediately. “Someone whose job is to support me. Speak up for me. Make sure I’m not dismissed.”
Dominique crosses her arms, eyes still on the screen.
“That actually makes sense…”
Antonio exhales slowly, nodding.
“I ain’t even gon lie… I didn’t know it was like that.”
Stack is quiet now. For once.
Dajia looks at him, softer.
“It’s not about bein’ reckless. It’s about bein’ intentional.”
Shaad rubs his chin.
“So wit the home birth… you still got professionals, right?”
“Yes,” Annie says. “Midwife. Doula. Emergency plans in place. It’s not just me in a bathtub guessing’.”
That gets a small laugh, but it breaks the tension.
Legacy nods slowly.
“Okay… yeah. That sound different than what I was picturing.”
Dominique glances at Smoke, then back at Annie.
“And you’d feel safer doin that?”
Annie doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Smoke’s jaw tightens, but this time, it’s quieter. Thoughtful, not reactive.
Dajia adds gently,
“We just want control. And to feel heard.”
There’s a pause.
Then Antonio lifts his glass slightly.
“I respect that.”
Shaad nods.
“Yeah… me too.”
Legacy shrugs.
“I mean, if y’all got a real plan? I ain’t mad at it.”
Dominique smiles softly at Annie.
“I actually love that for y’all.”
And just like that, the energy shifts.
Not fully resolved. But understood.
Later….
The kitchen is quieter.
The party’s still going, but it’s background now, muffled laughter, music drifting in from the living room.
Annie’s at the sink, rinsing off a plate she didn’t need to touch.
She just needed a second.
Footsteps behind her.
She already knows who it is.
Smoke stops just behind her, not touching her yet.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Then—
“…Hey.”
His voice is low. Careful.
Annie keeps her eyes on the sink.
“Hey.”
A pause. Then he steps closer.
Hands sliding gently onto her hips.
Not demanding. Just there.
“I’m sorry baby.”
That makes her pause.
She turns her head slightly.
“For what?”
“For earlier. For… how I handled it.”
His grip softens.
“I wasn’t really hearin’ you. I was just… reactin.”
Annie studies him for a second.
“You were scared.”
He exhales, a quiet, honest sound.
“Yeah.”
Finally. Honesty.
He rests his forehead lightly against the side of her head.
“I just don’t wanna lose you or my babies,” he murmurs.
That softens her immediately.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
She turns in his arms now, placing her hand on his chest.
“Neither do you.”
They hold each other’s gaze.
Then she adds, softer
“But I need you to trust me. And trust that I’m makin the best decision I can for me… and our babies.”
Smoke nods slowly.
“I’m tryin’.”
“That’s all I’m askin.”
He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to her lips.
“I got you,” he says quietly. “Even if I’m still learnin.”
Annie smiles faintly, resting against him.
“Good.”
They kiss again.
From the living room…
“Aye! Y’all hiding in the kitchen now?” Legacy calls out.
Shaad laughs.
“They always disappearing!”
Annie huffs a small laugh against Smoke’s lips.
He shakes his head, already pulling back.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Before they start talkin crazy.”
She smiles.
And this time—When they walk back out together,
There’s understanding there.
An hour later…
Shaad and Legacy end up out on the patio, sitting side by side, the night air cooler than inside, the noise from the party muffled behind the glass doors.
For a second, it’s just quiet. Peaceful.
Shaad glances over at her, taking her in.
“You look good today.”
Legacy smiles, already knowing where he’s going with it.
“I look good every day.”
He grins.
“True, true… but I figured I’d let you know anyway.”
She nudges him lightly with her shoulder.
“Thank you. You look good too.”
He leans back in his chair a little, watching her.
“So… I’m glad I got you out here alone.”
Legacy raises a brow.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “You know they nosy as hell in there.”
She laughs, shaking her head.
“They damn sure are.”
Shaad shifts closer to her, the space between them disappearing.
His tone softens.
“Can I kiss you?”
Legacy doesn’t answer.
She just leans in—and kisses him.
Slow. Easy. Like it’s been waiting to happen.
Inside, through the window—
Stack and Smoke just so happen to catch it.
Smoke lets out a quiet chuckle under his breath, shaking his head.
“Man… he ain’t stoppin, is he?”
Stack smirks, arms crossed as he watches.
“Nah. He really feelin her.”
Smoke nods, expression softening a little.
“He should.”
“Yeah,” Stack adds. “She deserves to experience a real nigga.”
“She do,” Smoke says, eyes still on them. “I’m happy for her. Me and Annie done had a lot of sleepless nights over her.”
“I know,” Stack replies. “Hopefully she beat this case so we ain’t gotta beat Chris ass again.”
Smoke shakes his head, dragging a hand over his face.
“Man… I’m tryna be better, but he makin it real hard.”
Stack nods in agreement, both of them lingering there a second longer before looking away.
Outside…
Shaad pulls back just slightly, glancing toward the window and spots them.
He cracks up instantly.
Legacy looks at him, confused for half a second, then follows his gaze.
Sees them watching. She starts laughing too.
“See?” Shaad says, shaking his head.
Legacy leans back in her chair, still smiling.
“Yeah… I see. No privacy.”
But neither of them moves away.
Not even a little.
🌸🌹🌸♥️🌸🌺🌸🌹🌸♥️🌸🌺🌸♥️🌸🌹
Two hours later at Smoke and Annie’s house.
Screams float from their room, and loud smacks follow behind.
Smoke has Annie’s pregnant ass on top of him, on her feet, bouncing on him while he thrusts up into her.
“Yeahhhh, bounce on this dick,” he demands.
“I am, Smoke!” she scream-whispers.
A sharp smack lands on the side of her ass cheek.
“Don’t fuckin’ sass me, Annie.”
Annie groans.
“I’m not, Smoke.”
“You was, and I’m not playin’ wit that ass tonight. You lucky this is what you gettin. Instead of me poundin yo hard hardheaded, disrespectful ass from the back. You lucky daddy takin it easy on yo ass tonight. Now ride this fuckin dick like I said.”
He smacks her right cheek—hard.
“Shit, Smoke. Okayyy.”
“Now, baby, I’m still waitin on my apology for what you did to me the other day.”
Annie looks down at him, confused.
Smoke’s brows furrow at her audacity. He bites his lip and lands another sharp slap to her ass.
“Don’t look at me confused. You know what you did. Tell me you sorry.”
“Ughhh… Elijah, I’m sorry.”
“Say you not gon’ do it again.”
Annie shakes her head.
“I-I’m not gon’ do it again.”
“What you not gon’ do?” He smacks her ass again. “I wanna hear it.”
“I’m not gon’ put my hands on you no more.”
“You promise?” Smoke asks.
“Yes, I swear.”
She starts slowing down as her legs get tired. Normally, she could go forever.
He smacks her ass again.
“Uh-uh, mama. Did I say slow down?”
“Smokeeee, my legs are tired,” she whines.
Smoke huffs.
“Aight. You can ride this dick on yo knees then.”
Annie sighs and gets down on her knees.
Smoke’s hands settle on her hips instantly, his gaze locking onto her like he can’t look anywhere else.
Annie’s stomach flips.
She loves when he looks at her like that—like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.
His hands slide up, resting over her stomach, rubbing slow, gentle circles as she rocks back and forth.
“Damn…” he murmurs, voice low, full of awe. “You so beautiful. Can’t believe you all mine.”
Annie’s just catching her breath, but she blushes anyway, a soft smile pulling at her lips.
He sits up, closing the space between them, wrapping his arms around her like he needs her closer.
“I’m sorry too, baby,” he whispers, his voice brushing against her lips. “You forgive me?”
Annie lets out a soft groan, nodding as she leans into him.
“Yes… I do,” she breathes.
Smoke pulls back just enough to look into her eyes.
Serious now.
“You scared me, mama. You hear me? I was scared.”
Annie’s expression softens immediately. She cups his face in both hands.
“I know,” she says gently. “And it’s okay.”
That’s all he needed to hear.
He leans back in, their foreheads brushing before their lips meet again—slower this time, softer. Not rushed. Not heated. Just… connected.
Smokes tongue circles hers, then he sucks her bottom lip into his mouth.
He moves to her neck. Sucking on her skin gently. Annie gives a breathy moan.
Then he moves down to her breast, kissing the top of them.
His tongue flickers out to taste the left one, circling the nipple before he pulls it fully into his mouth.
“I don’t wanna share these, baby,” he mutters.
Annie giggles lightly and clutches his head.
He moves to the right one, doing the same thing—teasing it, grazing his teeth along it.
Annie hisses at the sensation.
He sucks greedily like a newborn, gripping her ass while she rocks on him.
“Mmmm,” he growls. “You feel so damn good to me, baby. I just wanna stay right here inside you. Don’t move—just sit right here. Can I just sit in it for a minute?” He rubs her nose with his. “Is that okay baby?”
Annie replies shakily,
“You feel good to me too, daddy… and yes that’s okay.”
Smoke sucks her chin like he always does, then moves back up to her mouth and sucks on her tongue.
Annie gets even more aroused by the intimacy and the closeness.
Her arms come up around Smoke’s neck, rubbing the nape while they kiss.
She missed this closeness.
She hated the tension and distance between them the last few days.
Smoke puts his mouth to her ear.
“I fit inside you like a key to a lock.” His voice comes out deep, rough, passionate. “You hear me? This pussy my lock and this dick the key, baby. Can’t no other keys open this lock. This gon’ always be MY lock.”
Annie clenches around him, loving him talking that shit to her.
Smoke keeps going.
“Say this my lock, Annie. Say ain’t nobody but me gon’ ever put they key in this lock.”
His hand moves up to her throat and squeezes, pulling her slightly forward.
Annie chokes it out, breath shaky.
“It’s yo lock, Elijah.”
Smoke closes his eyes and hums in satisfaction.
“And what’s gon’ happen if I ever hear about another nigga tryna put his key inside my lock? Hmm?”
He lifts her chin with his index finger and thumb and looks her dead in the eyes, jaw locked, gaze searching.
Annie swallows hard.
“Y-you gon’ kill ’em,” Annie breathes out.
Smoke nods.
“And what else?” he asks.
Annie hesitates, then says,
“While I watch.”
“That’s right—while you watch, baby. I mean that shit too. I’m dead ass serious. And I ain’t talking about no quick shit, I’m talking about slow and torturous, just so you can see what a nigga like me is like once that switched is flipped. You know I ain’t ever been wrapped too tight, but now that I got this…” He reaches down and rubs the top of it. Annie’s breath stutters.
“I’m way past that shit. I swear I’ll make you regret ever lettin a nigga inside MY pussy. Don’t ever make me show you in person what I do to niggas who try me.”
Annie feels a tingle in her spine.
He grabs her neck again, pulling her into him, his arm flexing. He kisses her lips gently.
Then he speaks, mouth close to hers, breath brushing against her lips.
“You ever had a nigga that would kill about you, Annie?”
Annie shakes her head, and Smoke gives her that look.
“No, Smoke.”
“Well, now you do. Always remember that shit. See how hard you got this dick? Hmm?”
“Yes” Annie whimpers.
Smoke glances down and lets out a low breath, shaking his head like he can’t believe her.
“You drenchin my lap, baby. This shit so wet. You like that shit I’m talkin to you. Don’t you?”
Annie looks off to the side, slightly embarrassed “Hell yes”
“I know you do, pussy can’t even hide it. Now come on mama. I need you to surrender that nut to me NOW. While I watch. And if I have to tell you again, you gon find yo self face down ass up, wit me feeding you dick until you surrender that shit to me.”
His hands tighten on her hips, pulling her down harder, slower this time—making her feel every inch of it.
Annie’s body tightens around him, pulsing, uncontrollable. Her head falls back, throat exposed, breath breaking.
Smoke leans in, mouth brushing her neck, voice dropping rough against her skin—
I love you, Annie… say it back to me.”
That does it.
She falls apart with a cry, gripping him, shaking as the words spill out of her between gasps—“I love you—”
He follows right after, jaw clenched, holding her in place as he rides it out with her.
🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸♥️🌹🌸🌹🌸♥️🌸🌹🌸♥️
Two weeks later—
Club Flexx still moving like a heartbeat.
Same lights. Same bass. Same money in the air.
But tonight?
The energy shifts the second they walk in.
Stack and Smoke step through first, casual but commanding like always.
And they not alone.
Annie on Smoke’s arm.
Dajia on Stack’s.
Both women glow in that soft, undeniable way—curves fuller, movements slower, more intentional… hands resting instinctively over their stomachs like second nature.
Dajia is breathtaking.
She’s wearing a white ruched mini dress that hugs every curve, accentuating her hips and her ass. Her locs are piled high on top of her head, wrapped at the base in a crisp white wrap, while the ends spill freely down her back, grazing just above her hips. Her piercings catch the light subtly, adding edge to her already striking presence.
She looks… regal. Nubian.
A goddess in motion.
On her arm hangs the Birkin Stack gifted her, effortless and familiar, while the diamond earrings and Cuban link necklace he bought her shimmer with every step—luxury, but worn like its second skin.
Annie? She radiates warmth.
Her yellow jacquard knit halter dress glows against her skin, the color rich and golden, hugging her body in a way that feels soft but intentional. Her skin has that oiled sheen, catching the light with every movement, making her look almost sun-kissed indoors.
Her jumbo boho twists fall past her waist, thick and full, framing her beautifully.
Around her neck sits the gold Cuban chain Smoke gave her, paired with a delicate tennis bracelet that sparkles every time her hand moves—subtle, but impossible to miss.
They don’t just walk in.
They arrive. Together. Pregnant.
Behind them—Antonio walks in with Dominique at his side, his presence quieter but just as solid.
Dominique laughs at something he says, her hand brushing his arm like it belongs there.
Behind the bar, Nyla freezes mid-pour.
“…Oh.”
Zariah looks up.
And for the first time since she started working here?
She doesn’t speak right away.
Her eyes move from Annie… to Dajia… then to Dominique.
Taking it all in.
“…Oh my God…they pretty,” Nyla says under her breath.
Not jealous.
Not even slick about it.
Just honest.
Zariah nods slightly, studying.
“Pretty ain’t even the word. Ethereal is more like it.”
Annie’s glow is soft but grounded.
Dajia’s got that quiet confidence, like she knows exactly who she is.
Dominique? Calm, polished, effortless.
Different types of beautiful.
But all undeniable.
Nyla leans in closer.
“And they pregnant…”
Zariah exhales slowly.
“Yeah… I see that. Of course they are. If it was me I’d be pregnant too.”
They watch as the group moves toward VIP.
Staff already shifting, making space like second nature.
Nyla’s eyes flick to Antonio.
“…Who the hell is that?”
Zariah follows her gaze.
Clean. Composed.
Moves like he don’t need attention but gets it anyway.
“…He fine as hell too,” Nyla adds, low.
Keisha doesn’t even look up this time.
“That’s Antonio.”
Nyla raises a brow.
“And?”
Keisha finally glances at her.
“He own part of this club too.”
Zariah’s posture shifts just a little.
“Of course he do,” she murmurs.
Nyla lets out a small laugh.
“So everybody over there just… rich and in love?”
Keisha smirks faintly, wiping down the counter.
“Something like that.”
They all glance back at VIP.
Stack pulling Dajia’s chair out for her.
Smoke’s hand steady on Annie’s lower back as she sits.
Antonio leaning in to say something to Dominique that makes her smile.
Natural. Unforced.
Like they do this every day.
Nyla shakes her head, half amused, half in disbelief.
“Yeah… they living nice as hell.”
Keisha hums.
“They spoil them girls too.”
Zariah glances over.
“How you know?”
Keisha lets out a small laugh.
“Because I been here longer than both of y’all. I seen it.”
She nods toward VIP.
“Trips. Jewelry. Cars. Clothes. Houses. Whatever they want.”
Nyla’s eyes widen just a little.
“…Must be nice.”
Zariah crosses her arms, still watching.
“I wouldn’t mind that life.”
Keisha cuts her a look quick.
“Don’t get it twisted.”
That tone? Different. Serious.
“They get spoiled, yeah. But them ain’t no regular women.”
Nyla leans back slightly.
“What you mean?”
Keisha nods toward Annie first.
“That one? Engineer.”
Then to Dominique.
“Her too.”
Then to Dajia.
“And she got her own photography studio. Runs it herself.”
Silence. Just for a second.
Zariah’s brows lift slightly.
Nyla blinks.
“…Oh.”
Keisha smirks.
“That’s right they spoiled themselves long before the SmokeStack twins ever came along.”
Zariah stares at her.
That confidence they had?
It shifts. Not gone.
But… checked.
Zariah looks back toward VIP, but this time it’s different.
More… understanding.
“…Okay,” she says quietly.
Nyla lets out a small laugh, shaking her head.
“Well damn.”
Keisha smirks, going back to her glass.
“Yeah. Now you see.”
Nyla leans closer to Zariah again, voice low but playful.
“I get it now.”
Zariah’s lips curve slightly.
“Yeah…”
Her eyes stay on the women.
“…I see why they wifed them up.”
Nyla grins.
“Ain’t just gorgeous.”
Zariah nods once.
“Nah.”
Silence
“Self Made.”
Across the room
Stack presses a kiss to Dajia’s temple.
Smoke murmurs something to Annie that makes her smile soft.
Antonio’s hand rests over Dominique’s, steady and sure.
Not just love. Partnership.
And suddenly—That “challenge” don’t look so simple anymore.
VIP feels different when it’s them together.
Warmer. Full.
Annie leans back into the couch, one hand resting over her stomach while Smoke’s fingers absentmindedly trace slow circles against her side.
Dajia sits close to Stack, his arm draped behind her, his hand occasionally brushing over her belly like he can’t help it.
Dominique crosses her legs, relaxed, Antonio’s hand resting over hers on the table.
They’re talking, laughing, but it’s subtle.
Annie’s eyes drift. Just for a second.
Toward the bar. Then back. Then again.
Dajia catches it.
“What?” she murmurs, low enough only Annie can hear.
Annie takes a sip of her water, then leans slightly closer.
“…we bein watched.”
Dajia doesn’t turn right away.
She just smiles faintly, like the conversation ain’t nothing.
“…I know.”
Annie lets out a small breath through her nose.
“You clocked it too?”
“Soon as we walked in.”
Dominique shifts slightly, picking up on the energy without being told.
“Clocked what?” she asks, calm.
Dajia finally glances toward the bar, quick, subtle. Then back.
“New bartenders.”
Dominique’s eyes flick over casually.
That’s all she needs.
“…oh.”
Annie raises a brow.
“You see it?”
Dominique nods once, unfazed.
“Yeah.”
A small pause.
Then Annie murmurs, almost amused
“They bold.”
Dajia lets out a soft laugh under her breath.
“Very.”
Dominique takes a slow sip of her drink.
“They was bold enough to walk up to them?”
Annie nods slightly.
“A few weeks ago.”
That catches Dominique’s attention more.
“And?”
Dajia smirks.
“They got embarrassed.”
Dominique’s lips twitch.
“I figured.”
Annie glances over again, this time catching Nyla’s eyes for a split second before Nyla looks away.
“…they still tryin though.”
Dajia hums, thoughtful.
“I see that.”
Dominique leans back, crossing her arms loosely.
“They ain’t slick.”
Annie shakes her head softly.
“Not even a little bit.”
A moment passes.
Then Dajia speaks, quieter now.
“You bothered?”
Annie doesn’t answer right away.
She leans into Smoke a little more, his hand instinctively tightening on her side.
Grounded. Secure.
“…nah,” she says finally.
“Me either,” Dajia replies.
Dominique nods slightly.
“Me neither.”
Another pause.
But this one?
Comfortable. Certain.
Annie’s voice softens just a little.
“They can look all they want.”
Dajia smirks faintly.
“Lookin free.”
Dominique adds, smooth and effortless
“Touching cost too much.”
That earns a small laugh from both Annie and Dajia.
Annie glances back one more time, this time not curious. Just aware.
Then she settles fully, resting her head lightly against Smoke’s shoulder.
“They’ll get tired.”
Dajia’s fingers lace with Stack’s.
“Or they gon learn.”
Dominique lifts her glass slightly.
“Either way…”
Her eyes flick toward the bar once more, calm but firm.
“…they watching the wrong people.”
Across from them, the men are still deep in conversation, unaware—or maybe just unconcerned.
The night keeps moving.
Music up. Laughter flowing. Glasses clinking.
VIP steady like always.
But the air? It’s shifting.
Behind the bar, Nyla watches again.
Longer this time.
Her eyes move between Stack… Smoke… then back to the women sitting beside them.
The glow. The comfort. The way everything just… fits.
It irritates something in her.
Not enough to stop. Just enough to push.
Zariah notices.
“You thinking too loud,” she murmurs, not looking up from the glass she’s polishing.
Nyla smirks.
“I just don’t like how untouchable they acting.”
Zariah finally glances at her.
“…or how untouchable they are.”
Nyla is already grabbing a tray.
“Watch this.”
Zariah’s voice drops.
“Nyla—”
Too late.
VIP.
Stack is mid laugh.
Smoke talking low to Antonio.
The women relaxed, wrapped in their own bubble.
Then—Nyla steps in.
Uninvited. Unapologetic.
She sets a fresh round of drinks down like she belongs there.
“Y’all looked like y’all needed a refill.”
Stack’s smile fades just a touch.
Not rude. But it’s not welcoming either.
“We good,” he says. Simple.
Dajia’s eyes lift slowly.
Annie straightens just a little.
Dominique goes still.
Nyla doesn’t move.
Her gaze lingers—this time not on the men.
On Annie. Then Dajia.
She sees the jewelry, the Birkin, the big diamonds on their ring fingers.
Her heart skips and her lashes flutter, but she recovers.
A small smile plays on her lips.
“You sure?” she says lightly.
“Wouldn’t want y’all getting… thirsty.”
It’s subtle. But it ain’t.
Annie’s brows lift just slightly.
Dajia tilts her head.
Dominique’s eyes sharpen.
Stack leans forward a little.
“Aye,” he says, tone low now.
“We said we good.”
Smoke’s jaw tightens—not loud, not aggressive.
But present. Clear.
Still—Nyla lets her fingers rest on the table a second too long.
Then she looks directly at Smoke.
“…y’all always this hard to get to know?”
That’s the line—crossed.
And before either man can answer—
Annie moves. Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just… deliberate.
She lifts her hand and gently—firmly—slides Nyla’s fingers off the table.
Not rough. But unmistakable.
Then she looks at her.
Calm. Soft. Unshaken.
But her voice? Clear as glass.
“You workin too hard.”
Silence hits the section.
Nyla blinks, caught off guard.
Annie tilts her head slightly, not unkind, but not playing either.
“They not interested.”
Dajia shifts beside Stack, her hand resting over her stomach, her tone quieter, but just as firm.
“And you standin a lil too close for somebody who know that.”
Dominique doesn’t even lean forward.
She just looks at Nyla, measured.
“You’re good at your job,” she says smoothly.
“But this?”
A small pause.
“Ain’t part of it.”
Nyla’s smile falters.
Just for a second.
She glances at Stack… at Smoke…
Neither one of them say a word.
They don’t have to.
They already chose their side just by sitting still. Solid. Unmoved.
That’s what really hits.
Zariah appears behind her then, stepping in smoothly, reading the room instantly.
“My fault,” she says, grabbing the tray.
“We’ll clear this.”
Her tone professional, but her eyes flick to Nyla sharp.
Fall back.
Nyla exhales through her nose, composure slipping just a little.
“…enjoy y’all night,” she murmurs
But it don’t land the same.
Not confident. Not playful.
Just… retreat.
They walk off.
Back behind the bar, Nyla drops the act completely.
“…okay.”
Zariah doesn’t say anything at first.
She just sets the tray down.
Then looks at her.
“What I tell you.”
Nyla runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head.
“They ain’t even raise their voice.”
Zariah nods once.
“They didn’t have to. They secure.”
Nyla glances back toward VIP.
Annie leans into Smoke again like nothing happened.
Dajia smiling at something Stack says.
Dominique calm, unbothered.
Like that moment?
Didn’t shake a thing.
“…yeah,” Nyla says quietly.
Zariah folds her arms.
“That’s a hard game to win.”
A long pause.
Then Nyla lets out a small laugh.
“…I see that shit now.”
Zariah’s voice softens just a fraction.
“You want that life?”
Nyla watches them again. This time different.
Less hunger. More understanding.
“…yeah,” she admits.
Zariah nods toward VIP.
“Then look at what come with it.”
Respect. Discipline. Standards.
Not just pretty. Not just money. Structure.
Nyla exhales.
“…yeah.”
Back in VIP, Annie settles again, but Smoke leans down slightly.
“You good?” he murmurs.
She nods.
“I’m good.”
Stack glances at Dajia.
“You straight?”
Dajia smirks faintly.
“Very.”
Dominique lifts her glass.
“Handled.”
Antonio chuckles low.
Sometime later…
The music hums low behind the bar as Annie and Dajia step up together.
Soft. Unrushed.
But their presence? Immediate.
Nyla straightens slightly without meaning to.
Zariah’s already watching.
Up close—it’s different.
The glow. The confidence. The way they carry themselves like nothing in the room can shake them.
Dajia sets her Birkin gently on the counter.
“Can we get two waters and another round?” she says, voice smooth.
Professional. Polite. Like nothing else exists.
Nyla nods quickly, turning to grab the glasses.
“Yes ma’am.”
That slips out before she can stop it.
Annie notices, but doesn’t react.
She just rests her hand lightly on the counter, her bracelet catching the light.
For a moment—Silence.
Then Dajia speaks. Calm. Measured.
“We’ve seen y’all.”
Not accusatory. Just… factual.
Nyla pauses mid pour.
Zariah’s expression doesn’t change, but her attention sharpens.
Annie tilts her head slightly, her voice softer, but it lands just as heavy.
“And we’re not pressed.”
A pause
Dajia continues, eyes steady on them.
“it’s not a good look.”
No raised voice. No attitude. Just truth.
Nyla sets the glass down slowly.
“…what you mean?”
Annie’s gaze holds hers.
“Throwin yo selves at married men.”
There it is. Clear. Direct.
Zariah exhales quietly.
Not defensive. Just… listening.
Dajia leans slightly against the bar, relaxed.
“You’re both pretty,” she says. “Confident. You don’t need to move like that.”
Nyla’s jaw tightens just a little.
But she doesn’t interrupt.
Annie continues, voice even.
“You’ll get a lot further buildin yo self… than chasin somebody else’s life.”
Zariah’s eyes flick up.
Dajia nods slightly.
“When you know who you are… when you have yo own…”
She taps her nails lightly against the counter.
“…that’s what attracts the right kind of man.”
Annie adds—
“Men like them?”
She glances toward VIP briefly.
“They don’t want needy. They don’t want desperate.”
Her eyes come back to Nyla.
“They want women who can stand on their own.”
Silence settles. Heavy.
Zariah shifts slightly, absorbing it.
Nyla crosses her arms, but it’s weaker than before.
Dajia’s tone softens just a touch, but not her message.
“Yeah. they don’t want a liability, they want an asset….Women who move like y’all been movin?” she says. “They might be fun for a night. But nothing serious comes from that.”
Annie nods once.
“And definitely nothin lastin. Definitely won’t ever get this.” She lifts her ring finger and shows it off. Not to boast, but to be real.
That one lingers. Then—Annie smiles softly.
Like nothing happened.
“Thank you for the drinks.”
Dajia nods once.
“Have a good night.”
They turn. Walk away.
Unrushed. Untouched. Unbothered
Behind the bar, Nyla stands still.
Zariah too.
Neither of them speak right away.
Because that? Wasn’t loud.
Wasn’t messy. But it was…Humbling.
Nyla exhales slowly.
“…damn.”
Zariah nods once.
“…yeah.”
Nyla murmurs
“They wasn’t even mad.”
Zariah shakes her head slightly.
“They didn’t have to be.”
“They meant everything they said.”
Nyla looks down at the counter.
Thinking. For real this time.
And across the room
Stack pulls Dajia close as she returns.
Smoke leans into Annie, saying something low that makes her smile.
The room is soft and quiet in that way yoga studios always are, dim lighting, calm music humming low, lavender in the air. Mats lined up neatly.
And then… there’s them.
Annie and Dajia are already settled on their mats, both visibly pregnant, both trying to take this class seriously for all of five seconds.
Across from them…
Stack and Smoke. Struggling.
Badly.
The instructor, calm and glowing, moves smoothly through a pose.
“Alright, partners, we’re going to move into a supported squat. Gentle, slow—”
Stack is already off.
“Hold on—wait—my knee don’t bend like that,” he murmurs, trying to mirror the pose but ending up halfway crouched like he’s about to guard someone in a basketball game.
Dajia presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Stack…” she whispers. “You supposed to relax.”
“Shit. I am relaxed,” he says, clearly not, side eyeing the instructor like she personally offended him.
Meanwhile, Smoke is behind Annie, supposed to be supporting her balance. Instead, he’s completely distracted.
His hands are on her hips, but his attention? Nowhere near the instructions.
“Babe,” he murmurs low, leaning in close to her ear, “you look too good doin this.”
Annie’s eyes close for a second, fighting a smile.
“We are in a class,” she whispers back.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
Across the room, the instructor continues, unfazed.
“Partners, keep your focus. Breathing together—”
Smoke is not breathing together. He is staring.
Annie finally cracks, a quiet laugh slipping out. She glances over at Dajia
and that’s when it’s over.
Because Dajia just looked up to see Stack trying to stretch, one leg extended, arms reaching… and he wobbles like he’s about to tip over.
“Man—” he huffs, grabbing his thigh, “who invented this shit?”
That’s it.
Dajia SNORTS.
Like, full, uncontrollable laughter.
Annie immediately loses it too, bending forward, holding her stomach.
“Oh my God—” Annie laughs, tears forming, “y’all are terrible at this!”
Smoke straightens, offended but grinning.
“I’m doin’ fine.”
“You are NOT,” Annie shoots back, still laughing. “You ain’t listened to one damn instruction!”
Stack points at the instructor.
“She movin too fast!”
“She been in the same pose for five minutes!” Dajia wheezes.
The instructor pauses, blinking at the chaos, then smiles politely.
“Ladies… gentlemen… let’s try to stay present.”
Smoke leans down again, low enough only Annie hears:
“I am present. Very present.”
Annie elbows him lightly, still smiling.
“Behave Elijah.”
Stack finally drops onto his mat, giving up.
“I’m done. This shit ain’t for me.”
Dajia wipes her eyes, still giggling.
“You said you wanted to support me!”
“I do,” he says quickly. “From a chair. In the corner.”
Smoke nods.
“Yeah, we can support from a distance.”
Annie shakes her head, still laughing, looking between them.
“You two are embarrassing.”
But her smile softens when Smoke’s hand settles back on her stomach, gentle this time.
Dajia notices too—Stack reaching over, rubbing her belly absentmindedly, even while complaining.
And just like that, the laughter fades into something warm.
The instructor clears her throat.
“Let’s try one more pose…”
Stack groans.
Smoke sighs dramatically.
Annie and Dajia exchange a look and immediately start laughing all over again.
The instructor claps softly, trying to regain control of the room.
“Alright, let’s transition. Moms, lie flat on your backs. Partners, you’ll gently support their legs, lifting each one at a time —slow, controlled movement.”
Annie and Dajia exchange a look already full of don’t laugh… don’t laugh… energy before easing down onto their mats.
Stack squints at the instructor.
“Support how?” Like he didn’t just hear the instructor.
“Lift from the calves,” she says calmly. “And be mindful.”
Smoke nods like he understands completely.
He does not.
Both men step into position.
Annie lays back, adjusting her hair, already smiling.
“Just… listen this time, please.”
Smoke smirks down at her.
“I got you, baby.”
Across from them, Dajia settles in, raising a brow at Stack.
“Don’t bend my legs too far Stack.”
“I ain’t gon bend em too far,” he says, grabbing her legs, but immediately lifting them too fast.
“STACK!—” she yelps, grabbing his arm.
“I got it!” he insists, steadying her, but now he’s way too focused on the wrong things.
“No” Dajia says “she said lift one leg at a time.”
The instructor continues in the background, voice calm and steady.
“Keep the movement slow. This is about stretching and connection”
Smoke lifts Annie’s legs, but instead of focusing, he pauses… looking down… then grins.
“…Oh,” he murmurs under his breath.
Annie immediately side eyes him.
“What?”
He leans down slightly, voice low but not low enough.
“This right here?” he says, smirking. “Yeah… this exactly why you pregnant now.”
There’s a pause and then Dajia LOSES it.
Like full body laughter, legs wobbling in Stack’s grip.
“OH MY GOD—” she laughs, covering her face.
Annie slaps her hand over her mouth, but it’s pointless, she’s already cracking up, shoulders shaking.
“Smoke!” she hisses, laughing. “You are so outta pocket! Must you be nasty all the time? We can’t take y’all no damn where.”
Stack, now grinning wide, looks between them.
“I ain’t even say nothin’ but he damn sure right though—”
“STACK!” Dajia snaps, still laughing. “Don’t start!”
Smoke chuckles, completely unbothered, still holding Annie’s legs like he forgot this is supposed to be yoga.
“I’m just saying—this pose ain’t no where near innocent. They know what they doin.”
The instructor pauses again, blinking at them.
“Gentlemen… focus.”
Annie drops her arm over her eyes, still giggling.
“Y’all are embarrassing us.”
Dajia nods, breathless.
“Behave! Both of you!”
Stack tries to compose himself, clearing his throat like he’s about to act right.
“Aight, aight… my bad.”
He adjusts his grip more carefully this time.
Smoke too—tries to straighten up, but he’s still smiling like he knows he’s not sorry at all.
“Okay,” Annie says, still laughing softly. “Let’s just get through one pose without y’all actin up.”
Smoke leans down just a little, quieter now.
“No promises.”
Annie peeks at him and shakes her head, smiling despite herself.
Across from them, Dajia catches Annie’s eye—and just like that, both of them start laughing all over again while the instructor sighs softly in the background.
🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸
Dajia walks into Flexx on a Friday night.
Stack isn’t there—he’s at Club Zen, but she didn’t come for him anyway.
She came for somebody else. Somebody who don’t seem to hear shit the first time.
She steps up to the bar and Nyla spots her instantly.
Confusion flashes across Nyla’s face—Stack isn’t here tonight.
Zariah leans in. “What you having?”
Dajia gives her a tight smile.
“I’m good. I’m actually here for her.”
She nods toward Nyla.
Nyla swallows, straightening.
“Yes, Mrs. Moore?”
Dajia lifts an eyebrow.
“Oh, now you wanna use my married last name? Funny… the way you been movin’, you wouldn’t think I was married to him.”
She tilts her head.
“Come talk to me for a minute.”
Nyla hesitates.
“I’m actually really busy—”
“It’s okay. Won’t take long.”
Dajia doesn’t wait. She turns, and Nyla reluctantly, follows her into the hallway.
They stop.
“What’s up?” Nyla asks.
Dajia folds her arms.
“You know what’s up. My question is—did I not make myself clear the last time we spoke?”
Nyla rolls her eyes.
“Mmhm. You did.”
“Obviously I didn’t. ’Cause I hear you still tryin’ it wit my husband.”
Nyla’s eyebrows lift—surprised Stack told her.
Dajia nods.
“That’s right. He told me.” She crosses her arms tighter.
“My husband tells me everything. Whether you think he does or not.”
Her voice drops, sharper now.
“I knew you was gon keep tryin. I saw that look in yo fuckin’ eyes last time. Saw you watchin us in the hallway too.”
She steps closer.
“So what’s up? Be honest wit me. Why you feel like you can take my husband from me?”
Nyla shakes her head.
“I don’t—”
“Bullshit.”
Dajia cuts her clean off.
“I’m here as a woman. Least you can do is be grown and say it to my face. Tell me how bad you wanna fuck my man. Don’t be scary and say the shit behind my back.”
Silence.
Then Nyla lifts her chin.
“Yeah. I want him. I want him real fuckin’ bad.”
Dajia smirks, almost amused.
“Hmph. Now we gettin somewhere.”
She tilts her head.
“So tell me why. Why you want him? Why you think you can steal him? Why you feel like he’d be better off wit you instead of me?”
Nyla hesitates, weighing it.
Dajia reads it all over her face.
“Relax. I ain’t gon do nothin to you. Go ’head. I’m listenin.”
Nyla swallows.
“Shit… I want him ’cause he fine as fuck.”
A pause.
Dajia raises a brow.
“That’s it?”
Nyla shakes her head.
“Nah that ain’t it. He got money. He powerful. And he look like he can fuck. I watch him every day… that shit sexy. I see why he had all them women before you.”
Dajia nods slowly.
“Fair enough.”
Then her eyes sharpen.
“Now tell me why you think you better than me.”
Nyla folds her arms.
“I don’t think I’m better. I just want what I want. I feel like he’d look good next to me. I’d be his ride-or-die bitch. Down for whatever he need.”
Dajia lets out a soft giggle.
“You know what? I ain’t even mad at that.”
She shrugs slightly.
“I tell him all the time—I don’t want no nigga that no other woman don’t want. I need you to understand that I ain’t jealous or insecure.”
Her tone shifts, cooler now.
“But I do demand my respect. And you keep crossin’ lines.”
She steps in closer.
“You got a lot to learn about this game, baby girl. Stack ain’t never been the type to take a woman serious… until me.”
A small, knowing smile touches her lips.
“And guess what? I ain’t never took a nigga like Stack serious either—until he MADE me.”
She lets out a half laugh.
“All them other bitches wanted to be where I’m at. I didn’t. I ain’t give a damn about bein’ his girl, let alone his wife. I was self-made. I just wanted to have fun wit him.”
A pause.
“But you right though—he CAN fuck. He’ll leave a bitch stuck… but not me.”
Nyla cuts in, quick.
“Not you? Then why y’all married?”
Dajia smiles, small but sharp.
“It damn sure ain’t just ’cause of his dick.”
She steps closer.
“I ain’t want nothin past that one night. Didn’t matter how good it was. And niggas like Stack? They love the chase.”
She taps her own chest lightly.
“Me and him the same. You don’t get a man like that by bein’ thirsty. I ain’t never been that.”
Nyla’s glare hardens.
“So what—you saying I’m thirsty?”
Dajia doesn’t blink.
“Hell yeah, that’s exactly what I’m sayin.”
She leans in, voice low and deliberate.
“That’s MY husband. I know him. I am him. I’m the only one—besides his brother—he’d kill for. And vice versa.”
She straightens.
“He knows what I bring to the table. That’s why he love me wit the same intensity.”
Her voice softens, but only slightly.
“You want him for the wrong reasons. Yeah, he got money. Yeah, he got power, yeah, he can fuck and suck. But there’s way more to him than that.”
She counts it off without thinking.
“He intelligent. Quick-witted. Protective. Possessive. Playful. Passionate. Business-minded. He love movies, music, fashion. He can go deep—teach you some shit. He honest… and yeah—contrary to what y’all think—he loyal.”
Dajia steps closer again.
“He asked me if he should fire you.”
Nyla stiffens.
“I told him no. Told him to give you another chance. Cause I understand why you want him. And I KNOW he ain’t ever leavin me for somebody like you.”
Her voice sharpens again.
“You gon need a lot more than just pussy and bar tips if you think you got a chance at takin’ him from me.”
She shrugs casually.
“ ‘Cause he come home to me every single night. He dicks me down, spends his money on me, stresses if he think a nigga even breathin’ near me or near his pussy. He can barely stand to be away from me.”
Her eyes lock on Nyla’s.
“That’s how good I make him feel and how I know he ain’t EVER comin up off me.
A pause.
“And it ain’t just what’s between my legs either. It’s my aura.”
She leans in, just enough.
“I got him exactly where I want him and I ain’t sayin it to be cocky, I’m just bein’ real.”
Then she straightens, unfazed.
“And if he left me tomorrow? I’d be just fine. I built myself before he ever came along.”
A small shrug.
“That’s the difference between me and you. You worried about the wrong shit. Talkin’ about bein his ride or die bitch. That’s a girl’s mentality. You the type to let a nigga run all over you, as long as he give you good dick and trick off his money. Well I’m here to tell you, a nigga like Stack don’t want that. He want a bitch that can challenge him and push him.”
She nods toward the bar.
“Get yo shit together. Then maybe a nigga like Stack—or Smoke—might take you serious. Until then? You might fuck ’em. That’s it. And that’s cool if that’s all you want. I’m all for fun too.”
Her eyes flick briefly.
“Yo friend figured it out. She gave up on Smoke. You might wanna learn how to read a room too.”
She tilts her head.
“Cause It’s startin to look pathetic. A nigga shouldn’t have to curve you more than once.”
Nyla sucks her teeth.
“Why you tellin me all this?”
Dajia smirks.
“’Cause you asked him how I got him to marry me.”
She steps right into her space—in her face.”
“I figured I’d give it to you from the source.”
Then, quiet and deadly:
“If you really want MY husband… keep tryin.”
A pause.
“And may the best fuckin’ woman win.”
Her phone rings.
FaceTime—Stack.
Dajia smiles instantly.
“Speakin’ of the devil.”
She answers, stepping back.
Stack’s face tightens.
“Where you at, baby girl? That don’t look like home.”
“I’m at Flexx.”
His expression darkens immediately.
“What you doin’ there? Thought I told you I was at Zen tonight.”
“You did.”
“So you just decided to go to the club, around a bunch of thirsty ass niggas—without me?”
His jaw tightens.
“The fuck, Lee Lee? If you wanted to be out, you could’ve came to Zen wit me. Now you got me thinkin’ bout random niggas pushin up on my wife. That shit makin’ me wanna swing on everybody in here right now.”
Dajia glances at Nyla… and winks.
“Stack, relax. I just stepped out for a minute.”
His brows knit.
“Who you wit? Annie? Dominique?”
She shrugs.
“Neither.”
He exhales hard.
“Oh hell no. So you there alone? You tryna piss me off tonight. I’m on my way.”
“No, Stack. That’s not necessary.”
“And why the hell not?”
“’Cause I’m about to leave.”
“Oh, now you leaving ’cause I said I’m comin’?”
She sighs softly.
“No. I’m just ready to go.”
“Why you ain’t tell me you was goin there? I would’ve had them put you in VIP.”
“I wasn’t plannin to stay. It’s okay, Elias.”
Her tone softens.
“I’m headin home. I miss you. When you goin home?”
His whole face changes.
“Shit… I’m already on the way. Walked out the second you said you wasn’t home.”
Dajia cackles and he can’t help but laugh with her.
“It’s not funny,” he murmurs. “You make me crazy.”
Nyla rolls her eyes heavy. Jealously creeping in.
“I know. I’ll be home in a minute.”
“Aight… and when you walk in that door, start takin’ them clothes off. I need that shit. Need it like I need air. You know you live by ASAP now.
She shakes her head, smiling.
“I don’t get a moment’s rest wit you and what the hell you mean by ASAP Stack?”
“That means ‘Automatically Stacks Ass and Pussy’”
Dajia laughs at his silliness.
“Stack that’s more than two A’s. You insane.”
Stack chuckles
“The ‘and’ is silent”
“Whatever. So that means you gotta get it all the time?”
“Hell fuckin yeah! That’s mine. I need it every damn day. Can’t even function without you or my pussy. You know how good that shit is to me and how much I love you and wanna be in yo skin. Shit if I could be Buffalo Bill or Hannibal Lecter from Silence Of The Lambs and wear yo skin I would.”
Dajia cracks up and then her voice softens completely.
“I love you more and you are sick, but I love it and wouldn’t trade you for nothin’ baby. I’ll see you in a minute. Okay?”
“Aight. See you soon baby.”
She hangs up.
Then looks back at Nyla.
“See what I mean?”
A small shrug.
“Everything I just said… came wit receipts.”
She turns, already walking off.
“And like I said—may the best fuckin’ woman win.”
And just like that…
Dajia leaves her there.
Alone with her thoughts…
🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹
The house is quiet in that soft, early evening way.
Sunlight slipping through the curtains. TV playing low.
Everything feels… normal.
Until it doesn’t.
Annie is in the dining room , one hand braced against the table, the other resting low on her stomach. Her breathing shifts, subtle at first. A pause. A tightening.
She stills. Waits. It eases.
She exhales slow… like she didn’t just feel that.
From the living room, Smoke’s voice carries.
“Annie, you see my—”
He stops when he looks up.
She’s standing too still.
Too quiet. Watching nothing.
Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“…Baby?”
Annie turns her head, forcing a small smile like nothing happened.
“Yeah?”
He studies her.
That look he gets, the one that don’t miss shit.
“You aight?”
She nods quick.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just—” she shrugs lightly, brushing it off “—tired.”
Smoke doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink much either.
“Mm.”
He leans back slow, but he’s still watching her.
Annie pushes off the table , trying to move normal. Trying to be normal.
But then—It hits again. Stronger.
Her breath catches mid step.
Her fingers grip the edge of the table hard this time. Knuckles whitening. Her shoulders tense up.
She inhales sharp through her nose.
“Mm—”
It slips out before she can stop it.
Smoke is on his feet instantly.
“Annie.”
She shakes her head, still facing away from him.
“I’m okay”
Another wave rolls through her and she bends slightly, one hand flying to her stomach.
“—I’m okay,” she tries again, weaker this time.
Smoke is already halfway to her.
“Don’t do that.”
His voice is firm now. Low. Controlled.
He steps behind her, one hand coming to her hip, the other sliding around her stomach.
“Talk to me.”
Annie squeezes her eyes shut, breathing through it.
“It just—” she swallows “—it hurts a little.”
Smoke’s jaw tightens.
“A little?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
That’s answer enough.
“Annie.”
Another contraction hits and this one makes her fold forward slightly, a soft groan slipping past her lips.
“Okay—okay,” she breathes out, finally giving in “That one… that one hurt.”
Smoke goes still for half a second.
Then he moves. Fast.
“Aight. We goin to the hospital.”
He’s already guiding her upright, reaching for his phone with his free hand.
Annie grabs his wrist.
“No.”
Smoke pauses. Looks at her like he heard wrong.
“…No?”
She shakes her head, breathing uneven but stubborn.
“I don’t wanna go yet. It’s probably just Braxton Hicks or somethin—”
Another contraction cuts her off and she grips his arm hard this time, nails digging in.
“Annie,” Smoke says, voice sharper now, “that don’t look like no ‘probably.’”
She rides it out, breathing shaky.
“It’s too soon,” she whispers when it passes. “I’m not ready yet.”
Smoke’s expression changes right there.
Not panic. Not fear.
Something deeper.
Protective. Solid. Unmoving.
He cups her face with one hand, forcing her to look at him.
“Listen to me.”
His voice drops—steady, but it ain’t up for debate.
“I’m not guessin wit you. Not wit this.”
Annie’s eyes flicker, torn between fear and stubbornness.
“I said I’m okay—”
“No.”
The word cuts clean through hers.
Not loud. But final.
Smoke leans in just enough so she feels him—feels how serious he is.
“I hear you,” he says, calmer now but still firm. “But I’m not riskin you or my babies ‘cause you tryin to tough it out.”
Another contraction starts building, she can feel it, her body tensing again.
Smoke notices instantly.
That’s it. Decision made.
He slides an arm under her knees before she can argue again.
“Smoke—!”
“I’m takin you,” he says, lifting her clean off her feet like she weighs nothing.
“Put me down—!”
“Nope.”
He adjusts his grip, holding her close against his chest as she winces through the contraction.
“You can be mad at me in the car.”
She grips his shirt, half from the pain, half from the fact that he is not playing with her right now.
“Smoke—”
“I’m takin you to the hospital, Annie. That’s it.”
His voice softens just a little as he looks down at her, thumb brushing her arm.
“Ain’t nothin more important than you. You hear me?”
Annie’s breathing trembles.
Another wave passes.
And this time…
She doesn’t argue.
Her fingers tighten in his shirt instead.
“…Okay,” she whispers.
Smoke nods once, already moving toward the door.
“Good.”
♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️
The hospital lights are too bright.
Too white. Too… real.
Annie sits up on the bed, one hand resting on her stomach, the other gripping the thin blanket while a monitor tracks every little thing her body is doing. The steady beep… beep… beep fills the room.
Smoke hasn’t sat down.
Not once.
He paces near the window, then back to her bedside, then back again—running a hand over his beard, jaw tight, eyes locked on her like if he looks away something might happen.
“Smoke,” Annie mumbles, already irritated, “you makin me nervous.”
“I’m nervous,” he shoots back without hesitation.
She rolls her eyes slightly.
“I told you I was fine—”
“You was bent over the counter, Annie.”
“And I’m sittin up now, ain’t I?”
Before he can respond, the door opens and a nurse steps in, followed by the doctor. Calm. Unrushed.
The kind of calm Annie likes.
The kind Smoke don’t trust.
“How we feeling?” the doctor asks, flipping through her chart.
Annie shrugs.
“Better now.”
The doctor nods, glancing at the monitor.
“Good. What you were feeling were contractions, but—” she gives a small reassuring smile “—they’re practice contractions.”
Annie exhales.
“So in other words, Braxton Hicks See,” she murmurs under her breath, shooting Smoke a look, “I told you.”
Smoke doesn’t even look at her.
“…That don’t mean nothin,” he says low.
The doctor’s smile softens just a bit like she’s used to this exact dynamic.
“He’s not wrong to bring you in,” she says gently. “It’s always better to be safe.”
Smoke nods once. Exactly.
Annie sinks back into the pillow, slightly annoyed but relieved.
“So I’m not in labor?”
“No,” the doctor confirms. “Not yet. You’ve still got about a month to go.”
Annie nods, hand rubbing over her stomach.
“A month…”
But then the doctor’s tone shifts—just slightly.
“However…”
Smoke’s head lifts immediately.
Annie notices that too.
“…what?” she asks.
The doctor glances at the nurse, then back at Annie.
“Your blood pressure is a little elevated.”
The room quiets.
Smoke steps closer without even thinking about it.
“…Elevated how?” he asks.
“Not dangerously high right now,” the doctor explains, calm but firm, “but high enough that we need to keep an eye on it.”
Annie’s brows knit together.
“I’ve never had blood pressure issues.”
“That can change during pregnancy,” the doctor says. “We just want to make sure it doesn’t develop into preeclampsia.”
The word sits heavy in the air.
Smoke’s expression darkens slightly.
He’s listening now in a whole different way.
“What that mean?” he asks.
“It means,” the doctor says carefully looking at Annie, “that if your blood pressure continues to rise, it can become risky for both you and the babies.”
Annie shifts uncomfortably.
“I feel fine though.”
“I understand,” the doctor nods, “but this isn’t always something you feel right away.”
Annie goes quiet.
The doctor continues.
“ You’re about a month out, which is good. But if that blood pressure doesn’t come down…”
She pauses just enough.
“…we may have to put you on bed rest.”
Annie’s head snaps up.
“Bed rest?”
Immediate attitude.
Immediate resistance.
“No,” she shakes her head, already frowning, “I’m not doin that.”
Smoke cuts his eyes at her.
“Annie—”
“I’m serious,” she presses, sitting up straighter. “I can’t just lay around all day, that’s—no.”
The doctor doesn’t react to the pushback. She’s clearly had this conversation before.
“Are you still working?” she asks.
Annie exhales.
“I just went on maternity leave.”
The doctor nods approvingly.
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
Smoke finally speaks again, voice low but firm.
“So what she need to do?”
“Rest,” the doctor says simply. “Limit stress. Stay hydrated. Keep her feet up as much as possible.”
Annie huffs softly.
“I’m not fragile—”
“No one said you were,” the doctor replies calmly. “But your body is working very hard right now. You need to give it support.”
Smoke looks at Annie.
Really looks at her.
And this time there’s no softness in it, just concern wrapped tight in control.
“I got it,” he says.
Annie glances at him.
“…Smoke.”
“I said I got it.”
His tone is quiet.
But final.
He turns back to the doctor.
“She gon rest.”
Annie lets out a small, disbelieving laugh.
“Excuse me—?”
Smoke finally looks down at her again.
And yeah—
He’s not playing.
“I’m not puttin you or my babies at risk,” he says, voice steady. “You heard what she said.”
Annie crosses her arms slightly, irritation flashing.
“I heard her. That don’t mean I gotta like it.”
“You ain’t gotta like it,” he shrugs lightly. “You just gotta do it.”
The nurse hides a smile.
The doctor clears her throat softly, finishing up her notes.
“We’ll monitor you closely,” she says. “But if you take it easy, there’s a good chance everything stays right where it needs to be.”
Annie sighs, leaning back against the pillow again.
“…Fine.”
But the way she says it?
Yeah.
She’s not done arguing.
Smoke, on the other hand, reaches for her hand—thumb brushing over her knuckles, grounding but firm.
“We good,” he murmurs.
But his eyes? Still sharp. Still watching.
Because now it’s not just about contractions.
Now it’s about making sure she makes it to that last month—safe.
♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹♥️🌹
The living room at Smoke and Annie’s is loud as hell.
Music low, plates everywhere, drinks half finished—everybody talking at once like this wasn’t supposed to be a “simple” name night.
Annie is curled up on the couch, feet tucked under her, one hand resting on her stomach. Smoke’s right beside her, arm thrown across the back of the couch behind her shoulders, thumb brushing her every now and then like he gotta stay connected at all times.
Stack is pacing. Of course.
Dajia watches him.
“You making me itch. Sit yo ass down.”
“I am sittin down—just vertically,” he shoots back, still walking.
Dominique groans.
“That don’t even make sense.”
Antonio leans back.
“Let him pace. That’s stress leaving the body.”
Legacy claps once.
“Okay! Focus! Names!”
Shaad nods.
“Yeah. Let’s be serious.”
Stack immediately raises his hand.
“I got one.”
“No you don’t,” Dajia says.
“Too late,” he grins. “Carbon and Copy.”
A minute passes
Then the room explodes.
“STACK!” Dominique throws a pillow.
Legacy folds over laughing.
“CARBON AND COPY IS CRAZY!”
Annie hides her face in Smoke’s chest.
“Please don’t let him name my babies…”
Smoke shaking his head, fighting a smile.
“You done already.”
Stack dodges Dajia trying to smack him.
“Aight aight! I got more—”
“No!” everybody says at once.
Legacy lifts her hand like she in class.
“I got real ones.”
“Please,” Annie laughs.
Legacy leans forward, thinking.
“Okay… what about Liyah… or Amari… or Kalani…”
Annie nods slowly.
“Those are pretty…”
Shaad hums.
“Kalani tough.”
Dajia crosses her arms, thinking hard.
“…Okay wait.”
Everybody looks at her.
She shrugs like it’s nothing, but she lowkey invested.
“What about Janiyah… or Arielle… or Janyla—”
Stack cuts in quick.
“Absolutely not.”
Dajia turns slowly.
“…Excuse me?”
“We not naming no baby after no workplace confusion,” he says.
The room goes OOOHHH—
Dajia shoves him.
“Boy ain’t nobody thinking about that damn girl! The name is pretty.”
Legacy cackles.
“Not workplace confusion!”
Annie laughing now, shaking her head.
“Y’all are terrible…”
Shaad finally speaks again, calm.
“I got some too.”
Everybody quiets.
“Ariyah… Amaya… Aaliyah…”
Annie nods, liking it.
“Okay… those feel good…”
Smoke glances at her.
“You leaning toward A names?”
She shrugs softly.
“I think so…”
Dominique, who’s been quiet, suddenly leans forward.
“…Wait.”
Everybody turns.
She looks between Annie and Smoke, something clicking.
“What about… Anijah… and Aniyah?”
The room stills.
Annie blinks.
“Say it again.”
“Anijah… and Aniyah,” Dominique repeats. “They close to Annie… and Elijah…”
Smoke’s head tilts slightly at his name.
“…Elijah.”
Annie’s hand presses into her stomach.
“Oh…”
Legacy’s face softens instantly.
“That’s beautiful…”
Shaad nods.
“That’s the one.”
Antonio points like it’s settled.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Stack looks around, confused.
“Wait—ain’t nobody arguin?!”
Dajia nudges him.
“Because it actually make sense.”
Annie looks at Smoke.
He already looking at her.
“You like it?” she asks.
He nods slow.
“Yeah… I do.”
She smiles, soft and sure now.
“Anijah… and Aniyah…”
Then she shifts a little, sitting up.
“I want them to have two middle names.”
Stack groans.
“Here we go.”
“Shut up,” Dajia says.
Annie points at Dominique, then Legacy, then Dajia.
“I want pieces of them in there.”
Dominique’s eyes widen.
“Annie you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Annie cuts in gently.
She takes a breath.
“Anijah… Dominique—Legacy Moore.”
Legacy covers her mouth instantly.
“Stop…”
Dominique’s eyes glassy.
“…Oh my God…”
Annie turns to Dajia.
“And Aniyah… LeDajia—Marie Moore.”
Dajia freezes.
“…You serious?”
“Marie my middle name,” Annie says softly. “And my mama’s.”
The room goes quiet in that full, heavy way.
Dajia swallows.
“…I love that.”
Smoke nods, voice low but sure.
“I like it.”
That’s it.
Stack clears his throat.
“Aight… yeah… that’s hard,” he admits.
Then—
“…But where my name at?”
Everybody turns.
Annie squints.
“Stack.”
“I’m just sayin! I been here! I matter!”
Smoke smirks.
“You not the father.”
“I’m uncle elite!”
Annie laughs.
“They already got y’all last name. Be grateful.”
Stack pauses.
“…Damn.”
Antonio chuckles.
“She right.”
Stack sighs dramatically, pointing at her stomach.
“Aight… but one of them gotta come out actin like me.”
Dajia snorts.
“God help us.”
The room fills with laughter again.
And this time, the names don’t change.
🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹🌸🌹
The courtroom feels too cold for a day like this.
Legacy sits stiffly at the table, fingers locked together so tight her knuckles turn pale. Across the aisle, Chris leans back in his chair like this is just another conversation, like what’s at stake isn’t their child.
Marley.
Her chest tightens just thinking his name.
“Ms. Batiste, Mr. Byers,” the judge begins, peering down over his glasses. “Today’s hearing is to determine temporary custody arrangements until the final agreement is reached. Mr. Byers, you’re requesting primary weekday custody. Why?”
Chris clears his throat, sitting up straighter like he’s practiced this.
“Yes, Your Honor. I’m asking for Marley during the week. Legacy… she works long hours. He’s in daycare a lot, and I don’t think that’s good for him. He needs more time at home.”
Legacy’s head snaps toward him.
“What?” she whispers, disbelief cracking through her composure.
Her lawyer gently touches her arm. “Stay calm.”
The judge nods slowly, then turns his attention. “Ms. Batiste, we’ll come back to you. Mr. Byers, do you currently work?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Chris says quickly. “I just started a part-time job.”
Legacy’s lawyers exchange a glance, flipping through their documents.
“Your Honor,” one of them says, standing, “our records indicate Mr. Byers has not been employed for the last four years.”
Chris’s attorney rises immediately. “If I may, my client recently secured employment as a security officer. Weekend shifts. Sixteen-hour days, but he’s compensated as a full-time employee.”
A murmur moves through the room.
Legacy blinks. Since when?
The judge leans back slightly. “Noted.”
Chris’s lawyer continues, voice measured. “Additionally, Your Honor, we have concerns about Ms. Batiste’s temperament. We would like to submit video evidence.”
Legacy’s stomach drops.
“What video?” she whispers, panic rising.
“Permission granted,” the judge says.
The screen flickers to life.
And there she is.
Her voice, sharp, loud, raw, fills the courtroom. She is yelling. Angry. Emotional. Chris’s voice can be heard too, but lower… needling. Provoking. But the video doesn’t hold that weight the same way.
It doesn’t show the before.
Only her reaction.
Legacy gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God—”
The video ends.
Silence.
Then—
“How dare you?” she busts out, standing abruptly. “You yelled at me first! You don’t get to—”
“Ms. Batiste,” the judge says firmly. “Sit down and compose yourself.”
Her lawyer gently pulls her back into her seat. “Breathe,” he whispers.
Legacy’s chest heaves, tears burning behind her eyes. She hates this. Hates how it looks. Hates that it works.
The judge folds his hands.
“Based on the information presented today, I am issuing a temporary ruling.”
Legacy’s heart pounds so loud she can barely hear anything else.
“Marley will reside with Mr. Byers during the weekdays,” the judge says, voice steady, “and with Ms. Batiste on weekends. This arrangement will remain in effect until the final custody hearing.”
It feels like the air gets knocked out of her.
Her lawyer exhales sharply under her breath. Across the aisle, Chris doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Legacy feel sick.
“Court is adjourned.”
The hallway outside the courtroom buzzes with quiet conversations, but Legacy barely hears any of it.
She steps out, and the tears come fast.
“I can’t believe this,” she chokes. “I can’t believe he just—”
“We knew this might happen,” one of her lawyers says gently but firmly. “Legacy, look at me.”
She wipes at her face, shaking her head.
“This is temporary,” the lawyer continues. “This is round one. We haven’t even presented our evidence yet. We will.”
Legacy swallows hard, trying to steady herself.
“You cannot lose control like that in there again,” the other lawyer adds. “That’s exactly what they’re trying to provoke.”
“I know,” she whispers. “I know… I just—he—”
“I understand,” the lawyer says softly. “But next time, we’re ready.”
Footsteps approach quickly.
“Legacy—”
Annie is the first to reach her, pulling her into a tight hug. “Hey… hey, don’t do that. Don’t fall apart now.”
“I lost him,” Legacy cries into her shoulder.
“No, you didn’t,” Annie says firmly, pulling back to look at her. “You hear me? You did not lose yo son.”
Dajia steps in next, wrapping her arms around both of them. “This ain’t over. Not even close.”
Behind them, Smoke and Stack stand rigid, eyes locked in the direction Chris goes.
Stack’s jaw flexes. “Man got a lotta nerve.”
Smoke shakes his head slowly, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “He playin dirty.”
Annie shoots them both a look. “Not helpin.”
Stack exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “I know. I know.”
Legacy wipes her tears again, trying to breathe through it.
Legacy looks between them—her people, her support, her strength.
Her voice comes out shaky, but stronger than before.
“I’m not lettin’ him take my baby.”
“Good,” Smoke murmurs. “Because we not lettin you lose either.”
Stack gives a tight nod. “Not happenin.”
Legacy inhales deeply, squaring her shoulders just a little.
Round one is over.
But she isn’t done, not even close…
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Hey guyssss I hate this is so long. I wish I could’ve put it all in one part. The baby shower is nexttttt. 🥰 Also excuse all the Smut. I was ovulating 🥴🤣😂😭
READ WITH CARE. | READ WITH CARE.| READ WITH CARE.
Seven-year-old Aubin's laugh drifted through the open kitchen window, followed by the sound of eight-year-old Aubrey tackling his little brother in the grass. It was the soundtrack of a beautiful life.
Smoke gripped the edge of the granite counter until his knuckles turned white, praying the violent tremor in his left hand would stop before Annie walked in. It didn’t.
The violent, pulsing ache behind Smoke’s left eye was a reminder. The tumor was growing. The doctors said it would take his motor skills first, then his memories, and finally, his dignity. He would become an infant in a grown man’s body, leaving his wife to wipe his chin and explain to their three little kids why Daddy couldn't remember their names.
Forcing his wife to become a grief-stricken nursemaid, draining their life savings just to watch him slowly suffocate in his own body.
He would not let his children's last memory of their father be a terrifying, hollow-eyed ghost. And he would not let his wife sacrifice her future to rot alongside him.
He had to set her free.
And the only way to make a woman like Annie let go, was to make her hate him.
"The papers are on the counter. I’ve already signed them."
His voice was a dead, flat thing. He didn't turn around to look at her. He couldn't. If he looked into those soft, brown eyes, his resolve would shatter.
"Stop it," Annie whispered. Her voice was trembling, thick with a week’s worth of unshed tears. She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his back. She felt so small, so warm, so desperately familiar. "Smoke, please. Just tell me what’s wrong."
Smoke kept his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets so she wouldn't see the tremors. He forced his face into a mask of bored indifference, staring at the kitchen tile rather than looking at the woman who had been his entire universe for fifteen years.
Annie didn't even look at the divorce papers on the kitchen island. Instead, she stepped into his space, her trembling hands reaching up to cup his face. Her wedding ring pressed cool against his jaw.
"Look at me," she pleaded, her voice cracking, completely stripped of pride. "Smoke, please, just look at me."
Every instinct in his body screamed to pull her into his chest, to bury his face in her hair and confess everything.
I'm dying, Annie.
I'm so scared.
Please hold me.
Instead, he forced his eyes up. He met her gaze with dead, hollow ice.
"I know you," Annie whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes, tracing the worry lines he had put there over the last month. "I know this isn't you. You’re stressed, you’re pulling away, but I am your wife. We swore for better or worse, Smoke. Whatever is broken, we can fix it. I will fight for us until my last breath. Please, don't throw us away."
She pressed her forehead against his chest, right over his violently racing heart, and let out a broken, desperate sob. "I love you. I know you still love me."
God, I love you so much it’s suffocating, he thought, his throat tight with suppressed agony.
But her devotion was a death sentence. If he let her stay, the disease would drag her down into the dark with him. She was too fierce; she would spend her life savings on hopeless treatments. She would sacrifice her joy, her youth, and the kids' childhoods just to keep his corpse breathing an extra month.
He needed to destroy her love for him.
Completely.
Brutally.
Terminally.
I'm doing this for you, he chanted in his mind. I am burying myself so you can live.
He forcibly peeled her hands off his waist and stepped away, putting the kitchen island between them. He finally looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide and begging, entirely stripped of her pride.
"There is no us to fix, Annie," Smoke lied, forcing his jaw to unlock. "I'm not depressed. I’m just suffocating. I am tired of this house. I'm tired of this life."
"You're lying," she choked out, shaking her head frantically. She reached across the marble counter, desperately trying to grab his shaking hand. "I know you. You are a good man. You love me. You love our kids. You’re just lost right now—"
"I don't love you anymore!" he shouted.
The echo of his voice violently silenced the kitchen. Outside, the kids kept playing, entirely unaware that their universe had just been assassinated.
With a hand that felt like it was made of lead, Smoke reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked it, opened a text thread he had spent an hour agonizingly faking with a burner phone, and slid it across the island to her.
Annie looked down.
[Elena]: Can’t wait for tonight. Did you tell her yet?
[Smoke]: Doing it now. I’m packing a bag. I’ll be at your place by six.
Smoke watched her read the words. He watched the exact, excruciating millisecond where her fierce, relentless hope snapped. Her knees gave out. She grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from hitting the floor, a guttural, agonizing wail tearing out of her throat. It wasn't just a cry; it was the sound of a soul being ripped in half.
"Fifteen years," she gasped, clutching her chest, looking up at him with a face so pure and complete it made his vision go black at the edges. "We built a life... and you threw it away for nothing."
"Sign the papers, Annie," he whispered, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
He didn't pack a bag. He just turned and walked out the front door, leaving everything he had ever loved behind. He climbed into his truck, drove three blocks down the street, and pulled over.
Only then did the mask crack.
Smoke slammed his fists into the steering wheel until his knuckles bled, screaming into the empty cab of the truck, tears pouring down his face as the physical pain in his head merged with the catastrophic agony in his chest.
He had six months left to live.
But as he sat alone in the driveway, listening to the silence of a future he would never get to see, Smoke knew the truth.
The cancer wouldn't kill him. He was already dead.
A/N: I hope y'all are ready for this one. Sit back, grab a box of tissues, and get ready for a deep dive into the darkest sides of unconditional love, betrayal, and anticipatory grief. I am so incredibly excited to write this series for you all. Let me know what you think so far! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!
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