Candles in the Sun

♡

[digitalgawdess]

Smoke x Stack - They Snapped with this one!

[saintmarc]

[candlesatsunrise]

The WORST transformers movie yet. The acting, the corniness.

The screenplay is straight BASURA!

When did a city become a personality in a transformer movie?!

Next time I do a rewatch I’m not playing this one for sure!

[surffvibbes]

[withnailrules]

Eartha Kitt performing in Las Vegas, Nevada, in 1955

[brownlyfe]

AMERICAN DREAM soldier!smoke x virginteacher!annie

EIGHT: GRANDMA’S HANDS previous next

cw: child neglect, mentions of sexual assault, domestic violence summary: the military does a lot to a man. for smoke it gives him dreams. dreams of a woman he’s never met a day in his life. all he knows is the sweet sound of her voice and the outline of her body. it’s like his soul is crying for her, but he doesn’t even know where to start looking.

notes: everyone’s been wanting to know why annie is the way that she is so here you go. i tried not to make it too graphic because this is not the story for that but take the warnings as law.

The front door flew open harder than it needed to. Annie stepped inside, her heels hitting the floor sharp and fast, her purse barely hanging onto her shoulder as she pushed the door shut behind her.

Marcus and her grandmother both looked up from where they were sitting.

“What happened?” Marcus asked, halfway up from his seat just off the energy alone.

Annie didn’t even slow down.

“All men are the same,” she snapped, tossing her purse down on the nearest chair without looking. “All of 'em.”

Her grandmother’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching her closely.

Marcus frowned. “What you mean? What happened—”

“They all want the same thing,” Annie kept going, pacing now, her hands moving as she talked. “That’s it. That’s all it ever is. And when you don’t give it to them, suddenly it’s a problem.”

Marcus’s expression hardened instantly. “It's a problem for who? Elijah?”

Annie let out a frustrated sound. “Yes, Elijah. Who else?”

“What he do?” Marcus asked, stepping closer. “Where he at?”

But Annie wasn’t really focused on answering his questions.

She was upset and talking quick. Frustration spilling out faster than she could control.

“I’m not ready for that,” she continued, her voice tight.

Marcus’s jaw clenched. “What he say to you? Where he live at? Do I need to talk to him?”

He was ready to act on whatever version of the story he was building in his head.

“Marcus,” his mother’s voice cut in.

He paused, looking back at her.

“Sit down,” she said firmly.

“He—Ma, you hear what she saying?” Marcus pushed.

“I hear her,” she replied, her eyes still on Annie. “And I hear what she not saying too.”

Marcus frowned. “What that mean?”

“It mean you hush up,” she said simply.

Marcus let out a frustrated breath but didn’t move again.

Annie barely noticed either of them at this point. She was still pacing and talking, her words running together now.

“They just think because they nice to you or say a few sweet things that you supposed to give them whatever they want,” she said, shaking her head. “And I’m not doing that. I’m just not.”

Her grandmother watched her carefully, catching the little things. Annie was speaking vaguely, her voice shifting in tone when she said certain things. There was a lot more there, but she let her talk.

Annie abruptly grabbed her purse and turned toward the stairs.

“I’m done with it,” she muttered, more to herself than them.

“Annie—” Marcus started.

But she was already headed up the stairs. Her steps were heavy and her voice could be heard as she moved down the hall, words muffled but still full of frustration. Then her bedroom door slammed shut.

Annie leaned back against the closed door, her chest rising and falling as everything from anger to confusion to embarrassment caught up to her now that it was quiet.

She pushed off the door and moved toward her bed, sitting down before laying back to stare up at the ceiling. Her mind replayed the good and the bad of the night.

She turned onto her side, pulling the covers over herself even though she wasn’t cold.

But things didn’t end when Annie closed her eyes. All of those feelings just carried over to Sunday morning.

Annie woke up irritated and moved through the house with a heaviness to her steps. Her responses were short and her patience thin.

And her grandmother wasn't with it.

“Fix your face,” she muttered the first time Annie sucked her teeth too loud in the kitchen.

But Annie didn’t.

And at church, it only got worse.

Annie sat stiff in the pew with her arms crossed and her responses were flat and dry when someone tried to greet her.

Her grandmother didn’t even warn her, she just gave her a quick hit to her arm.

Annie huffed under her breath, but a few minutes later she went right back to muttering and rolling her eyes.

After church, they stopped by the grocery store and usually, Annie would be talking and laughing with people they ran into or helping pick things out, but not today.

Today, she walked beside the cart like she didn’t want to be there, answering questions with one-word responses, and barely acknowledging anyone who spoke to her.

“Hey Annie, how you been?”

“I’m good.”

And she kept walking.

Her grandmother side-eyed her more than once but didn’t say anything.

When they got home that afternoon, Annie still hadn’t shaken it. If anything, it had only gotten worse. So when there was a knock on the door that evening, she wasn't in the mood.

Annie got to the door pulling it open just enough to step outside and close it behind her.

Her friends stood there with curious looks on their faces.

“Well?” Monica started immediately. “How was—”

“It wasn’t,” Annie cut in.

Michelle blinked. “What do you mean it wasn’t—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Annie said, her tone sharp, final. “And I don’t want company right now, so y’all can just go.”

The three of them stared at her completely confused.

“Annie, what is wrong with you?” Lillian asked slowly.

“Nothing's wrong. I just don't want company,” Annie snapped.

Michelle stepped forward slightly. “We just tryin' to check on you—”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Annie shot back.

Now they were looking at her like they didn’t recognize her.

“Okay, now you going a little too far. All we was tryin' to do was check and see how your date with Elijah went,” Monica said, crossing her arms.

“And I said I don’t want to talk about it!” Annie raised her voice, frustration spilling over.

An interesting silence fell between them, because Annie didn’t get like this ever.

“Why you actin' like this?” Michelle asked softly.

Annie shook her head. “Y’all need to just leave me alone.”

Before anything else could be said the front door swung open behind her.

“Annie!” Her grandmother’s voice boomed onto the street.

“Get your ass in this house.”

Annie braced herself as she stepped toward the door. And as she passed by, a hard hit landed against her arm.

Annie flinched, the sting was immediate as she looked back. “Mama—!”

“You know better than this,” her grandmother snapped. “Walking around here with that nasty attitude ‘cause you couldn’t get your coochie squeezed.”

Annie’s face burned in embarrassment instantly.

Her friends looked on in shock before laughing at how ridiculous the older woman could be.

“Get in the house,” her grandmother repeated, not budging.

Annie shot them one last irritated and embarrassed glare, before turning and storming inside.

Her grandmother stepped out just enough to face the girls, her expression softening slightly.

“Y’all come back another time,” she said. “She’ll be alright.”

They nodded, still laughing a little as they started backing away.

“Alright, Ms. Richard. We’ll check on her later!”

She waved them off before closing the door.

When she looked around, she saw that Annie was halfway across the living room.

“Sit down,” her grandmother said.

Annie paused and turned around. “For what?”

Her grandmother gave her a look that said she wasn't playing.

“Sit down, now. And I ain't gone say it again”

Annie let out a quiet, frustrated breath, but she sat. Because she knew she wasn’t getting out of this talk.

When Monday came and Annie still hadn't called, Elijah felt disrupted. He tried to focus on work, but his mind was completely on her.

Things at the shop started slowing down, so Ray let some of them go home a bit earlier. Elijah knew sitting around wasn’t going to fix anything, so he decided to do something about his mind.

Later that afternoon, he stood on Annie’s porch with a small bouquet of flowers in one hand and a folded note in the other. He knocked on the door and waited.

He knew she wouldn’t be there because she was still at the school, but that was the point. He wasn’t ready for another face-to-face like that yet.

After a minute, the door opened and Ms. Annette stood there looking him up and down.

“Well,” she said, stepping back. “Come on in.”

Elijah nodded respectfully then stepped inside. “Yes ma’am.”

She closed the door behind him, turning to face him properly now.

“What you here for?” she asked, arms folding loosely across her chest.

Elijah held the flowers a little tighter. “I came to apologize to Annie.”

Her expression didn’t change much.

“She at work,” she said.

“I know. That's why I wans't gonna stay. I was just gonna leave these for her,” he replied.

Annette watched him for a little longer like she was searching for something. Then she huffed softly, and pointed up the stairs.

“Her room is upstairs. It's the last door on the right,” she said.

Elijah nodded. “Thank you.”

The stairs creaked lightly under his steps as he made his way up. He reached the hallway and walked down it until he reached the right door. He pushed it open gently and stepped inside.

Her room looked soft and put together. There were little things everywhere. Books stacked neatly on a table. A folded blanket at the end of her bed. He noticed the warm colors and the details. There were little things that made him think of conversations they’d had. It all looked exactly how he expected her room to look.

He walked over to the desk, set the flowers down carefully, and placed the note beside them.

Elijah turned and headed back toward the door, careful not to touch anything else on his way out. He pulled the door closed behind him and made his way back downstairs.

He reached the bottom step and headed toward the front door, ready to just slip out.

“Elijah, come help me with these peas.”

He stopped.

Her grandmother’s voice came from deeper in the house.

He turned slightly, following the sound toward the kitchen.

When he stepped in, he saw her seated at the table with a large bowl in the middle. Brown paper bags of green beans were side by side around the bowl. Her hands were moving quickly, snapping and pulling some of the beans without her even looking down.

She pointed to the chair across from her. "Sit."

Elijah did as he was told. He pulled the chair out and sat down, picking up a handful of beans slowly, like he wasn’t fully sure what to do. He watched her for a second before mimicking the way she snapped the ends and pulled the strings down.

The kitchen filled with a quiet rhythm for a while.

“Elijah,” she said, not looking up. “Why are you here?”

He paused slightly, glancing up at her.

“I brought those flowers for Annie to apo—”

“No. Why are you here in Baltimore?” She cut him off.

He frowned a little confused as he tried to follow what she was asking.

“I told you. I came to get help,” he said slowly.

She made a small disapproving sound under her breath. Then looked up at him.

“I ain’t no fool and you ain't gone make me out to be one,” she said plainly. “Cousin Charlie done already told me. So you need to get to talkin',” she added.

He looked at her as he realized this wasn’t going to be just a casual conversation. His hands started moving slowly now like he was trying to control them before they started trembling. He took one deep breath, then another.

“When I was overseas, it was hard to survive” he started quietly. “I had been fighting for so long it felt like that’s all I was doing.”

His eyes dropped to his hands as he worked, the motion steady but slower than before.

“Every night I had these real bad nightmares. I couldn't sleep no matter how tired I was. My mind wouldn't shut off,” he continued.

Annette stayed quiet, giving him space to say his truth.

“I remember one night I went outside,” he said. “Figured if I wore myself out enough, maybe I’d sleep right. But I ain’t make it back in. I just fell asleep out there. And I had this dream.”

He let out a quiet breath.

“It was the best one I ever had," he said. "At first, I ain't know what I was looking at. I just remember she was standing in a kitchen. I really couldn't see much, but I knew she was beautiful. And after that, they ain’t stop.”

He shook his head faintly.

“I got discharged after I got hurt,” he added. “And I couldn’t just let it go. I went from Chicago to Mississippi to Louisiana lokiing for her. I was out there searching day and night. I didn't know her name, I just knew what I saw.”

He let out a breath through his nose.

“When I was in Louisiana, I met Charlie and he told me about Twigs. He said if I was gonna find her she'd be up here. So I came.”

Mama Nette didn’t look surprised by the statement.

“Well, I'm glad my root worked,” she said, dropping another snapped bean into the bowl, “Almost thought I had lost my touch.”

Elijah’s hands stopped completely and looked up at her like he misheard.

“…Your root?” he repeated slowly. “You one of them witches?!”

She sucked her teeth loud, not even looking up this time.

“I ain’t no witch,” she said flatly. “And you keep working.”

Elijah blinked, staring at her. His mind was trying to catch up to what she just said. But he slowly picked the beans back up.

“How you doing magic then go sit up in church every Sunday? I thought you was Christian?,” he shook his head a little as he went back to snapping.

She let out a laught that made his frown deeper.

“Boy, you think ’cause I go to church I can’t work a root?” she asked while looking up at him again.

He didn’t answer right away. Because, yeah, that’s exactly what he thought.

She shook her head, amused.

“I’m from the South where folks in church been doing rootwork all their lives. Some know it, some don’t. It get passed down the same way anything else do. It's in us."

Elijah looked down at his hands again, trying to make sense of it all.

“So, just like that you sent me a dream?” he asked.

“Ain’t just like that,” she said. “It took some time.”

He exhaled through his nose. After a second, he glanced up again.

“Does Annie do it?” he asked curiously.

Because in all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen her do anything like that.

“She know some things, but not much. She ain't had the time to really learn,” she said. And I think you and that church been filling her head up.”

Elijah frowned at that.

“What you mean?”

“She wasn’t this locked up back home,” Mama Nette said plainly.

Elijah looked down, his mind moving through everything she was saying. He thought about the way Annie carried herself. And for the first time he wondered how much of that wasn't just her.

Elijah sat there for a moment, turning her words over in his head, his fingers slowing again against the beans.

“…So is that why Annie’s a—”

He stopped himself. It felt wrong to say it out loud. Like it wasn’t his place to put a word on her like that, even though it had already been said between them.

“Annie a what? A virgin?” she asked.

Elijah shifted slightly in his seat, but she didn’t give him time to get uncomfortable with it.

“You can say it to me,” she added, then went right back to her work. “But no. That ain’t it. She love church, but not for what you thinking. It’s a place she can go to spread her wings and love on people the way she meant to. Church ain’t nothing more than a building where folks come together and build community. That’s all it ever been to me, so that's what I taught her.”

She glanced up at him briefly.

“Besides we ain’t never went to one of them strict churches that make you dress and act a certain way to keep an appearance. You supposed to lead with love because that’s who you are. That’s who she is." she added.

Elijah listened quietly. He looked down at his hands, then back up at her.

“Then do you know why she is?” he asked. This time, his voice was more careful.

Annette’s hands stilled, but only for a second. A small heavy smile touched her face. She looked up at him like she was deciding how much to say and how much he deserved to hear.

Mama Nette held his gaze for a moment longer, then asked, calm as ever, “Elijah, how old are you?”

“Almost 27 now, but it don’t feel that way. Feel like I been here forever.”

“I can see it in your eyes that you know what it is to live through life. You seen some things you might never forget. But it helped make you the man you are,” she said.

Elijah nodded once. “Yes ma’am.”

“Annie a virgin ’cause she know what it means to not take care of her responsibility. And she don’t want to risk it. That ain’t the whole reason, but it’s a big part of it. You want kids, Elijah?”

He blinked, caught off guard, his answer stumbling out before he could really think it through.

“I—I think I do.”

“You know how many kids I got?”

He shook his head lightly. “Ain’t never heard of nobody else ’cept Ray and Marcus.”

That made her hum.

“I got six,” she said. “Three boys and three girls. The oldestis William. Then Clarisse…she got my gift. Then Rose. Then Ray. Then Mariah…” she paused just slightly, “…that’s Annie’s mama. Then Marcus.”

Elijah quietly listened, trying to take it all in.

“All six of my children live they own life,” she continued. “I don’t try to make ’em live it no other way but their own. Annie ever tell you about her mama?”

Elijah shook his head. “She didn’t want to talk about it when I asked.”

Mama Nette nodded slowly, like she expected that answer.

“Mm,” she hummed.

And the way she went quiet after that told him everything he needed to know.

“Mariah had Annie when she was about eighteen or nineteen,” she began. “It was a real rough time with her in my house. She ain’t never wanna do right and always wanted things to go her way. Now ain’t nothing wrong with being who you are, but you got to take responsibility for it too.”

Elijah listened, his hands barely keeping up with hers.

“She had this little boyfriend. He was a nasty, dirty boy and I ain't like him from the start. I tried to get her to leave him alone but she ain't wanna hear me,” Mama Nette went on, her lip curling slightly. “I taught all my kids about sex and what could come with it. Mariah ain't care nothing about my lessons, and neither did Marcus. But the difference between them, Marcus stayed and took care of his."

“I guess she got tired of me pressing her about that boy, 'cause she ran off when she was seventeen.” she said. "She came back pregnant a year or so later. She was crying, tellin' me how that boy ain't want bno baby and was gonna put her out if she ain't get rid of it."

Elijah’s brows pulled together slightly.

“I told her she could stay, but I wasn't helping her get rid of no baby when she was so far along,” Mama Nette said. “When I said that, she threw a fit. But she stayed. And I'll never forget that night when everything went wrong between us.”

Her hands slowed as the air in the kitchen got thicker.

“We was all sitting at the table, eating dinner and she just looked different. The way she was looking at me all night wasn't normal. Later on, she asked me if I would keep the baby 'cause she wasn't ready to be somebody's mama.”

A small breath left her.

“I was upset,” she admitted. “After everything I taught my kids, here she come asking me to take on something that wasn’t mine. But I told her I would under the condition that if I take that baby, she won't ever see it again. From the moment the baby given to me to the moment the baby die.”

She sat back just slightly.

“But that wasn’t just me being cruel,” she went on. “Mariah was my baby too. Why would I wanna keep her from her child?”

She shook her head.

“No. I wanted her to understand something that actions got consequences. And if I’m gon’ take care of something I ain’t had no hand in making, then I get full say in what happen. Especially when no baby asked to be here. And especially not to two no-good parents.” Annette said sharply.

“When I told her that, she got real mad. She said it was her baby and she could come see her whenever she wanted. She said how could a mother do something like this to her child.”

A faint scoff left her.

“Her and Rose had always been close, so Rose got upset too,” she added. “But I stood my ground. Both of 'em left and that was the last time I heard from 'em. A few weeks later, I opened my front door to leave for church when I heard the loudest cries. I looked down and there she was. Couldn’t have been more than a few hours old 'cause she wasn't even cleaned off good. I picked her up and took her straight to the hospital. I gave her my name so she would know she would always have somebody. It's been me and Annie ever since."

“I tried to teach her everything I know,” she added. “Let her learn what she could. But some things, a child learns on their own with no help or warning."

Seven-year-old Annie Richard walked down the sidewalk with her little bookbag bouncing against her back, her shoes scuffing the ground as she kicked at a loose rock in front of her. She was humming a hymn she heard in church, completely in her own little world. Her hair was done up in twists with little ribbons tied at the ends and her dress was just a little wrinkled from sitting in it all day at school.

She paused when she got to the corner store, pushing the door open with a small grunt, the bell above it jingling as she stepped inside.

Annie walked straight to the candy aisle like she’d done it a hundred times before, her small fingers trailing along the shelves as she scanned everything. Her eyes lit up as soon as she spotted what she wanted. She reached up on her tiptoes, stretching just a little to grab a bright bag of candy from the rack.

Her fingers had just wrapped around it, when another hand grabbed it too. Annie looked up completely startled.

A pretty woman stood there, but something about her felt off.

“You like those?” the woman asked, her voice was far softer than her stare.

Annie nodded, holding onto the bag. “Mhm. I’m getting it to share with my friend.”

Her voice was sweet, yet matter of fact.

The woman’s fingers slowly loosened from the bag, but her eyes didn’t leave Annie’s face. She squinted slightly like she was trying to place something.

“You from around here?” she asked.

Annie nodded again. “Mhm. I’m going to my friend house.”

The woman hummed under her breath, her eyes moving over Annie’s face taking everything in. Behind her, a man stood a few feet away, watching them quietly. His posture was more relaxed, but his eyes were just as fixed.

“Who your mama?” the woman asked next.

Annie shifted slightly, hugging the candy bag to her chest now.

“I don't have a mama, only my grandma,” she said. “Ms Annette Richard.”

The woman’s lips parted just slightly, her eyes sharpening with recognition.

The resemblance was clear as day, and her thoughts were just confirmed.

“What’s your name, baby?” she asked.

Annie answered without hesitation.

“Annette, but everybody call me Annie.”

The woman's hand lifted slowly, like she wanted to reach out to touch her face, but she stopped herself halfway. A mix of regret and guilt flowed through her body all at once, but she swallowed it down and forced a smile.

“That’s a pretty name,” she said softly.

Annie beamed at that while gripping her candy.

“Thank you.”

The woman glanced back at the man behind her then she looked back at Annie.

"Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Annie shook her head.

“I’m…” she started, but paused. “…I’m your mama.”

Annie blinked. She was confused now. This didn't make any sense.

“My mama?” she repeated, her brows pulling together slightly.

She glanced toward the man, then back at the woman. The woman nodded slowly.

“And this is your daddy…” she said, gesturing lightly.

The man gave a small nod, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Annie just stood there, holding her candy, looking between them. Her little face scrunched slightly as she tried to understand when it didn’t fit with anything she’d ever known.

“My grandma my mama,” she said softly.

The woman’s smile faltered for just a second. She looked like she didn’t know what to say next.

Annie just stood there with her small hands tightened little by little as she looked between the woman and the man. Her mama? Her daddy?

Ms Annette Richard had never told little Annie a lie. Not once. But she never said who her mama was either. Never gave her a face or name. So now her little mind was trying to make sense of something that had never been explained.

“I ain’t never heard of you,” Annie said honestly.

“She ain’t never mention me?” Mariah asked softly.

Annie shook her head. “No ma’am.”

Mariah shifted, stepping just a little closer, lowering herself some so she wasn’t towering over Annie.

“Well…” she started, her voice turning gentle and coaxing. “Would you like to get to know your mama and daddy?”

Her grandmother had always told her that her mama didn’t want her. And always said it in a way that Annie never questioned. So why was this woman standing here saying something different?

Annie’s chest felt tight all of a sudden. She felt a little hurt, curious, and just upset enough to fall into her "mama's" trap.

And just enough upset to make her look at this woman a little longer than she should’ve.

“How I know you my mama?” Annie asked carefully.

Mariah paused trying to think of anything that would bring recognition to the small girl. Then it hit her.

“Well, when I was pregnant with you I carved a little 'M' in the dining room table.” she said slowly.

Annie’s eyes widened instantly and a soft gasp left her mouth. Because she knew exactly what the woman was talking about.

The little letter was scratched into the wood, right near the edge on the right side of the table. Annie had traced it with her fingers a hundred times. She always thought Uncle Marcus did it. That’s what made sense.

Her little brain latched onto this information too fast.

“I know that,” Annie whispered.

Her eyes flicked up to Mariah again. She was a little more open and accepting now.

Mariah saw that and pressed just a little further.

“Come on and spend some time with us,” she said softly, holding her hand out.

Annie hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward the door, but then she looked back at the older woman and the man behind her. The curiousity won her over and she slowly placed her small hand into Mariah's.

Mariah’s fingers quickly closed around hers like she didn't want her to pull away. She gently took the candy from Annie’s other hand, guiding her toward the front of the store.

“Let’s pay for this first,” she said.

They walked up to the counter, Annie glancing back at her “daddy” who followed behind them.

Mariah set the candy on the counter, then looked back at him expectantly. His face tensed up slightly, like the idea of spending even a few cents on her irritated him. But under her look, he reached into his pocket anyway, pulled out the change, and dropped it on the counter.

The cashier barely paid them any mind and bagged up the candy.

Mariah took Annie’s hand again to lead her out of the store. The bell from the store door rung out as Annie was guided toward a nice shiny car. Mariah opened the back door for her.

“Go on, baby,” she said softly.

Annie climbed in, her little legs pulling up after her as she sat carefully on the seat, her candy bag resting in her lap. She looked around the inside of the car. It was clean and sweet smelling.

Her “daddy” got in the front without saying much, starting the car with a quiet turn of the key. Mariah got in beside him and they drove off.

Annie sat up straight, watching everything pass by her window. The further they went, the less familiar everything became. She was quiet as she watched the changing scenery. Every now and then, she’d glance up at the back of Mariah’s head, then at the man driving, then back out the window.

She was trying to make it all make sense. She was feeling so many things from excitement to scared, but mostly she was unsure.

It felt like a long time before the car finally slowed.

They turned off onto a busy street, and then pulled up in front of a really big house that made Annie look on in awe. It was far nicer than anything she's seen before. Her eyes widened just a little as she pressed her hand against the window.

“This your house?” she asked softly.

Mariah smiled. “It is.”

The car stopped and the man got out first.

Mariah turned back to Annie. “Come on.”

When they got inside the house, it was entirely too quiet. Everything was incredibly still.

Annie stepped in, her shoes soft against the floor as she looked around. It didn't feel like home yet.

Mariah didn’t seem to notice Annie's hesitancy. She took Annie’s hand again and led her to the stairs.

“I wanna show you something,” she said.

They went upstairs. Each step creaking just slightly under Annie’s feet as she climbed.

Mariah walked down the hall, stopping at a door and pushed it open.

“This is going to be your room,” she said, stepping aside.

Annie peeked in.

“My room?” she asked.

Mariah smiled like she'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Annie stepped inside slowly.

It was nice. There was a big bed with clean sheets and a floral cover, and a dresser near a large window with pretty lace curtains over it.

None of this felt like hers. There were no books or pretty flowers or her favorite dolls. It was just a simple room.

“You can do whatever you want in here,” Mariah said from the doorway.

Annie nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Mariah lingered for a second longer then left, her footsteps fading down the hall.

And Annie was alone.

She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her candy into her lap. She opened it carefully, taking out one piece and popping it into her mouth.

She reached for another, but her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head clear as day.

Don’t spoil your dinner.

Annie huffed but decided to close the bag, and set it beside her to save it.

She decided to explore a little so she got up. She walked around the house a little, really only going from the stairs to the living room to the kitchen. She somehow found her way to the back door.

Outside, the yard behind the house was big with enough space to run around. So she did.

She spent hours running and playing made up games in her head like she always did when she was by herself. And, eventually, when her little body got tired she made her way inside.

The house was still quiet and empty-feeling.

She went upstairs on her own, remembering where the room Mariah showed her was. She found a bathroom nearby and ran herself a bath the way her grandmother had done. She washed herself quickly, the warm water relaxing her just enough to make her eyelids feel heavy.

Afterward, she found some clothes in the dresser and pulled them on. They were a little too big but still wearable.

Her stomach rumbled softly, so she went downstairs again, opened the fridge, and looked inside. There wasn’t much she recognized, but she found some milk and fruit. She ate quietly at the counter.

When she finished, she cleaned up behind herself then went back upstairs. She climbed into the bed slowly, pulling the covers up over her small frame. Annie stared up at the ceiling. Her mind was tired but still trying to understand everything. None of it felt real yet. She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer. And eventually she fell asleep.

Back at the Richard house, the smell of something good filled the kitchen. Annette moved around, one hand stirring a pot while the other reached for some seasoning without even needing to look.

The screen door creaked open and heavy footsteps came in behind it.

“Ma?” Ray’s voice carried through the house.

Mama Nette didn’t turn right away. “In here.”

Ray stepped into the kitchen, dusting his hands together. His presence filled the room different. He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his mama’s head.

“Mmm. You getting skinnier on me,” she hummed.

He chuckled. “I'm the same size I was last time.”

She finally looked at him, giving him a once-over anyway like she didn’t quite believe that.

“Where Annie at?” he asked, glancing toward the hallway like she might come skipping out.

Annette went back to her pot. “At Cece’s. But she ‘posed to be back soon now.”

“I’ll go get her.” Ray was beyond ready to see his niece.

Mama Nette gave a small hum of acknowledgment.

Ray turned and left the house.

Cece's house wasn't far, only a few blocks over, so it didn't take him long to get there. He pulled up in front of the house and cut his engine. He stepped out, stretching once before heading up the short walkway, and knocked twice on the door.

The door opened a moment later, Cece’s mama standing there, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Well hey, Ray,” she greeted, surprised but smiling. “You back in town?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said politely, nodding. “I came to grab Annie. She over here?”

There was a small pause.

Cece’s mama frowned slightly. “Annie?”

“Yeah. My mama said she was over here with Cece,” Ray’s brows pulled together just a bit.

Cece’s mama shook her head slowly. “Baby, Annie ain’t been over here today.”

Ray blinked. “What you mean she ain’t been over here?”

“She ain’t come by at all,” she said, more firmly now. “Cece been here with me all afternoon.”

Ray's body subtly tensed up.

“You sure?” he asked, even though he could already tell by her face that she was.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Silence stretched between them for a beat.

“Alright,” he said lowly. “Thank you.”

“You want me to—”

“No ma'am,” he cut in gently, stepping back.

Cece’s mama watched him for a second, concern starting to creep onto her face as he turned and headed back toward his car.

The second Ray got in, he shut the door harder than he needed to. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly and his mind was moving fast. He pulled off, trying not to be too reckless.

His eyes scanned every sidewalk and corner he passed. He looked at every group of kids he went by. Because something wasn’t right.

He turned back onto his mama’s street and that feeling had only gotten worse. The car barely stopped before he was out of it, striding up the steps and pushing through the door.

“Ma!”

Annette turned around, took one good look at his face, and she knew.

“She never made it over there," Ray's breath was coming out heavier.

Annette set her spoon down slowly as she took in her son's words.

“What you mean she ain’t make it?”

Ray ran a hand over his head, pacing across the kitchen.

“I mean Cece mama said Annie ain’t been there all day.”

She turned toward the counter, wiping her hands off because she needed something to do with them.

“Go check that store on the corner,” she said. “Annie like to stop there for candy sometimes.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t waste another second. He practically ran out the door to get back in the car. He zipped down the road with his fingers tapping hard against the steering wheel and his leg bouncing restlessly.

She know better than to be wandering off.

That thought kept repeating in his head over and over.

He pulled up to the small corner store, not even bothering to park straight before he was out the car and heading inside.

The bell above the door rang and the man behind the counter looked up.

“Evenin’—”

“Did a little girl come in here earlier?” Ray cut in. “She 'bout this tall, with twists in her hair?"

The man squinted as if he was thinking. The he nodded in recognition.

“Yeah, she did.”

Relief hit Ray for half a second, but disappeared just as fast.

“When?” Ray pressed.

“Couple hours ago now,” the man said. “She came in, bought some candy.”

Ray leaned forward slightly. “She leave by herself?”

The man shook his head slowly. “No.”

“What you mean no?”

“She left with a man and a woman,” the man said.

Everything in Ray’s body went tight.

“What man?” His voice dropped.

“I don’t know ‘em,” the man shrugged. “Thought it was her folks or somethin’. They was talkin’ to her like they knew her.”

Ray’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His chest rose and fell sharply.

“She don’t know them,” he said, more to himself than anything.

The man blinked. “Well, she walked out with ‘em. It ain’t look like nothin’ was wrong.”

That didn’t help much because Annie was polite little girl. Sweet enough to talk to anybody and listen to anything.

Ray dragged a hand down his face.

“You see which way they went?” he asked.

The man pointed vaguely toward the street. “That way.”

"Thank you," Ray nodded tensely.

When he pulled back up to the house, Ray felt like he was losing it. His breathing was heavy and his mind was jumbled with all the what-ifs.

“Ma!”

Annette walked toward him as soon as he got in the door.

“She was at the store earlier, but the man said she left with somebody,” he said. “It was a man and a woman and that they was talkin’ to her like they knew her. And she know better than that, Ma. You done told her—”

“I know what I told her,” Annette snapped.

She went to the phone, picked it up, and started turning the dial to call people. She was going to call her other sons, and she knew the word would spread fast from there.

At some point in the night, Annie stirred awake from the sudden loudness in the house. A sharp burst of laughter somewhere in the house fully brought her out of her sleep. Her small body shifted under the covers, brows knitting together as her eyes fluttered open in the dark.

For a second, she didn’t remember where she was. The ceiling above her wasn’t the one she knew.

The sounds felt like they were coming from far away yet were rigth in the room with her. The voices were layered and people were laughing and talking with each other.

Annie pushed herself up slowly, the blanket slipping down into her lap as she sat there, listening. She was utterly confused because the house had been so quiet before, but now it sounded alive.

Her little feet slid out from under the covers and carefully touched the floor. She hesitantly glanced toward the door. Curiosity tugged at her hard, so she slowly crept to the door. Her hand wrapped around the knob, turning it just enough to ease it open without a sound.

The hallway upstairs was dim with only a faint glow from downstairs creeping up the staircase. Annie stepped out, her small frame barely making a sound as she moved closer to the banister. Annie gripped the railing slightly, her fingers curling around the wood as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

And when she looked down her eyes widened. People were crowded around pressed close together. Music played loud enough now that she could feel it faintly in her chest. Smoke curled up toward the ceiling, making everything look hazy.

She stepped back from the stairs. Her heart was beating a little faster, but not from excitement.

She didn’t want to go downstairs and she knew she wasn’t ever supposed to get out of bed. Everything about what she had just seen made her want to stay where she was safe. So instead, she turned down the hallway and walked slowly.

Little Annie moved passed the doors, some were closed and others were barely shut. One in particular caught her attention. It was cracked open just enough. The voices inside didn't sound like the ones coming from downstairs.

Annie paused at the open door, her head tilting slightly as she listened. The voices sounded breathy and lighter than anything she's ever heard.

Curiosity got to her again, so she stepped closer. Her small hand lifted, pressing lightly against the door as she leaned in just enough to peek through the opening.

She saw a man and a woman tangled together in a way she had never seen before. The woman’s head tilted back, her voice breaking out in a sound Annie didn’t understand, while the man hovered over her.

Annie’s breath caught as she realized that they were both naked. A sharp, startled gasp slipped out of her before she could stop it.

Her eyes went wide as she took the sight in. None of this looked right and she didn't like. Her stomach twisted and she was confused. So without a second thought she ran.

Her feet hit the floor quickly as she hurried back down the hall, the sounds from that room chasing after her in her head. She pushed into her room, shutting the door fast behind her.

She scrambled back to the bed, climbing up onto it like the noises might follow her.

Her hands instantly flew up to her ears to cover them. Her eyes squeezed shut, her face scrunching as she tried to block everything out. Annie's small body curled in on itself and her heart raced. She was far too overwhelmed for her liking.

Because she didn’t know what she had just seen and she didn't think it was something she was supposed to see. And in this house that didn’t feel like home that feeling only got worse.

When Annie woke up the next morning, it was back quiet as if nothing had ever happened. She blinked up at the ceiling as she laid there, listening for any sounds. Annie frowned thinking she dreamed up everything that happened last night.

Her stomach growled and brought her out of it. She got out of bed, walked over to the door, and opened it slowly. She peeked out into the hallway.

Soft morning light was coming through the windows.

Annie stepped out, closing her door gently behind her then made her way down the hall and to the stairs. Each step down creaked gently under her weight.

When she reached the bottom step and walked to the kitchen, she saw people. It wasn't nearly as many as there were last night. Women were scattered around the kitchen and living room area talking lowly to each other. They were dressed in loose clothing, with shorts on and the shirt straps slipping down their shoulders. There was so much skin showing, it made Annie instinctively look away, unsure where her eyes were supposed to go.

One woman had a cigarette between her fingers, smoke curling up as she laughed at something someone said.

Annie stayed right there at the edge of the room, her hands coming together in front of her. her chest felt tight and she had the instant realization that she didn't want to be there. She wanted to go home.

One of the women noticed her first. The woman's eyes widened slightly when she looked over.

“Who kid is that?” she asked.

Every head turned and eyes landed on Annie.

The woman with the cigarette quickly pulled it from her lips and put it out against a nearby ashtray. Another woman adjusted her shirt.

Annie didn’t move. She just stood there, feeling all those eyes on her, her fingers pressing tighter together.

Before anyone else could say anything Mariah appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was fully dressed and her hair done. She looked put together in a way that had Annie confused when she looked at the other women.

“That’s my daughter,” she said simply.

A few of the women exchanged confused looks, but nobody questioned it. They just accepted it without really fully understanding.

Mariah didn’t say anything else about it. She simply moved into the kitchen like everything was completely normal. She grabbed a pan, set it on the stove, and started pulling things out to cook breakfast.

“Sit down,” she said to Annie without even looking at her.

Annie walked slowly to one of the chairs at the table and climbed up into it, her legs swinging above the floor. Her eyes stayed on Mariah, watching her move around.

The skillet sizzled loud, the smell of grease and seasoning filling the room. Plates were already set out, utensils clinking softly as she worked. Annie's eyes followed Mariah’s hands and the way she scooped food onto plates.

The front door opened and heavy footsteps sounded throughout the house.

Annie’s head turned quickly as her "father" walked in the room. He didn't even glance at Annie.

“The food is ready,” Mariah said while looking at him.

He grunted in response, sitting at the table right across from Annie.

Mariah fixed a plate for him first and set it down in front of him without a word.

The other women started moving as if that was their signal. They fixed their own plates and spread out around the kitchen to eat.

Annie sat there, watching all of it as her stomach growled. She pressed her lips together as she looked at the food being passed around. Nobody said anything to her or offered her anything. So she waited hoping maybe someone would notice. But they didn't.

After a while, Annie slowly slid out of her chair and stepped toward the counter. Her small hands lifted up like she was about to reach for a plate, but a hand grabbed her arm hard. Annie flinched instantly, a small sound catching in her throat as she looked up.

It was her “father.” His grip was tight around her upper arm, fingers pressing hard enough to make her stop.

“We ain’t got enough food for you,” he said dismissively.

Annie blinked up at him, her brows pulled together slightly.

“But—” her voice came out small.

He tightened his grip just a little more.

“I said we ain’t got enough.”

He said it in a way that she knew not to question.

Her lip trembled as she nodded. A soft whimper slipped out before she could stop it.

He let go of her arm just as quick as he grabbed it, turning back to his plate like she wasn’t important enough to think about any longer.

Annie gently rubbed her arm where he had held her, her eyes dropping to the floor. She turned and walked out of the kitchen. Her steps were soft as she made her way into the living room. She climbed onto the edge of the couch and sat there with her legs pulled up and stomch twisting.

For the rest of the day, Annie sat in that living room going from one spot to another. She went from the couch to the floor or to just standing by the window staring out at the street.

The women moved through the house constantly. Some women stopped by to speak with her, some even snuck her pieces of candy they had. None of them were mean to her, but they weren't much of anything else either.

As the day went on, the feeling of being alone took over more of her.

Her grandmother would’ve asked if she ate and would've made her go outside, or read a book, or clean something. Her grandmother would've noticed how unsettled she was. Annie was more homesick than she had ever been in her life.

By the time night came, Annie was so jumbled up she didn't know what to do.

They all were gathered in the dining room, Annie included. She was seated at the far end of the table with a small scratch of paper and a pencil that someone had left there. She was pretending to draw, but was really listening to what was going on.

The women sat around the table with tense postures. At the head of the table sat Annie's "father". Mariah was perched on the arm of his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His arm wrapped naturally around her waist.

Annie kept her head down, her pencil moving slowly across the paper. She was doing anything to keep her eyes busy.

“Tonight gone be a good night,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. “Y’all hear me?”

A few murmured yeses followed.

“Good. Cause we need it to be. Ain’t nobody slackin’ tonight. I want every dollar comin’ in.”

The women nodded again.

“And some of y’all still owe,” he continued, his eyes dragging across the table, landing on certain faces longer than others.

A couple of the women shifted uncomfortably. One looked down at her hands and another swallowed hard.

“So that mean you do what I say when I say it and how I say it,” he went on. “It don’t matter if you tired. It don’t matter if you don’t feel like it. And it damn sure don’t matter if you don’t want to.”

A few of the women stiffened at his words.

Annie's pencil slowed down as she listened and digested the words the man said. Her "father" spoke the words like they were something important to hold on to, and Annie kept that in mind.

“Cause at the end of the day you got a job to do and you gone do it,” he said, leaning back. His fingers lightly tapped against Mariah's side.

One of the women finally spoke up, trying to be as careful and soft as she could.

“What about the girl?”

A few eyes subtly flicked toward Annie.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor and Annie’s head snapped up just in time to see his hand swing. The sound of a loud smack cracked through the room suddenly. The woman's head jerked to the side, her body going in shock from the force of it.

Annie froze and her eyes went wide. Her pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled across the table.

He stood over the woman before turning his attention toward Annie. He slowly walked over to her, each of his steps were heavy.

Annie didn’t move. She couldn't really. Her body felt stuck like she forgot how to move.

His hand came out, gripping her chin, forcing her face up toward him. His eyes were cold as he looked down at her.

“I don’t care about her,” he said, like she wasn’t even there. “She ain’t my responsibility.”

Annie’s eyes stung instantly, but she didn't cry. She just looked at him.

His grip tightened just slightly before he let go, her head dropping back down.

“Y’all got work to do,” he continued, turning back toward the table.

Annie's hands shook slightly as she gathered her paper and pencil. She slowly slid off the chair, trying to be as invisible as possible. Her throat felt thick, like something was stopping her from screaming out. She slipped out the room as quietly as possible and practically raced up the stairs.

As soon as she got back into "her" room she closed the door behind her, really needing that barrier between her and them. She climbed onto the bed, pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms tightly around them, and pressed her face into her arms. Her heart was racing and all she could think about was how she wasn't supposed to be there.

That night, sleep didn’t come easy for Annie. She sat up in that bed for what felt like hours, her back against the headboard, her knees pulled close, just staring and listening.

The house had come alive again, but it was louder than the night before. The music was loud, but the voices were louder. Every now and then, something would hit the wall and it made her jump every time.

Her stomach growled like it had done all day. It was aching in a way that made it hard to think about anything else for too long. She looked over at the small stash of candy she had left. Her grandmother always said not to spoil your dinner, but there was no dinner here. So she ate it all.

By the time she finished, her stomach didn’t growl as loud anymore, but it didn’t feel right either. The candy was too sweet for her empty stomach.

She laid back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, trying to will herself to sleep. But every time she drifted just a little the noise in the house woke her up again. She couldn’t sleep like this.

Her grandmother would to give her warm milk sometimes to help her sleep good through the night. So maybe that would work.

Annie pushed herself up, her feet touching the floor. The wood was cool under her toes. She listened to the voices everywhere and the too loud music, but she told herself everything was fine. She just needed to go to the kitchen, get some milk, and come right back. That's all.

She walked toward the door carefully, her hand reaching for the knob. Just as her fingers wrapped around it, a thud sounded out like something hit the wall. It was right outside her room.

Annie's heart started to beat a little faster.

Another noise that sounded like a struggle came. Feet were scuffling around and a muffled voice said something she couldn't quite make out.

She slowly turned the knob anyway and pulled the door open just a crack. Then a little more. And she saw them right there in the hallway.

It was one of the women pushing against a man as he grabbed at her. He was pulling at her clothes, his hands rough and impatient.

“Stop—” the woman’s voice broke, breathless, strained as she tried to twist away from him.

He didn’t listen or slow down. He shoved her back hard, her body hitting the wall before she stumbled and fell to the floor. He yanked at the woman’s clothes, fabric tearing, slipping, and falling away.

The woman tried to push him off, but he was stronger.

Annie couldn’t look away. Her body felt locked in place.

The man pushed the woman fully onto the floor. Her back hit the wood hard. He fumbled with his belt, trying to get it unbuckled.

The woman looked right at Annie. Their eyes met and it was like everything else in the home melted away from that look. Tears filled the woman's eyes. And there was a certain look in them that Annie couldn't quite recognize.

Annie’s stomach twisted. A weird, sick feeling spread through her body. She was confused and scared. Her throat burned as she struggled to breathe normally.

She couldn’t stay there and watch that. She didn't quite understand what was happening, but she knew it was wrong.

Annie stepped back quickly, her hand slipping from the door as she turned and ran down the hall. Her small feet moved fast against the floor as she tried to get away from what she just saw.

The closer she got to the stairs, the louder everything became. The air was thick and suffocating, making it hard for her to breathe. But she kept going because she needed to get away from it all.

When she stepped off the last stair and into the main part of the house, she stopped. Her feet planted where they were and her eyes were wide. This wasn’t anything like the night before. Not even close.

People were everywhere. Bodies pressed together in ways Annie didn’t understand but knew she wasn’t supposed to be seeing. Men and women were touching each other's bodies openly.

Some of them still had clothes on, but some of them didn't. And nobody seemed to care about her presence.

Annie’s head turned quickly, trying to look somewhere else. But there was nowhere to look, everydirection was covered, showing her all the things she shouldn't be seeing at her age.

A woman stumbled past her, her hair messy, her face wet with tears. She was saying something, probably begging, but Annie couldn’t hear the words over the music. A man followed close behind her, grabbing her arm too tight, jerking her back when she tried to pull away.

Annie flinched.

Across the room, another woman was pressed against the wall, shaking her head, her hands pushing weakly at the man in front of her.

“No—please—” she cried, her voice breaking.

He didn’t stop or even slow down. His hand came up, striking her hard enough to make Annie’s stomach drop.

Someone laughed, but nothing about this was funny.

She turned, trying to remember the way to the kitchen, but it was way harder now. There were too many people in the way.

She pushed forward, keeping her head low, trying not to look too hard at anything, but things caught her attention anyway.

A man, right there in the open, pulling at a woman, forcing her down against a surface, his movements rough, impatient. The woman cried out, her hands pushing at him, trying to get him off.

“Stop—please—stop—”

Her voice cracked, panicked. Yet he didn't stop. His hand moved to her throat, squeezing hard enough to silence her and hold her still.

Annie’s whole body went cold. She squeezed her eyes shut tight to block it all out and pretend she didn't see it.

Her stomach twisted violently, that sick feeling rushing through her again, stronger than before. Like her body didn’t know what to do with what she had just seen and it was rejecting it.

She shook her head slightly, her hands coming up to cover her ears as best as she could, trying to block out the sounds. All she wanted to think about was getting to the kitchen and getting her milk. So she moved almost blindly.

She felt her way through the space, her steps shaky, bumping into things and people as she passed. Some people were annoyed at her clusmy movements, but she was scared to open her eyes and what she might see if she did. She already saw far too much.

After what felt like forever, she finally made it to the kitchen. It was quieter in there which was exactly what she needed.

Annie stumbled in, breathing a little too fast, her little chest tight like she had been running for miles. But she went straight to the cabinet. She dragged one of the chairs across the floor, the legs scraping loudly. The sound made her wince, her shoulders jumping slightly like she thought someone would come in and yell at her.

She climbed up. Her small hands reaching up, fingers stretching until she grabbed a cup from the shelf. She almost dropped it from her shaky hands. She got down, moving quickly to the fridge, pulling it open.

The cold air was a welcome change to her skin.

She grabbed the glass of milk. It was heavy in her little hands, but she manage to set it on the counter with a soft thud. She carefully climbed back up on the chair.

She poured, trying to be careful to not spill anything. The milk sloshed against the sides of the cup and her lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

When it was full enough, she set the glass down and picked the cup up with both hands. She drank it in big gulps like it would fix everything. The milk was too cold that it hit her stomach wrong, mixing with all that candy. Her face twisted slightly as she swallowed, forcing herself to keep drinking anyway.

Because it was supposed to help. It always helped at home.

She lowered the cup slowly, her stomach churning now, that sick feeling right there at the front. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to steady herself.

Annie froze as she heard movement behind her.

Her "father" walked in first. Mariah right behind him. The second his eyes landed on Annie, his face showed instant annoyance.

“What she doin’ in here?” he snapped.

Annie flinched hard. Her grip tightening on the cup.

He looked at Mariah, irritation clear all over his face.

“Why you let her come down here?” he went on. “I told you I ain’t tryna take care of no kid.”

Annie’s stomach tightened. Her eyes dropped to the cup in her hands.

Mariah didn’t react the way Annie thought she would. She didn't get defensive or argue. She just smiled so sweetly. She stepped closer, reaching out and grabbing Annie’s face, her fingers pressing into her cheeks, turning her head side to side like she was looking her over.

Annie stiffened under her touch, her body going rigid.

“You ain’t even curious?” Mariah said lightly, almost playful. “Don’t you wanna see what she look like?”

He barely glanced at her.

“I seen enough,” he muttered.

Annie’s throat burned. Her eyes filled, tears slipping over before she could stop them.

He crossed his arms.

“So what we doin’ with her?” he asked. “We can take her back?”

Annie’s heart jumped in hope. Her head lifted just a little.

Mariah hummed softly, like she was thinking about it. Her fingers still holding Annie’s face.

“I don’t know. I think I might wanna keep her,” she said slowly.

Annie’s stomach dropped.

He sucked his teeth, clearly irritated.

“That’s another mouth to feed,” he said flatly.

Mariah shrugged lightly, unconcerned.

“She a child,” she replied. “Kids don’t eat as much as grown folks. Won't have to feed her as often.”

He shook his head, over the conversation.

“Man, whatever. Just take her somewhere,” he said, waving his hand like Annie was nothing more than something in the way.

Mariah’s hands slid from Annie’s face down to her shoulders.

“Come on,” she said smiling.

But Annie couldn’t move properly. Her whole body was shaking now. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. Her chest was rising and falling too fast. Her stomach churned, the milk sitting wrong. Everything inside of her felt twisted and tight.

“I wanna go home…” she cried softly, her voice breaking, small hands clutching at her dress.

Mariah’s smile faltered just slightly, before it came right back.

“Stop all that crying. You alright,” she said, her tone sharp.

But Annie didn’t feel alright.

Her legs felt weak. Her head felt light. And her body trembled as she stood there.

Mariah kept her grip on Annie’s shoulders as they moved out of the kitchen.

Annie’s feet dragged a little. The sounds from the rest of the house swallowed them up as soon the moment they stepped out and started for the stairs.

Annie kept her head down, tears still slipping down her face, her hands clenched into the fabric of her dress. She didn’t want to go back upstairs. She didn’t want to be anywhere in this house.

And just as they were about to climb the stairs, the front door shook from loud bangs on it. It was hard enough to rattle the walls. People stopped and looked at it. Another strong desperate hit to the door came.

Mariah’s grip tightened slightly on Annie before she let go, stepping toward the door. She pulled it open cautiously.

William Richard stood at the front, shoulders squared, jaw tight, and a gun firm in his hand. Right behind him was Marcus Richard, eyes scanning the room, anger written all over his face. And Ray Richard just behind them, tense and ready, his focus sharp and locked in.

The second Annie saw them she sprung into action.

“UNCLE WILLY!” she screamed, her voice cracking as she started crying harder, louder than she had all night.

Her whole body moved before her mind could catch up. Her feet pushed forward, desperate to get to them and get home.

“I don’t wanna stay here!” she cried, her voice shaking, panicked. Her words tumbled over each other.

Mariah’s hand shot out, grabbing the back of Annie’s dress, stopping her in her place. Annie stumbled, choking on a sob as she tried to pull forward anyway, her hands reaching out.

William stepped forward just slightly, lifting his gun to make the message clear.

“You better let her go,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Marcus didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said enough. Ray’s eyes were already locked on Annie, panic creeping in under the anger.

Mariah hesitated. Her grip still tight in Annie’s dress. Then she let go.

Annie didn’t wait. She ran straight to them.

Ray caught her instantly, dropping down slightly to meet her. He wrapped her up tight as she clung to him, her small body shaking uncontrollably.

“I got you baby,” he said quickly, his voice softer now, urgent. "You okay?"

But she couldn’t answer. She was crying too hard. Her face buried into him, her fingers gripping onto his shirt.

Marcus stepped closer, his hand hovering over her back like he didn’t know where to touch. William kept his eyes up, watching everything else, making sure nobody moved.

“Let’s go,” he said shortly.

The door shut behind them.

The outside air hit Annie’s face, but it didn’t settle her. They moved her carefully down the steps.

“Annie—Annie, look at me,” Ray tried, pulling back just enough to see her face.

But she was still crying, her breaths coming too fast, uneven.

“What happened?” Marcus asked, his voice tight. “What you see?”

Before Annie could even try to answer, her body jerked. A gag caught in her throat.

“Wait—” Ray started, but it was too late.

She turned her head and threw up into the grass. What little she had in her stomach, came up fast. hER SMALL BODY TREMBLED FROM THE FORCE.

“Easy—” Ray murmured, holding her steady as she coughed, trying to catch her breath.

“Jesus…” Marcus muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face.

The car door slammed open and Clarisse Richard rushed out. Her face was full of worry the second she saw Annie.

“Oh my baby—” she said, hurrying over, immediately reaching for her to check anywhere she could.

“She sick,” William said shortly. “We gotta go.”

Clarisse nodded quickly, moving to help, her hands gentle but firm as she helped lift Annie up.

Annie barely had the strength to hold herself up now. Her body felt weak and her head was spinning.

They carried her to the car trying not to move her around too much.

Ray slid in with her, keeping her close, one arm wrapped around her as she leaned into him, sniffling and shaking. Clarisse climbed in on the other side, rubbing Annie’s head.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft snap of beans.

Mama Nette lifted her eyes to Elijah, studying him.

“You see,” she said after a moment, her voice calm, “that girl saw far too much for somebody her age. Things she ain’t had no business seeing and understanding. She learned real early what men could be. What they do when they think they got power over you. What they take when you don’t give it.”

She continued snapping the beans in her hands.

“And that’ll make a girl real careful,” she said. “Make her watchful and question everything. But she did grow up and learn that all men ain't like that. That there's some good ones. But even then something always got to come along and test your belief."

The sun sat high in the sky, bright and warm, reflecting off the water like little sparks of light. The lake stretched out calm and pretty, the air filled with laughter and splashing. It should’ve been a good day. And for a while it was.

Annie stood off to the side with her friend, both of them giggling, talking, watching the boys show off by the water. Everything felt easy.

Her boyfriend came up behind her, slipping an arm around her waist.

She smiled, leaning into him just a little.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling her away from the others.

She didn’t think much of it.

He turned her toward him, pressing her lightly back against one of the trees.

She laughed softly.

“What you doin’?” she asked, her voice playful.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed her.

At first it was a soft, familiar kiss. Annie kissed him back, her hands resting lightly against his chest. Then his hands moved lower and more insistent. He tried to slide them under the hem of her dress.

Annie pulled back just slightly.

“Wait—,” she said, her voice light, but firm.

He didn’t stop. His hand tried again.

She caught his wrist this time.

“No,” she said very clearly now.

He sighed, like she was being difficult.

“C’mon,” he muttered, leaning back in, trying to kiss her again.

She turned her face away. “I said no.”

That should’ve been enough. It wasn’t.

His grip tightened slightly, his hand moved again, this time trying to guide hers instead. he pulled her hand down until it sat on the top of the seat of his pants, so she could feel the bulge there.

Annie frowned, pulling back. “No, stop—”

But he didn’t stop.

His voice dropped, a little more impatient now.

“You don’t mean that,” he said. “You just playin’.”

Annie’s stomach tightened, uneasily. Her mind traveling back in time to a seven year old Annie.

“I’m not playing,” she said, pushing at his chest now. “I said no.”

He didn’t like that and she could see it in his face.

He moved closer again, crowding her space, ignoring the way she was trying to put distance between them.

“I’ll make you feel good,” he said, like that was supposed to fix everything.

Her heart started to beat faster.

“Stop,” she said again, more urgent now, pushing harder against him.

He wasn’t listening at all.

Annie’s back pressed harder against the tree, her hands braced against him as she tried to create space. Her breathing picked up.

“Stop—” she said again, her voice rising slightly, panic starting to slip in.

But he kept pushing forward like her words didn’t matter.

Her hands pushed harder.

“Get off me!” she said, louder now, her voice shaking.

He barely reacted.

“You don’t mean that,” he muttered, trying to catch her lips again, one hand still trying to force hers down, the other gripping at her waist too tight. “You just scared, that’s all. I got you.”

“I said no!” she snapped, her voice breaking as she turned her face away, pushing harder against him, her nails pressing into his shirt.

But he kept going. And that feeling—the same one from when she was little, from that house, from those nights she didn’t understand but felt anyway—it rose up fast and ugly in her chest.

That’s when she heard a car door slam open in the midst of her "No".

“Aye!”

The shout stopped everything.

“She said no. Back the fuck up.”

Annie’s head snapped to the side, her eyes wide.

At the top of the small slope, her cousin stood beside the car. A couple of his friends were right behind him, spreading out as they came down.

Her boyfriend froze completely caught off guard.

That was all Annie needed. She shoved him hard. This time he stumbled back just enough for her to slip out from between him and the tree. Her chest was heaving, her eyes glossy with tears as she stood there, shaken.

“Annie, get in the car,” her cousin called, his voice firm but not harsh.

She looked between him and the boy in front of her.

Her boyfriend was trying to recover, running a hand over his shirt like nothing had happened.

“She good,” he started. “We was just—”

“Man, shut the hell up,” her cousin cut in, stepping closer.

Annie’s stomach twisted.

“It's okay—” she started, her voice small and shaky.

“It ain’t okay,” he snapped, not even looking at her this time, his eyes locked on the boy.

Annie swallowed hard, tears slipping down her cheeks now.

“It’s not like that. He didn't—” she tried again, wiping at her face quickly.

“Annie,” her cousin said, firmer this time, finally looking at her, “get in the car.”

There was no arguing in his tone.

Her chest tightened, but she nodded. She turned and walked toward the car, her legs feeling unsteady, her hands still trembling.

Behind her, she could feel the tension building.

She didn’t want to turn around and see it. But she did as soon as she reached the car door.

Her cousin’s friend stepped forward first, shoving her boyfriend back hard.

“What you think you was doing?” he demanded.

The boy pushed back immediately, defensive now. “Man, y’all doing too much—”

The first hit landed before he could catch it. A fist to the jaw that snapped his head to the side. Then another. And another. It all happened so fast.

Annie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she watched them swarm him, pushing him back, fists flying, anger pouring out of them with every hit.

“Stop!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Stop it!”

Her cousin stepped in too, grabbing the boy by his shirt and landing a punch that sent him stumbling to the ground.

“You don’t hear a woman say no?” he snapped.

The boy tried to get up, but they didn’t give him the chance. The kicked and punched him relentlessly.

Annie’s vision blurred with tears as she shook her head, panicking now.

“Please, stop!” she cried, her hands gripping the car door. “Y’all gonna hurt him!”

Her cousin finally looked back at her. He saw her crying and how shaken she was. He exhaled sharply, holding his hand up.

“Aight,” he said, pulling his friends back.

They walked away, leaving the boy on the ground, barely moving.

Breathing hard, her cousin ran a hand over his face before pointing toward the car again.

“Get in,” he said, softer this time.

Annie didn’t argue. She climbed into the car quickly, her body still trembling, her chest tight as she wiped at her face over and over again.

The door shut behind her.

Her mind was spinning from the feeling that kept coming back.

And if nobody had come—

She didn’t even want to finish that thought.

The soft snap of beans breaking between Mama Nette’s fingers filled the space, steady and unbothered. Sunlight came through the window, casting a warm glow over the table, over the bowl of peas, over her hands as she worked without looking up for a moment.

Elijah sat there across from her, his own hands slower now. The peas in front of him blurred slightly as his mind tried to settle around everything she had said. He could still see it, clear as day, even though he hadn’t lived it. A little girl, scared and hungry, trapped in a place she never should have been. It made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t know how to name.

Mama Nette finally paused, lifting her head to look at him. Her eyes were sharp but not unkind, like she was just waiting to see if he would prove her right.

“You see now,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “Annie ain’t gon’ know what to do when it come to her emotions.”

Elijah looked up at her, listening close.

“She done had good men in her life,” she continued, snapping another bean between her fingers, “Men that love her, take care of her, show her what it’s supposed to be. But she done seen some of the worst too. And them worst ones leave a mark, whether you want ‘em to or not.”

Elijah swallowed, his hands stilling for a second before he forced himself to keep working.

Mama Nette watched him carefully. “I can see what kind of man you are, Elijah. But she need to see it too,” she said.

He let out a slow breath, his eyes dropping back to the peas as he thought about Annie. The way she smiled, the way she pulled away just as quick. The way she said one thing but felt something else entirely. It made more sense now, but it didn’t make it easier.

“She a handful,” Mama Nette went on, a faint hint of amusement touching her voice, “but she get it honest. That girl been strong since she was little.”

Mama Nette leaned back just a bit, resting her hands for a moment before continuing.

“Now, yes, I did some work so Annie would find somebody that would be good for her. Somebody that would show her how to live right, not just survive,” she said plainly.

“I just…” he started, his voice quieter now, more uncertain than before. “I don’t know what to do. Every time I try, she run. Or she twist what I say into something else. I don’t wanna keep pushing her away.”

Mama Nette clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head just a little. “That’s ‘cause you ain’t being plain,” she said. “You talking around things instead of saying exactly what you mean. You gotta say it simple and straight. Annie don’t need confusion, she got enough of that in her own head. You leave space, she gon’ fill it with whatever she scared of.”

That sat with him.

“You let her dance around you, she gon’ keep dancing,” Mama Nette added, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That girl do what she wanna do. So you gotta make her do what you know is best for her.”

Elijah looked up at that, a bit unsure. “Make her?”

“Be stern,” she clarified. “Not mean or rough, but stand in what you saying. Otherwise she gon’ run circles around you and then cry about it after. She think she can get away with anything with you. And right now, she ain’t wrong.”

They fell into a brief silence after that, the only sound being the continued snapping of beans. This time, Elijah kept going without stopping, his mind working through everything she had said.

After a while, Mama Nette glanced up at him again, eyebrows lifting slightly. “What you still doing here?” she asked, almost like she had forgotten he was still sitting there. “Go on and see about that girl.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

He headed upstairs, his steps heavier than before but more certain. When he reached Annie’s room, he paused for just a second before stepping inside. The flowers he had brought sat where he left them, untouched.

He picked them up carefully, his eyes lingering for a second as he looked around again. Then he turned and headed back downstairs. As he moved toward the door, he heard Mama Nette’s voice from behind him.

“Hey. Be easy on my baby, hear?” she said. “She learning.”

Elijah nodded once, firm.

“Yes ma’am.”

And with that, he stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him as he went.

Elijah sat in the car for a second after he pulled up to the school. The engine was still running, his hands resting on the steering wheel while the flowers sat in his lap.

The schoolyard was alive in front of him. Children ran across the playground, their laughter carrying through the air. Teachers stood off to the side in the shaded area near the fence, watching.

Elijah let out a quiet breath, reaching down to grab the flowers before stepping out of the car. He shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, scanning the yard, his eyes moving from group to group, searching.

He didn’t see her at first so he started walking toward the fence. His gaze moved until it finally landed on her.

She was sitting on a bench in the shaded area, her posture relaxed. Her head turned toward Lillian as they talked. From where he stood, he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see the small movements.

For a second, he just watched her. Taking her in, trying to make sure she was okay. Then he stepped closer to the fence.

“Annie,” he called, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.

She didn’t even turn her head. It was as if she hadn’t heard him at all. But he knew she did.

Lillian looked up immediately though, her eyes landing on him. Her expression shifted in recognition, and she gave him a small wave before nudging Annie lightly with her elbow.

Annie barely reacted. She kept her gaze forward, her face set, like she was determined not to acknowledge him.

Elijah exhaled slowly, tightening his grip just slightly on the flowers.

“Annie,” he called again, a little firmer this time.

Before she could ignore him again, a little girl came running up to her, breathless and excited about something. Annie turned to her instantly, her voice soft as she answered whatever question the girl had, giving her full attention like nothing else mattered.

Elijah watched that.

The little girl lingered though, her curiosity getting the better of her. She glanced past Annie, her small finger lifting to point toward the fence.

“Miss Annie,” she said, her voice loud enough to for him to hear, “I think that man is askin’ for you.”

Annie closed her eyes for the briefest second before opening them again, her patience still intact.

“Thank you, baby,” she said gently.

But the girl didn’t move. She just stood there, looking between Annie and Elijah, her curiosity written all over her face.

“I think you should go over there,” she added, like she was helping.

Annie let out a quiet breath through her nose, forcing a small, tight smile.

“Go on and play,” she told her softly.

The girl nodded and finally ran off.

Elijah called her name again, not raising his voice.

This time, Lillian didn’t hold back.

“Girl,” she said under her breath, nudging Annie again, “go talk to that man.”

Annie huffed quietly, her jaw tightening just a little before she pushed herself up from the bench. She smoothed her dress absentmindedly, then started walking toward the fence. Each step felt like she was bracing herself.

When she finally got close enough, she stopped just on the other side of the fence, keeping a small distance between them. Her arms crossed lightly over her chest, her expression guarded as she looked anywhere but directly at him.

“What?” she said, her tone flat.

Elijah lifted the flowers toward her, the bright petals a soft contrast to the tension sitting heavy between them.

“I brought you these,” he said quietly.

Annie didn’t move to take them. Her eyes flicked down to the bouquet before she looked away again.

A small pause stretched between them before Elijah let his arm lower just a little, the flowers still in his hand.

“How you be?” he asked, trying again.

Annie sighed, already sounding tired of the conversation. “I’m fine,” she said shortly. “That’s all you need to know.”

Elijah’s jaw shifted, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied her face, trying to find something real under what she was giving him.

“Why you being like this with me?” he asked.

That made her look at him.

Her brows pulled together, confusion mixing with irritation. “I’m not being any way,” she said. “I’m acting normal.”

He scoffed under his breath, turning his head for a second before looking back at her. “That ain’t normal, Annie. You been running from me.”

She rolled her eyes slightly, but didn’t interrupt him.

“And I need to know why,” he continued, his voice steady but firm. “So I can fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix nothing. You don’t have to know anything about me,” she snapped.

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “You been shutting me out. Soon as something get too real, you pull away.”

Annie huffed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You not innocent in this either,” she muttered. “You ain’t all the way right.”

Elijah nodded once,. “Maybe I’m not,” he admitted. “Maybe I don’t say everything I should. Maybe I don’t say it the right way all the time. But I’m trying. And I believe in this. In us.”

Annie’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t say anything.

“I wanna be there for you, but you gotta let me,” he said, softer now, but no less firm.

Her gaze dropped to the ground for a second before she shook her head faintly.

“And You gotta stop running 'cause I’m not gonna push you into nothing you ain’t ready for. I told you that,” he added.

She stayed quiet.

“I’m a patient man, Bunny,” he said. “I waited this long just to take you out. I’ll wait however long it take to really be with you. You stuck with me, 'cause I don’t want nobody else.”

Annie finally looked up at him, her expression not as sharp as before, but still guarded.

“How would I know that?” she asked quietly. “That you wouldn’t be like that?”

Elijah held her gaze, not rushing to answer.

“Your grandma told me everything,” he said after a moment.

Annie’s face shifted instantly, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “She told you what?”

“Enough for me to understand you better,” he said simply.

She looked away again, clearly not knowing how to feel about that.

“I’m not like that, Annie,” he went on. “And you should know that already. I been right here this whole time, waiting on you to see me as more than justsomebody to pass time with.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against her arms. Annie glanced around, like she needed something to ground her, before her eyes came back to him.

“I just…” she started, then stopped, shaking her head lightly. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Elijah let out a slow breath as he tried to keep his frustration from rising to the surface. It was there, sitting just beneath his calm, but he didn’t let it spill over. He adjusted his grip on the flowers, then really looked at her, like he was done dancing around what he meant.

“I’ma be honest with you,” he said firmly. “I want it all with you. I ain’t talking about just going out, or passing time, or seeing where it go. I mean everything.”

Her breath slowed, like she was bracing herself for what he was about to say.

“I wanna marry you,” he said plainly. “I wanna build you a house that's ours. And I wanna fill it up with all them babies you said you wanted.”

“I said three,” she murmured.

Elijah huffed a quiet breath, a small smile finally breaking through. “Alright,” he said. “Three then.”

Something about that softened her more than anything else.

“I want a life with you, Annie. I wanna be with you in every way there is to be with somebody. You make me feel…” he paused, searching for the right words before shaking his head slightly. “You make me feel something I ain’t never felt before. Not with nobody.”

A visible shiver ran through her, her shoulders pulling in just slightly like she couldn’t help it.

“And I’d do anything for you,” he finished, the words simple but heavy with meaning.

The sounds of the playground faded into the background for Annie, like everything had narrowed down to just him standing there in front of her.

Her eyes dropped for a second, her throat tightening as she tried to gather herself. Then she looked back up at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I get all mixed up when it come to this. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and then I get upset that I don’t know…and I just—” she let out a small breath, shaking her head, “I take it out on everybody. And that ain’t fair to you.”

Elijah’s expression softened.

“I wanna be with you too. I do,” she said, the words coming out more certain this time. “I’m sorry for how I been actin'. I’m gonna try to do better.”

Elijah nodded slowly, stepping just a little closer to the fence, the tension between them finally easing.

“Come here,” he said softly.

Annie hesitated for half a second before stepping closer too, right up to the edge of the fence between them.

He reached through just enough to tilt her chin up gently, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t.

Their lips met softly at first, like they were both making sure this was okay. Then it deepened just slightly, not rushed, just sure. From behind Annie, a chorus of little voices broke out almost instantly.

“Ooooohhh!”

“Miss Annie kissing a boy!”

“Ewwww!”

Annie jumped back just a little, her eyes going wide as heat rushed straight to her face. She turned around quickly, pointing toward the playground with a flustered wave of her hand.

“Y’all better go on and play!” she snapped, trying to sound stern, but her embarrassment made it wobble.

The kids just giggled, scattering but still looking back.

Elijah couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his face as he watched her.

She turned back to him, flushed and trying to regain some composure.

He held her gaze softly.

“I’ll see you after work,” he said.

Annie nodded, her lips pressing together as she tried not to smile too hard.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

He gave her one last look before stepping back from the fence, the flowers still in his hand as he finally turned to head back toward his car.

This time, when Annie looked at him walking away, she didn’t feel like running.

The rest of the day dragged and flew by all at once for her.

She felt lighter than she had been feeling for weeks. Even the way she smiled felt easier, like she wasn’t forcing it anymore.

The children noticed immediately.

“Miss Annie,” one of the girls said, leaning over her desk with a grin that was far too knowing for her age, “ was that your boyfriend?”

Annie quickly turned back to the chalkboard like she hadn’t heard a thing.

“Alright now, open your books,” she said, tapping the board lightly. “We not talking about nothing but this lesson.”

Still, every now and then, a comment would slip out. A look or a whisper. Annie dodged every single one, refusing to give them anything, but the small smile that kept tugging at her lips gave her away anyway.

By the time the final bell rang, she was more than ready to leave. She gathered her things quickly, barely lingering the way she normally might. A couple of teachers tried to catch her for conversation, but she kept it short.

She slid into her car and started the engine. Her hands shifted on the wheel, and she turned the car in the direction of Elijah’s place without a second thought.

Her heart beat just a little faster as she pulled up, smoothing her hands over her dress before stepping out of the car. She walked up to his door and knocked, suddenly aware of the small flutter of nerves building in her chest.

It didn’t take long before the door opened.

Elijah stood there staring at her with a look in his eye that said it all.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied warmly.

He stepped aside without hesitation, letting her in.

Elijah gestured toward the couch, and Annie moved to sit, tucking her legs slightly as she got comfortable. He turned on the television, turning the knob until he found something.

“You hungry?” he asked, glancing over at her.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Alright,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen.

Annie watched him for a moment before turning her attention back to the television. The sounds of Elijah in the kitchen and the low hum of whatever show was on tv, relaxed her. Every now and then, she glanced over at him, watching the way he moved, how easy he looked in his own space.

After a while, he came back with plates in his hands, setting one in front of her before sitting down beside her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He nodded once. “Eat.”

They did. Talking here and there, nothing too heavy. Nothing was forced. It just was.

As the evening settled in, Annie’s body slowly started to relax more and more, the weight of the long day catching up with her. Her movements slowed, her voice softer when she spoke, her eyes blinking a little heavier each time.

At some point, without even really thinking about it, she shifted closer and laid her head on his lap.

He looked down at her, but he didn’t move her. He just adjusted slightly so she was comfortable, his hand hovering for a moment before resting lightly against her arm. Within minutes, her breathing evened out and she was asleep.

Elijah watched her for a long moment, taking in the softness of her face, the way she looked when she wasn’t thinking and fighting herself.

Carefully, he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over her, making sure she was covered. His hand lingered for a second as he adjusted it. Then he leaned down just slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Get some rest, Bunny,” he murmured.

He eased out from under her slowly, making sure not to wake her as he shifted her head onto a pillow. Once she was settled, he stood there for a moment, just looking at her again. Then he turned and walked over to the table. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and reached for a piece of paper and a pen.

He just stared at the blank page. Then he started writing to tell his brother everything.

end notes: sorry for the late update your girl had a time this past weekend

- - - taglist: @shamansha, @rkiiives, @d1gitalb4rbie, @numb1smokeanniestan,@caramelplug @margepimpson @underated345-blog @tnychellee @loveabledovee @kkbeauty86 @syko-jpg @thegreatlibraryofalex @cardi-bre91 @hotebonynearby @shereeluvssinners @transparentphantomface @imqueenmelanin @dollys-world224 @storiesbyasl @blue4everrsworld @katezy2x @og-goddesstrill @cocoagadgetsworld @xeebop @shohimeee @notapradagurl @saralance03 @bad4bey @studentmadeofmelanin @viciously-divine @mmbee675 @luhvelli @wildcardmelaninfreak @Ibjgirl2323 @thevelvetwhispers

[brownlyfe]

AMERICAN DREAM soldier!smoke x virginteacher!annie

THREE: BAYOU DREAMIN' previous next

cw: none summary: the military does a lot to a man. for smoke it gives him dreams. dreams of a woman he’s never met a day in his life. all he knows is the sweet sound of her voice and the outline of her body. it’s like his soul is crying for her, but he doesn’t even know where to start looking.

notes: this chapter was supposed to be last week's chapter, but i got hella busy around the time i was supposed to be uploading so here ya go. enjoy!

Baton Rouge greeted Smoke with heat and noise and the steady pulse of a city that felt alive. The train slowed with a long metallic groan, and when it finally came to a stop, Smoke stood almost immediately, duffel already slung over his shoulder as if his body had been waiting for this moment the entire ride south.

The moment his boots hit the platform, something in his chest lifted. He didn’t smile. Smoke wasn’t built that way. His face stayed composed, jaw set, eyes sharp and observant like they always were. But inside, there was a lightness he hadn’t felt in years. If he had been the kind of man who smiled easily, he would’ve been grinning like a fool just at the thought of it.

The station buzzed with the movement of porters calling out, travelers weaving around one another, the smell of oil, sweat, and coffee thick in the air. Smoke paused only long enough to orient himself, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded paper. He smoothed it carefully, the edges worn soft from handling. Her face stared back at him.

He went to work immediately.

He approached a pair of men leaning against a pillar, hats tipped low, voices low and lazy. He gave them his practiced story of how he was a soldier just back from Vietnam and this woman had helped veterans like him find their footing again. He held up the drawing, watching their faces closely.

They studied it for a moment, then shook their heads.

“Can’t say I know her,” one of them said. “Sorry, man.”

Smoke nodded, thanked them, and moved on.

He stopped a woman wrangling a child near the benches. Then a station attendant. Then a man selling papers near the entrance. Each time, he repeated the story, showed the drawing, and waited for recognition to flicker across someone’s face. It never did.

Some people looked apologetic. Others looked confused. A few looked at him with open skepticism, their eyes lingering too long on the word soldier like they were weighing whether it was truth or tactic. One woman studied the drawing longer than the rest, her brow furrowed as if she wanted to help, but even she shook her head in the end.

“No, baby,” she said softly. “I ain’t seen her.”

He circled the station once, then twice, asking anyone who looked like they might listen. Sweat gathered at his temples, dampened the collar of his shirt, but it didn’t slow him down. His hope didn’t falter. This was still the first stop.

After an hour, he stood near the edge of the platform, the paper folded once more and tucked safely away. He scanned the crowd, eyes searching faces automatically, even though he knew she wouldn’t be there. No one at the Baton Rouge station knew Annette Marie Richard. No one recognized the woman from his dreams. Baton Rouge wasn’t going to give him answers from its platforms and benches. Whatever thread tied him to her ran deeper into the city, woven somewhere beyond the tracks and the schedules and the constant coming and going of strangers.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel and took a slow breath, eyes lifting toward the streets beyond the station.

The city opened up in front of him. Streets hummed with life, storefronts just began to fill, the sound of voices layered over one another in accents that felt closer to what he’d heard in his dream. Smoke took it all in quietly.

He walked for a while without direction, letting the streets pull him along. His boots carried him block after block, past cafés and barber shops and churches with their doors open wide and their steps worn smooth by decades of Sunday mornings. 

Every now and then, his gaze lingered on a woman who vaguely resembled the drawing in his pocket, his heart giving a brief, foolish lurch before settling again. It wasn’t her, he reminded himself each time.

Eventually, fatigue crept in. His shoulders ached under the weight of his duffel. His stomach growled faintly, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. He needed somewhere to rest.

Smoke stopped at a newsstand and bought a paper, the thin pages warm from the sun. He leaned against a nearby wall and flipped through it carefully, eyes scanning headlines before drifting to the back pages. That was where he found an ad tucked away:

ROOM FOR RENT. Respectable tenant preferred.

The address wasn’t far. Smoke folded the paper, tucked it under his arm, and set off again, following the numbers until the streets grew quieter and the houses closer together. The place he found was modest but sturdy, a little worn around the edges in the way homes often were when they’d seen too many years and not enough help.

He knocked on the door and after a moment, it opened to reveal an older woman with sharp, assessing eyes. She looked him up and down without apology, focusing on his height, his build, the duffel, and the unmistakable presence of a man who had seen things and come back carrying them.

“Yes?” she asked.

Smoke introduced himself politely, explained that he was looking for a place to stay and that he’d just arrived in town.

She hesitated, skepticism written plainly across her face.

“I don’t usually rent to men,” she said bluntly.

“I understand,” Smoke replied evenly. “But I won’t be any trouble.”

He glanced briefly at the house and how worn down it looked. There was a sagging step, loose shutters, and faint signs of wear that spoke to long-delayed repairs. Then he looked back at her.

“I can fix things,” he added. “Whatever needs doing, I’ll do it.”

She studied him again, more carefully this time, as if weighing his words against the quiet confidence with which he delivered them. Smoke stood still, patient. He didn’t push. He knew better than that.

Finally, she sighed.

“I could use the help,” she admitted. “This old place doesn’t move the way it used to, and neither do I.”

They talked a little longer about terms, expectations, and boundaries. Smoke listened more than he spoke, nodded when appropriate, asked practical questions. When she named the price and mentioned chores, he accepted them without complaint.

In the end, she stepped aside and opened the door wider. Relief settled into Smoke’s chest.

The woman led him up a narrow staircase that creaked beneath their combined weight, each step groaning like it had a story to tell. The air grew warmer as they climbed, dust and old wood thick in his nose, until she stopped in front of a small room at the end of the hall. She pushed the door open with a practiced hand.

“There you go,” she said. “Ain’t much, but it’s yours.”

Smoke stepped inside and nodded his thanks.

The room was simple with bare wooden floors, a narrow bed pushed against one wall, a small dresser with one drawer that didn’t quite close all the way, and a single window that looked out over the street below. Sunlight spilled in through thin curtains, painting pale stripes across the floor. It was enough.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Smoke let his duffel slide from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t bother unpacking. He didn’t bother taking off more than his boots. The adrenaline that had carried him from the station through the city and into this house finally began to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a brief moment, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The room felt empty, but not lonely in the way Clarksdale had felt. This emptiness felt temporary, like a waiting room.

Smoke lay back, closed his eyes, and sleep took him almost immediately.

It wasn’t a deep, dream-heavy sleep, it was lighter.His body slipped under just long enough to recover a little of what the day had taken from him.

When he woke, the light in the room had shifted. The sun sat lower now, the air thick and warm. Smoke blinked a few times, orienting himself, his limbs heavy but functional. His mind was already moving. 

The nap hadn’t done much, but it had taken the edge off his fatigue. It was just enough to keep going.

Smoke swung his legs over the side of the bed, laced his boots back on, and grabbed the folded paper from his pocket, smoothing it out of habit. He stared at her face for a moment, committing it to memory again, then folded it carefully and tucked it away.

Within minutes, he was back out on the street, the door closing softly behind him as he stepped out in the street. His stride was steady and purposeful. His energy was renewed just enough to carry him forward.

The street narrowed as he walked with buildings crowding closer together. The woman’s house was closer to the heart of town than he’d expected. Close enough that he could still feel the city’s pulse without being swallowed by it. That was how he found the diner.

Smoke slowed his pace. His stomach reminded him again that he’d done nothing but move and search all day. The smell drifting out through the door made the decision for him.

The bell above the door chimed, cutting through the low hum of conversation. The diner was busy. Plates clinked, forks scraped, coffee was poured constantly. The air was warm and alive.

Smoke paused just long enough to take it in, then scanned the room.

There was a small corner booth that sat half-hidden near the wall, just big enough for one. He claimed it without hesitation, sliding in. He leaned back against the vinyl seat, shoulders finally loosening a fraction.

It didn’t take long for a waitress to appear at his table like she’d been waiting for him.

She was pretty. Her skin was a shade darker than his. Her hair was pinned up neatly, curls threatening to escape at the edges. Her smile was dazzling, eyes already taking their time as they traveled over him.

“Well, hey there,” she said, voice warm and playful. “What can I get for you, sugar?”

Smoke met her gaze briefly, then looked down at the menu she placed in front of him. 

“You look like you been workin’ hard,” she continued, leaning in. “I’d recommend the special or the meatloaf. It’s real good today.”

He nodded slowly, scanning the menu more out of habit than need.

“I’ll take the special,” he said finally. “And some water.”

She tilted her head, clearly unimpressed by the simplicity of his order. “Just water?” she teased. “You sure, baby?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That made her smile widen. She winked, straightened, and took the menu from his hands. “Alright then. You sit tight.”

Smoke watched her walk away with a deliberate sway in her hips. He looked away before she could catch him staring, exhaling quietly through his nose. In another life, he might’ve welcomed the distraction. But his thoughts drifted, as they always did, back to her.

The waitress returned quickly, setting a glass of water in front of him. Then, almost as an afterthought, she placed a steaming cup of coffee beside it.

“I ain’t ask for that,” Smoke said, surprised.

She smiled knowingly. “You look like you need it.”

She turned to go, already halfway back into the rhythm of the diner, when Smoke acted without fully thinking it through.

“Excuse me,” he said softly. 

Smoke had reached out gently, fingers barely closing around her wrist. She glanced down at his hand, then back up at his face, curiosity flickering across her expression.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, releasing her. He cleared his throat, something uncharacteristically hesitant creeping into his voice. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

He reached into his pocket and unfolded the paper carefully, smoothing it flat before sliding it across the table. The drawing faced her. Her smile softened as she leaned in, studying it seriously now.

“You know anyone named Annette?” Smoke asked. “Annette Marie Richard.”

The waitress stared at the picture for a long moment, eyes tracing the lines, the familiar care with which it had been drawn. She shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said honestly. “Can’t say I do.”

Smoke nodded, disappointment settling quietly in his chest, but not surprise.

“But,” she continued, straightening and picking up the paper, “I’ll ask around for you.”

Before he could respond, she was already moving, carrying the drawing with her. She showed it to a man at the counter. Then to a woman in a booth nearby.Smoke watched from his corner, hands folded around his water glass, hope steady but cautious.

The food came out not long after, the plate set down in front of him with a practiced ease. Smoke nodded his thanks but didn’t say much beyond that. He picked up his fork and ate in silence, the noise of the diner swelling and falling around him like background music he didn’t quite register.

The meal was good–hot, filling, exactly what his body needed–but he barely tasted it.

His mind wandered, drifting back to the lake from his dream, to the way the light had caught on her dress, to the sound of her voice when it finally reached him clear and full. He tried to imagine what it would be like to see her in front of him without the soft blur of sleep around her edges. To hear her laugh in real life. To watch her move through the world instead of hovering just out of reach.

He wondered if she would recognize him. If she would feel that same pull he did, or if he would just be another stranger standing in front of her, holding a story that sounded too strange to be true.

Smoke finished his food, scraping the plate clean out of habit. When he set his fork down, the waitress appeared again, the folded drawing held carefully between her fingers.

She slid it back across the table toward him. “Nobody knew her,” she said, her tone softer now. “But listen…if you’re gonna keep lookin’, you might wanna try near the college.”

Smoke looked up at her, interest sharpening in his eyes.

“Lot of young folks come through there,” she continued. “So if she’s around here, you’re bound to hear somethin’ eventually.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing the suggestion.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She smiled at him again, not as openly flirtatious this time. More thoughtful. “Good luck, baby.”

Smoke took a final sip of the coffee, the bitterness grounding him, then stood. He left enough cash on the table to cover the meal, and a little extra folded neatly on top. He paused briefly, calculating in his head. He didn’t have much to spare. The money he’d brought with him had to last. Still, he didn’t regret it. Some kindness deserved acknowledgement.

He stepped back out into the street, the heat pressing in around him once more. The city hummed, alive and unbothered by his search.

Smoke adjusted his grip on the folded drawing in his pocket and started walking again, eyes forward, purpose steady.

He spent the rest of the evening on his feet.

He started with the streets closest to the woman’s house, moving outward as the sun dipped lower and the light began to change. The heat softened into a heavy thickness, clinging to his skin as dusk settled over Baton Rouge. Storefronts glowed one by one, lamps flickering on, casting long shadows across cracked sidewalks and narrow roads.

At every corner, every small cluster of people, he stopped and asked questions. He offered his practiced story. He pulled the drawing from his pocket so many times the paper had begun to soften at the folds. But no one had seen her. 

He checked barber shops as they closed for the night, churches with their doors still open for evening prayer, corner stores where men lingered out front laughing and arguing. He stopped women walking home together, couples sitting on stoops, older folks rocking on their porches to escape the heat trapped inside their homes.

But every answer was the same:

“Sorry.”

“Don’t know her.”

“Ain’t seen nobody like that.”

As the evening wore on, the city shifted around him. The laughter grew louder in some places, rougher in others. Music drifted out of open windows. Neon signs buzzed faintly. Smoke stayed alert, instincts from the war keeping his posture straight and his gaze sharp. Still, he didn’t stop.

By the time night fully settled in, his legs ached and his shoulders were tight with fatigue. Sweat dampened his shirt. His stomach had long since stopped growling, replaced by a dull, persistent tiredness that seeped into his bones.

Each stop felt heavier than the last. Each refusal chipped quietly at the hope he’d carried so brightly off the train. 

Eventually, the streets grew quieter. Shops shuttered. People disappeared behind closed doors. The city pulled inward, leaving Smoke alone with the sound of his own footsteps and the steady hum of insects in the warm night air.

He slowed near the end, standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, the folded drawing warm in his pocket from being handled so often. He leaned back against a building for a moment, head tilted toward the dark sky, and let himself breathe.

A whole month passed in Baton Rouge.

Smoke measured time in footsteps and questions. He learned the rhythms of the city. The hours when certain places filled up, the corners where people lingered, the neighborhoods that woke early and the ones that didn’t sleep at all. He asked his same question. But each answer led nowhere. 

He traced Baton Rouge in careful lines, moving methodically through districts and streets until they blurred together in his mind. He memorized routes. Recognized faces. Became familiar enough that some people stopped looking at him like a stranger and started nodding in passing. Still, no one had seen her. No one knew Annette Marie Richard. No one recognized the woman from his dreams. It was as if she didn’t exist here at all.

When he wasn’t searching, Smoke worked.

The woman he rented from kept him busy with fixing leaky pipes, nailing loose boards down, and getting a stubborn door to finally set right. He moved through the house with quiet efficiency, tools in hand, grateful for the distraction. She didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer answers. They existed together in a practical understanding: he helped keep the house standing, and she gave him a place to rest.

Outside of that, he took odd jobs wherever he could find them. Loading trucks. Fixing fences. Carrying heavy things for men who didn’t want to do it themselves. He was careful with his money, counted it often, stretched it further than it should have gone. Every cent mattered now. 

The days blurred into each other. Morning searches, afternoon dead ends, and evenings spent retracing steps that had already failed him once before. And every night, when he lay back in the narrow bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling, waiting…nothing.

The dreams that had once guided him with such certainty were gone completely. They weren’t faint or distant, they were absent. Sleep came empty and left him just as hollow. He woke every morning hoping for even the smallest sign, but there was only darkness and the slow return of disappointment. It unsettled him more than the failure of the search.

He could handle not finding her. He could handle rejection, uncertainty, and wrong turns. What shook him was the silence. The way the connection he’d trusted so deeply seemed to have vanished the moment he’d gotten close.

Some nights, he lay awake wondering if he’d imagined it all. If the war had broken something in him and his mind had filled the gap with a woman who never existed. Other nights, he was certain of the opposite–that she was real, and something had pulled her too far away for him to reach. Either way, the result was the same.

Smoke had been awake for hours by the time morning light crept through the front windows. He stood in the living room with his sleeves rolled up, tools spread neatly at his feet, working on a loose section of molding along the wall. His movements were steady, muscle memory taking over where thought no longer served him.

It was easier to focus on things that could be fixed. There was comfort in that kind of certainty.

The month he’d spent searching Baton Rouge weighed on him now in a way he couldn’t ignore. Not in his posture–he still stood straight, shoulders squared–but in the quiet set of his jaw and the faraway look in his eyes when he paused between tasks. He hadn’t dreamed of her once since arriving. Not even a whisper. And yet, the folded paper never left his pocket.

The creak of the staircase drew his attention briefly, but he didn’t turn. He knew it was her.

The woman descended slowly, her steps careful, eyes already on him. She paused at the bottom, watching him work for a moment, the soft hum of the house filling the space between them. Then she moved toward the kitchen and returned with a steaming cup of coffee. She held it out to him.

Smoke blinked in mild surprise and accepted it with a nod. “Thank you.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched him take a sip, watched the way his shoulders eased slightly as the warmth settled into him.

“Let me see it,” she said finally.

He didn’t ask what she meant. Without hesitation, Smoke reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded paper. It was worn now from being folded and unfolded too many times. He handed it to her carefully, as if it might fall apart in her hands.

She took it and sat down slowly, smoothing the paper flat on her knee.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her eyes traced the drawing in silence, lingering on the careful lines, the attention to detail. Smoke stood nearby, still holding his coffee, gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder. He didn’t like watching people study the picture. It felt too intimate, like letting someone read his thoughts.

“Why you wanna find this girl so bad?” she asked at last.

Smoke didn’t answer.

She looked up at him then, really looked at him, eyes sharp and unyielding. She didn’t rush him, just waited. Her gaze was steady and patient in a way that demanded honesty. The silence stretched. Still, he said nothing.

She leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving his face. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere without this picture. I see that much. So what is it?”

Smoke exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers tightening around the coffee cup. He stared down at the floor, then away toward the window.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

The woman hummed softly, unconvinced. “That ain’t an answer.”

She folded the paper once and handed it back to him. “You a handsome man,” she continued. “You work hard. You respectful. You could have any girl you wanted in this town if you tried. So why this one?”

Smoke took the picture and slipped it back into his pocket, his hand lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. He took a long breath.

“When I was over there,” he began, voice low, measured, “I was dyin’ piece by piece.”

He stared straight ahead now, expression unreadable.

“I didn’t have nobody waitin’ for me, but my brother. Didn’t have no reason to believe I was comin’ back. But every time I closed my eyes, she was there. She pulled me through nights I shouldn’t have survived.”

The woman listened quietly, her expression shifting, softening despite herself.

“I don’t pray,” Smoke continued. “Don’t really go to church. Never been good at believin’ in things I can’t see.”

His jaw tightened.

“But I believe in her.”

He turned to face the woman fully now, eyes steady, unwavering. “She saved me. More than she’ll ever know. And I believe she my angel on this earth.”

The woman studied him for a long moment, lips pursed, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she asked, gently but firmly; “What if she ain’t real?”

Smoke looked at her with certainty so cold and solid it stopped the air between them.

“She real,” he said flatly. “And I’m gon’ find her.”

The woman sucked her teeth, shaking her head slightly. She didn’t argue. Some things, she knew, couldn’t be talked out of a man. Especially not one who had already decided.

She then studied Smoke like she was trying to see past the man standing in front of her and into the thing that had been driving him across states and cities without rest. 

Smoke shifted slightly, unsure if he’d said too much or not enough.

She broke the silence.

“How long you been lookin’ for her?” she asked.

Smoke didn’t hesitate. “Little over two months.”

Her brows lifted just a touch. “And where you been lookin’?”

He leaned his shoulder lightly against the wall, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. Talking wasn’t something he did for comfort. Words were usually tools that he used sparingly, for work or necessity. But something about her calm persistence loosened him. Or maybe it was the exhaustion. Either way, the answers came easier than he expected.

“I started in Chicago,” he said. “‘Cause I spent time there before the war. Thought if she was anywhere up north, that’d be it.”

He paused, eyes drifting briefly to the window like he could still see the streets there. “But I searched for weeks and nothin’.”

Then, quieter, “I went back home to Clarksdale after that. Didn’t really expect to find her there, but I had to check. It felt like somethin’ was pullin’ me back.”

He shook his head once. “She wasn’t there.”

The woman nodded slowly, absorbing each word. “And now you here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She studied his face again, then asked the question he’d known was coming.

“Why Baton Rouge?”

Smoke exhaled through his nose, almost a soft huff of disbelief. “Well, it wasn’t here exactly,” he admitted.

She waited.

“In one of my dreams,” he continued, voice steady but low, “I heard her talkin’ clear as day. And her accent sounded like it came from somewhere in Louisiana. I didn’t know where. Just knew it wasn’t Mississippi or Chicago.”

He met her eyes. “So I took the first train out.”

The woman sat back slightly, arms folding now, her expression thoughtful. “What she sound like?”

The question caught him off guard.

Smoke stiffened, embarrassment creeping up his spine. He shifted his weight, jaw tightening. “I ain’t–” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly. “I don’t really do that kind of thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Humor me.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking away, then back again. Against his better judgment, he gave in.

It was rough. A butchered attempt at best. His voice dipped, vowels drawn out wrong, cadence uneven. He sounded nothing like her. He knew it the second the words left his mouth, and his ears burned with the effort.

But the woman didn’t laugh. She listened closely. Her eyes narrowed slightly, gaze unfocused as she replayed it in her head, breaking it down piece by piece. Smoke stopped talking, immediately regretting the attempt, watching her think.

After a moment, her face changed in recognition.

She straightened in her chair. “That sound ain’t from Baton Rouge,” she said firmly.

Smoke frowned. “No?”

She tapped her fingers lightly against her knee, nodding to herself. “You won’t find her here if that’s how she talks. I can promise you that.”

Smoke’s chest tightened. “Then where?”

She looked him dead in the eye. “In New Orleans.”

“If she sound like that,” the woman continued, confidence steady in her voice, “that’s where you need to be.”

Something inside Smoke clicked into place the same way it had the morning he’d boarded the train south. The weight he’d been carrying for weeks suddenly had direction again.

For the first time in a month, the silence made sense.

Smoke spent the rest of the day doing exactly what the woman told him to do. But she didn’t give him much of a choice.

Any time he tried to move too fast, she shut it down with a look that made it clear she wasn’t asking. She reminded him, firmly, that he couldn’t keep chasing every new lead the second it appeared. That running himself into the ground wouldn’t get him to her any faster.

“You a tired man,” she told him plainly. “People don’t think straight when they’re tired.”

So he stayed.

He went back to fixing what needed to be fixed around the house. The work was grounding, familiar, the kind of labor that quieted his thoughts without demanding too much from him. His hands stayed busy even when his mind tried to race ahead.

In between tasks, she made him sit. Brought him water and told him to eat. Watched him with the same careful eye she’d had since the day he moved in, as if she knew men like him didn’t stop unless someone made them.

By evening, the house was filled with the smell of dinner. They ate together in companionable quiet, the tension of the morning softened into something steadier. Smoke didn’t talk much. His thoughts were already arranging themselves.

After they finished, she looked at him across the table and said, “I’ll take you to the bus station in the morning.”

He met her gaze, nodded once. “Thank you.”

That night, Smoke went up to his room and laid down fully dressed, exhaustion finally claiming him. The ceiling above him felt less oppressive than it had in weeks. His body relaxed, finally knowing where it was going next.

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

The next morning, Smoke awoke to dawn creeping in slowly through the thin curtains, pale and soft, laying across the walls like it was afraid to wake him too loudly. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows resting on his knees, breathing steady. There was a heaviness in his chest that felt like anticipation.

He got dressed and folded his few belongings neatly. He slipped it into his pocket like a habit. There was nothing uncertain left in him once he slung his bag over his shoulder.

When he went downstairs, the woman sat at the small table near the window with the newspaper open in front of her. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She rarely ever did. Without lifting her eyes, she pointed toward the empty spot in front of her.

On the table, covered with a clean cloth, sat a plate of still steaming food.

“Eat,” she said simply. “You got a long ride ahead of you.”

He set his bag down and did as he was told. He ate quietly, the warmth of the food settling deep in his gut. While he chewed, she folded her paper and finally looked at him.

“I called the station,” she said. “There’s a bus leaving in an hour.”

Smoke swallowed and nodded. “Thank you.”

She studied him for a beat longer, then stood and reached for her purse. “You gonna need somewhere to lay your head when you get there,” she continued, already moving toward the door. “I made a call to a good friend of mine. She agreed to let you stay under the same conditions you got here.”

His hand paused mid-motion. He looked up at her, surprised.

“You didn’t have to–”

“Yes, I did,” she cut in, not unkindly. “A man can’t chase destiny if he worried about where he sleepin’.”

He exhaled slowly, nodded again. “Thank you. For everything.”

They left the house together, locking the door behind them. The morning air was cool, the street quiet, Baton Rouge still stretching awake. The drive to the bus station was short, the silence between them comfortable but weighted with knowing.

When they pulled up, Smoke reached for the door, but she stopped him.

“Wait.”

He turned back, confusion flickering across his face just as she pressed folded bills into his hand. He immediately shook his head.

“I can’t take this.”

She pushed his hand back toward his chest. “Yes, you can.”

“I got enough–”

“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t.”

Their eyes locked. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then she softened just a little.

“I know a good man when I see one,” she said. “You just need a little push is all.”

Smoke swallowed hard. His voice came low. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

She waved him off. “You find what you lookin’ for. That’s enough.”

He nodded, gripping the money once before slipping it carefully into his pocket. He stepped out of the car, paused, then leaned back in.

“Thank you,” he said again, meaning every word of it.

She gave him a look halfway between pride and worry. “Go on now.”

Smoke closed the door, walked into the station, bought his ticket, and boarded the bus without looking back.

The whole ride to New Orleans, Smoke felt wired from the inside out.

It wasn’t nerves exactly. It was like his body knew he was getting close to something it had been chasing for too long. He sat all the way in the back of the bus, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely between his knees, staring straight ahead without really seeing anything.

People talked, laughed, and shifted in their seats. A baby cried somewhere up front. Smoke heard it all and none of it. Sleep never came, not even for a second. His eyes burned from staying open, but every time he closed them, his chest tightened like he’d miss something important if he let go.

The bus rattled and hummed beneath him, the road sliding past in a blur of green and gray. An hour and a half wasn’t long, but it stretched anyway, every mile feeling heavy with expectation. He kept touching the pocket where the drawing sat, just to make sure it was still there, still real.

When the bus finally slowed and pulled into the New Orleans station, Smoke was on his feet before it came to a full stop.

The station buzzed with motion and sound: voices carrying that distinct rhythm, music floating in from somewhere he couldn’t see, laughter mixed with argument mixed with joy. It felt like this city breathed louder than others.

He stepped aside, pulled out the folded paper the woman had given him, and looked down at the directions. 

For the first time since arriving somewhere new, Smoke didn’t rush. In Baton Rouge, he’d jumped straight into the hunt, burning himself out before he even had his bearings. This time, he forced himself to do the opposite.

He folded the paper back up and looked around until his eyes landed on a man leaning near the station doors. Smoke approached him calmly.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice low but respectful. “You from here?”

The man glanced him over once and nodded. “Born and raised.”

Smoke pulled out the directions, holding them out. “I’m tryin’ to get here.”

The man studied the address. “Yeah, I know where that is. You ain’t far, but you ain’t gon’ wanna walk it all.”

He gave Smoke clear instructions. Smoke listened carefully, committing every word to memory, nodding once when the man finished.

“I appreciate it.”

“Welcome to New Orleans,” the man said easily.

Smoke didn’t respond with a smile.

He followed the directions exactly, moving through streets that felt alive even in their still moments. Houses pressed close together, paint peeling in places but proud all the same. Music drifted from open windows. Conversations carried through the air like they weren’t meant to be private.

The house was further in than he expected. After a few blocks on foot, he stopped beneath the shade of a streetlamp and watched a trolley rattle past, sparks flaring briefly above it. He decided to take it halfway, saving his legs and his strength. He boarded with a few other riders, found a seat near the window, and let the city roll by.

From the trolley, he watched life happen in fragments. Music spilled out of open doors, radios humming blues and jazz that felt like it had been born right there in the streets. This place felt lived in. Like if she existed anywhere, she could exist here.

When he stepped off the trolley, everything was quiet. Houses stood close together, tall and narrow, most with porches that sagged slightly from age. He checked the paper again, then once more for good measure, and found the house easily.

Smoke climbed the steps and paused before knocking. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, rolled his neck once, then knocked firmly. After a moment, the door opened.

A tall woman stood there, easily taller than most women he knew, with sharp features and an expression that gave nothing away. Her hair was pulled back tight, her posture straight. She looked him over slowly, eyes lingering on his face, his clothes, the way he stood. 

Smoke felt the weight of that look and knew he should speak.

“My name’s Smoke,” he said, voice calm, steady. “Missus from Baton Rouge said you would be expectin’ me.”

The woman said nothing at first. Her gaze stayed fixed on him, like she was reading something written beneath his skin. Then, finally, she stepped back and opened the door wider.

“Come in,” that was all she said.

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The house was cool compared to the outside, the air still and faintly scented with soap and old wood. The floor creaked beneath his boots as the woman turned and walked down the hall without checking if he was following.

She showed him through the house without commentary. Moving from the front sitting room with furniture that looked worn but clean, a small kitchen with dishes drying in the rack, then up a narrow staircase. At the end of the hall, she opened a door.

“This your room,” she said.

The room was simple. A narrow bed with a thin quilt, a dresser, and a window letting in the late afternoon light.

Smoke nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She didn’t answer. She simply turned, walked back down the hall, and closed her own door behind her.

Smoke stood there for a moment longer, listening to the quiet. He set his bag down by the bed, sat heavily, and let his shoulders drop. His body ached from weeks of disappointment. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. 

Then sleep came suddenly, pulling him under before he could think too hard about what he might find when he woke.

After the nap, Smoke woke up heart beating like it had somewhere to be. The room was dimmer now, late afternoon sliding toward evening, shadows stretching long across the floor. For a moment he lay still, listening to the house breathe around him.

He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.

Rest hadn’t done much beyond taking the edge off his exhaustion. Whatever lived in his chest was still there, but it was unrelenting. If anything, it felt heavier now that he was awake again.

Smoke stood. He didn’t unpack because there was nothing to unpack. He checked his pockets the same way he always did. Money folded tight, identification tucked away, and the drawing. He left everything else behind.

When he stepped outside, New Orleans greeted him with thick, warm air that wrapped around him while carrying the sound of voices, laughter, distant music, and the scrape of shoes on pavement. The sun was beginning its slow descent, staining the sky in deep oranges and purples that bled into one another.

Smoke stood on the stoop for a long moment. For the first time since he started searching, he didn’t know what to do next.

In Chicago, he had purpose. In Clarksdale, it was instinct. Baton Rouge had given him momentum, even if it ended in frustration. But here he felt unattached. Like he’d arrived at the right place without knowing the right way to move through it.

He started walking anyway.

Down one street, then another. Past houses pressed close together, past corner stores with doors flung open and men leaning against brick walls talking loud and slow. He passed women sitting on porches, fanning themselves, watching the world go by with knowing eyes. Children darted past him, chasing one another, their laughter echoing off the buildings.

He realized then that no dream had prepared him for this part. The not-knowing. The standing face to face with the possibility that he could ask every soul in this city and still come up empty.

He stopped at the corner of the street he was on and looked up and down it. The realization settled deep and uncomfortable in his chest: if he didn’t start now, he might never start at all. So he chose a direction.

He walked up the street and decided that he would ask everyone just like all the other times.

The first person he stopped was an older man sitting on a stoop, shirt open, skin dark and weathered, eyes narrowed despite his relaxed posture. Smoke explained himself like he always did and showed the man the drawing

The man studied the picture for a long moment, then shook his head. “Don’t know her.”

Smoke thanked him and moved on.

He stopped a pair of women stepping out of a beauty shop with their hair wrapped up. They softened when they saw the picture and passed it between them. One thought she looked familiar. The other was sure she didn’t. Neither could give him anything concrete though. So he kept going.

A man unloading crates behind a store. A woman carrying groceries. A group of teenagers leaning against a lamppost who laughed at first, then quieted when Smoke’s stare made it clear he wasn’t joking. Over and over, he got the same answer.

Each rejection was heavier than the last. Smoke didn’t show it on his face, but something inside him tightened with every step forward. 

The sky darkened fully while he worked his way down the street.

The streetlights flickered on and his throat was dry and his shoulders ached. The drawing felt warm from his grip, edges worn even more from the constant handling. He leaned against a brick wall for a moment, head tipped back, eyes closed.

She was supposed to be here. He didn’t know why he was so sure of it, but he was.

With a quiet breath, Smoke pushed himself off the wall, folded the drawing carefully, and stepped back into the flow of the street. He would keep asking–tonight, tomorrow, as long as it took. Because even without a dream to guide him, he could feel it deep in his bones that he was closer than he’d ever been before.

By the time the night began to thin out, Smoke had walked three full streets from end to end.

He moved with intention, doubling back when he thought he might’ve missed someone, stopping at open doorways, corner stoops, anywhere a face appeared. He asked until his voice felt worn down to the bone. Until his shoulders ached and his legs burned from the constant movement. Until the city around him began to quiet, the noise settling into something low and distant.

Three streets was all he managed before the night won. Each one blurred into the next. Some people lingered on the drawing longer than others, tracing her face with their eyes like they wanted to help him, like they almost could. A few asked him questions back. Where was he from? How long had he been looking? Was she his wife? His sweetheart?

Smoke answered only what he had to.

Once he got to the end of the third street, his chest started to feel hollow. He turned back toward the house without really thinking about it, his feet remembering the way even as his mind drifted. 

The streets looked different at night. Shadows stretched long and uneven, streetlights buzzing softly overhead. Music drifted from somewhere far off, slow and mournful, slipping through the cracks of the city and into him.

When he reached the house, he let himself in quietly.

Inside, everything was still. The tall woman’s door remained closed. Smoke moved through the space with the careful silence of a man used to not being heard. He went straight to the bathroom, stripped down, and turned the shower on.

He stood beneath the hot water without moving, head bowed, letting it run over his face, his shoulders, his chest. The steam filled the small room, fogging the mirror until he couldn’t see himself anymore. He scrubbed at his skin like he could wash the disappointment off, like he could rinse away the creeping fear that maybe he’d imagined all of it.

Like he imagined her. The way she looked at him in the dream. The way her voice had finally come through clear and sure.

“Don’t you wanna kiss me, soldier boy?”

His jaw tightened. He shut the water off and dried himself slowly and stepped back into the room.

Smoke laid down on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. Then, he folded the drawing carefully and placed it on the nightstand beside him, close enough that he could reach it without thinking. He turned onto his back, hands resting on his stomach, eyes fixed upward. And he waited.

Sleep did come, but it was still empty. She wasn’t there. There was no face, no glow, no voice, nothing. Just darkness.

Smoke lay still in the aftermath of it, awake again far too soon, the disappointment settling deep in his chest. For the first time since this whole thing began, the silence felt loud.

An entire week and a half slipped by without mercy.

Every morning Smoke woke before the sun had fully climbed, body already moving before his mind caught up. He left the house with the same three things every time; his money, his I.D., and the now worn drawing. He ate little, slept less, and walked until his boots felt like part of his feet. Street after street, neighborhood after neighborhood, he learned the city by repetition.

He moved with a desperate purpose that he didn’t show on the outside.

He crossed through areas where the houses leaned close together like they were whispering secrets. He walked through stretches where the streets widened and music poured freely out of doorways and windows. He learned which blocks were lively in the mornings, which ones didn’t come alive until dusk. Faces began to blur together, voices overlapping into the same sympathetic tones.

By the middle of the second week, his search carried him closer to the French Quarter. The air was thick with sound and life and history that settled into each brick and bone alike. The streets were busier layered with laughter and music and movement. Smoke felt both overwhelmed and strangely hopeful. If she was anywhere, it felt like she could be near somewhere like this.

On one of the narrower streets, he stopped in front of a hair salon.

The door was open, and the smell of hot combs, pomade, and hair spray hit him immediately. Women’s voices filled the space by gossiping and arguing.

Smoke hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside. And the room went quiet almost instantly. Every woman turned to look at him.

The sudden silence overwhelmed him. He shifted his weight slightly, suddenly aware of his size. His throat tightened, but he cleared it softly.

“Evenin’,” he said, voice steady despite the nerves creeping up his spine. “Sorry to interrupt. I was hopin’ y’all might be able to help me.”

No one spoke, but no one told him to leave either.

“I’m lookin’ for a woman,” he continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the folded drawing. “Name’s Annette.”

That got their attention.

One of the older women near the front stood, wiping her hands on a towel as she stepped closer. She took the drawing from Smoke carefully, like it was something fragile, and studied it with a critical eye. The others gathered around her, peering over shoulders, leaning in close.

“Well now,” one woman murmured, eyes flicking from the paper to Smoke. “Ain’t he somethin’.”

Another chuckled softly. “Lord, look at him. And he out here searchin’.”

Smoke felt heat crawl up his neck but said nothing.

The older woman tilted the drawing slightly, tapping it with her finger. “She’s pretty,” she said thoughtfully. “Real pretty.”

“It look like she got good sense,” another added.

They passed the picture around, each woman studying it, squinting, frowning, shaking their heads. Some thought she looked familiar, maybe like a cousin, like a girl who used to come in once or twice. Others swore they’d seen someone like her walking past the shop before, but couldn’t place her name or where she’d come from. But no one really knew her.

As the murmurs died down, Smoke felt the now familiar feeling of disappointment settle back into his chest. The hope he’d carried into the shop drained out of him slowly, leaving behind exhaustion and something dangerously close to defeat.

The older woman handed the drawing back gently. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said. “Wish we could help you more.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, softer now. “Hope you find her.”

A few offered him encouraging smiles. One woman told him not to give up. Another said any woman would be lucky to have a man searchin’ like that.

Smoke nodded, forcing a small smile of his own. “Thank y’all,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it.”

He folded the drawing again and tucked it away. As he stepped back out into the street, the noise of the city rushed back in around him, louder than before.

He stood there for a moment, staring down the street, feeling the weight of another dead end settle into his bones. He adjusted himself and started walking again because stopping wasn’t an option, even when hope felt thin as paper.

And then another full week dragged itself by.

Smoke kept the same routine every day, even as it started to wear him down. He woke early, usually before the sun, and stepped back out into the city with the same quiet determination he’d carried since the beginning. Each morning felt heavier than the last. The streets no longer felt full of possibility. Everything felt repetitive, like he was walking the same ground over and over and expecting a different answer. But every day he searched.

He asked anywhere he could. He stopped women walking alone, women walking in pairs, women holding children by the hand. He showed the drawing until the paper felt thinner, the creases deeper, the image nearly memorized by anyone who had crossed his path. He told the story again and again, his voice steady even as something inside him frayed. And every night, he came back with nothing.

The frustration grew until it settled into his muscles. His jaw stayed tight. His patience shortened. He found himself gripping the drawing harder than necessary, folding it and unfolding it without realizing it, like if he handled it enough she might finally appear.

And the nights were worse.

He lay in bed waiting for sleep to take him somewhere else, somewhere kinder. Somewhere she might be. But the dreams never came. No glowing figure. No voice. No accent curling around his ears. Just darkness and the low hum of the city outside his window. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.

During the day, when he wasn’t searching, he worked around the house. The tall woman left him a list every morning placed neatly on the kitchen table. Smoke did it all without complaint.

He worked quietly and efficiently, focused. His hands guided him through each task. The work gave him something to hold onto.

The woman stayed out of his way.

Unlike the woman in Baton Rouge, she didn’t hover or ask questions. She didn’t bring him coffee or sit with him while he worked. Most days, he barely saw her at all. Her door stayed closed. When she passed through the house, it was brief and wordless, her presence was felt more than heard.

Sometimes he wondered if she was watching him anyway, studying him the way she had that first night. But if she was, she never said anything.

Frustration sat heavy in Smoke’s chest once the end of the week came. 

He felt like he was chasing something just out of reach. Like the closer he thought he was getting, the further away she slipped. The city had stopped answering him altogether. The dreams had gone silent. Even the certainty he’d clung to so tightly began to tremble at the edges.

Still, every morning, he folded the drawing, tucked it into his pocket, and stepped back out into the streets. Because quitting would mean admitting that she might not be waiting for him at all. And Smoke wasn’t ready for that.

One morning, Smoke woke with the same familiar heaviness in his chest, but this time, there was a thin edge of resolve cutting through it.

He moved through his routine without thinking. Washed his face. Pulled on his clothes. Checked his pockets. He stood for a moment in his room, staring at the wall, then nodded once to himself like a decision had been made.

Today, he decided that he would finish the French Quarter.

If she wasn’t there, then he would move on to another neighborhood. He couldn’t keep circling the same ground, wearing it thin along with himself.

He stepped out and caught the trolley, settling into a seat near the back. The ride felt longer than usual, the metal wheels rattling along the tracks while the city slid past him. He watched the buildings change and watched the crowd shift. Tourists mixed with locals, voices overlapped, and laughter was rising and falling. His reflection flickered in the window, face set and serious, eyes tired but focused.

When the trolley slowed, he stood and stepped off onto a street he hadn’t walked yet.

It struck him immediately how busy it was, especially for so early in the day. Music drifted faintly from somewhere nearby, mingling with the sound of footsteps and conversation. Smoke took it as a sign.

He started at the nearest business, pushing open the door and stepping inside. He gave the same greeting, told the same story, unfolded the same drawing. The response was familiar–polite interest, a brief examination, then a shake of the head.

He moved on to the next place. And the next.

A café. A small tailor’s shop. A storefront selling odds and ends. Each time, he asked. Each time, nothing came of it. No recognition. No pause long enough to spark hope. Just more empty space where answers should have been.

His shoulders tightened as he stepped back outside, the noise of the street washing over him again. He walked further down, scanning faces without meaning to, his eyes catching on dark hair, soft features, the curve of a smile–only to slide away again when they didn’t match the woman in his mind.

Then he saw a shop halfway down the block, its front crowded with greenery. Potted plants lined the sidewalk, leaves spilling over their containers, flowers blooming in soft, vibrant colors. The air around it felt calm despite the bustle of the street.

Smoke stepped inside the shop and the noise of the street faded behind him like it had been shut out on purpose.

The place was alive. Greenery crowded every inch. Potted plants lined the floor, shelves, and windowsills, their leaves stretching outward like they were reaching for something. Flowers bloomed in careful chaos, colors layered over one another, soft petals brushing against Smoke’s sleeves as he moved further in. The air smelled rich and damp, like soil and water and sunlight trapped inside glass.

Near the front, an older woman was sweeping.

She moved the broom across the floor like she’d been doing it for decades. She stopped mid-sweep when she sensed him, lifting her head to look at him over the handle. Her eyes were sharp despite her age, assessing him the same way the tall woman had the night he arrived.

Smoke shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how he must look standing in the middle of all that life and color.

He cleared his throat.

“Good mornin’, ma’am,” he said. “Sorry to bother you.”

The woman didn’t speak. She just watched him.

“I was hopin’ you might be able to help me,” Smoke continued. “I’m lookin’ for a woman. Folks say she real good at helpin’ people.”

That earned him a small pause, but still no answer.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the drawing, smoothing it once with his thumb before holding it out to her. “This all I got to go on.”

The woman leaned the broom against the wall and took the paper from him. She held it up, tilting it slightly, squinting as she studied every line. Her eyes traced the face in the drawing slowly like she was walking familiar ground.

Smoke waited. Seconds stretched long enough that he felt the familiar disappointment start to creep up his spine. He braced himself for it, already preparing to thank her and leave.

Then the woman’s eyes narrowed. She sucked her teeth once, soft but sharp, and called out toward the back of the shop.

“Charlie!”

A voice answered from somewhere behind the curtain of hanging plants.

“What you want, woman?!”

“Come up here, fool!”

A moment later, a tall older dark-skinned man stepped out from the back. He moved slower than Smoke expected, but there was nothing weak about him. His presence filled the space just as much as the plants did. He stopped beside the woman, brows furrowed.

She handed him the drawing without explanation. “Look at this.”

Charlie pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Let’s see what we got here.”

He studied the drawing, head tilting slightly. His lips pressed together, then parted in surprise.

“That lil Annie or Nette?”

The woman nodded. “Look like Annie to me.”

Charlie’s gaze snapped up to Smoke, sharp and direct. “What you want with ha?”

Smoke didn’t flinch. “I heard she’s good at helpin’ people. I just came from Vietnam and I need the help real bad.”

Charlie didn’t answer right away. He just stared at Smoke, really stared, like he was trying to see through him instead of at him.

“That ain’t no reason,” he said finally. “She always helpful, but I ain’t never known her to do nothin’ like that. Now what you really want with ha?”

Smoke’s jaw tightened. “I can’t too much say.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Just can’t.”

“How you know her?”

Smoke said nothing.

“You sweet on her?”

Silence again.

Charlie’s mouth twisted. “How you sweet on somebody and you don’t know ’em?”

Smoke’s voice stayed even. “Never said that, sir.”

“Oh, so now you sayin’ I’m lyin’?”

“Nah. Just you don’t know, and I ain’t got to tell you.”

Charlie’s expression darkened. “Well you gotta tell me somethin’ if you want me to tell you ’bout her. Otherwise imma start thinkin’ you some kind of tricky thing comin’ after my cousin.”

“No, sir,” Smoke said immediately. “Wouldn’t think of doin’ nothin’ like that.”

Charlie exhaled through his nose. “Well, it don’t too much matter none ’cause I don’t know where she at. I ain’t seen her in bout– Lisa, when she went off with Nette?”

The woman answered without looking up. “Six years ago now, Charlie.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Been ’bout a little over six years. She went off so she could go to school. She a smart little thang.”

Smoke’s face stayed flat, but inside, frustration twisted sharp and hot. They had recognized her. Knew her name. Knew her history. And still he wasn’t given any direction or certainty.

“So where is she now?” he asked.

Charlie scoffed. “Now I just said I don’t know where she at, hell. I’m gettin’ old. My memory ain’t what it used to be.” He paused, then sighed. “I’ll tell you what. Even though I don’t know what you want with my lil cousin, I’ll help ya. Tonight, go on down to Jessie’s and look for Twig. He’ll help ya better than I can.”

Relief flickered briefly in Smoke’s chest.

“Thank you,” he said.

Charlie waved him off. “Mhm. You find her, you better be good to her. ’Cause she too sweet to be dealin’ with somebody that just came from war.”

“Yes, sir,” Smoke said.

He took the drawing back, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned and walked out of the shop, the smell of earth and flowers following him for a few steps before the noise of the street swallowed him whole.

Smoke made his way back to the house with his head down and his thoughts loud.

The streets felt different now. For the first time in weeks, someone had said her name out loud. Annie. Annette. It echoed in his head with every step, settling into him like something that had always belonged there. Even without a clear direction, it was more than he’d had before, and that alone was enough to keep him moving.

When he reached the house, he let himself in quietly and climbed the stairs to his room. He didn’t bother turning on the light. He dropped his bag near the bed, kicked off his boots, and sat on the edge of the mattress for a long moment, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His body felt tight like he’d been holding himself together all day on sheer will.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling, letting his thoughts drift whether he wanted them to or not.

Sleep came easier than it had in days.

It wasn’t deep or comforting, but it took him under long enough for his body to finally loosen its grip. He woke to the dim light of evening creeping in through the window, the house quiet except for the faint sounds of movement somewhere below. His shirt clung to his skin with sweat, and he felt heavy, like the nap had pressed him further into himself instead of lifting him out.

Smoke dragged himself to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The water hit his back hot and steady, steam filling the room almost instantly. He leaned his forehead against the tile and stood there, letting it run over him, washing away the grime of the day, the sweat, the tension sitting stubbornly in his muscles. He scrubbed at his skin until it tingled, until his thoughts slowed enough that they weren’t tripping over one another.

When he finally shut the water off, he felt a little steadier. Like his mind had finally stopped spinning long enough for him to breathe.

Back in his room, he got dressed. He folded the drawing once more and slid it into his pocket, the motion so familiar now it didn’t require thought. He sat on the bed again, bouncing his knee lightly, hands clasped together, waiting. Waiting for the night.

As the sky darkened outside and the city shifted into its evening rhythm, Smoke felt himself tighten with anticipation. 

When the sun finally disappeared and the house settled into silence, Smoke stood, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door. He stepped out into the night with no clear picture of where exactly he was supposed to be headed.

He stopped the first man he saw lingering near a corner store, asked him plain and simple if he knew where Jessie’s was. The man gave him a once-over, like he was sizing him up, then nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said, pointing with his chin. “It’s on Frenchmen Street. Can’t miss it.”

So Smoke went that way.

Frenchmen was already alive when he got there. Music drifted through the air from multiple directions, horns and drums overlapping, laughter spilling out onto the sidewalks along with cigarette smoke and the smell of liquor. People leaned against brick walls, clustered in small groups, moving with an easy looseness. Smoke walked slow, eyes scanning every doorway, every sign, trying to figure out which place might be Jessie’s.

He walked up and down the street once. Then again.

About halfway through his second pass, he heard music louder than the rest, spilling straight out of a wide-open door. A small crowd lingered inside already, some standing near the entrance, some swaying where they were. There was no sign that said Jessie’s, at least not that he could see, but something about the place pulled at him. So he went in.

The sound wrapped around his chest. Live music filled the room. A band was set up in the corner, doing what they knew how to do. The lights were low, the walls worn, the floor scuffed from years of feet moving across it.

Smoke made his way through the room and took a seat at the bar.

The bartender looked up at him, eyebrows lifting just a little. He didn’t recognize Smoke, and it showed. Still, he slid a rag over the counter and asked, casual but curious, “What you drinking?”

Smoke glanced around once more, taking in the room, the people, the way no one seemed to be in a hurry.

“Whatever’s easy,” he said.

The bartender nodded, poured him a drink, and set it down in front of him. Smoke wrapped his fingers around the glass but didn’t drink yet. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the bar.

“You know anybody named Twig?” Smoke asked.

The bartender paused.

He looked at Smoke again, this time slower, more deliberate.

“I do,” he said. “Who asking?”

“Charlie sent me,” Smoke answered.

The man let out a short breath, almost a laugh, and shook his head.

“Figures,” he said. Then he leaned in a little closer. “That’d be me.”

Smoke blinked.

“So you Twig?” he asked.

The bartender nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Now the question is, what you want?”

Smoke reached into his pocket like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast. He unfolded the paper with care and slid it across the bar toward Twig.

Twig frowned as soon as his eyes landed on it. He picked it up, holding it between two fingers at first, then flattening it against the bar so he could really look. The music behind them kept playing, a trumpet crying out low and lazy, but Twig had gone quiet. His brows knit together. His mouth parted just slightly.

“…well I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

Smoke watched his face closely. He’d learned how to read people during the war. This wasn’t a dismissal. And it wasn’t the confusion that strangers usually wore. It was pure recognition.

Twig lifted his head and looked straight at Smoke, eyes sharp now. “That’s my cousin.”

Smoke’s chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.

“You sure?” Smoke asked, though every part of him already knew the answer.

Twig scoffed lightly and looked back down at the drawing. “Ain’t nobody else look like that. That’s Annie.” He shook his head once, slow. “Damn. Ain’t seen her face in a while.”

He set the paper down and folded his arms over his chest. “Now,” he said, voice lower, more careful, “why you lookin’ for her?”

Smoke didn’t hesitate. He’d learned there was no point dancing around the truth when it mattered. “I need her help.”

Twig’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s all you got for me?” he asked. “You walk into my bar, show me my cousin’s face, and that’s all you say?”

Smoke met his gaze evenly. “That’s all I got to give.”

Twig studied him for a long moment, long enough that Smoke felt every second of it. He looked at Smoke’s posture, the way he held himself, the quiet weight in his eyes. He glanced down at Smoke’s slightly trembling hands. Then back up again.

Finally, he exhaled.

“If Charlie sent you,” Twig said slowly, “then I ain’t gonna say you lyin’.”

Relief spread through Smoke like warmth in his bones.

Twig picked the drawing back up once more, softer now, like he was holding a memory instead of a piece of paper. “Annie ain’t here,” he said. “She in Baltimore and been there for a while now.”

Smoke blinked. “Baltimore?”

“Yeah,” Twig nodded. 

Smoke leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “Why Baltimore?”

Twig shrugged. “She went up there to go to that big school about an hour or so outside the city.” He smiled faintly, pride slipping into his voice without him trying. “She always been smart. Smarter than all of us.”

Smoke listened without interrupting, afraid to miss even a word.

“Our grandma followed her up there,” Twig continued. “Said she wasn’t lettin’ that girl be up there by herself. Annie like to act tough, like she don’t need nobody, but she always carry the weight of everybody else.” He shook his head again. “They been livin’ up there ever since.”

Smoke swallowed.

“Do you know where exactly?” he asked. “In Baltimore.”

Twig thought for a second. “Can’t give you a proper address. But if you lookin’ for Annie?” He nodded decisively. “She gon’ be at church.”

Twig reached under the bar, grabbed a scrap of paper, and scribbled a name down. He slid it over to Smoke. “This one right here. If she still the same, and I know she is, she probably doin’ somethin’ there. Teachin’ kids, helpin’ old folks, somethin’ like that.”

Smoke picked up the paper like it might disappear if he didn’t.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low but full.

Twig gave him a long look. “You find her,” he said carefully, “you better be exactly who you look like you are.”

Smoke nodded. “I will.”

That was all Twig needed.

Smoke folded the paper, tucked it into his pocket alongside the drawing, and stood. The music kept playing as he stepped away from the bar, but it sounded different now. Lighter somehow.

He didn’t linger on Frenchmen Street after that.

He cut through the night like he finally knew which way he was supposed to be going. The city felt different around him, less like a maze and more like a straight line. Baltimore sat heavy in his mind.

When he reached the house, he went straight to his room and began packing. He folded everything carefully, movements precise, controlled. He packed the way a soldier did, making sure nothing was forgotten. The drawing went last, tucked safely between his things like it was the most important thing he owned.

By the time he finished, the room felt stripped bare.

Smoke sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, staring at the packed bag at his feet. Tomorrow, he’d go to the train station. Tomorrow, he’d start moving again. The thought steadied him, grounded him enough that the tension in his chest eased just slightly.

When he lay down, he closed his eyes and waited.

He wanted to see her. He wanted that dream-face again. The soft blur, the warmth, the way she felt close even when she wasn’t real yet. He wanted one more reminder that this was worth it, that he hadn’t imagined everything.

Sleep came hard and fast. But it didn’t take him to her. It took him back.

The sounds of gunfire cracking through the air, men shouting, the ground shaking beneath him hit him like bricks. Smoke was back in the jungle, sweat and dirt coating his skin, his weapon heavy in his hands. The night was lit up by flashes of violence, bodies moving too fast, falling too suddenly.

He moved on instinct, heart pounding, lungs burning.

Someone screamed. Someone else went down.

The smell of blood and smoke filled his nose, thick enough to choke him. His vision narrowed, everything blurring into chaos and noise and fear. He tried to turn, tried to move, to do something.

Then he jolted awake. His body surged upright, breath tearing out of his chest in sharp, uneven pulls. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Sweat soaked his shirt, his skin cold and hot all at once.

His hands were shaking.

He pressed them against his thighs, tried to steady them, but they wouldn’t stop. His head throbbed, pain pulsing behind his eyes, and his jaw clenched tight as he tried to ground himself in the quiet of the room.

He wasn’t in Vietnam anymore, but still, the feeling clung to him.

Smoke swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pacing the small room once, twice. He dragged a hand down his face, breathing hard, trying to get his pulse under control.

He needed a smoke. The craving hit immediately, like a lifeline. He grabbed his pack, his lighter, and moved toward the door, needing the burn, needing anything to pull him back into himself before the morning came.

Smoke stood outside long enough for the night to give up on him completely.

He smoked in silence, one cigarette bleeding into the next, the red ember flaring bright each time he dragged in a breath. The smoke filled his lungs and steadied him, grounding him in something real and familiar while the echoes of the dream slowly loosened their grip. His hands stopped shaking after a while. His heartbeat settled into something closer to normal. The city around him stayed quiet, holding its breath the way it did right before morning.

He leaned against the wall and watched the sky change.

Dark blue softened into gray. Gray thinned into pale light. The street grew louder by degrees. By the time the sun began to rise in earnest, Smoke felt wrung out but clearheaded, like he’d burned off the worst of the night.

When he glanced at his watch, he realized it was close to the time the train station would open.

He went back inside just long enough to grab his bag, then stepped out again and walked to the nearest phone. He dropped a coin in and dialed the station, fingers steady now.

The line rang twice before someone picked up.

“Train station,” a woman’s voice said.

“Yeah,” Smoke replied. “I’m tryin’ to see what time the next train headed north, passin’ through Baltimore is.”

There was a pause as she checked. Smoke listened to the faint rustle of paper, the muffled sounds of the station waking up on the other end.

“We got one comin’ through at one p.m.,” she said.

Smoke exhaled slowly. “Appreciate it.”

He hung up and stood there for a moment, letting the time settle in his mind. One p.m. wasn’t soon, but it was soon enough. He didn’t want to risk missing it, didn’t want to sit around the house with his thoughts turning in on themselves.

So he headed straight for the station.

It was a full day later when Smoke finally stepped off the train. The station hummed softly with movement, but there was no rush in it. People spoke lower, walked steadier, dressed better. Smoke noticed it immediately, the way men wore pressed shirts and women wore dresses and hats, Bibles tucked under arms like something precious.

Baltimore smelled different too. It smelled older, like brick and water and time.

Smoke stood still for a moment on the platform, bag slung over his shoulder, letting the reality of it sink in. He was here. After Vietnam. After Chicago. After Clarksdale. After Baton Rouge. After New Orleans. Every mile, every street, every wrong turn had led him here.

Annie was somewhere in this city. And he didn’t want to waste time.

Instead of searching for a place to stay or stopping to eat, Smoke headed straight out of the station and onto the street. He scanned the area until he spotted an older man standing near the curb, hat tipped low, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“Excuse me,” Smoke said, his voice calm but firm. “You know how to get to this church?”

He pulled the folded paper from his pocket and held it out.

The man adjusted his glasses, took the paper, and read the name carefully. He nodded once, like it made perfect sense.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t far, but you got a bit of a walk. You gon’ want to head that way, cut through two blocks, then turn left once you hit the row of brick houses. You’ll hear it before you see it.”

“Hear it?” Smoke asked.

The man smiled faintly. “It’s Sunday.”

Smoke thanked him, tucked the paper away, and started walking.

The city unfolded around him as he moved. Rows of brick homes stood shoulder to shoulder, stoops swept clean, windows open to let the breeze in. Somewhere nearby, church bells rang out, their sound rolling through the streets like a call meant for anyone listening.

As Smoke walked, he noticed more people heading in the same general direction. Families walking together. Children tugging at their parents’ hands. Women adjusting gloves and smoothing skirts. Men straightening ties, laughter soft and easy between them.

Each step tightened something in his chest.

He didn’t know what he would say when he got there. He didn’t know if she would even be there. But the closer he got, the stronger the pull became, like his body recognized the place before his mind could catch up.

The church came into view at the end of the street. People filled the yard and spilled out onto the sidewalk, dressed in their Sunday best like it was a quiet celebration instead of just another week. Men stood in pressed suits, jackets buttoned and shoes shined, their laughter deep and easy as they talked in small clusters. Women moved gracefully in dresses that swayed when they walked, gloves tucked into purses, hats tilted just right. Children darted between grown legs, polished shoes scuffing the pavement as they chased one another until a sharp look from an adult slowed them down.

Long folding tables were set up along the side of the building, covered with cloths and crowded with food. Plates of fried chicken, greens, cornbread, cakes wrapped in wax paper. Everything laid out with care. The air smelled rich and warm, layered with spices and sugar and something that felt like home even to someone who didn’t belong there yet.

Smoke stood at the edge of it all for a moment, unsure.

He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and stepped closer, drawn toward one of the tables where a few women were handing out food and laughing with the people passing by. One of them caught his eye. She was arranging plates when Smoke approached.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, his voice respectful.

She looked up, taking him in. The way he stood, the way his eyes moved, and the quiet weight he carried. “Yes, baby?”

Smoke cleared his throat. “I was told I could come here. I just got back from the military and I ain’t got nowhere to go right now. Someone told me I might be able to connect with Annette.”

The woman paused.

Her brows lifted just slightly. “Annette?” she asked. “Which Annette?”

Smoke blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “I–” He faltered, realizing he didn’t have an answer. “I don’t rightly know, ma’am.”

The woman studied him for a moment longer, then her expression softened. A small smile spread across her face, warm and amused, like she’d just put together a puzzle.

“Oh,” she said gently. “You mean Annie.”

Before Smoke could ask, she lifted her hand and pointed off to the side, away from the tables.

“Over there,” she said.

Smoke followed the line of her finger.

At first, he only saw her from behind.

She stood a little apart from the crowd, bent slightly as she helped a small boy balance his plate. She was wearing a dress that caught the light just right. The soft fabric hugged her waist, flowing when she moved. Her hair had been set in rollers, neat and full, framing her head in a way that felt timeless.

She laughed at something the child said, a sound that rang clear and bright above the low hum of conversation around them. 

Smoke froze. His chest tightened, breath stalling halfway in. He’d heard it before. Not exactly like this, not with the sunlight and the people and the food, but close enough that it reached straight into him.

Annie handed the boy his plate and said something that made him grin before running off. She straightened, smoothing her dress, and finally turned. When she faced him, Smoke’s breath left him completely.

It was her.

Her eyes were just as he’d drawn them. Her face softer somehow than his memory had allowed, her smile easy and open. The woman from his dreams stood there in full daylight, flesh and blood, alive and beautiful in a way that made his heart pound so hard he was sure she could hear it.

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared. Anchored in place by the sight of her, by the certainty settling deep in his bones. She was real. And she was right there.

end notes: so erm there's a snow storm apparently so i'm going to be writing my little butt! smoke finally found her! how do we feel? what do we think?

- - - taglist: @brownskincheyenne @psychicafrorainbow @hdfen2474 @harleycativy @issfaith @virgoobaby @secretisme4 @magnifique2be @blackgirlsrock444 @lestatthelioncourt @juniooox @meannaim @ayishia101 @lizbehave @myheartsaysyes @mmbee675 @summrsovrinterlude @bananajoeclone @cocochannelmoi @lsc72 @aellesa @deceptakani @thedutifulone @atpeaceinthestars @ladychzzcake @theegoldenchild @juniooox @swtvenus @lovenykol @birchwood3657 @theogbadbitch @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @pastelprintessa @soufcakmistress @sarcastic-sunshines @shamansha, @rkiiives, @d1gitalb4rbie, @numb1smokeanniestan, @caramelplug @margepimpson @underated345-blog @tnychellee @loveabledovee @kkbeauty86 @syko-jpg @thegreatlibraryofalex @cardi-bre91 @hotebonynearby @shereeluvssinners 

[brownlyfe]

AMERICAN DREAM soldier!smoke x virginteacher!annie

TWO: Travelin’ previous next cw: none summary: the military does a lot to a man. for smoke it gives him dreams. dreams of a woman he’s never met a day in his life. all he knows is the sweet sound of her voice and the outline of her body. it’s like his soul is crying for her, but he doesn’t even know where to start looking.

notes: before I get started I wanted to say I LOVEEEE y'all so much! I appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'm going to try my hardest and be consistent with at least one chapter a week because I'm loving this story just as much as y'all!

Smoke stepped off the train with his duffel slung over his shoulder and paused just long enough for the crowd to surge around him, people brushing past like he was a rock in the middle of a river. Chicago was loud in a way Vietnam wasn’t. There was no gunfire, no shouted commands, only the constant churn of voices, engines, footsteps, and life stacked on top of life. Steel rails groaned behind him as the train pulled away, leaving him standing there with nowhere in particular to go.

He stood on the platform longer than necessary, scanning faces without meaning to, his chest tightening every time he thought he might see her. Men in pressed coats, women in heels, porters shouting, children laughing–everything overlapped until it became one continuous noise. But he didn’t know what he was looking for beyond the curve of a face he had only seen in dreams.

Smoke exhaled slowly and forced himself to think.

He didn’t know where to begin, and the realization settled deep and uncomfortable in his gut. Vietnam had taught him how to follow orders and how to move with precision. It hadn’t taught him how to search a city for a woman whose name he didn’t know.

Smoke adjusted his grip on the duffel strap and forced himself to move.

He walked until the station disappeared behind him and the streets changed character into less polished, more worn, brick buildings leaning into one another like they’d been holding each other up for years. He read signs without really seeing them, letting instinct guide him more than logic.

A boarding house quickly caught his attention.

The woman who answered the door looked him over carefully, eyes sharp but not unkind. Smoke explained how he just got back from the Army and was looking for a temporary place to live. When she told him the rental price, he simply negotiated. His voice was level and his posture respectful. 

She exhaled slowly and named a lower number.

“You ain’t gone be no trouble, are ya?” she asked.

Smoke shook his head. “No ma’am, none at all.”

The room she gave him was small and bare. A narrow bed pressed against one wall, a wooden desk scarred with old scratches, and a window that looked out over an alley. The air smelled faintly of dust and soap.

He set his duffel down and pulled paper from his bag. A pencil followed, worn thin, the eraser barely hanging on. Smoke sat at the desk and stared at the blank page. Then he closed his eyes.

Her face rose in his mind immediately. The way her eyes softened when she smiled. The calm in her expression, like she knew something he didn’t yet. And he moved his hand.

He sketched slowly, carefully, stopping often to erase and try again. He redrew the line of her cheek three times. Adjusted the curve of her mouth until it felt right. The more he focused, the quieter the city became.

When he finally leaned back, the drawing stared up at him. It wasn’t exact. It couldn’t be. But it was her as she existed in him–real enough to chase.

Smoke folded the paper once, then again, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he leaned back in the chair and began to think.

Where did women like her go?

Maybe not the places he knew like bars or clubs or anywhere loud. She didn’t feel like someone who drifted. She felt rooted.

He thought of churches, libraries, boutiques, and diners. He thought of neighborhoods where people waved from porches and children played in the street. Places where a woman might be seen often enough to be remembered.

The folded drawing sat heavy in his pocket, a quiet reminder that this wasn’t some passing fixation. He undressed slowly, movements careful, deliberate, as if rushing might scatter his thoughts. When he finally lay back on the narrow bed, the mattress creaked beneath him, the unfamiliar ceiling staring back. Sleep came, but not easily.

When it did, it carried her with it. The dream was different this time.

She was there, but barely. She wasn’t hovering close or glowing the way she had before. She stood at a distance, her shape softened by space, like fog curling around her edges. Smoke strained toward her immediately, a familiar ache blooming in his chest.

“Wait,” he tried to say.

She turned at the sound of him, or maybe she felt him reaching. Her face was recognizable, but far away. The connection between them felt stretched thin, fragile, like a thread pulled too tight.

Smoke moved toward her, feet heavy, resistance pressing against him with every step. He reached out, fingers closing around nothing but air. The harder he tried to focus, the more she seemed to fade. He could feel her slipping.

Panic sharpened his movements. He forced himself to concentrate on the curve of her smile, the steadiness in her eyes, the warmth he’d felt when she touched him. He clung to those memories like anchors, desperate not to lose her entirely.

But the distance wouldn’t close.

She was too far away now, her presence thinning until she was little more than a silhouette against an indistinct background. Smoke’s chest tightened painfully as he reached again, his hand shaking.

“Please,” he whispered, the word breaking as it left him.

She didn’t disappear completely. Instead, she lingered just beyond his grasp, watching him with something like sadness, like patience. As if she knew he was trying. As if she trusted that he would eventually find his way.

The dream dissolved around them slowly unraveling, thread by thread. 

The next morning, Smoke woke with a heavy heart.

Gray light seeped through the window of the boarding house room, settling softly over the walls and the small desk by the window. For a moment, he lay still, staring up at the ceiling, the echo of the dream lingering in his chest like a bruise. She felt farther away than ever, and the distance gnawed at him with a quiet urgency.

He sat up and reached automatically into his jacket, fingers brushing the folded paper there. The simple reassurance of its presence steadied him.

Smoke washed his face, dressed quickly, and was out the door before the hallway had fully stirred awake. The city met him with cool air, early-morning noise, and people moving with purpose etched into their steps. Chicago was waking up, and Smoke intended to wake with it.

He walked for blocks, letting instinct guide him again, eyes scanning storefronts, churches, corner shops, anywhere people gathered long enough to talk. Eventually, he spotted a small group standing outside a store, laughing, cups of coffee in their hands. It felt as good a place as any to start.

Smoke slowed, adjusted the set of his shoulders, and stepped toward them.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice calm and polite.

They turned, curious but cautious. Smoke pulled the folded paper from his pocket, hesitating just long enough to sell the uncertainty he wanted them to see. He unfolded it carefully, revealing the drawing.

“I’m looking for this woman,” he said. “Someone told me she helps war vets get back on their feet. They said she’s real good at it.”

The lie came easily, shaped from something close enough to truth to sit comfortably in his mouth. He watched their faces closely as they studied the sketch.

One man frowned, shaking his head. A woman leaned in closer to look at it, then shrugged.

“Don’t know her,” someone said.

“Haven’t seen her ‘round here,” another added.

Smoke nodded, already expecting it. “You sure? She might not be from this neighborhood.”

They shook their heads again, interest fading as quickly as it had sparked. Smoke folded the paper back up, thanked them, and stepped away without pushing.

He didn’t linger on the disappointment. He crossed the street and tried again.

A barber sweeping hair from his doorway. A woman selling flowers from buckets on the sidewalk. Two men arguing over a newspaper headline. Each time, Smoke adjusted the story just slightly, sometimes saying she helped soldiers find work, sometimes saying she helped them talk through what they’d been through. But each time, the answer was the same.

“No.”

“Never seen her.”

“Sorry, brother.”

Smoke kept moving.

He stopped at churches, standing near their steps as people came and went. He approached librarians, shop owners, men sitting on stoops, women with children tugging at their skirts. He showed the drawing until the creases grew soft from being folded and unfolded again.

His feet began to ache. His throat dried from talking. Still, he didn’t stop.

By midday, the city had fully swallowed him. Crowds thickened, noise grew louder, and the rejection became rhythmic. Smoke absorbed it quietly, cataloging every answer, every shake of the head, every look of sympathy or mild suspicion.

Some people were kind, some were wary, but none of them knew her.

Still, he pressed on.

He told himself that finding her was always going to take time. That she wouldn’t be waiting neatly in the first place he looked. That if she was real and existed beyond his dreams, then she had a life that simply hadn’t crossed his yet.

As the afternoon wore on, exhaustion began to creep in, settling into his bones. But Smoke ignored it, the way he had ignored pain and fear before. He moved from street to street, neighborhood to neighborhood, chasing the faintest hope that someone, anyone, would pause a little longer when they saw her face.

By the time the sun dipped lower, his pockets were empty of coins, his body sore, his jaw tight from holding himself together. Still, he didn’t stop. Because every time doubt tried to take hold, her voice rose in his memory, soft and unwavering.

Come find me.

And Smoke intended to do exactly that.

Two weeks passed just as quick as they had come.

Every morning, Smoke woke before the sun and every night he came back after it had disappeared, his body aching in places he hadn’t known could hurt this way. His boots wore thin at the soles. His hands stayed faintly smudged with pencil graphite from constantly unfolding and refolding the drawing, smoothing its creases like he could will it to life.

He learned the city by walking it.

He crossed neighborhoods until the buildings changed shape and the people changed tone. He memorized which streets smelled like bread in the morning, which ones carried the sharp tang of factories, which corners stayed loud no matter the hour. He stood on church steps on Sundays and outside taverns on weeknights. And everywhere, he asked.

He told the story so many times it stopped feeling like a lie and more like a version of truth he was borrowing. He held up the picture until his arm ached, until faces blurred together and the same answers looped endlessly back to him.

“No.”

“Never seen her.”

“Sorry.”

Some people barely glanced at the drawing before shaking their heads. Others studied it carefully, brows furrowed, searching their memory for something that never surfaced. A few offered suggestions on where he could try, but nothing that led anywhere. No one knew her.

Still, he kept looking.

He searched all over Chicago until it felt like he’d wrung the city dry. From the wealthier blocks to the poorer ones, from quiet residential streets to crowded commercial strips, he chased every possibility until it led nowhere. He spent full days wandering without stopping, ignoring hunger, ignoring exhaustion, ignoring the growing weight of disappointment pressing against his ribs.

By the end of the second week, the truth settled in slowly and painfully: if she had ever been in Chicago, she wasn’t anymore.

Smoke stood one evening at the edge of a busy intersection, the city roaring around him, and folded the picture back into his pocket with hands that felt heavier than before. He stared out at the blur of headlights and passing faces, jaw clenched tight.

Chicago had given him nothing during the day.

And the nights were no better.

Sleep came in pieces, fractured and shallow. When he dreamed of her now, it wasn’t like Vietnam. She no longer hovered close enough to touch. She appeared at a distance, always just beyond reach, her figure softened by space and shadow. Sometimes she turned away from him. Sometimes she stood still, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. He always woke up reaching for her.

The connection felt strained, stretched thin across miles. Whatever had once pulled them together so strongly now felt muted, like static on a radio signal that refused to come through clearly. Some nights Smoke slept straight through without seeing her at all. 

Then one night, something changed.

The dream began the same way with her at a distance, turned slightly away from him, her outline softened by shadow. Smoke tried to call out to her, but his voice didn’t carry. He took a step forward and felt that familiar resistance, the invisible barrier pressing back against him.

And then the sound of a bell cut clean through the dream.

It was small, almost insignificant, but it landed with startling clarity. A sharp, bright chime that didn’t belong in the empty, undefined space where she stood.

The bell rang again, clearer this time. 

Recognition hit him like a jolt to the spine. It was the chow’s grocery door.

He knew that sound. Had known it his whole life. The way it rang when someone stepped inside. The way it echoed slightly, metal against glass, announcing a presence before a word was ever spoken. It didn’t belong in Chicago. It didn’t belong in a dream. It belonged in Clarksdale.

The moment the realization settled, the dream began to dissolve. Her shape blurred further, edges pulling apart like smoke in water. She turned toward him just before she vanished, her face unreadable but steady, as if she’d finally led him where he needed to go.

Smoke woke with his heart pounding.

The city outside his window was quiet in that pre-dawn way, the air heavy with stillness. He sat up slowly, breath uneven, and pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to steady something inside himself.

The sound of the bell echoed in his head. And he didn’t question it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, moving through the room with purpose for the first time in days. Chicago had gone silent on him. But that sound felt real.

By the time the sun crept through the curtains, Smoke had already made up his mind. He packed his duffel with practiced efficiency, folding his clothes neatly, slipping the drawing carefully between pages of a notebook so it wouldn’t crease any further. He paused only once, standing in the middle of the room, listening to the city breathe around him.

And for the first time since stepping off the train weeks ago, Smoke felt that quiet certainty settle back into his bones.

Whatever he was looking for wasn’t here.

Clarksdale was quiet when Smoke came back. The sun hung low and the air was thick.

The bus let him off near the edge of town, and for a moment he just stood there, duffel in hand, looking around like a stranger in a place that had once known him better than anyone else ever had. The streets hadn’t changed much. Same cracked pavement. Same sagging porches. Same slow, unhurried rhythm that Chicago never had. The familiarity hit him harder than he expected.

Every step he took felt layered. His man boots landed where boy feet once had. Where he and Stack had run barefoot in summers that felt endless, laughing and scheming and dreaming bigger than the town ever allowed. He moved through it all like a ghost, present but detached, carrying war and distance on his shoulders.

The first thing he did was go for the money.

It was just beyond the edge of an old field, tucked away where most people never bothered to look. Smoke cut through brush and tall grass, the cicadas screaming overhead, sweat already forming at his temples. He knelt by the spot without hesitation, fingers digging into dirt that still remembered him.

He pulled out a rusted tin box. He wiped it off with the hem of his shirt and opened it, breath easing when he saw the bills still there, folded and layered the way he and Stack had left them years ago. The money earned the hard way and saved the careful way. A future they’d planned never fully believing either of them would live long enough to spend it.

Smoke counted his portion carefully and tucked it into his jacket, leaving Stack’s share exactly where it was. He sealed the box again and buried it, pressing the dirt down with both palms.

From there, he went to the house.

Their childhood home sat exactly where he’d left it. It was small, weathered, and stubbornly standing despite time’s attempts to wear it down. The porch steps creaked under his weight as he climbed them, the sound familiar enough to tighten his throat. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, the scent of dust and old wood wrapping around him immediately.

And of course, the house was quiet.

No brother’s voice calling from the back room. No laughter echoing off the walls. No radio playing something loud. Smoke set his bag down and stood in the center of the living room, taking it all in.

He moved through the rooms slowly.

The kitchen still held the faint smell of grease and coffee. The table bore the same small scratches from years of elbows and plates and late-night talks. His bedroom was unchanged–bed neatly made, walls bare, the window letting in the soft Mississippi light.

It should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt hollow.

That night, Smoke lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Clarksdale settling into itself. He felt alone in a way that surprised him.

This was home. This was where he was supposed to feel anchored. But without Stack, without a woman waiting for him, the house felt like it was missing its heartbeat. Like he was occupying a memory instead of a life.

He walked the town in the days that followed, spending money here and there. He stopped by familiar spots, nodded to people who recognized him and people who didn’t. Some welcomed him back warmly. Others studied him like they were trying to see what the war had carved into him.

At night, he came back to the house alone.

He cooked for one. Ate in silence. Slept in a bed that felt too big now. And always, in the quiet moments, his thoughts drifted back to her and the dream that had pulled him back here.

He had money in his pocket, a roof over his head, and his life ahead of him, and yet he’d never felt so disconnected. Like something essential was missing, like he’d come back to the starting line only to realize the race was still waiting for him somewhere else.

The next day, Smoke went to Chow’s Grocery early, before the heat had fully settled.

The walk there was slow, his boots tracing streets he’d known since childhood. Every cracked sidewalk, every familiar corner tugged at him with a quiet insistence. 

Chow’s grocery sat in a row of buildings with a sign out front slightly faded from years of sun and rain. Smoke paused at the curb, eyes fixed on the glass door. For a moment, he didn’t move. He could already hear the sharp bell in his head.

He stepped forward and pushed the door open..

The bell rang exactly like he expected. The sound settled deep in his chest, grounding him and unsettling him all at once. The inside of the store smelled like produce, coffee, and old wood. Shelves lined with canned goods stretched down narrow aisles, their labels a mix of new and sun-faded.

Bo looked up from behind the counter.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, squinting for a moment before recognition softened his expression. “Look what the cat drug in.”

Smoke nodded, “Bo.”

“You back for good?” Bo asked, already shaking his head.

“I’m back,” Smoke said carefully. “I don't know ‘bout the rest yet.”

Bo hummed at that, clearly catching the hesitation but letting it be. Smoke wandered the aisles slowly, picking up items he didn’t need just to give himself time to think. He studied faces as people came and went, his attention sharpening every time the bell rang.

He pulled the folded picture from his pocket and smoothed it out against the counter.

“You seen her?” Smoke asked quietly, sliding it toward Bo.

Bo leaned over it, eyes narrowing in concentration. He took his time, studying the sketch like it might speak back to him. Finally, he shook his head.

“Don’t recognize her,” he said. “She ain’t from around here, huh?”

Smoke nodded. He’d expected it. Still, he didn’t stop there.

He asked the woman buying flour if she’d seen her. A man near the cooler. A pair of teenagers lingering by the candy. Each time, he got the same answer.

Outside the store, he waited.

Smoke positioned himself near the entrance, watching people pass, listening for the bell to ring again and again. Every time it did, he glanced up instinctively, heart lifting and sinking all at once when it wasn’t her walking through the door.

He spoke to men leaning against trucks, women carrying groceries home, elders sitting in the shade with folding chairs pulled close together. He told his story carefully, keeping it simple.

Most people were kind. Some were curious. A few were suspicious. But none of them recognized her.

By midday, the sun bore down heavy and unrelenting, sweat soaking through his shirt. Smoke stayed anyway, circling the store, retracing his steps, letting the bell ring itself into his bones. But he knew, even as he tried, that she wasn’t in Clarksdale.

The town was too small. If she’d ever been here, someone would have known her. Still, Smoke checked.

He walked down streets he’d walked as a boy, stopped by houses where women sat on porches shelling peas or braiding hair. He asked at the church office, lingered near the schoolyard, watched children spill out laughing and screaming as the bell rang. He showed the picture until the edges curled slightly from the heat.

The realization that Clarksdale was just a starting point settled firmly in his mind.

That evening, Smoke returned to Chow’s one last time. The store was quieter now, the day winding down. He stood just inside the doorway and let the bell ring once more, the sound echoing faintly behind him.

Smoke folded the picture carefully and slipped it back into his pocket. He stepped out into the fading light, the town stretching behind him like a past he’d already lived.

After a stretch of time that Smoke couldn’t have measured if he tried–days bleeding into nights, nights into restless half-sleep–he finally had a dream of her that held.

It didn’t flicker or fade the way the others had. It didn’t feel distant, like she was calling to him from the other side of a long tunnel. This time, when he slipped under, the world settled around him slowly and completely, as if it had been waiting for him to arrive.

They were sitting by a lake.

The water was still, glassy, reflecting a sky washed in soft blues and pale golds, like early evening just before the sun finally gave up. Cicadas hummed somewhere in the distance, steady and rhythmic, and the air felt warm without being heavy. Smoke could smell fresh water and grass and something faintly floral that reminded him of summers long before the war.

She sat beside him on a low wooden dock, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

She was wearing a dress. It was one of the prettiest things he’d ever seen. Light-colored, flowing, cinched at the waist, the fabric moving gently with the breeze. Her hair was pinned up neatly, curls gathered at the nape of her neck, a few soft strands escaping to frame her face.

And her face was perfectly clear. There was no blur. No glow that made her feel untouchable. She was real and solid and close enough that Smoke could see the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled.

They were talking.

At first, Smoke didn’t even realize why his chest felt tight. Then it hit him all at once. He could hear her.

Her voice wasn’t muffled. It wasn’t swallowed by distance or drowned out by silence. It rang clear as day, warm and melodic, wrapping around him like something he’d been missing without knowing it.

She had a strong unmistakable accent.

It rolled off her tongue slow and smooth, certain vowels stretched, certain words softened at the edges. Smoke found himself hanging on to every sound, every inflection. It sounded like music. It sounded like home to somewhere he’d never been.

For a moment, he was too busy listening to respond properly. His mind scrambled, searching through memory, trying to place it.

He’d heard it before. One of the guys back in Vietnam, said he was from down by the bayou and he talked just like that. With the same cadence and warmth.

Smoke swallowed.

She tilted her head at him, amused. “You just gonna stare at me like that, soldier boy?”

Her lips curved into a smile that was knowing and playful. Smoke felt his ears heat instantly. He shifted slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was, how the dress dipped modestly but noticeably at her chest.

He tried, and failed, not to look.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

She laughed softly, the sound sending a ripple straight through him. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.”

They kept talking. It was easy, light, and intimate. She teased him, leaned in closer when she spoke, nudged his knee with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Smoke felt lighter than he had in years. He forgot about the war. Forgot about searching and longing and all the empty space he carried around inside himself. Sitting there with her, he felt free.

She turned toward him fully then, studying his face like she was committing it to memory. Slowly, gently, she reached out and cupped his cheek in her hand. Her touch felt real.

Smoke froze, breath catching in his throat.

Her thumb brushed lightly along his jaw, and her eyes flicked down to his mouth before lifting back to his gaze. Her voice dropped just a little, rich and teasing.

“Don’t you wanna kiss me, soldier boy?”

Smoke’s brain short-circuited.

“I– I mean–” He stuttered, words tumbling over each other uselessly. His heart was pounding so loud he was sure she could hear it.

She smiled wider, clearly delighted, and before he could gather himself, she leaned in. Her lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, brief but intentional, like she was testing him. Smoke barely had time to register the sensation before instinct took over and he leaned in too, kissing her back with a hunger that surprised even him.

It was warm and sweet and full of promise.

Then just as she was about to wrap her arms around him a voice cut through the dream like a blade.

“Annette Marie Richard!”

An older woman’s voice, calling her full name the way only someone with authority and familiarity would. It was stern and unyielding.

She jerked back instantly. Her eyes went wide, panic flashing across her face. She stood abruptly, hands pressing against Smoke’s chest as she pushed him away just enough to put distance between them.

“No– no, you gotta go,” she said quickly, voice urgent now. “You can’t be here. Not right now.”

Smoke tried to reach for her. “Wait– Ann–”

She shook her head hard, fear creeping into her expression. “Go,” she insisted. “Please.”

The world began to blur around the edges then, the lake dissolving, the sky dimming. Smoke reached out again, desperate this time, fingers grasping at empty air as the dream slipped away.

And just like that, she was gone.

Smoke woke with a sharp inhale, chest rising fast as if he’d been running instead of sleeping. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, only that his body felt too warm, too awake, his heart still beating to the rhythm of the dream.

Then the room came back into focus.

The familiar ceiling of the old house in Clarksdale stared down at him, faint cracks running like veins through the plaster. Early morning light slipped in through the thin curtains, pale and quiet, dust motes floating lazily in the air. Everything was still. Too still.

The dream clung to him anyway.

Her face. That dress. The lake. The way her voice had finally reached him, clear and sure, wrapped in that Louisiana drawl that still echoed in his ears.

Smoke shifted, and froze.

His body had betrayed him completely.

He was hard, unmistakably so, the evidence pressing insistently against his trousers. He let out a slow, incredulous breath and stared up at the ceiling, one hand coming down instinctively to adjust himself, careful and slightly embarrassed even though no one else was there.

It wasn’t just that he was aroused. That part, he understood well enough. He’d been a grown man long before the war, and he’d known women in ways that were quick and forgettable, driven more by loneliness and need than anything else. But this was different.

She hadn’t touched him much at all. No skin, no wandering hands, nothing that should’ve undone him like this. Just her sitting close. Her smile. Her lips on his. And it had felt real. Too real.

Smoke swallowed, jaw tightening as the memory replayed against his will. The way she’d said soldier boy, the way she’d looked at him like she already knew him, like she’d been waiting. The softness of her mouth, brief but vivid enough that his body still remembered it.

It unsettled him more than the arousal itself.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then sat fully, feet hitting the cool wooden floor. The room felt empty in a way that went deeper than solitude. His brother wasn’t there. And now, impossibly, neither was she…except in his head.

She wasn’t in Chicago or Clarksdale. Not anywhere else he’d already searched himself thin trying to justify. The dream had given him something solid this time. A real direction. Louisiana.

He didn’t know what city. Hell, he didn’t even know her name until that older woman had called it sharp enough to cut the dream clean in half.

Annette Marie Richard.

The name rolled through his mind slowly.

Smoke exhaled and stood, moving through the room with purpose now. There was no point sitting around questioning it. Every instinct he had told him this wasn’t something to ignore.

If she was real, he would find her.

He grabbed his duffel from the corner and laid it open on the bed. His movements were methodical, almost ritualistic. Clothes folded and packed neatly. A spare pair of boots. Toiletries. The small stack of money he had. He paused briefly, glancing around the room one last time.

He zipped the bag shut, slung it over his shoulder, and headed out the door.

The morning air hit him fresh and cool as he stepped outside, the town slowly moving around him. He walked the worn paths in silence until he reached the moving train station. 

The train station in Clarksdale sat half-awake when Smoke arrived, the building heavy with old brick and the kind of stillness that came just before the day truly started. The air smelled like oil and iron, faint cigarette smoke clinging to the walls and benches from men who had passed through long before him. Somewhere down the platform, a train hissed, steam curling upward.

Smoke stepped inside, duffel slung over his shoulder, boots echoing softly against the worn floor. He paused for a brief second, letting his eyes adjust. 

This was it. Once he bought that ticket, there was no pretending this was a whim or some half-formed idea. He was committing himself to a direction with no guarantee at the end of it.

The ticket counter was manned by an older woman with tired eyes and a sharp posture, her hair pinned neatly beneath a hat that looked like it had seen decades of mornings just like this one. She glanced up as Smoke approached, her expression unreadable but practiced.

“Morning,” she said, already reaching for a blank ticket.

“Morning,” Smoke replied, voice steady despite the low hum of nerves under his skin.

She waited, pen hovering.

“I need the first ticket to Louisiana,” he said.

The woman paused, pen stalling midair. She lifted an eyebrow and looked at him more closely now, taking in the duffel, the posture that still carried traces of the military, the eyes that looked like they hadn’t stopped moving since the war ended.

“Louisiana’s a whole state,” she said evenly. “You got a city in mind?”

Smoke shook his head once, decisive. “No, ma’am. Just the first one there.”

Something like curiosity flickered across her face, but she didn’t question him further. She turned to her board, scanning quickly before nodding.

“There’s a train headed to Baton Rouge,” she said. “It leaves in about an hour.”

Smoke felt a strange relief at that. It was enough time to sit with the decision, but not enough time to back out.

“That’ll work,” he said.

She wrote it up, slid the ticket across the counter, and named the price. Smoke pulled the money from his pocket without hesitation, counting it out carefully before handing it over. The woman tucked it away, tore the ticket cleanly, and pushed his half back toward him.

“Platform two,” she added. “Don’t miss it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

He stepped away from the counter and found a bench near the wall, sitting down with a quiet exhale. The station slowly filled around him–men heading to work, a young couple whispering to each other, a woman corralling two sleepy children. Smoke watched them all without really seeing them, his thoughts already drifting south.

Baton Rouge.

He wondered if it would mean anything to him once he arrived. Wondered if she had ever stood on a platform like this one, waiting for a train of her own. Wondering if she was awake right now, completely unaware that a man she’d never met was crossing state lines because she had asked him to come find her.

Smoke leaned back, gripping the edge of the bench, jaw set. For the first time since the war, he felt certain.

When the call finally came for boarding, he stood without hesitation, ticket in hand, and walked toward the platform.

end notes: so many new people that I have to tag! if you read this far then please drop a comment letting me know if you think he'll find her in louisiana. see y'all next time! - - - taglist: @brownskincheyenne @psychicafrorainbow @hdfen2474 @harleycativy @issfaith @virgoobaby @secretisme4 @magnifique2be @blackgirlsrock444 @lestatthelioncourt @juniooox @meannaim @ayishia101 @lizbehave @myheartsaysyes @mmbee675 @summrsovrinterlude @bananajoeclone @cocochannelmoi @lsc72 @aellesa @deceptakani @thedutifulone @atpeaceinthestars @ladychzzcake @theegoldenchild @juniooox @swtvenus @lovenykol @birchwood3657 @theogbadbitch @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @pastelprintessa @shamansha, @rkiiives, @d1gitalb4rbie, @numb1smokeanniestan, @caramelplug @margepimpson @underated345-blog @tnychellee @loveabledovee @kkbeauty86 @syko-jpg @thegreatlibraryofalex @cardi-bre91 @hotebonynearby @shereeluvssinners  @transparentphantomface @imqueenmelanin @dollys-world224 @storiesbyasl @blue4everrsworld @katezy2x @og-goddesstrill @cocoagadgetsworld @xeebop

[brownlyfe]

AMERICAN DREAM soldier!smoke x virginteacher!annie

ONE masterlist next cw: war summary: the military does a lot to a man. for smoke it gives him dreams. dreams of a woman he’s never met a day in his life. all he knows is the sweet sound of her voice and the outline of her body. it’s like his soul is crying for her, but he doesn’t even know where to start looking.

notes: so excited for this journey we're about to go on! i love this story so much and i hope y'all will love it too! i've tagged everybody that wanted to be tagged for this story so please look out for more updates soon!

The night air in Vietnam was thick with wet heat, rot, and had the faint metallic tang that never quite left no matter how often it rained. Crickets screamed from the brush, and somewhere farther out, something heavier moved, branches snapping softly and then going still. Smoke stood on night watch with his rifle cradled against his chest, boots planted in the dirt he no longer felt beneath his feet.

Stack was talking. He was always talking.

“…I’m tellin’ you, man, when I get back, first thing I’m doin’ is eatin’ somethin’ that ain’t come out of a can,” Stack said, leaning back against a crate, grinning wide in the dark. “I don’t even care what it is. I’ll eat boiled cardboard if a woman hands it to me.”

A few of the other guys laughed quietly, careful not to carry the sound too far. But Smoke didn’t laugh.

He stood there like he always did with his shoulders loose, weight balanced, and eyes scanning the tree line without conscious thought. His body knew what to do even when his mind drifted elsewhere. Count the seconds. Listen for changes in sound. Feel the air shift. Breathe without being heard. It was pure muscle memory.

Stack glanced at him. “You good over there, Smoke?”

Smoke didn’t turn his head. “Yeah.”

That was all he offered.

Stack shook his head, smiling to himself. “Man don’t say more than five words unless he got to.”

Smoke wasn’t unfriendly. He just wasn’t present the way the others were. He’d learned early on that if you stayed too present out here, you started noticing things you couldn’t unsee. So he kept himself hollowed out, moved when he was supposed to move, fired when he was supposed to fire, slept when exhaustion finally dragged him under.

It had been working. Until the dreams.

The first time it happened, he’d thought it was just another trick of his tired brain. Out here, men dreamed of home all the time. They dreamed of their mothers’ kitchens, girls they left behind, and streets they’d grown up on. Smoke had expected blood or fire or the echo of gunshots that never fully left his ears.

Instead, he saw her. Standing in soft light, like late afternoon sun filtering through a window. Her dress was modest, her hair neatly done, her hands folded calmly in front of her. She looked at him much differently than he was used to. It was a look without fear or expectation. Like she already knew him.

Smoke had woken up from that first dream with his heart pounding. Something had settled deep in his chest and refused to leave.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Stack. But why would he? He never told anyone anything like that.

Stack sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, helmet pushed back on his head, chewing on something he’d scrounged from somewhere. A couple of the other guys leaned nearby, smoking.

“…I’m tellin’ you,” one of them said quietly, laughter tucked into his voice, “these women out here different.”

Stack snorted. “Different how?”

“They really don’t care if you’re gonna be gone tomorrow,” the man replied. “They don’t ask questions.”

Another voice chimed in. “That’s ‘cause they know better.”

Low laughter passed between them. 

“I got a girl back in Detroit,” someone said. “At least I think I do. It’s been a while since she wrote me somethin’.”

Stack shook his head. “Man, if she ain’t writin’, she ain’t waitin’.”

“Cold world,” another added.

Stack grinned. “That’s why you don’t put all your hope in just one.”

They started comparing stories about girls they’d left behind, women they’d met since arriving, who was faithful, who probably wasn’t. The kind of talk that made the hours pass faster and kept the fear just far enough away.

Smoke didn’t join in.

He stood a little apart, eyes trained on the tree line. If anyone had been watching him closely, they might’ve thought he wasn’t listening at all. But he heard every word. He just didn’t have anything to add.

One of the men glanced over at him again, squinting slightly in the dark. “What about you, Smoke? Anybody waitin’ on you?”

Smoke shifted his weight subtly, the movement automatic. “No.”

It wasn’t a lie. There had been women before the war. But those nights blurred together. He’d learned early how to take comfort without attachment and how to leave without looking back.

That had been enough.

Now, standing on watch while the others talked about women like placeholders, Smoke found his thoughts drifting back to her without permission. To the way her presence had felt heavier than the jungle, quieter than gunfire.

He didn’t know her name or where she was. He didn’t even know why she came to him. But she had replaced everything else.

Where the other men filled the night with jokes and longing for bodies they might or might not see again, Smoke’s mind kept returning to the same image, over and over, until it felt worn into him. The sense that she existed somewhere untouched by this place.

Stack laughed at something someone said and slapped his knee. “Man, when I get back, I’m done with all this mess. I’m findin’ me a woman and lettin’ her feed me for the rest of my life.”

The rest of the shift went by surprisingly quick.

Smoke handed off his position, and moved through the camp on autopilot. The joking had faded behind him, replaced by the low murmur of men settling in for the few hours of rest they were allowed. Lantern light flickered against canvas and equipment, shadows stretching and shrinking with each step he took.

By the time he reached the sleeping quarters tent, his body felt heavier than it had on watch. Not just from exhaustion, but from the weight that settled in once there was nothing left to focus on but himself.

Inside the tent, the air was stale and thick with sweat, damp fabric, and the faint smell of gun oil. Rows of cots lined the space, some already occupied by sleeping bodies, others empty for now. 

He sat on his cot, unlaced his boots, and set them neatly beneath the frame. His rifle within reach. He lay back, the thin mattress offering little resistance, canvas sagging beneath his weight. The fabric above him glowed faintly from a lantern outside, light bleeding through like a distant moon.

He closed his eyes and sleep took him immediately. The jungle, the tent, the camp vanished all at once. And she was there.

She hovered over him, close enough that her presence filled his entire vision and it felt intimate without being intrusive. She wasn’t touching him, but he could feel her all the same.

She was glowing. Just softly illuminated, as if light lived inside her and leaked outward. Her face was there and not there all at once, familiar but slightly blurred around the edges, like a memory he hadn’t lived yet. He could make out the curve of her cheek, the shape of her mouth, the gentleness in the way she looked down at him.

She was smiling at him. It was a small, knowing smile meant just for him.

Her lips moved. She was talking.

Smoke strained to hear her, every part of him leaning toward the sound that wouldn’t come. He could see the shape of the words forming, the care in the way she spoke them, but there was nothing to hold onto. Frustration tightened in his chest.

“Wait,” he tried to say, though he wasn’t sure if the word made it past his own mind. He focused harder, desperate now. He needed to hear her. 

Her expression shifted slightly, brows drawing together in something like concern. She leaned closer, enough that her glow softened, light spilling across him, and for a moment he thought he felt it against his skin.

Smoke lifted his hand.

His arm felt heavy, like it was moving through water. He reached for her instinctively, fingers stretching toward the place where she hovered, every part of him intent on closing the distance. If he could just touch her, maybe–

Gunfire tore through the dream without warning, the sound ripping him out of her light and slamming him back into his body. Smoke jolted awake with a sharp inhale, heart hammering, the image of her face still burned behind his eyes even as the tent filled with chaos.

Men were shouting. Boots pounded against packed earth outside, voices overlapping in panic and command. The crack of rifles split the air, followed by the heavier, uglier sounds of return fire. Someone screamed his name…or maybe it was someone else’s. It didn’t matter. Smoke was moving before he was fully conscious.

He rolled off the cot, boots half-laced as he shoved his feet into them, hands already reaching for his weapon. Muscle memory took over completely now. Training swallowed thought. Fear had no place to settle. He burst from the tent into the humid night.

The camp was lit in sharp flashes of muzzle fire, flares streaking upward, and shadows jerking wildly across the ground. Men ran past him yelling. Smoke dropped low, rifle up, scanning, firing when he saw movement where it shouldn’t be.

Rounds snapped through the air, tearing into sandbags, ripping through canvas, throwing dirt and debris into the night. Smoke moved with his unit, covering angles, shouting when needed, silent when it counted. His body knew this rhythm and how to survive it. But something felt off.

The sense came too late. He turned and  pain detonated through his side.

It was hot and immediate, stealing the breath from his lungs in a sharp, brutal gasp. Smoke stumbled, his footing faltering as another explosion rocked the ground nearby. The world tilted violently, sound warping into a dull roar as he tried to stay upright.

“Smoke!” someone shouted.

He tried to move, but his legs refused him.

Another impact sent him down hard. The ground slammed into his back, knocking the air from his chest completely. His rifle slipped from his grip, clattering somewhere out of reach.

The night blurred. Lights streaked and smeared together. The shouting grew distant, muffled, like it was happening underwater. Smoke’s vision narrowed, dark creeping in from the edges.

And even through it all he saw her face.

Soft and steady in the chaos. He thought he saw her mouth move again. Maybe this time he heard his name, spoken gently and urgently.

Smoke tried to focus on it. He tried to hold onto her, but the darkness won.

His eyes slid shut, the sounds of gunfire fading as his body finally gave out, consciousness slipping away into black.

He drifted through it, suspended somewhere between pain and nothing. His body was heavy and distant, as if it no longer fully belonged to him. 

But then she appeared clearly this time. She was closer, more real. Her shape solidified the longer he focused on her. The blur around her face softened, edges sharpening just enough for him to recognize her again with that same bone-deep certainty.

She was kneeling beside him. And that was when Smoke realized he was lying down, though he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him. There was no jungle, no tent, no blood or gunfire, just an endless, quiet space that seemed to exist solely for the two of them.

Her hand rested on his chest.

The contact startled him. Her touch was gentle, fingers splayed as if she was grounding him, anchoring him to something living. She stroked slowly, palm moving over his heart, then up to his shoulder. It didn’t feel sexual, but it was intimate in a way that made his throat tighten. 

“Stay,” he tried to say, though the word never quite left him.

She leaned closer, her hair falling forward slightly, brushing against him. He could feel it against his skin. Her other hand came up to his face, thumb tracing along his jaw with a tenderness that made his chest ache.

Her eyes searched his, filled with something that felt like longing and worry all tangled together. She touched him as if she was checking that he was still there.

Her fingers slid into his hair, cradling the back of his head, holding him steady. Smoke leaned into it instinctively, his body responding even in this in-between place. The pain he’d been carrying dulled, replaced by calmness.

Her mouth moved again, but her lips were near his ear now. This time, sound finally broke through the silence.

Her voice was warm and wrapped in an accent he couldn’t yet place, but it settled into him all the same.

“Come find me,” she whispered.

The words weren’t loud, but they echoed, rippling through him. Her grip tightened briefly, like she was afraid he might slip away before he understood. Then she pulled back.

Her hands lingered for a heartbeat longer, then slipped away. The space around him grew heavier, the quiet giving way to distant noise once more.

Smoke tried to reach for her again, panic flaring as her form began to dissolve.

“Wait–”

Her face was the last thing to go, her expression soft but resolute, like she trusted him to do what she was asking.

Smoke gasped as consciousness slammed back into him.

His eyes flew open to harsh light and unfamiliar sounds, voices calling orders cutting through the remnants of the dream. Pain bloomed sharply through his side, dragging him fully into his body.

But even as reality settled in, her voice lingered.

Come find me.

He lay still, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the medical tent, its pale surface glowing faintly under strung lights. Shadows of movement passed over it as medics and nurses moved outside, their voices low and practiced. Somewhere nearby, a man groaned in his sleep and another coughed.

His body protested immediately. White-hot pain flared along his ribs and side when he tried to shift. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and went still again, letting it pass. The pain was real. Which meant he was too. And she was gone.

The realization settled heavier than the injury. He closed his eyes briefly, half-expecting to see her hovering there again, to feel her hand on his chest. There was nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of his own breathing.

A medic noticed he was awake.

“Easy,” the man said, appearing at his side. “Don’t try to move yet.”

Smoke gave a short nod, throat dry. His voice felt far away. “How bad?”

“It’s bad enough,” the medic replied honestly. “But you’ll live.”

That was something.

Hours passed, or maybe days. Time blurred inside the tent, measured only by shift changes, IV drips, and the dull cycle of pain and sleep. Smoke spoke when spoken to, answered questions, and did what he was told. 

One afternoon, while the light outside had softened into late-day gold, a man in a pressed uniform stepped into the tent. He carried a clipboard under one arm, a manila envelope tucked neatly against it. He scanned the rows of beds until his eyes landed on Smoke. He walked over.

“Private Elijah Moore?” he glanced down to confirm.

Smoke tensed despite himself. “Yes, sir.”

The officer stopped beside his bed. He pulled the envelope free and held it out.

“You’re being medically discharged,” he said.

“Discharged?” Smoke stared at the envelope, then up at the man’s face, searching for correction.

“Yes,” the officer said. “Effective immediately. Your injuries make you unfit for continued service. Transportation arrangements will be made once you’re cleared to travel.”

The envelope was set gently on Smoke’s chest, just above the bandages.

Inside it, folded and official, was his way out. 

Smoke swallowed. He thought of her.

Come find me.

His fingers closed around the edge of the envelope.

“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

The officer nodded once, already turning away, moving on to the next bed.

Smoke lay there long after the man was gone, staring down at the envelope resting against him like something sacred. He was leaving. And now he knew exactly what he was meant to do next.

It took weeks before they finally told him he was cleared.

By then, Smoke had learned the rhythms of the medical camp the same way he learned everything else, observantly. He’d rebuilt strength inch by inch, until the medics nodded with reluctant approval and stamped the paperwork that said he was no longer their responsibility.

The morning he was set to leave, the camp felt different.

Too loud in places, too quiet in others. The jungle still pressed in from the edges, humid and alive, but Smoke was already halfway gone in his mind. His duffel sat at his feet, packed light. There wasn’t much he was taking with him, just some clothes and a few letters.

Stack found him near the edge of camp.

He looked the same and different all at once, but something sharper behind his eyes now. War did that. It carved things into men and left them there.

“So this is it,” Stack said, stopping in front of him.

Smoke nodded. “Looks like it.”

They stood there for a moment, neither rushing to say anything. Around them, other soldiers lingered, some pretending not to watch, others coming over to clap Smoke on the shoulder or pull him briefly into rough hugs. There were handshakes, muttered well-wishes, and promises that sounded hopeful and uncertain all at once.

“Hell of a way to get out,” one of them said.

Smoke huffed softly. “Yeah.”

Stack crossed his arms, studying him. “So you headed home?”

“Eventually,” Smoke replied.

Stack caught it immediately. His grin widened. “It’s that girl?”

Smoke shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“There it is,” Stack said, laughing under his breath. “Man nearly bleeds out and still won’t shut up about a woman he ain’t never met.”

Smoke just shook his head. 

Stack stepped closer, voice dropping. “You better find her and write me. I wanna know if she’s real or if you just got hit in the head too hard.”

“She’s real,” Smoke said without hesitation.

Something shifted in Stack’s expression then, the humor softening into something quieter. “Then I hope you find her.”

They clasped hands, grip firm, forearms locking. Stack pulled him in, holding on longer than expected, the hug tight and grounding, like he was trying to memorize the feel of him.

“I love you, man,” Stack said, voice rough.

Smoke swallowed, arms tightening around him. “I love you too.”

They pulled apart slowly, neither rushing the moment. Stack gave him one last nod, eyes bright but steady.

“Stay alive out there,” he said. “And send that damn letter.”

Smoke hoisted his duffel over his shoulder. “I will.”

He walked away without looking back, boots crunching against the dirt, carrying the war behind him and her whisper ahead of him.

Come find me.

end notes: here we are in the new year! and here we are with my most anticipated story! the full thing is outlined and ready to go! y'all better blow this up 😭. love y'all - - - taglist: @shamansha, @rkiiives, @d1gitalb4rbie, @numb1smokeanniestan, @caramelplug @margepimpson @underated345-blog @tnychellee @loveabledovee @kkbeauty86 @syko-jpg @thegreatlibraryofalex @cardi-bre91 @hotebonynearby @shereeluvssinners  @transparentphantomface @imqueenmelanin @dollys-world224 @storiesbyasl @blue4everrsworld @katezy2x @og-goddesstrill @cocoagadgetsworld @brownskincheyenne @psychicafrorainbow @hdfen2474 @harleycativy @issfaith @virgoobaby @secretisme4 @magnifique2be @blackgirlsrock444 @lestatthelioncourt @juniooox @meannaim @ayishia101

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Report sheds light on decades of Indigenous women’s forced sterilization in Quebec

The number of Indigenous women in Quebec who have been subjected to forced sterilization and other forms of obstetric and gynecological viol

The number of Indigenous women in the province who have been subjected to forced sterilization and other forms of obstetric and gynecological violence is much higher than previously thought, according to a new report. On Tuesday, researchers at the Université du Québec en Abitibi-Témiscaminque (UQAT) released new findings – a follow-up to the first phase of their research published nearly four years ago. At that time, 35 women’s testimonies were collected related to incidents that took place between 1980 and 2019. Twenty-two stories involved cases of forced sterilization.

Continue reading

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[candlesatsunrise]

It just dawned on me that Trey & Drake kinda rap the same. Maybe not 100% but this song gives me those vibes.

[jussanother]

[candlesatsunrise]

Every time I’ve taken a nap this week, I’ve had the strangest dream.

1. Involved Monica’s tour manager and some weird shit happen that caught me up coz I didn’t speak when I knew it was wrong.

2. Don’t remember. It’ll come back to me

3. Today, losing my kindle and phones and just being so devastated that I slept even though we had to check out of the hotels the staff really had to kick us out! Found it in under the desk and told everybody. A lesson in patience and not taking everything to heart. Basically jot fixing things either. And remember that one Buffy Episode where everyone became their cosplay that halloween? Yeah, same thing.

I also learned Zendaya been secretly married since she wore that green dress and debuted her ring. Like they been married for a while.

[brownlyfe]

UP THE PRICE (MY LADY) michael b. jordan x wunmi m.

PART ONE next masterlist cw: sexual content, spanking, jealous!michael summary: a year after the unfortunate leak, rumors are still flooding around about who michael has locked down. to the public it’s still a mystery that they want to solve, and behind closed doors things are moving exactly how he wanted them to.

notes: i haven't updated in a while. so sorry y'all. i got a new job at the beginning of may and i've been trying to get used to this schedule. i've just been busy a lot more, but enjoy.

October 2026

Wunmi's house looked like a storm had completely wrecked it. Drawers were pulled open, clothes spread all over the place, shoes were kicked off in random directions, and couch cushions had been tossed aside. Even the kitchen had things out of place, which never happened.

Wunmi stood in the middle of the living room with her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder while she dug through yet another bag for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered tightly. “I don’t lose things like this.”

On the other end, Michael was quiet for a second, listening to the sound of things shifting and falling in the background.

“Hey, slow down,” he said, calmer than she felt. "You’re tearing the whole place up.”

She let out a sharp exhale, dropping the bag onto the floor before moving to the next thing.

“I already did tear the whole place up,” she shot back, her accent heavily slipping through. “It’s gone, Michael. I’ve looked everywhere.”

He leaned back in his chair on set, phone pressed to his ear, eyes tracking the movement around him. He ignored the faint sound of someone calling for him to be ready in a few minutes.

“It’s not gone, you just misplaced it, baby,” he said steadily.

Wunmi laughed, but there was no humor in it. She yanked open a drawer, rifling through it quickly.

“The one time I take it off and it goes missing,” she said, her voice starting to crack.

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly at that.

“When did you take it off?”

She paused, thinking, her movements slowing for a second.

“The night I washed my hair. I didn’t want it slipping off or getting caught, so I put it—” She stopped, her brows pulling together. “I put it on the counter I think.”

Her hands moved faster again, more frantic now that she was second-guessing herself.

“Wunmi, stop moving for second,” he said firmly.

She didn’t.

“I can’t stop,” she snapped, moving into the living room and dropping to her knees to check under the couch again. “It’s not here.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to stay patient.

“Aye, listen to me,” he called. "It's fine we'll find it and if we don't—"

Her movements slowed just a little.

“I don’t want another one,” she cut in quickly, sitting back on her heels, her chest rising and falling. “You paid too much money for this one, Michael.”

He shook his head, a small frown forming.

“I don’t care about that.”

“Well, I do,” she said immediately, pushing herself up and started to pace. “And it’s not even just that. You—you really thought about it and took the time to pick it out.”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, leaning forward slightly.

“And I’ll easily do it again,” he said.

She huffed under her breath, shaking her head like he just wasn’t getting it.

“That’s not the point,” she murmured.

On his end, someone tapped his shoulder lightly. He nodded without looking at them, waving them off for a second.

“Give me a minute.”

He turned his attention fully back to her.

“Alright, listen. You probably left it at my place,” he said.

Wunmi stopped pacing immediately.

“…No, I didn’t.”

“You might’ve,” he pressed. “Think about it. Last time you were here—”

“That was a week ago,” she cut in, frustration creeping back in. “And I didn’t take it off there.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Why would I take it off there and not put it back on?”

He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it.

“I don’t know. You do a lot when you’re over here.”

That earned him a small, irritated huff.

“Michael,” she warned.

He let out a quiet breath, easing back a little.

“Alright, alright. All I’m saying is it’s somewhere. It didn’t just disappear.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she turned slowly, looking over the mess of her home again. The reality of it hit her and her eyes started to burn.

“I don't like not having it on,” she admitted softly.

“Hey, don't do that,” Michael said gently.

She pressed her lips together, blinking a few times as she crouched down again, picking up a pillow just to check under it as if she hadn’t already done that ten times before.

“I just—” she started, her voice wobbling slightly. “You were so thoughtful with it. And now I’ve just lost it and you're being far too calm.”

“Because you're doing enough panicking for the both of us, baby. I'm not going to say it again but you didn't lose it, you just misplaced it." he said.

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either.

“Michael—”

“I’m serious,” he cut in. “You don’t need to stress yourself out like this. It’s not worth it.”

She let out a long breath, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all of it.

On his end, someone called out for him again. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

“I gotta go,” he told her.

Wunmi nodded even though he couldn’t see it, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of a blanket.

“…Okay.”

He didn’t hang up right away.

“You good?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“…I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t fully believe that.

“Stop tearing your house up and take a break. I'll look for it when I get back. And if we can't find it then I'll get you another one,” he spoke lightly.

“Okay,” she said finally, even though it wasn’t fully okay.

“Alright,” he replied.

“…Be careful. I love you,” she added quietly.

“I love you too.”

The call ended and wunmi stood there in the middle of the mess. Her eyes drifted back down to her bare finger. It just felt so wrong.

She swallowed, pressing her lips together before letting out a slow breath. Her gaze moved around the room one more time, then she shook her head slightly, stepping over a pile of clothes as she moved toward the couch. She sank down into it, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

Wunmi sat there for a while, staring at nothing. Her mind tried to retrace every step she’d taken over the last few days. She pressed her lips together, then pushed herself up from the couch with a quiet exhale.

If she wasn’t going to find it right now, then she at least wasn’t going to keep living in the middle of a disaster. So she started with the living room. She picked things up and put them back into place. Every now and then her eyes would flick down to her hand out of habit, but each time it annoyed her.

She cleaned the kitchen next. Then moved to her bedroom. She was haflway through folding her thrown around clothes when her phone rang from somewhere behind her. She paused, listening for a second before turning and spotting it on the bed. She was able to that it was her good friend Danielle Brooks calling her.

Wunmi blinked, then walked over, picking it up and answering as she sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“Hello?”

“Wunmi!” Danielle’s voice came through bright and warm, full of energy. “Girl, where have you been?”

A small smile pulled at Wunmi’s mouth instantly.

“I’ve been around. You're the one that's been busy,” she said lightly, tucking one leg under herself.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Danielle laughed. “But still. I feel like I haven’t seen you seen you in forever.”

“Same,” Wunmi admitted, her voice softening just a little.

“So what you doing today?” Danielle asked.

Wunmi glanced around her half-clean room

“Nothing, really. Just at home,” she said.

“Perfect. That means you can come out to lunch with me,” Danielle replied immediately.

Wunmi huffed out a quiet laugh.

“You didn't even ask me!”

“Why would I? And I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't say it,” Danielle said.

Wunmi shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I wasn’t going to say no.”

“Good, because I already have the reservations made,” Danielle said. “So you're definitely coming?”

Wunmi hesitated for half a second, her thumb brushed lightly over her ring finger without thinking.

“I’ll come,” she said.

“I'll send you the address because I’m already on the way there, so don’t take forever.”

Wunmi laughed softly. “I won’t.”

“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay.”

The call ended and Wunmi immediately got to work.

She stood in front of her closet for a minute, scanning her options before deciding on something simple. Once she was dressed, she moved to the mirror, smoothing her hands over her outfit, adjusting small things here and there.

Her gaze lifted to her reflection then dropped. Her bare hand came up slightly.

“…It’s fine,” she murmured to herself.

She reached for her shades, sliding them on before grabbing her purse. The sun hit her with a warmth as soon as she stepped outside. She locked her door, adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then headed to her car.

During the entire drive, Wunmi had the music on low playing softly in the background with er fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.

Eventually she pulled up to the restauraunt. She parked, grabbed her purse, and stepped out, adjusting her shades slightly as she made her way inside. The place was lively but not overwhelming. Soft chatter filled the air, the clink of glasses and silverware blending into the background. She approached the host stand, offering a small smile.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” the hostess greeted warmly. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes. I believe it's under Danielle Brooks?”

The hostess nodded immediately, grabbing a menu. “Right this way.”

Wunmi followed her through the restaurant, weaving past tables and people until they reached the patio doors. Danielle sat at one of the tables, sunglasses perched on the top of her face, her posture relaxed as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up just in time, her expression breaking into a wide smile as she stood up.

“Wunmi!”

They closed the distance quickly, wrapping each other in a warm hug.

“Hey,” Wunmi laughed softly against her shoulder.

“Hey, stranger,” Danielle teased, squeezing her a little tighter before pulling back to look at her.

They both took a second, really taking each other in.

“It’s been too long,” Danielle said.

“It has,” Wunmi agreed.

Danielle shook her head, smiling. “You look good.”

“So do you,” Wunmi replied easily.

They both laughed, that easy, familiar energy settling right back into place like no time had passed at all.

“Come on,” Danielle said, gesturing toward the table as they sat back down.

Wunmi slid into her seat, setting her purse down beside her, her shades still on as she leaned back slightly.

Their server approached not too long after they sat down, a polite smile on her face as she glanced between them.

“Hi, ladies. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Danielle didn’t even look at the menu.

“Yeah, I’ll do a margarita,” she said easily, handing it back.

The server nodded, then turned to Wunmi.

“And for you?”

Wunmi glanced down briefly, then back up. “I’ll have a French 75.”

“Perfect. I’ll be right back with those.”

They both murmured a quick thank you before the server stepped away. The second she was out of earshot, Danielle leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.

“Okay, now talk to me. What's been going on with you?,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully.

Wunmi smiled, shaking her head a little as she settled back in her chair.

“Just work and life like always,” she said.

Danielle hummed like she halfway believed her, her gaze drifting casually as she listened. Her eyes dropped right to Wunmi’s hands that were resting on the table.

Wunmi didn’t even realize what Danielle was looking at until she felt her reach across the table.

Danielle grabbed her hand, lifting it, her face twisting in confusion.

“Wait, where's your ring?”

Wunmi’s stomach dropped. She let out a slow sigh, her shoulders sinking just a little.

“I lost it.”

Danielle’s head snapped up.

“Already?!” she gasped.

Wunmi let out another breath, this one heavier, her lips pressing together as she looked down at their hands.

“I’ve been looking for it for days, and I don't know where it is,” she admitted, sounding almost hurt.

“Oh, baby…” she murmured, still holding her hand.

“I turned my whole house upside down to look for it. I don't understand how I lost it…” she trailed off.

Danielle squeezed her hand gently.

“What did Michael say?”

Wunmi let out a small, humorless huff.

“He told me to calm down and we'd find it,” she said. “Or he’d just get me another one if we couldn’t.”

Danielle’s brows lifted slightly. “And you didn’t like that.”

“No,” Wunmi said immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want another one.”

Danielle nodded slowly, understanding settling in her expression.

“Mm, I get it,” she said gently. “I lost mine before.”

Wunmi blinked, looking up at her.

“You did?”

“Mhm,” Danielle nodded. “Thought I was about to pass out when I realized it too. Tore my whole house up just like you.”

Wunmi let out a small breath, something easing in her chest just a little. “Did you find it?”

Danielle smiled. “I did. It was in the most random place too. You're gonna find it, so don't stress yourself out too much.”

Right then, their server returned with their drinks, carefully placing them down in front of them.

“Margarita for you, and a French 75 for you ,” she said, setting Wunmi’s glass down gently. “Are you ladies ready to order?”

Danielle picked up her drink, taking a quick sip before nodding.

“Yes please."

They both grabbed their menus again, scanning over them briefly as they placed their orders. Danielle confidently went first, while Wunmi took a second longer. The server nodded, jotting everything down. Once she walked away again, Danielle leaned back in her chair, lifting her glass slightly.

They clinked their glasses together and fell right back into conversation. They talked about everything. From work to people to random stories. Danielle filled her in on things she had missed, little industry gossip here and there that made Wunmi laugh and shake her head. Wunmi shared her own updates of things she hadn’t realized she needed to talk about until she was saying them out loud.

Time moved quickly and they hardly even noticed. Their food came and went, plates slowly clearing as they kept talking.

Danielle tilted her head slightly, a knowing look on her face.

“So,” she started, dragging the word out just a little. “How’s wedding planning going?”

Wunmi let out a soft laugh immediately, shaking her head as she set her fork down.

"It’s…a lot.”

“I know it is,” Danielle grinned.

“It’s not even the planning itself, it's the timing,” Wunmi continued.

She reached for her glass, taking a small sip before continuing.

“Michael’s been filming, so everything has to work around his schedule. And when he does have time, it’s like we have to squeeze in ten different things at once. It’s just a lot of back and forth. All of the calls and meetings. where we have to make decisions so quick because we don't know when the next free window is,” Wunmi said.

“So do y’all have a date yet?”

Wunmi picked up her glass and took a small sip.

“Not officially, but we've been looking at spring time or maybe early summer,” she said. “But we’ve been looking at spring. Maybe early summer. I really want May, but that's only if everything lines up properly.”

Danielle raised a brow. “Oh, that's soon soon.”

Wunmi gave a small nod, setting her glass back down. her fingers brushed along the stem of her glass. All of it felt too real.

Wunmi smiled faintly, her fingers brushing along the stem of her glass. The idea of it felt real when she said it out loud like that.

Danielle studied her for a second, then asked, “Are y’all planning to go public before then?”

Wunmi shrugged, her expression easy.

“I don’t really care about that right now. It's not at the top of my list,” she said. “Michael said he’d rather wait until after we get married.”

Danielle hummed, like she was considering that, then a small smirk crept onto her face.

“Mm. Maybe he’s just trying to get his last little bit of fun in ebfore everybody really backs off,” she said casually.

Wunmi didn’t even hesitate to say, “I’m not worried about that.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Wunmi shook her head, leaning back into her seat.

“He's already learned his lesson,” she said simply.

That made Danielle laugh.

“Okay, I hear you,” she said, holding her hands up.

Wunmi just gave a small unbothered smile.

They stayed for a little longer just talking. Eventually their plates were cleared and their dreams were long finisehed.

Danielle glanced around, then back at Wunmi.

“You ready?”

Wunmi nodded. “Yeah.”

Danielle lifted her hand slightly, catching their server’s attention as she passed by.

“Whenever you get a chance, can we get the check?”

The server nodded with a polite smile.

“Of course.”

She disappeared for a moment, and Wunmi reached for her purse. It didn't take long for the server to come back. She didn't set anything on the table. Instead she gave the two women a careful look.

“Actually, your check has already been taken care of,” she said.

Wunmi frowned slightly. “By who?”

The server gave a small, knowing smile, then subtly angled her head toward the inside of the restaurant.

“The gentleman over there.”

Both Wunmi and Danielle turned, their gazes following the direction she’d indicated.

Inside, a small group of men sat at a table not too far from the patio doors. It took a second to even figure out which one she meant until they watched as one of the men leaned back slightly, his attention already on them.

His face wasn’t fully clear from where they were. The lighting inside hit at an angle, shadowing part of it, and he had on a hat that didn’t help. Wunmi narrowed her eyes just a little, trying to place him.

They both turned back toward the server.

“Well…tell him thank you,” Danielle said, still sounding unsure.

“Of course,” the server replied before she walked away.

Wunmi and Danielle exchanged a look. Then they both glanced back toward the table, but the moment had already shifted. The man wasn’t as clearly visible anymore, someone else moving in front of him briefly, the angle changing just enough to make it harder to get a good look.

Danielle leaned closer.

“Do you know him?”

“I don’t—” Wunmi started, then stopped, her eyes narrowing again slightly. “I mean, I can’t see him properly.”

They sat there for another moment, trying to piece it together, but neither of them could land on anything. And then the patio door opened. The man from inside stepped out into the sunlight, moving with an easy confidence. As he got closer, the shadows fell away from his face and Wunmi's breath caught.

Her eyes widened almost immediately in recognition. She quickly turned her head toward Danielle, surprise flickering across her face.

“What? Who is that?” Danielle asked under her breath.

Wunmi didn’t answer. She just looked back at the man as he closed the distance to their table.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly as he reached the table.

Danielle straightened slightly, already smiling out of politeness.

“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for paying for us. You didn’t have to do that.”

He waved it off with a small shrug.

“It’s nothing. I figured I'd use it as an excuse to come say hello. Hope you don't mind,” he said.

Danielle glanced at Wunmi briefly before looking back at him.

“No, not at all. That was relaly nice of you,” she said.

Wunmi hadn’t said a word. She kept her posture composed, but her gaze had shifted off to the side for a moment, like she needed a second to collect herself before fully engaging. Because standing in front of her was someone she hadn't seen in literal years. And wasn't expecting to see again.

Tyree Lawson had been someone she had been seeing before Michael even came into the picture. They hadn’t ended badly. They just ended. The distance, timing, and their careers pulled them in opposite directions. He got traded, she picked up a new acting job, and their lives moved on.

But she remembered him. And judging by the way he was looking at her now, he remembered her just as well.

His attention shifted fully to her, a slow smile pulling at his mouth.

“Hi.”

Wunmi cleared her throat softly, finally looking at him.

“Hello.”

The formality of it made his brows lift immediately. A small, amused crease formed between them as he tilted his head.

“Why you acting like you don’t know me?”

Danielle’s eyes flicked between them instantly.

Wunmi exhaled quietly, then extended her hand out.

“Hi,” she said a little less stiff.

He reached out and took it, his grip warm. His thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand.

“How you been?” he asked.

Wunmi gave him a sharp look and he caught the meaning of it immediately. He smirked.

“I’ve been fine,” she said while pulling her hand back. “Very busy, but fine.”

“I see that. You been everywhere lately,” he nodded, leaning back slightly so he could take her in properly. “I didn’t get to tell you before, but I saw Sinners.”

Wunmi’s expression shifted just a little.

“And?” she asked.

“I liked it a lot. You did your thing in that,” he said. "I'm proud of you."

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I appreciate that.”

There was a brief pause before she shifted the focus.

“What are you doing out here? Didn't the season start?” she asked.

He nodded once. “Yeah, it did. I’ve just got some business to handle out here before I head back.”

Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly. “What business?”

“I started a winery.” A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Congratulations. That's big,” her tone was more warm and animated now.

“Thank you. The grand opening's coming up soon,” he paused. "You should come."

Wunmi looked at him, and for a split second she let whatever was in the air sink into her. She became a little too soft and a little too open.

“I would have to see, but I think it should be fine,” she said.

Danielle sat back in her chair, watching the exchange unfold with quiet interest. Her gaze moved between them. It wasn’t hard to read the situation. There was clearly history there and it hadn't fully gone away.

He was satisfied with that answer.

“I’ll send you the details.”

“Okay,” Wunmi said.

There was another small pause before he glanced between them, stepping back just slightly.

“I won’t hold you any longer,” he added. “Just wanted to say hello.”

Wunmi nodded, pushing her chair back as she stood.

“Yeah, of course.”

She stepped around the table, closing the small distance between them. And they hugged.

This time their contact wasn't awkward. In fact it was easy and familiar. His arms wrapped around her firmly, pulling her in. They slid a little lower than they probably should have.

Wunmi inhaled softly at the contact, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. He’d always been built strong and solid. Her hands rested against him briefly, her fingers pressing lightly against his back. She let out a quiet hum without meaning to.

He dipped his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before pulling back, his hands lingering at her waist for just a second longer.

“Good seeing you,” he murmured.

“You too,” she replied.

He gave Danielle a quick nod before turning and heading back inside.

Nobody noticed the the camera lens across the street taking pictures of them.

Wunmi sat back down, adjusting her bag at her side, and Danielle was staring at her hard. Wunmi didn’t meet her eyes right away. She just reached for her shades instead and slid them back up.

“What?” she casually asked.

Danielle leaned back, crossing her arms loosely.

“You might not be worried about Michael with other women, but he should probably be a little worried about you,” she said pointedly.

Wunmi let out a quiet hum, not denying it, but not feeding into it either. She grabbed her purse, standing up.

“You ready?” she asked simply.

Danielle stared at her for a second longer, then shook her head with a small laugh as she stood too.

“Yeah, I'm ready,” she said.

A few days had passed, and the ring still hadn’t turned up.

Wunmi had stopped tearing her house apart, but the absence hadn’t gotten any easier. If anything, it got worse. Every time she reached for things or rested her hand on her lap she was reminded of it not being there.

She was leisurely stretched out across her couch when Michael called, one leg tucked under her, and her sketchbook open beside her with loose pages scattered around it.

“Hey,” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she absentmindedly flipped through one of the pages.

“Hey baby,” Michael’s voice came through low and tired. “You find it yet?”

She let out a small sigh. “…No.”

There was a brief pause on his end.

“It's fine.”

Wunmi frowned slightly, her fingers coming up to rub over her bare ring finger.

“It doesn’t feel fine,” she muttered. “My finger feels weird without it.”

That earned a quiet exhale from him, something close to a soft chuckle.

“You'll be okay. It's not permanent,” he said.

She hummed under breath, shifting a little on the couch.

“So how are you feeling about everything?” sheasked while glancing down at her sketchbook.

“About what?” he asked.

“The wedding,” she said.

There was a small pause.

“I’m good,” he answered. “Why? You not?”

“I am,” she said quickly. “It's just that there’s a lot to keep up with.”

Her hand moved across the page, tracing over one of the rough designs she’d started.

“And don’t forget we have that meeting next week with the planner coming up,” she added.

“Yeah, I remember,” he said.

She sat up a bit to reach for a pencil.

“I’ve been trying to get a head start on my dress too,” she continued. “I started sketching some ideas, but I don't know how I feel about any of them.”

On the other end, Michael was half-listening when his phone buzzed. He pulled it away from his ear just enough to glance down at the notification to see that it was a text from his publicist.

How do you want to handle this?

A twitter link followed.

His brows pulled together as he tapped it. The page loaded and his eyes instantly went to the caption.

Academy nominee Wunmi Mosaku and Dallas Cowboys defensive lineman Tyree Lawson seen pretty close at lunch.

Michael blinked once. Then he looked down at the photos. There were multiple pictures of Wunmi and Tyree hugging. His arms wrapped low around her waist and his cheek pressed against hers. There was even a picture where his lips were pressed against her cheek.

Michael was utterly confused and tense all at once.

“Aye, what is this?”

His voice cut her off mid-sentence.

“What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, he sent the link to her. And at the exact same time, her phone buzzed against her ear. She pulled it away to see that it was a text from her own publicist.

We need to get in front of this.

Her stomach dropped. And as soon as the tweet loaded she felt her whole breath evaporate.

“Oh my God.”

Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the photos, her chest tightening.

On the other end, Michael said nothing he just waited. His silence made her pulse stutter.

“Okay, wait. When I went out with Danielle the other day someone paid for our meal. It was him,” she said quickly. "Then he came over to our table."

“Y’all look pretty close.”

The way he said it was too controlled.

Wunmi exhaled, already feeling that dangerous shift in him.

“Do you remember the guy I told you about that came before you?” she asked.

There was a beat. Then Michael hummed.

She swallowed. “That’s him.”

He remembered the conversation and the way she described how serious it could've been and how much she liked him before things fell apart. And now he was looking at pictures of that same man with his hands on her like that.

“So then what,” Michael said slowly.

Wunmi shifted on the couch, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone.

“It wasn’t like that, baby,” she said. “He just paid for our food and came to say hi. That’s it.”

Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“That don’t look like just saying hi.”

Wunmi frowned, her chest tightening.

“I didn’t know what to do. It caught me off guard,” she said.

He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it.

“You didn’t know what to do?” he echoed.

She heard the edge in his voice.

“I mean—no,” she said, her tone softening. “I wasn’t expecting to see him. And he just came up—”

“And you hugging him like that?” Michael cut in.

Her lips parted, then pressed together again.

“He did all of that,” she said, quieter now.

“That don’t change what it look like.”

Wunmi exhaled, her shoulders sinking slightly.

“It wasn’t anything. You're making it more than it was,” she insisted.

Michael didn’t respond right away because then he realized something that made this all that much worse.

“And you ain’t have your ring on. Did you at least tell him you were engaged?”

Wunmi froze. She didn't answer right away which made Michael grunt in frustration.

"Oluwunmi…"

“…No,” she admitted softly. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

Michael let out another low, frustrated grunt, dragging a hand down his face.

“Aight,” he said. "It's cool."

Wunmi sat up straight.

“It’s not—Michael, listen—”

“I said it’s cool,” he repeated.

But it didn’t sound like it was at all.

“I’ll see you later.”

Her brows pulled together immediately. And she went to ask him what he meant by that, but the line had already gone dead. She pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen for a second, confusion settling in just as fast as the panic. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two days. So really what did he mean?

The rest of the day blurred together.

Her phone stayed in her hand. If she wasn’t on a call, she was answering a text. If she wasn’t answering a text, she was reading something she wished she hadn’t.

Her publicist called her once. Then again. Then a third time, looping her into another call but this time with Michael’s publicist.

Wunmi pressed her lips together, pacing slowly through her living room as she listened, her free hand resting against her forehead.

“It wasn’t like that,” she said for what felt like the tenth time. “He came up to us and I didn’t even know he was there until—”

“We understand that, but perception matters far more than intent right now,” her publicist cut in gently.

Wunmi closed her eyes as she took that statement in because of course it did.

They talked through options of what to do. If she wanted to make a statement and the timing of it, or if she would want to stay silent. By the time that call ended, her head was pounding. And of course, it didn’t stop there.

Danielle called her as well.

“Girl, are you okay?” she asked immediately.

“I’m fine,” Wunmi said, even though she wasn’t.

Danielle sighed. “I didn’t even notice anybody out there taking pictures like that.”

“Me either,” Wunmi muttered, dropping down onto her couch again.

“You talked to Michael?”

“I did and let's just say it didn't go too well. He hung up on me.”

“Okay, well, that's not ideal,” she said slowly.

Wunmi huffed a small, humorless breath. “No, it’s not.”

After that the calls just kept coming. From close friends to family. And they were all asking questions that she didn't really feel like answering. The only person who hadn't was Michael. And not for lack of trying on her part either.

Every time she tried to call him, it went unanswered. Every text was stuck on delivered. She even checked his location at one point, but it was off.

When evening came, her energy was completely drained.

She sat curled up on her couch, her phone resting in her lap as she stared at the screen. The tweet was still circulating, but with more comments and opinions. More people were inserting themselves into something they didn’t understand.

Her thumb hovered over Michael’s name for the fiftieth time that day. She still had nothing from him. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed hard, blinking a few times as that familiar pressure started building behind her eyes. All of this was getting to her.

She slowly moved through her nighttime routine. The house fell still the moment she turned the lights off ready to curl up and hide from the world.

She grabbed her phone one last time, glancing at it, and still nothing. Wunmi let out a quiet breath and set it down on the table. She had started to head to her bedroom when there was a knock on her door.

It was far too late for anyone to just be showing up. So she stood still for second to listen. But then another louder and more insistent knock came.

Her heart picked up slightly as she walked toward the door with cautious steps.

“Who is it?” she called out.

No verbal answer, only another knock.

She hesitated for half a second before unlocking the door and pulling it open. And her breath caught when she saw Michael standing there with a hood pulled over his head and hands tucked into his pockets.

“Michael—” she gasped in relief. “Baby, I am so—”

“Come on,” he cut in firmly. He left no room for disagreeament.

When she didn't move, Michael stared at her harder.

“Let's go,” he repeated, stepping slightly to the side and holding the door open wider.

Her breath hitched. It was something about the look in her eye that made her really not want to argue with him. She simply turned and went to grab her phone and purse off of the table. She walked past him, his presence heavy as she went by.

He stepped out right after her, pulling the door shut and locking it without a word. Wunmi looked back slightly to watch him. He slipped by her to lead the way.

Once he got to the car, Michael pulled the passenger door open for her to get into. She climbed in with her heart beating faster than normal. The door shut and a second later, he was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.

The silence inside the car was thick during the drive.

Wunmi glanced at him. His hands were tight on the wheel and eyes forward. She opened her mouth then closed it. Whatever she was about to say didn’t feel like it would go right, so she stayed quiet.

The drive only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it felt much longer.

As soon as they pulled into his driveway, he was out of the car almost immediately, coming around to her side and opening her door before she could even reach for it.

She stepped out, watching him carefully. He led the way inside, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her. She stepped into the house, instantly being met with a comfortable familiarity. He closed the door behind them, locking it again before moving past her.

“Where were you when you took it off?” he asked roughly.

Wunmi blinked, trying to keep up.

“I was washing my hair, but that was back at my—”

She could hardly answer before he turned and headed straight for the stairs. Wunmi followed quickly behind him.

“Michael—” She called for him as they swiftly moved up the stairs.

She knew she hadn’t taken her ring off here, so she didn’t argue. At this point, she didn’t have the energy to push back on anything. Not after the day she’d had. So she just followed him into the bathroom and watched him as he immediately got to work.

He moved around the space like a man on a mission, opening drawers, shifting bottles, checking along the edges of the counter and behind things that hadn’t been touched in days. His movements were completely focused yet annoyed.

Wunmi stood in the doorway for a second before stepping in, her arms folding loosely over her chest as she watched him.

“Michael…” she started softly.

He didn’t even look at her. Instead, he crouched down instead, checking along the base of the cabinets, his fingers running along the small spaces.

Wunmi swallowed. Then slowly, she moved further in, kneeling down on the opposite side, her movements much more hesitant. She checked places she knew didn’t make sense. Behind containers and inside small trays and corners that didn’t hold anything. She wasn’t really expecting to find it, but she helped anyway.

The only sounds in the room were the soft shifting of items and Michael’s quiet, frustrated exhales every few minutes. He was getting irritated and she could not only hear it but see it as well. His shoulders were tight and his jaw flexed every time he searched and came up empty-handed.

Enough time passed for the silence between them to stretch and fill the room.

Michael was crouched low near the side of the counter, his fingers reaching into a narrow gap between the cabinet and the wall. His face was scrunched together when he pulled his hand back. And there it was in his fingers. The ring.

Wunmi let out a relieved exhale, “Oh thank God.”

Michael stood up, holding it between his fingers as he wiped it off against the side of his shirt, inspecting it briefly. Then he looked at her.

“Come here.” His voice was steady.

Wunmi carefully pushed herself up and walked over to him. He held his hand out. She reached for it, her fingers slipping into his automatically. He lifted the ring slightly between them, his gaze flicking from it to her.

“You better not lose it again.”

Wunmi’s lips parted slightly, and she nodded, her voice soft, “I won’t.”

He slid it back onto her finger, the cool metal settling into place.

Wunmi exhaled shakily, her shoulders dropping just a little as she looked down at it. Relief flooded her instantly.

Michael’s expression softened as he took her hand again, bringing it up and pressing a kiss to it. Then he stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. He pushed his lips onto hers and she melted into the kiss almost immediately. Her hands came up to rest agaisnt his chest before sliding up around his neck.

The tension from earlier simmered.

She pulled back just a little, her forehead brushing against his as she looked at him.

“I’m sorry for not really telling you,” she said softly.

“It’s alright. I get it,” he said after a second. “I guess this is my payback.”

Wunmi frowned faintly.

“Payback? For what?”

He looked at her, something protective settling back into his expression.

“I don’t like nobody thinking they can come up and be that comfortable with you,” he said. “Especially not somebody you had something with.”

Her breath caught slightly.

“I didn’t—”

“I know. But I'm saying,” he said firmly. "I'm protective over what's mine."

His hand pressed lightly against her waist.

“And I don’t want you going out without your ring so we don't have this problem again,” he added.

Wunmi nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly against him.

“Okay.”

He leaned in again, kissing her slower this time.

Her arms wrapped around him fully now, holding him close as she lifted her hand slightly behind his head. The ring caught the light. She smiled softly against his lips.

“I really did miss it,” she murmured.

Michael let out a quiet breath against her skin, his lips trailing from her jaw down to her neck, pressing a few soft kisses there.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her grip tightening just a little. After a moment, she pulled back slightly, catching her breath.

“What are you doing back already? I thought you weren't coming back for two more days,” she asked.

Michael looked at her for a second, then shrugged lightly.

“I had to come handle my business.”

Wunmi bit her lip, her gaze dropping for a second.

“I really am sorry, Michael,” she said again.

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to look at her fully.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m tired.”

He moved past her, already pulling his hoodie off as he headed toward the bedroom.

Wunmi followed, watching him as he stripped down to his boxers.

They both slipped into bed without much more conversation. Wunmi settled in beside him, her hand resting against his chest, her thumb brushing lightly over the ring.

December 2026

Michael had finally wrapped filming for Miami Vice, which meant he was home more, but somehow, that hadn’t made life any less hectic. Now they had wedding stress and awards and press season.

Wunmi had already picked up several nominations. Her name was floating in conversations again. All of the hype was starting to stack on top of everything else.

The wedding planning had been intense. They officially had their date, the venue was picked, and invitations had been sent. That should've made things easier, but it didn't.

Now it was all about the details. They still had to lock a lot of things in while coordinating their schedules around two careers that clearly weren't slowing down. It was a lot.

And Michael had been on her more than usual. He was always touching her or near her. Especially after the whole Tyree thing. Even though they had moved past it, something about it had stuck with him.

They were on the couch with the TV playing something neither of them was fully paying attention to.

Wunmi sat sideways, her legs draped across Michael’s lap and her back resting against the arm of the couch. Her phone was in her hand, thumbs moving as she typed.

Michael’s hand rested on her calf, absentmindedly sliding down to her ankle before coming back up again. His other hand lifted her foot slightly, thumb pressing into the arch, working it gently.

Wunmi exhaled softly at the pressure, not even looking up from her phone.

“Mm,” she hummed.

Michael glanced at her.

“Who you texting?”

“I'm just updating the bridesmaids,” she said while typing.

“About what?”

“The dates that we agreed on for our trips. And the fittings."

Michael shook his head slightly, a quiet breath leaving him.

“This is still so crazy to me,” he muttered.

Wunmi glanced at him briefly, a small smile pulling at her lips.

“What is?”

“The fact that we're getting married.”

“I’m excited,” Wunmi's smile softened.

Michael smiled back at her, then went back to rubbing her foot.

She returned her attention to her phone. And just then a new text came in from an unknown number. Her brows pulled together in confusion as she opened it.

The first message was a picture of an invitation. Then there was a text right under it.

Can’t wait to see you.

Wunmi was utterly confused, until she scrolled up slightly, looked at the number again, then back at the image. That was when it all clicked.

“Oh.”

Michael’s hand paused slightly against her foot.

“What?”

Wunmi’s lips pressed together as she read it again.

“I just got an invitation,” she said.

“To what?”

She hesitated for a second.

“Tyree’s winery opening.”

Michael’s hand stilled completely.

“No.”

It was an immediate rejection that took Wunmi aback.

“You didn’t even let me explain.”

“Didn't have to,” he said as he leaned back against the couch.

Wunmi let out a small breath, sitting up a little.

“He just sent it to me and I don't even have his number,” she added.

“I don’t care. You're not going,” Michael said. His hand dropped from her foot, resting on her leg instead, his fingers tapping once against her skin.

Wunmi frowned, “Baby—”

“You're not going,” he repeated.

She shifted, pulling one of her legs in so she could turn toward him more.

“But I kind of want to go.”

Michael’s eyes snapped to her. “Why?”

Wunmi blinked at his tone, then exhaled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just doesn't feel like a big deal. It's a grand opening, so we'll be in public. And it's not like I'm sneaking off somewhere with him.”

Michael stared at her completely unmoved.

“That’s not the point, baby.”

"Then what is the point?" Wunmi tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t trust him.”

Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly.

“It sounds like you don’t trust me?”

“That's not what I said. I trust you,” he said immediately.

“Then—”

“I don’t trust him,” he repeated, slower this time. “And I don’t like the idea of you going somewhere he invited you to like that.”

Wunmi sighed softly, her shoulders dropping a little.

“It’s not like I have feelings for him. Whatever was there is gone,” she said.

Michael’s gaze stayed on her.

“That doesn’t mean it’s gone for him. Especially after how them pictures looked. Now he's inviting you out. I don't like that,” he said.

“I’d be wearing my ring,” she said quietly.

Michael let out a short breath, shaking his head, “That don’t stop nothing if somebody don’t care.”

Wunmi studied him for a second.

“So what? I just don't go?” she asked softly.

“Not unless I’m there,” he said.

Wunmi leaned back against the couch again, thinking.

“I don’t even know if you can go. You might have press,” she said.

“Then you not going,” he replied without hesitation.

She let out a quiet huff, somewhere between frustration and understanding.

“Michael…”

He reached for her leg again, pulling it back across his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh before settling there.

“I’m serious. I'm not about to have a repeat of that,” he said.

Wunmi looked at him, really looked at him this time, and she saw the tension still in his body. So she decided to concede.

“Okay,” she said after a second.

Michael’s shoulders relaxed a bit, his thumb moving against her leg.

The following weekend came quicker than Wunmi was honestly ready for. Between wedding meetings, awards conversations, and Michael attached to her to her body every second, the days just blurred together. Yet she still found time to get ready for unplanned events.

Music was playing lowly from downstairs while Michael moved around the room getting dressed.

Wunmi sat at her vanity in their bedroom, one leg crossed over the other as she leaned closer to the mirror. She had gotten her hair done a few days ago. It was in soft, full curls that fell around her shoulders. Her makeup was simple, especially since she didn't feel like going through her glam team.

She dabbed lightly beneath one eye when she heard Michael’s footsteps getting closer. A second later, he appeared in the mirror behind her with a hoodie on and cologne loud. He glanced at her reflection immediately.

“I’m about to head out,” he said.

Wunmi hummed softly. “Okay.”

But then his eyes narrowed, because she was clearly getting ready too.

“Where you going?”

Wunmi kept her expression neutral as she reached for her gloss.

“Out.”

Michael leaned one shoulder against the doorway, "Out where?"

"Just out," she shrugged.

His eyes stayed on her through the mirror for another second longer than necessary. He was clearly suspicious and she could feel it. But after a moment, he pushed off the doorway and walked over behind her instead. His hands settled warmly onto her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly into the muscles there.

Wunmi relaxed under the touch.

“You look pretty,” he murmured.

A small smile pulled at her lips, “Thank you.”

His hands slid down slowly before he leaned down toward her face.

“Wait—” she laughed softly, turning her head slightly. “You’re gonna mess up my lip gloss.”

“I don’t care.”

Before she could protest again, his hand tilted her chin toward him and he kissed her anyway. It was only a soft quick one, but it was annoyingly affectionate.

When they pulled apart, Michael looked entirely too satisfied with himself. His hands lingered on her shoulders a second longer before he straightened back up.

“You got my card?”

“Why would I need your card?”

“Just in case.”

“I’m not going to need it.”

Michael reached over and picked up her purse from the vanity chair anyway, unzipping it and slipping the black card inside.

Wunmi rolled her eyes softly but didn’t argue.

He leaned down one more time, brushing his lips briefly against the top of her head this time.

“Text me when you get where you going.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed her shoulder once before finally heading out of the room.

Wunmi waited until she heard the front door downstairs close, then she exhaled. She walked over to her closet to get her dress for the evening. The dress was all-black, but it hugged her body absolutely perfectly.

She stepped into it carefully, pulling it up slowly, and adjusting it into place. Then she turned toward the mirror to look at herself. And honestly she looked a little too good.

She knew that Michael would hate to see her looking this good and going there. Which was exactly why she hadn't told him where she was going. She knew how her man would react, but she also knew that if she didn't go Tyree would only push harder. He was the kind of man that liked the chase. He only got more interested when someone pulled away.

Wunmi slipped on her heels, then sprayed perfume lightly along her neck and wrists. She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs.

When she made it outside the air was cooler than it had been earlier in the week. Her heels clicked softly against the driveway as she walked toward her car. Once inside, she checked herself quickly in the mirror, then started the engine.

The drive was long enough to give her time to think. Streetlights blurred past as her fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.

Her thoughts swirled with a mix of Michael and Tyree. All she could really think about is if they got caught again just like how they got caught at the restaraunt. Her hand tightened on the wheel and her ring caught the passing lights immediately. She was just glad that she had it on this time.

The venue was on the other side of town, so she ran into some thick traffic. By the time she finally pulled up it was packed. A line of cars stretched down the block. Dozens of blacked-out vehicles rolled forward one after another as valet attendants moved quickly to get them in and out.

Wunmi slowed as she pulled up, immediately spotting the entrance ahead glowing warm against the night. The building itself was gorgeous with modern architecture, dark wood accents, and huge windows revealing pieces of the event happening inside.

Before she could even fully put the car in park, a valet attendant was already stepping forward and opening her door.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

Wunmi gave him a polite smile as she grabbed her purse and phone.

“Thank you.”

The cool evening air brushing against her skin as she stepped out carefully in her heels. A few heads turned as she straightened up fully, smoothing a hand lightly over her dress before handing over her keys.

“Enjoy your evening,” the valet said.

Wunmi nodded softly before making her way toward the entrance.

As soon as she entered into the venue, the more impressed she became because it was beautiful. The lighting was dim with warm gold tones bouncing off dark interiors and polished surfaces. Music floated through the air low enough for conversation, and the entire place smelled faintly of wood and wine.

Before she could get too lost in the beauty of her surroundings, she remembered something important that she was supposed to do. Wunmi reached into her purse and pulled her phone out knowing she needed to say something before he found out another way.

Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.

I know you’re going to be mad but I’m at Tyree’s event. I’m going to let him know that I’m engaged.

She stared at the message for a quick second, then turned her phone completely off. Beccause she knew the second that he saw it, he was going to call her and she honestly didn't feel like dealing with that right now.

She slipped the phone back into her purse and exhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders before continuing further inside.

A server approached her with a tray of wine glasses.

“Would you like one?”

Wunmi glanced down briefly before taking one carefully by the stem.

“Thank you.”

She took a small sip, eyes moving around the room. A few familiar faces caught her attention here and there. Some even greeted her once they noticed her.

She smiled politely through all of the exchanges, stopping for quick conversations here and there and accepting compliments. She was also being very aware of her surroundings, because if she wasn't things could very well become a problem.

She lifted the wine glass to her lips again, taking another small sip as she continued walking through the venue. She took her time moving through the different rooms.

Every section flowed into the next seamlessly. There were private tasting areas, lounge spaces, and long wooden tables filled with bottles and small plates. The lighting stayed dim and warm throughout the entire building, giving everything this intimate feel.

She found herself near one of the display areas where rows of massive wine barrels lined the wall with engraved plaques beneath them. Wunmi lifted her glass for another sip, leaning slightly to read one of the plaques when a hand slid around her waist. Her body instantly tensed up.

She turned quickly, only to come face to face with Tyree. And he was smiling down at her.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said.

His voice was smooth and easy over the music.

Wunmi recovered quickly, giving him a small smile back.

“This place is gorgeous,” she admitted honestly, glancing around again briefly. “Like really gorgeous.”

Tyree chuckled softly, “Appreciate it.”

She lifted her glass slightly, “And the wine’s good too.”

That made him grin wider.

“Alright now, don’t gas me too much.”

Wunmi laughed softly. But then she remembered his hand that was still resting against her waist. Her eyes flicked downward briefly before she subtly stepped sideways out of his hold. The movement was smooth enough not to make a scene, but still he noticed.

Tyree’s brows pulled together as his eyes moved over her slowly.

“You look real good tonight,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He stepped toward her even more. He lifted his arm like he was about to settle it around her waist once more, but Wunmi moved before he could.

“Watch yourself,” she said lightly.

Tyree paused. Confused amusement spread across his face.

“What? Why you acting like this?” he laughed.

Wunmi didn’t verbally answer. Instead, she lifted her left hand up between them. The ring caught the warm lighting, sparkling beautifully against her skin.

Tyree’s eyes dropped to it and he looked genuinely surprised. But his expression smoothed back over.

“When that happen?” he asked.

Wunmi took another sip of her wine before answering casually, “He proposed in August.”

His brows shot up again.

“August, huh?”

She nodded.

“You ain’t have that on at lunch.”

“I lost it and got in so much trouble because of what happened,” she admitted and pointed lightly at him with her glass. “I should’ve told you then that I was happily engaged. Maybe pictures of us wouldn't have ended up all over the internet,” she said.

He briefly glanced away like he was thinking. Then he looked back at her with a dangerously confident smirk on his face.

“I guess I gotta try harder to get you to come over to the best side," he said.

Irritation immediately flashed across Wunmi's face. It was so fast Tyree almost missed it.

“I’m already on the best side,” she said plainly. “And it can’t get any better than my man.”

Tyree sucked his teeth, unconvinced.

“Yeah okay,” he muttered.

Wunmi stared at him for another second before taking another sip from her glass.

Tyree looked at her ring one more time before nodding once.

“You enjoy yourself." he said. Then his mouth curved up. “I’ll be talking to you soon.”

Wunmi narrowed her eyes at that, but she didn’t respond. She just nodded once and watched him walk away through the crowd.

The second he disappeared, she exhaled quietly.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass. Now she understood exactly why Michael didn’t want her there. Tyree wasn’t outright disrespectful, but he also clearly wasn’t backing down just because she had a ring on.

After that exchange, she stayed there for about another hour or so. She mingled with people and sampled more wine. But the longer she stayed, the more aware she became of the pit forming in her stomach. Eventually she had to go home where she knew Michael was waiting for her.

She handed off her empty wine glass and headed toward the exit, she already knew she was in a whole lot of trouble.

After an entire drive of Wunmi's stomach twisting knots, she finally pulled into Michael's garage. When she parked the car she noticed that Michael's car wasn't there. She hadn't seen it out front either. Relief washed over her.

She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, her heels echoing softly through the garage before she headed inside.

The house was completely dark. A little too dark.

Wunmi paused just inside the doorway, listening carefully. A small breath escaped her. The tension in her shoulders loosened.

She locked the door behind her and kept the lights off, moving quietly through the house before heading upstairs. The bedroom was dark too. That eased her nerves even more because it meant he hadn't even stepped foot in the home.

She set her purse down carefully and headed toward the closet, ready to get out of the dress and wash the night off her.

The closet light was dim as she slipped her heels off first with a relieved sigh. Then her jewelry. Then her dress. She wrapped her robe tight around her body and tied it securely at the waist. Her hair fell softly around her shoulders as she pushed the closet door back open and stepped into the bedroom. She casually reached toward the wall and flipped the light on.

Her breath stopped.

Michael was sitting in the corner chair near the window. Legs spread, body leaned back, arms resting on the arm of the chair, and face blank. The light caught him good, and he was just watching her.

Wunmi physically jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “You scared me.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stared at him.

There had been absolutely no sign he was home. His car wasn't around, he made no sound, there was absolutely nothing.

Michael didn’t answer. He just looked at her, giving her a completely unreadable look. His silence somehow made her even more nervous.

Wunmi swallowed hard, trying to recover.

“Hi,” she said softly, attempting a small smile as she bit lightly at her lip.

Still nothing.

The room suddenly felt very warm, very quiet.

Wunmi shifted her weight under his stare.

Slowly, Michael lifted two fingers and crooked them toward himself. He had no words for her, only the simple gesture.

Wunmi’s breath hitched and her stomach tightened, but she obeyed. Her bare feet slowly moved across the carpet until she stood directly in front of him between his spread legs.

Michael leaned back in the chair, his hands settling on her thighs, fingers gripping the thick flesh through the soft fabric of her robe.

“Anything you wanna say?” he finally asked calmly.

Wunmi swallowed. Her fingers twisted lightly together at her sides.

“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry,” she admitted quietly.

Michael’s face tightened and he gave a stiff nod.

The room stayed silent for another long second.

“Get on the bed.”

Wunmi’s eyes widened and her stomach dropped. She knew exactly what kind of mood he was in. And there had only been maybe three times where she had gotten herself in enough trouble to see this side of him.

Wunmi's pulse blared in her ears as she turned toward the bed. She climbed onto the mattress slowly, knees first, then hands, positioning herself on all fours with her back arched just enough to present herself to him.

Michael rose from the chair without a sound. His footsteps were heavy as he approached the bed. He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, forcing her upper body to lay flat against the cool sheets. Her cheek pressed into the fabric, arms stretching out in front of her.

"Stay down," he commanded, voice low.

A soft whimper escaped her lips, her body trembling under the weight of his palm. She was completely at his mercy.

"You're gonna count each one," Michael said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm not telling you when it stops."

Wunmi braced herself, fingers curling into the sheets, muscles tensing as she waited for the first hit.

He gathered the hem of her robe and pushed it up over her lower back, exposing her completely. His fingers hooked into the thin straps of her panties next, tugging them up hard and wedging the fabric tight between her cheeks like a makeshift thong. The pull made her gasp, the material pinching her skin, leaving her bare and framed for him.

She had no idea what was going to happen. Her nerves were all over the place.

Then it came. A sharp smack landed on her left cheek. The hit stung like fire and jolted her entire body. It caught her so off guard that her mind blanked, and no words came out of her mouth.

Michael grunted disapprovingly. His hands clamped onto both large cheeks, gripping hard enough to make her wince.

"Count."

"One," she whispered shakily.

The next hit came down harder than the first, the force snapping her hips forward an inch across the bed.

"Two," she managed, sucking in a breath.

"Why'd you go when I told you not to?" he demanded, one hand kneading her flesh roughly.

Wunmi drew a shaky breath, her voice soft against the mattress. "I needed to. If I didn't he'd be all over me."

Michael's eyes narrowed as he processed her words. Without warning, he delivered two quick hits— one on each cheek—the slaps echoing through the room.

She whimpered, body jerking with the double sting, heat spreading fast.

"Three...four," she counted while clinging to the sheets.

"You're in so much trouble," Michael growled, his palm hovering for a beat before delivering the fifth smack, firmly across the center of her right cheek. The heat built, layering over the previous stings.

"Five," she counted, hips twitching involuntarily.

"And you're gonna make it up to Daddy," he added, his voice dropping as the sixth hit landed on the left cheek.

Another groan came from her and her thighs pressed together against the growing ache. "Six."

He didn't pause. The seventh hit was quick and the eighth followed just as quickly. Then the ninth and tenth were all rapid-fire, alternating cheeks. Each one made her skin tingle. The sensations twisted into a mix of pain and pleasure that had her toes curling and breath hitching.

She winced with the seventh, whimpered through the eighth, gasped on the ninth, and let out a shaky whine on the tenth. Her entire backside was throbbing and aching, but somehow that made it more intoxicating.

"You had enough?" Michael's hand rested on her warm skin, rubbing slow circles.

Wunmi nodded frantically, her cheek still pressed to the bed, tears at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking softly.

He hummed a low, skeptical sound rumbling from his chest as he shook his head.

"Nah. I don't think you are yet." His fingers tightened on her hip. "Don't move."

Wunmi stayed where she was with her forehead pressed to the sheets and ass raised high as the door to the closet clicked shut behind him. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what he was grabbing. Her breath came in shallow pants and she squeezed her eyes shut.

Then she heard the low hum starting up from somewhere behind her.

Her eyes flew open and a whimper slipped out, "Michael..."

She felt the cool, buzzing head of the vibrator wand press directly against her clit through the wedged fabric of her panties. Her whole body jumped forward on the bed, a startled yelp escaping her as pleasure shot through her like lightning.

"Hold it," he ordered.

Wunmi reached back with one trembling hand, fingers wrapping around the handle. She held it lightly, the vibrations teased her. Still it was too much.

Without giving her a warning, Michael covered her hand with his and pressed down hard. The wand felt intense against her clit. A deep moan tore from her throat, hips pushed back involuntarily.

His free hand landed a hard smack on her already tender cheeks. He kept going, each sharp spank jiggling her body and mixing with the pleasure of the wand.

She moaned loudly, head dropping to the mattress. She could feel herself dripping wet, slickness coating her inner thighs from earlier and now. The wand hummed against her clit, every pulse matching perfectly with the hits of his palm on her ass.

Wunmi felt herself starting to reach that edge quickly. Her body tensed up, mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. Her free hand clutched the sheets in a death grip while her legs trembled. She clenched and pulsed around nothing.

Michael noticed it right away, his rhythm never faltering.

"You better not come," he warned her.

She shook her head, biting her lip hard to fight it. She knew he wanted her to give him the excuse for more punishment, but holding back felt impossible. The pressure was getting worse with every second.

Her body moved on it's own, and her hand pressed wand harder against her clit.Consistent needy moans fell from her lip as she started to grind against the vibrations. She could feel herself right there, she was so close.

Michale snatched the wand from her grip, the sudden absence making a frustrated sound fall from her lips.

"You don't get to come," he stated flatly, tossing it aside.

Wunmi whimpered as every nerve in her body was screaming for release.

Michael gave her two final smacks to each cheek. Then his palms rubbed slow, drawing a soft sigh from her. Then he grabbed her hips and yanked her back toward him, pulling until her lower body pressed against his.

Wunmi felt his straining through his pants, making her throb even more. She couldn't help but to rub against him in a silent plea to be filled.

"I'm not fucking you tonight," he said firmly as his hand cracked down once more on her ass. He stepped away, leaving her empty and wanting.

Wunmi whimpered, fully collapsing onto the bed. She shifted onto her side.

A while later, Michael slid into bed behind her. He held her close, draping one arm possessively over her waist.

For the next three days, Wunmi was denied orgasm after orgasm by Michael. Every time Tyree called or texted, it put her further into trouble.

The first morning, Michael had her on top of the kitchen counter, vibrator pressed against her clit. She was gasping, thighs shaking, and so close her vision blurred. That was until her phone lit up with a "good morning" text from Tyree. Michael instantly snatched the vibrator away, leaving her desperate whining.

One afternoon, after doing some errands for the wedding, Tyree called her as they were getting intside of the car. She ignored it, but Michael noticed.

He slid his hand between her legs, and pushed his fingers so deep into her. He curled them just right and stroked her so good. She rocked against his palm, moans filling the car as she worked her way up. Then he pulled away. He built her back up, only to deny her again. And again for a third time. Each denial left her more wrrecked than the last.

And after three days of torture, Michael finally decided she'd earned a reward.

They were in bed. Him sat up against the headboard, legs spread wide with kneeling between them. Her lips were wrapped around his thick length as she took him deep down her throat.

Michael groaned as his hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair to guide her further down, hold there, then back up.

She moaned around him, the vibrations pulling more groans from him.

They were so lost in the moment. Her tongue eagerly swirled around him as she sucked him up. And his eyes couldn't move away from the beautiful sight in front of him. That was until her phone broke the moment by ringing so loud on the nightstand.

Almost instinctively, Wunmi tried to lift her head to check, but Michael's grip tightened. He pushed her head firmly back down onto his dick, keeping her mouth full.

He snatched the phone with his free hand, glancing at the screen. Tyree's name flashed across the screen. Instantly, Michael was annoyed. The ringing stopped only to start up again seconds later.

Wunmi took Michael's brief distraction as opportunity, so she slid him out of her mouth with a soft pop and peered at the screen. She was just as frustrated as her fiancé was and couldn't help but to release the most aggravated sound along with a quick roll of her eyes.

"Just decline it," she urged.

He met her eyes. "Nah. Talk to your little boyfriend."

Before she could protest, he swiped to answer and held the phone out to her.

Wunmi's eyes went wide, panic flickering as she stared at him, trying to understand the challenge in his eyes.

"Michael—" she started, but Tyree's voice cut through.

"Wunmi?"

Michael raised an eyebrow expectantly.

She grabbed the phone with shaky fingers, putting it on speaker.

"Hello?" she said timidly, heart pounding as she knelt between his legs.

Tyree's voice came through the phone, "Hey, gorgeous. What you doing?"

Wunmi shot a quick glance at Michael, biting her lip hard.

"Um...just laying in bed," she murmured.

"Cool. I, uh, just wanted to give you a call so we could talk. It's been a while," Tyree easily replied.

"Mhm, it has," she managed, her free hand fidgeted against Michael's thigh.

Tyree started talking about how the football season was going for him, but Michael took that as his chance. He practically manhandled her. His hands gripped her hips and spun her around to face the end of the bed. He shoved her body down so that her face was buried in the sheets and her ass was in the air.

She gasped at the sudden shift in positions.

"You okay?" Tyree asked.

"I'm fine…" Wunmi swallowed. Her voice shaky as she steadied herself. "

Michael gave her ass a light smack. Wunmi bit her lip hard to stifle the gasp.

He gripped her big, round cheeks in both hands, kneading the soft flesh, spreading her wide. One finger slowly trailed through her dripping wetness, parting her folds, and she let out a breathy sigh.

Tyree kept talking through the speaker, "…I really been thinking about a lot lately and I just gotta say…"

But Wunmi barely registered it. She could only focus on the man behind her and his heated touch. Michael's fingers had found her clit, circling it with teasing pressure, then dipped low to her soaked entrance, sliding a little inside before pulling back out.

She fought to stay quiet, body tensing up, but Tyree pressed on, obliviously.

"You still there? Tell me what you up to this weekend?" It was clear he was expecting a response.

Wunmi opened her mouth to answer Tyree's question, but Michael chose that exact moment to slide deep inside her, filling her completely in one smooth thrust. She clamped down around him, stunned to silence.

He pressed one hand firm between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest flush to the bed, and leaned forward until his lips brushed her ear.

"Answer him," he whispered sending shivers down her spine.

"Uh... n-nothing really," she managed to get out.

Michael gave her a few quick love taps to her inner thigh before pulling back up onto his knees. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, watching intently as he slid out slowly, then thrust back in deep.

A quiet, breathy moan escaped her lips. Wunmi moved the phone away from her mouth for a second, sucking in air.

Michael started with a few slow strokes to ease them both into the rhythm, letting her feel every thick inch stretching her. He built it gradually until his pace turned consistent, her ass bouncing softly against his pelvis.

Wunmi put the phone on mute just in time to release her moans. With each bounce a needy cry spilled out.

"You should come out this way soon. When are you free?" Tyree's voice came through the speaker.

She barely processed it. Her mind was wiped blank by Michael fucking her so good, hitting that spot over and over. Nothing existed but her man. All she could think about was the grip of his hands on her hips.

Wunmi took the phone off mute just long enough to gasp out, "I don't know when," before putting it right back on as another loud moan tore free.

"...we could hit this spot I know downtown, grab drinks, see where the night goes..."

Michael smacked her ass hard then, the hit echoing.

She blurted out, "Oh baby," followed by a deep, throaty moan that she couldn't hold back.

He kept one hand planted firm on her jiggling cheek to control the pace.

When he drove especially deep, she moaned out a shaky "Okay". Her free hand shot back, grabbing his forearm tight as he kept fucking her.

Michael ramped up the speed and depth, pounding into her harder, chasing that release for both of them.

Wunmi tried to take it all—she really did—arching back to meet him, but it really overwhelmed her.

"Okay, Michael, okay," she gasped as he went a little deeper than necessary, nailing that spot right next to her cervix.

"What you keep saying okay for?" He smacked her ass , growling, "Like, come on."

He pushed his hips forward, bouncing her roughly on him, urging her to move on her own. She did, but only just enough, rolling her hips back hesitantly.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded.

"No," she moaned out desperately. At this point she'd completely forgotten about the phone in her hand.

Just then Tyree's voice came through loud and clear. "...whoever that fiance of yours is ain't watching you right. Imma come get you for real."

Michael's face twisted up into a scowl, annoyance built up in him. He leaned down over her back, roughly thrusting in in deeper.

"Michael—Michael—fuck," Wunmi moaned his name over and over.

"Looks like Daddy's gonna have to put a baby in you so they know this pussy's mine," he growled against her ear.

"It's yours. I promise."

"Take it off mute so he can hear how good i'm fucking you," he ordered.

Her hand shook as she obeyed, pressing the button on the screen.

The second the phone came off mute, Michael picked up his thrusts. Driving into her so quick and rough it made her ass bounce loud off of his pelvis. The sound of her soaked pussy filled the room.

Wunmi moaned into the sheets, her cries muffled against the fabric, but Michael wasn't having it. He gripped her hair tight, yanking her head up until her back arched deeper.

"Who this pussy get wet for?" he demanded.

"You, Daddy," she gasped.

Tyree's voice came out sounding confused. "Wunmi? What the—?"

Both of them ignored him completely.

Michael smacked her ass again. Then snatched the phone from her weakened grip and held it so Tyree could hear every moan and every slick sound of her taking him.

"Tell him not to call you anymore," Michael said, pressing the phone right to her mouth.

She moaned through the words. "Don't call me anymore."

Michael hung up then tossed the phone across the bed to thud against the pillows.

"Good girl," Michael murmured, palm rubbing soothing circles over her tender ass. "You wanna come?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whimpered. Her body was already right there. She needed this.

"You did so good with your punishment," he praised, grinding against her walls.

Wunmi felt herself clenching hard as her stomach tightened. "Can I come? Please?"

"Yeah, come for me," one of his hands slid around to rub her clit.

She crumbled almost immediately. Her orgasm crashed through her. She cried out his name as her walls pulsed around him and she soaked the sheets.

Michael kept going, chasing his own release now, groans turning guttural as pleasure tightened in his gut.

"You gonna let me put a baby in you?" his voice was rough as he thrusted harder.

Wunmi moaned, nodding into the bed.

They'd had plenty of conversations about babies. They agreed to wait until at least after the wedding, but it was clear that tonight his possessiveness had him acting different. And she melted under it.

Michael thrusted a few more times before he finally released inside her. He held there, pushing deep, feeling her pulse around him. He pulled out slowly.

Wunmi collapsed forward, breathing heavy, chest heaving as aftershocks rippled through her.

"Don't go near that man again," he said firmly, hand stroking her back. "Block him."

Wunmi nodded weakly, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Okay, baby. I'm sorry."

Late January 2027

Now, into the new year, their lives were completely overtaken. Every day belonged to somebody else. There was barely any room left for themselves in between it all.

Michael had officially started press for The Thomas Crown Affair, and his schedule had exploded. Interviews, photoshoots, appearances, magazine covers. It felt endless. Most of it was alongside Adria Arjona, which only fueled certain online conversations even more.

Meanwhile, Wunmi was deep in awards season.

The Social Reckoning had become a big conversation piece of the year, and her performance had the people talking. Every week brought another event, another panel, and another rumor about if she would end up nominated again or not.

And through all of that, they were less than four months away from getting married. May was practically right around the corner.

Earlier in the month they had finally sat down with both of their publicists to figure out how exactly they were going to reveal the relationship publicly without it becoming a circus before the wedding. The final decision had been simple. Michael would handle most of it.

Strategically, it made the most sense.

Wunmi’s team wanted all attention during awards season to stay centered on her work, not her relationship. So Michael had agreed to slowly start opening the door publicly while still keeping things vague enough to maintain some control.

He actually preferred it that way. Mostly because he was tired of hiding her.

After over a year of rumors, especially after the leaked audio, Michael was exhausted from pretending. And since she was his fiancée now, he wanted to share that with the world.

Still timing mattered…a lot. Everything had to be controlled carefully. And unfortunately, control was the one thing their schedules weren’t allowing them to have right now.

Most days they weren’t even in the same city.

There had been recent stretches where they only saw each other through FaceTime screens and blurry airport selfies. Sometimes one of them was waking up while the other was heading to sleep.

It irritated both of them more than they admitted. Especially Michael. He had been so clingy with her, and now he barely even got the chance to breathe in her direction.

Their conversations had slowly become reduced to logistics. Things like wedding updates and travel plans. They hardly talked about things of substance. It wasn't intentional though. It was just all they had time for.

One night, Wunmi was sitting in her London hotel suite while Michael was back in New York finishing another round of press. She had kicked her heels off and was curled sideways across the bed, exhaustion written all over her face as she held her phone up during their FaceTime call.

Michael was sitting in the backseat of an SUV, chain sitting against a black thermal shirt, one hand rubbing tiredly over his jaw while traffic lights flashed outside the window behind him.

“You look tired,” Wunmi murmured softly.

Michael looked at her through the screen.

“I am tired.”

She smiled faintly, “Poor baby.”

“I’m serious,” he muttered. “I done answered the same damn questions all day. I’m over it. ‘How was it working together?’ ‘Did y’all have chemistry?’”

"Well, did you?" Wunmi grinned.

"Don't start," Michael gave her a flat look through the screen.

She giggled softly, resting her cheek against the pillow, “I was just asking.”

Michael shook his head, but his expression softened while looking at her. God, he missed her. He always had this thought during the day, along with the constant irritation that she wasn't there..

“When do I see you again?” he asked suddenly.

Wunmi sighed dramatically.

“Um…” She reached for her planner nearby. “I think…after the BAFTAS?” she started slowly, flipping through pages.

Michael stared at her.

“That’s not for another week, babe.”

“I know.”

“A whole week?”

Wunmi laughed softly at his expression.

“You’ll survive.”

Michael looked unconvinced.

“You say that now,” he said. “Then you gon’ start crying the longer we're apart.”

“I do not cry.”

“You absolutely do.”

Wunmi sucked her teeth softly, “Whatever.”

Michael smiled for the first time during the call, the tiredness easing slightly from his face.

The conversation naturally shifted to the wedding. And despite how exhausted they both were, those conversations kept them intertwined.

Everywhere Michael went there were cameras waiting for him. Going form film festival to awards gala to museum benefit to private dinners. Tonight wasn't any different.

The carpet outside the event was packed shoulder to shoulder with photographers and journalists.

Michael stepped out of the SUV with his black suit perfectly tailored to his body. Confidence radiated off of him without him even trying.

He adjusted the cuff of his jacket before looking up with a calm and controlled expression.

His publicist walked beside him briefly while fixing the front of his jacket.

“She approved it,” she murmured quietly.

Michael glanced at her.

“Yeah?”

She nodded.

His mouth twitched slightly.

“Aight,” he nodded.

He moved down the carpet, stopping for photos, greeting people, and shaking hands. As he approached the press line, he relaxed himself.

Interview after interview rolled by. They asked him the typical questions about directing, balancing acting and filmmaking. Michael answered each question like he had prepped for it.

Then he reached one platform in particular.

A Black woman stood there holding the microphone, smiling brightly as he approached.

“Michael B. Jordan!” she grinned. “You look good tonight.”

Michael laughed, “Thank you.”

“Everybody's talking about your film already. But what was it like stepping into directing mode again?” she started.

“It was challenging,” he admitted. “But I think I’m at a point now where I trust myself more creatively. I know how I wanna tell stories now. And honestly, I learned a lot from the last few years. Working with different directors, producing more, it changed how I look at filmmaking.”

The interviewer nodded along.

“And you can tell,” she said. “Especially after the year you had last year. Mr. Oscar winner. How has life changed since then? Because it feels like the world has not stopped talking about you.”

Michael laughed softly.

“It's definitely gotten more chaotic,” he admitted. “But I try to stay grounded and keep moving forward.”

The interviewer tilted her head slightly.

“So what does moving forward look like for you now? More directing? Less acting?”

Michael paused for a second.

“Well…” he started slowly, “where I’m at now in my life and career I'm focused on celebrating my wins. And I got some pretty big ones that I need to make room for.”

A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"As you should," The interviewer smiled.

“I wanna spend more time focused on my family. So there’s definitely a chance I slow down a little," he said honestly. "My fiancée and I have both been incredibly busy with all that's going on in our careers and now wedding planning. But I've been trying to figure out how to even get to the point of slowing down."

The interviewer looked stunned.

“Wow, um…when—”

Michael stepped back with the biggest smirk trying to break across his face.

“You have good one,” he laughed.

“Michael!”

He pointed at her playfully, “Appreciate you though.”

Then before she could ask another question, he walked off down the carpet looking satisfied with himself. He made his way inside, barely even slowing down as he reached for his phone that was in his pocket. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now.

He tapped Wunmi’s contact immediately. The phone rang a few times before she answered.

“Hello?”

Her voice was thick with sleep.

Michael’s face melted.

“Hey baby.”

There was rustling on the other end followed by a small sleepy hum.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Michael smiled to himself as he ducked into a quieter hallway away from the crowd.

“Not that late. Why you sleep already?”

Wunmi sighed into the phone.

“I’m so tired.”

"You okay, Mama?" Michael’s brows pulled together.

“Mhm,” she hummed quietly.

He leaned back against the wall, listening to her breathing through the phone.

“I can’t wait for all this to be over,” she admitted sleepily.

Michael chuckled under his breath, “Me too.”

There was a quiet pause before Wunmi spoke again.

“Did you do it?”

Michael’s grin spread, “Yeah.”

He could practically hear her smiling through the phone even though she barely made a sound. Just a quiet little hum.

Michael shook his head fondly.

“That’s it?” he laughed quietly. “That’s all I get?”

“You woke me up,” she mumbled.

“You're supposed to be excited.”

“I am excited. I'm just sleepy, Mike,” she said.

Michael could picture her perfectly. She was probably curled up in a hotel robe, hair wrapped up, and half asleep with the phone pressed against her face. He missed her so much.

“You gon’ be at the honoring next week?” he asked after a moment.

There was a pause. Then Wunmi sighed.

“…Baby. It's next week with the BAFTAs and my team scheduled a bunch of press here,” she reminded him.

“Damn," He briefly closed his eyes. "So when will I see you again?”

“A week and a half maybe,” she said quietly.

Michael dragged a hand over his face dramatically.

“That's so long”

Wunmi laughed tiredly.

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what you keep saying.”

“Because you will.”

Michael shook his head with a smile.

“Barely.”

There was another comfortable silence between them.

“Imma let you sleep.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And I miss you so much.”

Wunmi exhaled softly through the phone.

“I miss you too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

Michael’s expression softened even more.

“Don’t apologize. I’m just being needy.”

That earned another sleepy laugh from her.

“Very needy.”

“Mhm.”

“I still love you though.”

“You better.”

Wunmi smiled against her pillow.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

end notes: so this was actually a looottt longer, but because tumblr has a limit on how many blocks you can do, i have to break it up into more parts than i was planning. so the next update will be sooner than expected, it'll just be after my american dream update. - - - taglist: @lilbitt @lizbehave @andtheniws @tonichildsdaughterduh @cinnamonsonnyangel @shamansha @caramelplug @bananajoeclone @rolemodelshit @brownskincheyenne @mmbee675 @xeebop@adultinginheels @tlt731

[ruesdeluxe]

[candlesatsunrise]

Wait, I wanna achieve this natural look for summer

[brownlyfe]

UP THE PRICE (HIM) michael b. jordan x wunmi m.

PART ONE masterlist

cw: sexual content, fake social media summary: rumors have always spread about michael. he's endured comments on his dating preference, his latest fling of the week, and which costar he would date. groupies flock to him and celebrities make jokes about being with him. people see him as a sex symbol...the holy grail. but what nobody saw coming, especially after such a historic win, is a leak that only makes them want him more.

notes: fuck all that radio shit! you don't like, don't read...simple. anyways something to give the people since sinners is "over" and we had a beautiful awards season run. also this is inspired by real tweets.

March 15, 2026

Michael noticed how quiet it was when he opened his eyes. The kind of silence that let his thoughts run wherever they wanted. And his mind had been running all night.

He had barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, all these thoughts crept in. What if he didn’t win, what if he did, what was he supposed to say, how was he supposed to act, how would this change things, how it wouldn’t. It all blurred together until sleep felt pointless.

By the time the sun started coming up, he had given up on trying. So he decided to move around. That had always been his thing. When his head got loud, his body had to get louder.

He lifted weights first, thinking that the hard and fast reps would help exhaust the thoughts out of him. When that didn’t do it, he went for a run. The cold morning air hit his chest and his breathing evened out just enough to trick himself into thinking he was calming down.

And when that didn’t last, he came back, wrapped his hands, and hit the bag for a while. The steady rhythm of fists against leather echoed through the room, grounding him for a second, then it didn't. Because nothing stuck long enough.

Somehow he ended up in the kitchen when he wasn’t even hungry. He cooked something simple to keep his hands busy. He barely touched it once it was done.

Now he stood in his bathroom, the space warm from the steam he’d already started, staring at himself in the mirror. His jaw flexed slightly. His eyes looked far more tired than he wanted to admit. He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

This was supposed to be a good day. And it was going to be. He knew that. It was his first nomination and everything he had worked for lined up for this one night. People would kill to be in his position. So why did it feel like this?

His gaze dropped to the counter, where his phone sat. He stared at it for a second longer than he needed to. Then he reached for it.

It wasn’t even a real thought process. It was instinct at this point. When his head got like this, he went to her.

His thumb moved quickly over the screen, pulling up her name. He hesitated for half a second, then typed.

what you doing?

He tossed the phone back onto the counter like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t about to sit there waiting for it to light up. He turned slightly, reaching to adjust the water, letting the heat build.

It didn’t even take that long for the screen to light up.

He glanced at it immediately.

I just woke up. Why?

He huffed out a quiet breath through his nose, a slight smile pulling at his mouth despite himself. Of course she was just waking up.

His fingers moved again.

how long will it take you to get ready today?

This time he didn’t put the phone down right away. He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely as he waited. Her response came a minute later.

3 hours at least. Why?

He nodded to himself. Three hours sounded about right. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second before he typed again.

what time you starting?

He knew he was asking a lot of questions. He knew she knew he was asking a lot of questions.

10:30. Again…why?

That made him let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh. He could hear her saying it in that tone. And the side-eye that would’ve come with it if she were standing in front of him.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the phone, thinking for a second.

you eating before?

This time, the response didn’t come right away.

He pushed off the counter starting to pace a little as the restless energy still sat under his skin. The water kept running behind him, steam starting to fill the room more fully now. His phone buzzed again. He picked it up.

Are you okay?

His shoulders stilled, his pacing cut off mid-step as he looked down at the screen, reading it again like maybe it would say something different the second time. It was a simple four words, but they felt heavy.

His jaw tightened slightly, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he looked away from the phone for a second.

Was he okay? He exhaled slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck. Everything said he should’ve been, but his chest felt tight. His mind still wouldn’t slow down. There was this pressure sitting on him, not unbearable, but constant.

And of course she knew.

That was the thing about Wunmi. He could try to play it cool and keep it light, but she read right through it every time. It didn’t matter if they hadn’t seen each other in weeks or if they’d been in the same room all day. She saw through him.

He looked back down at his phone. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a second longer this time. He thought about telling the truth. Actually saying; yeah, I’m nervous and my head’s all over the place. With her, he could. But something in him instinctively pulled back, instinctively.

So instead, he typed:

i’m good.

He stared at the message for a second before hitting send. Even as it went through, he knew it wasn’t all the way true.

The restlessness came back twice as strong and texting wasn’t enough for him. Before he could overthink it, he hit her name and brought the phone up to his ear. He started pacing the bathroom again as it rang. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

He pulled the phone away, frowning slightly at the screen. He knew she had just been up. She had literally just texted him back. So what was she doing?

He waited a few seconds, like that would make a difference, then hit video call. It rang longer this time, but still nothing.

His jaw flexed, impatience began to mix with that anxious energy he had sitting in his chest. He exhaled sharply and dropped his head back for a second before looking at the phone again.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath.

He shot off another text.

answer the phone please.

The second it sent, he hit video call again, not even giving her time to respond. He stood there, watching it ring, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, free hand resting on the counter.

It rang and rang and just when he was about to hang up, the screen connected.

The lighting was low and her room still dark. She was laid up in bed with her hair wrapped, face soft with sleep, and eyes barely open as she adjusted the phone slightly.

Michael’s whole demeanor changed immediately. He propped his phone up against the counter, angling it so she could see him clearly. A small smile pulled at his mouth.

“There you go,” he said, voice lighter.

She didn’t say anything she just blinked slowly at the screen, clearly still waking up. Her expression was a mix between confusion and mild annoyance.

He shook his head a little amused, then reached for the hem of his shirt.

“What time you tryna get to the hotel?” he asked casually.

She let out a quiet sigh, shifting slightly under the covers. “Around ten,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep.

He hummed in response, lifting his shirt over his head and tossing it off to the side.

“You know, I been up for a few hours,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

Her brows pulled together slightly, eyes opening a bit more as she focused on the screen. “Why?” she asked, squinting like she was trying to read him.

He shrugged one shoulder, reaching for the waistband of his shorts. “I think I’m a little anxious,” he admitted, trying not to make a big deal out of it.

He pushed his shorts down his legs, stepping out of them, then glanced back at the screen. There was a small shift in his expression as a smirk creeped in.

“I can’t wait to see what you wearing tonight though,” he said.

She didn’t even entertain it.

“You can wait,” she shot back, barely lifting her head up but choosing to sink it deeper into the pillow.

That made him laugh, the sound filling the bathroom as he stood there now in just his boxer briefs and socks.

He straightened slightly, flexing his arms without even thinking about it, turning just enough toward the camera.

“You like what you see?” he asked, playful, knowing exactly what he was doing.

She let out a tired little laugh, not even opening her eyes fully this time. “Michael, please…” she mumbled, dragging his name out before letting her head turn slightly on the pillow.

He watched her for a second and shook his head. She looked like she was about to fall back asleep.

“Aye, wake up,” he called, reaching down to pull his socks off, then hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs.

She rolled her eyes, opening them again just in time to catch him stepping out of them.

“Really?” she muttered, not even sounding surprised.

He grinned, completely unbothered, then grabbed his phone off the counter.

“Don’t go back to sleep,” he said as he walked toward the shower with steam thick in the air.

He stepped inside, adjusting the angle of the phone carefully. He set it somewhere stable where he could still see her and she could still see him.

Water hit his skin, and he let out a quiet breath, tipping his head back for a second before looking back at the screen. She was watching him with her half-closed eyes. And at the sight of her, his chest felt a little less tight.

He tried to keep her up with him. As the water ran over him, Michael kept glancing back at the phone, checking to make sure she was still looking at him.

“Aye,” he called lightly over the sound of the water, running a hand over his face. “You up?”

There was a pause.

“…mhm,” she murmured, barely audible, her voice heavy, like she was falling back asleep even as she spoke.

He smiled to himself, shaking his head a little as he reached for the body wash. “You not even up for real,” he said, amused.

She didn’t argue or respond that time.

He decided to talk about random things, making little comments about the day like how long it was about to be and how he already knew he was going to be tired of people before the night even really started.

She’d hum here and there, giving him a quiet “yeah” or “mm” to let him know she heard him. Until she stopped completely. It took him a minute to notice.

He rinsed off, pushing the water out of his face before blinking it away and looking toward the phone again. She hadn’t moved at all. Her head was turned slightly into the pillow, and her breathing had evened out. She was asleep for real now.

Michael’s expression softened as he realized it.

He leaned a little closer to the phone, resting his hand against the tile as he looked at her. A small smile pulled at his mouth. He didn’t want to hang up, so he didn't. He liked having her there, even if they weren't talking. It settled something in him.

He finished up, turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel and dried himself off slowly, still glancing back at the phone every now and then because he didn’t want to lose sight of her.

But now with her asleep, his mind started back up again. Thinking about how the night would go and the expectations that would come because of it. He cleared his throat, like he could shake the thoughts loose, then wrapped the towel around his waist and walked back into the bedroom.

He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on, letting them sit low on his hips, not bothering with a shirt yet. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

Most of the cast had gotten rooms at the same hotel that was closer to the venue. It was easier this way because it meant less running around.

He still had a lot time. A little too much time, honestly. Which meant he had more room for thinking.

So he got back to moving again.

He went to the kitchen and set the phone up against something on the counter, angling it just enough so he could see her. Then he started pulling small and quick things out.

He wanted to make something that wasn't going to be too complicated and was practically a snack. Especially after he cooked and didn't much of it earlier. He cooked on autopilot, the quiet clink of utensils filling the space. Every now and then he’d glance over to check on her.

Once everything was done, he plated it. Then leaned his hip against the counter as he ate a few bites, eyes flicking between his food and the screen. When he checked the time, his brows pulled together slightly. She needed to be up now. He wiped his hands off, stepping closer to the phone, picking it up carefully.

“Aye,” he called softly.

No response.

He tilted his head a little, watching her.

“Wunmi,” he tried again, voice gentle. “Wake up, Mama.”

She barely shifted, a soft sound leaving her like she was fighting it.

“You said you gotta get there by 10:00,” he reminded her quietly. “C’mon, you gotta get up. It's almost 9.”

It took her a minute, but Wunmi finally came to. Her face shifted, brows pulling slightly as she blinked herself fully awake. She adjusted the phone in her hand as she pushed herself up against the headboard.

“Okay, I’m up,” she muttered.

Michael leaned back against the counter, his plate long forgotten.

“Yeah, I see,” he said while smiling.

From that point on, they continued staying on the phone. He moved around his place while she moved around hers. She propped her phone up while she brushed her teeth and went back and forth between her closet and bathroom. She was pulling things out and putting things back. She spent most of the time talking to herself about her choices, and he listened.

She didn't have much to pack herself as most of her outfits were picked by her stylist. Michael made comments about what she picked, and teased her when she held up different options.

Made comments here and there. Teased her when she held up two options and clearly already knew which one she was going to pick.

“You not wearing that,” he said, squinting at the screen.

She sucked her teeth lightly, already turning back to the mirror. “Good thing I didn’t ask you.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, but he didn’t miss the small smile that pulled at her lips in the reflection.

By the time she was fully dressed, the room around her was brighter and the energy was completely different from when she first answered. Michael had shifted from the kitchen to his living area. She moved with purpose now, grabbing her things and checking herself one last time before stepping away from the mirror.

She looked down when her phone buzzed.

“My car’s here.”

Michael nodded slightly, watching as she started gathering her bags. His eyes narrowed just a little as he noticed a particular bag in the group.

“What you doing with that?” he asked.

She didn’t even look at him, she just picked it up like it was any other bag.

“I needed something to put my stuff in,” she said, casually.

His smirk deepened.

“Why you taking that bag, though,” he replied. She knew exactly what he was talking about.

He had gotten her that bag as a gift. He saw it and knew she would like it, so he bought it. It had turned into her overnight bag for when she came to visit him.

She finally looked at the phone then, rolling her eyes as she grabbed it.

“It’s just a bag, Michael,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Relax.”

He just watched her with that same knowing look sitting on his face.

“Mm,” he hummed deciding not to push it further.

She shook her head slightly while heading toward the door, balancing her things as she moved.

“I’ll see you later. I'm about to get in the car,” she said, adjusting the phone in her hand as she stepped out.

There was a small pause on his end like he wanted to say something else, maybe stop her, but instead he just kept quiet.

“Okay,” he said softly.

It almost sounded like he didn’t want to hang up and she caught it immediately. Her expression softened as she stepped outside, the daylight hitting her beautifully.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she told him steadily and sure.

He looked at her for a second. Then nodded, a hesitant smile coming through.

“Yeah, you're right,” he said.

“Bye,” he added after a beat.

“Bye,” she replied.

The call ended and the screen went dark. And just like that, the quiet came back, it didn’t feel nearly as heavy as it had earlier.

She slid into the car, pulling the door shut behind her, her bag settling beside her as the driver pulled off.

Wunmi's hotel room was filled with controlled chaos. Racks were being rolled in and out while people moved with a purpose.

Now, a few hours later, she was settled in her chair, a silk robe wrapped around her, legs crossed comfortably as her team moved around her.

Her hairstylist stood behind her, hands working steadily as they parted and smoothed her hair. She was working on getting the hair slicked down before starting the braids. They were going for two long, thick braided ponytails stacked vertically, one above the other. Big gold hoops and medallions covered the length of the braids. It was going to be perfect with the dress.

Her eyes flicked over to it hanging on the rack across the room, untouched. Just looking at it made something flutter in her chest.

She looked away just as quickly.

“You're starting to overthink again,” her stylist teased lightly.

Wunmi let out a soft laugh. “I can't help it,” she admitted, shaking her head slightly.

“Mm-hmm, I can tell,” her makeup artist chimed in, stepping closer. “We not doing that today though.”

“Exactly. This is your moment,” someone else added from across the room.

Wunmi smiled at that, her hands resting loosely in her lap as she let them work.

The room instantly filled with random conversation. She added her own comments here and there, her voice soft and her accent slipping through naturally with every word.

On the outside, she looked calm, but underneath it all she was a ball of nerves. Because in truth, she never expected this.

Awards season was a whirlwind of interviews, screenings, and conversations that she never thought she’d be part of. Rooms filled with people she’d admired for years now speaking to her like she was one of them. And tonight was the absolute peak of it.

She was truly taking it all in, because more than anything, she felt grateful. Grateful to be there. Grateful for the film and the way it had been received. She was grateful for the doors it had opened without her even realizing they were there to begin with. And she felt proud of not just herself, but of him.

Her lips pressed together for a second, a small smile forming before she could stop it.

She had watched it all happen. From being on set where they worked long days and he worked overtime to figure things out to the press tour where she learned so much about how much work he actually put in to now.

She’d said it publicly more times than she could count about how proud she was of him, how much she believed in him, and how none of this surprised her. But she’d said it privately too. Far too many times to count.

Her hairstylist stepped back, checking the braids before continuing to add more gold pieces to the already heavy style.

“You excited?” someone asked from the corner of the room.

Wunmi blinked, coming back fully, then smiled.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said, softly but sure.

Time kept moving and her hair was finally finished. Her hairstylist moved her fingers down each braid, making sure that everything secure and was placed just right. Wunmi sat still, occasionally tilting her head when asked.

At the same time, her makeup artist had started working. Every now and then, she’d glance at the mirror to see her face coming together.

Her hair had taken a little over an hour. Her makeup had taken a bit longer, closer to another hour and a half.

“Okay, look at me,” her makeup artist said softly, stepping back.

Wunmi opened her eyes fully, looking at herself in the mirror.

Her hairstylist let out a quiet “yeah,” while reaching for her phone. “We need content, right now.”

The makeup artist laughed, grabbing her phone too.

Wunmi shook her head, smiling as they both circled her, snapping pictures, taking short videos, telling her to turn her head, look up, look down.

She let them have it, before standing up slowly from the chair. The weight of her hair became more noticeable as the two braids fell down her back, brushing against the top of her butt when she straightened fully.

She adjusted her robe only to feel her phone buzz in her hand. She glanced down at it absentmindedly at first, but the second look made her focus in. It was Michael.

can I come by before I get ready?

Her brows lifted as she stared at the message.

No. I don’t want to be late for the carpet.

Her phone started ringing almost immediately. She sighed under her breath, stepping away from the group.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, slipping toward the bathroom.

She closed the door behind her and answered the video call. The camera connected, and there he was sitting in the back of a car, dressed down, sunlight cutting through the window beside him.

Wunmi didn’t give him much to look at. She set the phone down on the counter, angled just enough so the ceiling was in frame, but not her.

Michael frowned instantly.

“The hell? Why I can't see you,” he said, leaning forward slightly.

“I’m not ready yet.”

He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. “I need to see your face.”

She didn’t even look at the phone. “No.”

“Wunmi—”

“No means no, Michael,” she repeated, a little firmer.

There was a pause on his end.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, leaning back in his seat.

She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see it.

“You’re going to be late if you don’t go get dressed,” she said, glancing at the time.

“I’ll be alright,” he replied like it wasn’t a concern at all.

She shook her head slightly, already moving toward the door. “I really gotta go.”

Another short pause.

“Okay,” he said.

And then, a soft “I love you.” slipped out without him thinking too much about it.

They didn’t say it all the time, but it was never a surprise when one of them did say it.

She leaned her hip against the counter, letting out a small breath before responding.

“I love you too.”

It came out easy for her too. Even though she knew what this really was. She knew there were other women and other situations, but something about what they had was so honest yet complicated. They coudln't help but to love each other.

“I’ll see you later,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied.

The call ended.

Wunmi looked at the phone before picking it up, unlocking the door, and stepping back into the room. When she stepped back in, all eyes were on her.

“There she is,” her stylist said, moving toward the rack where the dress hung.

Carefully, they took it down and out of the bag. It was a gorgeous black and gold, kaftan-inspired dress that was tailore to perfection. There was enough structure to give it form while still allowing it to flow. The fabric moved when they lifted it the light caught on the gold detailing that was threaded throughout.

Wunmi stepped forward, letting them carefully guide her into it, trying to be mindful of her hair and makeup. Once the dress was on, it settled on her beautifully.

There was a deep V in the front dipped so low, it showed a good amount of her large chest. The gold detailing that traced along the neckline, drew attention exactly where it needed to. The back mirrored the front with another deep cut that exposed the smooth skin of her back.

Her stylist walked up to her with a small bottle of shimmering body oil in her hand. Hands began to lightly oil her down in all of her exposed areas. The oil caught the light, giving her skin a soft glow like she was lit from within.

Then she put on her signature fragrance, spraying just enough that everyone around her could smell her.

Her stylist helped her step into her heels, adjusting the straps. They made her walk a few steps in them to see is the dress moved how it was supposed to. And it did.

Everyone immediately began to take pictures and videos of her in her complete look. They gathered her things quickly after that.

“The car’s here,” someone called out.

Wunmi grabbed what she needed, adjusting the front of her dress once more before heading toward the door, her team close behind her.

They guided her carefully with one person slightly ahead and another behind, making sure the dress didn’t drag and that nothing caught.

When they got outside, the car was waiting by the curb.

“Watch your step,” someone said softly, opening the door for her.

She reached out, placing her hand in theirs as she lifted the dress slightly, preparing to step in, and that’s when she saw him.

Michael's team was surrounding him, trying to get him inside so he could start getting ready, but he wasn't paying them any attention. His eyes had found Wunmi in the small bustle of moving people and it felt like time stood still.

“Mike, come on,” someone from his team said, trying to usher him forward.

He barely reacted. His gaze dragged over her slowly taking in the hair and the way the dress fell on her. His brows lifted slightly in surprise and appreciation.

“Damn…” he muttered under his breath.

Wunmi caught the look on his face. And as she fully stepped into the car, their eyes met. Her smile turned into more of a playful smirk. She gave him a quick wink, then slid into her seat and the door closed behind her.

Michael stood there for a second longer than he needed to, the moment lingering even after the car pulled off.

“You good?” someone nudged him.

He blinked, like he was snapping back into his body.

“Yeah,” he said, but his tone was distracted.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he reached for it like he already knew. When he opened the message, he couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his face.

Good luck babe 😉❤️.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He locked his phone and slid it back into his pocket, the smirk still sitting there as he finally let his team guide him inside. He didn’t text back.

“Alright, let’s go, let’s go,” someone said, walking ahead of him.

He followed, but there was a sharpness in his energy like he was completely restless.

They got to his room and instantly got to work. Garment bags were opened, his shoes were set out, his jewelry laid across the table. Someone yelled for time checks so they would all be aware. He could barely sit down good before hands were on him.

Wunmi leaned back into the seat of the car, one hand resting lightly against her lap to keep the dress in place while the other held her phone loosely.

There was a bit of traffic ahead of them. It made everything stretched out and take more time than it should. The car would move, stop, move again, then stop.

Every now and then, her thumb tapped her phone screen awake to check the time…and once or twice to see if he had responded.

He hadn’t, but she didn't take it a certain way. She knew he was getting ready and people were probably rushing him along.

By the time they pulled up to the venue, it was close to 2:30.

The door opened, and there was a lot of noise and camera flashes. It was a mix of voices yelling names, shouting directions, and moving people out of the way.

Her team moved quickly, stepping out first, then helping her from the car.

“Watch your step… okay. Beautiful.”

The second her heels hit the ground, she turned it on. Her posture straightened and a genuine sweet smile graced her face. She adjusted the front of her dress before stepping forward onto the carpet. The cameras immediately lit up at her entrance.

“Wunmi! Over here!”

“This way! Right here!”

She moved naturally, like she’d done this before, even though part of her still felt like she didn't fit.

With every turn, the gold in her hair caught the light exactly how it was setup to. The dress flowed when she stepped, the sheer of the fabric catching just as much.

“Can we get a turn?”

She angled slightly, letting them get the back, the deep cut showing her skin, the shimmer on her skin glowing under the flashes.

After a few more stops, her team gently guided her toward the end where the interviews were set up.

“Wunmi, how are you feeling tonight?” one interviewer asked.

She smiled, grounding herself before answering.

“Good. Really good,” she said with her accent slipping through. “I’m just taking it all in, honestly.”

“What does it mean to be here?”

She let out a small breath, glancing down for a second before looking back up.

“It means everything,” she admitted. “I didn’t expect all of this. So I’m just really grateful.”

They asked about the film and her castmates. And every time his name came up, she looked proud.

“Michael's worked really hard for this. I'm really proud of him,” she said at one point.

They wrapped her up after a few minutes and let her move along. From stepping onto the carpet to finishing interviews, it had only taken about twenty minutes. But it didn’t feel like it. Time seemed to blur together at this point.

Inside the theater the lights were soft as people were finding their seats and greeting each other. Wunmi was guided to her seat, adjusting her dress as she sat.

There was still about an hour before the show would actually start.

She crossed her legs slightly, hands resting in her lap before reaching for her phone again. The screen lit up and still no new messages, so she checked time.

She was quietly hoping that he wouldn't be late.

Michael had been in his suite long enough that he should be dressed and ready to go.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, phone in his hands, staring at nothing in particular. The TV was on low in the background, but he wasn’t really listening.

“Mike, we gotta get you ready,” one of his stylists called from across the room.

“I know,” he said automatically, but he didn’t get up.

His chest felt tight again. His face was calm and posture relaxed, but internally, it felt like he was holding his breath and couldn’t fully let it out. He rubbed his hands together once, slow, then stood up.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

They unzipped his garment bag, and pulled his suit out. His team laid out his David Yurman jewelry pieces that he had to shoot content for.

“We still got to do that video while you change,” someone reminded him while setting up a phone on a tripod.

He nodded, rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah, let’s get it.”

He spent the video putting on jewelry, making everything looked right on his skin. He was basically going through the motions at this point. His mind kept drifting back to Wunmi. He couldn't wait to see her up close. He really wanted to call her because his thoughts were running wild, and her voice would just soothe him. It had worked well that morning.

Now, the closer it got to showtime, the worse that feeling in his chest got. And he knew she’d calm it. His hand twitched slightly, like he might reach for his phone right then, but he didn’t.

“Alright, we got everything. You can change,” someone said, stepping back.

He exhaled quietly, nodding, then moved toward the suit. He put everything on piece by piece. His hands fixed things as he moved, smoothing out anything that didn't sit right on him.

His family moved around the room too, getting themselves together.

“You look good, baby,” his mom said, stepping closer to adjust something near his collar.

He gave her a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You ready to go?” someone else asked.

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t fully true, but he was as ready as he was going to be.

“Car’s downstairs,” his team called out.

They grabbed what they needed, did one last check, then started heading out of the suite.

In the hallway it felt like everything was closing in as they moved toward the elevator. Michael stayed mostly quiet while conversations happened around him. His mind wouldn't stop moving.

They got downstairs to the sprinter that was waiting on the curb. His family piled in first, then him, then his tea. He slid into his seat, leaning back slightly as the door shut behind them.

He let his head rest back against the seat as the van took off, eyes drifting closed for just a moment before opening again.

The sprinter pulled up to the theater, and everything was loud and chaotic. Cameras were flashing nonstop and people were moving around like crazy.

Michael straightened in his seat, running his hands down the front of his suit to ground himself before stepping out.

The door slid open and he stepped out to a wave of people yelling and screaming for him. From paparazzi to interviewers to fans. It was a competition of who could get his attention first.

His team moved him toward the carpet, keeping things tight. They didn’t have time to waste.

He hit his marks quickly. He did a few solo shots. The rapid flashes hit him from every angle possible. For the next few shots, his family joined him. Everyone had warm and excited smiles on their faces. The moment stretched on until they were being ushered further down.

“Alright, we gotta go,” someone from his team reminded him.

He nodded and stepped forward.

As they got closer to the section where press and fans blurred together, the volume went up to another level. People were yelling his nameincredibly loud now. Fans were leaning over the barricade with their phones out, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

He briefly lifted his hand to acknowledge them, but he didn’t slow down much. He couldn't, he was already pushing for time. His team tightened around him, trying to firmly get him inside.

“Michael!”

The voice cut through just enough to catch his attention.

He instinctively glanced over to see one of the interviewers beckoning him over. She was someone he'd interviewed with a few times before. He actually liked her, and she always remained respectful and professional while keeping things fun. She was waving to him to catch him before he passed her by completely.

He hesitated for half a second, then broke away from the group around him.

“Hey,” he said quickly, stepping over to her and pulling her into a brief hug.

“Hi! You look amazing,” she said while smiling.

“Thank you,” he replied, already starting to step back.

But before he could fully pull away, she lifted the mic slightly.

“How are you feeling tonight?”

“I'm just grateful and happy to here,” he said simply.

And then he was gone. His team was pulling him back in, steering him in the direction of the doors.

When he got inside, he instantly started to scan the room. People were buzzing around him, barely able to sit still, but he wasn't really seeing any of that. He was looking for her. And it didn't take long. Once they got closer to his section, he was able to spot her almost immediately.

She was seated a few rows behind where he was supposed to sit.

His steps slowed at the sight of her.

He sat down and started fidgeting with things on his body out of habit more than anything else. His mom settled in next to him.

“You okay?”

“I’m good,” he said automatically.

She looked at him, then smiled to herself like she knew better.

“Mhm,” she hummed while turning her attention forward.

Michael leaned back into his seat, letting out a breath through his nose.

And he got that feeling you get when someone's looking at you. He could feel her staring through the back of his head.

His shoulders tightened as his hands rested against his thighs while he stared straight ahead. Michael didn’t trust himself to turn around right now.

His phone buzzed softly in his lap. He glanced down.

Breathe.

He inhaled, then exhaled slowly. His shoulders dropped his shoulders the tension in him easing. He rubbed his thumb lightly along the edge of his phone before locking it again and setting it face down against his leg.

The lights dimmed in the room as a signal that the show was about to start.

His leg bounced once before he caught that he was doing it. He pressed his foot flat against the ground to still it.

In all of everything that had been building in him all night, he hadn’t even really thought about how she might be feeling. He hadn't thought beyond how she helped to calm him down and be his anchor. But this was her night too. It was her first nomination as well and the first time that she had been in this room.

He quickly glanced back at her, but she was looking forward past him. She was smiling, taking everything in.

He cleared his throat softly, and her eyes flicked to him almost immediately. Her expression melted just a touch when she saw him. There were no real words or gestures between them, but they knew what the other was saying. He turned back around giving himself a small nod, because what they just did would be enough for now.

The lights dimmed further and the room quieted. Conan O'Brien, the host for the night, walked out on stage to a round of applause.

Michael sat up a little straighter, hands resting on his legs, eyes forward.

The night had officially started.

Conan’s monologue rolled on, filling the room with easy laughter. It was the kind of opening that loosened the tension. Michael laughed where he was supposed to and smiled when the cameras were set on him.

The music cue started and the room subtly reset.

“And now, let's get into the the first award of the night. Introducing…” Conan started.

On stage, the presenters walked out, smiling and playing their part as the room applauded again. Michael barely registered who they were and what they were saying. His focus had shifted to behind him.

“For the incredible performances that moved us, challenged us, and stayed with us…”

The clips started rolling, one by one. Each of the nominees' names were called and their performances highlighted.

“Wunmi Mosaku. Sinners.”

Her face lit up the screen. It was a short clip of one of her lines from the shack scene. Michael felt pride and hope go through him because he knew what she gave to play Annie. And the. energy she put into it.

The room clapped as the clips ended, the camera cutting back to the presenters as one of them opened the envelope.

Michael’s breathing slowed, then stalled. He didn’t realize he’d stopped until it was too late.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

That pause went on longer than it probably was.

“…Amy Madigan. Weapons.”

Applause filled the room instantly. People stood, clapped, and celebrated.

Michael felt his heart sank straight into his chest, but not for himself, for her. His hands came together automatically, clapping like everyone else, but there was no rhythm to it. He had to force it.

He didn’t turn around to look at Wunmi. He didn't trust what might show on his face if he did. He swallowed, jaw tightening as he kept clapping. His eyes fixed were on the stage where Amy was walking up, smiling and emotional.

Michael nodded slightly to himself, trying to stay present. His hands slowed, then stopped as the applause settled. He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, but it didn’t ease anything. If anything, it made that anxiety creep back in.

His fingers tapped once against his leg before he stilled them, forcing himself to sit still and to breathe like she told him to earlier.

The second they cut to commercial, people stood up to stretch and talk. Michael stayed in his seat trying to collect himself. He barely looked around, but it didn't take long for him to feel a presence right next to him. He looked up and there she was.

Wunmi stood angled toward him, one hand resting behind him on the back of his seat, the other relaxed at her side. She was smiling down at him.

He looked at her like he needed to make sure she was actually okay.

Then his eyes checked around quickly, to make sure cameras or phones or people weren't paying too much attention to them. And when it he saw the it was as clear as it was going to get, he reached up, took her hand without hesitation, and brought it to his lips for a kiss.

He stood up while holding onto her and pulled her in close before she could even say anything. His arms wrapped firmly around her.

"You good?" He leaned in slightly, his voice low against her ear.

Wunmi pulled back just enough to look at him. She nodded.

“I’m fine. I already expected it,” she said, calmly. There was no bitterness in her tone.

His gaze softened slightly, eyes moving over her face again like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

She smiled at that.

“Thank you,” she replied, her hand coming up to his chest, smoothing lightly over his buttoned jacket.

Her eyes moved past him, her body angling slightly as she leaned just enough to look around him.

“I really came over to see your mom,” she said her tone far more playful now.

Michael blinked once, caught off guard, before letting out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh.

“Yeah, okay,” he muttered.

She slipped past him, the fabric of her dress brushing lightly against him as she went.

“Ms. Donna!” she squealed softly. Her voice lifted in a way it hadn’t with him.

Michael’s mom lit up instantly.

“Hey baby!” she said, standing up without hesitation, pulling Wunmi into a warm hug.

Michael watched them with a small smile settling on his face.

His family had taken such a liking to her. His mom loved her, she loved them. From the first time she saw them together and noticed how they interacted with each other, she had been on him about getting with her ever since.

He shook his head slightly to himself, watching as they pulled apart, his mom held onto Wunmi’s hands for a second longer as they talked.

“You look so gorgeous,” his mom said, looking her over.

“Thank you. You look amazing,” Wunmi smiled.

They talked for a minute, giving each other small updates on things. Then Wunmi glanced toward the stage briefly, noticing things were about to pick back up.

“I’m gonna go sit before they start again,” she said.

“Alright, baby,” his mom replied, giving her hands one last squeeze. “I’ll see you after.”

Wunmi nodded, then turned slightly, her eyes glancing back to Michael for just a second, then she was gone.

The night went on and what started out as feeling like minutes, slowly turned into hours. Anxiety webbed it's way through the rhythm of the show.

Michael tried to track everything happening, and for some of it he was able to.

When Ryan’s name was called, the entire room lit up. Michael was on his feet before he fully registered it, clapping hard with pride written all over his face as Ryan made his way to the stage. His speech was moving as he thanked the cast, the crew, talked about the story and the intention behind it.

Then Miles' performance got people up and moving. His voice filled the room, and the recreation of the juke joint brought Michael back.

Autumn’s win followed later, and that one felt just as big. Michael clapped, looking toward her with genuine respect as she stood at that podium, speaking directly to the women in the room. You could feel it ripple through the audience.

By the time they got to the final stretch of the night, Michael felt twisted up. The closer it got to his category, the more everything else started to blur. Conversations around him dulled. Applause felt distant. His body was there, but his mind kept circling.

His mom’s hand found his. She didn’t say anything, she just held it.

“And now the presenters for best actor,” Conan’s voice carried through the room again.

Everything in him shut down. Michael swallowed, his throat dry, his hand slightly tightening around his mom’s without meaning to. He exhaled.

Then the presenter walked out. Words he barely processed as they started introducing the nominees. The clips rolled.

“Michael B. Jordan. Sinners.”

The screen filled with his face. It was a clip of the scene of the twins getting into their cars to split off. The reaction in the room was more than he expected. It startled him just a little, his brows pulling together slightly as he watched it play out. Then it moved on to the rest of the nominees.

Michael’s breathing went shallow. He didn’t even realize he had stopped inhaling properly until the clips ended.

The presenter held the envelope and it felt like time slowed down.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

That pause felt longer than anything else that night.

Michael’s fingers curled slightly against his mom’s hand.

“…Michael B. Jordan.”

The room erupted in loud applause. People rose to their feet giving him a standing ovation. But his brain hadn’t caught up to what his ears had just heard.

His mom’s grip tightened instantly, her face lighting up, smiling wide as she turned toward him.

“Baby!” she said, her voice breaking through everything.

Michael exhaled hard. A breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding for the last…who knew how long. His shoulders dropped slightly, his head dipping as it finally hit him. He won.

Delroy's hands hit his shoulder, clapping him firmly, pride clear on his face.

Behind him, Wunmi was up on her feet, clapping and smiling. Her cheering carried through the noise, excitement written all over her.

Ryan practically jogging up the aisle before Michael even fully stood up. They met halfway, pulling each other into a tight hug.

“Let’s go,” Ryan said into his ear, gripping him hard.

Michael nodded, but he still looked dazed like he was trying to catch up. He turned to hug Delroy next. And while his arms were wrapped around the older man, his eyes found hers.

Wunmi stood with a wide smile while their eyes locked. She looked not only proud, but happy and relieved. She reached her hand out toward him as he naturally moved closer to her.

But Michael didn’t want to just have that. As soon as he let go of Delroy he moved a bit so the seats weren't a problem. He pulled Wunmi into him, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He needed something real to hold on to so that he knew this was real. And she was as real as he would get.

He tucked his face slightly into her shoulder, and for a moment everything else faded away. He breathed her in and all that was left was her…his lifeline.

“Go,” she murmured softly near his ear.

He pulled back slowly and that’s when they could see that glisten in his eyes. He was holding back all his emotions. He nodded, trying to pull himself together.

Michael started toward the stage, the walk feeling like a blur of time. He didn't know if it was too long or too short. He barely registered the steps, the lights, the applause. It all just mixed together. The standing ovation hadn't died down, and every eye was on him.

He shook the presenter’s hand, accepted the Oscar, and the second it was placed in his hands he looked down at it. The weight of the solid gold sitting in his hand felt surreal. He just stared at it like he was trying to process how it even got in his hand.

The audience was still on their feet, clapping and celebrating him.

He stepped up to the mic, and cleared his throat as his grip tightened around the Oscar.

“Man,” he breathed out, a small, disbelieving smile was on his face.

A few soft laughs echoed through the audience.

He shook his head lightly, eyes dropping for a second before he looked back up.

“God is good.”

The room responded with applause and agreement.

Michael gave a longer pause this time. He was trying to gather anything that felt right to say, because he hadn't planned for this at all. He was too busy being in his head about to really think about what he would actually do when he won.

He glanced out into the crowd, scanning until he found his mom front and center. She was smiling at him with that smile she gave when she was incredibly proud of him. His eyes softened when they made eye contact.

“Mama, what’s up,” he said, voice lighter now, a real smile breaking through.

The room reacted warmly as the camera cut to her.

He nodded like he needed that connection before he could keep going.

“My dad came all the way from Ghana to be here tonight,” he continued. “My brother, my sister…I love y’all. Thank you.”

He swallowed, shifting his weight, still holding onto the Oscar like it might disappear if he loosened his grip.

“I gotta thank Warner Brothers for betting on original ideas, on culture, on stories like this.”

His eyes flicked toward Ryan.

“And Ryan…” he exhaled, shaking his head a little. “Man. Thank you for being more than a collaborator. For being a friend. For trusting me and giving me the space to be seen. I don’t take that lightly.”

His voice caught at the end of that. He took a breath.

“My incredible cast…” His eyes moved until they landed on her.

“…Wunmi,” he said, her name coming out so soft. “Thank you so much for giving Smoke the opportunity to be him.”

The camera cut to her briefly. She was smiling wide, glowing in a way that felt just as loud as the applause around her.

“And Hailee, thank you for giving Stack the space to shine.”

He nodded, almost to himself, like he was checking things off, trying not to lose his place.

“I’m—” he started, then stopped, letting out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “I didn’t…I didn’t think I’d be up here, I’m not even gonna lie.”

The audience chuckled softly.

He shook his head, blinking a few times, the emotion sitting right there in his eyes now.

“Thank you to everybody who saw something in me, who bet on me, who believed in me when I was still figuring it out,” his voice was stronger now. “And to the ones who still do, I just wanna keep making you proud. And to the fans, thank you for showing up once, twice, three, four, five times,” he added, a small smile pulling at his face again. “Thank you. You made this movie what it is. I love you.”

He looked down at the Oscar one more time, then back up. He stepped back from the mic, still looking slightly dazed, eyes glassy, a breath leaving him like he was finally coming back into his body.

The applause swelled again as he walked off stage, gripping the Oscar tightly, his expression a battle of disbelief and relief.

As he disappeared behind the curtain, the show cut to commercial, but the energy in the room didn’t drop.

The second he stepped off stage, hands were on him, pulling him in different directions all at once. Someone from production was saying something in his ear, but he barely caught it. His focus kept dropping back down to the Oscar in his hand.

It was real. This was all real.

“Right this way,” someone said, gently steering him through the side area and back toward the seating.

When they got close, people were standing, leaning into the aisle, reaching for him.

He barely had time to sit before he was surrounded giving out hug after hug. A smile stretched across his face so naturally it almost hurt.

“I’m so proud of you,” His mom tugged him in for a tight hug, her voice emotional.

“I love you,” he replied, holding onto her just a second longer before someone else was pulling him in.

It didn’t stop, but through all of it, he just kept smiling so big and real.

Every now and then, he’d glance down at the Oscar, almost like he needed to double check that it was still there, still his. His thumb brushed over the engraved plate area that was still blank for now, a small shake of his head following like he still couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

The rest of the show moved quickly. He clapped. He laughed. He stayed present in a way he hadn’t been able to earlier all the way until the end.

Once it was over, he was led out of the main room and into another area for the press conference. When that wrapped, he was moved to the larger reception room where everyone else was. People were mingling, and conversations flowed easier now that the pressure was off. Michael stepped into the room with his family close by, still holding onto the Oscar.

The group moved together through the space until they reached the engraving station. He handed the award over carefully and watched in disbelief as it was engraved. The room around him faded and he swallowed, blinking a few times as he watched the letters take shape. His sister rubbed his back to help ease him back into reality. When they handed it back, he held onto it tighter.

He moved through the room after that, greeting people, accepting more congratulations as the night continued.

But even in the midst of that, he was searching until he saw her across the room. Wunmi stood tucked into a quieter corner with her team. Her posture relaxed. She was talking and similing with them.

Michael’s gaze lingered, then he turned back to his family.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

They followed his line of sight immediately.

“Yeah, we know where you going,” his brother added.

He shook his head, trying to brush it off, but the small smile on his face gave him away. He turned around and walked off.

When he got close enough, he reached out. His hand found the warm bare skin of her back, and he pressed there gently enough to pull her attention without interrupting too much.

Wunmi turned almost instantly. She had a small portable fan in her hand, angled up toward her face. A few loose pieces of her braids shifted slightly from the airflow, the gold catching the light every time she moved. Her expression brightened as soon as she saw him.

“Hey,” she said, smiling as she stepped into him.

He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close to him, Oscar still in one hand. He didn't let the award stop him from holding her they he needed to.

Her arms slid around him just as easily, one hand still holding the fan loosely at her side as the other came up along his back.

And then he dropped his head right into her neck on instinct. Even though he had his family, she was the only place that he truly needed at the moment.

Wunmi felt a small shift in his breathing the longer he stayed there. His body settled heavier into hers. A quiet sniffle came out. Her expression softened even more as her hand moved slowly up and down his back to comfort him. She let him have that moment to feel it all.

“I’m so happy for you,” she murmured softly, her voice low enough for it to stay between them. “I’m so proud of you. You deserve it.”

His grip tightened, because he needed to anchor himself. Then he pressed a kiss against her neck. He pulled back after that, just enough to look at her. His eyes were glossy, the emotion still sitting right there on the surface.

“Thank you, baby,” he said quietly.

Her smile widened as she really looked at him.

He kept one hand on her. His fingers rested lightly against her waist now, thumb brushing just slightly against the fabric of her dress feeling the need to stay connected.

And then he just looked at her. His eyes said everything he couldn't quite say in a room this public. Wunmi saw everything that had built up over all of this time. She held his gaze with her own knowing one.

His eyes dropped down to her lips, and he licked his own while staring at them.

A small smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. She lifted her hand, patting lightly against his chest, leaning in just enough so her voice didn’t travel.

“Later, baby,” she whispered.

He exhaled softly, a small smile breaking through as he nodded, pulling himself back into the moment.

“Okay,” he said under his breath. “You going out after?”

“Yeah. I have to go back to the hotel to change.”

“Okay, me too. It might take me a minute, though,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she replied easily.

Michael noticed the fan in her hand and how she angled it toward herself while talking to him.

“You hot?” he asked. His face scrunched slightly, concern slipping through his voice.

She nodded once. “It’s a lot in here.”

He looked around briefly as if he could fix it somehow.

Then back at her.

“Go back to the hotel and get some rest,” he murmured, pulling her into another hug, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She nodded. “Okay.”

But when he pulled back, he caught the reluctant look in her eyes. He held her gaze, his hand coming up to pat her back lightly.

“Go,” he said softly.

She stepped back and he let her go, even though he clearly didn't really want to.

Wunmi didn’t linger for long. Her team gathered around her, gently ushering her through the room, keeping things moving before she could get pulled into more conversations and congratulations that weren’t even hers to carry tonight.

“The car’s ready when you are,” her publicist said softly, leaning in so she could hear over the noise.

Wunmi nodded, adjusting the fan so it was angled toward her neck this time. The room really had gotten too warm with the combination of bodies and lights, it was just too much.

The second she got outside though, the cool night air was a welcome refresh.

She let out a small breath as someone opened the car door for her. Her team helped her into the car, carefully holding the fabric of her dress. Once she was settled into the seat she let out a heavy exhale and leaned back against the seat.

“Jesus, it was hot in there,” she chuckled under her breath.

With her head leaned back, she closed her eyes as the car pulled off.

The ride wasn’t long, but it was enough to settle her body and calm her down.

When they got back to the hotel, they moved quickly so they would have some time. It didn't take but a few short minutes to get her to her suite. The second the door closed behind them, she slipped her heels off with a quiet groan, flexing her toes against the floor.

“Thank God,” she muttered, earning a few soft laughs from her team.

“Alright, let’s get you out of this,” her stylist said while moving toward her.

Wunmi stood in the center of the room as they helped her take everything off. They started with her hair by removing each of the gold pieces and setting them on the table nearby. They kept her braids in, so she could have a style for the rest of the night. Then they carefully helped her out of her dress and hung it up.

Wunmi reached for the robe draped over the chair nearby, slipped it on, and tied it loosely around her waist.

She rolled her shoulders back once, then twice, letting her body settle fully now that she wasn’t being held up by structure and styling.

“You want to start getting ready now or?” her stylist asked.

Wunmi shook her head gently.

“Give me a second. I just need a quick nap,” she said.

“Alright,” her publicist said. “Forty-five minutes?”

“Yeah,” Wunmi nodded, moving toward the bed.

She picked up her phone, setting an alarm before placing it on the nightstand. Then she climbed into the bed, pulling the covers over herself. Her body sank into the mattress almost immediately, exhaustion finally catching up now that she had allowed it to.

The car pulled up to the In-N-Out not too far from the venue, and there were already dozens of people outside. He stepped out of the sprinter with the Oscar still in his hand and there was an immediate reaction. Cheers broke out from inside and outside almost at the same time.

He smiled so easily it was like he was made for this life. He lifted the Oscar slightly as he walked in, almost as a silent acknowledgment, and the place got louder.

“Appreciate y’all,” he said as he moved through the crowd.

People were reaching out wanting to touch him and get a picture with him.

When he got to the counter, the staff was just as excited.

“Congratulations!” someone behind the register said, already smiling wide.

“Thank you,” he replied, leaning slightly on the counter.

He ordered quickly and nothing about it seemed as normal as it should. While he waited, he leaned back against the counter, glancing around the restaurant. People were watching him, whispering, taking pictures and videos from a distance.

When his number was called, he stepped forward, grabbing the tray carefully, balancing it in one hand while the other still held onto the Oscar. They found a table tucked off just enough to give him a little space, but not completely. He sat down, setting the tray in front of him, placing the Oscar right beside it on the table.

His photographer stepped in with his camera ready.

“Mike, you ready?”

He nodded, shifting slightly in his seat, resting his forearms on the table. One hand lightly gripping the Oscar, angling it just enough. He smirked slightly, shaking his head as the camera kept going. He couldn’t believe he was part of the tradition now.

“Aight, we gotta head out so you can change,” someone said.

Michael nodded, taking one last sip of his drink before standing up, grabbing the Oscar. He gave one last look around the place, smiling and waving to a few more people as they called out to him.

“Congrats again!”

“Appreciate it!” he called back.

Michael arrived to the Vanity Fair party in a brown suit that fit him perfectly, and a pair of retro orange shades to top the look off. And of course, the Oscar never left his hand. It was practically an extension of his body now.

He moved through the room with confidence, starting conversations and accepting congratulations from his peers. Hugs and compliments came from all directions.

Across the room, Wunmi was pushing through the crowd as well. She was pulling a different kind of attention. Her and her dress caught everyone's eyes. The dress was a beautiful deep orange silk with a slit in her leg that revealed just enough when she walked.

She greeted people with ease, dipping into soft conversation. Her presence was calmer than his, but just as magnetic.

When their paths crossed, they stood close together, hoping not to draw too much attention to themselves.

“You good?” his voice was low as his eyes took her in.

She smiled. “I’m good.”

His eyes dropped briefly to her dress and the way it fit on.

“Yeah, you look good,” he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself.

“Thank you,” she smirked giving him a playful side-eye.

They stayed close for a while, but they soon got pulled into separate conversations. Going back to that routine of talking and conversing with those around them. But after a while, it got old. There were too many boring, reptitive conversations, and too much standing around.

When they met back up, Michael was quick to try to remedy their situation.

“You tryna stay here?” he asked.

Wunmi didn’t even hesitate. She shook her head lightly, a small laugh escaping her.

“No.”

He smirked, knowing the answer before he asked.

“Me neither. I think people are headed to the Gold party. You wanna head there?”

“Sure.”

They left just as they had arrived…separate. Michael left first, doing his round quicly and getting a few last minute picture. Wunmi stayed a few minutes longer as she had gotten pulled into getting updates on people she hadn't seen in a while.

When the two actually got to Beyoncé and Jay-Z's Gold Party, the vibe was just what they had been looking for. The space itself felt more exclusive and actually protected. For the first time all day, they could actually breathe.

Michael spotted her not too long after arriving.

Of course, he had to go through a few people first to get to her, but once he saw that flash of orange across the room, that was it. His attention stayed locked.

“You having fun?” he asked after getting the chance to walk across the room.

She smiled, swaying a little to the music. “Now I am.”

For the next couple hours, they stayed in their own pocket of the night. They danced with drinks in their hands, not too close, but not out of reach either. Their bodies brushed and his hands found her waist. They were practically flirting with their bodies, testing the space between them.

As the night kept going, the energy between them kept building.

Every time she laughed, every time she moved, every time she brushed past him, it got harder to ignore. The adrenaline from the win hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it intensified everything. He needed to be near her. Touch her. Talk to her. Be in her…

Eventually, they drifted away from the main crowd to a smaller corner that was tucked off to the side. It was much darker, and quieter. The music was still there, but it was more of a murmur in the background.

Michael was closer to her than he had been all night. Wunmi's back was against the wall as she looked at him. He didn't say anything, just stared at her eyes, her lips, the way her chest rose and fell so gently.

Wunmi let out a soft giggle, her head tilting just a little. “What?” she asked, amused by the intensity of his stare.

He didn't say anything, he just leaned in and kissed her. And he kissed her like he'd been holding back all night. And he had been.

After a minute of their mouths moving like nobody was watching. Wunmi pressed a light hand to his chest.

“Michael…” she exhaled, pulling back just enough to breathe. Her skin felt warm, her body reacting just as much as his was.

She leaned in again, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, but when his arm wrapped around her waist to pull her back in, she stopped him again.

“Mm-mm,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly, though she was smiling.

He exhaled, trying to steady himself.

“We should go,” she said softly. “We can finish this at the hotel.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

His hand found hers without thinking, fingers closing around it as he started to pull back like he was ready to leave right then.

“Come on—”

“Wait, baby.” Her grip tightened just enough on his wrist to stop him.

He looked back at her.

“You go around, say your goodbyes, and I'll leave first,” she said.

He held her gaze for a second. But he knew she was right to do it like this, even if he didn't like it.

“Fine,” he muttered.

She gave him a small smile, squeezing his wrist once before letting go. Then she stepped away from him, and walked off.

Michael tried to play it cool. He really did. But the second Wunmi slipped out of that corner and disappeared into the crowd, he became incredibly impatient.

He only stayed because he truly had to. People had started to come up to him again now that he wasn't occupied. But with every conversation his attention grew shorter and shorter. Every second felt longer than it really was. He kept checking his watch, then his phone.

He tried to be respectful and not rush people, but it was getting harder because all he could think about was her. He was too focused on her dress and how she felt against him.

After thirty agonizing minutes, he finally found his chance to break away.

“Aight, I’m finna head out,” he said quickly to the people closest to him, stepping back.

“Already?” someone asked.

“Yeah, I’ll catch y’all,” he replied, not even slowing down.

And then he was gone. Moving faster than he had all night.

“Take me back to the hotel,” he said as soon as he got inside of the car.

The car pulled off and it was silent. He was left with just his thoughts. His leg started bouncing in anticipation and adrenaline.

He pulled his phone out, unlocking it quickly and going straight to her messages.

what room you in?

He stared at the screen, expecting for her to answer right away. But she didn't. Minute after minute passed and she still hadn't even so much as read the message.

He was trying his hardest not to overthink what could've happened. Because he didn't know what he would do if she was asleep.

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward slightly in his seat before forcing himself back so he could relax. But in reality he couldn’t.

The car ride to the hotel felt impossibly long felt longer than it actually was. So when they pulled up to the hotel, he reached for the handle before the driver could fully stop.

By the time they pulled up to the hotel, he was already reaching for the door before the driver could even fully stop. He quickly stepped out and moved over to the side, refreshing his screen hoping that would make her respond faster. And as soon as he got ready to send her a text after almost fifteen minutes of no response, his phone buzzed.

1016. Come on up 😉

He slid the phone back into his pocket, tightening his grip on the Oscar in his hand as he turned and headed inside.

He walked as fast as possible through the lobby and past the front desk. He didn't slow down as he walked straight to the elevators. Luckily the doors opened as soon as he pressed the button, so he rushed inside and waited for the doors to close. Every floor it passed felt slower than the last, the quiet hum of it doing nothing to settle him. His reflection stared back at him in the mirrored walls, his suit slightly loosened now, shades covering his lowered eyes.

The elevator doors opened and he practically jogged out. His eyes scanned the doors as he passed, trying to find her suite as quickly as possible. And as soon as he found it, he knocked on her door immediately.

Then he waited. And waited. And waited. His chest rose and fell heavily in anticipation. He shifted his weight, about to knock again when the door opened. And whatever he was about to say was completely gone.

Wunmi stood there, framed in the doorway as if she had been waiting hours for him. She was wearing a wine red robe that was tied loosely around her. It hid just enough.

His eyes roamed her body carefully or hat he could take everything in. When he made it back up to her face she had a knowing smile on her face.

Her hand held the door open, body angled just slightly like she was about to step back, probably about to say something, but he didn’t give her the chance. His mouth was on hers before she could get a word out.

His arm wrapped around her waist—Oscar still firm in his grip—pulling her into him as he stepped forward, guiding them both inside without breaking the kiss. The door shut behind them with a firm click. He didn’t even look back to see it close.

Wunmi let out a soft sound against his mouth, her hands coming up to grip his upper arms as he pressed into her.

The kiss was passionate and level as it was filled with everything that had been building up for the night. Her body gave into it for a moment, leaning into him, matching his energy just enough before she pulled back a little so she could breathe. Her chest rising and falling as she tapped lightly against his arms. She tried to step away, but his grip around her waist didn’t loosen, it actually tightened.

“Where you going?” he murmured roughly.

She swallowed, clearing her throat as her eyes flicked away from his for a second.

“I was about to order room service,” her voice was a little breathy. “I’m hungry and I haven’t eaten in a while.” Her accent slipped through more when she said it, wrapping around her words in a way that made his gaze sharpen just a bit.

He didn’t respond right away, but very reluctantly his grip eased just enough.

She slipped out from his hold, turning away before she could get pulled back in again, walking toward the small table where the room phone sat. She picked it up, dialing quickly, pressing it to her ear.

“Hi, yes—room service please…” She heard movment behind her, but she didn't pay it much attention at the time.

He stepped close behind her, both hands free now as he had set the Oscar on the coffee table. His arms slid around her waist from behind, pulling her back into him.

She inhaled softly but didn’t stop talking.

“Yes, can I get the—”

His lips began to brush lightly against her neck. Her words faltered for half a second. Then he did it again and her grip on the phone tightened as she tried to stay focused.

“And…um also the—”

His mouth moved along her skin, from her neck to her shoulder, not caring much about what she was doing.

“—and a side of fries, please…”

He shifted, pressing a kiss just beneath her ear this time, and she closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself.

“Thank you,” she finished quickly, almost rushing the last part of the order before hanging up.

The second the phone clicked back into place, a soft moan escaped her mouth out of impulse. Michael had found a spot on her neck that made her shoulders drop instantly, her head tilting just slightly to the side as he lingered there.

“Michael…” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to rest around his neck. His hands shifted naturally to her lower back.

“They said it would be about thirty minutes,” she said softly, searching his face.

He hummed low in response, but it didn't matter.

His mouth claimed hers again, his tongue slipped past her lips, tasting her until she melted against him. His hands stayed firm on her lower back, one sliding up to grip the nape of her neck, angling her head just right to deepen the kiss even more.

She matched him, her fingers grasping his shoulders, pulling lightly as the heat built between them. But he controlled it all, the pace, the pressure, pulling back only when he chose to.

His lips left hers with a soft, wet sound, trailing down to her neck. He sucked there, marking the skin with a pull that made her gasp. Then lighter kisses followed, right on that sensitive spot beneath her ear.

His hands wandered lower, slipping down the curve of her hips to cup her robe-covered ass. He squeezed firmly, palming the soft flesh through the thin fabric, kneading it like he couldn't get enough.

A breathy and needy moan escaped her, her body arching into his touch. "Michael..."

He simply kept sucking and kissing that spot, his breath hot against her skin, hands working her ass with steady pressure.

"Michael," she said again, sharper this time, her voice laced with urgency.

She pulled back forcefully, breaking the contact, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her eyes locked on his. Without a word, she grabbed his hand, her fingers wrapping around his firmly.

"Come on," she said softly, her voice steady despite the flush on her cheeks. "Let's go to the bedroom."

She led him there, her steps quick but sure, guiding him through the suite to the open doorway of the bedroom. The king-sized bed waited in the center, looking so inviting under the low lamp light. She stopped just in front of it, turning to face him, still holding his hand.

His eyes were dilated, pupils blown wide, fixed entirely on her like nothing else existed.

"Take off your clothes," she told him while releasing his hand.

Michael didn't hesitate. His fingers moved to his suit jacket first, shrugging it off his broad shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. The white shirt came next, buttons undone one by one, revealing the hard lines of his chest and abs, skin still glowing from the night's adrenaline. He kicked off his shoes, then his pants, stepping out of them until he stood there in just his black boxer briefs.

She smiled at him, closing the distance until her body rubbed his. Her palms pressed flat against his chest, firm enough to push him backward step by step. Michael's legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight.

His hands instantly shot out, reaching for her waist to tug her onto his lap, but she caught his arms mid-motion, gripping them tight and pinned them in place so he couldn't.

"Not yet," she whispered, leaning down instead. Her lips pecked his quick and teasingly, leaving him wanting more.

He exhaled roughly, his hands slipping free from her hold only to slide down her sides to find the bare skin of her thighs peeking from beneath the robe. His fingers rubbed there, tracing the smooth curves, thumbs pressing in with gentle circles that made her skin hot.

She smiled wider, then sank slowly to her knees between his spread legs. The carpet was soft against her skin as she settled in. Her hands settled on his muscled thighs. She rubbed up and down them, feeling the tension in him.

Michael's hand came to her head being mindful of the two long braids in the back of her head. He stroked gently, watching her every move.

Wunmi's eyes flicked up to meet his, then down to the waistband of his underwear. She hooked her fingers in it, tugging lightly. "Lift up," she low and steady.

He did, raising his hips just enough. She slid the fabric down his legs and tossed it aside. His thick and heavy dick sprang out, curving slightly upward. She stared at it with wide eyes, lips parting just a bit. She always loved looking at it. It looked almost too much for her sometimes, but so pretty.

A soft moan slipped from her lips as she took it in, eyes still locked on his. Her hands wrapped around the base gently, both needed to fit around him. She scooted closer on her knees. Michael groaned at the feeling of her hands.

Her mouth closed over the tip, lips stretching around it. She pushed forward enough to take him in, then swirled her tongue, sucking lightly with a wet pull that made his hips twitch.

"Shit," he moaned, his hand moving to the back of her head, fingers wrapping around the two long braids. "Can I pull these?"

She nodded without pulling off, eyes watering just a touch.

He got a firm grip, twisting them a little in his palm. Michael pushed her head down further, guiding her onto more of his length.

She gagged a little, throat tightening around him, but she didn't wait for him. Her hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in as she took control of the pace, tongue swirling along the underside with every bob. She slid up and down slowly at first, then built a rhythm. Saliva coated him as she worked deeper, hollowing her cheeks.

Each time she sank down, she pushed a little further, throat relaxing to take more and gagging softly around him. She hummed from the fullness.

Michael moaned, his eyes fighting to stay locked on hers. "Fuck, Wunmi..."

She moaned around him in response, the vibration buzzing through his shaft. Heat pooled between her legs, she was aching and wet. She pressed her thighs together subtly, needing some relief, but it only made it stronger.

It didn't take long. His thighs tensed under her grip, breath hitching. "I'm— fuck—"

A deep groan tore from him as he came, thick ropes hit the back of her throat, and she swallowed it all.

A little escaped from the corner of her mouth. She pulled him out and wiped it with one finger, then slid that finger between her lips, sucking it clean before swallowing. Her eyes never left his. She rose to her feet, a smile on.

"Scoot back," she told him.

Michael shifted, sliding toward the headboard, propping himself up on the pillows as he watched her.

Wunmi's fingers found the tie of her robe, deliberately loosening it slowly. The fabric parted, falling open to reveal a deep wine red lace lingerie set. The bra cupped her full breasts, matching panties, and lace garters stretching down to mid-thigh. She shrugged the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to her feet before kicking it aside.

Michael's eyes widened, taking her in. If this wasn't the perfect way to celebrate his win, nothing was. His tongue came out to lick his lips, hand extending toward her.

She climbed onto the bed, crawling her way up to him, then swung a leg over, straddling his hips. She leaned down, capturing his mouth in a deep kiss.

His hands went straight to her large, plush ass, cheeks spilling over his palms. He gripped it hard, kneading the flesh through the lace, pulling her tighter against him as the kiss turned heated and messy.

She moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating between them, arching into his touch as he palmed her roughly.

Above him, she looked stunning, and his mind raced with only one thought: he needed to capture this moment. He broke the kiss, but she just dipped lower, lips finding his neck, sucking lightly along his throat.

"Wunmi," he said, clearing his throat.

She hummed against his skin, not stopping, nipping gently.

He hesitated, heart pounding. "Can I...record us?"

That made her freeze. She pulled back fully, lifting her head to search his eyes, surprise flickering there. "What?"

He cleared his throat again, holding her gaze, voice even as possible. "Can I record us? Please."

Wunmi's eyebrows furrowed, confusion sharpening her features. "No. Why would you even want that?"

Something in him tensed, a knot pulling tight in his chest. He needed this, so he could have something to relive this night and everything it would come with. And what better way than a video to pull out later, just for him. So he decided to beg. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs brushing the lace garters, then higher to trace her hips. He gave her those pleading, wanting eyes that she could never resist.

"Come on, baby," he murmured, voice dropping low, fingers kneading her skin. "Just this one time, for me."

She huffed, staring down at him, shifting on his lap as his touch worked its magic. Sitting up straighter, she crossed her arms under her chest, listening while he kept begging.

After a long pause, she sighed heavy, rolling her eyes but despite everything in her telling her not to, she gave in. "Fine. You can record. us But on my phone. I don't want it anywhere it could get in the wrong hands."

His face lit up in excitement. "Okay. When will I get it?"

"You get it when I decide to give it to you," she said firmly, arching a brow.

"Okay, okay," he agreed quick, tapping her thigh lightly. "Let me grab it."

She slid off him, kneeling back on the bed as he got off the bed and stood up. He padded across the room naked, strong back flexing, then he snatched her phone from the nightstand. He handled it quickly, pulling up the camera, and propped it so it fully captured the bed.

Wunmi watched him from the bed, knees tucked under her, a flicker of unease in her eyes. She wasn't fully sold on this idea, but for him and because of what tonight was, she'd do it.

Michael climbed back on the bed, crawling toward her on hands and knees. He grabbed her waist, yanking her into him. Their mouths crashed together, tongues hot and urgent.

He pushed forward, guiding her down until her back hit the sheets. He hovered over her, one knee between her thighs, kissing her deeper as the mattress shifted under their weight.

Wunmi moaned into his mouth when his hips rolled down into her, his hard length pressing right against the damp lace of her panties.

His hand slipped between them, fingers hooking the waistband of her panties, tugging them down.

"We gotta take these off," he whispered against her lips.

She moaned louder, arching up as his fingers grazed the fabric over her folds.

They worked together with her lifting her hips and him pulling the lace down her thighs. He tossed them aside and kissed her again.

Without much thought, he teased himself at her entrance, before easing in, the thick tip parting her wetness. They both moaned at the stretch, her walls gripping him tight, trying to pull him deeper.

Michael pecked her lips, then dropped his forehead to hers. She let out another moan as he slipped further, inch by inch, filling her completely. His hips adjusted, tilting to hit that perfect angle deep inside, the one that made her entire body melt, legs trembling around him. He knew her every spot, and he wanted that reaction he knew it would bring.

Her hands cradled the back of his head, holding him steady as he started slow, deep thrusts, pushing to the base each time. She moaned loud, but it got lost in his mouth as he kissed her again, swallowing the sounds.

He pulled back just enough to stare into her eyes, voice rough with emotion. "You're so fucking beautiful, baby. I love you so much."

"Thank you, baby. I love you too." Wunmi moaned, walls clenching around him.

His thrusts picked up, pushing deeper, hitting that line where pleasure tipped into almost too much. Wunmi gasped, her hands sliding down to press flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palms.

Michael's eyes were locked on her face, watching her moan. She clenched around him on each stroke, pulling him in like she couldn't get enough.

Her eyes fluttered, starting to close from being overwhelmed, so he murmured low, "Does it feel good, baby?"

She nodded quickly, rocking her hips up to meet him. "It's just so much."

He glanced down between them, seeing how her slick folds stretched around his thickness as he disappeared inside her with every push.

"I know, I know," he soothed gently.

But he didn't ease up. Instead, he dug deeper, hips rolling, chasing those raw sounds she made.

Wunmi gasped louder, hands flying to his biceps, gripping hard. "Hold me," she pleaded, voice breaking. She needed him close, skin to skin.

He let her pull him down on top of her. Her arms wrapped tight around his head, squeezing him close. He kissed her neck soft, lips brushing sweat-damp skin. "I got you, baby. It's okay. I'm holding you."

He picked up speed just a touch. His long, powerful strokes had them both moaning into each other's ears.

Wunmi's hands gripped his arms tight, fingers holding on for dear life, but she shied from wrapping around him fully.

As if reading her mind, Michael caught her wrists gentle, guiding her hands to his back. "Put 'em right here," he murmured, pressing them flat against his skin. "Good girl."

She moaned louder at the praise. Each thrust exploded through her, her stomach tightened, pushing her quickly toward the edge.

"I'm goin—" Her warning broke into a sharp moan, words lost as pleasure overtook. Her nails scraped his back lightly, gripping hard.

"You can scratch it, baby," he urged, pushing their lips together for a deep kiss.

Their lips locked, her moans muffled against him, until she released, coming hard around him.

He pecked her lips, then leaned back slowly, moving to kneel between her trembling legs. He was still buried deep inside her as he watched her chest heave.

He gathered her soft legs in his large hands and eased them wider apart. Then he thrust back in, picking up where they left off.

Wunmi moaned, fingers twisting into the sheets, back arching off the bed as he filled her again.

Michael kept the pace, hands roaming up her curves until one palm gripped a full breast through the lace bra, thumb circling the hard nipple.

"You're taking it so well," he praised her.

She whimpered, "Please..." She was already close to another edge, body completely overwhelmed. She tried to close her legs, thighs pressing together to slow it down.

He shook his head. "Uhn-uhn. Open those legs for me."

She hesitated, then parted them. Michael hooked his hands into the soft crease behind her knees, pinning her thighs wide open, knees bent toward her chest. With her open like that, he went to town, thrusts turning harder and faster, pounding deep inside with wet slaps echoing in the room. And Wunmi could do nothing but take it. Her body rocking with every slam, completely at his mercy.

One hand flew to his chest, the other pressed his lower stomach, yet neither slowed him down.

"What's my name, baby?" he demanded.

She could barely form words, eyes unfocused, mind melted, but she managed to get out, "Daddy..."

He groaned in approval. "And what did Daddy win, huh?"

"An Oscar," she moaned.

A cuss slipped from her lips as he drove her deeper into the mattress, holding her legs even wider, folding her nearly in half.

"I'm so proud of you, baby," he rasped, thrusting even with her clenching tight around him. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said instantly, almost like it was on autopilot.

He felt his own release building up with her pulsing around him with no protection. She was the only one he ever went raw with, the only one he wanted to with.

He kept driving deep, careful nudges against the top of her ceiling, teasing that spot until she squealed, clenching tight around him every time.

Groans poured from him continuously, as his release came fast. He buried himself deep, tip kissing that sensitive spot, and came, filling her up.

Her legs shook violently under his hands, another orgasm unexpectedly ripping through her.

"Please…" she begged, body seizing as pleasure overwhelmed her.

She reached for any part of him. He caught her hand, lacing their fingers together as they rode it out.

They were so lost in each other, they forgot about the phone and room service entirely.

Earlier, a soft knock came from the suite door, but was ignored. The staff woman waited longer than protocol, with the hot food starting to cool on the cart. There was no "Do Not Disturb" sign hung, so she swiped her keycard and rolled the cart inside.

Her eyes caught the Oscar. She'd heard whispers from the other staff that Michael B. Jordan was in the hotel tonight. But she didn't think she would be serving him.

Muffled sounds came from the open bedroom door. And of course she felt the need to be nosy. She parked the cart by the table and creeped toward the doorway. And there he was, with his bare back flexed, hips moving forward as he held a woman's legs open.

Then, very clearly, she heard "I love you."

A muffled response followed.

The woman's eyes widened and she left quickly not wanting to interrupt what she could only imagine was a celebration.

Michael released Wunmi's legs, letting them fall to the sheets. Her chest heaved with each inhale, skin flushed and glistening. His eyes were fixed on her breasts that were still trapped by her lace bra.

She whimpered when he slipped out, the sudden emptiness making her clench around nothing.

He pecked her lips a few times, before trailing kisses from her lip to her cheek, neck, collarbone, and down to her chest. His lips kissed each breast, then his hand cupped one while his mouth latched onto the other. He tugged the bra down, exposing her dark nipples. He licked slow circles, then he sucked, pulling delicious moans from her throat.

Her hand found the back of his head to hold him there as he showed her some attention.

"They're so perfect, baby," he praised against her skin, voice muffled

He switched sides, mouth leaving a wet trail across her chest, sucking the other nipple with the same intensity. He kept going until he was satisfied, before leaning back on his heels. He licked his lips, eyes taking her ruined look in. His gaze dropped lower, to her swollen, leaking pussy. A low groan came from him.

"Turn over for me."

Wunmi swallowed hard. Doggy always felt iffy because Michael could get rough when he was lost in it. And tonight she was sure she'd have to brace herself with him still being high from his win.

She took a deep breath and rolled over, then pushed up onto all fours, back arched slightly.

Michael slid off the bed to stand behind her. He always loved his view from the back. "Come back toward me."

She inched backward on her knees, until she felt close enough. His hands firmly gripped her ankles and yanked her to the edge in one pull. Her body moved easily against the hotel sheets, ass now only inches away from him.

He pressed her upper body down into the bed, making her arch exactly how he wanted it, and her ass lifted up to him. His palm cracked against one cheek, then the other which made the flesh jiggle. She gasped, but he saw her subtly push back as if sshe wanted more.

Michael gripped his dick, rubbing the thick length up and down her slick folds, teasing her entrance until she moaned, ass wiggling eagerly against him.

Wunmi pushed back easing just the tip and another inch or two inside. A deep moan escaped as she stretched around him. Then she rocked forward, nearly pulling off, before sliding back those same few inches.

He bit his lip hard, watching as her body worked him over.

She kept it up, her pace not nearly fast enough for him, but her soft moans told him that she was enjoying every shallow push. His hand went the top of her ass to guide her back with each rock.

"Shit..." he moaned, the grip helping her meet him halfway.

Her fingers twisted tight into the sheets.

They rocked like that, pace gradually building.

"I love this dick," Wunmi gasped between moans, voice breathy. "It feels so good, baby."

Michael kept his hands on her hips, but he sharply pulled her further back on him, making most of his length sink in deep in her. She moaned loud.

His palm smack her ass again, the sting burning. "You can take more, right?"

"Daddy, please," she moaned, going forward automatically.

He just chased her, inching more in slowly. "C'mon, baby."

Her arm shot back, but he snatched her wrist up, letting her hand grip his solid arm. Using it as leverage, he pulled her onto him further, watching her take it.

"It's too much," she whined, but her moan sounded too needy, and her body clenched around the fullness.

He let go of her arm, hands going for her waist instead. Then he pulled her back slamming into her faster, deeper, and harder than before.

Moans spilled from her consistently now. Sounding so soft and sweet to his ears, it was like music. She gripped the sheets so tight as her body jolted with each thrust.

"You can take it," he urged. "Talk to me."

"Baby, I can't," she stuttered, eyes squeezing shut tight, overwhelmed.

Another moan ripped from her. He groaned as she fluttered around him.

"Yes, you can," he growled. "Tell Daddy what he wants to hear."

Wunmi's cries of "Daddy, please" kept going with every thrust as he pounded into her without mercy.

Her stomach tightened hard, legs trembling under the onslaught. "Baby, I'm about to come," she gasped, voice squealing.

He grunted low, hips never slowing. "Come for Daddy."

Quick, he sucked until his thumb was wet and then pressed it against her back hole then eased it in.

"Micha— Daddy!" She gasped out.

His thumb stayed buried knuckle-deep, while his other fingers gripped her ass cheek firmly to keep the momentum going.

Her release hit her so intensely that she unintentionally clenched around him. A string of moans spilled out—"Oh fuck—Daddy…"—as he fucked her through it. She creamed heavy, coating his whole dick white and dripping down.

Michael pushed her waist down, arching her deeper, then leaned forward over her back to hold her down as he continued thrusting.

It was far too much, it felt too good and yet too overwhelming. Wunmi reached back, palm pushing weakly at his thigh to slow him down.

Michael snatched her hand up, leaning down to kiss her knuckles. He pressed their intertwined fingers to her lower back.

"Baby, it's too big," she called out, voice wrecked. "And you're giving it all to me."

"I got to. So you know how proud of you I am. You proud of me too, baby?"

She whimpered with every slam. "Yes…congratulations, Daddy."

"Say it again."

"Congratulations, Daddy," she gasped louder.

"Fuck this pussy good," he groaned.

Then in a much softer voice, he asked, "Do you love me, baby?"

"I love you so much. Fuck—" She moaned, face shoved into the bed, muffling the words.

"I love you too."

He pushed through until his own release came close. "Fuck, I'm about to nut all in this good shit."

One more deep thrust, and he came filling her with hot ropes. He pulled out slowly, their cream leaking from her, then dropped down behind her, diving in without giving her a break.

Moans tore from her as he ate her from the back. He gripped her thighs to still her squirming and spread her open.

His tongue licked her entrance hungrily, sucking their mixed release, then went lower to her clit. He sucked and pulled making her moans so loud he figured they could hear her in the next room.

Her hand desperately shot between her legs, trying to nudge his head away as overstimulation hit. "W-wait, baby—I—I can't…fuck!" she cried between moans, thighs shaking.

He didn't let up, tongue flicking quickly even as she tried to crawl forward to escape. Michael climbed onto the bed, grip tightening on her thighs to hold her steady. He ate her until another orgasm had her body tensing. He slurped her up greedily, not wasting a drop.

He stood up and slapped her ass one more time, watching it jiggle as she collapsed forward onto the bed. Her whole body trembling violently.

Michael slid in beside her, gathering her body close, pulling her into his chest. Their lips came together in slow kiss, and his hands kneaded her ass lazily.

Her eyes fluttered shut eventually, exhaustion claiming her. He kissed her forehead, then slipped from the bed to grab the still recording phone from off the table. He hit stop and set it back on the nightstand before climbing back under the sheets.

Two days later, Michael was stretched out across his bed. One arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on his chest as he stared blankly at the wall. The room was quiet and it gave his mind too much space to wander. And all he could think about was Sunday night.

He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall back onto the bed.

Everything about it had been a perfect night. From the win to the celebration. The way she looked, the way she sounded, the way she felt, and the way she tasted. It played back so vividly.

It didn’t help that she wasn’t even in the city anymore. She’d left the next day for work. She said she would only be gone for a few days, but a few days felt like a long time right now.

He shifted slightly on the bed, exhaling again, his jaw tightening as he tried to push the thoughts away. It didn’t work. If anything, it made it worse.

His mind went right back to the details like how she squeezed his dick so good, or how her mouth sucked him up so deliciously. He could picture it all, but some things were starting to get cloudy. Then he remembered that she had sent him the audio. It wasn't the actual video, but he knew better than to push for more.

He reached for his phone almost immediately, unlocking it and scrolling through his messages until he found it. His thumb hovered over it for half a second, then he pressed play.

He grabbed his headphones from the nightstand, slipping them on as he leaned back again, eyes closing as the sound filled his ears. And he was pulled right back there.

He exhaled slowly, his head tipping back against the headboard, letting it play out without interruption. His hand dragged down his body until he got to the band of his shorts.

The memory mixing with the sound in his ears, pulling him deeper into it. He slipped his hand underneath, grabbing himself. He slowly started stroking his dick at the breathy mixed sound of them both. His current breathing became heavier each time he went from base to tip. He got completely lost in it.

Until his phone rang.

His eyes snapped open, brows furrowing as he pulled one side of the headphones off, the moment broken.

“…man,” he exhaled, reaching for his phone, irritation clear as he glanced at the screen.

When he looked at the screen, he let out a quiet curse under his breath at what he forgot. It was one of the girls he had hit up earlier, because he needed a quick release.

“Yeah?”

“I’m outside,” she said, her tone a little playful.

“Aight, I got you,” he replied trying to hide his annoyance, before hanging up.

The headphones came off and he tossed those and his phone onto the bed. They landed somewhere near the pillows as he pushed himself up and headed out of the room. When he opened the door, she was standing there smiling, looking him up and down the second she saw him.

“Hey,” she said, stepping in and wrapping her arms around him.

He quickly hugged her back.

“Congratulations,” she added.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling back slightly.

Her expression shifted as if she had remembered something. A small pout formed on her face.

“But why you ain’t invite me over?” she asked, dragging the words out just a little. “We could’ve had fun…”

He looked at her for a second. Then looked away.

“C’mon,” he said instead, stepping to the side as he gestured for her to come in.

She gave him a look like she noticed what he did, but didn’t push it. Not yet at least.

He led her upstairs without saying much else, his energy more direct and less patient. The second they got into his room, she dropped her bag near the chair, turning back toward him just in time for him to close the distance.

He jumped straight into it by kissing her. She responded instantly, arms coming up around his shoulders as they moved together, but there was a subtly difference now. His focus wasn’t fully on her.

He guided her backwards toward the bed, and when the backs of her legs hit the mattress, she let herself fall back with a small laugh. He followed right after, crowding over her. His movements were quick, almost impatient. Almost as if he wanted to be done before they had even started.

Afterwards, they laid in a too quiet room. Michael was on his back, one arm resting behind his head again, chest rising and falling slower now as he came down from it. His eyes weren’t really focused on anything but the ceiling.

She was on her side, propped slightly up on her elbow, watching him, and thinking. She had seen a tweet earlier, and she couldn't shake the thought of it. And now with him so distant, she felt there was some truth to it. At first, she tried to brush it off because people said anything online. It came with who he was as a celebrity. But this one really stuck with her.

She hadn’t seen or heard from him that night. And now, laying here next to him, she couldn’t help but let her thoughts take her to a place beyond concern. She didn’t usually get like this with anyone, but he was different. He treated her well, and he respected her. And maybe somewhere along the way, she started wanting more. Or at least wanting to feel like she could be more.

Her eyes moved over him, studying his face, the calmness there that didn’t quite match how her mind was moving. She needed to know.

“Hey,” she said softly to catch his attention.

He glanced over at her. “What’s up?”

She gave him a small look, batting her lashes. “Can you get me something to eat? And a drink?”

He paused, then nodded. “Yeah, I got you.”

He pushed the covers back and got out of bed, grabbing a pair of sweats from the chair as he walked out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him. And the second it did, she moved fast.

The softness dropped from her face completely as she turned, reaching straight for his phone on the bed. For a second, she hesitated, but it all went out the window when she remembered how he was so caught up. Then she unlocked it. She remembered it from a time he forgot that she was laying next to him watching.

The second she got into his phone, she didn’t waste time, she went straight to his messages. Her thumb scrolled past names and numbers she didn’t care about. She wasn’t trying to read everything, but she was looking for something that felt different.

And it didn’t take long. There was a thread with nothing but an iCloud email.

Her brows pulled together slightly as she clicked it. There wasn’t a conversation. Just one message. An audio file. She tapped it and lifted the phone to her ear. And the second the audio started, her face went still. Her eyes narrowed as she listened to it for a few more seconds. She didn’t need long to understand exactly what she was hearing.

Her hand dropped slightly from her ear, but she didn’t stop the audio right away. It kept playing faintly, just enough for her to catch pieces of it and confirm what she already knew.

“Wow…” she whispered under her breath, though there was no real surprise, only irritation.

She stopped the audio and quickly sent the file to herself, fingers steady despite everything running through her head. Once it went through, she deleted the sent file from his side, so he wouldn't have a clue. Then she locked the phone and placed it back where it had been.

Her face was blank as she pulled the sheet slightly over herself.

By the time Michael came back into the room, she had put her act back on. Or tried to at least.

He walked in with a sandwich and a drink, completely unaware.

“Here,” he said, handing them over as he moved back toward the bed.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice a little quieter than before.

She didn’t stay much longer after that. She finished her food, making light conversation when he spoke and let him touch her like he always did. If anything, she leaned into it a little more, playing the role just enough so he wouldn’t question it.

But her mind wasn’t present anymore. All she could think about was the intimacy she heard, and how he sounded so different with her. And the fact that it wasn’t her.

She finally decided to slip out of his bed, then put her clothes back on piece by piece.

“I’ll text you,” she said, smoothing her hands down her outfit as she grabbed her bag.

“Okay,” he replied, barely looking up from his phone.

She paused for half a second, looking at him. Then smiled.

“Congratulations again,” she added.

“Appreciate it,” he said, glancing up just long enough to give her a small nod.

And that was it, so she left.

end notes: no tags for this because people been wanting to tussle for this! but if you would like to be tagged lmk because there will be a part 2 and 3. they're already being worked on actually.

[candlesatsunrise]

Changing my username is like a flower suddenly blooming. Unexpected, but ready for the world and its beauty.

ps: didn’t think I’d be able to change it so quickly, with how much I tried in past and certain names not being available. 🙏🏾