Wunmi Mosaku featured on ELLE Vanguard: A Power List Celebrating 50 Trailblazing Women In Film And Television
Becoming the first Black British performer to win the BAFTA for Best Supporting Actress, Wunmi Mosaku is the undisputed queen of dramatic gravitas. In 2026, she commands the global cultural vanguard following a historic awards season for her breathtaking turn as the Hoodoo priestess Annie in Ryan Coogler's horror-masterpiece Sinners.
'One of the best of our generation, who deserves recognition at all times for her ability to tap into the most vulnerable of cores in each of her portrayals' - Lashana Lynch
Pairing: Cherry x Stack
Featuring Smoke / “Smokey Bear”
Summary: Ray finally comes to Clarksdale to reclaim the wife and son he believes still belong to him.
But Cherry is no longer the woman he left behind. She has a home now, a son, a family, and a voice sharp enough to cut through every claim he tries to lay on her.
When Ray refuses to let go, the Moore house becomes a battlefield, and Cherry, Stack, and Smoke are forced to prove exactly how far they’ll go to protect what they’ve built.
Something Like Hope | Soft Hands, Heavy Love | What He Built to Keep
The door swung open, revealing the figure standing on the porch, half-hidden in the deep shadows of the night.
Ray.
The air went still. The crickets and cicadas that had been the soundtrack to the Mississippi night fell silent, as if the whole world was holding its breath. Stack didn’t move, just stood there, a solid, unmoving wall of muscle and intent. His hand rested on the doorknob; his posture was loose, armed, ready.
Ray took a slow step forward, out of the deepest shadows and into the faint light spilling from the house. He looked thinner than Stack remembered, harder, the lines around his mouth etched with a bitterness that hadn’t been there before. His eyes, dark and sunken, locked onto Stack’s immediately. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a challenge. A sizing up.
Neither man looked away. Neither offered a word. The space between them crackled with a history so thick it was almost visible. The air grew heavy, charged with all the things that had been left unsaid between them, all the things that had been done.
A floorboard creaked behind Stack. Smoke appeared at his side, a silent, menacing presence. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just stood there, his shoulder brushing against Stack’s, a second wall of unyielding force. His gaze was colder than Stack’s, more calculating, and it fixed on Ray with the unnerving focus of a predator that had been waiting for its prey to show itself.
From inside the house, Cherry stood frozen just beyond the living room threshold, Silas held tight against her chest. She had made herself move, her feet carrying her forward before her mind had caught up, a primal need to see, to know. The baby was warm and heavy in her arms, his soft breaths a small, fragile rhythm against the frantic pounding of her own heart. She could feel the tension rolling off the porch in waves, a cold, sickening dread that threatened to choke her.
Ray’s eyes flicked past Stack, past Smoke, and landed on her. His gaze lingered for a second, then dropped to the baby in her arms. His expression didn’t soften. It didn’t change. But something in it hardened, a subtle shift that was more painful than any sneer.
Then his eyes moved back to her hand. To the heavy red diamond ring on her finger. To the delicate chain around her neck, the E.M. glinted in the low light.
Every piece of the life she had built.
Every piece of the man who had built it with her.
He saw it all. And it hurt him. She could see it in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. It wasn’t the pain of a man who had lost something he loved. It was the ugly, bruised pride of a man who had lost something he owned.
The silence stretched, thin and sharp, until it felt like it might snap.
Finally, Ray spoke. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, a statement of fact that was meant to cut like a blade.
“I’m here for my wife.”
For a beat, Stack didn’t react. He just stood there, letting the words hang in the air between them. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a smile of humor or warmth. It was a dangerous thing, a flash of white in the darkness that promised violence. It was the smile of a man who had been waiting for this moment, who had been looking forward to it.
He didn’t look at Cherry. He didn’t look at Smoke. He kept his eyes locked on Ray, his smile widening just enough to show the edge of his gold tooth.
“Is that right?” Stack asked, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that was more terrifying than any shout.
That dangerous smile on Stack’s face didn’t falter. It just widened, a predator baring its teeth in the face of a challenge it had been craving. “Is that right?” he repeated, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that was more terrifying than any shout.
“You got no business here, Moore,” Ray said, his own voice tight, strained. He took another step onto the porch, trying to claim space he had no right to. “This is between me and my wife.”
Stack’s smile vanished. The shift was instantaneous, like a switch being thrown. The air went from tense to explosive. “Your wife?” he snarled, taking a single, threatening step forward that brought him chest-to-chest with Ray. “Nah, nigga. You lost that right when you left her pregnant and alone. While you went to drop the soap in jail.”
Smoke’s hand shot out, clamping down on Stack’s shoulder, holding him back with surprising strength. “Stack. Not here.”
“He came to my goddamn house,” Stack shot back, his eyes burning with a wild light, his body coiled to strike. “He standing on my porch talking about what’s his.”
“You think this changes anything?” Ray spat, his gaze flicking past them to Cherry, who stood frozen in the doorway. “She’s my wife. That’s my blood in there. I’m here to take them home where they belong.”
That was it. The fuse was lit.
Stack lunged.
He moved with a terrifying speed, a blur of raw fury. He wasn’t thinking. He was just reacting, an instinct to tear apart the threat that had dared to speak his son’s name. But Smoke was faster. He moved with him, his body twisting, his grip like iron as he hooked an arm around Stack’s chest, hauling him back with brute force.
“Get off me!” Stack roared, struggling against his brother’s hold, his hands clawing for Ray. “I’m gone kill this motherfucker!”
“You ain’t killing nobody on this porch!” Smoke grunted, his muscles straining as he dragged his brother back. “You gone make a mess Cherry gotta clean up later!”
Cherry watched them, her heart hammering against her ribs, the baby in her arms starting to stir, sensing the violence in the air. But as she watched the two men wrestle on the porch, a strange, cold clarity washed over her.
Ray was talking again, his voice cutting through Stack’s enraged snarls. “See? This is what he is. A goddamn animal. You think this is a place for a woman? A child? You belong with me, Cherry. I’ll take you home. We’ll forget this ever happened.”
Stack’s rage intensified. “She ain’t going nowhere with you! You ain’t never touching her again! You hear me? You dead if you even think about it!”
And through it all, through the threats and the violence, Cherry noticed something. A sickening, familiar pattern.
Ray talked about ownership. My wife. My blood. I’ll take them home.
Stack talked about protection. You ain’t touching her again. I’ll kill you.
Neither one of them, not for a single second, asked her what she wanted.
Not once.
It was like she wasn’t even there. Like she was an object to be won, a prize to be claimed, a thing to be protected but not consulted. The weight of it settled on her, heavier than any of the anger, heavier than any of the fear. It was the same feeling she’d had with Ray, just wrapped in a different, louder package. The feeling of being invisible.
The baby in her arms let out a soft whimper, a small, fragile sound that cut through the rage on the porch.
And something in Cherry broke.
Or maybe, something in her finally came together.
She took a step forward.
Not a big step. Just one. Out of the shadows of the doorway and onto the porch, into the fight.
The movement was so small, so quiet, but it stopped everything.
Stack froze, his struggles ceasing as he turned to look at her. Smoke’s grip loosened in surprise. Ray’s eyes locked onto her, a flicker of triumph in them, like he thought she was coming to his side.
She wasn’t.
She stood there, in the middle of the three of them, a small woman holding a baby, facing down three powerful men. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady. Her voice, when it came, was soft, but it carried a weight that silenced every other sound in the night.
“Stop.”
The single word hung in the night air, fragile but unbreakable. Stop.
It was a whisper, but it landed with force. Stack’s rage, a roaring inferno a second before, was extinguished, leaving behind a stunned, heavy silence. Smoke’s arms fell away from his brother. Ray’s triumphant smirk faltered, replaced by a confusion that quickly soured into irritation.
All eyes were on her.
Cherry stood her ground, the baby in her arms a solid, living anchor. She looked from Ray’s face to Stack’s, then back again. She took a slow, deep breath, the air filling her lungs with a courage she didn’t know she possessed.
“You don’t get to talk about me like I’m not standing right here,” she said, her voice gaining strength, each word clearer and more certain than the last. “You don’t get to stand on this porch and talk about taking me home. I am home.”
Ray’s face hardened, the familiar mask of a man whose authority was being questioned. “Cherry, stop this nonsense. You’re confused. He’s filled your head with all kinds of ideas, but you belong with me. You’re my wife.”
“I was your wife,” she corrected him, and the words felt like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t even known was there. “The moment you put your hands on me, the moment you made me feel small in my own home, the moment you went to jail for being a fool… that was the moment I stopped being yours. I just didn’t have anywhere to go until now.”
She shifted Silas in her arms, his warm weight a comforting reality. “The moment I left Florida, I left you. I am not coming back. Ever.”
The finality in her voice was absolute. It was not a negotiation. It was a declaration.
Ray stared at her, his expression shifting from irritation to disbelief, and finally, to a raw, ugly rage that twisted his features. This was not the woman he had left. This was not the quiet, pliable girl who would lower her eyes and shrink into herself. This was a stranger.
“You listen to me,” he began, his voice low and menacing, the tone she knew all too well. The tone that promised consequences. “You will get my son and you will come with me. I will not be made a fool of by some backwoods juke joint nigga and his little brother. You are my property. The child is my blood. You will do as I say.”
Every word was a lash, a desperate attempt to regain control, to remind her of her place. But it didn’t work. The words hit her, but they didn’t stick. They couldn’t. Not anymore.
Because as he spoke, she saw it with a clarity that was breathtaking. He wasn’t angry because he loved her. He wasn’t hurt because he missed her. He was furious because he had lost possession. He was raging because his property had walked away.
“He is not your property,” she said, her voice ringing with a newfound power. “And neither am I.”
Ray’s face contorted, his control finally shattering. “You ungrateful bitch—”
He lunged for her.
He didn’t get more than a single step.
Before Ray could even process the movement, Stack was on him. Not with the wild, unfocused rage from before, but with a cold, terrifying precision. He moved like a striking snake, his hand shooting out to wrap around Ray’s throat, slamming him back against the porch post with a sickening crack of wood. The impact knocked the air out of Ray’s lungs in a whooping gasp.
Stack’s face was inches from his, his eyes burning with a fire that was colder and deadlier than any rage. He squeezed, just enough to make the point, to feel the frantic pulse of life under his thumb.
“You don’t get to talk to her,” he hissed, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You don’t get to look at her. You don’t get to breathe the same air as her. You got that? You are nothing. You are a ghost. The only reason you ain’t dead already is ‘cause I don’t want her to have to wash your blood off my porch. But you keep testing me, motherfucker, and I’ll make you a goddamn stain in this dirt. You hear me? I’ll fuckin’ end you.”
Smoke was there instantly, not pulling Stack off, but standing beside him, a silent, looming threat that promised there was no escape. He leaned in, his voice dropping into a calm, terrifying monotone that was somehow worse than Stack’s rage.
“He means it,” Smoke said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. “But let me be clear. Stack? He’ll kill you ‘cause he’s angry. He’ll make it quick and ugly. Me? I ain’t angry. I’m just practical. If you ever come back here, if you even think about coming back here, I won’t kill you fast. I’ll take my time. I’ll find a spot deep in the swamp where the gators get fat and nobody ever finds a goddamn thing. And I’ll sit there and watch. Just to make sure the job’s done right. You understand the difference?”
Ray clawed at Stack’s hand, his eyes bulging, his face turning a mottled red. He struggled, but it was useless. Stack’s grip was like iron.
Cherry watched, her heart hammering, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t look away. She just stood there, holding her son, and watched the man who had tormented her get handled by the man who had saved her. And she felt nothing. No triumph. No fear. Just a quiet, final closing of a door.
Stack held him for a few more seconds, letting the terror sink in, before he shoved him away. Ray stumbled back, gasping for air, his hand flying to his bruised throat. He looked from Stack’s cold, murderous face to Smoke’s impassive stare, and finally to Cherry, who stood there, unmoved, untouched.
He saw he had lost. Completely.
Defeated, humiliated, and broken, he turned and stumbled down the porch steps, disappearing into the darkness.
But before he was swallowed by the night, he stopped. He turned back, his gaze finding Cherry one last time. Then, his eyes dropped, locking onto the baby in her arms.
It wasn’t a look of fatherly concern. It wasn’t a look of regret. It was a look of possessiveness. A look that said you are mine. It was a look that promised this wasn’t over. It was a look that claimed ownership, even in defeat.
The look bothered everyone. It was a violation, a final, desperate attempt to lay a claim on something that wasn't his.
But it bothered Smoke the most. His easy-going demeanor vanished, not replaced by a cold anger, but by a deep, chilling stillness that was more frightening than any of Stack’s threats. It was the quiet calm of a man who had just moved from observer to guardian. He watched Ray disappear into the darkness, his gaze unwavering, and for the first time, Smoke looked truly, deeply invested. The threat was no longer an abstract problem his brother had to handle. It was a direct challenge to the family he had built alongside him.
He didn’t look at Stack. He didn’t look at Cherry. His eyes remained fixed on the spot in the darkness where Ray had vanished. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, a quiet promise that was far more terrifying than any shout.
“He comes back,” Smoke said, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and we won’t be having a conversation on the porch.”
He finally turned, his eyes meeting Stack’s. There was no blame, no reproach. Just a shared understanding, a unified front.
“We end it,” Smoke said. “For good.”
The dawn broke gray and heavy over Clarksdale, a thick, damp mist clinging to the ground and blurring the edges of the world. It was the kind of morning that promised heat later, a slow, suffocating blanket that would settle over the town and make every movement feel like a chore. Smoke was already moving, long before the sun had fully burned through the haze. He moved through the sleeping house like a ghost, his steps silent on the wooden floors. He paused for a second in the hallway, his gaze falling on the slightly open door to Silas’s room. Inside, he could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of the baby, a sound that had become the strange, new heartbeat of their lives. He could hear the deeper, steadier breath of Cherry in the next room, and the faint, restless stirring of his brother, who had finally fallen into a fitful sleep a few hours before.
He didn’t wake them. He didn’t say goodbye. He just slipped out the back door, the cool morning air a welcome shock against his skin. He wasn’t doing this for Stack. Not really. His brother’s anger was a wildfire, all noise and fury, but it burned itself out. Smoke’s was different. It was a cold, deep thing, a glacier that moved slowly but with an unstoppable force. Ray’s look last night, that final glance at Silas, had carved out a space inside him that was now filled with a single, chilling purpose.
He walked into town, his long strides eating up the dirt road. The town was just beginning to stir, a few lights flickering on in windows, the smell of woodsmoke and coffee hanging in the air. He didn’t go to the juke joint. That was Stack’s world, loud and full of eyes. He went to the quieter places, the places where business was done with a nod and a whispered word. The first was a small bakery run by an old woman named Miss Eula, a woman who had known the Moore boys since they were still scrapping in the dirt.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered. Miss Eula was behind the counter, her hands dusted with flour, her face a roadmap of wrinkles and wisdom. She looked up, her eyes sharp and knowing.
“Smoke,” she greeted, her voice as dry as day-old cornbread. “You’re up early.”
“Morning, Miss Eula,” he said, his voice low and calm. He leaned against the counter, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were alert. “Need to ask you something.”
She nodded slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Figured you might. Heard there was some trouble out at your place last night.”
“Word travels fast.”
“It always does in this town,” she said. “What you need to know?”
“Where a man would stay if he was trying not to be found. A man who ain’t from here, but ain’t trying to leave just yet.”
Miss Eula pursed her lips, her gaze thoughtful. She didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to. “There’s a boarding house on the edge of town. Mrs. Gable runs it. She takes in all sorts, doesn’t ask too many questions as long as the money’s good. And there’s an old house next to it. Been empty for years. Belonged to the Hendersons before they moved up north. Folks say it’s haunted, but that’s just a story to keep kids away.”
Smoke nodded slowly, the information settling into place. “Appreciate it, Miss Eula.”
She reached under the counter and pulled out a small paper bag, still warm. “Take these,” she said, pushing it toward him. “For the baby. And for your brother. He looks like he could use something sweet.”
Smoke took the bag, the warmth of it a small comfort in the cold morning. “We owe you.”
“You just keep that family safe,” she said, her voice firm. “That’s all the payment I need.”
He left the bakery and walked toward the edge of town, the warm bag in his hand a stark contrast to the cold purpose in his heart. He found the boarding house easily enough, a faded, two-story building with peeling paint and a sagging porch. Next to it, half-hidden by overgrown weeds and a drooping fence, stood the Henderson place. It was a skeleton of a house, its windows like vacant eyes, its porch sagging like a tired old man. It was the perfect place to hide. The perfect place to watch.
Smoke didn’t approach it. He didn’t need to. He found a spot across the street, in the shadows of an old alleyway, and he waited. He was patient. He could wait all day if he had to. He just stood there, a silent, unmoving figure, and watched the house.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, burning away the mist. The town came alive, the sounds of voices, wagons, and distant music filling the air. Smoke didn’t move. He just watched, his mind working, his senses sharp. He saw Mrs. Gable come out to sweep her porch. He saw a few boarders come and go. And then, just as the sun was beginning to dip, he saw him.
Ray emerged from the boarding house, not from the abandoned one. He looked around, his movements furtive, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. He wasn’t the arrogant man who had stood on their porch last night. He looked like a cornered animal, desperate and dangerous. He crossed the street and slipped into the abandoned house, disappearing into the shadows.
Smoke waited another hour, letting the darkness settle. Then he moved. He crossed the street, his steps silent, his body melting into the shadows of the overgrown yard. He didn’t go to the front door. He circled around to the back, where a small window was broken, the glass hanging in jagged shards. He listened for a moment, heard nothing, and then he slipped inside.
The house smelled of dust and decay, of damp wood and something else, something sour and desperate. Smoke moved through the rooms like a cat, his feet making no sound on the filthy floor. He found Ray in the front room, sitting on a rickety chair, staring at a small, flickering candle. He looked up when Smoke entered, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
“You,” Ray whispered, his hand instinctively going to his side, where a gun would be.
Smoke didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his silhouette filling the doorway, a tall, imposing figure in the darkness. He let the silence stretch, let Ray’s fear build, let the weight of his presence press in on the small, suffocating room.
“Your brother sent you?” Ray finally asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Smoke shook his head slowly. “Stack’s got a temper,” he said, his voice a low, calm monotone. “He’s emotional. He’d kill you right now, if he was here. He’d probably enjoy it. It’d be loud and messy and he’d feel better afterwards.”
He took a slow step into the room, his eyes never leaving Ray’s.
“But me?” Smoke continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming something more intimate, more terrifying. “I’m not emotional. I don’t get angry. I just… think. I think about problems. And I think about solutions.”
He took another step, closing the distance between them. Ray shrank back in his chair, his hand still hovering near his empty holster.
“Let me explain the difference between me and my brother,” Smoke said, his voice still calm, but with an edge that could cut glass. “If Stack kills you, it’ll be because he’s angry. It’ll be a crime of passion. A temporary loss of control.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. He was standing over Ray now, his shadow engulfing the smaller man.
“If I kill you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, a cold, dead sound that promised an eternity of darkness. “It’ll be because I thought about it. I’ll have planned it. I’ll have considered every angle, every possibility. I’ll have dug the hole myself. It won’t be a crime of passion. It’ll be a business decision. A logical conclusion to a problem. And I won’t feel a goddamn thing.”
Ray stared up at him, his face dripping with sweat, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. He saw it then. He saw the difference. Stack was a storm, violent and destructive, but it would eventually pass. Smoke was the abyss. A cold, endless void that would swallow you whole and never even notice.
“I’m not here to kill you,” Smoke said, his voice returning to its normal, calm tone. “Not yet. I’m here to give you a message. You have until sunrise to get out of this town. You get on a train, you get in a car, you start walking. I don’t care how. But if the sun comes up and you are still in Clarksdale… the business decision becomes final.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Ray sitting in the flickering candlelight, a man who had just looked into the face of true evil and realized he was out of his depth. Smoke stepped back out into the night, the cool air a welcome relief. He had drawn the line. It was a clear, sharp, and undeniable line. And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that Ray would not cross it again.
The house was a tomb.
Smoke had been gone for hours, and the silence he left behind was a heavy, suffocating thing. It pressed in on Cherry, thick and suffocating, filling every corner of the home she had just started to believe was hers. She had put Silas down, his small body warm and heavy with sleep, but she couldn’t rest. She couldn’t sit. She just moved, a restless ghost haunting the rooms, her hands touching things without feeling them, the cool wood of the crib, the soft fabric of the curtains, the solid weight of the front door she had locked twice.
The moon cast long, skeletal shadows across the floor, and every creak of the settling house sounded like a footstep on the porch. Every whisper of the wind sounded like a voice she thought she had escaped. She stood in the center of the living room, her arms wrapped around herself, and she could still smell him. Not a real scent, but the memory of one. The cheap, sharp smell of his cologne. The faint, sour scent of his anger. It was a phantom limb, an ache for something that was no longer there, and it hurt more than any real blow.
Stack was in the doorway, watching her. He had been watching her for a long time, his presence a weight in the darkness. He saw the way she moved, the slight tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders were pulled in, just a fraction, like she was trying to make herself smaller. It was the same way she used to move in Florida, the same way she had moved when he first found her. And it made something cold and hard settle in his chest.
He wanted to fix it. He wanted to go out into the night and find Ray and tear him apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a memory. He wanted to erase him from the world, from her mind, from the very air she breathed. He wanted to build a wall so high and so thick that nothing could ever get to her again.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t fix this with his fists or his gun. He couldn’t fix this with his money or his name. This was a wound that was inside her, a poison that had been dripping into her soul for years, and he had no idea how to draw it out. The feeling was foreign to him, a helplessness that tasted like ash in his mouth. He was a man who solved problems, who took what he wanted, and reshaped the world to his liking. But this… this was beyond him. And it was killing him.
He took a step forward, his boots making a soft sound on the floorboards.
Cherry flinched.
It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but he saw it. He saw it, and it felt like a physical blow. He stopped, his hands clenching at his sides.
“Cherry,” he said, his voice rough, low.
She didn’t turn. She just stood there, her back to him, her body rigid. “I’m fine,” she said, the words a lie so thin it was transparent.
“No, you ain’t,” he said, taking another step. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. Not now.”
He was closer now, close enough to feel the tension rolling off her in waves. He could see the slight tremor in her shoulders, the way her hands were clenched into small, tight fists.
“He’s gone,” he said, his voice softening, trying to soothe a wound he couldn’t see. “He ain’t coming back here. I promise you that.”
“I know,” she whispered, her voice cracking on the words. “I know he’s gone.”
And then, it happened.
It wasn’t a dramatic breakdown. There were no screams, no hysterics. It was a quiet, devastating collapse. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, followed by another, and another, until they were falling freely, silent and relentless. Her shoulders began to shake, small, racking sobs that she tried to suppress, her body fighting against the release even as it claimed her.
Stack was there in an instant, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her back against his chest. He held her tight, his body a solid, immovable shield against the world. He didn’t say anything. He just held her, his chin resting on top of her head, his heart aching with a helplessness he had never known.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, her words muffled against his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You got nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Nothing at all.”
“It hurts,” she cried, her body trembling against his. “Seeing him… it hurts. Hearing his voice… it hurts. It reminds me of Florida, of that house, of… of everything. It feels like I’m back there, like I never left.”
She turned in his arms, burying her face in his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. He held her tighter, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing her back, trying to absorb her pain, to take it into himself and carry it for her.
“I hate him,” she whispered, her voice raw with a pain that was years old. “I hate him for what he did to me. I hate him for making me feel so small. I hate him for making me feel like I was nothing.”
“You ain’t nothing,” he said, his voice a fierce, protective growl. “You never were nothing. You’re everything. You hear me? You’re everything.”
She looked up at him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes shining with a pain that was so deep. “I just want it to stop,” she whispered. “I just want it to be over.”
“It is over,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “He’s gone. He’s never coming back. I swear to you, Cherry, on my life, he will never hurt you again.”
She searched his face, her eyes looking for something to hold onto, something to believe in. She saw the truth in his eyes, the fierce, unwavering conviction, and a small, fragile part of her began to believe him.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, her body slowly calming, the storm of her emotions beginning to subside. She leaned into him, her head resting on his chest, her body fitting against his like it was made to be there.
“Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t leave me.”
He tightened his hold on her, his arms wrapping around her like a vise. “I ain’t going nowhere,” he said, his voice a low, steady promise.
“No,” she said, looking up at him again, her eyes clear and focused. “I don’t mean that. I mean… don’t go after him. Don’t look for him. Don’t… don’t fix it. Not like that. Not with blood.”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. He wanted to argue, to tell her that the only way to fix this was to eliminate the threat, to erase Ray from the face of the earth. He wanted to promise her revenge, to paint the town red with the blood of the man who had dared to hurt her.
But he saw the look in her eyes. He saw the fear, not of Ray, but of him. Of the man he could become, the monster he could unleash. He saw that she didn’t want a savior who was just as much of a monster as the man she was running from.
And for the first time in his life, he chose her over his own rage.
“Okay,” he said, the word a quiet surrender. “Okay.”
She let out a soft breath, a small, fragile sound of relief. “Just stay,” she whispered, her hand coming up to rest on his chest, over his heart. “Just stay with me. Here. With me.”
And for once, he did.
He didn’t make any promises. He didn’t make any threats. He just stayed. He led her to the bedroom, his arm around her waist, his body a steady presence at her side. He laid her down on the bed, and he laid down beside her, pulling her into his arms, her back against his chest, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a broken whole.
He held her all night, long after her tears had dried and her breathing had evened out. He held her as the moon crossed the sky and the stars began to fade. He held her as the house settled into a deep, quiet sleep, a fortress built not of wood and stone, but of a love that was fierce and possessive and, for the first time, truly and completely, at peace.
The candle flickered, a single, lonely eye in the oppressive dark of the Henderson house. Its light was weak, doing little to push back the shadows that clung to the corners of the room, shadows that seemed to move and breathe with a life of their own. The air was thick with the scent of decay and damp earth, a smell that clung to the back of my throat, a smell of failure. I sat in the rickety chair, its frame groaning under my weight, and I stared at that flame. I watched it dance, and I tried to remember who I was.
I was a husband. A father. A man who provided. A man who was respected.
That’s what I kept telling myself.
The words were a shield, a flimsy barrier against the cold, hard truth of what I had become. A man hiding in a rotting house, scared of his own shadow. Scared of a quiet nigga with dead eyes.
Smoke.
His name was a stone in my gut. His voice, a low, calm monotone that had echoed in this room hours ago, still echoed in my head. “If I kill you, it’ll be because I thought about it.”
The words had settled deep into a part of me I hadn’t known existed. A part of me that understood, with chilling clarity, that he wasn’t making a threat. He was stating a fact. He was describing a process. Like a butcher explaining how he’d carve a hog.
I shivered, pulling my thin jacket tighter around me. The night had grown cold, a damp, penetrating chill that seeped into my bones. I could hear the scuttling of rats in the walls, the faint, distant hum of the town sleeping peacefully, unaware of the war being waged in its midst. A war for my family. For my property.
My wife.
The image of her on that porch, standing there with my baby in her arms, flashed behind my eyes. She looked different. Not just the weight of the child, nor the fullness of her body. Something else. Something in her eyes. A light I had never seen. A confidence that was… wrong.
It wasn’t her.
It couldn’t be.
My Cherry was a quiet girl. A sweet girl. She knew her place. She knew how to make a home, how to be obedient, how to show respect. I had taught her that. I had molded her, shaped her into the woman she was meant to be. A woman who understood that a husband’s love was a heavy thing, a protective thing. A woman who knew that fear was just another word for respect, that obedience was the purest form of love.
But the woman on that porch… she hadn’t been afraid. She hadn’t been obedient. She had looked at me with a coldness that had turned my blood to ice. She had spoken to me with a voice that was not her own.
Because it wasn’t her voice.
It was his.
Stack Moore.
The name was like acid on my tongue. A loud, arrogant fool who probably couldn’t read a ledger but knew how to charm the simple-minded. He had gotten his hooks in her, poisoned her mind. He had filled her head with all sorts of nonsense about freedom and choice, with ideas that were unnatural, dangerous. He had manipulated her, twisted her into this… this stranger.
He saw a soft, vulnerable woman, and he saw an opportunity. He saw a pretty face and a body heavy with another man’s child, and he saw a way to claim something he hadn’t earned. He wasn’t in love with her. How could he be? He didn’t even know her. He was in love with the idea of her. The idea of a family. The idea of being a hero.
He had played on her fears, on her loneliness. He had whispered sweet nothings in her ear, promised her the world, and she, being a woman, being weak, had fallen for it. He had stolen my wife. He was brainwashing my son, teaching him to call another man daddy. It was an abomination.
But it wasn’t her fault.
She was a victim. A poor, lost creature who had been led astray by a predator. She was confused and scared. She didn’t know what she was saying. The things she said on that porch, the way she looked at me… it wasn’t her. It was the sickness talking. The sickness he had put in her.
My duty, as her husband, as the man who loved her, was not to abandon her. It was to save her. To bring her back into the fold, to remind her of her place, to cleanse her of the poison that had infected her soul. It would be a difficult process. She would fight me. She would say hurtful things, things she didn’t mean. But in the end, she would thank me. In the end, she would remember who she belonged to. She would remember that a husband’s love is a fierce, protective thing, a love that will do whatever it takes to bring his wayward lamb back to the safety of the flock.
The candle sputtered, wax dripping down its sides like tears. I watched it, and a new resolve began to harden in my gut. The fear was still there, a cold, squirming thing, but it was being pushed aside by something else. Something hotter. Something more familiar.
Anger.
Righteous indignation.
I had been wronged. I had been disrespected. My property had been stolen. My family had been defiled.
The quiet one, Smoke, had given me an ultimatum. Be gone by sunrise. But he didn’t understand. He thought I was just some stray dog he could scare off. He didn’t understand the bonds of matrimony, the sacred duty of a father. He didn’t understand that I wasn’t just fighting for a woman. I was fighting for principle. For the natural order of things.
If she wouldn’t come willingly… then I would have to force the situation.
I would have to be firm. To remind her of the consequences of her actions. I would have to take back what was mine, by force if necessary. It wouldn’t be pleasant. It would be… messy. But it would be for her own good. It would be an act of love. The purest, most selfless act of love a husband could perform.
I stood up, the chair groaning behind me. I walked to the broken window and looked out at the sleeping town. The moon was high now, a cold, silver coin in the black sky. It illuminated the street, casting long, dark shadows. I could see the Moore house from here, a dark shape on the hill, a fortress built on my misery.
But fortresses can be stormed.
I thought about my son, my blood, my legacy. I thought about him growing up, calling that loud-mouthed fool daddy. I thought about him learning to be weak, to be soft, to be everything a man shouldn’t be.
No.
I wouldn’t let that happen.
I would take him back. I would raise him to be a man. A real man. A man who understands that strength is power, that obedience is respect, that love is ownership.
The quiet one’s words echoed in my head again. “If the sun comes up and you are still in Clarksdale… the business decision becomes final.”
I smiled, a slow, grim smile. Let him come. Let him try. He thought he was dangerous. He thought he was the only one who could be cold and calculating. He didn’t know anything about me. He didn’t know what a man was capable of when he was fighting for his family.
I had come here to get my wife. To reason with her. To bring her home.
But now… now things had changed.
Now, it was about something more.
Now, it was about making a point.
I turned from the window, my mind made up. I would not be scared off by a couple of backwoods niggas who thought they were men. I would not be intimidated by threats in the dark.
I was a husband. I was a father.
And I would take back what was mine.
No matter the cost.
The sun was a warm, heavy blanket pressing down on the late afternoon. It was a good day. The kind of day that felt like a reward, a small pocket of peace after the long, dark night of the past week. Ray was gone. Smoke had confirmed it that morning. The abandoned house was empty. The boarding house hadn’t seen him in days. He’d vanished, slinking away into the night like the coward he was.
Inside the house, the mood was lighter than it had been in weeks. Stack was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, a lazy, confident grin on his face, watching Cherry move through the garden.
“You sure you know what you doing with all them plants?” he called out, his voice carrying across the yard. “Look like you just throwing seeds in the dirt and hoping for the best.”
Cherry looked up from where she was kneeling, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, a playful smile touching her lips. “And what do you know about it, Mr. Juke Joint? You think liquor just grows on trees?”
Smoke, who was sitting on the porch steps sharpening a knife, let out a quiet huff of a laugh. “He probably does,” he muttered, not looking up from his task. “Thinks with his chest, not his head.”
“Man, fuck you,” Stack shot back, but there was no heat in it. It was easy, familiar. The rhythm of them, restored. “I’m a visionary. I see potential. You just see work.”
“I see a man who’s too lazy to pull a weed,” Smoke countered.
Cherry laughed, a bright, easy sound that seemed to make the sun shine a little brighter. She turned her attention back to the small patch of earth in front of her, where Silas lay on a soft blanket, his little arms and legs waving in the air, his eyes wide with wonder at the big, blurry world above him.
“You hear that, my sweet boy?” she murmured, her voice a soft, melodic hum meant only for him. “Your daddy and your uncle are acting like fools again. They think they know everything, but they don’t know a thing about growing things. About patience. About watching something small and fragile get stronger every day. That’s our secret, ain’t it? Just me and you.”
She reached down, her fingers gently stroking his soft, round belly. Silas cooed, a happy, gurgling sound that was the sweetest music she had ever heard. She smiled, her heart swelling with a love so pure, so powerful, it almost hurt. This was her life. Her son. Her garden. Her loud, ridiculous, wonderful family. For the first time, it felt real. Unshakable.
“You’re going to be so strong,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “So much stronger than me. You’ll never have to be scared. You’ll never have to shrink. You’ll just… be. And I’ll be right here, watching you grow. I’ll always be right here.”
A shadow fell over her, a sudden, unexpected cloud that blocked the warm afternoon sun. She frowned, thinking a storm was rolling in, but the sky was still a clear, endless blue. She looked up, her eyes following the shadow back to its source, and her heart stopped.
He was standing there, just a few feet away, half-hidden by the overgrown bushes that lined the edge of the garden. Ray.
He looked… clean. His hair was combed, his shirt was pressed, and his face was scrubbed. He looked like the man she had married, the man she had left, not the desperate, wild-eyed creature who had stood on their porch that night. He was smiling, a small, gentle smile that made his eyes look wild.
“Cherry,” he said, his voice soft, a familiar caress that sent a chill down her spine. “I knew I’d find you out here. Always did love to be in the dirt, didn’t you?”
Cherry’s blood ran cold. She instinctively moved, her body shifting to block Silas from his view, her hand coming to rest protectively on the baby’s chest. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just stared, her mind a frantic, chaotic mess of fear and disbelief.
He was supposed to be gone.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice a trembling whisper.
Her eyes darted past him, a desperate, instinctive plea for help. She looked toward the porch, her heart hammering against her ribs, praying to see Smoke’s solid, unmoving form, the quiet guardian who was always watching. But the porch steps were empty. The chair was gone.
Her gaze shot to the kitchen window, to the spot where Stack always leaned, his presence a familiar, comforting silhouette against the light. But the window was empty, too. The dark, vacant glass stared back at her, a reflection of her own terror.
They were gone.
But she could hear them. Their voices, muffled and distant, drifted out from the back of the house. The low, rumbling cadence of Smoke’s calm rebuttal, followed by the higher, indignant boom of Stack’s playful outrage. They were deep in the house, caught up in their easy, familiar argument, lost in a world where monsters didn’t step out of the shadows and into the garden.
She was alone.
The realization was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that stole the air from her lungs. The sounds of their safety, their normalcy, became a cruel soundtrack to her own private horror. They were right there, just walls away, but they might as well have been a hundred miles.
Ray followed her frantic gaze, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knew what she was looking for. He knew she was looking for her new keepers.
“They can’t hear you,” he said, his voice soft, a terrible, intimate secret shared just between them. “They’re too busy laughing. Too busy being men. They don’t understand what’s really at stake. Not like I do. Not like a husband does.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked again, her voice a trembling whisper.
Ray took a slow step forward, his hands held up in a gesture of peace. “I just wanted to talk,” he said, his voice still soft, still reasonable. “Just to see how you were doing. To see my son.”
He talked like nothing had happened. Like there hadn’t been a violent confrontation on their porch. Like Smoke hadn’t threatened to bury him in a swamp. Like he hadn’t come to take her by force. He talked like they were old friends catching up, like they were still married, still a family.
It was the most terrifying thing she had ever experienced.
“He’s not your son,” she said, her voice gaining a sliver of strength.
Ray’s smile faltered, just for a second. A flicker of the old anger, the old entitlement. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same, unnerving calm.
“Of course he is,” he said, taking another step closer. “He’s a beautiful boy, Cherry. He has your eyes. I saw him from the window. He looks strong.”
He was getting closer. Too close. Cherry could feel the old panic rising in her throat, the old instinct to shrink, to apologize, to make herself smaller. But then she looked down at Silas, at his innocent, trusting face, and something inside her, something new and strong, held its ground.
“You need to leave,” she said, her voice firmer now.
“I will,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I just want to hold him. Just for a second. It’s been so long. A father has a right to hold his son, don’t you think?”
He reached for the baby.
And in that moment, as his hand extended, as his fingers brushed past her arm, Cherry had a realization so profound, so devastating, it almost brought her to her knees.
He never saw her.
Not once.
Not when she was standing on the porch, defying him. Not now, as she stood between him and their child. He didn’t see a woman who had found her voice. He didn’t see a mother protecting her son. He didn’t see Cherry.
He saw an obstacle. A disobedient object that was standing between him and his property.
All those years she had spent trying to be seen, trying to be heard, trying to be loved… it had all been for nothing. He had never looked at her. He had only ever looked at it. The wife. The mother. The possession.
The realization was a liberation. It was a death. It was the final, brutal understanding that there was nothing there to save. Nothing there to reason with. Nothing there to go back to.
His hand was almost there, his fingers reaching for the soft, warm blanket that held his son.
And Cherry, for the first time in her life, didn’t shrink.
She stepped back.
Pushing her fears out of her mind and remembering she had to finally stand up and protect her son, she said, “No.”
The word was a physical thing in the air between them. A small, sharp sound that was both a question and an answer. No. It was a pebble dropped into a still pond, and the ripples it created were vast and terrifying. Ray froze, his hand hovering in the space between them, his expression shifting from that unnerving calm to a flicker of confusion, then to a slow, dawning disbelief.
He looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. His gaze dropped to her face, to the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, the way she stood, not like a cornered animal, but like a mother wolf protecting her den. She wasn't cowering. She wasn't pleading. She was standing her ground, her body a solid, immovable wall between him and his son.
“What did you say?” he asked, his voice low, a dangerous quiet that was more menacing than any shout.
“You heard me,” Cherry said, her voice stronger now, the tremor gone, replaced by a steely resolve that felt as old and as unyielding as the earth itself. “I said no.”
He laughed, a short, sharp, humorless sound that was like glass breaking. “No?” he repeated, as if the word was a foreign concept, a language he didn’t understand. “You don’t say ‘no’ to me, Cherry. You never have.”
“That was before,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “This is now.”
The mask was slipping. The facade of the reasonable, loving husband was cracking, peeling away to reveal the ugly, familiar face of the man she had left. The condescension in his eyes hardened into something colder, something more possessive.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said, his voice dropping, taking on the familiar patronizing tone that used to make her feel small. “You’re confused. You’re tired. This… this life you’re living… it’s not real. It’s a fantasy. It’s a distraction. You belong with me. You belong at home. This is where you belong.”
He gestured to the house, to the garden, to the life she had built, as if it were all a cheap, tawdry stage set, a temporary illusion that would crumble at his touch. He was trying to rewrite her reality, to convince her that her strength was a weakness, that her happiness was a lie.
“This is my home,” she said, her voice firm, a quiet declaration of fact. “This is my son. This is my life. And you are not a part of it.”
The last shred of his control snapped. The mask fell away completely, and the man she knew, the man she had feared, was standing in front of her. His face twisted into a mask of rage, his eyes burning with a cold, possessive fire.
“You ungrateful bitch,” he snarled, his voice no longer soft, but a low, venomous hiss. “After everything I’ve done for you. After everything I’ve given you. I put a roof over your head. I put food on your table. I gave you a child. And this is how you repay me? By whoring yourself out to some backwoods nigga with a shiny tooth? By letting him play house with my family? With my son?”
He took a step forward, his body radiating a threat so palpable it made the air around him feel thick and heavy. He was trying to intimidate her, to bully her, to push her back into the small, frightened box he had built for her.
“I gave you everything!” he roared, his voice a loud whisper in the quiet afternoon. “And you threw it all away for what? For a little bit of attention? For a few pretty words? You think he loves you? He doesn’t love you. He’s using you. He’s using you to get what he wants. He’s a user, Cherry. Just like all of them. And when he’s done with you, when he’s had his fun, he’ll throw you away, just like they all do. You’ll come crawling back to me then. You’ll see.”
He was in her face now, his spittle flying, his eyes wild with a desperate, righteous fury. He was trying to break her, to shatter the newfound strength she had found, to remind her of her place.
But she didn’t break.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn't even blink.
She just stood there, a small, solid force of nature, and let his words wash over her, let them hit her and fall away, unable to penetrate the armor she had built around herself and her son.
She saw him for what he was. Not a powerful man. Not a loving husband. Not a father. He was a bully. A small, pathetic man who was terrified of losing control, terrified of being seen for what he truly was: a man who owned things, but who had never known how to love anything.
And in that moment, she felt a surge of something so powerful, so liberating, it almost took her breath away. It was pity.
She looked at him, at his contorted, furious face, and she felt nothing but a deep, profound pity for the small, broken man he had always been.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice quiet, but clear as a bell. “He did give me everything.”
Ray stopped, his tirade faltering, confused by the sudden shift in her tone.
“He gave me a home,” she continued, her gaze softening as she looked down at Silas, who was now awake, his little eyes wide with curiosity, watching the loud, scary man. “He loves OUR son. He gave me a life where I don’t have to be scared. Where I don’t have to shrink. Where I can be… me.”
She looked back up at Ray, her eyes clear and steady, filled with a compassion that was more cutting than any insult.
“You never gave me anything,” she said, her voice a soft, final judgment. “You just took. And I’m done letting you take from me.”
The word hung in the air between them, a quiet, powerful declaration of independence. It was the word she had never been able to say, the word she had been dreaming of saying for years. It was simple. It was powerful. It was final.
Ray stared at her, his rage deflating, replaced by a raw, naked shock. He had lost. He had lost completely, and he knew it. He had come here to reclaim his property, to assert his dominance, to remind her of her place. But he had found a woman he didn't recognize, a woman who was no longer his property, a woman who had built a fortress around her heart that he could not breach.
He looked from her face to the baby in her arms, and a dark, dangerous light entered his eyes. He hadn't won. But he wasn't done.
He straightened up, his expression hardening, his jaw set in a grim, determined line. He wasn't defeated. He was angry. And an angry man with nothing left to lose was the most dangerous kind of man.
“This ain't over,” he said, his voice low, a cold, hard promise. “Not by a long shot.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing back into the overgrown bushes, leaving her standing there in the fading light, a lone warrior in her own garden, the echoes of his rage a chilling reminder that the war was far from over.
The moment Ray’s form vanished into the thick, overgrown bushes, the spell of silence that had held Cherry snapped. The air rushed back into her lungs in a ragged, desperate gasp, and the world, which had narrowed to the space between her and the monster from her past, came roaring back. The chirping of the crickets, the rustle of the leaves in the evening breeze, the distant, muffled sound of the men’s voices from inside the house—it all flooded her senses at once.
Adrenaline, hot and sharp, surged through her veins. It was a primal, electric current, a command screamed from every cell in her body. Run.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look back. She scooped Silas from his blanket, his small body a warm, solid weight against her chest, and she ran. Her feet, bare and nimble, flew across the soft earth of the garden. Her wild, soft curls, usually pinned up in a careful, stylish cascade, bounced free with every frantic step, a dark halo against the fading light. She didn’t feel the twigs that scratched her ankles or the stones that dug into her soles. She felt nothing but the frantic, hammering beat of her own heart and the warm, precious life she held in her arms.
She burst through the back door, a whirlwind of panic and wild energy, slamming it shut behind her with a bang that rattled the frame in its casing.
The playful argument in the kitchen died instantly.
Stack and Smoke, who had been lounging at the table, were on their feet in a heartbeat, their bodies tensing, their easy camaraderie evaporating in the face of her terror. They saw her face, the wide, unshed tears shining in her big, deep brown eyes, the frantic, heaving of her chest, the sheer fear that poured off her in waves.
“Cherry,” Stack said, his voice low, a dangerous growl that was already vibrating with rage. He was moving toward her before she could even speak, his arms outstretched.
“He was here,” she gasped, the words tearing from her throat. “In the garden. Ray. He… he touched…” She couldn’t finish. The words were too ugly, too real. She just clutched Silas tighter, the baby now awake and fussing, sensing the storm of emotion that surrounded him.
Stack stopped dead.
The air in the room grew thick, charged with a sudden, terrifying stillness. The rage that had been simmering in him since Smoke’s news boiled over, but it didn’t explode. It imploded, collapsing in on itself and forming a core of cold, hard, deadly purpose. His face, usually so expressive, became a mask of granite, his eyes darkening to a shade of black that promised nothing but pain.
He didn’t say a word. He just took Silas from her arms, his movements impossibly gentle, even though violence was radiating from him in waves. He held the baby for a second, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second as he looked at his son, before handing him to Smoke.
“Take him,” Stack said, his voice a flat, emotionless command. “Take him to his room.”
Smoke didn’t argue. He didn’t hesitate. He just took the baby, his own expression grim, and disappeared down the hallway.
Then Stack turned his full attention to Cherry. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest, his body a solid, immovable fortress. He could feel her trembling, could feel the frantic, fluttering beat of her heart against his own.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
She shook her head, her face buried in his chest. “No. I… I said no.”
He pulled back slightly, looking down at her, his eyes searching her face. And he saw it. The change. The strength. The fire. He saw the woman who had stood up to her monster and hadn’t broken. A fierce, possessive pride swelled in his chest, a pride that was so powerful it almost eclipsed his rage.
Almost.
“You’re okay,” he said, his voice a rough, declarative statement. He wasn’t asking. He was telling her. He was making it true.
Then he let her go. He turned and walked to the phone, a heavy, black rotary phone that sat on a small table in the corner. His movements were devoid of all emotion. He was no longer a man. He was a soldier.
He dialed the first number, his finger stabbing the rotary dial with a force that made the plastic creak. He waited, his back to her, his shoulders rigid.
“Caleb,” he said, his voice a low, calm rumble. “It’s Stack. I need you. Now. Get your boys. Get your guns. Come to the house. We got company.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He just hung up the phone, the sharp clang of the receiver echoing in the tense silence. He dialed another number.
“Jedediah. Yeah. It’s time. Bring that shotgun I like. And your cousins. All of them. We got a problem.”
One by one, he made the calls. Each one was the same. A short, sharp declaration of war. He was mobilizing his army, calling in every debt, every favor, every man who owed him his loyalty. He was preparing for a siege.
Meanwhile, Smoke had returned. He moved past Stack and Cherry without a word, his face a mask of cold fury. He went out the back door, his hand already resting on the gun holstered at his hip. He moved with a predator’s grace, his eyes scanning the garden, the yard, the shadows, looking for any sign of the enemy.
He was the hunter now. And the hunt was on.
Cherry stood in the middle of the kitchen, a silent, terrified observer. She watched as Stack, her Stack, transformed into a cold, calculating general. She watched as he moved through the house, checking the locks on the windows, pulling a shotgun out from behind the sofa, loading it with a practiced, chilling efficiency. He wasn’t preparing for a fight. He was preparing for a massacre.
And she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that this was different. This wasn’t about protecting her. This wasn’t about defending his home. This was about something else. Something deeper.
He was preparing for her.
He was preparing for Silas.
He was drawing a line in the sand, a line made of blood and steel, and he was telling the world, telling Ray, telling God himself, that they would not cross it.
Smoke returned a few minutes later, his face grim. “He’s gone,” he said, his voice flat. “No sign of him. But he was here. I can smell him.”
Stack nodded, his expression unchanged. “He’ll be back.”
“With friends,” Smoke added.
“I know.”
They stood there for a moment, the two of them, a united front of cold, hard fury. The twin dynamic, which had softened over the past few months, had returned with a vengeance. They were no longer just brothers. They were a unit. A force of nature. A two-headed wolf ready to tear apart anything that threatened their pack.
Stack looked at Cherry, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second. “Go to Silas,” he said, his voice a quiet command. “Stay with him. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I come for you.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to stay. She wanted to fight alongside them. But she saw the look in his eyes, the look that told her this was not her battle. This was his. This was theirs. This was the price of their love, the cost of their peace. And she had to let them pay it.
She nodded, her heart aching with a love so fierce it was painful. She turned and walked down the hallway, her steps slow and heavy, leaving the two men to their dark, deadly work.
They stood in the silence of the kitchen, the air thick with the unspoken promise of violence. They could hear the cars pulling up outside, the sound of car doors opening and closing, the low, murmuring voices of the men who had come to fight for them.
“They’re here,” Smoke said, his voice a low rumble.
Stack nodded, his hand tightening on the stock of his shotgun. “Let them in.”
Smoke walked to the door, his hand on the knob. He paused, his gaze meeting Stack’s.
“It don’t matter if he’s by himself or with other people,” Smoke said, his voice a cold, hard fact. “No one is leaving alive.”
Stack’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “That’s the plan.”
They knew Ray would return. They knew he would bring his army. And they were ready. They were waiting. It was only a matter of time.
The storm broke just after midnight.
It didn’t creep in on quiet cat paws. It slammed into the house with the fury of a vengeful god, a sudden, violent onslaught of wind and rain that turned the world into a chaos of sound and motion. The sky, once a placid, star-dusted blanket, was now a churning, black cauldron, lit from within by flashes of lightning that turned the night into a series of stark, terrifying photographs.
Upstairs, in the nursery, Cherry stood by the window, her body a taut wire of anxiety. Silas was asleep in her arms, his small body a warm, heavy comfort against her chest, his soft, even breaths a fragile counterpoint to the raging storm outside. Below, she could see them. The house was dark, save for a few strategically placed lamps that cast long, dancing shadows, but the yard was alive with movement. Stack and Smoke, and the eight men they had called, were a scattered, disciplined force. They moved through the rain-slicked grass like wraiths, taking up positions behind the porch pillars, along the fence line, near the edge of the woods that bordered the property. They were waiting. A coiled viper of lethal intent, ready to be released.
She watched Stack, his tall, powerful frame a familiar silhouette against the flashes of lightning. He was by the big oak tree near the road, his shotgun held at the ready, his body still, a predator waiting for his prey. Smoke was on the porch, his handgun held low, his gaze sweeping the darkness with a calm, unnerving focus. They were in twin mode, a single, two-headed organism, their movements synchronized, their thoughts unspoken.
She cradled Silas closer, her lips brushing against his soft, downy hair. “It’s okay, my sweet boy,” she murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum in the storm-tossed room. “It’s okay. Your daddy and your uncle are out there. They’re going to keep us safe. They’re going to keep everything safe.”
She wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it. But the fear was a cold, hard knot in her stomach, a relentless, gnawing thing that refused to be soothed.
And then, it began.
It wasn’t a single shot. It was a volley. A deafening roar of gunfire that erupted from the tree line, a sudden, brutal assault that tore through the night. The air was filled with the sharp, crackling reports of rifles, the deeper, more percussive boom of shotguns, the angry, hornet-like buzz of bullets cutting through the rain.
Cherry cried out, ducking away from the window, her body instinctively curling around the baby, shielding him with her own flesh. She could hear the men below, their shouts and curses lost in the din of the battle. She could hear the splintering of wood, the shattering of glass, and the thud of bullets hitting the house.
She had to see. She had to know.
She risked a glance, her heart hammering against her ribs, her eyes peering through the rain-streaked glass. The yard was a hellscape of flashing lights and flying debris. She could see the muzzle flashes from the tree line, a scattered, chaotic line of enemy fire. And she could see her men, returning fire with a disciplined, controlled precision that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
Stack was a whirlwind of righteous fury. He wasn’t just shooting. He was roaring, a rage that could be heard even over the storm. He moved with a fluid, deadly grace, his body a blur of motion as he fired, reloaded, and fired again, his shots finding their mark with unnerving accuracy.
“Y’all motherfuckers came to the wrong damn house!” he bellowed, his voice a wild, unhinged war cry that echoed across the property. “You came for my family? You came to my goddamn home? I’m gone send you niggas back to Florida in a goddamn box!”
He was a force of nature, a one-man army, his rage a palpable thing that fueled his every move. He was the loud, explosive heart of their defense.
Smoke was the cold. He didn’t shout. He didn’t roar. He just moved and shot, his movements economical, his aim deadly. He was a silent, deadly shadow, a ghost in the storm, and every shot he fired was a kill shot.
“You missed, you sorry son of a bitch,” he muttered, his voice a low, calm monotone that was more chilling than any of Stack’s threats. He fired, and a figure in the tree line crumpled to the ground. “Told you. You ain’t got the range. You ain’t got the aim. You ain’t got the balls.”
The battle raged, a brutal, back-and-forth exchange of lead and hate. The men they had called were a tough, loyal bunch, Clarksdale men who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. They fought with a fierce, protective loyalty, a determination to defend the home of the man who had always had their backs.
Cherry watched, her heart in her throat, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and pride. She saw Caleb, the big, easy-going man from the bakery, take a hit to the arm, his face contorting in pain before he gritted his teeth and kept firing. She saw Jedediah, the old, grizzled farmer, his face a mask of grim determination as he picked off enemy soldiers with his old, reliable shotgun.
They were fighting for her. For Silas. For the life they had built.
And then, she saw him.
Ray.
He was standing just beyond the tree line, a wild, desperate figure in the flashing light. He wasn’t shooting. He was watching, his eyes locked on the house, on the window where she stood. He was looking for her. He was trying to find her.
And then, he raised his rifle.
He wasn’t aiming at the men. He was aiming at her.
Time seemed to slow down, stretching into an eternity of terror. She saw the flash of his muzzle, heard the sharp, crackling report of his rifle. She saw the bullet, a tiny, deadly projectile, cutting through the rain, coming straight for her.
She didn’t have time to scream. She didn’t have time to move.
The bullet shattered the window, a deafening explosion of glass that sent a shower of razor-sharp shards flying into the room. She felt a stinging, burning sensation on her cheek, a hot, sharp pain that was followed by a warm, wet trickle of blood.
She stumbled back, her body crashing into the wall, her arms still wrapped tightly around Silas, who had woken up and was now screaming, his high, terrified cries a horrifying counterpoint to the storm and the gunfire.
Below, the world went silent.
For a single, heart-stopping second, the roar of the battle was replaced by a stunned, horrified silence. Then, a sound erupted from the yard that was more terrifying than any gunshot.
It was the sound of Stack’s rage.
It was a sound that was not of this world, a fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house, a scream of vengeance that tore from his throat like a physical thing.
“YOU DEAD! YOU MOTHERFUCKER, YOU DEAD!”
He was no longer a man. He was a beast. A demon of vengeance, his eyes burning with a fire that could melt steel. He charged out from behind the tree, his body a blur of motion, his shotgun roaring in his hands, a one-man assault on the enemy line.
“I’M GONNA BLOW YOUR GODDAMN HEAD OFF YOUR SHOULDERS! I’M GONNA FEED YOU TO THE GODDAMN GATORS PIECE BY PIECE! YOU AIMED AT MY WOMAN? MY SON? OH, YOU FUCKED WITH THE WRONG ONE, NIGGA! YOU FUCKED WITH THE WRONG ONE!”
Smoke was right behind him, his face a cold, hard mask of death. “He aimed for her,” Stack said, his voice a low, deadly whisper to his brother. “He aimed for my son.”
The men, fueled by a righteous, protective fury, followed them. They charged across the yard, a wave of lead and hate, their shots finding their mark with a renewed, deadly purpose.
The enemy line, already wavering, broke. They were not prepared for this, for the sheer ferocity of the counter-attack. They were not prepared to face the wrath of a man whose family had been threatened.
Ray stood his ground, his face a mask of desperate defiance. He fired his shots wild and erratic, but he was no match for the storm of lead that was coming his way.
Stack was the first to reach him. He didn’t stop. He didn’t hesitate. He just kept firing, his shotgun roaring, a relentless, percussive rhythm of death.
Ray was hit. Once. Twice. Three times. His body jerked and convulsed, a marionette with its strings cut. He stumbled back, his rifle falling from his grasp, his face a mask of shock and pain.
He looked at Cherry, his eyes finding her through the shattered window. For a moment, the rage and the hate were gone, replaced by a look of raw, naked despair. A look that said I lost. I lost everything.
Then, he turned and stumbled into the woods, a dark, bleeding figure disappearing into the storm-tossed night.
The battle was over.
The remaining enemy soldiers, their leader gone, their courage broken, fled into the darkness, their retreat a panicked, disorderly scramble.
The yard was a scene of devastation, a gruesome tableau of violence and death. The men, their adrenaline fading, began to tend to their wounded, their faces grim and somber.
Stack stood in the middle of the yard, his chest heaving, his body slick with rain and blood. The storm was beginning to die down, the wind easing to a mournful sigh, the rain softening to a fine, cold mist. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder, a perfume of violence that clung to everything. He looked at the shattered window, at the dark, gaping hole where the glass used to be, and a cold, hard dread settled in his gut, a chilling counterpoint to the hot, burning rage that still pulsed through his veins.
He saw her face, streaked with blood, her big, brown eyes wide with a terror he had put there. He saw the baby in her arms, his son, his whole world, screaming because of the violence that had found them. He had failed. He had stood right there, and he had let that motherfucker aim a gun at his family.
The thought was a poison, a black, corrosive acid that ate away at the edges of his rage and replaced it with a cold, hard need. He needed to finish it. He needed to see Ray’s body broken and bleeding at his feet. He needed to feel the man’s life fade away under his hands.
He turned, his eyes scanning the tree line, the dark, imposing wall of the swamp that had swallowed his enemy. He took a step toward it, his body moving with a single-minded purpose, his shotgun held tight in his hands. He was going in. He was going to hunt him down.
“Stack.”
Smoke’s voice was a low, calm anchor in the storm of his fury. He was there, his hand on Stack’s arm, his grip like iron, pulling him back.
“He’s in the woods,” Stack snarled, his voice a raw, ragged sound. “I’m gone get him.”
“No,” Smoke said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You’re not.”
“He aimed for her, Smoke!” Stack roared, his rage boiling over again, a desperate, frustrated sound. “He aimed for my son! I’m gone tear him apart with my bare hands!”
“I know,” Smoke said, his voice still calm, his eyes holding his brother’s, a silent, unspoken understanding passing between them. “But you’re not going in there. Not now.”
“Why not?” Stack demanded, his body trembling with the force of his anger. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because it’s over,” Smoke said, his voice a quiet, final judgment. “You hit him. I saw it. So did Caleb. He was hit bad. He’s bleeding out. You go charging in there now, in the dark, in the swamp, and you’re just asking for trouble. He’s desperate. He’s cornered. He might get lucky. And even if he don’t, the swamp will finish him. The gators will finish him. He’s already dead, Stack. He just don’t know it yet.”
Stack stared at him, his chest heaving, his mind a chaotic mess of rage and fear and a reluctant, dawning understanding. He wanted to argue. He wanted to fight. He wanted to chase the monster into his lair and destroy him, piece by piece.
But he saw the truth in his brother’s eyes. He saw the logic of it. Ray was a dead man walking. And going after him now would be a fool’s errand.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, the fight draining out of him, leaving him feeling hollow, empty, and exhausted. He lowered his shotgun, his body slumping, the weight of the night, the weight of the violence, settling over him like a shroud.
“He’s gone,” Smoke said, his voice softer now, a quiet reassurance. “He can’t hurt them anymore.”
Stack looked back at the house, at the shattered window, at the woman and the child he loved more than his own life. And he knew Smoke was right. The fight was over. The monster was dead. And they had won.
He ran to the house, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart a frantic, terrified drum against his ribs. He burst into the nursery, his eyes wild, his face a mask of fear.
He found her huddled in the corner, her body trembling, her face streaked with tears and blood, but she was alive. She was alive. And she was holding their son, protecting him, her love for him a force more powerful than any bullet.
He fell to his knees in front of her, his hands reaching for her, his body trembling with a relief so profound it was almost painful. He didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around them, pulling them into his chest, his body a solid, immovable shield against the world.
“He’s gone,” he whispered, his voice a raw, ragged sound. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Cherry looked up at him, her big, brown eyes swimming with tears, and she saw the man she loved. The man who had fought for her. The man who had killed for her. The man who would die for her.
And she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her soul, that she was finally, truly, safe.
The dawn came, slow and gray, a reluctant witness to the night’s horrors. The storm had passed, leaving behind a world that was washed clean and yet deeply stained. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and something else, something coppery and wrong, the smell of blood that had seeped into the ground and would not be easily washed away.
The house stood, a silent, weary sentinel against the pale, lightening sky. Inside, the quiet was a heavy, suffocating thing, a blanket of exhaustion and shock that settled over every room, every piece of furniture, every soul.
In the yard, the men worked. They moved with a grim efficiency, their faces somber. They were cleaning up the mess. The bodies of Ray’s men, eight of them, were being dragged to the far end of the property, to the edge of the swamp that bordered their land. They would be buried there, their bodies given to the murky, dark water, their names forgotten, their lives extinguished. It was a brutal, necessary task, a final, ugly chapter in a story that should never have been written.
Inside, the family was regrouping.
Smoke was on the porch, a silent, unmoving guard. He stood in the rocking chair, his gun resting across his lap, his eyes scanning the tree line. He was the watcher, the protector, the quiet, steady force that kept the darkness at bay.
Stack sat at the kitchen table, his body slumped in the chair, his head bowed. He was covered in blood, his shirt a dark, sticky mess, his hands caked with it, the blood of his enemies, the blood of his rage. He looked like a man who had been to hell and back, a man who had stared into the abyss and had not blinked.
Cherry stood beside him, a bowl of warm, soapy water in her hands, a clean cloth in her fingers. She was cleaning him. Slowly. Carefully. She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and began to wipe the blood from his hands, her touch gentle, her movements a ritual of cleansing and healing.
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The silence was a language in itself, a shared understanding of the horror they had survived, of the love that had sustained them, of the cost of their peace.
She worked on his left hand first, her fingers carefully tracing the lines of his palm, cleaning the blood from his knuckles, from his cuticles, from the spaces between his fingers. His hands were big, strong hands, hands that could build a house, that could hold a baby, that could kill a man. And they were her hands. She looked at them, at the raw, brutal power they contained, and she felt a surge of something so powerful, so overwhelming, it almost brought her to her knees.
This family had fought for her. They had drawn a line in the sand, a line made of blood and steel, and they had said, “No further. You will not pass.” They had killed for her. They had died for her. They had risked everything for her.
But she had fought too.
She had stood in the garden, a lone woman against a monster, and she had said, “No.” She had protected her son, her body a shield, her love a weapon. She had faced her past, and she had not broken. She had survived.
She looked at Stack, at his bowed head, at the dark, at his thick head of hair that he slicked back every morning, at the strong, proud line of his jaw. She saw the man she loved, the man who had given her a home, a family, a life. And she saw the man who had been pushed to the brink, who had been forced to become a monster to protect the ones he loved.
And she loved him more. Not for the violence, but for the reason behind it. For the fierce, protective, all-consuming love that fueled it.
She finished with his left hand and moved to his right. It was worse, the blood caked on thicker, the skin raw and red. She worked slowly, her touch gentle, her heart aching with a love so fierce it was a physical pain.
He finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers. They were dark, haunted, filled with a pain that went deeper than the physical. He had been to a dark place, a place where rage and violence were the only currency, and he had brought a piece of it back with him.
He didn’t ask, “Did I protect you?” He didn’t ask, “Are you proud of me?” He didn’t ask, “Did I do good?”
He asked, “Are you okay?”
The question was a quiet, fragile thing, a raw, vulnerable admission of his own fear, his own doubt. It was a subtle yet massive difference, a shift from the brute who solved problems with his fists to the man learning to lead with his heart.
Cherry looked at him, her big, brown eyes swimming with tears, and she nodded, a slow, deliberate movement of her head. “I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice a raw, ragged sound. “We’re okay.”
He let out a long, shuddering breath, a sound that was half-sob, half-sigh, a release of all the tension, all the fear, all the rage that had been building inside him. He reached for her, his hand, now clean, wrapping around her wrist, pulling her closer, his body leaning into hers, a desperate, needy search for comfort, for connection, for love.
She leaned into him, her body fitting against his, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand coming up to stroke his beard, a slow, soothing rhythm that was as much for her as it was for him.
In the next room, Silas was asleep, his small body warm and safe in his crib, his dreams undisturbed by the violence that had raged outside his window. He was the reason. He was the reward. He was the future.
On the porch, Smoke stood watch, a silent guardian. He was the shield, the protector, the quiet, steady force that kept the darkness at bay. He was the brother, the uncle, the man who had drawn his own line in the sand, a line that said, “You will not touch my family. You will not harm my nephew. You will not pass. I am Smokey Bear.”
The lamp in the kitchen burned low, a single, warm flame in the cold, gray dawn. The house was quiet, the air thick with the scent of soap and blood, of love and loss. The house was still standing.
But far beyond the property, far beyond the porch light, far beyond the safety of the home they had built, a wounded figure moved through the darkness.
He was alive.
He was bleeding.
He was unfinished.
He stumbled through the swamp, his body a mass of pain, bleeding, his mind a chaotic mess of rage and despair. He had lost everything. His wife. His son. His pride. He had been defeated, humiliated, cast out. But he was not broken. He was not gone.
He was a ghost in the machine, a virus in the system, a threat that was not yet neutralized. He was a man with nothing left to lose.
Somewhere beyond the trees, something wounded kept breathing.
Thank you for all of the likes and comments! I just recently sat down and took all of them in and I'm extremely grateful. 🥹
It didn't feel right leaving it off without a resolution, so here's a short one! The best thing about writing your own stuff is that there can always be happy endings and everyone falls in love! Hehe 🥰
Please excuse any mistakes!
Ava's heels clicked against the hardwood floors of Smoke & Ink as the chime of the front door alarm dissipated behind her.
After a long morning in the office working on a few upcoming cases, she now has time to get to the bottom of why it's been going on three days without a response from Elias Moore. She's been to every spot he frequents and/or owns, even his damn home, only to come up empty handed each time.
The reflection of the man, Smoke, glanced at her without even fully turning his head as she moved closer to him. He dipped the needle into his cap of ink with a soft chuckle, going back to tattooing his client's leg.
"Good afternoon, counselor."
"Hey, Smoke." Ava released a breath that she didn't even know she was holding, crossing her arms across her chest as she watched him work. "Damn, is he sleep?" She asked with her brows furrowed, noticing the man he's working on with AirPods in while snoring away softly.
"He a regular." Smoke muttered with a soft shrug, glancing over at her again. "You need som' or...?"
"Oh, no!" Ava blurted out with a nervous giggle. She didn't think about how someone may take their lawyer popping up on them out of the blue. "I've just been trying to get in contact with your brother. Have you...seen him?" She asked, playing it cool.
"Depends..." Smoke trailed off, sitting up straighter when he went to dip the needle again. "He in trouble?"
"No trouble." Ava assured him. "We just have a few things to discuss."
Smoke's eyes lingered on her in a way that screamed he knows it's more to her reason. His gaze flicking to the engagement ring on her finger confirmed it. Yet, he went back to work without acknowledging it, making Ava look down at her feet with her face hot.
"Last time I seen him in person was yesterday." Smoke started. "You check over at the new lounge?"
"He got another lounge?"
"He told me he was gon' run the paperwork and shit by you." Smoke said in a firm tone, looking over at her with a raised brow. "He didn't consult you?" He asked with that fatherly edge she notice slips through with matters involving the younger twin.
"No need to stress about it. I'm sure he just didn't get around to it." Ava attempted to reassure him, making him shake his head with a deep breath. "I'll stop by and see. What's the address?"
Ava parked on the side of the white brick building, right behind Stack's black 2026 Cadillac CT5. She took in the exterior of the building before walking in to see the construction and renovation going on in the interior.
While the respective people worked, the man himself is currently slouched in one of the stools at the bar, thumbing through multiple sheets of very important papers with a seriousness that only comes from him when it pertains to money and business.
The distinctive clicks of Ava's heels caught his attention, his head hesitantly turning in her direction. When they locked eyes, he sat up with a small huff, determined to continue not talking to her.
"This the paperwork you was supposed to run by me?" Ava asked, leaning against the counter—her long, acrylic nail tapping against one of the many papers.
"Smoke and his big fat mouth." Stack thought, releasing a puff of air from his lips. "She is my lawyer, at the end of the damn day."
"Yeah." Stack muttered, gathering it all up and tapping it against the surface. "Just finished signing all of it." He held the stack out to her without looking her in the eye.
Ava's eyes lingered on his face as she snatched it from his grip. Her skilled, trained eyes skimmed through the words—mentally taking note of important clauses and information.
Stack tried to resist the intoxicating scent of her perfume and familiar warmth radiating from her body, the struggle being a testament of how hard avoiding her has actually been for him.
"Looks good." Ava said with a nod, placing the papers back down. "Next time, don't sign anything until after I go over it. You know the drill, so I don't even know where your head was." She muttered the last part, rolling her eyes as she checked her vibrating phone.
"I did business with this man before, Ava." Stack retorted. "Multiple times, actually."
"Still ain't smart to just blindly hand him more of your money, Elias." Ava argued, moving to the stool beside him and sitting down. "You know how many clients I had that got fucked by a person they did business with multiple times?"
Stack smacked his lips, looking over at her with lightly slitted eyes.
"Why you here?"
"Why you acting weird?"
"I ain't acting weird." Stack insisted with a dry chuckle. "I'm taking care of business, as you can see." He motioned throughout the room.
"Mmhm. Definitely acting weird." Ava said more so to herself, eyes raking across his broad, muscular frame that's clad in a Nike tracksuit. "I don't like being ignored. You throw a fit when you feel it's being done to you, so what makes you think it's ok to do it to me?"
"Maybe my feelings on it changed."
"Your feelings on ignoring someone changed." Ava repeated with a humorless chuckle. "So, you don't see anything wrong with it anymore?"
"Mmhm."
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Ava snarled, glaring at him intensely. "Be a man and tell me where the fuck this petty little attitude is coming from."
"Want me to tell you? I'll tell you." Stack nodded with a forced smile. "I'm tired of this shit, Ava. I can't keep...fucking you like I been doing, then waking up to you not even being there the next day.—"
"Woah, woah, woah!" Ava cut him off before he could even get any further. "That's what the hell you wanted, Stack! You knew I was fucking engaged—."
"A shitty ass engagement by the way." Stack cut in with a dry chuckle. "One that you don't even wanna fucking go through wit'."
"That's not the point!" Ava spat, making Stack shake his head and look away with a deep sigh. "You got involved. You made shit personal. You could've left me and my shitty ass relationship alone! You chose to fall in love, o-or whatever the fuck got you acting pissy!" She stressed, the words cutting Stack deep—knowing they're true.
Stack's jaw and throat tightened before he caught it, redirecting his hurt towards returning the favor—hurting her feelings as much as she just hurt his.
"I did." Stack admitted with a cocky, arrogant smirk. "And you let me in, Ava." He said with a finality that made Ava's chest burn with anger. "You don't have to worry 'bout me no mo', though. Just upgrade that shitty engagement to a shitty marriage, and handle my legal issues or some shit in between." He basically dismissed her as she stared at him with a stunned look.
"Are you fucking serious?"
"I'm so fucking serious." Stack replied in that same flat, dismissive tone that made her heart sink.
"Fuck you." Ava sneered, swiping the papers from the counter with a fluid motion that sent them flying into the air as she stormed towards the front door.
"Fuck you!" Stack hissed behind her, releasing an annoyed growl when she slammed the glass door hard enough that it could've disintegrated from the impact.
Stack's gaze lingered longingly in the direction she went while Ava got into her car and sobbed with a mixture of confusion, sadness, and pure frustration—snatching her ring off and chucking it against the dashboard with a scream.
two months later
Two months. Two months since she called off the engagement.
Telling the mayor's egotistical, self absorbed son that she no longer wanted to be his wife was just as challenging as she thought it'd be. It ended with stalking, obsessive behavior that she ended up having to get a restraining order against, and a smear campaign against her and her firm as retaliation by his rich and "powerful" family.
In a moment when Ava should be paranoid and watching her back, she feels the best she's ever felt in a long time. Her life is still mostly work, but after, it's nothing. Nothing isn't scary like she thought it'd be.
"Well, if you don't have any more questions for me, Mr. Jones, we're all done here!" Ava beamed, standing and reaching across her desk to firmly shake the man's hand. "I can assure you that I'm doing everything in my power to make sure things work in your favor. I will see you Thursday."
After sending her last client of the day out of her door, Ava released an exhausted sigh, taking off her glasses and placing her face in her hands.
Before she could unwind, knocks filled her door, forcing her to put her glasses back on in a rush.
"Come in!" Ava called out, clearing her throat and smoothing the front of her dress. She gave her assistant, Kaylin, a closed lipped smile when she poked her head in with an apologetic one.
"Mr. Moore wants to know if you can squeeze him in for a few minutes."
"Which one?" Ava asked, swallowing harshly at the thought of Stack. They've been amazing being cordial, and that's shown in the two times they've met up professionally since their back and forth.
"Elias, m'am."
Ava checked her clock to see that it's a little after seven. She's been at her office since seven in the morning, so she should be turning anyone away and heading home to unwind and get some much needed rest.
Even on a business level, she could never turn away Stack. That's one thing that surely lingered from...whatever the hell they had going on.
"Um..." Ava trailed off as she straightened up her desk, filing papers in their appropriate places. "Sure. Send him back, please, hun." She muttered, standing up and shuffling over to her filing cabinet the best she could in her heels.
After stowing away folders, she rushed over to her desk and grabbed her phone—fluffing her blown out curls on her shoulders and checking if her lipstick is still in place.
When the doorknob turned, she quickly put her phone down and sat down, clasping her hands with a tight, polite smile at the man waltzing into her space.
"Good evening, Mr. Moore."
"Evenin'." Stack greeted, looking around the office with his hands behind his back as he took long, drawn out strides up to her desk.
"May I ask what's the reasoning behind this impromptu meeting?" Ava asked curiously, brows furrowing slightly at his current demeanor.
Stack suddenly pulled a glass vase from behind him and sat it on the desk, revealing a full, luxurious bouquet of roses.
Ava couldn't fight the smile that made its way onto her face, Stack also smiling at the sight of her sliding the vase closer and admiring the vibrant flowers.
"Look at that pretty ass smile." Stack teased, placing his palms on her desk with a grin. "They'll never be pretty as you, though." He muttered, nodding his head towards the flowers.
"Wait a minute...." Ava caught herself, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "What's all this for?"
"What?" Stack asked, playing clueless as he stalked behind her desk with a sly smirk. "The flowers?"
"Elias Moore." Ava said in a warning tone that wouldn't be able to come off as serious even if she tried. She attempted to stand and run around the other side of the desk, giggling when he grabbed her waist and pulled her body against his.
Ava wriggled in his grip, huffing and refusing to look him in the eye when she realized he wasn't letting her go.
"Look at me." Stack said lowly in that tone that she never could resist. Ava bit the inside of her cheek, finding the internal strength to finally lock eyes with him. "I been thinkin' 'bout you." He admitted, making her face heat up. "I'm sorry."
Ava released a soft hum, nodding with her lips pressed firmly together.
"I'm sorry, too." Ava said just above a whisper, fiddling with his chain anxiously before locking eyes with him again. "So...what? We doing this again?"
"Sounds like you're suggesting we do this again."
"This whole damn gesture was the suggestion, Stack." Ava snapped, face softening when he laughed at her sassiness. "Don't play with me." She gently slapped him with a small smile.
"No games." Stack said sternly, grabbing her hand and kissing it. "I don't know how this relationship shit work, but we gon' do it the right way. "
"We're in a relationship?"
"That's what I just said."
"Tell me your idea of a relationship, while you popping up out of the blue and demanding that we be in one." Ava told him with an amused look, cupping his face. "I'm curious."
"It wasn't a demand. It was a suggestion, like you said it was."
"You slick talking ass—."
"It's a surprise, mama." Stack joked, nipping at her cheek as she giggled at his silliness. "No bullshit, though. I promise. I just know I can finally admit I want you, and I wanna show you." He muttered, placing his forehead against hers.
"I want you, too, Stack." Ava said softly, palming the nape of his neck when he initiated a slow, passionate kiss. "I want you, too." She breathed out against his lips.
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.
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.
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taglist: @lilbitt @lizbehave @andtheniws @tonichildsdaughterduh @cinnamonsonnyangel @shamansha @caramelplug @bananajoeclone
@rolemodelshit @brownskincheyenne @mmbee675 @xeebop@adultinginheels @tlt731
Yesssssssssss I’ve been waiting for this like the first and the fifteenth ‼️‼️‼️ and you did not disappointment !!! The way I’m not mad at Wunmi at alll !!! Get that lick back make him sick girl lol !!!!! I’ll be patiently waiting for the next part !!!
summary: there’s only so much you can do with hate, and after ages spent despising one another, smoke and annie finally give in. but what does that mean for those around them? and how can they keep their hearts from getting involved?
cw: smut, enemies to lovers, lil degradation, harsh language, use of the nword
a/n: i’ve been wrestling with writer’s block for over a month now, but this idea grabbed ahold of me and wouldn’t let go! i’m hoping to be back fully operational soon!
masterlist
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Cloying—the one word he’d use to describe her.
Rich. Decadent. Too much of a good thing. But there was no way he’d start complaining about it right now.
Fingers indented the flesh of her ass and thighs while nails pierced his shoulders, tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck.
They were supposed to hate each other. They were supposed to despise one another. She was his twin’s annoying best friend. He, her best friend’s uptight older brother who couldn’t help but turn his nose up at her short shorts and crop tops. But she wore them for him—just as he wore his low-hanging sweatpants for her.
When she’d come over to the twin’s shared apartment, they’d parade around for each other: Annie in her booty shorts and tight shirts, Smoke in sweatpants and a tank, a chain if he was feeling particularly interested in her attention. He’d come out of his room “for a bottle of water” or “to ask about plans for later,” but he was really just trying to get a look at Annie’s long legs. And she’d roll her eyes at him and make smart ass comments just to rile him up, but she was always looking at him a little too hard, too.
They hated each other for no good reason. For simply being around. For taking up space. For speaking and smelling divine and looking good enough to eat even though they knew they couldn’t have each other.
And now—despite all that—they were tangled up in Smoke’s sheets, and Annie was sitting thick and pretty on his palate like a good meal when you’ve been starved for ages.
“Smoke,” the young woman whined, clawing at his upper body. He had her thighs pried open and her legs thrown over his shoulders, and every time she attempted to catch her breath, he was halting her action by dousing her in more pleasure. She squirmed in his hold, but her efforts were in vain. The young man held on too tight, but even though Annie was struggling against him, she didn’t want to go too far anyway. He felt too good, fucking her with his tongue, sucking on her clit with those plush lips. When he practically began to swallow her arousal from the source, she shook against the bed aggressively. And just as she felt the wave begin to wash over her exhausted, needy body, the man stopped.
A huff escaped his lips—gruff, angry, and resentful.
“I can’t fuckin’ stand you,” Smoke growled, mind reeling from the delicious sound of her moaning his name and the too sweet taste of her on his tongue. He sat back on his haunches, but all that did was give him a better view of her bare body. The man rolled his eyes, growled once more from the sweat-slicked sight.
“Well, I can’t stand yo’ ass neither,” Annie shouted, propping herself up to get a better look at him.
They wore matching scowls, eyes full of contempt. Beneath the surface, their bodies were buzzing for a release that seemed too distant now, but Annie’s thighs were wet with her arousal—a puddle in the sheets—and Smoke’s length was throbbing with every glimpse he allowed himself to take of her.
The woman’s scowl turned to a wicked grin. And one glance at the time had her mind made up.
“Come on, Smokey,” Annie teased, crawling toward where Smoke had decided to land—at the edge of the bed with his back toward her. “You obviously need to let some steam off,” she hummed, hooking her arms around his neck from behind, “and Stack won’t be back from that li’l date for a minute. Stop bein’ pussy.”
She started kissing up the back of his neck, heavy, thick kisses that had his eyes fluttering shut. But her words were like ice, chilling his system and bringing that contempt back to the surface. He growled once—just once—then he grabbed her and swung her into position on his lap.
“I ain’t no pussy,” he condemned, smacking her ass and watching the way she tried her best not to flinched. He watched her grind her teeth, her hatred of him being just as strong as his for her. “And I don’ told you about callin’ me that name.”
“What? Smokey,” she threw in question, already knowing the answer. He’d said it time and time again, but that was what she used to successfully piss him off every time—she wasn’t about to stop now. Watching the man closely, she couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw tightened at the sound of the nickname again, and at that, she set her hips in motion.
Her wet arousal rocked against his—slow, teasing, angry. She did nothing to remove the sly grin on her lips. She let it melt into her skin and stay planted there as she indulged in the way the man’s eyes were rolling back from the feel of her.
Smoke gritted his teeth at the feeling of Annie’s clit sliding along his dick, and he did his best not to let the pleasure show, but she had moans escaping his lips and tears pricking in his eyes before he could stop it. His hands held her in place atop him, attempting to command the situation. But annoyingly enough, Annie was too good at maintaining control—over him and the task at hand.
“I hate seein’ yo’ stupid fuckin’ face when I come over here,” the woman huffed, rising up on her feet. She sank down onto his length, shuddering at the stretch, chuckling when he groaned. “You must don’t ever go out ‘cause you always here,” she added, breath quickening as her body began to move at a steady pace. Her words were laced with hatred, but beneath the anger, resided that small part of her that anticipated seeing him every time she came over, the part that chose her outfits according to what would turn his head the most, the part that was ecstatic to finally have him buried inside her and at her mercy.
Smoke shifted their position. He moved back up the bed, rested his body, planted his feet, lifted her slightly. He laughed at the surprised look that took over her face, but he immediately turned cold once more.
“You the one that’s always over here in my face,” he argued, pulling her in close. His nails pierced the flesh of her ass punishingly, and with his regaining of control, he forced her to meet his thrusts as he pounded into her from below. “You stay up in my house, bothering me. But I’m the problem?” Each word bit. Each statement true. But Annie wasn’t ready to back down.
“Yeah,” she choked, fuming in a unique mix of hate and lust. “Yeah, you the fuckin’ problem.”
Her hips snapped harsh. Her hands pressed into his shoulders as she rode him silly, refusing to let him win. And he wasn’t letting up either.
The air of the room turned dark and dense as the two fought to make the other crumble. They wouldn’t allow themselves to be the first to break—the first to cum, to show how much they desired the other—but someone had to be the one.
Meeting each other thrust for thrust, their breaths mingled, their tongues fought, their bodies began to shudder viciously. Annie’s teeth bit into the meat of Smoke’s bottom lip, and his palms claimed her ass with an ease neither of them would talk about outside of this room.
“You finna cum,” the man barked, waiting for an answer in the form of moans and trembling. He smacked her ass, fucked her with aggression.
“Hell naw,” Annie hurled back, queuing up her insults. “Nigga, this shit weak. But I know this pussy ‘bout to have you ruined.”
And ruined he was—right alongside Annie, too.
For the next few weeks, they poked at each other, prodded, towed that line between disgust and desire. When they saw each other, their eyes flashed with hatred, and when Stack turned his back, drifted too far away, they were on each other hot. They couldn’t deny the need. They couldn’t stuff down the craving.
That’s why they were back at it again.
Smoke’s bed.
Stack long gone.
Annie with her face down—ass up.
“You need this shit like a greedy li’l slut,” the man taunted, stroking her deep. Her arch became more pronounced as her arms slid forward and her mouth fell open. She couldn’t protest because when he texted her and said Stack ‘went out,’ she immediately jumped from her comfortable position in bed, slid her shoes on, and drove her ass over to that apartment. She was greedy—yes. A slut—absolutely.
Her hips worked to bring them both closer to the edge, falling back into his strokes because she was a pro at this shit now. They’d done it plenty of times: always here in his bed where they could be caught at any moment. She knew how he liked it, knew that when his mouth got slick he was close to burying himself deep in her.
“Smoke,” Annie slurred, words weak from all the wails he’d pulled from her tonight. Her hand wrapped around his wrist in an effort to seek out connection, and as much as he despised her, he let her have it. Their fingers intertwined, bodies creating a delicious rhythm. And they let go—together.
As they winded down from the effects of their orgasms, their hands remained connected. Annie’s thumb stroked the side of Smoke’s hand, working diligently to pull sharp breaths from him. He couldn’t push away that feeling she gave him: like he was going to eventually lose his life in her but that it would be worth it in the end. He shifted his position, turned on his side to watch her, but Annie was already looking at him.
“I gotta go,” the young woman spoke matter-of-factly. She dragged her body away from his, and as she sat of the edge of his bed, he watched her stretch. Her arms rose above her head, pulling her worn out muscles gently. She shifted to the side and he could make out the curve of her breast—delicate and hefty at the same time. It made his mouth fall open, but he soon gained the woman’s attention. “The fuck you lookin’ at,” Annie hurled in his direction. She began to pull her clothes back on, starting with her undergarments, but she couldn’t find her shirt anywhere.
“What we doin’ for real, Anne,” Smoke leveled, standing up on wobbling feet.
“We fuckin’,” she answered with a roll of her neck. “Duh.”
“This ain’t just fuckin’, and you know that,” he continued. He stepped in her direction, beginning to help in the pursuit of her long lost shirt. “If this is just fuckin’ then why you don’t wanna tell my brother?”
“‘Cause I don’t want Stack in all my damn business,” Annie turned quick. She shot through him with her eyes, but he couldn’t hardly take anything serious as she stood before him with her upper half nearly bare: her bright pink bra was the only thing covering her chest.
“But you tell Stack everything,” Smoke threw out—completely confused. She and his twin had been close for a long while now, and there was nothing the other didn’t know—except for this. He had also never been much of a liar, but since Annie insisted this remain a secret, he listened.
But now, the man was conflicted by his feelings.
He couldn’t fucking stand Annie, but looking at her big, brown eyes and having held her hand so dearly earlier, he was experiencing a new, rawer emotion.
He watched her continue to scrounge for her shirt as a way to not look him in the eye, but that didn’t mean he was done with his line of questioning.
“What you want from this? From me and you,” Smoke whispered. His voice was low, tone dripping in a seriousness that seemed to be plaguing him right now. Annie turned completely in his direction, her search for the shirt fully thwarted now. She crossed her arms under her chest and leaned against the dresser on the opposite side of the room, sighing with a strangled breath that seemed to not want to come out.
When she looked at him, her eyes were big and round, wet with emotion.
“It started as me wantin’ to prove something,” she shrugged, eyes stuck on his. “I wanted to prove that I was more than just a nuisance, that I could make you feel something other than your hate for me, that I could dive headfirst into this and walk away unscathed.” She shook her head, diverted her gaze. “And now,” she continued, words catching on the way out, “now I feel silly for lettin’ this continue for so long, knowin’ what you do to me.”
“Anne—” the man tried, but she kept speaking, kept spiraling.
“I’m just so stupid! Of course this was just sex for you,” Annie pointed in his direction before smoothing her hair down away from her face. Her body seemed to be vibrating, and Smoke’s fingers trembled with a need to reach out for her, but he knew that would only worsen the situation. “And now I’ve just made it weird because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check. And I can’t find my damn shirt no where!”
She searched frantically—high and low—but she came up empty every time. And as he watched her, Smoke stood there stunned. He didn’t have a clue what to say. Partially because he was still using that excuse of hating her. Partially because he was still oscillating between his difficult emotions. All he thought about now seemed to be Annie. Annie’s annoying voice. Annie’s annoying laugh. Annie’s annoyingly pretty smile. He continued to find himself trapped in their moments together, how easily they came together in his bed, how they could communicate with such ease at times before getting caught up in what they thought they were supposed to want.
He hated her. But her adored her. And he definitely understood what she meant about feeling silly.
When he noticed the tears falling from her eyes, Smoke finally let himself step forward. He reached for her in an attempt to calm her down, but the sound of keys in the front door halted that effort.
“Oh my God,” Annie breathed heavily, moving to cower in a corner. She had no shirt on, was crying like a fool, and was in her best friend’s brother’s room after fucking him behind the other man’s back. She didn’t know what to do, and one look at Smoke showed that he didn’t have a clue either. They remained quiet—didn’t dare make a sound first—but Stack’s words rang out loud.
“Aye yo’,” he laughed into the near quiet apartment. “Annie, where you at, girl?! I saw yo’ car in the lot!”
Their hearts sank to their feet, the inevitable finally coming face to face with them. Annie shook in her spot, terrified of the consequences of lying to the person closest to her, and as frightened as Smoke was as well, he forced himself to put on a brave face for her.
As Stack kept shouting her name, mumbling how she must be in the bathroom or something, the older twin tossed her one of his shirts.
In the living room, however, Stack was leaning back against the couch as a flash of color gained his attention. A bright baby blue crop top sat on the other side of the room, and without picking it up, he already knew who it belonged to.
He stopped speaking all together—because there had to be an explanation, because he was just not understanding what the situation was. His brother was here too; He had to be. Stack had seen his car parked in its usual spot, but maybe that hadn’t been his best friend’s vehicle at all. She had parked too far away, on the opposite end of the lot tucked into a corner. But he’d worked on her car enough times to recognize the unique dents and scratches.
And now, he was in his home, calling her name to no answer—from either of them. But there had to be an explanation, right?
Down the hall, a bedroom door, croaked open.
Two sets of feet set in motion. Slow. Trembling. Guilty.
Tears flooded one person’s eyes. Fear flooded another’s.
But there was no going back now.
Stack’s eyes bounced between the pair. From Smoke to Annie. From the shirt the woman wore to the one she’d obviously forgotten was in the living room all along. Confusion etched into his features. It was a strange type of understanding because of course he knew what this meant—Annie was wearing his brother’s shirt and they were both looking guilty as fuck—but how had this all happened? They hated each other. They had hated each other from the moment they first met.
The younger twin shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips. Then he laughed—disbelief shining through.
“Man y’all fucked up,” he cackled, tossing his head back. Standing to his feet, the young man continued to laugh and joke and admonish, and the embarrassed pair watched with wide eyes. He wouldn’t stop or let up, and they just had to stand there and take it. “This is what happens when you pretend like you hate somebody,” he continued, hands rising in the air. “You end up fuckin’ ‘cause ain’t shit else to do wit’ all that pent up energy.”
He turned toward the hallway, still shaking his head in disbelief, laughing to keep himself together. When he reached his bedroom door, he took one look at them. How they stood at an awkward distance from each other. How it seemed to be something else going on that he didn’t want to get into right now. Seriousness took control of his features, returning him to the moment he first realized something wasn’t right. With their backs to him, he sighed, and clearing his throat, he turned his doorknob and spoke once more before departing.
“All I got to say is y’all better get y’all shit together and not make me choose between y’all. For real though.”
The room fell quiet. With Stack gone, the pair were left to reckon with what they were doing, with the fact that their dirt had seen the light of day. Smoke, eyes picking up the glare from Annie’s long lost shirt, leaned forward to grab it. And as his fingers connected with the fabric, he reveled in the softness, the roughness, the unmistakable Annie-ness of the feel.
“Here you go,” he extended his hand. His volume was low, afraid to rustle the quiet air, and the woman thanked him in a tone just as soft.
Annie watched his eyes carefully, trying to find his lingering disdain for her, but there was none.
“I appreciate it,” she offered her thanks again, much more confident this time, and as a soft grin filled Smoke’s lips, Annie allowed hers to match.
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word count: ~3,200
a/n: i hope y'all enjoyedddd and thank you for readinggg
mean!smoke who keeps your hands behind your back whenever he has you on all fours. claiming his decision to do that is because you always run whenever you two are in doggy style but really he just enjoyed seeing how helpless and overstimulated you got when you had no choice but to take his dick. he’d angle his hips so he could go deeper into your essence and so he could find that g-spot, and speed his pace up so his mushroom tip could kiss it over and over again.
“nah, you gone take this dick. all of it, ain’t no morherfucking running.”
mean!smoke who’s idea of punishing you when you’ve been bratty is tying you up to a chair and holding a vibrator up to your clit. letting you get so overstimulated and overwhelmed that you can’t even think or talk straight. he does all of this while making you apologize , and manipulating you into thinking if you apologize he’ll stop. instead he ups the setting with every apology you give him.
“tell daddy you sorry, an’ then i’ll take it off mama.”
mean!smoke who when he feels as though you’re bratting on purpose just so he can give you a “funishment” he’ll let you act up for a little, let you think you’re going to get what you want before quickly bending you over his knee, riding up your skit and using his hand to forcefully spank your ass. after a few minutes your ass starts to hurt, which causes you to try and block his hand from your butt. but he uses his free hand to move it and hold your hand down. forcing you to take it.
“you had so much shit to say earlier. you better take this shit.”
guess who’s back yall.. mee! finally, and i’m actually serious this time.i got fics lined up for yall.. some of which im dropping teasers for this week! it was just so hard balancing this + updating my books on wattpad. it was exhausting, so i just took time to focus on wattpad for a little. but now im back on here and i honestly and genuinely plan on staying <3. can’t wait to write on here again 🥹.
summary: there’s only so much you can do with hate, and after ages spent despising one another, smoke and annie finally give in. but what does that mean for those around them? and how can they keep their hearts from getting involved?
cw: smut, lil degradation, harsh language, use of the nword
a/n: i’ve been wrestling with writer’s block for over a month now, but this idea grabbed ahold of me and wouldn’t let go! i’m hoping to be back fully operational soon!
masterlist
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Cloying—the one word he’d use to describe her.
Rich. Decadent. Too much of a good thing. But there was no way he’d start complaining about it right now.
Fingers indented the flesh of her ass and thighs while nails pierced his shoulders, tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck.
They were supposed to hate each other. They were supposed to despise one another. She was his twin’s annoying best friend. He, her best friend’s uptight older brother who couldn’t help but turn his nose up at her short shorts and crop tops. But she wore them for him—just as he wore his low-hanging sweatpants for her.
When she’d come over to the twin’s shared apartment, they’d parade around for each other: Annie in her booty shorts and tight shirts, Smoke in sweatpants and a tank, a chain if he was feeling particularly interested in her attention. He’d come out of his room “for a bottle of water” or “to ask about plans for later,” but he was really just trying to get a look at Annie’s long legs. And she’d roll her eyes at him and make smart ass comments just to rile him up, but she was always looking at him a little too hard, too.
They hated each other for no good reason. For simply being around. For taking up space. For speaking and smelling divine and looking good enough to eat even though they knew they couldn’t have each other.
And now—despite all that—they were tangled up in Smoke’s sheets, and Annie was sitting thick and pretty on his palate like a good meal when you’ve been starved for ages.
“Smoke,” the young woman whined, clawing at his upper body. He had her thighs pried open and her legs thrown over his shoulders, and every time she attempted to catch her breath, he was halting her action by dousing her in more pleasure. She squirmed in his hold, but her efforts were in vain. The young man held on too tight, but even though Annie was struggling against him, she didn’t want to go too far anyway. He felt too good, fucking her with his tongue, sucking on her clit with those plush lips. When he practically began to swallow her arousal from the source, she shook against the bed aggressively. And just as she felt the wave begin to wash over her exhausted, needy body, the man stopped.
A huff escaped his lips—gruff, angry, and resentful.
“I can’t fuckin’ stand you,” Smoke growled, mind reeling from the delicious sound of her moaning his name and the too sweet taste of her on his tongue. He sat back on his haunches, but all that did was give him a better view of her bare body. The man rolled his eyes, growled once more from the sweat-slicked sight.
“Well, I can’t stand yo’ ass neither,” Annie shouted, propping herself up to get a better look at him.
They wore matching scowls, eyes full of contempt. Beneath the surface, their bodies were buzzing for a release that seemed too distant now, but Annie’s thighs were wet with her arousal—a puddle in the sheets—and Smoke’s length was throbbing with every glimpse he allowed himself to take of her.
The woman’s scowl turned to a wicked grin. And one glance at the time had her mind made up.
“Come on, Smokey,” Annie teased, crawling toward where Smoke had decided to land—at the edge of the bed with his back toward her. “You obviously need to let some steam off,” she hummed, hooking her arms around his neck from behind, “and Stack won’t be back from that li’l date for a minute. Stop bein’ pussy.”
She started kissing up the back of his neck, heavy, thick kisses that had his eyes fluttering shut. But her words were like ice, chilling his system and bringing that contempt back to the surface. He growled once—just once—then he grabbed her and swung her into position on his lap.
“I ain’t no pussy,” he condemned, smacking her ass and watching the way she tried her best not to flinched. He watched her grind her teeth, her hatred of him being just as strong as his for her. “And I don’ told you about callin’ me that name.”
“What? Smokey,” she threw in question, already knowing the answer. He’d said it time and time again, but that was what she used to successfully piss him off every time—she wasn’t about to stop now. Watching the man closely, she couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw tightened at the sound of the nickname again, and at that, she set her hips in motion.
Her wet arousal rocked against his—slow, teasing, angry. She did nothing to remove the sly grin on her lips. She let it melt into her skin and stay planted there as she indulged in the way the man’s eyes were rolling back from the feel of her.
Smoke gritted his teeth at the feeling of Annie’s clit sliding along his dick, and he did his best not to let the pleasure show, but she had moans escaping his lips and tears pricking in his eyes before he could stop it. His hands held her in place atop him, attempting to command the situation. But annoyingly enough, Annie was too good at maintaining control—over him and the task at hand.
“I hate seein’ yo’ stupid fuckin’ face when I come over here,” the woman huffed, rising up on her feet. She sank down onto his length, shuddering at the stretch, chuckling when he groaned. “You must don’t ever go out ‘cause you always here,” she added, breath quickening as her body began to move at a steady pace. Her words were laced with hatred, but beneath the anger, resided that small part of her that anticipated seeing him every time she came over, the part that chose her outfits according to what would turn his head the most, the part that was ecstatic to finally have him buried inside her and at her mercy.
Smoke shifted their position. He moved back up the bed, rested his body, planted his feet, lifted her slightly. He laughed at the surprised look that took over her face, but he immediately turned cold once more.
“You the one that’s always over here in my face,” he argued, pulling her in close. His nails pierced the flesh of her ass punishingly, and with his regaining of control, he forced her to meet his thrusts as he pounded into her from below. “You stay up in my house, bothering me. But I’m the problem?” Each word bit. Each statement true. But Annie wasn’t ready to back down.
“Yeah,” she choked, fuming in a unique mix of hate and lust. “Yeah, you the fuckin’ problem.”
Her hips snapped harsh. Her hands pressed into his shoulders as she rode him silly, refusing to let him win. And he wasn’t letting up either.
The air of the room turned dark and dense as the two fought to make the other crumble. They wouldn’t allow themselves to be the first to break—the first to cum, to show how much they desired the other—but someone had to be the one.
Meeting each other thrust for thrust, their breaths mingled, their tongues fought, their bodies began to shudder viciously. Annie’s teeth bit into the meat of Smoke’s bottom lip, and his palms claimed her ass with an ease neither of them would talk about outside of this room.
“You finna cum,” the man barked, waiting for an answer in the form of moans and trembling. He smacked her ass, fucked her with aggression.
“Hell naw,” Annie hurled back, queuing up her insults. “Nigga, this shit weak. But I know this pussy ‘bout to have you ruined.”
And ruined he was—right alongside Annie, too.
For the next few weeks, they poked at each other, prodded, towed that line between disgust and desire. When they saw each other, their eyes flashed with hatred, and when Stack turned his back, drifted too far away, they were on each other hot. They couldn’t deny the need. They couldn’t stuff down the craving.
That’s why they were back at it again.
Smoke’s bed.
Stack long gone.
Annie with her face down—ass up.
“You need this shit like a greedy li’l slut,” the man taunted, stroking her deep. Her arch became more pronounced as her arms slid forward and her mouth fell open. She couldn’t protest because when he texted her and said Stack ‘went out,’ she immediately jumped from her comfortable position in bed, slid her shoes on, and drove her ass over to that apartment. She was greedy—yes. A slut—absolutely.
Her hips worked to bring them both closer to the edge, falling back into his strokes because she was a pro at this shit now. They’d done it plenty of times: always here in his bed where they could be caught at any moment. She knew how he liked it, knew that when his mouth got slick he was close to burying himself deep in her.
“Smoke,” Annie slurred, words weak from all the wails he’d pulled from her tonight. Her hand wrapped around his wrist in an effort to seek out connection, and as much as he despised her, he let her have it. Their fingers intertwined, bodies creating a delicious rhythm. And they let go—together.
As they winded down from the effects of their orgasms, their hands remained connected. Annie’s thumb stroked the side of Smoke’s hand, working diligently to pull sharp breaths from him. He couldn’t push away that feeling she gave him: like he was going to eventually lose his life in her but that it would be worth it in the end. He shifted his position, turned on his side to watch her, but Annie was already looking at him.
“I gotta go,” the young woman spoke matter-of-factly. She dragged her body away from his, and as she sat of the edge of his bed, he watched her stretch. Her arms rose above her head, pulling her worn out muscles gently. She shifted to the side and he could make out the curve of her breast—delicate and hefty at the same time. It made his mouth fall open, but he soon gained the woman’s attention. “The fuck you lookin’ at,” Annie hurled in his direction. She began to pull her clothes back on, starting with her undergarments, but she couldn’t find her shirt anywhere.
“What we doin’ for real, Anne,” Smoke leveled, standing up on wobbling feet.
“We fuckin’,” she answered with a roll of her neck. “Duh.”
“This ain’t just fuckin’, and you know that,” he continued. He stepped in her direction, beginning to help in the pursuit of her long lost shirt. “If this is just fuckin’ then why you don’t wanna tell my brother?”
“‘Cause I don’t want Stack in all my damn business,” Annie turned quick. She shot through him with her eyes, but he couldn’t hardly take anything serious as she stood before him with her upper half nearly bare: her bright pink bra was the only thing covering her chest.
“But you tell Stack everything,” Smoke threw out—completely confused. She and his twin had been close for a long while now, and there was nothing the other didn’t know—except for this. He had also never been much of a liar, but since Annie insisted this remain a secret, he listened.
But now, the man was conflicted by his feelings.
He couldn’t fucking stand Annie, but looking at her big, brown eyes and having held her hand so dearly earlier, he was experiencing a new, rawer emotion.
He watched her continue to scrounge for her shirt as a way to not look him in the eye, but that didn’t mean he was done with his line of questioning.
“What you want from this? From me and you,” Smoke whispered. His voice was low, tone dripping in a seriousness that seemed to be plaguing him right now. Annie turned completely in his direction, her search for the shirt fully thwarted now. She crossed her arms under her chest and leaned against the dresser on the opposite side of the room, sighing with a strangled breath that seemed to not want to come out.
When she looked at him, her eyes were big and round, wet with emotion.
“It started as me wantin’ to prove something,” she shrugged, eyes stuck on his. “I wanted to prove that I was more than just a nuisance, that I could make you feel something other than your hate for me, that I could dive headfirst into this and walk away unscathed.” She shook her head, diverted her gaze. “And now,” she continued, words catching on the way out, “now I feel silly for lettin’ this continue for so long, knowin’ what you do to me.”
“Anne—” the man tried, but she kept speaking, kept spiraling.
“I’m just so stupid! Of course this was just sex for you,” Annie pointed in his direction before smoothing her hair down away from her face. Her body seemed to be vibrating, and Smoke’s fingers trembled with a need to reach out for her, but he knew that would only worsen the situation. “And now I’ve just made it weird because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check. And I can’t find my damn shirt no where!”
She searched frantically—high and low—but she came up empty every time. And as he watched her, Smoke stood there stunned. He didn’t have a clue what to say. Partially because he was still using that excuse of hating her. Partially because he was still oscillating between his difficult emotions. All he thought about now seemed to be Annie. Annie’s annoying voice. Annie’s annoying laugh. Annie’s annoyingly pretty smile. He continued to find himself trapped in their moments together, how easily they came together in his bed, how they could communicate with such ease at times before getting caught up in what they thought they were supposed to want.
He hated her. But her adored her. And he definitely understood what she meant about feeling silly.
When he noticed the tears falling from her eyes, Smoke finally let himself step forward. He reached for her in an attempt to calm her down, but the sound of keys in the front door halted that effort.
“Oh my God,” Annie breathed heavily, moving to cower in a corner. She had no shirt on, was crying like a fool, and was in her best friend’s brother’s room after fucking him behind the other man’s back. She didn’t know what to do, and one look at Smoke showed that he didn’t have a clue either. They remained quiet—didn’t dare make a sound first—but Stack’s words rang out loud.
“Aye yo’,” he laughed into the near quiet apartment. “Annie, where you at, girl?! I saw yo’ car in the lot!”
Their hearts sank to their feet, the inevitable finally coming face to face with them. Annie shook in her spot, terrified of the consequences of lying to the person closest to her, and as frightened as Smoke was as well, he forced himself to put on a brave face for her.
As Stack kept shouting her name, mumbling how she must be in the bathroom or something, the older twin tossed her one of his shirts.
In the living room, however, Stack was leaning back against the couch as a flash of color gained his attention. A bright baby blue crop top sat on the other side of the room, and without picking it up, he already knew who it belonged to.
He stopped speaking all together—because there had to be an explanation, because he was just not understanding what the situation was. His brother was here too; He had to be. Stack had seen his car parked in its usual spot, but maybe that hadn’t been his best friend’s vehicle at all. She had parked too far away, on the opposite end of the lot tucked into a corner. But he’d worked on her car enough times to recognize the unique dents and scratches.
And now, he was in his home, calling her name to no answer—from either of them. But there had to be an explanation, right?
Down the hall, a bedroom door, croaked open.
Two sets of feet set in motion. Slow. Trembling. Guilty.
Tears flooded one person’s eyes. Fear flooded another’s.
But there was no going back now.
Stack’s eyes bounced between the pair. From Smoke to Annie. From the shirt the woman wore to the one she’d obviously forgotten was in the living room all along. Confusion etched into his features. It was a strange type of understanding because of course he knew what this meant—Annie was wearing his brother’s shirt and they were both looking guilty as fuck—but how had this all happened? They hated each other. They had hated each other from the moment they first met.
The younger twin shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips. Then he laughed—disbelief shining through.
“Man y’all fucked up,” he cackled, tossing his head back. Standing to his feet, the young man continued to laugh and joke and admonish, and the embarrassed pair watched with wide eyes. He wouldn’t stop or let up, and they just had to stand there and take it. “This is what happens when you pretend like you hate somebody,” he continued, hands rising in the air. “You end up fuckin’ ‘cause ain’t shit else to do wit’ all that pent up energy.”
He turned toward the hallway, still shaking his head in disbelief, laughing to keep himself together. When he reached his bedroom door, he took one look at them. How they stood at an awkward distance from each other. How it seemed to be something else going on that he didn’t want to get into right now. Seriousness took control of his features, returning him to the moment he first realized something wasn’t right. With their backs to him, he sighed, and clearing his throat, he turned his doorknob and spoke once more before departing.
“All I got to say is y’all better get y’all shit together and not make me choose between y’all. For real though.”
The room fell quiet. With Stack gone, the pair were left to reckon with what they were doing, with the fact that their dirt had seen the light of day. Smoke, eyes picking up the glare from Annie’s long lost shirt, leaned forward to grab it. And as his fingers connected with the fabric, he reveled in the softness, the roughness, the unmistakable Annie-ness of the feel.
“Here you go,” he extended his hand. His volume was low, afraid to rustle the quiet air, and the woman thanked him in a tone just as soft.
Annie watched his eyes carefully, trying to find his lingering disdain for her, but there was none.
“I appreciate it,” she offered her thanks again, much more confident this time, and as a soft grin filled Smoke’s lips, Annie allowed hers to match.
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word count: ~3,200
a/n: i hope y'all enjoyedddd and thank you for readinggg
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