Cosmic Funnies
The Stonewall Inn
if i look back, i am lost
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
RMH
noise dept.
Mike Driver
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
bliss lane
Game Changer & Make Some Noise
Sweet Seals For You, Always
roma★
sheepfilms
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Misplaced Lens Cap
One Nice Bug Per Day
Xuebing Du
izzy's playlists!
The Bowery Presents
Noah Kahan
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Colombia
seen from Singapore
seen from Ireland
seen from United States
seen from Nigeria
seen from United States
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@need2read9
HANGMAN, MASTERLIST.
IN WHICH; a divorced man who’s spent the past few years untouched calls a hotline for call girls… after hearing the discourse about their one and only “HANGMAN”, how she’d gotten men to leave their wives after only one mere touch of her fingertips. how wives were now calling the hotline and crying out to her. elijah knew; she must’ve be impeccable. on one lonely night, he gathered the courage and called.
chapter one!
chapter two!
chapter three!
A Couple Minutes
Jey Uso One shot
PAIRING: Jey Uso x OC Ebony
Word Count: 7,446
Warning: Fluff, breakups, reconciliation
Jey Uso breaks up with his girlfriend Ebony during the height of the COVID era, pushing her to pursue her dreams. What happens when Ebony shows up five years later, a well-known Broadway star, to watch Jey win the World Heavyweight Championship at WrestleMania.
Will they find their way back to each other? Or have they shared their last couple of minutes together?
May 2020
Jey’s & Ebony’s House
Atlanta, Ga
Ebony's Pov
“This all you got left right sis?” Jimmy asked, coming out of the bedroom I shared with his twin brother for the last four years carrying a big box.
“Yea, that’s the last big box. I know you barely got room left in your car and mine filled to the brim.”
“Yea, it is.. I’mma go back to da house to put this stuff in the pool house.”
“Ok, I’m right behind you, just gon’ finish packin’ this small box,” I sighed trying to hurry up.
“Ok, sis..I’ll see you at da house,” he said closing the door behind him. I sighed grabbing a few pictures and my other things that I didn’t want to part with.
“Well, that’s it,” I whispered, packing and taping up the final box. Then I heard it, the front door opened, then closed. ..Ugh, damn him..He promised he wasn’t going to come home till I left.
“Baby-”
“Jey, I’m just getting the last of my stuff and I’ll be outta your hair.”
“I wanna talk to you, baby. I want you to understand-”
“It’s nothing to talk about or understand.”
“Ebony, can you just stop for a second and look at me, Ma.” Jey's voice cracked, coming further into the living room. I froze; I didn’t want to look at him. If I did, I'd cry.
And if I cried, I didn’t know if I could walk out that door and leave him.
Jey gently pulled the box from my hands. “Ion wanna leave it like dis. We mean too much to each other to do dat.” The tears I had been fighting all morning began to burn my eyes as I fought to hold them in.
“Jey...”
“Ebony, I love you,” he said, hands grasping mine as I finally looked at him. Just sayin’ he loved me was breaking him down. Tears filled his eyes as I tried to process how we even got here if he felt this strongly.. “I love you so much, it hurts to breathe Ebs.”
“Then why are you breakin’ up with me?” I asked, with what little strength I had left. I was just tired.
“Because I love you and I want what’s best for you.”
“That don't make no sense, Jey.”
“It does if you just listen-… Really listen to me, baby.”
“I’m tired of listenin’!” I cried out in frustration. “That’s all I been doin’ is listenin to you, Jey! So can we just stop talkin’ bout it? I’m tired.”
Jey gently caressed my cheek. “Ebony...You so talented baby. You need to share dat and let da world hear it,” his voice full of conviction in spite of the tears still gathering in his beautiful brown eyes.
“I don't care about that,” I sighed closing my eyes unable to look at him.
“Well, I do, Ma…Please understand,” he pleaded.
“Why do you care if I don’t?” I asked, glancing back at him wishing I hadn’t, seeing tears streaming down his face.
“I care because you got Broadway or somethin’ greater callin’ yo’ name and you sittin’ here waitin’ on me to get my shit together.”
“Because I wanted too, Jey. We had a plan-”
He laughed sadly, cuttin’ me off. “Yea, me travelin’ da world three hundred days outta the year, uprooting you whenever I feel like it.”
“Jey-”
“You waitin’ at home all alone…Having you at the shows but still can’t be wit you how I want cause of all the shit we have to do before the show. “
“It doesn’t bother me..I have to work too-”
“Yea, all alone on Roman's bus trying to work remote, while me and Jimmy tryin’ to get to the next level. That ain’t fair to you, i’m tyin’ you down, Ma and ion want dat. You literally have to take Covid tests to come in the fuckin’ PC every week.”
“I love to travel with you; I love being there for you. We had a plan, Jey….. In five years, you’d be more settled, making more money, then we’d get a house in New York and I would pursue my music.”
Jey closed his eyes, resting his forehead against mine.
"I don't want you livin' your life around my schedule, I done let you do it long enough and you deserve to chase your dreams too.”
“That isn’t your choice to make for me-”
“You think ion know you did that virtual audition and got that part in dat Broadway play but you took the remote job instead?"
That was all it took…I broke, I couldn’t stop it. “What I’mma take it for just to be in New York alone waiting for this shutdown to pass. They didn’t even know when they were going to be able to go back to work with all these Covid cases. I just wanted to audition to get a feel of what it was like and get that experience.”
Jey pulled her into his arms “I know but -”
“If you know why you are trying to change my mind. We had a plan-”
“Because sometimes plans change. I know you wanna sing and ion want you to wake up one day and regret this..Regret us.”
“I won't, I promise,” I whispered burying my face in his chest.
“I’m not where I want to be in my career and I’m just draggin’ you around wit me. Jimmy goin’ in for surgery next week, I don’t even know if they gon’ renew my contract.”
“They are I know they are, because you are meant to be a star, Jey. You’re going to be world champion one day; I really believe that because I believe in you.”
“You don't know that for sure Ebs, and I love you enough to do what I gotta do even if you hate me right now. I can’t keep lettin’ you do this.”
“I could never hate you…I love you, too even though this hurts.”
“I know that and I’d father cut my own hand off than hurt you.” His voice was raw, full of emotion as he gently kissed me with so much passion and love I felt a glimmer of hope until it dawned on my he was savoring the moment.
Every breath..Every piece of me as he held me close…Slow..Painful..Final.
So final neither of us wanted to move as we slowly pulled apart.
“Three minutes…I Jus ain’t ready yet,” he pleaded barley above a whisper as my eyes filled with even more tears as I nodded in understanding.
Three minutes before I walk out that door and everything changes. Three minutes before we become strangers and all the good times we’ve shared becoming bittersweet memories.
“Three minutes,” I exhaled as we walked over to the couch together and sat down.” The couch that had witnessed many movie nights, lazy days, arguments, laughter, holidays, makin’ love, and most importantly our hopes and dreams for the future.
Jey wrapped both arms around me, holding me as tightly as he could. I turned into him; my feet draped across his lap and my head against his chest. Our quiet tears rendering us unable to speak as he gently kissed my forehead.
Jey’s POV
I couldn’t help thinkin’ about da many days and nights we spent on this couch. How it became our safe space during the best and worst of times.
I knew letting her go was the right thing to do but I couldn’t make my heart understand it.
Trying to be strong, I ignored the way my chest ached, and how my throat was burning. Everything inside me telling me it was a mistake, we could make it work, but I knew lovin’ somebody didn’t always meant stayin’.
Sometimes it was about stepping aside and hoping the person you loved found everything they deserved and if it was meant to be it would be.
Three minutes came and went, neither of us acknowledging the time…We just held each other, neither of us wanting to admit this probably would be the last time we would see each other.
How life unfortunately would go on after she walked out that door. “I love you,” I whispered unable to stop myself as Ebony lifted her head slightly to look at me. Her eyes, hauntingly beautiful, full of love and hope, but broken.
“I love you, too.”
I couldn’t help it; I had to kiss her one last time. “When we're older,” she whispered against my lips as I nodded, stealing a searing kiss.
“When we're older,” I sighed, holding her even tighter refusing to let go. I didn’t want this to end.. I didn’t want to imagine doin’ this shit without her by my side…But I had too.
-----------
Five Years Later
Las Vegas, Nevada
WrestleMania 41
Ebony’s POV
“Oh my god did that just happen?” Trin squealed as I hugged her again.
“Yes, ma’am it did, he won,” I smiled trying to calm myself down. Jey had just defeated Gunther to win the World Heavyweight Championship to open up the show.
“Send me those pictures, I’m going to post them later.”
“Excuse me Ms. London,” I heard someone ask softly before I could answer Trin.
As I turned, I was met by a an older woman and a little girl who looked to be about six years old.
“Hello,” I whispered back with a smile. “We’re sorry to bother you but do you think my daughter can get a picture with you,” she asked as I nodded. The little girl came closer, almost starstruck as I kneeled down to hug her.
“I love you, Ms. Angelica Schuyler.” she said innocently as I chuckled. So, she was a Hamilton fan. “Well, I love you too, sweetie. Do you want to take a picture,” I asked as she wrapped her arms around my neck tighter. “Yes ma’am.”
As we posed for a few pictures, Trin grabbed my phone and snapped a few pictures as well. “Thank you so much for coming over to see me. What’s your name?”
“It’s Abby,” she said shyly as I gave her another hug. “Well, thank you Abby, you made my day coming over to speak to me,” I told her as her little face lit up.
“Thank you so much for this I just couldn’t let the moment pass. We saw Hamilton on Disney plus and she’s been a fan ever since. We spotted you the moment you came in.”
“It’s no problem, it was nice to meet you both,” I assured her giving the little girl one more hug before they left.
“My sister done got famous as hell.”
“No, I haven’t, Trin I’m just me,” I said as she gave me back my phone.
“Whatever you say, I sent myself those pictures too. I got to go meet security; Jimmy just text me.
“Ok, well give me a hug then, I’mma gon’ head out.”
“What? You ain’t coming back with me?” Trin asked as I shook my head.
“Nah, I don’t want to make it awkward,” I said giving her a hug.
“Girl, that man misses you.”
“He is seeing someone Trin or whatever they doin’ together,” I whispered somewhat hurt thinking about him touching someone else. “How you know bout Asia?” She asked, pulling her hat down a little further trying to stay hidden.
“Let’s just say I have my own little birdies who keep me in the loop.”
“Roman, I bet,” she said as I laughed. “Why you assume it’s him?”
“’Cause ya’ll always been tight outside of you and Jimmy. If it ain’t him, maybe it’s Solo…He’s your third favorite,” she said and I pointed at her.
“Bingo, but it’s cool. He was just warning me if I saw anything, but I told him I was just coming to see his match and leave. I got an early show tomorrow.”
“Yea, but I hate you didn’t tell me you were here earlier. We could have hung out today. Though coming out here and finding you standing by our seats was an amazing surprise.”
“I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position hanging out with ya brother-in laws ex and cause problems.”
“Girl, you ain’t no ex…You family…Always. I just wish ya’ll would talk to each other.”
“Trin, we haven’t talked in five years,” I sighed standing up putting on my jacket. “We broke up and life went on.”
“And ya’ll both done accomplished what was the whole point of the break up to begin with. That’s all the more reason ya’ll need to have a conversation.”
“Eh, maybe one day but not today… I just wanted to come, support him and go on my way.”
“Well promise to keep in touch and keep me updated on this new project,” she said giving me one last hug.
“I will..Love you and give everybody my love.:
“Will do,” she whispered before heading back to meet back up with Jimmy.
I waited for Roman’s security team to come get me. I didn’t want to take a chance of running into Jey or anybody for that matter backstage.
Thankfully they came shortly after and whisked me away before anyone really saw me. I was still blown away by how much Roman and Jimmy cared about me being here on the biggest night of Jey’s career thus far.
How they made sure I got here, wasn’t bothered, and was able to slip out unnoticed should definitely be studied.
On the way back to the airport, I saw Trin had already made a post and tagged me. “Damn 3000 likes and it’s barely been posted 30 minutes ago,” I laughed.
Seeing Jey and Jimmy in the background celebrating just did something to my spirit. I responded to her post and told Jey congrats and got off. Cracking a small smile, I had an idea. I went to Jey’s Instagram page and sent him a quick personal message before putting my phone back in my purse with shaky hands.
-----
Jey's Locker Room
Jey’s POV
“I got something to show you, but I don’t want you to get mad,” Trin said as Jimmy shook his head. “He ain’t gon’ be mad just show him,” he said as she handed me her phone.
I looked at Trin’s phone in shock. “Wait, Ebony was here?”
“Yep, we got to catch up a little and cheered for you like crazy. She’s real proud of you,” Trin said not seeing the problem..I mean it wasn’t one, but damn why didn’t she come backstage to let me see her.
“So, ya’ll really watched my match together, then she left?”
“Yea, she had to get back to New York.”
“Why you didn’t text me before my match? I could have seen her.” I was becoming agitated because I could have seen her, talked to her, hell touched her.
“She didn’t want me to tell you she was here and I found out at the last minute that she was here. I literally walked to my seat and there she was cause somebody-”
“Don’t say somebody, I did it. I knew you both needed it and I was right. Plus, I knew she would want to see this twin do his thing. Roman got her here and I got the tickets,” Jimmy said as I sighed giving Trin back her phone.
“Thank you for doin’ dat, twin. You and big uce.. I just wish I coulda seen her.” Picking up my phone, I saw I had a lot of Instagram notifications of DMs. I almost ignored them, as I always did, till I saw a familiar name amid the others.
“EbonyBroadway sent you a message request,” I mumbled, rushing to read it as Trin squealed.
“Yes, finally some communication, damn! What she say?”
“It’s private, sis” I said without looking up. She really had reached out to me even though I didn’t get to see her.
“We gon’ let you get dressed,” Jimmy said as I nodded, still looking at her message in disbelief. “I told you congrats on Trin's post; I hope that was ok. I also know how you are about social media, so I decided to message you just to say congratulations again... And to tell you thank you.” I frowned.
Thank you?..... Why was she thanking me? Then, all of a sudden it hit me. The Broadway shows, the awards she had won, the life she had built. She was thanking me for letting her go.
I felt my eyes welling up because after everything... After all the pain. After all these years, she still didn't hate me. She understood. I sighed in relief, lowering my head. For five years I wondered if she'd ever forgive me. If she'd ever understood why and now, I had my answer.
I wanted to tell her I never stopped loving her. Beg her to come back to me, dat we old enough now. Tell her how I think about her everyday. Instead, I kept it simple and short. “Thank you, baby. Congrats on everything, I ‘m so prouda you, Ebs.”
I stared at the message wondering should I take the word baby out, but I hit send anyway releasing the breath I was holding when she loved what I had typed.
I waited a few minutes to see if she would respond but she didn’t. I took a chance and followed her Instagram and she almost instantly followed me back.
“When we’re older, Ebs,” I mumbled, smiling to myself going to go shower.
----
Two Weeks Later
Memphis, TN
Jey’s Hotel Room
Jey’s POV
I rushed back from Raw to catch Shawn Stockman's show, On That Note. Trin had called me earlier to remind me that Ebony’s episode was airing tonight. After I got out of the shower, I set up my iPad and sat at the desk.
Damn, I had time zones confused, the damn interview had already started.
“So last night you won your first Tony Award for your role as Angelica Schuyler in the Broadway play Hamilton. A role you’ve been playin’ for the last five years. A role that you’ve won many awards for, but that Tony just seemed out of your grasp.
“Yes, I did; the streak is finally over.. I won the damn thing, Shawn,” she laughed. “Then my best friend Trin was there; she flew in from Florida to go with me to the Tonys; it was really special”.
“I know that must of felt awesome to have her there with you?”
“Yes, it really did and she’s extending her stay so we’re gonna have some girl time this week and celebrate.”
“I know your schedule is chaotic so that’s good you are going to get a break after this. Have you had a chance to watch it back?” Shawn asked as she shook her head.
“No, we performed after that, then I had I press and I had to come here this morning.”
“Well, let’s take a look.”
“And best actress in a musical goes to." A five-way screen that had live cameras on Ebony and the other actresses suddenly filled the screen. All smiling, but you could tell they were nervous.
“OMG! The streak is over! Ebony London for Hamilton!”
Instant tears pooled in her eyes as she hugged Trin, then the guy beside her. Then he helped her up and gave her a kiss on the cheek before grabbing the train of her dress.
“Who the fuck is that?” I growled like I didn’t have my own situationship going on with Asia. “This is Ebony's fourth nomination for her role as Angelica and her first win,” the show's announcer said as the crowd seemed to clap even louder; hell, even I was clappin'.
I watched as the unknown man helped her walk to the top of the stage, then went back to his seat to stand and clap with the audience, giving her a standing ovation. The whole damn room was standing.
As Ebony stood at the podium commanding the room with poise and grace, I never felt prouder than I did right now. I didn’t get to see it last night because we had a house show, and I couldn’t find any actual video clips last night, only pictures.
“Dat’s my girl.. You did it, Ma. Jus look at you.”
She nervously sighed, trying to hold her tears at bay. “Please sit down, you guys.” Humble was an understatement. “I’m really going to miss this,” she said as I frowned. Miss it? Where was she going?
“Five years ago, I almost skipped out on this role, but someone special saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself and selflessly pushed me to move here to New York and take it,” she said, choked up.
“Aw, mama.”
“I had virtually auditioned, got it, turned it down, then took it. I was so pissed off ya’ll, I came to New York kickin’ and screamin’,” she laughed as did the crowd. I chuckled shakin’ my head trying to hold back my tears.
“But because of that selfless action, I’m here today. I just want to take the time to just say, this isn’t just mine, this is ours,” she said holding up her award with a watery smile.
“Damn right it is!” I yelled, clappin’ again as if she could see me and how proud I was of her. “You did it, baby..You did it,” I whispered, overwhelmed.
“Thank you to my fans, and it’s on to the next chapter and I can’t wait to share it with you all..Thank you.” The music began to play as the crowd clapped and she walked off to the side of the stage with the presenter.
They came back live in the studio, Ebony was smiling at the monitor, then back at Shawn. “ I still can’t believe it. Thank you for that.”
“It was amazing and after hearing your speech, I just have to ask. Does this person know you gave them a shout out?”
“Uh, he probably knows by now, and I know he's going to see this interview because Trin can’t hold water,” she laughed as I heard Trin off-camera. “I haven’t told him nothin’, yet...Thank you very much.”
Shawn laughed as Ebony shrugged her shoulders. “She's going to tell him, but I'm seriously thankful for the journey, though it’s been hard. And we both have fulfilled those dreams we used to talk about lying on our old couch all those years ago.”
All those memories I happily drown in every day. Smiling I pulled out my phone, opened up my Instagram.
I knew I probably shouldn’t, but I wanted her to know how proud of her I was. I went through my camera roll looking for the perfect picture from last night of her that I had saved.
Finally, I decided on one of her posing with her Tony and posted it on my story.
She deserved her flowers and to know how proud I was of her. I had DM’d her last night, and she told me thanks, but I needed the world to know it, and I don’t give a fuck who didn’t like it.
Jonathonfatu replied to your story. “Dat’s what’s up Twin, let her know…love ya’ll.
Trinity_fatu replied to your story. “Aww brother…Love you and I can’t wait for her to see this. P.S. don’t trip bout ol boy... He’s one of her co-stars and a good friend.”
I never felt such relief in my life. Ok so she wasn’t wit anybody.
Asia_nxt replied to your story. “Uh, why is this bitch on your story and you don’t even post me.”
I shook my head ignoring her message. “Cause dat’s my woman and gon’ always be my woman.” I mumbled to myself.
Romanreigns replied to your story. “I know that win meant the world to her and you. It wasn’t in vain, cuz. I hope ya’ll find the time to finally see each other and talk. Tell her what you feelin’.”
Sighing, I put my phone down, I didn’t feel like responding to anybody. I knew Roman was right though. I needed to tell her how I felt and I had to straighten out my mess with Asia and my damn life in general.
I knew Jalia’s graduation was next week and I knew Ebony would be there, she had to be…I know she wouldn't miss it for the world.
“I’ll talk to her then,” I mumbled to myself finally dozing off.
----------
One Week Later
Pensacola, Fl
Ebony’s POV
I did not miss Florida traffic I tell you that. I was so happy when Jey and I moved to Atlanta. No, I wasn’t, I hated traffic period and Atlanta wasn’t any better.
“Damn, fancy neighborhood,” I whispered driving through the swank gated community.
“Yea, it is and where you at,” Trin’s voice boomed through the radio.
“I’m comin’, I swear,” I said as my GPS told me my destination was on the left.
“You must have got caught up in traffic, after we left the school. You know these Samoans be ready to party,” Trin chuckled as I saw Jalia coming out the side gate of the beautiful house as I pulled in.
“Hey auntie!” Jalia yelled waving as I waved back. “Hey baby girl. Trin, I just parked, see you in a minute,” I said hanging up before she could respond.
I grabbed Jalia’s graduation gift and got out to meet the excited teenager. “Thank you so much again for coming, Aunt Ebony,” Jalia smiled giving me a tight hug, almost knocking me against my rental.
"I told you I wouldn't miss it for the world, sweetie.”
"I'm glad you flew out," Jalia said, as I gave my gift to her and we began to walk towards the back yard.
“Me too baby, everything was beautiful today.” I had went to her graduation but hung back after hearing Jey’s girlfriend at the last minute decided to come. I watched from afar in the stands cheering Jalia on.
“I have I have to tell you something though, I don’t won’t you blindsided,” she said as we reached the gate.
I saw her nervously chewing her bottom lip and instantly knew it wasn’t good.. I took a breath trying to brace myself for whatever bomb she was about to drop. “Okay, what is it?”
“I wanted you to come so bad,” Jalia started, her voice getting lower as she reached out and grabbed my hand.
“I know that’s why I said I would come over, just tell me what's going on, Jalia.”
Jalia leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just want y'all to talk.”
“Jalia what have you done?” I asked my patience wearing thin as she looked away. “I know you would have said no if I told you where the party was,” she groaned, slightly beginning to pace.
I sighed already, having an idea whose house it was. “Jalia who house is this?” I asked as she dropped her head. “Uncle Jey’s,” she whispered as I felt my stomach drop.
I looked around thankful nobody had seen me but her so I could haul ass. “Jalia, does he even know that I was coming here?”
“Uncle Jey was happy when I told him you were coming.”
I swear I couldn’t breathe; this was too much. I looked at Jalia, hope radiating off her as I looked up at the sky silently asking God why. Taking a breath, I gave her a small smile.
“Jalia, he has a girlfriend. You can't just do stuff like this, baby. You can't just plan a meeting in the middle of your graduation party.”
“I just want y'all to talk,” Jalia whispered upset as I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a tight, protective hug.
“I know, baby,” I murmured, pulling back just enough to look Jalia in the eye. "But this was wrong. You can't just spring this on me. There are boundaries and people’s feelings.”
Jalia shook her head quickly. “Uncle Jey ain’t even happy with her... She's just... she's just there. She pressured him into it.”
“Baby, that is their business. It's not my place or yours to swoop in and disrupt whatever they got going on.”
“Don’t leave please, ya’ll need to talk..If ya’ll talk-”
“I’ll be at your dad’s when ya’ll get home; we can hang out then.” Just as I was about to head back to my car, the gate swung open, startling us.
“There two of my favorite girls! I was just asking Jimmy bout you, Ebony,” Jey’s dad all but yelled, voice just as loud as I remembered.
"Hi, Pop," I said, a genuine smile finally breaking out on my face before I could stop myself. “Hey, sweetie,” He smiled pulling me into a loving, comforting hug.
“I’ll be back,” Jalia whispered quickly disappearing as I frowned knowing she was up to something.
“I’m so happy to see you, sweetheart,” he murmured.
“Happy to see you, too.”
“I saw you during graduation too.. Tryin’ to hide from us.”
“It wasn’t that, I just didn’t want it to be awkward. Trin told me at the last minute Jey’s girlfriend had decided to come.”
“And she does mean the last minute, only told Jey this morning that she wanted to come,” he sighed shaking his head. “Dat boy gon’ wise up yet.”
“Babe, let her come in! You trying to hold her hostage out here or what?”
I chuckled recognizing Jey’s mom’s voice as she came towards us. I felt myself fighting tears as she opened her arms and I all but collapsed into her arms on autopilot.
“I know you weren’t tryin’ to leave without comin’ to say hey to me,” she asked as I looked over at Jalia who had shrugged her shoulders…Little snitch.
“I’m sorry.”
“Ion care who don’t like it, but don’t you ever come somewhere we are and not come say hi, young lady,” she scolded gently, the warmth in her eyes betraying her.
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled, ,wiping my tears. I truly missed her.
----------
Jey’s Office Jey’s POV
“So we peepin’ out the curtains to spy on our exes now?” Aisa asked as I sighed turning around to face her.
“I just heard talking and looked out to see who it was,” I said honestly because that was what had happened.
“This ain't gonna work, Jey. You gotta tell Jalia this is the last time that woman will be around. She's your ex for a reason.”
“I'm not going to tell my niece she can't see her Ebony. They close, Asia. You can't just erase a bond like that because of how you feel.”
Asia scoffed, her arms crossed over her chest. “Yea, the whole family loves her apparently. Look, this is dead between you and her, Jey. If you gon’ be with me, you end this today.”
I didn’t even flinch at the ultimatum, I moved from the window “It ain't dead, doh.” My mind da clearest it’s been in five years.
“What did you say?” Asia asked unsure if she heard me right.
“I said Ebony will never be dead to me, Asia. The love I have for her ain’t gon’ never leave me. She da one I set free praying one day she’d be mine again when da time was right.”
"So, you're choosing her?!” she yelled, slapping me. I took it head on without flinching because I knew I deserved it in some way shape or form.
“I’m not choosing her over you, and I’m not choosing you over her. I’m choosing me cause I need to get my shit together before I try to be in a relationship wit anybody.”
I watched the anger leave her body. “You’re doing this for her because you never wanted a relationship, and I pushed you?”
“I'm doing it for me, Asia,” I said softly, glancing toward the window. “And for Ebony. The truth is, she deserves the best version of me, and you deserve someone who wants to be in a relationship wit you.”
Asia looked away, the reality of everything sinking in. “The stories everyone was whispering about were true. You really didn't want to break up with her, did you?”
“No, I didn't.”
“So why did you?”
“I couldn't stand the thought of holding her back. Ebony would have followed me through fire, but then I saw the opportunities she was passing up, the doors she was closing just to stay by my side-”
“You let her go,” Asia finished as I nodded trying to calm myself. Talking about it, was stirring up emotions I knew never left.
“I’m sorry, Asia-”
“Just stop, I get it, Jey. You love her, that’s why I could never really reach you,” she said defeatedly.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I really am sorry, Asia.
“I’m sorry too,” she whispered, burying her face against my chest as I held her close.
“You don’t-”
“No, I kept pushing you, Jey. I kept trying to force a connection that just wasn’t there and I see it now just listening to you talk about her.”
She pulled back, looked me square in the eyes with a sense of clarity and I felt a little better. “I really hope you two figure it out,” she whispered with a final lingering look before she left me alone in my office in deep thought.
The weight of the last few minutes, hell the last five years seemed to leave my body. I had chosen me. Chosen to give myself the space to process my shit.
My chest feeling lighter as I left went to join my family The sounds of laughter outside filled my heart and I couldn’t wait to join my family. As I rounded the corner, I saw Ebony and my mom talking at the kitchen island.
“We have missed having you around here, baby,” my mother said patting Ebony’s hand as she smiled. “I missed being around, Ma. But I just don’t want to step on any toes. I don’t want to be the reason for any friction.”
My mother scoffed at her. “I understand that and I won’t stop you from leaving but I just needed a moment to see you and to tell you how proud we are of you.”
“I never saw this happening for me, but Jey did…He always did,” Ebony sighed as I felt my throat tighten listening to two of the most important women in my life talk to each other like no time had passed.
“We all saw it in you, and I know you wanna leave but I want you to promise me something before you go.”
“Ok shoot,” Ebony said as my mother smiled brightly at her.
“Whenever you come down to Florida visiting everyone, come by and see an old lady, ok.”
Ebony’s POV
It felt good to talk to Jey’s mom again. I had really missed her and how close we were. “You’ll be one of the first people I call.”
"What about me, Ebs. You gon’ come see me, too.” I stilled… That damn voice..That voice I hadn’t heard in person in six years still sounded just as intoxicating and still made my heart race.
“Hey Jey,” I whispered not looking at him as his mom shot me a small smile.
“Son, I see Asia left,” his mother said trying to change the subject as I dropped my head, trying to avoid his gaze.
I knew me being here was probably the reason she stormed outta here.
“Yea, I ended things, Ma.” Jey said coming closer. His admission hung in the air, my shoulders slumping even more.…Yep..I caused this…
“Aye, don't do that, Ebs,” Jey said softly, gently lifting my chin. Our eyes meeting for the first time in six years and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t staring into my soul…Damn him.
“What happened was on me..Not you, Ma. Ain’t no reason to eva hang yo head.” I cleared my throat, looking away just in time to catch the satisfied smiled playing on his mother’s lips. “Alright, I’m gonna head back out to give ya’ll some time..It’s overdue… Don’t you think, son?” she asked as I caught Jey smiling at her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I love you both.”
“We love you, too,” we both said without even thinking, both of us smiling in spite of the awkwardness.
As the back door closed behind her, the kitchen felt smaller. Jey didn’t say anything at first, he just stared at me, then cleared his throat. “Can we go somewhere and talk?” I hesitated for a second at his request as he took my hand in his.
“It’s just me, Ebs. You know I’d never hurt you, Ma.”
“I know,” I sighed, allowing him to lead the way. He opened the door to what looked to be his den, allowing me in first before closing the door behind us.
For a few minutes neither of us spoke. I looked around the room, trying to think of a conversation starter. “Um. So, you ended things?” I asked turning to look at him, but his back was turned standing at the bar.
“Yea…I ended it,” he said, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself as I watched him light up a cigar.. …What the hell? Since when does he smoke?
Turn around
Since when are you smoking now?
I frowned, “Since when do you smoke, Jey?” I asked before I could stop myself.
It's been a while, let me know
Jey exhaled a slow cloud, his back still turned to me. “Just somethin' I picked up. Ion do it much doh,” he said, turning to finally face me.
“I hope you don’t, it’s bad for you,” I frowned again as he sighed.
“Still worry about me, huh,” he said putting out the cigar as I smirked. “Still knowing when to back down I see,” I whispered shyly as he nodded.
“You know I could never say no to you cause I know you always had my best interests at heart. One look from you and I was willing to do anything for you..Still is.”
Like, when did you end up moving house?
“Um, so when did you move back to Florida?” I asked, taking in the calm colors and family pictures everywhere. Yep..I changed the subject.
“Bout four years ago….I just... I needed a change of scenery. Every corner of that house felt like a reminder of the things I’d given up.”
I nodded in understanding, my eyes landing on a royal blue, modest sectional. I couldn’t shake it….It looked familiar... The color was wrong, so it couldn’t be.
“Ya mind ain’t playin’ tricks on you. I found a cool company that was able to refurbish it and change the color,” Jey murmured reading my mind.
“Why did you keep it?”
“A lot of great memories on dis couch I ain’ wanna part wit, Ebs,” he whispered our eyes meeting once again as a I felt my skin flush and my heart race.
You're the only one who knows that name
“You know that you’re the only one who has ever called me, Ebs.” The confession spilled from my lips before I could stop it; the walls began to slowly fall.
Jey’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, his expression softening. “Good,” he whispered back, his beautiful, soulful eyes staring into my soul as if I was the most precious thing in this world. “I wanna be the only one callin’ you dat.”
You're the only one does that face
“Then you lookin' at me like that. Jey, this is dangerous,” I sighed, unable to pretend anymore that it wasn’t affecting me.
Jey paused, his chest heaving as he took a step closer. “Lookin' at you like what?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“L-Like I’m the only person you see,” I said nervously as he nodded.
“Well ion see da problem cause you are Ebony…. I love you, been in love wit you, Ma.” He couldn't, not after all this time. Think of a way to steer the conversation in another direction, Ebony.
“I-I been seeing the stuff that’s been goin’ on with the internet trolls, how are you holding up? And don’t say it don’t bother you cause this is me,” I said as a long weary sigh escaped his beautiful lips as he sat down on the couch.
I just wanna know if you're okay
“Nice subject change…Why you care so much, Ebs ion won the title now? I proved them wrong,” he said leaning back staring up at the ceiling deflecting himself.
Only have a couple minutes, it already kinda feels like
Back on your sofa
I didn't move toward him, instead I sat at the opposite end of the sofa. “I'll always care about you, Jey. No matter how things ended between us and I know all the noise gets loud sometimes.”
Of course, I still care
“I’ll always care about you too, and I’m good. Especially since I done seen you now,” his gaze shifting from the ceiling to me filled with love and longing.
Love's never wasted
When it's shared, mm, mm
And although it's over
I'll always be there
“I’m proud of you, Ebony.”
I felt my heart swell at his words as I smiled at him. “I’m really proud of you too,” I whispered.
Jey leaned in slightly” So, tell me what the next move is. I know you leaving the play, I heard you talking bout it on Shawn’s show.”
“Well, I just got the official news last week. I’m going to be filming a movie with Ryan Coogler, but enough about me. Let’s talk about the real news. How long are you going to keep the title? It looks good on you, and I'm loving the storylines they got you in.”
Jey laughed, shaking his head at me. “I think they leanin’ towards me keepin it for a minute..I hope, but if they don't, I feel blessed that it happened," he smiled, then frowned.
"Ebony, wait a minute, hold up-”
“What?”
“You know what and you know I ain’t bout to let day shit fly. You out here bout to work with Ryan Coogler and you tryin’ to downplay yourself.”
“I’m not, I don’t even know when we start filming.”
“But you got the part and that's awesome, Ebs. I always knew,” Jey said reaching over caressing my knee as I blushed.
"We did pretty good for ourselves, didn't we?" I asked softly as he nodded slowly, his eyes softening. “We really did, Ma.
A comfortable silence settled over us, the distance between us becoming smaller and smaller as Jey leaned in closer, his eyes never leaving mine as he whispered the two words I never thought I would hear again. Two words that never failed to make my heart race.
“Three minutes.”
Tears pooled in my eyes as I gave him a watery smile. “Three minutes,” I whispered back as he released the breath he had been holding.
Reaching out her pulled me against him and instantly I melted into his side. A sigh of relief escaping my own lips, my forehead resting against his chest and my legs in his lap.
The missing piece of the puzzle had slid back into place. Silence filled the living room as he held me close. As we breathed in each other.
It's alright, think I'm fine with the silence
There's some good in goodbyes
I knew he was fighting back tears just by his breathing, “I love you Ebony…I never stopped lovin’ you,” his voice raw and full of emotion as I held him tighter.
“I love you too, Jey and I never stopped either.” I felt him release a shaky breath, the tension leaving his body slowly at the revelation.
Oh, I
Back on your sofa
Of course, I still care
Love's never wasted
When it's shared, mm, mm
“I gotta get my shit together,” he rasped trying to pull away, but I melted further into him, refusing to let him go.
“You’re not the only one,” I whispered against him. I wasn’t about to pretend I was whole; I was surviving. We both had shit we needed to figure out before we even tried to get back together but the love we shared was still there and stronger than ever.
In your heart
Every part of me
We'll let go
And let it start to be
“When we're a year older,” Jey murmured, strong, determined and hopeful.
“When we’re a year older.” I agreed, the heartbreak from all those years ago began to soften as our lips met in a gentle kiss.
In your heart
Every part of me
We'll let go
And let it start to be
“Twin! Food ready!” Jimmy’s voice boomed through the door. “Ma, told me to come get ya’ll.”
“Fuck,” Jey growled in frustration and I buried my face in his neck smiling. “Be nice,” I whispered as he relaxed against me.
“A’ight we comin’!”
“Time to go back to real life, huh,” I whispered as he nodded in agreement even though neither one of us didn’t want to move.
“Yep, back to real life,” he sighed, helping me up.
“When we’re a year older.” I reminded him as he slung his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close and kissing me gently on the temple.
Only have a couple minutes, guess we're going back to real life
“When we’re a year older.”
(Oh, oh, eh, eh, eh)
Only have a couple minutes and we're going back to real life
----
One Year Later
TMZ.com
Spinning The Block Never Looked So Good!
Broadway actress/singer Ebony London was seen out and about last night with WWE superstar Jey Uso in New York. The pair once dated some six years ago and have apparently found their way back to each other.
Spinning the block never looked so good, and we wish them all the best. Below are Ebony and Jey's Instagram stories seemingly confirming their reunion.
Taglist
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how will i know
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst. thorough themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics and pregnancy. brief reference to domestic violence. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand, eight hundred, and some change (5k+) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝how will i know❞ by sam smith 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 this was originally a 2k outtake that didn't fit the timeline for the first part. thus, it was scrapped. decided to post it, but i needed to "finish" it off, and it somehow ended up almost 6k....hate it here.
⠀ ꨄ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 + 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ꨄ
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™⠀
November 3rd, 2024
“Should you be drinking that?”
“You want some?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine, either.”
For the first time since you two boarded his private jet, Roman flits his gaze from the ceiling over to you. His eye contact has been everywhere and elsewhere for the past almost hour, but this time, he’s not looking at the obsidian bottle you're holding. Fingers spread and splayed over the cream wrapping. What it is, you haven’t a clue. You’d just asked for something “good,” and the nice flight attendant with a pointed nose and freckles spackled over her T-zone honored your request.
The shit is very good.
Or maybe you’re just that bored.
You can fully understand why Roman asked you almost three times if you were sure you wanted to attend this PLE with him. International travel wasn't unfamiliar. You’d traveled overseas—Jamaica—the summer before your senior year of high school, and while it wasn’t a super long flight, it was the longest one you’d been on. Not the easiest, but not the worst, either. Stupidly, you’d put two completely different examples juxtaposed and were now paying the price.
Not even an hour in, and you’re already over it.
Doesn’t help that it was such a short turnaround time, either. Granted, the initial plan was to stay an additional day or two. Do some exploring. Despite politics you find egregious, sexist, and misogynistic, Saudi Arabia, geographically speaking, is a beautiful ass country.
It’s also a country Roman was eager to get the fuck out of following the disaster that was Crown Jewel.
Hence the sour ass mood he’s been in since he walked into gorilla, his cousin, Jimmy, flanked on his side attempting to butter him up with toxic positivity that only earned him a glare and silence that extended all the way to their ride back to the hotel.
Even now.
A part of you wishes that you knew what to say to help him feel better, but on top of still not being completely clear on the full backstory of how his family ended up so fractured and divided, you’re just….not good with that shit anyway.
Blind leading the blind.
The almost squeaking sound from across drags your eyes from your lap to the man now leaning over and reaching for the bottle. You chuckle and oblige, handing it to him, studying the way he reclines, head tilted back, liquid swimming down his throat. The slight scowl from the aftertaste and brief shake of his head followed by him falling back into that funk.
It’s gotta be the therapy you’ve been surprisingly consistent with the past month paying off that gives you a ridiculous, sudden boost of confidence. A fleeting desire to at least try to lift his spirits.
“There’s always next time.”
He waits until he’s downed his second swish, glare set on you, the same tone he’d used with his cousin. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I think we both know there’s nothing that could make you feel better right about now.” You roll your eyes, pulling your legs up to your chest. The sleeve of your shirt—his shirt—hanging off your shoulders, exposing your hot pink bra strap. “You lost that chance when you took that pin.”
Regret immediately fills you at your unfiltered, unintended shot at a man who was already down. Has, in many ways, been down since the night you both met and married him. Some of that down, no doubt, a result of your own actions.
Though the same could be said for the other way around.
He snorts, placing the bottle down on the tray beside the cream, leather seat. “Surprised you got the terminology right.”
Him not snapping and slinging that mud right back at you is…surprising but appreciated. Maybe those therapy sessions as part of your overall treatment have been helpful for him, too. Or maybe not because if that were the case, his other cousin, Jey, wouldn’t still hold such a level of animosity towards him. So much so that it ultimately played a large role in the disaster that was this match.
But also….if anyone knows that some bridges are burned beyond the point of repair, it’s you.
You know it all too well.
It’s what shifts the tide. Makes something turn in your stomach as you mush your lips, doing your best to string words together in a way that’s helpful vs harmful.
Lord knows you’d played your role of villain far too well over the past few months.
“You’ll figure all this out.” Roman once again looks over at you. That same guarded, irritated expression unchanging. “The fact that he agreed to even team with you and Jimmy has to mean something, right? He could have just told you to fuck off.”
Roman's reply is almost instantaneous. “He did.”
Despite the indirect rejection of what’s probably a poor attempt at comforting, it doesn’t deter you. Confuses you initially, sure. But then you realize he’s referring to Jey’s conduct throughout the match. The lack of cooperation. “Maybe.” You shift in your seat, shrugging your shoulders. “But he still showed up. Still tried. In his own way….and so did you.”
That’s when you see it. The subtle softening of his harsh, sharp features. The flick of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. It encourages you in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Trust me. If anyone knows about this whole fucking everything up and then trying to fix it shit, it’s me.”
Another quick reply, this one with a less austere tone. “Line starts behind me.”
And for the first time in a while, you smile. Not forced for the camera, a post or video to upload, perpetuating and maintaining a fraud that felt like it’d become your norm. A genuine, fucking smile.
“Well, make room for me next to you or something.”
And for the first time all night, he smiles.
You bite down on your bottom lip, lowering your legs to the ground. Eye contact locked as you close the distance between the two of you, assisted by the way he reaches and tugs you onto his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck as his do around your waist, big hands dropping to palm your ass through your thick, gray sweats.
“It’ll all work out,” you repeat, voice softer. “It sucks right now, but….” The swipe of his tongue over that soft, thick bottom lip is all the encouragement that you need with the thought that crossed your mind the minute he pulled you close to him. “Then again….”
Th lines around his eyes make an appearance, deepening and creasing as you climb off his lap. Dragging your palms down his chest, you drop to your knees. A flash of something in his iris when your fingers toy with and snap the band of his own sweats before smoothing over his thighs, gentle force making them part just enough for you to shuffle between them. “Not everything that sucks is bad.”
May, 2026
Your lips pressed together as you hum quietly to Mari's latest single clashes with the dark flooring as you make your way into the kitchen. But it's a sound that ceases when you’re met with the surprising sight of your husband’s broad back as he stands near the island.
“Hey, babe.” You kiss him on the cheek, sauntering past and depositing your Gucci bag onto the counter. “I thought you’d still be at the gym.” Because Lord knows this man’s gym sessions are already long as hell, but ever since he won the WHC, they’ve been even more ridiculous. Twice, sometimes up to three times a day. His morning and evening ones are typically done at home, but the afternoon one he gets in at Paragon. The elite, private gym he’s a member of that has a ridiculous monthly membership fee and perks that seem like something out of a movie.
It still blows your mind sometimes just how wealthy he is. You weren’t exactly living in poverty before meeting him, having been one of the luckier ones who makes a decent amount of money off your various platforms. But your manic episodes often included reckless spending, so much so that it’d greatly depleted what was, at one time, a hefty savings account. You’ve built it back up, and then some, since being with Roman. But if not for him….
You shake your head, willing the thoughts away.
It’s best you not go there.
“Finished a lil’ early.”
In the midst of opening up the refrigerator to pull out the cranberry juice, it’s his tone that immediately ceases your actions.
Something…something is off.
Bumping the door closed with your hip, bottle in hand, you turn your attention back towards him only to instantly still, ajar mouth frozen in place.
He’s still standing near the island, black, sleeveless Nike fitted shirt clinging to his chest, and while your eyes start to travel the length of his sculpted arms, something else takes precedent.
The bag.
And not even the large TJ Maxx bag on the counter in as much as it is the contents that you immediately make out via the brief, exposed portion of a striped, pink and white onesie sleeve.
Fuck
But if there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s saving face.
Your hand tightens around the bottle, condensation dripping and melting between your fingers. “Oh.” You clear your throat, opening the closest cabinet to pull out a glass. “That.” You shake your head, back towards him while you fill the cup to the halfway mark. “Yeah, I was clearly in an episode. Hence why it was in the donation pile.”
“Y/N—”
“What? You going through my stuff now?” The teasing tone of your voice is intentional, a smirk on your face as you turn around and take a sip. Licking the rim with a wink. “Making sure I’m not getting rid of any of your memorabilia, old man?”
One look at his unchanged expression, however, tells you everything you need to know. You can’t charm your way out of this one.
A heavy sigh precedes the way you shake your head and place the cup back down on the counter. “Come on, Rome. It’s not a big deal.” Walking over, something tightens in your chest when you reach for the bag, hand hovering over the exposed item. It takes a second for you to push through it. Your eyes lift to his as you shove the onesie back with the rest of the pieces. “Seriously. It’s—”
“Y/N.” His deep voice cuts through your poor attempts at damage control once more. His eyes focused on you, peeling back every protective layer you’d attempted to frantically and desperately create. “This wasn’t just from one episode.” He gestures with a head nod, reaching to open what you wish nothing more to shove and throw away. God, something told you to load up your car before you left for your nail appointment. His hand messes around with the countless number of brand new, tag still on em’ baby clothes before he looks at you. “You’ve been buying this stuff, haven’t you?”
Lying has never done you any good, and you’ve worked so hard to be honest with him. But you also are in no mood to have this conversation.
“It’s not—“
The hand not gripping a 3 to 6 month white shirt with a rainbow on the front grabs the back of the bar stool. He drags it across the floor and motions with his eyes. A part of you wants to protest, find a reason to leave, to deflect. But you also know your husband. Know that look.
It’s why you decide to not drag this out any longer than need be.
You sit down.
Smoothing your hands over your exposed thighs, the desire to tuck and play with the hem of your skirt is a hell of a lot more interesting and desirable than focusing on the way he pulls out the chair opposite of you. Places it so that he’s sitting directly across from you. Your attention only subtly shifting to him when he leans over just enough so his elbows are on his knees, hands clasped together. As much as you really don’t want to have this conversation right now—or ever—something about the way he won’t look at you, stares at the ground, is unsettling.
Especially since you know he’s not upset.
Roman’s anger is never quiet. It’s loud and always makes itself known. Any emotion similar or adjacent to that short, red creature is always visible and never hidden. Even in the early stages of development.
This is none of that.
Truth be told, you don’t know what this is.
You just know that you don’t like it.
Shifting in your seat, raking your nails over your thighs, you muster up the courage to break the silence. “Roman—”
“I want to have a child with you, Y/N.”
Acrylic tips wedged into your soft skin, toes curled against the bottoms of your YSL flip-flops, any non-verbal actions that you were in the midst of are immediately paused. Thinking, feeling, existing, and everything else in between also immediately halted to a sudden, abrupt pause in production.
Did he….
No…
He couldn’t have.
But reality is suddenly turned upside down when he lifts his head, looks you dead in the eye, and doubles down on what you’d thought was imagined. “I want us to have a child together.”
All you can do is blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. Stare and wait for the other shoe to drop. For him to cut the bullshit on this cruel joke.
He doesn’t.
Not even close.
He licks his lips, gaze collapsing once more. His jaw shifting before his words come out slower, quieter even. “You were right when you said I go back and forth. I do.” He shakes his head, rolling his neck. “But it’s not because I don’t know what I want. I do.”
“Roman…”
“I just….” He swallows. “I can handle when you’re manic. It’s not easy. Hell no, but….I’ve learned now what to do. What you need.”
And you don’t disagree in the slightest. Like many other individuals living with Bipolar 1, when you’re in the midst of a manic episode, one of your symptoms includes a heightened sex drive. And for a man who possesses just that without a mental health diagnosis in his medical chart, that worked just fine for him. Everything else—the lack of sleep, impulsive spending, risky behavior—he’d created parameters to protect you. Ensuring to essentially stay with you at all times, taking and hiding your wallet and car keys. Even your phone during earlier, more extreme episodes.
Essentially holding you hostage from the dangers that are you when you’re not in the right frame of mind. At the beginning, at the time, you hated it. Hated him. Told—screamed—at him just that.
Now….now, you’ve never been more grateful.
“What I can’t handle….” Your eyes hone in on the way his voice falters and something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. “—is the other one.” He looks at you once more, displaying it all without any reservation. “When you’re depressed.”
Your lips press together, hands shifting to the side of the stool. Cool metal under your palm, closing and tightening.
Despite only knowing him for a few years, you’ve probably talked to and with Roman more than anyone else in your life. And not once has he ever expressed anything like this. Despite there being a what and what with your manic and depressive episodes, because the consequences of the former have always been more….drastic, the latter hasn’t really been a thing touched on.
Not like this.
“You completely shut down,” he continues, licking his lips, voice even but strained. “Shut out everything and everyone, including me, and I don’t know how to get through to you when you get like that.” It’s not until then you realize that the reason the sight of him before you is suddenly blurred is because of the tears forming and brewing in your eyes. Even with the distorted image, there’s no mistaking the frown on his face. “I don’t know how to help you, and it freaks the fuck out of me.”
For whatever reason, it’s not until then that it hits you. Perhaps for the first time since he started speaking, you see it. Hear it, even. The uncertainty. The anxiety, almost. It’s….disarming, in some ways. Roman has always been the definition of confidence. Arrogance, really. Even the night you met when he looked like he’d just been kicked while already down, and he had in many ways. But he still held this….regality about him. It was always so attractive. Admirable. Seeing someone who was always so…..so sure of himself.
Thus, him sitting in front of you and openly speaking in such a vulnerable way….it’s the last fucking thing you expected him to say.
But he’s not wrong.
As chaotic and erratic your manic episodes are/were, you’d always said that you’d take those over your depressive episodes any day. While manic, you feel any and all the things. While depressed, you feel nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
Anhedonia, as you’d learned through therapy. The inability to feel pleasure or joy. Or anything.
You’d lay in bed, sometimes days at a time. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Completely and totally quiet. If you weren’t crying, you were sleeping. And if you weren’t doing that, you were offering nothing more than a soft shake of the head and small shrug to any and all of Roman’s questions.
And there were always plenty.
He bent over backwards, offered anything and everything he could, but nothing pierced the dense veil of depression.
The worst of which resulted in a 5150.
“The fact that you can get so low, and I can’t pull you from it scares the fuck out of me.” The bombs continue to drop, as does the feeling in her stomach. He pauses again, swallowing deeply. “How am I supposed to help you if you have an episode while pregnant? And if I can’t help you, how am I supposed to help our kid if he or she needs it?”
The corner of your lips twitch, tears briefly piling before spilling past your jaw. “Roman, I—”
“And you know me. You know that I don’t like talking about this shit. Admitting shit like this.” It’s true. He doesn’t, and now knowing what you know, you can understand why his mood would always fluctuate so quickly around the subject. Like most things, it was easier for him to lash out, say mean shit, than it was to be honest.
You can sort of relate.
Can understand.
“But seeing the baby clothes today,” he continues, standing up and moving towards you. It’s only then that you sniffle, quickly wiping at your eyes that are soon fixed on him when he cups your face. His frown has deepened, his voice whispered. “The fact that you’ve been buying them…” He thumb swipes away another roll of fresh tears. “That you were trying to get rid of them—”
You shake your head, refusing to allow him to take on anymore guilt that he already holds. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have purchased them in the first place.”
It was such an unintentional thing. Started out so small. Out at the store, casually walking through the aisles. You’d always felt something stir within whenever you had to walk past the kids section. Especially when passing racks of adorable baby clothes. Would sometimes allow yourself to look, to peruse, but the goal was never to purchase.
You weren’t being completely dishonest with him. Some of the many, various items of baby clothing were, in fact, being purchased in the midst of a manic episode. Where you truly believed that it was a necessary purchase given it being only a matter of time before you conceived. Had already envisioned and imagined how adorable your baby boy or girl would look in the three piece outfit.
But other times…..perhaps most of the time, you weren’t manic, and you certainly weren’t depressed. You were in that sweet, safe spot in between. And somehow, that seemed to hurt the most. Holding the items, sometimes with tears in your eyes because while they ended up being scanned and bagged as part of your overall purpose, each quiet drive home was driven with a single thought.
It’s never going to happen.
By the time you’d get home, you’d have changed your mind. Reflected and thought on comments and conversations where Roman referenced your future children. It’s what led you to keep them. To keep buying them. On the hopes of a what if. But gathering clothes to donate to local shelters in conjunction with the most recent, hardest conversation regarding children had finally carried you to the realization and acceptance that seemed like the most likely to occur.
And it wasn’t a pregnancy.
Thus, you ignoring your tears and the throbbing in your chest as you bagged up all of the items you’d purchased and ordered, forcing yourself to stop believing and waiting on a dream that was never intended to be anything more than that in the first place.
A dream.
“But you did,” he counters, softly. “And that means something, Y/N.”
Again, all you can do is look at him, stare and continue to be stunned and floored by words you never could have anticipated hearing today. If ever.
But if your husband, one of the most emotionally stunted men you’ve ever met, is capable of pushing past discomforts and knocking down walls, then you can, at the very least, do and offer the same.
You look down, covering your hands over his, gently dragging them down so you’re holding them in your lap. Brushing your own thumbs over his coarse knuckles. One of your fleeting thoughts being that he must have hit the bag today only for you to realize that of course he did.
It’s always been one of his favorite stress relievers.
“Do you….do you remember the big fight we had?” For the first time since you entered the home, humor briefly entangles with intensity. Specificity for a thing that was the norm for far too long is most definitely a requirement. “The first one regarding pregnancy.” Where you said no. “You—you said something to me that night. Something that….” Your tongue darts over your dry lips, voice hoarse, his eyes focused intently on you. “At the time, I hated you for.”
One could argue this sentiment has been felt several times over in the span of two years, mostly in the early, turbulent stages. But none more than that night.
“Fine, if you don’t wanna fucking say it, then I will,” he’d snapped. Anger and frustration painting his face and the tips of his ears red. The room around you two in disarray. Shattered glass littered across and meshed within the Persian rug. Both from the lamp you’d thrown and the one he’d shattered with a single swipe of his arm. A chair flipped over in the corner, and the TV still running in the background. The only sense of normalcy in that moment. “You know why you wanna have a kid so fucking bad?” He’d stepped closer, your fingers tightening around the neck of the half drunk bottle of wine in hand. Seconds away from joining the other broken, irreparable things. Much how you felt about your marriage in that moment. “It’s not cause you actually want to be a mother.” In that moment, you knew. Just knew what he was about to say. And even that level of preparation in the face of his stoic expression and sneer didn’t spare you the cascade of emotions. “It’s cause you just wanna prove to yourself that you’re not her. That you’re not your own mother.”
Your eyes shut, the memory reigniting another set of emotions, an evident revisiting given the way he attempts to pull his hands from you. To comfort you, you’re sure.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“You were right,” you whisper, allowing yourself to voice for the first time a realization you’d had in therapy a few months prior. “I hated you because….because you were right.” His subtle movements and efforts to comfort you are temporarily halted in the midst of a truth you know he didn’t expect to hear.
“Y/N….”
“My biggest—” Shutting your eyes once more, you’re taken back to a different time and place. The soft cushion behind your head and under your body. Hands clasped over your stomach, eyes still shut, the soft, soothing voice of your therapist walking you through a mindfulness exercise grounding you in a moment you’ve never needed it more. Keeping you on two steady, metaphorical, and literal feet. “My biggest fear in life was—is—ending up like her.”
“That’s why....” Another thick swallow, emotion stirring for another heavier round. The swipe of your tongue over your bottom lip met with a salty taste on the tip of your tongue. Tears. “That’s why I pushed back on getting help for so long. I felt like—like that made it real. That it made me her.”
If someone told you a couple years ago you’d ever be confessing this aloud to your husband who’s 16 years your senior and someone you met and married in under twenty four hours, well, you’d perhaps not not believe them. But it’d 100% be the actions that were contained within a manic episode. However, you’ve never been more sane and regulated than in this moment. A weight unloaded in the most unexpected of ways.
“But I know now that just because we shared the same diagnosis doesn’t mean we’re the same person. She made her decision. She chose not to live anymore.” A beat. “And I chose to finally start living.”
He takes a small breath as you manage a small smile that’s dimmed seconds later by the reminder of additional truth that you’d prefer to keep to yourself. It’s not an option though. It’s not an option because it serves no purpose other than to self-sabotage. There has never been a better moment than now to acknowledge even the most uncomfortable, heartbreaking of truths.
“I, uhh, I went to the doctor before we left for Italy. Just…” Once more, the burden of truth causes you to stammer, but you manage to power through. Slightly aided by the way you intermittently allow your gaze to focus on your still conjoined hands. A metaphorical representation of union and togetherness that’s saved you in so many ways. “Just wanted to know where I stand, fertility wise, if we were….”
Breathe
Roman says something, or starts to, and while you hate to interrupt him once more, you know yourself well enough to recognize that if you don’t get this out now, there’s a good chance you’ll find a way to keep it to yourself.
As you’ve done since you found out.
“My….ovarian reserve is significantly lower than it should be for someone my age. Like….a lot.” A forced, inauthentic chuckle accompanied by another wave of tears that stream down your reddened cheeks. “Like….’the chances of me conceiving naturally and without medical assistance is slim to none’ a lot.”
And while your doctor, the sweetest woman with a gentle disposition, warm and maternal, approached the conversation with a cherished delicacy, it wasn’t difficult for you to read between the lines. To decipher what she didn’t want to say for fear of crushing what she knows to be your dreams of motherhood.
That IVF is your best bet if you ever wish to have and carry a child.
And even that’s not guaranteed.
Revisiting the conversation takes a heavier toll on you than expected. It’s when you lift your hand to wipe away at the tears that seem to be coming with increased frequency and flow is when Roman takes advantage. Moves his hands to your waist, attempting to pull you into him. Sympathy, empathy, and everything else floating between the two of you.
“Y/N—”
“I think it’s just a sign, ya know.” Shaking your head, eyes naturally closing, it’s hard to tell who you’re trying to convince. Him or yourself. God knows it’s nothing you haven’t repeated a dozen times over. Sometimes it feels as though it’s working. Other times, it feels like nothing more than pouring waning hope into a bottomless cup with a hole so far deep that you don’t even realize your efforts are nothing more than a waste of time and energy.
“Y/N—”
“Motherhood clearly isn’t in the cards—”
“Y/N.”
Roman already has a commanding voice. Deep and smooth. It’s almost impossible to not be lulled in. But the way he says your name, needing and demanding your attention, easily snaps your eyes open onto his. Your lips part softly when he lifts one hand to the back of your neck. Leans in closer to where his cologne mingles with your perfume. Just another form of connection.
“Do you want this?”
For a moment, you’re taken back. Same place. Same people. Different environment. Destruction, broken, ruined items surrounding the shattered mess that was the both of you. Defeat never so prominent. He’d asked you the very same thing, just with a completely different meaning, exhaustion painted over his handsome face. The faint bruise under his eye similar to the one he had when you met, but that one was received via valiant efforts to retain. This one….this one was the one you’ll never be able to truly forgive yourself for.
“Roman—“
“Do you want this, Y/N?” He repeats himself, the hand on your waist squeezing and pulling just enough to where you stand up. Your hands naturally rest on his stomach, hardened and sturdy under your shaking, sweating palms.
There’s an initial attempt to protest that dies out in the face of acknowledgment.
Do you want this?
It’s the same question you asked yourself on the drive home from the appointment. Especially as you laid in bed that evening, scrolling and researching for hours on end about what options might exist. The top of most lists being IVF, and with that, as many horror stories as there were successes.
Countless attempts before successful implantation.
Countless attempts that never bore any results.
Women who’d tried every treatment option known to medical science only to have nothing to show for it except empty pockets and a broken heart.
You know that first one would never be the case. Not with the tax bracket Roman is in. But that second one….
It’s dangerous. In a variety of ways. What would it do to you mentally? To try, get your hopes up, only for nothing to come of all your efforts? Just imagining the scenario is heartbreaking enough. But for it to be your reality…
And then there’s the other side of it. The one where, at the end of it all, you have a beautiful, healthy baby boy or girl. It makes your chest fill and bloom with warmth and joy.
All things you’d expressed and discussed in your most recent therapy session, an extra that you’d, wisely, requested after finding out the news.
News that, now you think of it, also largely contributed to your ultimately deciding to discard of the baby clothes.
It was….too painful of a reminder.
However, the situation feels almost entirely reversed as you stand before your husband who’s finally and truthfully expressed his stance on this. Confirmed what you’d deep down wanted so badly to believe was the truth but also couldn’t verify in the face of countless objections and otherwise expressed sentiments.
A what if morphed into an actual possibility.
The process of trying to conceive is a journey and experience for most women, and many, as you’d learned through research, do require at least some form of assistance to actually achieve that conception. In that, you weren’t unique. The added layer of navigating that and your mental health struggles just put you in a slightly different category. A riskier one.
But a statement and unanswered question posed by your therapist returns to the forefront of your mind.
“This isn’t a matter of what’s the best option, sweetie.” You’d kept your focus on your lap, picking at your nails as she probed into your mental in a way that was both unnerving and appreciated. Necessary, especially. “It’s a matter of what decision, long-term, do you foresee negatively impacting you the most.” You can still feel the way you chest tightened moments before she laid it all out in no unclear terms. “Never trying and having to live with that ‘what if’ or trying and having to accept the possibility of it not working out the way you wanted it to.
Unknown vs Disappointment.
You didn’t have an answer to give then.
You have one now.
“Yes.”
And maybe it’s your own subconscious desires playing a cruel, mean trick on you, but you could almost swear there’s a brief flash of relief in his expression.
Like….like he’s happy.
“Then we’ll do it,” he announces, that thumb caressing the nape of your neck a soothing, gentle gesture. “We find out whatever specialist you need to see, whatever treatment you need, see what it specifically entails, if you’re mentally and physically up for it, and take it from there….alright?”
There’s something immensely comforting about the way he emphasizes and includes the tentative nature of it all. Highlights that consenting to trying does not equate consenting to doing. Learning the specifics, the risks, and everything else is truly where the hardest decision will need to be made. And as much as he has a say in it, too, at the end of the day, it’s your call to make. Your body that will have to undergo and sustain all the prickling and prodding.
Your mental that might be tested in ways you’ve never experienced before.
It’s frightening, for sure. Daunting and terrifying. Yet all of that fright and fear is readily eased by the reminder that you don’t have to face it alone.
Not even a little.
It’s what makes you lean up, arms secured around his neck as he hikes you up onto his waist. You smile and laugh into his neck, sniffling and whispering, “I love you.”
His quiet chuckle and the kiss to your temple accompanying a light squeeze of your ass and quiet but equally heartfelt, “I love you, too.”
a/n: if you've read some of my other content, you know i'm a whore for fleshing things out. in reality, and as reflected by the dates in this one and the first part, this "conclusion" would take time. even longer than what's reflected in these two pieces. but for the sake of answering the biggest question most of ya'll have, i gave you this.
was very very tempted to reveal at the end that it was all a dream. reader was just dreaming roman's confession, and it ended with them essentially realizing there's no way they can make this work. her wanting kids and him not. implied separation/divorce being the outcome. but i didn't want ya'll to cuss me out lmao
lastly, i almost wrote the first part being completely different in that reader shared with roman she was pregnant, and he wasn't happy. him wanting her to get an abortion because she knew how he felt. her not wanting to, especially when he knew she wasn't on birth control. thus, this super complicated, controversial scenario where it's, 'is he wrong for considering walking away even though she knew how he felt?" idk. that just seemed too complex and layered for a oneshot.
For the key west shorts, I would loveee to see them around the time babygirl was first born or even when Capri was pregnant with her. I’m so obsessed with them i just wanna know everything!🤍🤍
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄.
lessons learned from the trials and tribulations of your miscarriage, roman is firm on ensuring he doesn't miss a beat during your early pregnancy with lorelei. but when he flies you out to lounge backstage at a show, you aren’t thrilled. you thought break ups entailed separation.
content | toxic dynamics.
𝄞 “i love you so much i cannot lose you so. i heard about soulmates i've never gotten this close. i'm so close. so close. so close to making it real.” 𝄞
KEYWEST!VERSE | white bone: the smau. | 7k.
Apart from the low murmur of commentary from the announcers table on the mounted screen, the dim, private dressing room is otherwise quiet.
Silent, still, and serene, just as you prefer. Any alternative in your current state would most likely earn the nearest individual a death glare.
Just three months in and the ease in which you become irritable over even the slightest offense has become one of the biggest hallmarks of your pregnancy; the temperature being set one degree higher than you usually prefer, even the sound the friction certain pillowcase fabrics make under your ear at night. You’re so sensitive to everything around you, so when the pendulum that is your emotion swings, it swings far.
But tonight, you’re particularly irritated. Even more so than usual.
It’s your first time at Madison Square Garden, never mind New York City, so you should be in brighter spirits. Yet, it’s the last place in the world you want to be because Roman, too, is here.
Approximately a year and a month ago, that wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, it’d be something of an incentive. You’d come out to support him and watch from your pick of the litter: either his dressing room, the arena’s suite, or ringside. You’d always tend to opt for anything but the latter. Meek by nature, sitting front row always comes with millions of eyes you’re simply inclined to shy away from. But since then, circumstances have changed. Drastically.
He’s not your man anymore. And he hasn’t been since he cost you that lucrative partnership with the World Surf League.
The business opportunity presented itself at South Bay, the exclusive coastal Country Club you’ve been granted access to ever since he added you to his membership plan in 2018. The year you met.
At a charity event you were invited to on behalf of Sunburnt, you were introduced to the Event Director of the WSL. A man that goes by the name of Lucian Montclair. A businessman, a bachelor, and a sight for sore eyes— not that you were looking. He spoke to you a little bit about the WSL; how they’re the premier home of global competitive surfing and that they’re making Key West an annual stop for their championship tournament, and that, if you were interested, he’d like to open a line of communication between the two of you because they’re also looking for local businesses in the surfing scene to partner with and they have their eyes on Sunburnt.
Initially, it’s purely a business relationship.
For Lucian, somewhere along the way, that changes. Perhaps during the millions of meetings you had with him and his team, with locations varying from the Country Club itself to hotspots around town, both the expensiveness of the restaurants and the time you met him at increasing with each incremental progression into the deal. Gradually, he grew fond of you.
Too fond.
When you brought Roman to one of the WSL’s black tie events and introduced the two men, it didn’t take him long to pick up on it. On the way Lucian would laugh while looking at you when one of his peers cracked a corny joke. On the way he couldn’t help but look over at you when you weren’t looking. On the way he kept trying to passive aggressively belittle professional wrestling as a legitimate sport in front of you.
Roman tried to control his temper as best as he could for your sake.
Your excitement about the opportunity and what it could do for Sunburnt as a brand was palpable. That type of strategic collaboration could send you to an entirely different stratosphere if you played your hand right.
The position the cosign of such a conglomerate could place Sunburnt was nothing to scoff at.
He knew he was on thin ice as it was. His jealousy had always been a problematic fork in the road of your relationship, and you two were just starting to recover from the fallout of the deceptive ‘girls trip’ Anastasia took you on to Portofino, Italy. A period in which you spent many nights sleeping in the guest bedroom because as true as it may be that he didn’t fall for their bait, you were still deeply upset that he’d made them comfortable enough to believe their plan could even work in the first place.
You two were still on fragile ground. You weren’t out of the woods.
It all came to a head during Solar Flare, the summer surf festival hosted by the town of Key West. Lucian and a sparse group of interns on behalf of the WSL were set to attend and promote their Championship Tournament that would be stopping in the island in just a few short months.
You were surprised to see Roman making his way onto the beach during the set-up of Sunburnt’s canopy tent during one of your treks back and forth from the shop to the sand. He’d just landed from his flight home the night prior, and you wanted him to catch up on some sleep. But as tired as he was, he’s never liked the thought of you doing manual labor when he’s around. Or even when he isn’t for that matter. So he took the crate of merch and apparel from your hands and took it to the tent as you returned to the shop to get more.
Lucian tried to make conversation with him to fill the silence while Roman put the tent together. Small talk, shit he can’t stand from someone he can’t stand. But it went unbelievably left when Lucian’s chuckle bled into a comment underneath his breath about how ‘this must be what Capri is always talking about.’
A comment that grabbed Roman’s attention, no question.
“What?”
Lucian shrugs. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”
Roman blinks. After a beat, he places the metal plate of the tent down. “Nah. What’d you just say?”
“I’m just saying man.”
“Saying what? You talking to my girl about me?”
“She’s the one doing the talking, bro. Take that up with her.”
The force of Roman’s right hook connecting with Lucian’s jaw disorients him long enough to catch him off guard with another one. In the blink of an eye, the two men are on the ground wrestling for leverage.
Roman, on top, sends relentless bone-cracking punches to the face until he hears bystanders yelling and running to them in the distance. The split second it takes him to peer up at the stranger trying to pull him off is all Lucian needs to grab the small metal pole lying on the ground and swing it at Roman’s nose.
“FUCK!”
His face throbs hot, the sight of his own warm blood on his fingertips when he quickly presses it against his nostrils turning a switch off completely.
With a smaller crate in your hands, you only heard the ruckus when you rounded the corner of someone else's tent. It wasn't until you recognized the colors of clothing you saw a mere twenty minutes ago that everything in your hands dropped to the ground and your feet carried you to the crowd trying to rip them apart. And that’s when you saw the real carnage.
The blood stained sand.
The swollen knuckles.
Lucian’s groans of pain bleeding into the bystanders pleas for an ambulance. For 911.
Once the men were able to peel Roman off him, he stumbled to his feet and snatched his arms away to raise both palms into the air as his chest heaved— his fingers wiping at the blood on his busted lip.
But looking at Lucian… it made you queasy.
To say you were even irate with Roman would be an understatement. So much so that when the cops handcuffed him and took him to jail, you didn’t bail him out.
And the WSL pulling the plug on the partnership was the last straw.
You and him were over.
Nothing would get you to hear him out, not even the seven digit lump sum he wired you that he estimated would be the first year payout of the deal had it gone through. You didn’t care what he told you Lucian said to him to warrant what transpired, because none of that was about Lucian. It was about you. He knew what that meant to you. What it meant for Sunburnt. And he couldn’t help but ruin it for you anyway.
The tapping of knuckles on the door and the quiet creak as it opens diverts your attention from the segment broadcasted on the monitor, “Pri.”
You swallow the bite of the meatball marina sandwich you’ve been working on before slightly projecting your voice for direction in the spacious dressing room, “over here.”
On paper, Namina Baraz is the only child of your mother’s only sister. But ever since the summer your mother dropped you off at your aunt Yvette’s and never looked back, you’ve never seen her as anything less than your sister. Neither one of you, in good faith, could ever say you weathered a storm alone. Not the loss of Yvette after her short battle with cancer a few years ago, not the subsequent deep bout of depression Namina fell into, not the trials and tribulations of managing your inheritance of your aunt’s small surf shack by the shore.
When she calls, you answer.
When you call, she answers.
And call, you did.
Ever since Roman found out you were pregnant, he’d stripped his schedule so bare that even classifying him as ‘part-time’ is giving him too much credit— but this short string of appearances that conclude with tonight’s Madison Square Garden show, he is contractually bound to. Apparently, the string is far too long for you to go unsupervised despite only being in the tail end of your first trimester. Which is why he’s essentially forced you to fly out here.
And precisely why you’re so agitated. Because to you, he’s just using your pregnancy as an excuse to excerise control over you.
If you’re honest, you have no one to blame but yourself. You have never been more resolute about him as you were after he’d ruined that opportunity for you. After you broke it off for good. It was over.
Then you’d heard about them. About her. Around four months after the split, after four months of radio silence on your end despite the millions of messages that were left on read and phone calls that were declined, he’d starting seeing someone else. Mia.
It was the first time you’d called him since everything went down, and you let him know about himself. That he’s a liar. That if he was so quick to move on with her of all people, then they surely had something going on behind your back while you two were together regardless of what he told you when you got back from Italy. That he isn’t worth the fuck that made him.
All of which he silently took with a grin on his face on the other line, because all that passion meant you still cared. It wasn’t over.
Still, he maintained that he’s never stepped out on you not once, and that he and Mia are casual so she’s not his girl.
The phone call that broke that seal of no contact for the first time in four months tore the floodgates open again. Armed with the knowledge that you’d never even look at him again if you truly believed he cheated on you, he’d started stopping by Sunburnt to bring you lunch on a daily basis. Just looking for a sliver of time to speak to you. You’d dub him, busying yourself with a customer and leaving him for Namina to deal with.
One time, he happened to catch you while you were closing. It was a rainy memorial weekend and the shop’s hours of operations ended at noon, the time of day he always stopped by. Your car was at the mechanic and Namina, who was supposed to give you a ride, double-booked her schedule after forgetting the holiday hours.
He followed you for three blocks in his car. His window rolled down and his foot barely on the gas to match your steps on foot, he tried to coax you into his car against your silent defiance. But the universe was on his side, because three blocks in, it started to pour. The type of rain you can’t see through.
His voice booms to outweigh the heavy pitter patter hitting the concrete sidewalk, “get in the fucking car before I come grab you and someone calls the cops on me, Capri. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”
In the passenger seat with your arms crossed and your head turned to the window, he didn’t give you any choice but to hear him out. He parked the car in a desolate spot near the ocean and dismantled the belief that he was unfaithful for two hours. And you only believed him once he swore it on the baby you two lost, which you were inclined to do because it was the first time he’d mentioned the sensitive subject since you lost her.
The relapse happened only once, six months into he and Mia’s situationship.
One night, you were feeling particularly bothered. You’d were missing him more than usual. What was he doing? Was he with her? Was he thinking of you? You two had been in casual communication ever since that clarifying conversation in the car so to quell the ache in your chest, you found yourself going through you and his’ recent messages.
The decision to send him a picture of you from your gallery was quick and impulsive. Two selfies from one batch, nothing too crazy. The casual finger on your parted lip in the second one, though, was flirty enough for him to bite.
Capri. 7:10PM wrong person. sorry.
Roman. 7:14PM Why’d you send me that?
Capri. 7:16PM it was an accident.
Roman. 7:16PM Right. Well. I miss you too.
Capri. 7:18PM lmao no you don’t.
Roman. 7:18PM Send me another one.
Capri. 7:18PM You haven’t texted me in three days.🙄
Capri. 7:19PM no. come see it in person.
That night three months ago, you two had the nastiest, most disrespectful sex you’ve ever had and you regretted it all in the morning.
You knew you were pregnant before you took the test. It was just intuitive. Every day that went by without your period was a day you pushed to the back of your mind simply because you just did not want to confront it. Then the relentless morning sickness kicked in, and left you no choice.
He’s stoic, “you’re pregnant.”
You blink down at the seven different brands of pregnancy tests laid out on the bathroom counter, your arms across your chest. “Yes.”
His eyes peer from the stick in his hand, to your eyes, and back. Then, he chuckles.
You whine and drop your arms from your chest to snatch the test from him, “this isn’t funny Roman! Why are you laughing?”
He follows you into the bedroom and leans on the doorframe, trying to hide his lax grin while you pace back and forth, “nah. It’s not funny. But I’m not about to act like I’m upset. I’m not. And you can’t be either. If I recall correctly, I gave you what you wanted. You’re the one that was begging me to nut ins—”
“Quit it. I’m being serious. I can’t be pregnant. This isn’t something you bring a baby into, Roman. Jesus Christ.”
A long pause. “What does that mean?”
“If this environment is already unhealthy for the both of us, what would it be for a baby? I mean, we’re not even together.”
His eyes are drawn onto a spot on the carpet as he reads between the lines of what you’re saying, “…you don’t think we’d be good parents?”
You’re wallowing in self-resentment. You’d freed yourself from his shackles for good and all but crawled on your knees to pick up the rusted steel off the floor and restrain your wrists back in them by your own will. You scoff and speak before thinking, “Roman you’re barely a good man.”
He blinks, “so I’d be a bad father.”
You stop pacing and stare at him with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Shit.
Under that thin veil of irritability that comes with the natural reshaping of pregnancy hormones, self-resentment has followed you like the trailing stench of cheap perfume throughout the entirety of your first trimester, souring nearly every interaction you’ve had with him ever since. Every doctor’s appointment. Every phone call. Every text message.
“Damn near got lost trying to find this room. Jesus.” Namina places her purse down on the coffee table when she gets close enough and reclines on the sofa beside you.
“Here.” You turn to grab the Firehouse Subs bag from the corner table behind you and place it on the sofa between the both of you.
You’ve only been without her for eight days now, but that’s also eight consistent days you’ve spent with Roman. The most you’ve spent with him since the break up, and the strain is starting to show— which is precisely why he’s flown her out this weekend. Perhaps some time with someone who isn’t him will offset the tension lining your shoulders.
“Heard me?”
“That you almost got lost? Yeah.”
She snorts at the view of you finishing off your sandwich and opens up the bag to inspect the contents Roman picked up before the show to satisfy the craving you’d mustered the courage to admit.
She grabs the Snapple and twists the top off before taking a cold sip, her eyes glued on her cousin. “Mia’s here.”
You turn away from the monitor and blink, your eyes gravitating towards the dressing room door. “You saw her?”
“On my way here, yeah.”
“She saw you?”
“Shit. I hope so. Otherwise it’d be a waste of an outfit.”
Typically, you’d laugh at that. It’d get a chuckle out of you at the least. Tonight, you do neither. You can’t, because you’re distracted by the gradual boiling of your blood. It starts off with a slight heat that increases incrementally until there’s a blazing fire in your chest.
You already can’t stand being here as it is, but for him to invite her on top of everything? You’re pissed off.
In all honesty, you pity the woman. Once you found out that nothing truly happened between them during the duration of the relationship like you believed when he started seeing her of all people, it became abundantly clear that he started seeing her so quickly to get a rise out of you. To hurt you like you hurt him.
But you vowed to never give him the satisfaction of a reaction over her pathetic ass again, and you don’t make empty promises.
Namina’s elbow rests on top of the sofa, her forehead pressed against her fist as low chatter emits from the broadcast on the screen. “How’s that going though? Him and her?”
You shrug carelessly and take a sip of your bottled water. “He’s barely anywhere else other than with me so I know it’s terrible for her. And I can’t for the life of me seem to care because that’s the type of pain she wanted for me.”
“You accept her follow request?”
“Nope.”
Two weeks ago, you logged onto your second instagram account. The private one meant for your close friends and family with eighty two followers. On it, you had a follower request from Mia’s public, verified profile.
She shakes her head, “good. I would’ve let it collect dust too. Slick trying to be on that kumbaya shit. Get the fuck on.” Namina, as is one of the only people who knows about what happened when you went to Italy on that July 4th, treats both Anastasia and Mia like they did it to her personally.
Just as you’re about to respond, the door creaks open.
Shirtless, breathless, and sweaty, Roman appears at the threshold— his hand ripping the velcro of the black glove off his other hand as he walks in.
His tone as diplomatic and matter-of-fact as always, his eyes land on your cousin. “Namina.”
She smirks at the deep contraction of his diaphragm in an attempt to regulate his breathing. “Mm. He tore your ass up, ain’t he?” she tsk’s and shakes her head in disappointment, “just as I was getting used to the sight.”
He breathes out a chuckle through his nose and looks at you. You’re looking back at him, but you aren’t laughing. Instead, you’ve just got that thousand yard stare in your eye.
After a beat, she clears her throat and grabs the bag you gave her and her purse off the coffee table. “I’m gonna head back to the Airbnb. I wanna beat the traffic. I’ll text you in the morning, ‘kay? Rita’s opens at noon.” You nod and let her hug you before she bids Roman goodbye and leaves the dressing room.
He sizes you up when a hush falls over the room, “you finish your sandwich?”
To clue him in without verbally responding to him, you ball up the empty paper your sandwich was packed into and place it in the plastic bag it came in before taking a swig of ice cold water as you maintain eye contact with him.
He exhales, “Capri.”
“I didn’t need to be here.”
“Yes you did.”
“I’m twelve weeks along. I don’t need supervision.”
He turns his back to you and slips his glove off, tossing it onto the shelf underneath the monitor— ignoring you in hopes that it’ll dead this conversation that he won’t entertain.
It’s the last sliver of disrespect from him you can take, “you’re such a fucking asshole.”
He props one foot up at a time onto the surface of a steel chair and bends at the hip to undo the laces of his sneakers and prepare for his shower, his eyes locked onto his pristine Jordans. Lowly, “yeah? And what else?”
“And I wish I never met you.”
His jaw tightens as he slips out of the shoe and switches to his other foot.
“And I hate that I’m tied to you forever now.”
The venom in your voice stops him in his tracks. He looks over at you, “because I want you with me instead of that house on your own while I’m away?”
“Because—”
No. He’s not getting the satisfaction.
“This is the first time I’ve made you fly out and I told you it won’t have to happen again since tonight is the last show before my schedule lightens up. Stop fussing with me, Pri. This is for your own good. There’s nothing I can do for you if I’m not with—”
“I want to go to the hotel. Now.” You untuck your feet from underneath your legs on the sofa and slip them back into your abandoned sandals on the carpet.
He stares at you for a moment when you divert your attention to your phone. In the five years that he has known you, you have never been this short tempered with him. It took some getting used to in the first few weeks, and sometimes he knows just how to pacify you, but sometimes you just wear him out. Right down to the white bone.
If a lesson is significant enough, he’s always been the type of man that only needs to learn it once. And nothing has ever been quite as significant as the violent sound of blaring horns, screeching brakes, your panicked gasp, and shattering glass on the other end of a phone call while there’s thousands of miles separating the two of you.
That night was just as traumatic for him as it was for you. So you can be as disgruntled as you want at the lengths his preventative measures go to. Leaving you by your lonesome is not a risk he’s willing to take.
His shower is cold and languid, just as he likes. The cool stream regulates his respiratory system, relaxing his muscles and lolling his heart rate to a steady gallop. He has half a mind to call for you and tell you to get in to reap the same benefits, a subtle smirk growing on his face under the shower head at the memory of you and him showering together and him twisting the temperature handle to frigid while your eyes were closed just to watch you shriek.
Once he gets out the shower, gets dressed, and neatly scoops his hair in his classic updo, he makes his way back out to the dressing room. He grabs your plastic bag as you grab your purse and mutters for you to come on.
Accustom to the cozy dimness of the dressing room for the past several hours, the corporate fluorescent lights of the arena halls are much harsher than you expect. In the few seconds it takes your pupils to readjust to the paleness, Trinity turns the corner and finds two figures stepping out of a dressing room in her natural line of sight. When she processes exactly who it is, a huge smile grows on her face and she starts beelining it towards you.
She can barely contain herself as she gets within earshot, “say it ain’t so.” Her excitement is as infectious as confetti and sprinkles.
You nod with a tight-lipped grin before she shrieks and pulls you into a tight hug, “oh my god. You know Jimmy’s mouth is the size of the great barrier reef and he still can’t manage to hold water. Congratulations! How do you feel?”
You tug a wisp of hair from out your face and tuck it behind your ear as she shoves Roman on his upper arm in jest, “thank you. Um, I’m good. Surprisingly. Really bad insomnia and I’m averse to certain scents, but that’s far and few in between. I’m thugging it out for the most part.”
As they chit chat, something urges Roman to look up.
In the distance past Trinity’s shoulders, who’s stood in front of them both, is Mia. She’s on the other side of the hall, leaning against the cinderblock wall as she talks to someone he can’t make out of. Her mouth stops moving when she too spots him, and then you, and then Trinity’s palm on your barely discernible stomach.
His brows furrow. Considering the origin of their little rendezvous, finding Mia backstage isn’t necessarily surprising. But it’s been a long time since the last time she made an appearance he didn’t know about ahead of time.
His lips rolled into his mouth, his sight flits back to you but you must already feel the heat of her gaze because your eyes happen to naturally travel to the other side of the hall for a second. Yet, despite the fact that you also spot her, your conversation with Trinity doesn’t miss a beat. You don’t seem to be caught off guard by her presence at all.
“Huh? Um. Yeah… Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Her eyes glued to your flat belly once Trinity removes her hand, Mia’s mouth is on autopilot, just absentmindedly rattling off whatever Irene needs to hear in the moment in hopes that it’ll conclude the conversation about the details she wants Mia to relay to her father for his upcoming Hall of Fame induction.
Irene doesn’t seem to get the hint, her voice distantly droning off more specifics as Mia’s heart slowly slips into a free fall on the tile she’s standing on, the violent pounding of her pulse blocking out any information from penetrating her eardrums.
You can’t be…
Are you?
When it came to you, she was only really aware of the fact that you and him were no longer together. The current state of the relationship, whether you two were still in contact or if you were on good terms, was always a big fat question mark. Due to the lax nature of his relationship with Mia, he’s never felt the need to divulge that type of intel no matter how many times her insecurities implied that she was curious.
It’s not her business. Letting her know would imply that she’s entitled to.
Which makes this all that much worse.
She knew something was off.
He’s been even colder than usual. Dodging calls and texts. Postponing one link up after another. Even becoming shorter with her when they speak.
The first sign of snowfall after the warmest summer in history is much more is jarring when it follows a million years of winter, which is why she’d shown up tonight. She’d probably hold the grudge that she was forming against him for a little longer before folding, but she’s become even more tender since they’ve started sleeping together.
Now, she just feels like a fucking idiot.
Irene says something that Mia quickly nods to before she finally walks away, and when Irene exits, Mia’s eyelids start getting warm. She exhales a shaky breath. She feels so fucking stupid. Of course. Of-fucking-course. She doesn’t even know why she tries sometimes.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. I just had to say something. I’ll let you go. I’ll call you later.” Trinity gives you a look that communicate that there’s a lot to be discussed as she backs away before turning around and leaving.
Your smile gradually shrinking, you turn and walk the opposite way until you’re past the premise of the arena and into the lot. You’re some steps ahead of him, which isn’t easy to do considering his frame, and it’s how he knows you aren’t happy. “Slow down. You don’t even know where I’m parked.”
“I’ll find it.”
Five minutes into the ride, some song by Miguel begins to waft through his Escalade.
One hand combing through his beard as his other steers the wheel,the ease in which you glossed over Mia’s presence when you saw her comes back to him.
The fact that you weren’t caught off guard makes him wonder whether or not you might've already been privy to the fact that she was there. You’d been backstage for hours, you might’ve even ran into her prior if you ventured outside the threshold of his dressing room like you had the freedom to while he was in the ring. It would explain why you seemed so upset with him when he returned, especially since your issue with traveling had been been laid to rest days prior.
He knows you like the back of his hand. If you believed for a second that he had a part to play in her attendance tonight on top of your irritation at the two of you’s forced proximity, you’d be livid right now. And you’re livid right now.
A couple months ago, he would’ve reveled in it. Shit, even if it wasn’t true he’d let you believe it if it meant you’d feel the fury he felt when you broke it off with him for reacting to finding out you’d been letting Lucian in on you and his’ relationship troubles.
It was unfair.
While you two were together, when you found out Mia had been trying to move in on him while you were in Italy, he let you express it openly, whatever that looked like even though he hadn’t had an active hand in anything she did. He didn’t punish you for feeling violated. He didn’t leave you when you felt violated.
The same cannot be said for you.
So when you called it quits, he went tit for tat.
But shit’s different now. You’re carrying his baby, and under no condition does he need you in any unnecessary distress right now. You’re as vulnerable and sensitive as you’ve ever been, and his concern for your wellbeing trumps all that other shit. Fuck all that.
He’s never internalized anything in his life as much as he did what you said to him once you found out you were pregnant.
You don’t think we’d be good parents?
Roman you’re barely a good man.
… So I’d be a bad father.
He didn’t give you much of a chance to elaborate. He left your apartment soon after you’d said it. He doesn’t know if you’d walk it back or double down, but it wouldn’t neutralize the bullet wound anyways.
Still, the fact that your faith in his ability to be a good father was in question shook his foundation like wobbly tectonic plates. If he let his projection talk, it’d say that all but confirms you hadn’t forgiven him for the car accident and he can’t even say he blames you for that because, in all honesty, he hasn’t either.
He looks over at you in the passenger seat. Underneath the hand mindlessly toying with the anti-nausea band wrapped around your wrist just below your sleeve, the crop of your corset jacket exposes the skin of your lower belly. You look barely bloated to the naked eye, partly due to the optical illusion of the vintage top’s deep swooping hemline.
He looks back at the landscape of Manhattan at night, “I didn’t know she was going to be here tonight.”
You roll your lips into your mouth, raise and then drop your eyebrows as you hum in bored acknowledgement. “Hm.”
“I’m serious, Pri. I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t even know. She shows up whenever she wants to these things.”
You find a sudden interest in the buildings that look like they’re moving in time lapse through the passenger side window and lie through your teeth, “I couldn’t care less about your little sorry ass puppy, Roman. Just take me to the hotel.”
You care. Immensely.
In fact, with your emotions all out of wack, you can’t remember a time you ever cared as much.
.
The water from the bath faucet pelts the pool of water beside you as your arms reach behind you to unclip your bra, sighing in relief when you taste that first second of liberty. Jesus Christ. You make a mental note to stop by Victoria Secret in the morning with Namina to pick up new ones.
In front of the well-lit bathroom mirror of the penthouse suite, you peel your panties down your legs and blow a raspberry as you look at your body. The weight gain is moderate but you see the difference most in your face. It’s fuller, lightly rounder. You tug the towel off the rack. Just as you wrap it around your body, the door opens.
You gasp sharply and hold the fabric to your chest, “oh my g— can’t you knock?!”
He pauses to eye the clutch you have on the towel, his expression unamused. “There isn’t a square inch under there I haven’t seen. Relax. Here.” He hands you what appears to be a dark blue bottle. This must be what he was getting from the trunk as you went on into the hotel without him.
“What’s this?” You read the bottle label. Dr. Teal’s melatonin infused lavender foam.
“Pour it in the water. The lady said it’s infused with melatonin and smells like that shit you’re always talking about. It’ll help with the insomnia.”
You blink at the spot he was standing at once the door closes.
He navigates his way into the living area and lounges on the sectional before leaning forward to pick up the cold Corona on the coffee table and taking a swig, his eyes on the cream curtains draping over the floor to ceiling windows.
Your one stipulation to coming on the road with him for these two shows, once you reluctantly agreed to after fighting tooth and nail, was the hotel arrangement. You didn’t care if it was already booked, if you didn’t have a bed of your own, you would be taking your ass back to Florida— no questions asked.
He believed you, albeit unfortunately, because you delivered it with that pointed finger like you always use when you’re serious and you’re done negotiating. Unfortunately, because he’s sure a lot of the tension you’re carrying could be fixed in one night if you’d let him. He’d have you walking on air. Shit, you’re already pregnant. You don’t need to be walking around that fucking agitated anyway. It’s not good for you.
When his phone chimes, the glass rim of the bottle at his wet lips, he tips the Corona back and brings the screen to eye level.
MIA. 11:07PM. lol.
MIA. 11:07PM. you’re weird as fuck. hope you know that.
ROMAN. 11:12PM. What?
MIA. 11:14PM. you know exactly what i’m talking about.
MIA. 11:14PM. here I am taking the initiative to come out and see you because you’ve been acting off just to find out exactly why lol.
MIA. 11:15PM. congrats tho. hope that baby fixes the issues you and her have like you think it will. ✌🏽
A tick of irritation mars the fold between his brows at the exchange, his beer meeting the ceramic side table with a light clink.
This thing he and her have going on was always meant to be light and airy. Low commitment. Apart from the tit for tat shit, it was meant to make you sick enough to realize that you don’t want it to be over and you still do want him. Meant to be short; something to pass the time by since nothing seemed to emphasize your absence quite like the silence when he was on his own.
Still, he’s never given Mia the impression that this is any more serious than it is, nor that you were ever out the picture, so the grilling feels out of left field.
ROMAN. 11:20PM. Why are you acting like that?
ROMAN. 11:20PM. We’re aren’t exclusive. We aren’t even together.
MIA. 11:27PM. so I’m just supposed to turn my feelings off when I find out she’s pregnant?
MIA. 11:27PM. I’m a human being.
MIA. 11:29PM. you say you care about me but never act like it Roman. you SAW me witness that entire thing knowing how I feel and didn’t do nothing. didn't say anything. didn’t even text me afterward.
ROMAN. 11:32PM. She’s carrying my child. I’m not going to put her in distress for your sake. I’m sorry if that’s what you wanted.
ROMAN. 11:35PM. I do care about you, but I told you what this was from the jump. If you’re expecting any more than that, and I think that you are, that’s on you Mia.
ROMAN. 11:37PM. It’s not your place to speak on our kid. You’re outta line. Don’t do it again.
MIA. 11:39PM. that’s not my intent. i just feel so fucking disrespected.
ROMAN. 11:40PM. I wasn’t tryna do that. I’m doing what I gotta do as a man. and that’s take care of my responsibility as a father.
MIA. 11:55PM. how far along is she?
ROMAN. 11:58PM. 12 weeks.
The pattering of feet against hardwood floors captures his attention. As soon as he cranes his head around, you walk past the sofa with the towel tied around your frame and stop in front of a small Miu Miu bag full of travel-sized toiletries.
He puts his phone down on the side table and picks up the Corona to take a sip as he watches you silently dig through the bag for your cherry blossom body lotion, “tired?”
“It’s not gonna work that fast.” You mumble.
“Shit. For $400, it better.”
You stop digging and look up at him, “that was $400?”
He grins to himself and takes a swig, picking up the remote and pointing it at the television.
You cut your eyes at him and grab your lotion.
Going back to your bed, your eyes search for the red shorts you forgot to bring to the bathroom when you went to shower. Feeling too tired to properly search for it, you grab two handfuls of the duvet and jerk it up into the air once to locate it faster. Instead, you hear the thump of an object much too heavy to be an article of clothing hit the floor.
Leaning over the bed, you find Roman’s wallet on the floor. When it fell, it must've landed on its spine because it opened on impact. You bend at the hip, picking it up to close it and place it on the nightstand but right as you close it, something catches your eye.
Curious, you open it back up.
Tucked inside but peeking out of one of the corner folds of black leather is what looks like a white piece of paper that’s been rolled and flattened due to the tight pressure of the stacks of cards inside.
Your lips rolled into your mouth, you looks up at the open door of the bedroom. The sound of the television is distant. After internally debating it, you roll your eyes and pull at the piece of paper in increments as not to damage it. When has he ever questioned you being in his wallet?
You unfurl it and your world stops spinning on its axis when it reveals an sonogram. For a few seconds, all you hear is blood rushing through your ears. You’re only able to take another breath again when your eyes dart around the print in a panic.
PATIENT: RYDER, CAPRI.
DATE: 6/1/2021.
It’s yours.
You take a seat on the edge of the mattress with your palm pressed against your chest. Fuck. The more you look at the black and white image, the more it’s wear and tear make sense. It’s been in there for nearly three years.
Once the panic fizzles out and the hammering of your heart returns to a calm thrash, what you’re looking at starts to settle in.
June 1st, 2021 was the date of your very first sonogram from your first pregnancy. The tech was a nervous medical student in her second year of residency, supervised by Dr. Emerson. A revelation that Roman had ample issue with if the biceps of his arms crossed against his chest had anything to say about it. He received every one of your gasps at everything from the coolness of the gel to the new sensation as a blunder on behalf of the poor girl— his low, disgruntled interjection of ‘easy’ as she pointedly depressed the instrument deep onto your belly only intimidating her further.
You have no idea where he found this from.
You had gotten rid of everything in the nursery following the miscarriage. Two months after the car accident, when he left for work and it turned into his longest stint away from home ever, you purged it all. The toys, the clothes, the diapers, the sonograms. Everything.
Or so you thought.
You didn’t want to be reminded of it, and at the time; in the same way the brain represses certain memories of trauma to protect you, you thought pretending it never happened would be better.
A blank canvas is less violent than a black and blue one, after all.
Yet, when you look at it in a different light, perhaps this time around is your blank canvas.
Despite how upset you’ve been at yourself more than anyone for letting your heart lead you back to him, it’s not lost on you in this moment that you’ve never once entertained the alternatives Dr. Emerson discussed with you during your first appointment.
Deep down, you know it was never an option because you have what the past version of yourself mourned losing in the palm of your very hand. You’ve just been so preoccupied with resenting yourself that you’ve been tainting a perfectly healthy pregnancy all on your own. The realization makes your vision blurry.
You’ve been assuming the worst in every situation imaginable; that him wanting you with him here these past couple of days is just him using your pregnancy as an excuse to exercise that control he loves, that he invited her here tonight to get a rise out of you. If it was a negative thought, it had to be true.
But looking down at the weathered paper through glazed-over eyes, you can’t help but wonder if his intentions are truly as nefarious as you keep assuming.
⤷ I swear, I swear!
masterlist ᯓ★ lo's commentary: hiiii angels it's @purplesectorlew (Lo)!! here with my addition to the jude hype train because i can't stop thinking about his facial expressions and exhausted but clingy jude so here we are. hope you enjoy the fluff-to-spice pipeline as much as i did writing it <3
pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader summary: after england’s dramatic quarter-final win over norway, an exhausted Jude just wants his girlfriend close. post-match cuddles (that definitely don’t stay just cuddles) in the team hotel lead to soft, sleepy, and very needy sex. comfort, praise, and tired-boyfriend vibes. warnings: smut MDNI, handjob, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, tired but horny jude, whimpering + whiny jude, lowkey sub!jude, lots of praise and pet names, slight possessive talk wc: 4.5k!
The last notes of Wonderwall had just faded out across the Hard Rock, the lads still buzzing on the pitch with arms slung round each other. Jude was right in the middle of it, singing along like the rest of them, his beautiful smile splitting his face even though you could tell every last inch of him was running on empty.
It had been a grind. The Miami heat and humidity were brutal, thick and sticky, so much so that it had made your lungs burn just watching from the stands. Extra time looked like it nearly broke them, but Jude dragged it through with his second goal in the 93rd minute like something out of a film. Your heart was still hammering, ears ringing, the whole stadium vibrating around you.
Then the fans started up with “Hey Jude” and you had to look away quickly, blinking hard. The pride you feel swells up so huge it doesn’t fit in your chest, it spills over into these stupid tears every single time you hear the song, no matter how many times you see him do something like this.
“He looks exhausted,” Denise says quietly, her arm still hooked through yours, squeezing a little.
“I know. Bless him. I don’t know how he’s still standing out there. He gave that absolutely everything.”
You take some deep breaths with his parents, gushing over his performance as usual and wait for him to finish with everything else he has to do after the final whistle.
Soon enough, you watch him walk over showered and changed into the usual post-match tracksuits, his hood half up already like he’s already trying to shut the world out. Even from a distance you can see the heaviness in his shoulders, the way he’s moving a bit stiffer than usual, his tall frame carrying the weight of a country for ninety-plus minutes. He looks happy though. So, so happy. His dark eyes scan the stands until they find you three, and you can see the sparkle in them as soon as he spots you.
He hugs his mum first, extra tight, murmuring something that makes her laugh and pat his back. All week she’d been saying watch your language, watch your tackles, watch your face so he wouldn’t get booked. You could see how proud she was of him, her eyes closing when they hugged. It almost made your heart burst.
Then his dad, the two of them clapping each other on the shoulder like they always do, that quiet father-son thing that always makes your chest warm. Mark kisses his cheek, and your smile mirrors Jude’s bashful one. Only after that does he turn to you.
“There she is,” he says, voice a little rough from the game, his accent coming through even stronger when he’s tired. He smiles down at you, exhausted but sweet, and you stand up to meet him.
You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his sharp cheekbone, your other arm sliding round his broad back. He’s warm, solid, still carrying the smell of the grass mixed with fresh shower gel. “I’m so proud of you, Jude. That looked so tough out there.”
He leans down and kisses you, soft and quick. He’s never one for big PDA with the cameras hovering, but he never lets you feel unloved. Then his hand comes up, gentle as anything, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. His eyes go all soft as he looks at you, the intense match-day fire dialled right down just for you. “Thank you, baby. Yeah… it was hard. Proper hard. But we got there. It was rough though, I’m shattered.”
You sit back down and he drops straight onto the seat next to you, no hesitation. His head finds your shoulder immediately, heavy and trusting, like he’s been waiting for this exact spot the whole night. You slide your hand up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck, the way he likes, and feel him let out a long breath, sinking further into you. The relief in his body is so obvious it makes your heart twist.
His mum and dad chat lightly for a minute — something about the referee, how proud they are, the usual post-match debrief — and Jude mumbles along, half in it, half gone. His hand finds yours in your lap, fingers threading together lazily.
After a bit he turns his head, lips brushing your ear as he lowers his voice. “Are you gonna come visit me tonight?”
You snort, playfully nudging his head away. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, babe.”
He laughs then, loud and bright, teeth flashing, his eyes lighting up with the loving mischief that always gets you. “What? I can’t get cuddles from my girl? After that?”
You raise an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “Cuddles?”
His lip twitches, smirk spreading slow and dangerous. “Cuddles,” he repeats, all innocent like. “And a couple of kisses. Just three or four…”
You tilt your head, giving him a look. He’s dead on his feet, shoulders slumped, yet still managing to look at you like that. You ignore the heat pooling in your stomach from the way he's looking at you and try to think logically. The semi-finals are midweek. “You’re gonna cramp up at some point and whatever idea you’ve got of cuddles and kisses is gonna be straight out the window.”
“Can I not enjoy my recovery with my girlfriend? Is that against the law now?” He huffs dramatically, but his hands are already stroking up your sides, warm and familiar.
You huff at him, already giving in. “You’re so spoilt.”
He grins wider, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You can never say no to me.”
And it’s true. You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Cuddles. Right.
It wasn’t long before you found yourself being led by Jude back to his room in the team hotel in Miami. They’d just had a squad dinner, winding down after the match. As soon as players started to retreat he’d texted you and met you in the lobby. Other England camps weren’t like this in the past, you were so grateful the rules had been changed to let you see him, even if he should be resting.
He’d showered again, you could already tell by the cologne and body wash mix you could smell as you followed him down the quiet corridor. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps. He still moved a little stiff from the game, the beautiful body of his carrying the bruises and the exhaustion, but there was this restless energy in him too, the win still buzzing under his skin.
Once the door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t stop talking. He kicked his slides off, flopping back onto the bed as he kept going, voice low and rough but nonstop the way it always gets when he’s over-excited.
“...and then after the equaliser, I swear the pitch felt like it was moving, the humidity was mad out there. But the lads were buzzing, it was so loud on the pitch. Harry pulled me over after and was saying something about the run we’re on now, and I was just thinking the whole time about that last chance, how I nearly messed up the touch but it just fell right. Then extra time, my legs were gone but you just dig deep, don’t you? Mum’s texts were killing me the whole week about watching my face and my language, I nearly got booked just for breathing heavy at the ref at one point—”
He laughed at himself, running a hand over his damp hair, eyes bright even though his shoulders were sinking deeper into the pillows. You perched on the edge of the bed, watching him, the usual warmth spreading in your chest.
He reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist, still mid-story. “—and then I was like, nah, we’re not losing this one. You get me babe? And then I was like—”
“Jude, take a breath, love. I was there and watching the whole thing,” you chuckle, adjusting to lie next to him on the bed. His arm slipped under your head straight away, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, warm and a little rough.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured, half-laughing at himself again, voice dropping lower. “I’m just… excited. I don’t know. We left everything out there and…”
He trailed off for a second, eyes half-closed, but his fingers kept moving, tracing your jaw, then down the side of your neck, like he couldn’t quite settle even though his body was heavy with tiredness. Up close like this you could see every little detail: the faint sheen of sweat still at his hairline from how warm it was in Miami, the way his chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, a fresh bruise along his jaw starting to darken. You breathed in his warm skin scent that always made your stomach flip.
He shifted closer, leg hooking over yours casually, voice going soft and a little rough with emotion. “It’s mad innit? One minute you’re out there thinking your legs are done, next minute the ball drops and it just… happens. And now we’re in the semis. Semis, babe.”
His grin came back, tired but bright, the one that always made your heart do stupid things. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed it more than air. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were up there. Makes it all feel different.”
“I love you,” you whisper softly, thumb brushing his cheek, “and I’m so proud of you.”
“How proud?” he beamed, raising an eyebrow, a playful spark lighting up his exhausted face.
“Very proud. Like… prouder than you can even imagine. I think I’ve cried at nearly every game—”
Jude giggles, almost giddy, the sound low and warm in his chest. He loved praise, especially from you, it always turned him soft and a little cocky at the same time. “I know, my little crybaby,” he cooed, voice teasing and fond as he leaned in, pressing little kisses all over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Each one gentle and sweet, like he was savouring being close after the chaos of the match.
“Shut up,” you laugh quietly, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “You need to calm down, baby. You have to sleep.”
“My body’s tired,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing your cheek again, then lingering lower near your jaw, “but the adrenaline is just making me wired, man.”
You stroke his side, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling the solid warmth of him under your palm, the faint tremor of leftover energy in his muscles. His tall frame was heavy against you, one leg tangled with yours, but his hands kept wandering. Sliding under the hem of your top to rest against your lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles there.
After a moment he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he’s looking down at you properly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over his face, his beautiful brown eyes and pink lips slightly parted. He looks unfairly good for someone who just played extra time in a stadium that felt more like a sauna.
“So…” he starts, a smirk creeping back in. “About those kisses I was promised.”
You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile again. “I don’t remember promising anything.”
“Oi, don’t lie to me..” He leans in closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your mouth. “I distinctly remember talking about three or four. Minimum.” His hand slides higher under your top, palm flat and warm against your ribs, thumb stroking just under the curve of your breast. “Come on, baby. I earned them, didn’t I? Scored two, dragged us to the semis… least you can do is give your man some proper kisses.”
He’s grinning again now, all cheeky and tired and completely devastating to your self-control . Before you can answer he dips his head and presses one slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just below your ear, lingering there like he knows exactly what it does to you.
“You’ve just wasted two kisses…and you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”
He groans in joking frustration, eyebrows furrowing to give you a little puppy dog look that always gets him out of trouble. “I just want cuddles and kisses before i sleep-”
He stops as you tilt your head at him, giving him another look.
“I swear, I swear! Baby, please…”
The pleading look on his face already has your stomach flipping, mouth a little dry. He’s so unfairly gorgeous like this. Tired eyes, messy damp curls,his toned body stretched out next to you, still radiating heat from the match. The way his tracksuit top has ridden up to show a sliver of toned stomach… it’s ridiculous how much you want him even when he’s half-dead on his feet.
“Fine,” you say, trying to sound stern but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, “but you need to try and sleep too…”
He shifts slightly so you’re fully facing each other, one hand moving to your lower back, his leg still draped heavy over yours. “I can fall asleep kissing you.”
The kisses start off sweet and slow. Gentle presses of his lips against yours, his hand stroking your lower back under your top. His other hand in your hair, fingers loose and tired. Then they deepen.
Jude lets out a quiet, relieved sigh into your mouth as his lips part wider, tongue sliding in slow and warm. The kisses turn sloppy fast. Wet, lazy, unhurried in an exhausted way that somehow makes it hotter. His tongue moves heavy and deep, tangling with yours in long, messy strokes, licking into your mouth like he’s too tired to do anything but feel you. Every so often he sucks softly on your tongue or your bottom lip, pulling it between his before going back in deeper, slower, wetter. You can taste the faint mint from his post-dinner toothpaste mixed with the warm, familiar taste that’s just him. His breaths are heavier now, little groans vibrating against your lips as the kisses grow filthier. Your tongues sliding slow and slick, mouths open and messy, spit-slick lips catching every time you pull apart for air only to dive right back in.
He’s genuinely exhausted, you feel it in the heavy weight of his body against yours, the way his movements stay soft and sleepy even as they get more desperate. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, holding you there as he kisses you like he’s trying to melt into you. Deep, lazy swirls of his tongue, slow sucks, the occasional sleepy grind of his hips against your thigh. He’s half-asleep and completely turned on at the same time, and it’s doing dangerous things to you.
Your hand slides under his top to rest on his ribs, and the soft, needy sound he makes against your tongue makes you shiver hard in his arms.
“M’so hard for you,” he whispers against your lips, breathing heavily. He presses his hips forward, grinding slowly so you can feel exactly how turned on he is, the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his joggers.
“You need me to help you, baby?” you murmur, letting your hand trail down his stomach until your palm cups the hard bulge. He’s so warm, so fucking hard already, twitching eagerly under your touch.
Jude’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into your hand as he lets out a soft, desperate whimper. “Please…”
“But you’re so tired, Jude.” You stroke him slowly through the fabric, teasing, because you love when he gets like this…all soft, sleepy, and whiny for you.
“Baby—” he whines, the sound high and needy, forehead pressed to yours. His hand moves down to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in just a little. “M’never too tired for you… fuck, please touch me properly. I need it. Need you so bad..”
You push his joggers down just enough to free him and wrap your fingers around him. Jude’s whole body shudders, a broken moan spilling from his lips as you start stroking him. You start slow, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swirling over the slick head every time. He’s so thick and hot in your hand, veins pulsing, leaking steadily now. You’re transfixed by the sight of him.
“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he whimpers, voice all sleepy. His head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open as soft, desperate little sounds keep falling out of him. “Your hand feels so good, baby… don’t stop, please. I’ve been thinking about this for hours.”
You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he jolts, hips bucking lazily into your fist, chasing the pleasure even though his body is heavy with exhaustion. Every whimper is quieter, needier. He’s almost submissive in the way he lets you take control, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him.
You lift his shirt higher so you can see his toned stomach, selfishly maybe, but he looked so pretty. You keep going, stroking him faster, tighter, watching the way his abs clench and his chest rises and falls quicker. “So pretty Jude,” you whisper, and Jude lets out a broken whine, biting his bottom lip.
“Baby… I— fuck, I’m so close already,” he pants, voice cracking. “Your hand is gonna make me come if you keep— ah—”
You slide down his body before he can finish, taking him into your mouth in one slow, wet glide. Jude’s back arches off the bed with a loud, guttural moan, one hand flying to your hair, holding on tight as his fingers tremble.
“Oh my god— your mouth, fuck—” He’s losing it completely now, sleepy whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds as you bob your head, tongue swirling around him, sucking him deep. “So warm… so fucking good. Baby, please— I can’t— you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep sucking like that.”
His hips twitch up gently, like he’s trying so hard to be good and not fuck your mouth, but his control is slipping. Whiny, breathy moans fill the room as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. Jude’s thighs shake, hand tightening in your hair, voice hoarse.
“Baby… slow, please, I’m so sensitive— fuck, I love your mouth so much…”
You slow down and look up, making eye contact with him. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded with exhaustion and pure bliss, lips parted, chest heaving. The sight of you between his legs like this seems to ruin him even more.
“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, voice cracking, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “My beautiful girl.”
He keeps watching you with that dazed, adoring look, hips rocking up in tiny, helpless movements as you suck him slow and deep. You swirl your tongue around the head, then take him all the way again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his stomach. Jude’s whole body trembles.
“Fuck— baby, look at you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent. “Taking me so well… even when I’m this tired. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”
His praise comes out soft and broken, each word punctuated by a shaky breath or a little whimper. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs heavier on your tongue, the constant little twitches of his thighs, the way his fingers keep flexing in your hair like he’s fighting not to lose it. But he stays so good for you, letting you control everything, just moaning and whining softly every time you swallow around him or suck a little harder.
“Gonna make me come if you keep doing that…” he pants, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth is too good, love. Too warm and wet and— shit—”
You pull off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock as you stroke him slowly with your hand instead. Jude lets out a wrecked, needy sound at the loss, hips chasing your mouth for a second before he catches himself. Before you can say anything, he’s tugging at you weakly, desperate.
“Too far away… come back up here, please.”
You crawl back up his body and he immediately pulls you in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your top, squeezing your waist, your hips, like he needs to feel all of you at the same time. The kiss goes on and on, lazy and filthy, tongues sliding slow while he whimpers softly into your mouth every time you stroke him.
You keep working your hand over his cock, slow and slick, and Jude’s hips rock up to meet every stroke, his breathing getting shakier. He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting.
“You don’t want to come yet?” you whisper against his lips, still stroking him lazily.
He shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanna be closer to you baby, wanna make you feel good.. wanna.. wanna— fuck.”
His sentence cuts off into a broken moan. For a long moment he just kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other slides down your body. His palm smooths over your stomach, then lower, teasing along the waistband of your shorts like he’s giving you time to feel the anticipation. His fingers finally slip under the fabric, pushing your shorts and panties down your thighs in one clumsy but eager movement. He helps kick them the rest of the way off, big hands gentle on your skin the whole time.
Once they’re gone he settles between your spread legs, still kissing you slow and deep. His fingers drag through your folds and he curses softly against your mouth.
“You’re so wet for me, fuck…” He circles your clit slowly, almost lazily, but the way his breath catches tells you how much it affects him. “All this for me? After I played like shit for half the game?”
You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand, and he smiles a tired, crooked grin before leaning in to kiss you again. His fingers keep moving, slow circles on your clit, then dipping inside you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He’s still so hard against your thigh, twitching every time you moan.
Jude buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking softly while his fingers work you open. “Need to be inside you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Please, baby. Wanna feel you around me. Wanna make you come first… then you can ride me slow while I hold you. I just— I need you close. So fucking close.”
He curls his fingers just right and you arch into him, moaning his name. Jude whimpers in response, pressing his cock against your hip like he can’t help it.
“Please, baby,” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “I need to be inside you. Can’t wait anymore.”
You nod, pulling him up for another deep kiss as he lines himself up. “If you get tired just say, Jude,” you whisper against his lips. He looked so exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped — and part of you still felt a pang of guilt that he was going to be the one putting in all the effort tonight.
“You’re such an angel,” he whispers softly, pecking your forehead with heartbreaking tenderness, then leaning down for another deep kiss. “As if I could ever be too tired to fuck you.”
The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick, and you both moan into each other’s mouths as he starts pushing in. He’s so slow and careful, even though you can feel how badly he wants to bury himself.
“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Inch by inch he sinks into you, stretching you open until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours. The sound he makes is relief mixed with pleasure, a long, broken moan that vibrates through his chest.
For a moment he just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your lips. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, desperate for the full body contact. You can feel how tired he is, the way his muscles are trembling from the long match and the effort it’s taking just to hold himself up. “You feel so good,” he groans. “Just for me, yeah? Tell me this pussy belongs to me. ”
“It belongs to you, baby. Only you,” you moan softly, clenching around him. “I belong to you.”
A shaky breath leaves him. He buries his face in your neck, sucking softly on your skin while he gives one slow, grinding roll of his hips. “Good girl… all mine,” he mumbles, the words slurred with tiredness. “I don’t share you with anyone.”
Then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips, grinding deep instead of thrusting hard. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s savouring every second even though exhaustion is weighing on him. His breaths are heavier, his arms shaking slightly as he holds you, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple. Still, he doesn’t stop. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and Jude lets out a soft, whiny sound again that makes you clench harder around him.
“Baby… yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Feels too good. You’re squeezing me so tight— fuck.”
His mouth finds yours again, the kiss sloppy and tired, tongues sliding lazily while he keeps that slow grind going. One hand stays gripping your hip, the other slides up to cup your breast through your t-shirt, thumb brushing your nipple almost absentmindedly, like even his hands are running out of energy but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s so vocal, whimpering your name, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he needs you.
You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts losing their steadiness, becoming a little more desperate. “I’m so close,” he whines against your mouth. “Come with me, baby. Please. Wanna feel you come around me.”
One of his hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. The combination of his cock dragging deep inside you, his fingers, his soft sleepy moans, pushes you over the edge first. You clench around him hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you.
Jude follows right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes deep inside you, hips stuttering. “Fuck— love you, love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, trembling through it.
Afterwards he collapses on top of you, heavy and warm, still buried inside. His arms wrap around you tightly, face tucked into your neck as he catches his breath. Soft kisses press against your shoulder, lazy and sweet.
“Best recovery ever,” he murmurs with a tired little laugh, voice muffled. “But I’m never moving ever again.”
You run your fingers down the muscles of his back, smiling as both of your breathing starts to even out, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion. You kiss his temple, open your mouth to respond, but he's snoring softly before you can even reply.
tags: @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes
Lovesick
Ledger Ward x F!reader (established relationship)
Synopsis: On an annual cabin trip with friends, you're caught off guard, left with no choice but to fix things with Ledger thanks to a scheme set up by Roman
Warnings/tags *MDNI*: service dom!Ledger, forced proximity/exes trope, light emotional angst, piv, fluff, smut, fingering (f!reader), dirty talk, scent kink, missionary, creampie, maxxed out on the intimacy, want live in each others skin badddd dynamic, Roman mentioned, grief mentioned, only proofread once !
WC: 5.1k
A/N: y’all im sorry, ik it’s been a minute but i hope you enjoy this one! parent trap slipped into my mind at some point throughout this LOL but the songs on loop for this one were I Miss You by Beyoncé and Sunshine by Steve Lacy (yes this is set in winter, I can’t help it😩!)
Excitedly stepping out of the car, your heart dropped upon seeing a familiar truck already at the cabin. Your face fell at the realization you’d have to deal with being in the same space as Ledger for the remainder of the trip. Your other friends seemed oblivious except for Roman who quickly turned his gaze towards you, to begin bargaining.
“I know what you’re thinking but before you say anything, hear me out!”
“I’m leaving. You guys have fun without me!” There was an edge of humor in your tone masking how close you were to actually turning around and walking home, no matter how far away the destination was.
“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I invited him! I thought you wouldn’t come if I told you”.
“You were right in thinking that. What in your right mind made you think I’d be fine being around him?!” It had been six months since the breakup. Your stomach turned just thinking about how things were left.
Romans tone was earnest as he acknowledged his fault in the matter. “I’m sorry for blindsiding you like this, I know things are still fresh there, but please… give it a chance for me”. You leveled with him through your eye contact, resolve slipping at his words. Developing a friendship in high school, you had known Roman for years at this point. He happened to be the one who introduced you to Ledger, calling himself a matchmaker at the time. That was the only reason you began rethinking your anger. He knew you and Ledger well enough to gauge whether this would be a disaster or exactly what you both needed.
“I want you two to have a good time, relax, and be comfortable! It’s been too long since I’ve seen it happen”. Neither of you took the distance from each other well, slowly becoming a shell of the person you once were when you were together. Despite breaking it off, you couldn’t acclimate to a new normal without him, longing for the affection his presence alone would bring you.
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not going to be alone with him. You have the three of us right now and the rest coming tomorrow”.
With Roman’s voice carrying you out of your wandering mind, you caved with a small sigh. “Ok”.
Repeating, “Ok?”, with a smile, he stuck both of his thumbs up for confirmation.
You returned the gesture begrudgingly, “Ok”. Immediately after agreeing to have a good time, you glance past him catching a glimpse of Ledger walking out the door to help with luggage. Smile dimming at the sight, a flood of emotions came rushing over you. Taking advantage of the fact he hadn’t felt your gaze yet, you took in his attire, feeling heat creep up your neck as you did. He still looks good…
Feeling your stare, Ledger stopped in his tracks, turning his head in that direction to find you. He clenched his jaw, heart lurching as he scanned your figure. An onslaught of past memories at the cabin while you two were together bubbled to the surface in his mind. She looks happy…
From first looks alone, both of you were under the impression the other was thriving from being separated but it was far from it. The shared stolen glances didn’t last long as you averted your gaze, beginning to walk up the pathway toward the door. Stepping further outside, Ledger walked opposite of you, keeping his gaze steady. Unaware of his lingering eyes, you didn’t catch him pausing in his trek to look back after you brushed passed him. Even through the crisp chill of the snow flurries, your fragrance sharply hit his nose. Taking a deep inhale, his stomach twisted with need. No matter which scent you chose to add in your routine, the undercurrent of your natural scent drew him in, making his blood rush out of sheer recall.
Once everyone had gotten settled throughout the cabin and picked their rooms, you all convened downstairs to play a few board games. Ignoring the piercing feeling of his eyes from across the table the entire time, you kept your communication minimal. You clenched your thighs, trying to brush off how affected you were each time your gaze met. Ledger watched everything, from the glimmer that sparked in your pupils when you laughed, to the look of concentration you held whenever your turn came around.
After several rounds of uno, you all decided to finish as things began getting a bit too competitive. You traveled upstairs at some point to unpack and fold your clothes. About fifteen minutes in, a message from Roman pops up.
“Went to get gas, we’ll be back soon”.
A thin wave of suspicion washed over you, but you brushed it off, summing it up as nothing until he called you ten minutes later.
“Soooo It’s looking like we may be stuck out here for a couple hours”.
Having an inclination he was up to something, you paused for a moment. “Why…? And who is we…?”
“Me, grace, and Carmen. Apparently, there’s a snow storm coming in so we’re just going to wait it out”.
Putting two and two together, you stopped folding your clothes, letting out a deep sigh. “You suck Rome, seriously. And on top of that, you’re an awful liar! You said I wouldn’t be alone with him!”.
“I should’ve specified you won’t have to for the entire trip, my bad!” Rolling your eyes at the sound of his chuckle over the line, he continued. “Promise, both of you will thank me later. I have faith you guys will hash things out and we’ll all have a great time this week like we always do!”
You should’ve known he was planning something, but the inkling hadn’t crossed your mind until seeing Ledgers truck. None of this came as a surprise considering this would’ve been the first winter vacation where you two weren’t together. Let alone in a rocky place. And despite your frustration, you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to smooth things over. If things do happen to change, it’s not lost on you that you’d be unable to remain platonic with the feelings attached to him, but you missed him… deeply.
As Ledger was left ruminating in his room, the sentiment was mutual. He didn’t think you would’ve come but he also had zero clue Roman omitted the fact that he was coming. Running through the best ways to approach you, he settled on finding the right opportunity. You made it very clear where you stood with him the day you declared you couldn’t do it anymore, the weight of your connection teetering until it was too much. After much protest, he gave up, leaving you to stand firm in your stance because he couldn’t stomach the thought of you being unfulfilled with him.
Knowing you’d find some comfort in watching the snow fall, you headed downstairs after changing your clothes. Standing right in front of the large window next to the fireplace, you checked the weather app. A small snicker slipped out once you confirmed there was no storm coming. Only given a second to bask in said comfort, you heard Ledgers foot steps behind you before his voice. “Can we talk?”
Heart rate steadily rising, you were quiet for a second. You refused to face him, fearing your guard would break down the moment you saw his face. It was one thing, stealing a few glances when company was around but it was something else entirely different when you were alone, left with no other form of distraction. Standing a short distance away, he waited for any sign of acknowledgement. “Are you planning on ignoring me the whole trip?” Just as you were preparing to speak, you felt a gust of air nip at your skin when he shifted to step in front of you.
As soon as he did, you turned away, feeling your throat start to constrict. In one instance of closeness, you felt the heaviness of that day seep in all over again. Maybe a conversation isn’t necessary… “There’s nothing to talk about”. After uttering a response, you began walking away in the direction of the stairs.
Ledger followed, persistent in cracking your shell. “Don’t do that… not with me”. Heart twisting at your demeanor, he knew you were hurt but he didn’t think this would come as a result. Any disagreement or misunderstandings you two had in your relationship was always solved through communication. No matter what, big or small, it was handled. He couldn’t grasp why that was no longer the case. You had never brushed him off like this or flat out decided against speaking. Softening his tone, he was close on your trail, doubling down, “How can you expect us to be good for the rest of the time if you can’t even look at me?”
He grasped your forearm, urging you to turn around and spare him a look. He’d take anything. You stopped, now having no choice but to peer up at him, tears welling in your eyes as soon as you did. “I don’t know what you want me to say”.
Ledgers expression shifted at the sight of hurt behind your eyes. “Just talk to me, please…”. He brought his hand down to yours, pleading with you. Stroking his thumb back and forth against your skin, he added, “I never wanted this to happen to us… you know that”.
Throat constricting before uttering, “Neither did I- “, your mind flashed back to how you felt in that moment. With a stray droplet rolling down your cheek, you voiced, “every time you pushed me away…”, unable to finish your sentence. You drew your gaze toward his touch, sliding your hand out of his grasp. “I’m not going to force you to let me in if you’re not comfortable, but I can’t handle that anymore”.
He cupped your cheek, swiping your tears away before tipping your head up so you wouldn’t look away. “I’ve always been comfortable with you. I’m sorry I made you feel different… I am”. Ledger contemplated voicing the reason he forces himself to detach from you. “That’s not it, I promise it’s not, I just—”. Clearing his throat before a blockage could form, he responded in a hushed tone, “I don’t want to burden you with seeing me like that”.
As soon as his words registered in your mind, you thought back to his behavior. He had unintentionally fallen into the pattern of pushing you away to tread along the ebbs and flows of his grief alone. Especially during the month of April. It never dawned on him how much he actually withdrew in those moments until you broke up with him. “It’s not a burden… I’ve never viewed it like that”. Scanning the solemn gleam in his eyes, you leaned into his touch, bringing your hand up to rub his forearm. “I just want to be there for you.” Trying to prevent a fresh wave of tears, your eyes drifted. “I always went to you whenever I needed you in moments like that, so I just thought-…”. Unable to keep your composure stoic, a few more droplets stained your cheeks.
“I do need you…”. His eyes glazed over the longer he stared, grazing your cheek with his thumb. Voice barely above a whisper, Ledger pleaded, “don’t give up on this, please”. The thought of ending the trip without having you by his side again sent his mind reeling. “Give me another chance baby… it won’t be the same anymore”. Feeling compelled under his gaze, you looked off to the side again. You did your best to remain unwavering until his next words.
“Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore”. Cupping both your cheeks to wipe the tears as they came, a lump took place in Ledgers throat at the possibility of you saying that. “Tell me you need me to leave and I will, I promise…”
Before you knew it, his body was inches away. Your stomach started turning at the mere idea, fully rejecting the notion you had no more feelings for him. You placed your other hand on his abdomen to ground yourself. “I can’t do that…”. Once you met his eyes, hope bloomed in his chest. He kissed your temple, immediately wrapping his arms around you to envelope you in a bear hug.
Melting into his embrace, you absentmindedly drew your nails along his lower back, pressing your cheek against his chest. Your body settled as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Ledger began stroking the nape of your neck, slipping into a state of remembrance once he rested his chin on your head. Too many months had passed without feeling you. Without hearing your voice. Your laughter… that could never happen again.
Needing to hear the soft flow of your breath, he hooked his hands behind your thighs, lifting you up to link your legs around him. You shifted your arms towards his shoulders, placing your head in his neck for better access of his scent. In that instance, you heard Ledger utter, “I missed you”. He attempted to keep his voice steady, hiding the pain in his statement but you caught it.
Raising your head to peer at him, you caught a glimpse of a single tear rolling down his face before disappearing once it met his facial hair. Your voice was thick with emotion as you responded, “I missed you too”. Finally having an opportunity to admire it up close, you tentatively ran your fingers over his scruff. The difference wasn’t drastic but there was noticeably more hair. As you took your time admiring him, he started walking towards the couch. Mumbling, “you grew it out”, you brought your gaze back to his eyes.
Now having you straddle him, Ledger rubbed your thighs, staring with a small smile. “Not intentionally. I just haven’t felt like trimming it as much”. You hummed in response, unable to keep your eyes from dropping. His features were still accentuated with the subtle influx of hair, maintaining the sharp framing of his face. “You like it? I can shave it right now if you don’t”.
Swiftly shaking your head in disbelief, you clarified, “no, no, keep it please. I love it”. Shuffling your hips closer to his body, you traced the outline of his lips with your thumb. The faint idea of someone else touching him like this slowly started to creep into your mind, festering until you grew quiet. Growing worried at the expression painting your face, Ledger squeezed your flesh.
“What is it?”
You glanced down for a second, gathering your emotions before asking flat out, “have you… have you been with anyone else?”
“I haven’t”. He shook his head no, thinking about all of the nights he spent imagining you. “Any relief I’ve gotten during the last few months has been from the thought of you”.
Your body warming up after hearing his comment, a welcome wave of need started simmering in your stomach. “I haven’t either… I’ve been doing the same thing”. You paused, replaying the last time you did as arousal pooled in your core. “It’s not as satisfying as real life”.
Familiar with that glimmer in your eyes, he coaxed, “walk me through your favorite one, hm?” He slid his hands under your hoodie, skimming your waist. Dropping his voice an octave to encourage, “tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine”, a playful smile spread on his face.
Hesitant to confess at first, you contemplated for a little bit until cracking a similar smile. “Ok… in my vision you were watching me touch myself at first until my fingers dipped inside”. You caressed his chest, a cocoon of warmth flooding your body before you could continue. “Then you replaced my hand with yours, starting out slow before picking up speed”.
Ledger clenched his jaw, attentively watching you recall your own vision. He smoothed his hands over your ass, gently urging you to say more. “What else baby? I know that’s not all…”
“You stopped before I came so that you could feel me cum on you…”, you blushed, hesitating on saying the next sentence for fear of sounding too on the nose but decided to anyway. “Don’t laugh but we made love, that’s it. Nothing crazy but it was enough to get me there”. A small laugh escaped you as he grinned, more than happy hearing you utter those words. “It’s your turn”.
“Yours isn’t too far off from mine but you were riding my face to start, completely oblivious of my hand moving in sync with your hips…” Ledger twitched in his pants, tightening his grip on your waist before trailing his hands down to your thighs. “Then I flipped you onto your back and made love to you”. He stared for a bit, wetting his lips as he leaned in close to speak next to your ear. “That went on for a few rounds and mine was a lot more vivid than that but I’m sure you know that already…”
Taking a quiet breath in, you raked your nails along the nape of his neck as a deep pang of arousal hit your core. Your hand ventured to his jaw, nudging his head back into place so you could see him while the other drifted up and down his abdomen. You ghosted your lips against his, pressing a light kiss before pulling away to tease. Ledger didn’t let you distance for more than a few seconds before molding them together again, groaning into your mouth.
Smiling into the kiss, you returned with the same fervor, clutching his shirt to pull him close. He slipped his hand under your hoodie, pressing the small of your back. You let out a small moan as the ache to be filled settled in your stomach. Reminding yourself not to get too carried away in the living room, you abruptly detached, pushing off of his chest to stand. Ledger briefly looked confused until you grasped his hand, prompting him to follow as you led him towards the stairs. His eyes wandered down your body, lingering on the curve of your ass.
Happily traipsing into your room still hand in hand with one another, you turned to face him now, quickly caught up in his embrace again. He circled your waist, tipping your chin up to extend the kiss. You fleetingly gripped his arms before fiddling with his shirt, trying to lift it up off of him. Ledger parted, tossing it over his head to then focus on helping you strip out of your clothes, leaving you naked. Directing your hands down to unbuckle his pants, you hooked your finger through the middle loop, walking backwards toward the bed. Following every step you took, he dipped his head down, reconnecting your lips.
Along the slow shuffle to the bed, you unzipped his jeans, tugging his dick out from the confines of his boxers. After completely shrugging them off to the side, Ledger reluctantly detached to utter, “go kneel on the bed for me baby”. Releasing soft pants of air, you nodded, moving into position. Kneeling with your calves resting under your thighs as you sat facing the window, you were able to catch a glimpse of the snow falling through the sheer curtains. In the middle of admiring the view, you felt him take place behind you.
He massaged your breast, winding his other arm around your midsection to keep you pressed against his body. You relaxed upon feeling his skin rub across your own, instinctively clasping onto his forearms for increased contact. Ledger trailed his hand up, propping your chin so he was within earshot. “The pressures right here hm?” With your head resting on his chest, you mewled, grazing his hand as it descended past your navel. He added a bit of compression to place emphasis on the area, causing a spiral of arousal to hit your core. After seeing you nod out a response, he questioned, “how long…?”
Mumbling out, “since I saw you”, your voice had now developed a faint rasp. He started rubbing slow circles on your stomach, feeling himself twitch against your back at the sound. “Didn’t except to see your hair like that…”. Tipping your head sideways, Ledger leaned in, connecting your lips. His hand gravitated lower until he reached your pussy, gliding a finger in between your folds to gather your arousal. You paused the kiss, breathing into his mouth when he started rolling the pad of his finger in gradual loops over your clit.
He inserted his finger, drawing a moan out of you. “I’ll keep it like this”. Ledger shifted your head back to his chest, voicing right into your ear, “just for you”. Adding another digit, he began pumping them in and out, starting to nip at the skin under your ear. You moaned, eyes fluttering as his pace steadily increased. The warmth spiked in your core with every lap of his tongue swirling against you. Your mind slipped into a comfortable state of calm, feeling his fingers glide past your walls with ease. It never took him long to raise the volume of your squelching when it came to knowing what spots to hit.
Ledger was straining behind you with beads of precum forming as you involuntarily attempted to rock your hips in sync with his movements. He curled his fingers, grazing your g-spot each time they sunk back in. After leaving a sufficient amount of love-bites, he wrapped his arm around your frame again, massaging your breast while holding you in place. Your eyes shut once he sped up, driving you closer to the edge. Uttering in a hushed tone, “Look at that”, he was fixated on the way your thighs vibrated beside his hand from the impact.
You briefly opened your eyes, fixing your gaze down. The bulk of his arm fondling your breasts slightly blocked your view but the prominent sight of his veins scaling down his arm caused you to clench around his fingers. A sharp pang of pleasure coiled deep in your stomach. Stuttering out, “f-fuck I’m close baby”, your head lolled back against him as you quickly felt the start of your orgasm sparking through your core.
Huskily encouraging, “Coat my fucking fingers just like that”, Ledger reinforced his hold on you. Thrumming in and out rapidly now, he drew his gaze towards any portion of your face he could see, watching your brows furrow. You dug your nails into his arm before wrapping your hand around his wrist to brace yourself. “I’ve got you baby, let go”. On cue, the knot embedded in your core unraveled, oozing out as he continued plunging them inside you. Thighs trembling as your orgasm momentarily rendered you limp, you were engulfed by the haze. He slowed his hand once your body settled, eventually retracting after giving you a moment. You glanced down, whimpering as he brought them up to taste your fluid.
Carefully moving so that you could lay down on the bed now, Ledger positioned himself between your legs. Gripping the base of his dick now, he landed a few teasing slaps on your folds, eliciting a shudder from you. He glided it up and down through your arousal before naturally aligning, prodding into your entrance like muscle memory. You couldn’t decide where to look, gaze set on his face before wandering down his body to see him bottom out. Drawing his stare over your breasts toward your face, he palmed your thighs, pressing them against his skin. The potent curling sensation that swirled inside your core every time you felt him stretch you out was heightened this time. Eyes fluttering shut as your head tipped back into the pillow, you twisted your hands in the sheets before reaching out to feel him on instinct.
Ledgers abdomen brushed against your palms as he came down in your space, hooking his arms beside your head to embrace the sides of your neck. Heart pumping loudly in his ears now, he stilled, rubbing his thumb along your cheek. Placing his face in the crook of your shoulder, he spilled out, “F-fuck, you feel—”, letting out a groan when you roamed your nails past his happy trail.
Mewling out, “look at me”, you pulsed around his length as soon as his eyes met yours. He pecked your lips once, then twice before deepening the kiss. You moaned, shifting your head to draw him closer. Reluctant to part once you needed air, Ledger took that moment to move, gradually withdrawing to sink back in. You locked your legs, keeping him flush against your body with each slow stroke. Your hands found his back, clinging to him throughout his unhurried rhythm. Upon every exhale you released, he’d fill you up, trailing his gaze across your features to watch them morph with pleasure.
Eyes glazing over as he whispered, “I’m sorry”, each time he saw you cry flooded through his mind. Throat constricting over the thought of spending any more months without you, he unconsciously shook his head in response to them. “I-I’m sorry”. Ledger curled his arm underneath your back, grabbing hold of your waist now. “I can’t lose you again, I’m not—”. He found your lips again, moving in sync with the drive of his hips.
You brazenly moan into his mouth, growing dizzy from the sensation of his veins rubbing against your walls as if his life depended on it. Swallowing every mewl you made, he gently tugged your bottom lip before resuming the kiss, only letting up so you could breathe. “I’ll show you how serious I am about us baby…”. Now dropping his forehead onto yours, he swiped your swollen lips across each other, eyes hanging low. “Need you to trust that”.
The pleading glint in his eyes accompanied with the edge of pain laced in his tone struck your heart. Murmuring in an airy tone, “I know”, you analyzed his features. This was already more emotion than he had shown you during the last few weeks leading up to the break up. You squeezed his bicep, breath hitching as his thrusts grew calculated, nudging your g-spot. “I’m not going anywhere baby”.
Feeling spurred on by your words, Ledger increased the speed a notch. Ever so slightly tipping your jaw to the side, he dipped down, placing kisses across your cheek until reaching your ear. “Promise me”.
Body purring with desire, you hum, “I promise”. He connected his lips to your neck as soon as the statement spilled out. Groan muffled against your skin, he lost the last thread of inhibition keeping his pace somewhat slowed down. You knew it was coming, anticipating the exact moment he’d succumb. Scaling his back up and down out of reflex, your mouth parted. “F-fuck, I promise baby”.
He twitched, undulating his hips against your skin as the wet sound you accumulated continued penetrating his senses. “I love you”. His tone had dropped, fully encapsulating every emotion he felt when he moved his head to gaze down at you. Holding his eyes level, he zoned in on each whimper, trailing his stare all over your face. You were completely gone, vision glazing over under the weight of it. “So much”.
He had whispered the last part, pouring every ounce of love he had into each lunge. Lip quivering at the feeling, you attempted to speak, words catching in your throat when you did. “I—”. It had coiled around your entire body like a weighted blanket, sending an intense ripple of pleasure rolling through your stomach. Ledger leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before leaving a lingering kiss on your lips.
Planting another one on your cheek now, he grazed your skin with his thumb, soothing against the shell of your ear, “I know you do”. A tremor ran up his spine as he tipped your face in the direction of his ear to hear every sound that rolled off your tongue. You clawed down his back, clinging to his arm while his thrusts sped up. He tightened his grip on your waist, groaning at the slight sting that followed. Arching up into him further, your blinks slowed down, chasing the feeling surging in your core. It was lost on you at this point how loud or quiet you were, purely caught up in how good he felt. “Let me feel it baby”.
The tickle of his facial hair against your skin was the last thing you registered before giving in at his request. For a moment your breath halted as your orgasm racked your body, tingling in waves that had you trembling in his touch. Ledger tensed, throbbing as you pulsated around him, triggering his own climax. He nestled deep inside you, a heavy groan escaping while ropes of his cum coated your walls. You two basked in the fuzzy warmth, allowing yourselves a few minutes to steady your breathing. During that time, you absentmindedly soothed your nails along his skin, finding yourself smiling now.
Breaking the soft silence, Ledger lifted his head, questioning, “better, or no?”, with a lazy smile painted on his face.
Pretending to ponder, you hummed, “hmmm give me a second to think…”, before cracking a wide smile. “Much better… ten out ten” Ledger chuckled, kissing your cheek in response. Your mind had quickly drifted to his admission from earlier, heat traveling up your neck as it did. “I think it’s only fair we try yours…”. Your gaze briefly dropped to his lips, trailing toward his facial hair. The picture you had painted of how he’d look afterwards was stuck in your system now, causing a small stir in your stomach. “Just so you can determine, of course…”
A knowing smile settled on his face upon seeing the gears turn in your head. “We will baby…”. He took in the content, sated look that often made its way onto your features once you were tapped out for the night. “Soon as I know you can handle it, that’s the first thing we’re doing”.
Projecting the same glint of excitement that was shown through his pupils, you gently teased, “you promise…?”
He didn’t respond right away, appreciating the fact that the tantalizing effect you had on him from your voice alone hadn’t changed at all. If anything, it felt stronger after being apart for so long. “I promise”.
After taking entirely too long in the shower together, you two slipped under the covers. Ledger spooned you from behind, circling one arm underneath your body to press against your boobs, holding you close with the other wrapped securely around your midsection. Legs mingled, you rested your arms around his, easing into his skin for comfort. Before you could succumb to sleep, your phone pinged on the dresser next to you with a message from Roman.
“Y’all were loud as hell btw but we’re all glad you made up!!”
Releasing a quiet groan, you couldn’t help the small laugh that came from the realization they came back at some point unbeknownst to both of you. Ledger had already fallen asleep, quietly snoring behind you as he unconsciously pulled you close.
Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated <3
Masterlist
ᯓ fall from grace; j.bellingham
──one shot
pairing ➜ jude x preacher’s daughter!reader
word count ➜ 6.7k
warnings/notes ➜ 18+ minors dni. lowkey innocence kink. some slight power imbalance (he’s 2 years older + more experienced). church girl™️, reader having an internal crisis. angst if you squint.
summary ➜ you meet jude on a random saturday night. some might call it serendipity, you just call it the beginning of your downfall.
you don't even like parties like that.
birthday, baby shower, graduation, whatever kind of party it is—you always find yourself standing near the exit, picking at the edge of your cup, smiling when expected, but never really there. even at church gatherings, when aunties are fanning themselves, talking about the goodness of God, and cousins are running around sticky-mouthed from too much cake, you're somewhere on the sidelines, nodding along but never fully melting into the moment.
it's not that you completely hate them. it's just that they've never felt like you.
you don't do the loud music, the heavy bass that rattles your chest. don't like the way people move in dim lighting, hands wandering, voices slurring, bodies pressing too close. don't care much for the mindless small talk, the smell of liquor clinging to the walls, the fake love that seems to ooze from everybody's mouth after their third drink.
it's not you.
and yet, somehow, you're here. at some house party that has absolutely no business being this packed, clutching a red cup full of something you aren't even sipping, standing by the porch like you're waiting on God himself to send you a sign that it's time to leave.
you should've stayed home, but your friend begged and begged, said you needed to get out, live a little, loosen up. said it like you were some wound-up little thing, too afraid to step outside the lines drawn for you.
so you borrowed one of her dresses. it's tight, clings to you in places you don't usually let yourself acknowledge. it's not short, not inappropriate, but it shows off the curve of your thighs, the softness of your waist, enough to make you feel like maybe you should've thrown a sweater over it before leaving. you tug at the hem, shift from foot to foot, take another glance at the gate like maybe—maybe—you should just call it a night.
and then, he walks up.
casual. easy.
he moves like the world bends for him, like he's used to doors opening before he even knocks. like he expects it. welcomes it. like he thrives in it. and maybe he does—because he's jude bellingham, and his name rings bells far beyond this crowded house, far beyond this city.
he's the guy whose face you've seen on billboards, stretched across stadium screens, flashing in sports headlines your daddy flips past in the morning paper. a name your little cousins scream when they're dribbling in the backyard, pretending they're him, tongue poked out, eyes locked on a goal that doesn't even exist.
you know who he is.
he looks like money. like fame. like a world you don't belong to. he looks like the kind of guy your daddy would pray for you to stay away from. there's something about him that screams worldly, that tells you he's seen too much, had too much, lived too much to ever be satisfied with simple things. with quiet things.
he stops in front of you, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne. you can't even name it, but you know it smells expensive, smells rich, like something way above your whole bloodline's tax bracket.
"you alright?"
just that. no introduction. no hey, i’m jude. like he expects you to already know. which you do. but still.
his voice is smooth, thick with that accent that makes his words roll off his tongue just a little different. it makes heat lick up your spine, makes your fingers curl tighter around your untouched drink.
you don't answer right away. you just blink up at him, trying to figure out why. why, in a house full of people who probably came here just for the chance to breathe the same air as him, he's standing in front of you.
you shift, clear your throat. "yeah. just—" you hesitate, then sigh, "—not really a party person."
jude's mouth twitches, just barely.
"yeah?" he lifts a brow. "what, you get dragged out here?"
you give a small, tight-lipped smile. "something like that."
his eyes flick down, taking in the way you tug at your dress again, the way your shoulders are stiff, like you're waiting to be judged. he can easily tell you don't belong here, that you slipped in from a whole other world.
he sees it in the way your nails tap against your cup, like you're trying to distract yourself from how much you don't fit into this picture. in the way your eyes flick toward the exit—again—like you're counting the steps it would take to leave.
he almost smirks, because you look like a lost little lamb, dropped into the middle of something you shouldn't be in.
and he likes that.
too much.
"you wanna go somewhere quieter?" he tilts his head just slightly, smiles so sweetly it almost feels calculated.
and you should say no. you should. it's what's expected of you. the voice of every woman in your life rings in your head, your mama's warnings about boys with hands too quick and smiles too sweet, the voice of your youth pastor reminding you of what happens when you stray too far from the path.
"i—" your voice is softer than you'd like, unsure. "i shouldn't."
his smile doesn't waver. in fact, it deepens, like he expected that. like it only amuses him.
"but do you want to?"
"it's just—" you hesitate, shifting on your feet. "my friend's inside, and i don't wanna leave her alone."
jude doesn't react immediately. he just watches you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's entertained by the excuse you're trying to convince yourself with.
"that her right there?" he asks, nodding toward the open door, where your friend is laughing, deep in conversation with some guy you don't recognise. her body is angled toward him, her hand resting on his arm, her drink half-forgotten on the table beside her.
your stomach twists, because yeah. that's her. looking very much not alone.
jude chuckles, tongue peeking out to wet his lips before he looks back at you. "yeah, she seems real concerned about where you are."
he's got a point. you know he does. and before you can come up with some half-assed rebuttal, he's already stepping in a little closer. soft eyes, even softer smile, head tilting just enough to make you dizzy.
"i won't steal you away forever," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, so smooth it nearly melts into your skin. "just for a little while. promise."
it's stupid. so, so stupid.
but the way he says it makes it feel like the safest danger you'll ever walk into.
so before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can remind yourself of all the reasons why this is a bad idea, before you can let the guilt take root in your stomach—
you nod.
and jude grins.
like he knew you would.
—
you don't kiss him that first night.
you almost do. his mouth gets close, real close, and your breath hitches when his thumb brushes your jaw. his touch is warm, gentle, not rushed. but you flinch anyway, just a tiny jerk of your chin, a nervous swallow he doesn't miss.
he steps back, slow. like he can see the hesitation all over your face. like he already knows the battle waging inside your head, between what you've been taught and what your body is starting to want.
"don't worry," he says, voice low. steady. like he's used to getting his way but doesn't mind waiting this time. "won't do anything you're not comfortable doing."
you nod, grateful, embarrassed, confused all at once.
grateful because he didn't push, didn't try to take what you weren't ready to give. didn't make you feel stupid for hesitating.
embarrassed because you wanted to. for a second—half a second—you wanted to feel his lips on yours, to know if they were as soft as they looked, to know if he'd kiss you sweet or if he'd take his time, teasing, drawing it out until you had no choice but to pull him closer. and that thought alone makes heat crawl up your neck, because what kind of girl are you to be thinking like that? what kind of girl stands out here in the dark, alone with a boy like him, heart racing, mind spinning, knowing full well she has no business even entertaining the idea?
confused because none of this makes sense. because he's him, jude bellingham, a name bigger than this city, bigger than you. because you're just some girl from a quiet neighbourhood, the preacher's daughter, the one who plays it safe and follows the rules and doesn't end up in situations like this. you don't flirt with boys who have money and a reputation that stretches across continents. you don't hold conversations with them after midnight, hands stuffed in their pockets, smirking when you tell them about how your daddy would lose his mind if he knew you were out here.
but you do.
you let it happen.
you let him happen.
you watch as he knowingly smiles down at you. soft. indulgent. patient. like he already knows how this story ends. like he already knows that this thing between you isn't about if—it's about when.
and the way your stomach tightens, the way your lips tingle from nothing but the ghost of what almost happened? you know it too.
he's what you'll be craving... eventually.
—
ynprivate
liked by yourbestfriend, yourcousin, and 11 others.
ynprivate life lately.✨
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yourbestfriend: beautiful ass bitch.😍
↳ ynprivate: language☹️
boyfromchurch: you get prettier every time i see you😢 - liked by author
yourfriend: all your angles are good angles😌
↳ ynprivate: 🥹💕
—
ynprivate added to their instagram stories
💬 judebellingham has replied to your story
judebellingham: cheffing up like this and didn’t offer me none? fake.
ynprivate: i don’t share with strangers.
judebellingham: good thing you and i are way past that then.
ynprivate: are we?
judebellingham: if our intimate little interaction from the other night is any indication, yeah.
ynprivate: intimate? you romanticise things. dangerous habit.
judebellingham: no. i remember things how they are. the way you looked at me was anything but casual.🤷🏽♂️
ynprivate: you’re delusional.
judebellingham: and you’re deflecting. which is fine. you’ll say what you mean eventually.
ynprivate: and that is?
judebellingham: you want me
ynprivate: hilarious.
judebellingham: you think i’m charming
ynprivate: even more hilarious. i’m busy. stop texting me, before i burn my cookies.
judebellingham: send me one. wanna taste.
ynprivate: go buy your own, i’m sure you have the budget for it big baller.
judebellingham: problem is, i don’t want a cookie. i want your cookie.
ynprivate: …
judebellingham: i meant that in exactly the way you just thought i did
ynprivate: wow. i’ll pray for you
judebellingham: i’d love that.😊
ynprivate: 🤦🏽♀️
—
he’s right about one thing.
you do think he’s charming.
weeks pass, and jude keeps randomly popping up.
at the coffee shop where you work—just off campus, tucked into the corner of a busy street, a place that smells like roasted espresso beans and vanilla syrup. you don't even see him at first. too busy at the register, wiping your hands on your apron, trying to keep up with the rush.
but then you hear his voice. low, warm, unmistakable.
"medium caramel latte. extra shot."
you look up, and there he is. leaning against the counter, watching you with this lazy kind of amusement, like he's already in on a joke you don't know yet.
you stammer out a "hi," and he grins.
"hey, pretty girl. you work here?"
you nod, suddenly flustered, suddenly too aware of how you probably smell like milk and coffee grounds, how your braids are tied in a lopsided bun at the top of your head.
"since when?" he asks.
you tell him—a few months now, just something part-time, something to keep busy.
"i like it," he says, tapping his fingers against the counter. "suits you."
it shouldn't make you warm inside, but it does.
after that, he starts showing up more. not every day, not even every week, but enough that you notice.
one time, he pops up at that one spot behind the student centre where you go to read alone.
you found it your first year—a little courtyard, quiet, shaded by trees, tucked away from the main pathways. most people don't even know it's there. you go when you need peace, when the world feels too loud, when you just want to sit with a book and let time slip through your fingers.
so when jude shows up on a random tuesday afternoon, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he belongs anywhere but here, you frown.
"how'd you find this place?"
he shrugs, lazy and unbothered, before dropping onto the bench beside you. "a little birdy told me this is your spot. figured i'd find you here."
your best friend. of course. she's been on one ever since she caught wind of whatever this thing is between you and jude. grinning every time his name comes up, eyes wide with something like glee when she saw him talking to you after church that one time.
she's way too invested. and knowing her? she probably handed him the information on a silver platter. all it would've taken was a quick dm, a little charm, and she would've folded in seconds.
you make a mental note to cuss her out later. in the most christian way, of course.
you turn to jude, lips parted, already halfway to telling him that you don't play about your reading time—but then he stretches out, long legs sprawling, his whole body shifting into something that looks too good to ignore.
his arm drapes over the back of the bench, all casual, his fingers just barely brushing against your back. and he's looking at you with something like amusement in his eyes, like he knows you won't ask him to leave.
and maybe you should. maybe you should roll your eyes, tell him to give you space, bury yourself back in the pages of your book. but the way he's sitting there, looking at you like this is exactly where he's meant to be? yeah. suddenly, the company doesn't feel so bad.
the first time, he talks your ear off.
leans back on the bench, eyes flicking between you and the worn-out pages in your hands. asks you what you're reading, why you picked it, if it's boring, if it's "one of them romance novels with the cringy shit."
"it's a classic," you argue, looking up at him, brow raised.
he snorts, shaking his head. calls you a hopeless romantic.
the second time, he brings food.
"thought you might be hungry," he says, pulling a sandwich and a drink from a brown bag. claims it's the best sandwich you'll ever taste because he made it himself.
you try to act unimpressed, try to keep your face neutral, but your stomach betrays you—growling at the smell of warm bread, fresh and tempting. his lips twitch, like he's fighting a smirk, before he nudges the bag toward you.
"go on, then. take it."
his fingers brush yours when you do. a small thing, a nothing moment. but something flickers in his gaze, quick and unreadable, before he looks away.
and maybe that's the moment something shifts. when you stop seeing him as this footballer who keeps showing up and start seeing him as jude.
jude, who doesn't tease when you say you've never even been on a real date. just nods, like he's storing that information for later. jude, who actually listens when you talk about your family, your plans, your fear of failing—like every word you say matters.
jude, who looks at you like he's figuring out a puzzle he likes being confused by.
jude, who's creeping into your life, slowly, surely, and you don't even realise you're letting him.
—
he doesn't kiss you until the third time he sees you outside church.
you're wearing a long, pink dress. something modest, something pretty. it cinches just enough at the waist to remind you that you have one, but it flows past your ankles, grazing the tops of your shoes with every step. it's the kind of dress your mama approves of. the kind that makes the older women at church nod in quiet approval when you walk past, whispering to their daughters about how this is how a young lady should carry herself.
your daddy's sermon is still ringing in your ears as you step out of the church, voice deep and steady in your mind: temptation comes in many forms, but the Lord will always give you a way out. you had nodded along like you understood, like you believed it was that easy, like you didn't already feel something twisting in your stomach—something you couldn't name, something that lingers even as you take careful steps down those stone steps, hands folded in front of you like a proper girl.
and then you see him.
jude's waiting across the street, leaning against a matte black mercedes. he's parked just far enough to not be obvious, but close enough that you know he's waiting for you.
he's watching you.
not in a way that's obvious to anyone else, but you feel it. the weight of his gaze. the way his eyes drop down the length of your dress before dragging back up. the slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he's already thinking something he shouldn't be.
he doesn't belong here. doesn't belong anywhere near your daddy's church. but neither do you—not if the way your pulse jumps at the sight of him is any indication.
he lifts his hand, two fingers beckoning you over, just once. subtle. casual.
your daddy's voice is still in your head. temptation comes in many forms.
and yet, your feet are already moving.
he doesn't say a word when you stop in front of him. just looks at you, the way he always does—like you're something rare, something to be studied.
"what?" you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
he tilts his head, corners of his mouth curling in a small smile. "nothing," he says, but it's very clearly a lie.
you cross your arms, but it's useless. doesn't do anything to shield you from the way he's looking at you. doesn't stop the heat that creeps up your neck, the way your stomach tightens when he reaches out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress.
"this new?" he asks, voice low, barely audible over the noise of the street.
you nod, because you don't trust yourself to speak.
he hums, fingertips trailing just slightly before he pulls away. "pretty," he says. simple. like that's that. like it's obvious.
you should leave. should turn around and walk back up those steps, back inside where it's safe, where your mama and daddy are probably still shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. but you don't. you just stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as jude pushes off the car, the heat of his body suddenly much closer than it was a second ago.
he lifts a hand, fingers brushing against the chain resting against your collarbone. it's barely a touch, more like an absentminded gesture, his thumb lingering for a second too long, pressing lightly against the charm hanging there, before he lets it drop.
his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower than before, softer.
"can i kiss you?"
it's quiet. barely above a whisper. but it hits you hard, like he just knocked the air out of your lungs. because he's asking, asking—so, so sweetly.
your breath catches. your fingers twitch where they rest at your sides.
you should say no.
you should remind him that you just left church, that your daddy is still inside, probably lecturing girls your age about purity and virtue. that you were raised better than this.
but then you look up at him. and suddenly, none of that matters.
"yes," you breathe.
and that's all it takes.
he doesn't waste time. doesn't hesitate. the second the word leaves your lips, he moves—one hand curling around the side of your neck, the other pressing against the small of your back, pulling you in close, closer, until there's nothing between you but heat and the sound of your own breath catching in your throat.
he kisses you like he's been thinking about it for weeks. like he's imagined it a hundred different ways, but none of them compare to this—to the way your lips part under his, to the little sound you make when he tilts his head and deepens it, to the way your fingers clutch at his shirt like you need something to hold onto; because this isn't the kiss of a boy who's unsure. this is possession, plain and simple.
you feel him smile against your lips when you don't pull away. when instead, your hands slide up, fingers brushing at the nape of his neck, holding him there. when you sigh into his mouth like you've been waiting for this just as long as he has.
and when he pulls back, just slightly, just enough to drag his teeth over your bottom lip, just enough to let you breathe—he doesn't go far. his nose brushes yours, his breath is warm against your cheek, and his voice is lower now, thick with something you don't have a name for.
"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that," he murmurs.
and then he kisses you again.
when he eventually pulls back, he's got that look. like he's tasting something he didn't expect to love so much. like you're some flavour he's never had before, and now that he has, he's wondering how he ever went without it. his fingers twitch where they're still resting on your waist, like he's fighting the urge to grab you, pull you back in, drown himself in you all over again.
and that's what makes you step back.
because the way he's looking at you cracks you wide open. like he's peeling back your layers without even trying, stripping you bare with nothing but his eyes. it's unnerving. intoxicating. makes your fingers twitch at your sides, makes your breath catch in your throat.
"uh," you trail off, voice thin, trying to ignore the way your heart is in such a frenzy against your ribcage, loud enough that you're sure he can hear it in the space between you.
he tilts his head slightly, watching you, watching the way you fidget under his gaze, the way you bite your lip like you're trying to stop yourself from asking him to kiss you again.
"how come you're here?" you ask, because you don't know what else to do with yourself. "aren't you supposed to be in madrid?"
"break between games," he responds mindlessly. his eyes stay locked on you, intense, unreadable. they trace over your face, your lips, the way your chest is rising and falling just a little too fast, like you're struggling to catch your breath. "i come back home sometimes. clears my head."
you feel warm all over. heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach.
you want to ask why you, then. out of all the girls he could 'come back home' to. out of all the girls he could have. the models, the singers, the girls who got names blue-check-verified. the ones who post thirst traps and don't flinch when someone touches their thigh.
but you don't ask.
because you like how he looks at you.
like you're something precious he wants to keep for himself.
like he's never had anything like you before. and maybe, just maybe, he never wants to go without it again.
—
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judebellopriv 😍😍😍😍😍😭😭😭😭😮💨😮💨😱
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—
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ynprivate corny.
↳ judebellopriv i’m the love of your life. be nice to me.😔
—
things get... interesting after that.
kisses that grow longer. hands that travel further. his voice in your ear, soft and deep, saying things like, "you can tell me to stop, pretty. i'll stop whenever you say."
and you believe him. you do. but the problem is you never really want him to stop.
he calls you "pretty girl" when you're shy, when your fingers fidget with the hem of your new pastel cardigan, when you tuck your face into his chest after he says something that makes your skin feel too hot to wear. when you sit next to him in his car, trying to ignore the way he looks at you like you're the kind of girl men start wars over.
he calls you "baby" when you're quiet, when you're watching him with those soft, searching eyes like you're trying to understand every little part of him. when you're curled up against his side, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like he's coaxing you to say something, anything.
"what you thinkin’ about, baby?" he murmurs, voice all gentle, because he genuinely wants to know where your mind goes when you get quiet like this.
you shake your head, because you can't say it. you can't tell him how deep he's gotten into you, how you're always thinking about him now—when you're in class, when you're at work, when you're sitting in the pews listening to your father preach about temptation and sin and how easily the devil slips into the cracks of your foundation.
he calls you "mama" when you're doing things you know you shouldn't be doing. when you're in his bed, back arching, lips parted, fingers grasping at his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. when you let him push you past every boundary you swore you'd never cross, when you let him drag you into the kind of pleasure that feels more like salvation than sin.
and it sounds so good in his mouth. so right. like it belongs to you. like he belongs to you. like every time he says it, he's giving you another piece of himself to keep.
and maybe you are keeping him. maybe he's yours in a way he's never been anyone else's before.
maybe you're his in a way that feels deeper than flesh, deeper than anything either of you have ever known.
—
he keeps showing up more.
in your bed, late at night, when your parents are fast asleep two rooms down the hall. you sneak him in, because that's apparently something you do now. feet tiptoeing across the hardwood, heart pounding so loud you're sure it'll wake up the whole house. you don't even turn on the lamp—just fumble for him in the dark, breathless, nervous, excited in a way you can't explain. and he's there, all warmth and muscle and mischief, slipping under the covers like he belongs there.
on your phone, texting things that make your thighs clench under the covers.
"what you wearing?"
it's the first thing he sends, and you already know where this is going. you hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. but he knows you too well.
"don't get shy on me now, pretty."
you take a breath, then type back.
"my nightgown."
it's a simple answer, nothing suggestive about it—but jude makes it mean something.
"the white one?"
"yeah."
"the one that's real thin?"
you pause. heart hammering.
"yeah."
the typing bubble pops up, disappears, pops up again. then—
"wish i was there."
you exhale sharply. shift under the covers. try to ignore the way your thighs press together on instinct.
"jude..."
"bet you're warm under there."
your breath catches.
"bet you keep rubbing your legs together, trying to make yourself feel good without me."
your fingers shake.
"open your legs for me, baby."
and God forgive you, but you do.
and, of course, he shows up in your mind as well. when you should be studying, praying, thinking about your future.
you sit in the second pew, bible open on your lap, the words on the page nothing but blurred ink. your daddy's voice booms through the church, preaching about temptation — because that's suddenly all he's been preaching about lately.
"flee from sin," he says, voice thick with conviction as he paces back and forth across the pulpit. "do not entertain it. do not welcome it into your home. into your heart. into your bed."
your breath stutters.
you swear your daddy looks at you too long. like he knows something. like he can see the filth on you. your fingers tighten around the edges of your bible, nails pressing half-moon indents into the leather. your mama glances at you, concern in her eyes. you force a smile, nod like everything's fine.
"temptation is a test," he continues. "and the devil is patient. he waits for a moment of weakness. he whispers to you when you're alone."
you suck in a sharp breath, heat crawling up your neck. because he does.
except it isn't the devil whispering to you at night.
it's jude.
"miss me?"
"wish i was there with you, don't you?"
"bet you still feel me, huh?"
you do.
so much so that it's wrong. so much that you feel like the walls of this church are closing in around you.
you shouldn't be here.
but you shouldn't be in jude's bed either. or sneaking him into yours. or texting him back. or letting him touch you like he does.
"resist temptation, and it will flee from you."
your fingers tremble where they rest on the page. because you don't want it to flee.
you want it to stay.
you want him to stay.
—
jude learns your body too quick. too well. too thoroughly.
it should scare you—the way he figures you out like he's done this a hundred times before, like he's studied you in a past life and came back knowing exactly what makes you gasp, what makes your voice shake, what makes you go all pliant and pretty beneath him.
he takes his time with you. always. moves slow, like he's savouring every moment, like he enjoys watching you come undone little by little. because that's the thing about jude—he doesn't just take pleasure from you; he drags it out of you, pulls it from the depths of your belly, coaxes it from between your lips until you're trembling, until you're arching into him, until you can't think straight.
he likes to test your patience, to see how long it takes before you can't handle it anymore. he'll brush his lips against the shell of your ear, mumbling, "look at you. so damn needy." and he'll chuckle when you whine, when you try to pull him closer, when your fingers clutch at his shirt like you're begging.
and your voice—God, your voice.
the way it wobbles when he kisses down your neck. the way it catches when he mouths at your collarbone. the way it pleads before he finally—finally—presses his hips against yours.
you call his name like it's something sacred. like it's something holy.
and maybe it is.
maybe in the heat of this room, in the way he touches you like you're the only girl in the world, in the way he murmurs, "let me hear you, baby. i wanna hear you say my name,"—maybe in all of that, he is holy.
at least, that's what it feels like when he finally gives you what you've been aching for, when he murmurs your name back just as soft, just as breathless, just as wrecked.
and suddenly, the preacher's daughter isn't so pure anymore.
—
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judebellopriv honoured to finally make it to the feed🥹
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—
he corrupts you in pieces. not all at once.
one night, he's between your legs, looking up at you like you're the only girl that's ever mattered.
it's the first time. and you're nervous. your thighs tremble, and you keep trying to close them, instinct kicking in. but jude doesn't let you. his hands are firm, spreading you open, settling you against his mouth like he belongs there.
"relax, mama," he murmurs, lips brushing against your sensitive skin. "just let me taste you."
and God, do you let him.
his tongue is slow, dragging over you with a patience that makes your head spin. he groans into you, like he needs this, like this is his salvation. his hands grip your thighs tighter, his tongue flicks, swirls, sucks, and you swear you forget how to breathe.
"fuck—" the curse slips out, unbidden, and you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes going wide.
jude pulls back just enough to grin up at you, chin glistening. "that's a first," he teases, before licking back into you, hungrier this time.
you should feel ashamed, should feel guilty, but all you feel is him. the warmth of his mouth, the desperation in the way he grips you, the heat curling low in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue.
your fingers tangle in his curls, tugging, pulling him closer, closer, closer, and he groans in pleasure against you, like he loves it when you take what you need.
his name spills from your lips, over and over and over, and when you cum, it's with a soft cry and a shudder that rocks you to your core.
he doesn't move for a moment. just presses his lips to your inner thigh, breath warm against your damp skin.
"told you i'd take care of you," he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath.
you don't respond. you can't.
because for the first time in your life, you don't know what comes after.
—
he meets your daddy once.
it's at a football charity event in the neighbourhood. something small, nothing crazy—just a few sponsors, some local businesses, a handful of academy footballers showing up to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and play a friendly game with the kids. you're only there because your mama insisted, said it was a good cause, said it'd "look good" if you showed up because your daddy's church is donating supplies—clothes, food, books for the kids.
you don't ask how jude's dad got involved. maybe he knows somebody who knows somebody. maybe it's just one of those things that happens when your son is famous, and people call in favours like it's nothing.
you also don't know jude himself is going to be there. not until you hear a collective of screams from the little boys and girls, all hyped up and bouncing on their toes like they can't believe their luck.
your stomach instantly drops as you turn to look across the field. to look at your man. the one you could never claim publicly.
he's in his element—long limbs, strong build, the kind of casual confidence that only comes from knowing you're him. he's grinning at the kids, talking to them easy, letting them pass the ball between themselves.
he laughs at something one of the kids says, head tilting back slightly, tongue peeking out between his teeth. your heart stutters. it always does when he looks happy like this—like the weight of the world isn't sitting on his shoulders for once.
his hand ruffles one of the boy's curls before he steps back, rolling the ball under his foot, nodding for them to come take it. and even in something as simple as that, he moves with a smooth athleticism that's almost unfair.
it's mesmerising. it always is.
and then—like he can feel you watching—he glances up. his eyes find yours instantly, like they always do. his grin shifts, turns into something slower, something more knowing. his head tilts slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in those deep brown eyes.
you look away. immediately. pretend to be interested in anything else. the donation table. the banners. the sun, for God's sake. anything but him.
but jude? jude is shameless.
because, before you know it—
"hey, pretty girl."
you freeze for half a second. then slowly, carefully, you turn your head, your heart slamming against your ribs. not because he called you that. he does that all the time, whispers it in the dark when he's got his hands on your waist, when his mouth is on your skin, when you're falling apart beneath him.
but this? this is here. this is now.
you don't even get a chance to say anything before your daddy steps in.
"jude bellingham," he greets, extending a hand, voice firm. "been hearing a lot about you, son."
jude takes it without hesitation, shaking it firm, nodding like he knows how to play the game.
"all good things, i hope."
you side-eye him. but jude just grins, the corner of his mouth lifting, and somehow, it makes him look even cockier.
you want to kill him.
but he plays it cool. stays respectful. makes conversation. even your mama seems to like him, which is ridiculous, because if she had any idea the things he's done to you—
you shake the thought out of your head, forcing yourself to focus.
people come up to him, ask for pictures, autographs. he takes it all in stride. smiles, poses, makes them feel like they matter. it's the first time you really see it—the way he switches it on, the charm, the ease, the star power that makes people want to be near him.
but when the attention dies down and the crowd shifts, he still finds his way back to you.
"nice dress," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear, his fingers brushing your wrist for half a second too long.
you step back, shooting him a glare. "stop."
his brows lift, all innocent. "stop what?"
you don't answer.
you can't answer.
because your daddy's watching, your mama's close by, and the last thing you need is for anyone to see the way your breathing falters when he's too close.
jude notices, though. of course he does. his lips twitch. and then—because he's him—he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch.
"see you later, mama."
and with that, he walks off, leaving you there—flustered, irritated, wanting.
you don't even hear the rest of your daddy's speech. don't even remember why you came here in the first place.
all you can think about is later.
when the sun goes down. when the cameras are gone. when it's just you and him.
because he meant it.
and you know—deep in your bones—that tonight, he's going to make you pay for pretending you don't want him.
—
there's a moment—late, after everything, while jude is lying on your chest, tracing lazy circles into your skin as you lay in his california king bed—where he murmurs something that makes your breath catch.
you're still trembling from the weight of what just happened, your body spent, skin dewy, lips tingling from the way he kissed you like he was trying to brand his name into your mouth. the sheets are tangled around your waist, his body warm and lax beside you, his fingers absentmindedly dancing along the curve of your hip like he isn't even aware he's doing it.
the room smells like him—cologne, clean linen, and the faint musk of sex that lingers in the air. the dim glow from the city outside seeps through the cracks in the blackout curtains, casting soft shadows over the luxurious bedroom.
your heart is still beating too fast, your mind caught somewhere between reality and the high of him. you don't even know what time it is. past midnight, probably. maybe later.
then, in that quiet, between the distant hum of cars outside and the slow rhythm of your breathing, he speaks.
"you're the only good thing in my life right now."
his voice is heavy with something you can't quite name. it's almost like a confession, something secret slipping past his lips before he can stop it. it feels unguarded. raw. too honest for a boy like him.
you want to ask what he means. why he said it. if he really believes it.
but you don't.
because you see the way his jaw clenches like he's already regretting saying too much. the way his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. the way his head stays pressed against your chest, close enough to hear the way your heart stutters at his words.
and maybe you should leave. maybe you should remind yourself that this was supposed to be nothing, that you were never meant to matter to him like this.
but instead, you exhale, slow and careful, and thread your fingers through his curls. soft. comforting.
"i'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and it feels like a promise you shouldn't be making.
but he sighs against your skin, like it's exactly what he needed to hear.
and so you hold him.
because you're not so pure anymore. not after him. not after the way he's touched you, seen you, ruined you in the best and worst ways.
and honestly? you'd let him do it again.
every night.
every sunday morning before church.
every time he whispers your name like he's afraid he's dreaming you.
because even if it's wrong... even if you go to hell for it...
there's nothing holier than the way he makes you feel.
it kills me | public v.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 smut. unprotected sex. vaginal penetration. dirty talk. daddy kink. age gap couple (16 years). brief reference to physical illness. angst. themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand and some change (5k+) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and gif's from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝waking up in vegas❞ by katy perry // ❝it kills me❞ by melanie fiona 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 laying in bed, listening to music, feeling like shit, this idea came to me, so i just opened the notes app and got to writing. most of it was written on my phone in one sitting, so do with that what you will. also, reader and roman are both irritating to me, but i also sympathize with both in different ways. idk. also, the thoughts and views of the characters, by no means, reflect that of the author. lastly, if you're in arisylum, ensure you read the full 7k version posted in the community.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ꨄ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ꨄ
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™⠀
May 19th, 2026
“Oooh yes, fuck this pussy, daddy.”
The sound of the bed creaking and the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall with each bounce of your body on his dick is the backdrop for your filthy sex talk. Your hands playing with your heavy breast, nipples twisted between your fingers. His own big hands can’t decide if they wanna stay on your thick hips, help keep you steady while riding, or if he wants to explore the rest of your body. Covering your hands with his own, the two of you playing with your titties together.
Your favorite though is when he drags one of them talented ass hands down the front of your slick, glowing body to play with your clit. And he knows that. You know that he knows that, hence that smug expression on his handsome ass face.
A face you can’t wait to sit on before the end of the night. Him only eating your pussy once today just isn’t enough. Not when God gifted this man with a tongue like that.
Blessed him with all the things, really. Including the beautiful, thick nine inch dick that’s got you feeling like you’re about to be split into two. A welcomed destruction, cause damn does it feel good.
“Look at you.” He slaps your hip, smoothing his palm down your backside. You bite your bottom lip as he wiggles his fingers between your ass cheeks, index finger probing your puckered hole. “You can’t get enough of this dick.”
“Mmmm.” You’re far too fucked out, leaning over just enough for you to smack your ass up and down his cock, slapping and smacking sounds increasing in volume from you essentially twerking on his dick. “S-s-so good, d-daddy.”
“Such a fucking greedy slut,” he groans, another slap to your ass before he’s back to steering you. Helping you bounce up and down, eyes transfixed on the swinging motion of your titties. “Can’t even fucking think straight when I’m buried in you like this, can you?”
No. Not at all. Not even a little. But as smug as this handsome bastard is, there still remains just enough of your wherewithal to not grant him the privilege of confirmation. You keep your lips pressed together, hand reaching for the headboard to steady you. Your thighs are burning like crazy, and you’ve had to flex your calves at least three times to smooth out the cramp that’s been dying to stilt you ever since he propped you on his dick.
You’re close. So so so close, but you’re also not ready. Not that it makes a difference. You already know he’s got at least one more position to put you in before he finally finds his release.
For a man in his forties, it’s almost embarrassing how well he can outdo you in the bedroom. This’ll be your third orgasm since he returned a few hours ago from his meeting with Paul and Nick.
He hasn’t come at least once. Not even when you were gagging on his dick, drool seeping out the corner of your swollen, pink lips. If you didn’t know for a fact that he was seconds away from shooting his load down your throat before he pushed you away, put you on all fours, and rammed that big dick in your wet, waiting pussy, you might have been offended. But you know better.
You know him.
“You close, ain’t you, baby?” He taunts, your closed eyes not preventing your from picturing the way them soft ass lips are either still lifted for that smug smile or a knowing smirk. Sometimes you really do hate how cocky he is. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he can back it up. “I can tell by the way she pulsing around me. Fluttering and shit.”
“Mmmm.” Once more, incoherent mumblings are the most you can offer him, the grind and drag of your soft body against his firm ass body granting your neglected clit the attention you’d been wanting. Waiting eagerly for him to address, and he knows it.
“You want me to play with that pussy, baby?” He purrs, and you swear there’s a fresh wave of your juice that gushes out your pussy, small streams seeping past the unforgiving grip your cunt has around his cock. Slippery and drenched, you’re leaking all over his chest, the combination of sweat and your conjoined juices creating an unsteady, unreliable surface. Hence your grip on the headboard and thus the way you’re relegated to grinding to get your fix. “Want daddy to eat it till you pushing me away talking about you can’t take it?”
Tale as old as time. Your husband is an eater through and through. Loves to give just as much as he loves to receive. It’s the best kind of “problem” to have as it pertains to a sex life. He never leaves you wanting more. Always satisfied, satiated, and stuffed.
Just like you are right now.
“Naw. You gotta earn that shit, slut.” His voice cuts through your fantasies, evoking a pout and whine just as he juts his chin in your direction. His eyes twinkle with mischief and devilry. “Keep riding.”
“How early you wanna fly in to Turin?”
His question stirs you from the much deserved and desired sleep that’s been calling your name ever since you finally tapped out after he came all over your back. He more or less had to hold you up in the shared shower and carry you to the bedroom with the freshly changed sheets he made sure to put on before you both climbed back into bed.
You make a sound, nails lightly brushing across his chest as his own lazily dance up and down the small of your back. He’s scrunched up your thin, lavender gown, leaving the sheets and duvet clinging to your nude, glowing body. But it’s the norm. He’s always been touchy feely like that, and it’s never bothered you.
You’re more or less the same.
“Doesn’t matter,” you finally answer. “The usual is fine.”
The usual being touching down via his private jet about a week before a show. It provides him time to get in match day headspace and you the time to squeeze in some exploring and swiping of his black American Express card. But more importantly, it allows adequate opportunity for you two to just spend time together. As proud as you are of him for his big win at Mania and ascension back to the top of the mountain, him being home more was something you’d gotten used to.
Life is just easier when he’s around.
Until it’s not.
“Okay,” he says. You wait for him to follow up with something. Most likely a reminder that the boys will fly in with ya'll or even whatever tentative agenda and schedule he's been given at this time. But he remains quiet and just continues to caress your back, embracing the post coital relaxation and silence.
It’s the perfect opportunity to grant your exhausted body the recharge it desperately needs. Especially given your busy day tomorrow. Hop on the jet to fly back home in the morning. Filming, editing, and posting of the material you recorded while accompanying him to this Raw all scheduled to be done before the clock hits midnight.
It just makes sense to close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off to sleep. The smart thing, perhaps.
But no one ever said you were smart.
“You know…..” You inch closer, nestling your head against his inked chest. It’s a somewhat subconscious thing what with the way you angle your mouth close to his rib cage. Speech slightly murmured, partially obscuring the clarity and muffling the volume. “Naomi brought over David the other day.” For your own sanity and perhaps to allot you some faux sense of security, you choose to ignore the way his body tenses under yours. “He’s so adorable. Looks more and more like—“
“Y/N.” A single word, and the roles are precipitously reversed. You’re the one growing quiet, and he’s the one who fills that silence. “Don’t.”
You swallow, peering up at him. “Don’t what?”
His jaw ticks, the glow of the moon peering through the opposite window highlighting the shadows of his defined face. His grays splattered throughout a sea of otherwise onyx more or less the same in the dim lighting. “Don’t start this shit again.”
“How am I starting something?” You challenge. A part of you screaming to let it go, to let it be as it is, but another part of you, the part that you’ve never been able to truly silence, is begging to be unleashed. The protector protecting from dangers real and imagined “I’m literally just talking to you.”
Unfortunately for you, your husband has never been one to back down. To not accept and meet a challenge with the same energy brought you the table. He's a mirror of yourself in many ways. “No, you’re trying to have that conversation again, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”
“Argue over what?” You suck your teeth, sitting up and looking down at him. Frustration ticks when he diverts his gaze and runs his hand over his face. “Roman.”
His answer is to make the same sound as he sits up and turns away. You also sit all the way up, thin sleeve of your gown drooping over your exposed shoulder. You study the defined line of his back, starting to visually trace the sharp outlines of the dark ink. “How many times do gotta do this shit, Y/N?” He looks over his shoulder but not directly at you, and for some reason, that almost hurts more than the reaction, deep down, you knew you were going to get. “Same song and dance every fucking time.” Something tightens in your stomach when he does finally meet your eyes, however, his own reflect nothing but irritation and exasperation. “I said no, and that’s final.”
Once more, an opening is created. An escape and jump off a mountain that only leads to an increasingly difficult uphill battle. The wise choice, the best choice, is to retreat. Leave it be.
If only your heart wasn't so much louder than your head.
Eyes narrowed, the timbre of your voice carries with it ammunition ready and waiting to be unleashed. “Yeah, you did say no, but not before you said 'yes,' and then ‘no’ before that and then another ‘yes' sprinkled somewhere in between.” You throw your hands up, the frustration that swims between the two of you about what and what on both ends. “You can’t make up your mind.”
It’s a fact he can try to deny all he wants, but it doesn’t make it any less true. From the moment you two met two years ago, at least, the parts that you can remember, it’s been nothing but back and forth. One minute he’s blowing your back out, hands locked behind you, whispering nasty words and broken promises.
“You gon’ give me a baby, princess? Hmm. A little girl for me to spoil just like I spoil her mama.”
The next, it’s nothing but a slightly different scene than the one transpiring now. Him pacing across the bedroom, hand on his hips, upper cheeks flushed from vexation with a topic that’s been revisited, reviewed, and recycled ten times over now.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing this shit up, Y/N. We’re not having any fucking kids together. Ever.”
He swings from one end to the pendulum to the other. Getting your hopes up only to dash em’ back down with all of the cruelty that, one could argue, got him to where he is today, career wise.
It’s also, however, what cost him everything, too.
“Well, my mind is made up now, and the answer is the same it’s been the last three goddamn times you brought this shit up.” He pierces your internal monologue with another reiteration of what makes your shoulders drop and scowl shift into a frown. “No.”
It could be left at that, and maybe it should be, but once the flood gates are opened, that’s it.
There’s no turning back.
You move to sit on your knees, his expression, just like his current stance, unchanged and undeterred.
“Do you know how unfair you’re being?” You shake your head, hating how a newfound emotion is trying to creep its way into your voice. This isn’t the time for that. “All this back and forth. It’s mind games. You’re playing mind games with me, Roman, and it’s not fair.”
It’s not fair how he’ll get your hopes up only to crush them with the stomp of his metaphorical boot, throwing out excuse after excuse, reason after reason.
“We need to work on us before we even think about that, Y/N.”
“Let’s see what this year looks like for me work wise, and then we can revisit it.”
“I just want you to focus on you first. Before anything else.”
Rejection cloaked as kindness. It’s like for every step you take in the right direction, he keeps moving the goalpost. And maybe if he would stick with a stance, whatever that might be, it would be easier for you to “let it go.”
At least, that’s what you like to believe.
“I’m not playing any games with you, Y/N,” he sighs, mirroring your actions by also shaking his head. “You just refuse to accept the truth and come to terms with reality.” Words that sting, but the impact is slightly lessened by the visible decrease of frustration in his deep voice. Forbearance making a surprising appearance. “And the reality is that I don’t want any more kids. I'm about to be 41. My boys are grown. I’ve raised them. I’m not trying to start over again. I’m too old for that shit.”
There’s so much for you to dissect in that conglomerate of sentences. He’s not wrong about a couple things. Josiah and Jeremiah are grown. 21 going on 22, in their senior year of college, each with aspirations—and likelihood—to go pro in their respective sports. They’re fine young men, and Roman and his ex-wife, Julia, should be proud. You know they are. It’s why, despite them still having a rocky relationship since their divorce almost four years back, when it comes to their twins, they always set aside personal feelings and do what needs to be done for their kids.
Roman is a good father. A great one. And if he managed to do that as a kid having a kid, still maintaining a close bond with his sons even now, constant communication between the three of them on the daily, you have no doubt it’d be the same for your child.
And therein is where his words, fact with opinion, start to pierce. At, basically, 41, you can partially understand why he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of having another child. But not even a month ago he was asking you how you’d feel if it was a boy instead of a girl.
It being the baby he’s now saying he doesn’t want.
Again, the fucking back and forth.
Yet there’s one word in all of his soliloquy that you latched onto.
My
“Exactly. You’ve already had them, but I haven’t.” You point to yourself, feeling that damn emotion continuing to expand, making its way to the surface. Refusing to be denied any longer. “I’m 25, Roman. I'll be 26 later this year. It’s normal for me to want children at this point in my life. It’s the perfect time for me to have kids.”
Your own kids. Despite only being a few years older than his sons, you hold a close relationship with them. As close as a step-mother can get. They see you more as a peer than anything, and after making amends with the objectively strange ass way you and Roman got together, they allowed the walls to collapse and reservations to be set aside. But again, the dynamic with them is more friends than anything. They aren’t kids, they don’t feel like kids, and they’ll never be your kids.
Hence why you want your own child.
A child with Roman.
But your emotions making an appearance through the watering of your eyes and cracking of your voice seem to do little to faze the man before you. The only indication of disturbance being whatever flashes in his warm eyes before his quiet, simple response. “Then you should have thought about that when you agreed to stay married to me.”
His words circulate throughout your head even after he leaves. Walks out of the room, most likely decompressing in the second bedroom of the hotel suite. Allowing both him and yourself time to process before the argument could reach a level that resulted in him leaving and you spiraling.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
The last two years of your life have been such a whirlwind. Something most wouldn’t believe if you told them because the story of you and Roman sounds like something out of a Reddit thread or TikTok story time. The type where you watch with a degree of skepticism because some of the shit just sounds too outlandish. And your meeting of your now husband is nothing short of outlandish.
You met the night after WrestleMania 40. Vegas. The Chandelier.
An hour and several drinks after said meeting, you two were hitting the slot machines and wandering around the casino, talking, sharing, and connecting without a care in the world.
Two hours and even more drinks later, he had you bent over the balcony of his suite, screaming and calling on every deity known to man.
And then some.
12 hours later, you woke up in bed, naked, his soft snores in your ear, and a rock on your left hand.
You were married.
Needless to say, the fallout from that was….something.
Wild as hell, too, but also….it tracked.
He was depressed from not only the loss of his title, the end of his legendary 1,316 title reign, but also everything that came with it. Old emotions and never fully healed wounds poked and probed with and by painful reminders of betrayal.
And you were three days deep into a manic episode, one that would only end a week and a half later, when the bulk of the damage was already done.
Two storms on a collision course for disaster.
Neither really willing and wanting to do anything to find a life vest, a raft, a way to evacuate.
He was too caught up in his head to seek out the appropriate parties about an annulment, and you, again, being manic, were too deep into your episode to see how absolutely insane all of it was. You were just excited to be married, to a rich ass, fine ass, older ass man who you later learned to be Roman fucking Reigns.
Separation wasn’t anywhere on your agenda. No, according to the journaling you did and have done for a number of years now when in a manic or depressive state, you were already planning the names of your kids. From the very beginning, you knew you wanted kids with him.
It’s that reminder, however, that triggers the thought for you. The one that remains even an hour later when he returns to the room to find you in bed, in a fetal position near the edge, blankets pulled up to your chin.
Silent tears streaming down your face.
It’s not until the bed groans and his coarse fingertips brush against your cheeks that you break the silence you’d rested in since his departure.
“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” you whisper, throat dry and stinging. A similar sensation felt near the corner of your eyes. Telltales of the tears being in a consistent, heavy flow for the past hour. You swallow, licking your suddenly chapped lips and manage to shift your eyes to look up at him. “I’m consistent with my meds. I haven’t missed a day in God knows how long.”
His lips press together, his fingers moving to stroke the top of your head. “Y/N….”
“I’ve done so well in therapy that I only have to go once a month now,” you continue, finding the strength to sit up. Roman angles his body so that he’s fully facing you as you cross your legs under the thin covers. “I—I’m better now.”
Perhaps better than you’ve been in a very very long time. Because even before your diagnosis of Bipolar 1 at the age of eighteen, your life was always a chaotic storm. Because before it was you, it was your mom. Wild, erratic behavior that, as a kid, you didn’t understand. Your mom was different. Moody. Unique, as your dad once described her. She could be hot one minute, and cold the next. But she was your mom, and you loved her to pieces. So did your dad. Hence the way he stood by and supported her up until her last day on this earth.
An intentional last day.
Your mom died by suicide a week after your thirteenth birthday.
That was when your own symptoms started to manifest. You’d later find out that your doctor, and even your dad, strongly suspected bipolar. That they knew that was what you had by your 17th birthday. They just had to wait until you were 18 to formally diagnose you.
Before and after, it’s been up and down. A few hospital stays sprinkled in over the years. Discussions, at one point, taking place between your dad and stepmom, Sherry, regarding a conservatorship. Most of your behavior, however, was simply due to being treatment resistant. You’d go to therapy for a little while and then disappear. Take your meds as prescribed for a few weeks before stopping cold turkey.
It wasn’t your diagnosis that was ruining your life. It was the person in the mirror.
That behavior continued even after meeting and marrying Roman. The first stretch of your marriage was, in no uncertain terms, a hot fucking mess.
Arguments. Mudslinging back and forth. Cheating. Threats. On both sides. But for every bad thing in the relationship, something good always followed. A heartfelt conversation. A kind gesture. A gentle touch. A vow and oath of love and commitment. Vehement defending of one another, whether it be him defending you to his family, especially his ex-wife. Or you defending him to your parents who thought you’d experienced some sort of psychotic break by marrying a man over ten years your senior. It didn’t matter though. For as toxic as the shit was, it was equally as healing.
Felt that way, at least.
Roman especially began to thaw out and extend a newfound sense of understanding and patience when you finally disclosed your diagnosis. He was confused, didn’t understand everything but said he would try— on one condition.
That you’d get help.
Real help.
Because he’d grown exhausted at having his team work overtime to ensure stories detailing and depicting your capricious behavior during manic episodes remain sealed. Snapped photos that disappeared. Social media posts scrubbed. Both for the sake of his image and yours. A social media influencer with over 1 million followers—5 million now—you were partially known for your quirky behavior that sometimes helped conceal the episodes. But it was only a matter of time before the comments of entertainment turned into expressions of concern.
He protected you from that.
He’s protected you from a lot.
Including yourself.
Ensured that he assembled the best treatment team—therapist, psychiatrist, and primary— that his pockets could afford. And you’d come to find out that his pockets ran deep.
So much so that your turbulent early to mid twenties are so far behind in your rearview mirror that the view is almost entirely distorted.
The first six months of your marriage was a hot dysfunctional mess. The second six months carried healing and repairing. Now in the second year, you feel as if you’re in the best place mentally that you’ve ever been in your entire life. And your marriage isn’t too far behind that. You and Roman, in your opinion, are in such a good, healthy space now.
But maybe….maybe he doesn’t feel the same.
“I can do this, Roman.” You reach for his forearm, closing your eyes when he palms your face. His touch has always been so calming. “I can be a mother.”
You know you can. You just….you need the chance to show him.
“Y/N…” he murmurs. You open your mouth to see him frowning, the lines in his forehead more pronounced as his thick brows furrow together. “I know how bad you want this. I do, but—”
Your chest tightens for the umpteenth time that night. “But?”
He sighs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about how all of this is actually going to work.”
For some reason, despite the gentle undertone in his voice, his words do little to soothe you. If anything, they’re only spiking your anxiety and deepening your grief. “What do you mean?”
His loud sigh precedes what you already have a nagging suspicion isn’t going to help an already contentious situation. “Having a kid….it’s not easy.”
“I know that, Roman.”
You place your hand over his as he continues to palm your face. “You’ve made such good progress over the past two years—”
“But?” You press once more. He’s dancing around the subject, and it’s doing nothing to help your trepidation and everything to worsen it.
His jaw shifts. The three second pause before he answers feels like three fucking hours. “Would you still be able to take your meds while pregnant?”
You swallow. It’s an understandable question, one that, for all the contemplating and dreaming you’ve done regarding pregnancy, you hadn’t considered. It seems like most medications carry with them the generic, default warning regarding risks for pregnant women. Granted, you’re certainly not the first woman with a mental health disorder that requires medication to keep your symptoms managed who wants to become a mother. Wants to conceive. So surely there must be some sort of remedy.
“I—I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “But I’m sure I can just take something different while—”
He shakes his head. “After how long it took for them to find a regimen that works for you?” Another valid question that makes you inwardly wince. “And didn’t you tell me Bipolar is genetic? Or hereditary or something?”
As you begin to pick at the sheet covering your body, his latest inquiry makes your eyes lift to his. Where….where is he going with this?
You grow quiet. “Yes.”
Roman licks his lips, the pauses between his words indicative of him working hard to carefully articulate his thoughts. “Your mom had it. You have it….what happens if our kid has it too?”
And there it is.
You immediately jerk away from him, forcing his hand to drop. Once soothing, his touch suddenly feels like a thousand needles prickling into your skin.
Just like his question has pricked into your heart.
A stabbing, more of a fitting comparison, with the largest, metaphorical kitchen knife that he could locate.
“Are you….” You shake your head, still trying to mull over what he just asked you. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have a kid because he or she might also have Bipolar?” His eyes shut, and you yank your hand back when he attempts to reach for you. “Like it’s a fucking death sentence?”
“Y/N—”
But you’re not trying or wanting to hear it. You kick the blankets away, also kicking him in the process, and crawl across the mattress. Your feet slam into the ground as you start to march out of the room, Roman right behind you.
“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Well, it sure fucking sounds like it,” you snap, turning around simply to glare at him before continuing to walk with no specific direction in mind. You just need distance. Distance he refuses to grant. As soon as your feet shift from carpet to the cool wooden floor and you harshly flip the switch to light up the kitchen, you turn to him once more. “I didn’t ask to be born with this, Roman. Okay? It’s not something I fucking had control over.”
He’s standing near the entrance, allowing you to move over to the refrigerator as you open it with, again, no clear goal in mind. “I understand that, Y/N.”
“Do you?” You challenge, slamming the door shut before once more closing that distance you want but can’t seem to enforce. “Tell me something. How would you feel if someone told you that you shouldn’t have kids because of your CML?”
It’s a low blow. You know it. Can see it in the way he blinks, lips slightly parting before his jaw tightens.
“That’s different,” he says, lowly.
You cross your arms. “Is it?”
“Yes.” His gaze darkens, voice tightening. “Because CML isn’t hereditary, and if it was, I would fucking agree with them because to bring a child into this world knowing they have an increased chance of developing cancer is fucking cruel and selfish.”
Once more, you can’t deny that he makes a valid point. But you also can’t deny the way that point fucking hurts. The pang and throb in your chest increasing by the second.
“And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” You whisper. “That—that I’m being selfish and that I’m—that I’m cruel—”
“No.” His heavy footsteps follow the way he pulls you into his arms, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. “That’s not what I think at all. What you have and what I have are two completely different things. I was just trying….” He trails off, and you find yourself clutching the sides of his sweats and closing your eyes. “Fuck, you know I’m not good with this shit.”
And he isn’t, but it’s never stopped him from trying with you, and that’s more you can say for your ex’s. For most men perhaps.
But Roman isn’t most men.
Not in the slightest.
He cups your face with both hands, words and expression the softest you’ve seen all night. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow mornin?” He then suggests, and it feels genuine vs an attempt to push off the inevitable. “Or when we get back home?”
Enough words have been exchanged for this evening, and you’ve done enough therapy over the years and gained enough introspection to recognize that trying to continue this conversation when your emotions are all over the place won’t do anybody any good. Roman is a calm, but he can also be the storm, too.
You don’t wanna test it.
Nodding against his chest, he cradles the back of your head, kissing your scalp with a murmured, “I love you.”
You echo the sentiment, remaining quiet as he carries you into the bedroom and gently places you on the bed before he climbs in, pulling you close. But while he eventually drifts off to sleep, hand still on your back from when he was rubbing small, soothing circles, you lay on his chest, mind a million and one places.
Perhaps it’s your inner desire that’s fueling it, but deep down, you truly do believe that Roman wants children with you. Even if just one. The same way his eyes light up with something akin to excitement and pride when he’s talking about or interacting with the boys is the same light you see when he makes comments about your future children.
That has to mean something.
As he more or less indicated tonight, his uncertainty regarding your child most likely inheriting Bipolar from you is what has him concerned. It’s one of perhaps other smaller, similar concerns. The barrier to happiness he can't seem to break through.
But.
But in the event that you’re wrong, that he truly doesn’t want anymore kids. That he won’t have anymore kids….what does that mean for you?
What does that mean for the both of you?
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 | 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈| 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬. 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 𝟓.𝟗𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞| you guys talked me into it! In honor of me taking my graduation pics tmw, here's pt II early!
𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎?
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓
Waiting for his driver to return to the bus was usually never this agonizing, however in that moment he’s subject to an indescribable amount of torture. From where he kneeled on the cushions of the leather sofa, he can hear her voice directly outside the window. Though he can't make out what's being said he would recognize that laugh anywhere.
Ear pressed to the window he imagines her face, eyes crinkling— lips pulled high in delight. He hadn’t seen her since that night in Paris— even forbade the twins from telling him anything about her. Though he often wondered if she ever asked about him.
It's not like he would’ve had time to see her anyway. Over the last two and a half months he’d spent a collective two weeks at his place of employment, the rest of the time spent trying to keep his promise to her.
After scheduling four different appointments with four different providers and no showing each one, he’d finally worked up the nerve to join his fifth therapy session.
A plump woman named Margo with a no nonsense attitude awaited him. In a way, she reminded him of Jireh. He would never tell her, but it's why he keeps showing up. It’s also the same reason he almost quit mid session when she informed him that they could not only speak about Jireh. Firmly reminding him that therapy starts at the root of the problem. Whatever the fuck that meant.
Too caught up in trying to eavesdrop on the conversation outside, he missed the opening of the bus door and almost lost his balance whipping around after hearing the clearing of a throat. His driver Nash, stood at the front of the bus, hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised into his hairline.
“Whatcha up to?” he questions with a laugh. Caught in the act, he doesn't even pretend to have an excuse.
“Who alls’ out there, might go and say bye to the twins if they’re still around.”
“Oh, yeah they’re out there.” he waves a hand in the direction of the door before turning toward his area of the bus. His statement lacks some key details and Roman scratches at his beard in low level irritation.
“Just them?” he goaded, attempting to pull him back into an otherwise finished conversation.
“nah them and a few others.” he’s still puttering around preparing his area for the long drive ahead of them.
“anybod—”
“What do you really wanna ask me son?” After almost a decade of navigating him from place to place, Nash knew Roman like the back of his hand. "Is it anything to do with the pretty lady that owns these here pink slippers you refuse to get rid of?”
Both heads turn toward the direction of said slippers, tucked neatly into the corner of the faux foyer. Roman always fussed at Jireh for wearing them due to how much they shed. He’d always find little pink fibers stuck to the all black fabric that was ninety percent of his outfits. Like many other items she’d left behind, they’d never left their spots even though their owner ceased to return.
“You saw her?”
“I did.”
“and?”
“and what?”
“I’m being serious.”
the older man gives a full belly laugh. “If you was so serious you would go out there and say somethin to her.” They stand like a mirror, arms crossed over their chests waiting for the other to give in.
“Sit down son, let's talk.” He doesn’t wait for Roman to comply before waltzing over to the booth in the compact makeshift kitchen area. Once settled, he inclines his head to the other side, silently calling for him to have a seat.
“Now usually I stay out your business but I'll admit you've got me confused. I been driving you round on this bus for eight years, just you, then suddenly just you became two and now we’re back to square one,” seeing no attempts at interjection he pushes on.
“You been moping around since then, not even showing up to work, then I get in here and find you peeking out the blinds like a pervert—”
“I wasn’t—”
“Then what were ya doing?”
“I’m not a pervert.”
“Yeah and I’m not turning 65 this year” he laughs.
“Nash I’m not a pervert I was just—”
“Why don’t you just go an talk to her?” He has no response to that because he has no real reason not to. That night in Paris, they laid on that sofa until the sun came up. It was she that had the courage to finally detangle herself from him and go— as always.
Planted a lingering kiss on his forehead and left him there alone. No more tears. No yelling, she didn't tell him that she hated him. Not even a smack to the face for wasting her time. Secretly he wished that she would call his bluff.
Anytime his phone rang he scrambled to answer only to be disappointed when it wasn’t her face gracing his screen. Even when he was begging her to stop sending the erotic messages, he would frequently scroll back through them. Refamiliarizing himself with the scope of her, from the dip of her cupids bow down to the creases at the back of her thighs. If he was a better man he would delete them until he made amends.
“It's complicated.”
“…Complicated?”
“…Yeah”
“Mhmm, let me tell ya a story,” leaning back in his seat, he lets out a large puff of air before continuing on “When I was growing up my parents were sacks of shit,” Roman lets out an affirmative snort. “So I jumped around from place to place looking for something—or someone, to dive head first into if ya know what I mean.”
“Nash—come on man I'm being serious—”
“So am I! Let me finish, I'll get to the point eventually," waiting for the young man to lower his hackles he continues on. “anyway I met this girl ina bar down town New Orleans. Cute lil thing with these pretty brown eyes I used to always say she had bug eyes but in a cute way you know—”
“why are you—”
“Just listen! I decided I liked her cute lil bug eyes so much that I wanted to keep seeing em. Then one day big bug eyes turned into lil ones staring up at me. Then another pair and then two more after that. Times got hard after the last one was born. Me and her, fussin and fighting, bills needin to be paid n’ all that. Biggest thing was, she wanted to finally get married. So I picked up trucking. It was good money, they had everything they wanted and I got peace of mind, just me, myself and the highway. I spent more time on that road than I did my own home. Till one day I came back. House empty—kids gone. Only thing there was a note. Know what it said?”
“What?”
“Told me to let her know when I was done runnin, she’d be waitin for me.”
“And?”
“She finally got that wedding she wanted, just not with me. Could only see my babies every couple of weeks on a court order. Served me right I guess, had nothing better to do so I gave up trucking and started driving around rich lil assholes like you. When you're doing so much driving and driving and driving you get a lotta time to think and the more I thunk the more I realized just how bad I screwed it all up. Things are better than ever now. Hell, since you barely come to work I feel like I get to see my kids more than I ever have before. They're older, having babies of their own. I wasn’t the best dad to em. Thought if I gave em all the gifts and toys they wanted, that would be enough. My oldest went to school for that psycho shit, keeps telling me I got childhood trauma and it ain’t my fault. Whatever the hell that means. I make sure I try real hard for the grandkids now. Even though I gotta play co- grandpa with my ladies husband, I tell the kids to call me popop. I'm not sharing a name with that suma bitch—that motherfucker. Every time I see em I wanna knock his head off—you know—”
“Nash.” he interrupts the upcoming rambling. “Why are you telling me this?” The older man lets out a deep sigh.
“You know you gotta head harder than a horse's ass, too many hits with them chairs they’ll do sum to ya I tell ya.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head in disappointment. “At some point you gotta shut up and let people love on ya. All that shit that happened in the past is the past. Work through it however you need but you keep running and you’ll look up and see that you ran her right into the arms of someone else—hell you already have. The twins told me about that Justin boy or whoever. wooooo boy does he have a bone to pick with yo—”
“Alright that's enough. Let's get outta here.” quickly rising from his seat signaling the end of the conversation. He’d rather not hear about Jordan and how if he had his way, Roman would be beaten to a pulp every week on live television. Heading to the back of the bus he stops in his tracks bowing his head.
“Nash?” he spins around to face the man. “What do you think I should do…about Jireh”
“Well for starters, stop talking back to your therapist, I’ve heard you on the phone back there an—” he stops short at the disgruntled look on the man's face.
“Ok sorry. Look. This is what I would do to win my woman back. I've actually been wanting to test this out for a few years but my daughter thinks it would mess up the family dynamic or some shit. I keep telling her to hell with all that but—” again noticing him losing patience he course corrects. “…this is what I would do.”
𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟑𝟏, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
Moving into a new home while traveling the world on a weekly basis was no easy feat but admittedly it was easier than waking up everyday being haunted by the ghost of a lover and she had to finally admit that her home was a graveyard of what could have been.
Choosing not to repeat past mistakes and drag another innocent soul into the disorienting mess that was her life, the first few weeks of isolation were the hardest.
Though they’d been broken up for some months before—and several times prior to that. This time was different. No passive aggressive remarks. No meetings for closure that ended in the colliding of feverish skin and reconciliation.
There were no club run ins. No stealthy encounters in unlit parking lots. No late night phone calls. No scandalous trading of explicit images and breathy voice memos. There was only silence. Lengthy and maddening silence that ate at her chest as the days went by.
Time had passed and her tears may have dried but the thoughts of him still lingered. Even after packing all of his things into boxes and tucking them away it wasn’t enough. Constantly wondering why she couldn’t escape the thought of him, she seriously considered checking herself in for a mental evaluation at one point.
It started with the little things. Still sleeping on the left side of the bed. Still keeping her shoes tucked neatly onto the top racks because there were usually a few of his larger pairs on the bottom.
Her closet and dresser drawers having vacant space that even reckless shopping sprees couldn’t fill. It came to a head the day she found herself contemplating sleeping in the guest room just to escape the torment.
Starting therapy was hard. Having to admit that if given the opportunity, she would take back the man causing her mental anguish—that was downright embarrassing. It was her truth however, she would take him back, but only if he stood on his word. He promised to change, to be better for her and in the mean time she needed to do the same.
The knock on the door rouses her from yet another deep bout of rumination. She isn't quite used to the way sounds echo throughout this new space and with all the work she’d been forcing herself to commit to, there hadn’t been much time to get herself acclimated. Between the twins and picking up new clients, life hadn’t settled in months—neither had her mind.
Padding over to the front door, the peep hole revealed an empty doorstep and the furrow of her brow deepened when she opened it to find flowers. Crisp white roses.
Every Saturday for the last month she’d unlocked her front door and found the same thing. Roses, always white ones, never a note attached. At one point there was strong consideration of the possibility of having a stalker.
Then she promptly came to what she deemed a sophisticated conclusion, that the flower delivery was for the previous owner of the house and when they moved they forgot to end the service.
Unfortunate for them, but with no contact information available, she just decided to take advantage of the plight. She always did love roses and the neutral florals could be placed anywhere in her home without clashing.
Upon inspection of this newest delivery, the small white card neatly folded over and tucked into the front of the vase stops her in her tracks. A note. Warily reaching to retrieve it, the contents make her stomach flip.
Five months. It’d been five months since she even laid eyes on him and there was no way that he would choose today of all random days to start being amorous. Unless there actually was a stalker, there was no other person that this could have come from.
“𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐼 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒.”—𝑅
February 7
“𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝑡𝑦𝑙𝑒”—𝑅
February 14.
“𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑇𝑢𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒.”—𝑅
The photo he’d attached was one she’d never seen before, though she remembered the moment clearly.
On a private beach in Turks and Caicos. He sat with her perched on his lap, just minutes after attempting to convince her to take off her bikini top. Vowing that there was nobody around to witness his spontaneous attempts to engage in such debauchery. He swore that it was just them and the ocean—and their waiter evidently.
February 21
“𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝐼 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢” —𝑅
February 28
“𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒.”—𝑅
March 7
“𝑀𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒. 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”—𝑅
March 14
“𝐼 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠.”—𝑅
March 21
“𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”—𝑅
March 28
“𝐼 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”—𝑅
𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
It was early in the day when they arrived.
“𝐺𝑒𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑜'𝑠. 𝑇𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 8𝑝𝑚. 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚.”—𝑅
Georgios was the swanky restaurant downtown that they frequented and the night would only ever end one way. He was sorely mistaken if he believed that would be the outcome of tonight's endeavor. She has half a mind to skip out and give him a taste of how it feels to be inherently ignored.
Sure he’d been sending these notes and they were as close to sentimental as she would get with someone like him but it doesn't completely make up for the last seven months.
She wants to hear what he has to say however, wants to know what he's been up to all this time. To see firsthand if he’d really been making good on his promise to figure things out and make things right between them.
Just as she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, the sound of a car door slamming outside drew her attention and the ring of her doorbell called her down the stairs and into her foyer.
A driver waiting on the other side of the door to transport her to this mysterious dinner. In his hands, another bouquet of roses and a lavishly wrapped gift box.
There's no note on the flowers this time, but as she unwraps the accompanying box to discover Dolce and Gabbana's “Devotion” it's easy for her to gather his intentions.
The first thing she notices following her arrival is the usually lively business appearing void of life. He’s waiting for her inside at the one table that'd been set for just them.
Candles and flowers occupy the other vacant areas. Never having seen the place anything less than overflowing, the quiet ambiance is welcome given the circumstances.
The kiss he plants on her cheek lingers and she's acutely aware of every inch of his body from the other side of the round booth. He’d slimmed down since the last time she's seen him.
Though she much preferred his stockier frame, she can't pretend that isn't alluring all the same.
On the ride over she’d come to the conclusion that letting him lead the conversation was a sure way for her to fall victim to the deep timber of his voice and end up missing her panties by the end of the night.
So, before the meal even arrived she dove into the array of questions she’d conjured up to neutralize any chances of coercion.
“Why all the flowers?”
“One for each month we’ve been apart. The rest were just because you like em.” He responds without hesitation.
“Why white?”
“Peace offerings” she turns her head to hide a growing smile.
“And the notes?”
“I wanted you to know that I'd been thinking about you.”
“It's gonna take more than flowers and a dinner date to fix things ya know.”
“i know.”
“Why didn't you call?
“Would you have answered?” the waiter makes his first appearance of the night to pour two glasses of her favorite wine.
“I don't know.” When he reaches to grab for her fingers across the table a moment for collection is needed. She couldn't remember the last time they’d even held hands and he let her bask in the silence for a while longer before pushing on.
“What are you thinking?” his thumb caresses the back of her knuckles.
“That I don’t trust you. You never let me in. All we do is fuck and pretend everything's ok, thats not a relationship Roman. I'm getting older. I wanna retire soon and travel. I wanna get married and have a baby or something. There's things that I want from life that I don’t think you’re able to give—”
“I’d give you anything you want. You wanna travel, just say where and we’ll go. You wanna retire and spend all day reading those nasty ass romance books then so be it. You wanna get married then we’ll get married. You wanna have a baby I'll gladly give you one—more than one actual—”
“It's not just about giving me what I want, Roman. You also have to want those things. If I told you I was pregnant right now you’d probably have a stroke.”
“I told you that I'm working on it, jireh.” Exasperation accompanies his words.
“What does that even mean? All you ever keep seeing is that your working on it and then it's the same shit over and over—”
“I’m in therapy now.” astonished isn't a strong enough word to describe the feeling coursing through her. She’d been screaming at him—literally, for years to see a professional and he’d finally heeded the advice.
“Like…real therapy? Or you've just been talking to the twins because if that's the case then—”
“No,” He shakes his head. Real therapy. With a real therapist, a lady named Margot”
“Margot huh?…Is she pretty?”
“She’s 65.”
“I was just asking!” She can feel his smirk from the corner of her eye while pretending to take in the restaurant's dim scenery.
“I think you're pretty, the prettiest girl i know actually” Her plan was failing, with so much time apart she forgot just how much of a smooth talker the man could be.
“You just wanna have sex with me.” She grumbled, crossing her arms to hide the rising goosebumps.
“Of course I do. But I'd like for it to be more than that. All that stuff you said you wanted, I want to give that to you but you have to trust me.”
“How can I? Look at all that’s happened”
“And am I to blame for all of it?” his head dips striving to connect with downcast eyes.
“No,” she mumbles.
“Exactly, most of it sure, but if we can’t trust each other then all of this is in vain baby.”
“I want to, I really do, but every time things are normal you flip shit on its head.”
“and I'm sorry. I really am but I don't know what else to say to prove to you that this time I'm serious about making shit right.”
It often felt like they were having the same argument time and time again without ever coming to a real resolve.
“Tell me what you talk about in therapy?”
“You.”
“Be serious.”
“I am.”
“I’m not all you talk about in therapy roman.”
“I talk about other things, but mainly you”
“What are the other things?”
“Work, you, the twins, my paren—”
“Tell me about your parents. Every time I asked before you dodged the question.” A muscle quivers at his jaw, the same way it did all the other times she’d asked. When he begins looking around the otherwise vacant restaurant, she’s sure he’ll change the subject.
The surprise is surely evident on her face when he doesn’t.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Why do you hate them so much?”
“My mom was his mistress and when she got pregnant with me he left her. My parents got married after my dad's wife found out he’d cheated. I was almost five by that point. Mom never wanted kids. Dad wanted to be with his other family. I didn't get nice clothes and warm home cooked dinners growing up. Wore the wrong size shoes to school for almost five years— hell If I didn't go to school with the twins I probably wouldn't have made it to school most days."
“When my mom died, my dad kicked me out the day of the funeral. I was sixteen. The first birthday gift I ever got was the day I turned seventeen, the twins mom was big on stuff like that. Growing up all I did was cry and beg for them to give me the time of day I swore that I would never do that again for anybody ever. The day my dad died was the happiest I'd felt in years, Jireh.” sliding around the booth until their thighs were flush, her arms wrapped around his shoulder pulling him into a silent embrace. Tears pooling in her lashline.
“I’m not a good man. I'm not kind and I'm not patient but for you I'd do whatever it takes. If you wanted me to get on my knees and beg, I'd do it right now. I’m miserable baby” Pulling back she looks him in the eye, taking the time to caress the skin of his face.
“You're not a bad person, you've just spent your whole life trying to survive. It's time to start living, papa.”
Embraces him again, her head rests against his consolingly.
The gnawing question in the back of her mind is too invasive after some time in the silence and she can't help but let it out.
“Can I ask you another question?” she can feel his nod against her shoulder
“How’d you get my address?” The snicker he lets out is uncharacteristically loud and for the first time in months there's a semblance of normalcy.
–
When dinner is had and the conversation begins to fade they make their way to the front of the restaurant.
“Coulda sworn I told you to wear something warm.”
“And I could swear that we’re in the middle of Miami…this is warm.” gesturing down to the long sleeve minidress molded to her body. His eyes slip past her torso to the extent of her exposed legs.
“Not exactly what I meant”
“What? Can't stand the sight of my grotesque figure?” she cocks her head to the side, raising a brow in challenge.
“Grotesque isn't the word I would use” he murmurs, eyes raking over her body enticingly slow.
“In your dreams” she mocks, stomping off to her awaiting vehicle. He follows behind her and her heart rate spikes the minute he slides into the vehicle after her, slamming the door closed.
Though they just sat across from each other for hours, being in an enclosed space this way brought back too many memories of impromptu sexual endeavors that surely would have gotten them arrested if discovered.
“And where do you think you're going?” she tosses out, pressing her body as far into the opposite corner as physically possible. Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers.
“I’m not following you home Jireh,” He chuckled at her antics. “But, I never said our night was over.”
Through the entire ride to their mystery destination she stole glances at him in her peripheral vision. A few times she fully turned her head pretending to gaze out of the other window.
She gave that up on her last attempt when she found him already gazing at her, jestfully blowing her a kiss once their eyes connected. She’d whipped her head around and hadn't moved it since, until, the vehicle rolled to a stop on what looked like an airplane runway.
“Are you trying to kidnap me?” His answer is drowned out by the loud whoosh of air surrounding them. When it comes to an end she turns her body to glance out of the rear windshield. A sleek black helicopter filling her vision.
An unexpected warmth surged through her. “You remembered,” she whispered in his direction, voice shakier than she would have liked. Once again surprised by his unpredictability.
“I remember everything about you Ji.” Their driver opening the door whisks away the tension in the air and they’re escorted onto the awaiting aircraft.
“It's gonna be fine,” he murmurs into her ear, helping her buckle the safety harness. “These guys are the best in the business.” he promises before leaning back and buckling his own.
When they start to rise she unconsciously lands a hand on his thigh and feels the supple muscle tense under her grip. Calloused fingers trail over her knuckles, relaxing their hold and intertwining their palms.
𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
Though he’d been regularly clocking into work with the lead up to such a momentous event and there was the possibility of them regularly crossing paths, he’d made it a point to give her isolated time to consider their relationship. Each week a new time and location arrived with her regular floral delivery and each week it became more challenging not to jump his bones wherever they ended up.
Before the busy season of media and interviews stole him away he’d rented out an entire botanic garden. For hours they talked and ate—he’d even obtained a water painting art kit for her to enjoy. When she asked why he’d only gotten one he proceeded to tell her that the art he’d wanted to see was right in front of him before boldly raking his eyes down her figure. On their ride back to her home she’d had to forcefully stop herself from climbing into his lap.
She’d hadn't seen much from him since then. She wouldn't hold it against him given how important the upcoming weekend was. He’d made sure she was taken care of however. She and the twins were upgraded to first class on their flights and the penthouse suite she’d been conveniently upgraded to was one of the only two rooms on the floor.
It sent a shudder down her spine in a garbled sense of deja vu. The last time they were in these circumstances she let him do unspeakable things after a simple “I’m sorry”. Giving into sexual advances would be counterproductive but after so long partaking in voluntary celibacy, even the thought of him has her running hot below the belt.
A knock on the door hinders a trip down memory lane and she all but runs to answer in hopes to escape the explicit fantasies creeping up her spine. Opening the door reveals the star of said fantasies holding a bouquet of blood red roses and she has to grip the edge of the door to keep her knees from buckling.
“Delivery's a lil late today.” his voice is raspy from overuse and she nods woodenly brain still unable to escape the suggestive visions flashing behind dreamy eyes.
Extending the flowers out to me he takes a step back.Glancing down, I notice another one of the small cards inked with his handwriting. Peering up at him suspiciously he appears to be waiting for me to read it.
𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑢𝑝. 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒. —𝑅
He’s speaking before she even finishes reading.
“I’m not good at this. I won't pretend to all of a sudden be some sappy and shit but I want you Jireh. I want us. It’s not fair for you to always be chasing after me. Whatever I have to do to meet you where you're at, I'll do it.”
She still hasn't picked her head up from the bouquet.
“Why’d you put me in this room?”
“Needed you close by. We’ve spent too much time apart.”
“Think I've heard that before,”.
“Well this isn't like before. I'm serious about what I said.”
“which part”
“All the parts. If you want to get married we can go downstairs right now. I'm sure there's a chapel open somewhere. You don't want a chapel, we'll rent out a museum. Anything you want.” Stepping closer he allows his voice to dip just for her ears though there's no one else around to see how close they stand. You wanna have a baby, I'll gladly put one in you all you have to do is ask. You want me to build you a house from the ground up. I'll do it. anything you want i’ll do it but you have to trust me to take care of you.”
A tense silence passes between them and after what feels like centuries she finally lifts her head with a nod. “Ok”
“Ok?”
“I’ll trust you..but I have rules.”
A quick twitch of his lips precedes his hasty agreement, not giving her time to change her mind. “let me hear i—”
“You can't quit therapy just because we’re back together.”
"Ok”
“And I want us to go to couples therapy… like twice a month”
“ok”
“and we need to get a dog before we have a baby, I need to make sure you have what it takes”
His smile widens. “whatever you want.”
“right—and for a while we can't live together if we’re starting from scratch.”
he lets out a deep sigh running a hand over his beard. “ok no living together—”
“and you need to decorate your house, we wouldn't always have to be at mine if yours wasn't barren like a hospital”
“hire someone to decorate…ok”
“and no sex— “
His eyes go comically wide. “wait a sec—”
“Let me finish talking. No sex unless you come back here tomorrow night with a title. I don’t fuck losers”
He laughed then, sincerely amused by her ultimatum. “Yes ma’am.”
“ok..good..glad we’re on the same page. well good luck tomorrow…goodnight.”
“Goodnight jireh.” even with her body half turned back into her doorway she can hear the playfulness in his tone.
From the corner of her eye she watches him back away slowly. There's only so much restraint a woman can have. Quickly setting the flowers on the ground and calling out to him. His brows raise in a question that never earns a chance to escape his parted lips. Wrapping around the fabric of his top she heaves him forward. Flushing the curves of her body to the exaggeratedly defined hard planes of his.
He keeps her cradled close to his chest while sneaky hands descend and attach to the firm muscle of her backside groping and reacclimating to the expanse of it. Tongues collide in slippery caresses. biting and sucking at each other with enough fervor to provoke a loud moan, which one of them it came from is a mystery.
When her hands begin a scandalous descent down the expanse of his chest, it's him that pulls away with labored breaths. No words are spoken between them and she's gone as quick as she arrived. “Same time tomorrow?" he questions cheekily to her retreating figure.
“In your dreams” she returns without looking back, cheeks flushed. scooping up the discarded florals and slamming the door behind her. She can hear his laugh echo into the empty hallway from where she's firmly planted on the other side. The giddiness unfolding in her body makes her feel that of a school girl with their first crush. Burying her nose in the flowers and taking a deep whiff she can't help but let out a silent scream jumping around in unadultured excitement.
—
Watching him maneuver around the ring did nothing to throttle the arousal lingering in her from the previous night. It was rare for her to watch matches from in the crowd but upon his request she watched from the seats at ring side. She didn’t miss the way he stole glances at her through the night and her thighs clenched each time their eyes connected through the mayhem.
It’d been a long time since she saw confetti rain down in such perfect harmony. Four whole years since. Parading around with his accomplishments held high over his head felt like twisted deja vu, somehow back exactly where they started all that time ago.
Hair unkempt and body battered he rolled out of the ring, leaving his newest title behind. The crowd's deafening roar fell silent on her ears the closer he got. Standing parallel, separated only by the squat barricade she raises her eyebrows in anticipation. She's partially aware of all the cameras pointed in their direction but when he leans closer into her space engulfing her in a sweaty embrace he’s the only thing she can focus on.
Any other time she would chastise him for covering her in the perspiration but with his voice resounding in her ear she pays it no mind. “Maybe we should skip the dog and try for that baby.”
Pulling back to look into her eyes he can see the playful recognition of her previous specifications. Gripping onto the forearms wrapped around her waist she extends her neck to place her mouth at his ear whispering a sweet, “In your dreams”. Before attaching her mouth to his in a hungry kiss and the reverberation from the crowd carries them away.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞| well friends, this is the official end of Dear Desperado, anything else that gets written for these two will be AU's or shorts. cant believe I finished a series what the helly! Thank you guys for reading all this craziness and I may or may not have a short coming within the next few days.
xoxo💋💋
Y’all better not stop writing for Jey just because IRL he is a messy cheater (legally speaking). Or at least write him just as messy as his real life. I’m already in a Jey Uso fic drought! 😭😭😭
author’s note: my deepest apologies for how long this took. life be lifing. i'd read this one carefully. certain things are revealed and/or inferred indirectly. pairing: roman reigns x black!oc x jey uso warnings: angst. strong themes regarding infidelity, domestic violence, and death. psychological elements. some scenes may be triggering and difficult to read. reader discretion is strongly advised. words: 5k+ song inspo: ❝ somewhere only we know❞ by keane credit: photos from pinterest and google images. fic and chapter title graphics by me. mdni divider by @strangergraphics previous + masterlist + taglist request form
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™
“I wonder where she is…”
Heaven feigns a loud sigh and blows out a dramatic breath, making the curls spilling over her face to fly forward before tossing down against her cheek. She pushes back a tendril and tucks it behind her ear. Shrugging and another feigned exhale accompany the way she looks at her nails. Short, almond, painted the perfect shade of white that matches the loose dress with flowy sleeves, a cinched waist, and brushes the top of her knees.
“I guess I won’t be able to find her…”
Her intentional announcement is accompanied by the way she carefully, slowly, and methodically takes step by step, the blades of forest green grass tickling the portion of skin exposed on her feet from her sandals. “I can’t believe she really beat me….” Continuing to lean into the performance, it’s only when she catches the the glimpse of an arm with a complexion several shades lighter than the tree she hides behind that Heaven makes her grand reveal.
“There she is!”
The shout comes seconds after Heaven jumps forward and attempts to grab her. Happy, loud giggles as she breaks free from Heaven’s loose hold and starts to run away. Her little legs only taking her so far before Heaven grabs her again, this time the two of them falling into the ground.
The pasture absorbs their bodies like a memory foam pillow, molding around the curves of Heaven’s body as the little girl lays on top of her and continues to laugh happily from the way Heaven playfully tickles.
“You found me!”
“I did,” Heaven’s smile deepens, her eyes narrowing from the fleeting glimpses of sun that rains down on her, peaking through the head of dark curls every time she writhes and wiggles from the tickle session.
It’s when she rolls over, however, and Heaven can feel the full strength of the sun that her smile settles, her shoulders sink deeper into the grass, and her eyes shut. There aren’t enough words to adequately describe the level of…peace she feels in this moment. The sun is bright but the heat is almost nonexistent. The aroma of fresh flowers that don’t crush under her weight but instead bow almost in reverence around their bodies. Faint whistles and swishing sounds of the wind brushing against the most beautiful example of God’s finest work that Heaven has ever seen.
Never an outside person, there’s nothing that she can list off as a con for the space that feels less like a pasture and more like a safe haven.
Rolls and valleys of endless greenery and forestry. There’s an aura that feels almost too good to be real. Like it contains and conveys a level of peace that defies and contrasts reality and what exists in the realm of capabilities.
Heaven feels so….light.
She feels free.
The sort of free that one prays for but rarely ever achieves.
At least….not in this life.
The laughter once more draws her focus as mischief flashes in her pretty eyes before she jumps up and starts to run off once more. Heaven’s smile deepens as she too sits up and starts to give chase when she stops. Turns her head just enough to where the breeze brushes past her hair, whipping it against her face as her brows start to cave inward and the smile falters.
Something…..
Something’s not right.
She continues to turn around, the peace that encompassed is now one that unsettles. It’s all so perfect. Too perfect.
And then she hears it. Hears the sound that makes her entire body still and toes dig into the ground that suddenly feels impossibly softer than before. As if it's adapted. As if it’s molding itself to her feet to keep her planted when her knees begin to wobble and balance falters.
Giggles.
That of a child. A little girl.
And not the one a few feet away.
“Macy…”
Heaven turns around, eyes foraging the vast plains as if trying to seek out the voice. Seek her.
She starts to step forward when a small tug on her dress forces her to turn around. Heaven looks down to see the little girl staring up at her with that same gaze of excitement and with that happy smile that reveals a top and bottom row of small, perfectly straight, white teeth. Impossibly white, almost.
A recurring theme of this place, it seems.
Impossibility.
Releasing the fabric, she instead makes a beckoning motion with her fingers before reaching for Heaven’s hand, all five wrapping around and giving a light squeeze.
It’s a grasp that the older woman allows, but it’s the extent of permission granted as Heaven plants her feet in the ground. The crumble of the young girl’s smile evokes a heavy lump in the back of Heaven's throat and births a weight that sits on her chest. Anchors her body down both physically and metaphorically, as she drops to her knees, hands to the child’s shoulders.
She swallows, feeling that familiar burning sensation that’s intensified by the way the sun beams down on her. “You are an amazing little girl, sweetie.” Words that comes from a place she can’t identify, but it’s a place that feels familiar. Natural. Innate. “But I know another amazing little girl, and she needs me. She—she needs me more than you do.”
And Heaven needs her. Perhaps more than the other way around.
It’s a realization spurned simply from the sound of her daughter’s laughter. One of the best sounds in the world, and one that she can’t push from her head. Hears on repeat at a volume that feels like it only knows increase.
But the space reserved for her sweet Macy is shared with concern for this girl in front of her who reminds her so much of her daughter. Heaven expects the disappointment that flashes in her eyes, but it’s when she briefly breaks away that the guilt forms.
“Honey—”
Heaven stops when she realizes the girl isn’t going far. Just quickly scuffles a few feet away to a strip of flowers and picks two before quietly returning to Heaven who observes them with marvel and curiosity. It’s such a strange variation of which she’s never seen before. A crossbreed of roses and tulips.
One pink and one blue.
But the curiosity travels when the girl reaches with her free hand and pushes past the swell of the material to touch Heaven’s stomach. It’s a touch that makes her gasp from the memory that instantly slams into her.
The baby…
For the first time since awaking in this sort of paradise, dread begins to seep in. But it’s monetarily paused when she watches the girl’s smile revive as she lifts her eyes to meet Heaven’s and offers the flowers that are easily and naturally accepted. Even as the confusion remains.
“I don’t….” She stumbles. “I don’t und—”
Her small fingers rubbing gently against Heaven’s belly as she drops her eyes once more before lifting them and nodding happily. But once more, another unexpected act when the child lunges forward and hugs her.
Heaven’s shoulders instantly relax, the flowers still gripped in her hand as she returns the embrace. She closes her eyes, another wave of ardent emotion overtaking her. A sense of despondency and regret.
Like she doesn’t want to do this.
Like she doesn’t want to leave.
Like she doesn’t want to leave this little girl. Because leaving her almost feels like….it feels like she’s leaving Macy.
But she’s not. She’s leaving her because of Macy.
So why does it feel like there isn’t much of a difference?
If any.
“It’s okay.” Heaven gasps as the child breaks her silence. Her small voice, light and pure, sounding and reminding her so much of Macy. “And it’s okay you didn’t keep me. I know you wanted to.” The quietest intake of breath is followed by the way Heaven's eyes shoot open, electricity dancing up her spine. Her fingers both somehow tingling and numb concurrently.
What….what did she just say?
The little girl presses her body closer, as if wanting to mold the two of them together, to soak in and capture this moment as much as she possibly can.
To never forget.
“Bye, mommy.”
——————
A multitude of senses are triggered almost immediately and simultaneously, but the first thing that Heaven can detect in this new realm of consciousness are the sounds. A variety of them, most of which are sounded out by a consistent, regulated beep that’s both familiar and disconcerting. That discomfort is exacerbated by the way she struggles to open her eyes, several flutters and focused efforts needed to lift and maintain. An uphill battle similar to that of pushing a large boulder up the steep heel of setbacks but one she overcomes and largely because of the new sound that’s added to her immediate environment.
“Heaven?”
Another familiar sound that's partially drowned out in the midst of Heaven also becoming more aware of her surrounding. The sounds. The sterile, non-existent smell in the room. The heaviness of her body and cool, foreign sensations up and down her arms. A throbbing one near her right shoulder. She manages a deep breath through her still closed mouth when the view of the still slightly blurred television is replaced with a set of eyes similar to her own.
Her mom’s.
“Oh, thank God.” Heaven groans lowly as her mother reaches to caress the top of her head, watery eyes locked on her. “My beautiful girl.”
Blinking several times over, Heaven continues to work to reach the point where she can communicate, but the grogginess is consistent and persistent. Awareness intermittent, to a certain extent. Enough to where she hears and sees the way her mother briefly turns her head and calls for a nurse before she’s focused on her daughter once more. “Heaven, do you know where you are?”
Heaven offers a small nod, and it might be the easiest thing she’s done. A hospital. She’s in a hospital.
But why?
And because Shelia Jackson is nothing short of sharp—if not psychic—she reads the question that doesn’t even need to be asked.
“Honey….” Heaven observes the subtle motion in the middle of her mother’s neck, a small bulge forming and disappearing. A swallow. A deep one. “You were attacked—”
Perhaps additional words follow the word ‘attacked,’ but it’s all incoherent mush that’s barely audible amidst the rush of memories that slam into Heaven with enough force to send her back if she wasn’t already lying down.
The fire.
Macy.
Jey.
The hotel.
Roman.
Macy.
Whatever time has passed since her entire world began to crumble before her very eyes is suddenly filled with horrifying remembrance of what initially brought her to the hospital.
And she doesn’t mean her own admission.
“Macy,” Heaven croaks, a sting in the back of her throat as she forces herself to speak for what must be the first time in—how long has she been asleep? “Where—where’s Macy?”
An attempt to sit up brings about a sharp, sudden pain in her shoulder as Shelia drops her hand to Heaven’s forearm.
“Careful, baby. You—” She stops, Heaven’s furrowed brows lifting to meet her mother’s eyes once more. “You were shot.”
Once more, a stillness that halts her movements and attempted efforts at answers. Heaven….remembers it. Remembers being at the hotel, at hearing a knock at the door, expecting to see the woman in front of her on the other side.
It wasn’t.
It was someone else she thought she knew. Someone she thought she loved. And maybe she did. But whatever love existed for the man she’s spent the better part of her life with died the moment he left her baby inside that burning building.
And once more, Heaven casts aside any thoughts and considerations for herself. She can work through that later.
She needs to get to her daughter.
She needs to get to Macy.
Heaven attempts to snatch her arm away from her mom, ignoring the stinging sensation of the IV in her arm shifting from the sudden movements. Shelia presses her lips together as Heaven continues to find her voice. “Where’s Macy?”
Shelia opens her mouth, her own sympathetic expression unchanging when rushed footsteps draws the focus of both mother and daughter. Shelia straightens as Heaven remains steadfast in her efforts to, one, get up, and two, get up to find her daughter. Regardless of the nurses and doctor moving towards her.
The doctor, an older man with a balding head and crows eyes but a seemingly genuine disposition, steps closer. His voice calm and soothing. “Mrs. Uso—”
“I want to see my daughter,” she interrupts, uncaring of feigning pleasantries for the sake of it. Being nice and displaying manners is the last fucking thing on her mind. “Where—”
An additional set of hands and the feeling of being surrounded and overwhelmed heighten Heaven’s anxiety, as words and fragmented sentences continue to float in and out.
“….bullet missed the heart and lungs….”
“………significant blood loss…..”
“……hemorrhagic shock……”
“………..emergency surgery….....”
“……,…babies are stable….....”
“……..two days……”
All of it is relevant information, of that, Heaven is certain, but it’s the last portion of shared information that sticks with her and answers just one of her many questions. One that is near the top of the importance list.
“Two days?” She breathes, realizing only then on top of administering information as the nurses inspected her, he was also asking her a set of basic questions she’d apparently answered in the midst of growing internal panic. “I—I’ve been out for two days?”
Shelia, standing closely, hand on the railing of the hospital bed, opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by her daughter once more as another realization returns to Heaven.
“Macy….we—we’re supposed—supposed to know—” She shakes her head, ignoring the rising level of physical pain and discomfort in her body and face as certain facial motions evoke a stinging, throbbing sensation in her cheek. “Where’s Macy!”
Because Heaven remembers. Recalls the conversation with Macy’s medical team. If she’s been unconscious for two days now, then that means it’s either time or close to the time where they should have a better understanding of Macy’s status.
If she sustained any brain damage.
And if so….how severe.
Determination and resilience sometimes result in success, as is the case when Heaven finally manages to sway the doctor. Her mother’s cosign in the form of a whispered statement to the doctor also being a helpful additive. If the situation were different, Heaven would perhaps press on what was said, but it’s inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
The only thing that Heaven cares about, the only thing that matters, is seeing her baby girl.
That’s it.
It’s what remains the constant in the back, front, and all over her mind as she’s helped out of the bed and into a wheelchair that’s brought in a few minutes later. The journey from her room to the pediatric ward of the ICU includes the accompanying of her mother, two nurses, one who pushes her in the wheelchair and the other who guides the IV pole. Assisted ambulation eventually guiding Heaven to her destination.
Energy shifts the minute she’s wheeled into the room as if making way and place for her arrival. Dread rebuilds and returns with a startling vengeance as the discomfort that’s floated through her body in a variety of ways since her return to consciousness is no longer germane in place of a greater calamity. The room, roughly the same size as the one she was excerpted from, suddenly feels so much smaller with the congregation of bodies. White coats. Scrubs. Machines galore making the same sounds she awoke to. All surrounding the bed to where the only thing she can make out is the thin, white sheets, faint outline of short legs, and slightly elevated feet. Hushed whispers and a set of eyes that land on her, wearing a variety of expressions. But it’s two in particular that capture her focus longer than the rest, that briefly distract her from attempts to obtain a better view of her baby.
“Heaven….”
Roman is the first to speak, Nathan only a few feet away, but Heaven locks gazes with the elder of the two, and her stomach twists into an abundance of knots. Flashes of their last interaction—the hotel, Jey, the gun—once more another flood of memories. Ones that she briefly remembered when she came to but shoved aside for the sake of her child. But only a few feet away from the man whose last statements to her were ones of disgust and hurt is another story. She can’t look way nor can she ignore how…..tired exhausted he looks. Deep, dark bags under his eyes. Frizzy hair lazily pulled back unlike the neat but he’s always ensured to perfect before leaving the house. Even his attire, the wrinkled fabric of his shirt and sweat pants, visibly thrown on in haste and with little regard for appearance, it’s so….unlike him. But it makes all the sense.
He’s exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Truth be told, Heaven wouldn’t be surprised if he’s simply a reflection of herself with marginal differences.
Roman steps forward as Heaven squeezes her mom’s hand and holds onto the nurses forearm with her other hand while they help her to her feet. He gaze flicks between the two of them, unspoken communication as she naturally reaches for him, fingers snapping around his forearm. She swallows, an array of words needing to be spoken, truthful, honest communication never having a more appropriate time to be had. But once more, it’s a necessity that must be shoved to the back burner.
Her eyes water as he lifts one hand to her face that Heaven is almost certain must be slightly swollen, on top of bruised, given the flashes of intermittent pain that accompany her speech. “Macy…”
He mimics her motion, a prominent bulge and disappearance in the middle of his neck. “They’re about to wean her sedation to see….”
His inability to continue is all the answer she needs.
Heaven can’t allow herself to think about the reason why for his difficulty in completing his answer.
She motions with her chin towards the bed where Macy lays, offering a small smile to her nephew who simply returns the gesture with a small nod and a flash of regret in his warm eyes. Heaven recalls her last interaction with him, too, and mentally adds him to the list of people she needs to speak with.
Just one of many. But as Roman assists her to Macy’s bedside, her mom and the nurse guiding her IV pole close behind, the emotion that was already brewing reaches its boiling point.
A sharp intake of breath when she looks down at her baby girl, eyes closed, face still scuffed up, arm still wrapped, far too many wires connected to her. Far too many medical personnel surrounding her. She shouldn’t be here. In this bed. In this sterile room. In this situation.
This should have never happened.
“Mrs.—”
“Heaven,” she corrects, hand trembling as she reaches to stroke Macy’s cheek before flitting her gaze to the doctor. “It’s just Heaven.”
He nods before offering a gentle explanation as to the steps seconds away from commencing. Similair to what Roman said, just verbalized in a mixture of medical and regular terminology. But it’s when the actions are initiated that Heaven’s chest feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. Seconds that feel as if they’re being stretched into hours. Announcement of each task accompanied by Heaven’s grip on Roman’s forearm tightening, her eyes, as well as his, never once leaving Macy’s peaceful expression.
They’re paralyzed and frozen in time waiting and watching with a shared level of trepidation mingled in with burning hope.
Because in that moment, it’s all they have.
“Macy,” Heaven whispers, stomach clenching as she works to find her voice. It doesn’t matter that Macy’s hair, pulled back and tucked under her head, reveal the absence of her hearing aids. Heaven isn’t speaking to Macy for her to hear. She’s speaking to Macy for her to feel. “Baby, you gotta wake up. Mommy…mommy and daddy are here waiting for you.” Though her focus is on her child, her eyesight doesn’t need to be set on the man beside her to know that he has a visible reaction to her words. Barely an hour out of her own sedation, Heaven also doesn’t need to have regained control of all her faculties to know that this is the first time she’s ever openly referred to him as such.
As Macy’s father.
She continues, ignoring the pain from her shoulder as she bends over, the arm of the bed digging into her stomach. “I came back for you, May May.” Her voice cracks. “Now I need you to come back for me.”
Another reaction to poignant words, from both her lover and mother, are lost in the sea of irrelevance at the sight of something. Subtle. So so subtle and minimal that Heaven is partially surprised she can make it out through her blurred vision. And for a moment, she questions herself. Questions if her desire is overpowering her sense.
And then it happens again.
That same motion with increased visibility that’s caught by others as well, Roman’s deep voice whispering from beside her.
“Macy?”
Once more, voices are drowned out as Heaven feels the weight in her stomach dropping and caving when visible progression results into fluttering. Macy’s eyes begin to flutter, each motion evoking sounds from around but none more than her parents who stand her bedside.
“Macy?” Heaven cries and watches as her little girls eyelids fully lift and remain open, granting the room with a set of soft brown eyes that haven’t been seen in almost three days. Heaven has to grip Roman’s arm once more to keep from fainting. The shock of her awaking temporarily halts what would be the most logical next step for her parents as the doctor says something that's lost in the midst of endless relief.
Her lips press together, lines creasing in her forward, the faintest hint of a scowl similar to that of when she’s awoken premature from a nap. Confused. She looks confused, and understandably so.
But as a nurse begins to sign what would be the start of a basic line of questioning, Macy’s eyes instead flick to the left where her teary eyed parents stand beside her overcome with joy.
Joy so overwhelming that Heaven can barely make out what Roman says as he shifts just enough to lean over and kiss Macy’s forehead. But it doesn’t stop her, nor him, from following the length of Macy’s non injured arm as her fingers flex. Similar, small baby steps that lead up to the way she lifts her arms just enough to sign with her hands. Slow, laggard movements, tension in her fingers from days of non-movement causing her to take longer than usual, but the result is so so worth it.
Mommy
Another heartfelt sob erupts from Heaven’s mouth right as Macy’s eyes shift to the left, to Roman, and her fingers makes a different motion. Her fingers move a smidge quicker than before.
Daddy
Heaven places her hand over her heart, issuing an abundance of silent prayers as the tension of the room immediately melts away to make way for immense gratitude. If not for the vast amount of relief felt at Macy awake and coherent, perhaps Heaven would have focused more on it. Sensed the swell of emotion from beside her at Macy's acknowledgement.
The acknoweldgment of her father.
Her real father.
But it’s the final signing she does that allow humor to mingle in with gratefulness.
Cookie.
Only then as several of the adults in room break into light laughter does Heaven start to tune back into the conversations at hand. The nurse who was signing with Macy cracks a small, meaningful smile. She talks while signing. “I definitely think we can see about getting you some cookies, sweetie.”
At that, Roman clears his throat, still caressing the top of Macy’s head as Heaven reaches for her hand. “No. It’s….it’s her stuffed animal.”
“She doesn’t go anywhere without it,” Heaven finishes. Nathan and her mother move closer, attempting to interact with Macy whose hands have returned to her side, her expression unchanged. But the mere fact that Heaven is looking into her baby girl’s open eyes instead of them closed and indicating an outcome from the worst sort of nightmare is more than enough for her.
The doctor begins to task the nurse with signing a set of basic questions for Macy, most of which, Heaven is sure, is standard protocol. Most likely to gauge her level of awareness, though her being able to identify her parents is more than enough for Heaven.
Macy simply being awake is more than enough for Heaven.
With everything transpiring, the array of voices filling the room that’s suddenly far less morose than when she initially entered, Heaven is moderately surprised when she overhears a set of footsteps. Perhaps it’s the almost rushed pace, or maybe it’s the lingering essence of always being daddy’s little girl that has her turn around to see her father enter. But it’s the way he stands closer to the door, away from Macy’s bedside and how he beckons over her mother that gives Heaven pause. Especially when she watches the way her mother’s smile dips and transitions into a confused frown as she walks over.
Her attention is especially secured when her father angles his and Shelia’s body away, not once seeming to pay attention to the fact that Macy, his only grandchild, is awake. Ignoring her is one thing, but Macy?
Concern spikes, however, when, even without seeing their faces, Heaven can infer from their tense postures that something….something is wrong.
That nagging, uncomfortable feeling dancing up her spine as she speaks up. “What is it?”
And the feeling intensifies when her parents turn to her and cook up the quickest, most insincere “nothing” that she shoots down immediately. “What is it?”
Shelia presses her lips together. “Heaven.”
“Tell me.”
Heaven doesn’t intend to raise her voice as much as she does. She especially doesn’t intend to snatch away the focus from Macy via Nathan and Roman’s confused expressions, but Macy’s lack of her hearing aids leave her oblivious to the conversation at hand.
Thus, Heaven pushing once more. Something in the base of her stomach tells her that she needs to. That she can’t and shouldn’t accept whatever excuse or lie her parents want to feed her for the sake of avoiding whatever fallout the truth may carry with it.
That’s what caused all this mess in the first place.
But the truth that’s disclosed is a truth she could have never anticipated.
“They found him,” her father answers. “They found Jey.”
Something about hearing his name sends chills up Heaven’s spine. Evokes a myriad emotions. Anger dominating them all. But the anger is shoved aside in favor of clarification. “What—what do you mean they found him?”
Heaven remembers Jey attacking her. Recalls the struggle for the gun. Everything after that is nothing more than a blank page, but in her mind, Jey should be locked up somewhere. He attacked her. Tried to kill her. Almost killed her daughter.
He should be buried under that damn jail.
“He went on the run after….” Shelia trails off, her husband taking her hand as he offers a small nod.
“They located him though. Received an anonymous tip,” he continues. The pause, however, increases Heaven’s anxiety. The omission of what she would guess is a key piece of information having her press once more.
“What—”
“He was shot, Heaven,” he finally answers, voice void of any emotions and the concern in his eyes undoubtedly reserved for her and Macy. But primarily her and having to share such jarring news. “They found him unconscious. Beaten and shot. He’s apparently in critical condition. It doesn't look good. They don’t think he's going to—”
She’s unsure if it’s the way she turns her head away, staring at the ground, working to process the information, that makes her father pause in his explanation. Most likely. It’s certainly not from being choked up or holding any ounce of remorse or grief.
Jey’s sins are far too great and grave for her to extend any sort of compassion. Empathy has limitations, and Jey reached his the moment he left her daughter in their burning home. Perhaps the shock of what occurred has her in a state of emotional paralysis, but him attacking her, trying to kill her, isn’t even what drives her fury with him. It’s Macy. His crimes against Macy are unforgivable.
Though lack of empathy doesn’t deprive her brain from springing out several thoughts, most of which circle around a single word.
Who.
Who attacked Jey?
It’s an unasked question, however, that still has little to no emotion attached to it.
Nothing that Heaven actually feels. Truth be told, she’s not exactly sure what she feels. At least not until she happens to look behind her, wanting to ensure that Macy, though not physically possible, has not overheard news Heaven hasn’t the slightest idea how she’s going to break to her sweet little girl.
Especially if….
But it’s halted when two other expressions snag her focus.
Roman and Nathan. Twins in so many different ways, their personalities and dispositions almost identical. The first few seconds reveal brief, minor distinctions that, if not for how well she knows both father and son, she could have easily missed. The subtle tick of Roman’s jaw and motion of his bushy brows, weary eyes flashing with something unidentifiable. Similarly, there’s a discreet rise and fall of Nathan's shoulders followed by his mouth shifting before his expression lands in the same place as his father’s. Identical, nonchalant, calm, stoic look on their faces. And while she certainly wouldn’t expect either to emote any sort of despair or sorrow, it’s the lack of something she would expect to see that makes her still.
Shock.
They don’t….they don’t look shocked.
Not even a little.
And there’s something unsettling about that for completely different reason. Something that has her stomach in knots and spurns widespread disquiet. “What—“
An interrupted, unasked question lost in the midst of another sound inserted into the commotion of the room, voices layered over one another, but that consternated tone overpowering the rest.
“Macy?”
Her daughter’s name being called is what forces Heaven to return her focus to her child, the sight of which immediately makes her stomach churn.
“Macy.”
Macy doesn’t respond though, and her silence isn’t due to the lack of her hearing aids and thus inability to hear. It’s because of the sudden, jerking motions of her body as medical staff swarm around her right as several of the machines connected to her baby start alarming loudly and frantic, some slow and intermittent, some speedily and with urgency that matches that of the team around her.
“She’s seizing.”
“Her oxygen is dropping.”
“She’s coding.”
“Clear the room now!”
All sentences that whip past Heaven as she attempts to close the distance between her and her innocent baby, the view completely obscured by scrubs and a white coat. Arms and hands moving and reaching with purpose and necessity, some of which, however, serve as barriers.
“Macy!”
It’s an out-of-body experience, the heartfelt sound of her baby’s name ripped from her mouth. From Roman’s. Both of them being restrained and forced away from a scene neither can look away from. Their efforts valiant and without respite, even as Heaven feels the sharp pain of the IV ripping out from her arm what with her desperate flailing and swinging of her arms against the nurses holding her back. Her and Roman's voice nothing but heartbreaking echoes of the deepest sort of terror as they scream for their child.
“MACY!”
And similar to the same sight that haunted her that night, as she once more poured every ounce of energy in her body to get to her daughter, Heaven. continues to push. As does Roman. They continue to fight and resist. Tenacity undeterred as the cacophony of noise is usurped by a single, continuous, uninterrupted sound.
A flatline.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⟡ ＮＥＸＴ⟡
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐚𝐦⠀— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀７／１２／２６
No Man’s Property
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.
Warnings: Dark romance, possessive behavior, obsessive love, past domestic abuse, emotional trauma, violence, gun violence, blood, murder, attempted kidnapping/reclaiming, childbirth/postpartum themes, strong language, morally gray characters
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.
@blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist
Something Like Hope
Pairing: Stack (Elias) x Cherry
Summary: Three years after a fleeting, silent connection in Clarksdale, Stack finds Cherry again in a small Florida town—pregnant, alone, and tied to a life that never chose her gently. What begins as recognition turns into insistence, and insistence into something heavier, something harder. Stack doesn’t ask for her. He decides. And somehow, through the weight of his certainty, Cherry begins to choose it too.
Warnings: 1930s setting; possessive and delusional male lead; power imbalance in relationship dynamics; themes of emotional dependency and control; pregnancy; references to an abusive and neglectful marriage; explicit sexual content.
wc: 19k
Soft Hands, Heavy Love | What He Built to Keep | No Man’s Property
Clarksdale, Mississippi sat heavy under the kind of heat that made everything move slower, men, music, even time itself. The air clung to skin, thick and damp, smelling like dust, sweat, cheap liquor, and something sweet rotting just beneath it. It settled in your lungs if you breathed too deep, made your shirt stick to your back if you stood still too long. And right in the middle of all that was the juke joint, low-lit, loud, alive in a way the rest of the town only pretended to be. Music spilled out the door and bled into the street, a rhythm that didn’t ask permission to be felt, just took hold and stayed there.
Stack leaned against the wooden post just outside, one boot hooked behind the other, hat tipped low enough to shadow his eyes. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, the smoke curling up slowly like it didn’t have nowhere better to be. He wasn’t doing nothing in particular, just watching. He always was. Watching people, watching movement, watching opportunity before it even knew it was about to walk his way.
Inside, laughter cracked like glass, sharp and sudden. Boots stomped against worn wood floors, cards slapped tables, and somebody was already too drunk to stand straight. Smoke handled the inside, smooth, controlled, making sure money kept flowing and nobody got too bold. He didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. Didn’t have to repeat himself twice. That was his lane.
Stack preferred the outside. That’s where things walked in before they knew what they were stepping into. That’s where he saw everything first. That’s when he saw her.
He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where she came from. Didn’t know nothing except that the whole damn street seemed to quiet down when she stepped onto it, like something soft slipped into a place that didn’t deserve it.
She was walking behind a man, her husband, though Stack didn’t need confirmation to know that. It was in the distance between them, not too far, not too close. The way she stayed just a step behind him felt practiced, like she’d learned that was where she belonged. Quiet, careful, measured. Like she’d been taught not to take up too much space.
The man talked big, hands moving, voice carrying, selling something Stack didn’t care enough to figure out. He laughed too loudly at his own words, leaned too close when he spoke to folks, like he thought force could turn into charm if he pushed it hard enough. Stack barely looked at him twice.
He kept his eyes on her. She moved softly, like she wasn’t meant for the same world the rest of them were stomping through. Small frame, neat, wrapped up in fabric that did its best to hide her shape, but didn’t quite succeed. Not to him. The way the dress fell told its own story if you knew how to look, and he always did.
There was something else, too, something in the way she held herself. Not pride, not fear exactly either, just restraint. Like she was constantly folding herself inward so nobody had to notice her unless they wanted to.
He dragged slowly on his cigarette, eyes locked in without even trying to pretend otherwise. “Who that?” he muttered, more to himself than anybody, voice rough from smoke and disinterest.
Nobody answered. Nobody needed to.
She didn’t look up at first. She just followed behind that man from door to door while he pitched whatever dream he thought folks would buy. But every now and then, like something tugged at her, something quiet but persistent, her eyes would lift.
And when they did, they found him.
The first time it happened, Stack didn’t move. Didn’t straighten up. Didn’t shift. He just stood there, staring right back like he’d been waiting on it, like the moment had already been decided before either of them stepped into it. Then, slow and easy, he tipped his hat. Nothing flashy, nothing loud, just enough to be felt.
Her reaction was immediate. That shy little smile, soft and uncertain, spread across her face like it didn’t come out often, like it surprised even her. And just as quick, her cheeks deepened, that warm brown turning richer, touched with red that climbed up slow and steady.
Stack huffed out a quiet laugh, cigarette hanging from his lip. “Yeah…” he murmured, almost under his breath. “Look at you.”
She dropped her gaze almost as fast as she’d lifted it, falling back into step behind her husband like she hadn’t just been seen, like she hadn’t just been noticed in a way that lingered longer than it should have.
But Stack had already caught it, and once he caught something, he didn’t let it go.
Days passed like that. Not many, just enough.
He saw her more than once, always the same pattern. That man was talking, moving, pushing forward like the world owed him attention. Her following, quiet as a shadow, soft as something that could disappear if the wind hit too hard.
Sometimes Stack would already be outside when they came through. Sometimes he’d step out just in time. It didn’t matter. He always saw her.
And every time their eyes met, it was the same. A small rhythm that belonged only to them. He tipped his hat. She gave that shy smile. Her cheeks warmed every single time.
He never walked up to her. Never interrupted. Never spoke a word. He didn’t need to.
In his mind, something had already started forming, something that didn’t require permission or conversation. Something that made sense to him in a way nothing else ever really bothered to.
“She a butterfly,” he said one evening, voice low, watching her disappear into the distance behind that man, her dress catching just a little in the breeze.
Smoke, standing beside him, didn’t even look. “You don’t even know that girl.”
Stack smirked, slow and crooked, like the answer was obvious. “Don’t need to.”
The words came easily, certain. Like knowing her wasn’t about time. Wasn’t about conversation. Like seeing her had already told him everything he felt like he needed to know.
The last day she was in town, the sky hung low and gray, thick clouds threatening rain that never quite came. The air felt heavier than usual, like something was waiting to happen and just hadn’t found its moment yet.
Stack stood in his usual spot, shoulder against that same post, watching the street like he always did, though this time there was something more intentional in it.
He was looking for her.
She passed by one last time, same steps, same distance behind her husband, same quiet presence that somehow still managed to pull his attention every single time.
But this time she looked at him first. Not by accident. Not delayed.
On purpose.
And when he tipped his hat, that smile came quicker, a little warmer, a little less unsure, like something small had taken root in the space between glances and decided to stay.
Stack watched her go until she disappeared completely, swallowed up by the street and everything moving through it. He didn’t chase. Didn’t call out. Didn’t break the pattern they’d built.
He just stood there, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers until it singed his skin, and he finally flicked it away.
“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, voice low, almost thoughtful for once. “Ain’t the last time I see you.”
It wasn’t a hope. Wasn’t even a wish. It didn’t sound like either one.
It sounded like a decision.
Like something already set in motion, whether she knew it or not.
And in Stack’s world, that was usually enough.
The road stretched long and hot beneath them, cutting through Mississippi like it had somewhere better to be. Dust kicked up behind the car in lazy clouds, hanging in the air before settling back down like it didn’t feel like moving no more than anything else out here. The sun sat high, pressing down through the windshield, turning the inside of the car into something just shy of unbearable. Heat wrapped around them, settled into the seats, into their clothes, into their skin like it meant to stay.
Stack had his arm hanging out the window, fingers loose, letting the wind hit his skin while the rest of him stayed slouched in the passenger seat like he’d been sitting there his whole life. His hat tipped low, shadowing his eyes, but not enough to hide the irritation sitting there. “Man,” he muttered, shifting like he couldn’t get comfortable no matter how he tried, “I hate being out the Delta this long. Don’t feel right.”
Smoke didn’t look at him, hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward, posture straight like the heat didn’t touch him the same way it did everybody else. “You been complaining since we left,” he said calmly.
“‘Cause we still ain’t back,” Stack shot back without missing a beat.
Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite. “You act like Clarksdale finna disappear without you.”
Stack turned his head, squinting at him. “It might. Ain’t nobody running it right when I’m gone.”
“That right?” Smoke’s tone stayed flat, but something was sitting under it, amused, unimpressed. “Thought I was there.”
Stack waved a hand like that didn’t matter. “You don’t count. You too quiet. Folks get nervous when it’s too quiet.”
“Folks get dead when it’s too loud,” Smoke replied.
That pulled a grin out of Stack, slow and sharp. “Yeah, but at least they entertained before it happen.” Smoke finally glanced at him then, just for a second, eyes cutting over before going back to the road. “You gon’ talk the whole way there?”
“Yeah.”
“Figured.”
Stack shifted again, dragging his arm back inside, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together like he was trying to wake himself up. “I’m serious though. We been stretching that supply too thin. Folks already asking questions. You heard Johnson the other night, talking ‘bout the shine tasting watered down.”
“I heard him,” Smoke said. “I also heard him come back for another drink.”
“That ain’t the point,” Stack snapped lightly. “I don’t like folks thinking we slipping.”
“We ain’t slipping. We adjusting.”
Stack sucked his teeth. “Sound like slipping with better words. It sound like you trying to dress it up.”
“It sound like business,” Smoke replied.
Stack leaned back again, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t like business when it take me out my city. Everything run how it’s supposed to when I’m there. I step away, now we chasing suppliers in a whole other state.”
“You like money.”
Stack paused, then nodded once. “I do like money.”
“And money don’t come from sitting still.”
“Money come from me,” Stack said, pointing at himself. “Let’s not get that confused.”
Smoke hummed under his breath, unconvinced. “Right.”
They rode in silence for a moment, the sound of the engine filling the space between them, tires humming steady against the road. It didn’t last long. Stack glanced out the window, watching the land pass by in long stretches of nothing. Trees, dirt, the same patches of dry land repeating themselves like the world got lazy out here. “Hope this connection worth it.”
“It is,” Smoke said.
“You know that or you just saying it?”
“I don’t waste time guessing.”
Stack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Mister always got a plan. Mister got it all figured out.”
“Somebody got to.”
“Here you go.” Stack leaned back again, dragging a hand down his face slower this time. “You always do that. Act like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Smoke’s jaw shifted just slightly. “I don’t act like nothing.”
“You do,” Stack insisted. “That little look you get. Like you already thinking three steps ahead and I’m just out here winging it.”
“That ain’t acting,” Smoke said after a brief pause.
Stack stared at him for a second, then barked out a laugh. “Man, fuck you.”
Smoke’s mouth twitched, just barely. “You’ll be alright.”
Stack shook his head, still smiling. “One day I’m gon’ let you run your mouth like that in front of the wrong person.”
“You don’t. You like me alive.”
“Debatable.”
“It ain’t.”
Stack let out a short laugh, shaking his head again before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He tapped it against his palm twice, then lit it, cupping the flame against the breeze coming through the window. He took a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before pushing it out slow, watching it disappear into the heat. “You ever think maybe I’m the smart one?”
Smoke didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
Stack blinked, then turned his head slowly. “You answered that too fast.”
“I didn’t have to think about it.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Stack said, pointing at him again. “That right there. Disrespect.”
“That’s honesty.”
“Same thing coming from you.”
Smoke exhaled softly through his nose again, closer to a real laugh this time, but still controlled.
The road kept stretching ahead of them, endless and unmoved. The sun dipped just slightly, not enough to cool anything down, just enough to change the color of the light spilling across the land. Shadows grew longer, but the heat stayed the same, pressing in just as hard.
Stack shifted again, more restless now. “Soon as we lock this in,” he said, voice quieter, more focused under the edge of irritation, “we head right back. I ain’t trying to be out here longer than we got to.”
Smoke nodded once. “That’s the plan.”
“You better not start liking it out here,” Stack added, side-eyeing him. “I ain’t splitting time with no damn Florida.”
That got a real reaction, faint but there. Smoke glanced at him again. “You jealous of a state now?”
“Yeah,” Stack said without hesitation. “I don’t trust nothing that ain’t Mississippi.”
“That sound stupid.”
“It sound right.”
Smoke shook his head slightly, but didn’t argue further.
The land began to change gradually the further they drove, the air creeping heavier even with the windows cracked, thicker somehow. The breeze that came through didn’t pass clean anymore. It lingered, sat on the skin, carried something unfamiliar in it that didn’t belong to where they came from.
Stack noticed it before he said anything. His arm shifted back out the window, testing it like he didn’t believe what he was feeling. “This air feel different,” he muttered.
Smoke nodded once, eyes still forward. “We getting close.”
The trees started looking different too, taller in places, thinner in others, the land opening up in ways that didn’t feel like home. The road didn’t change, but everything around it did just enough to notice, just enough to remind them they weren’t in Mississippi no more.
Stack leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling again. “Yeah… I don’t like it.”
Smoke almost smiled. “You’ll survive.”
“Yeah,” Stack said after a second, gaze drifting back out the window, quieter now, but no less certain. “I always do.”
The car pushed forward, tires humming steady against the road as the last stretch of Mississippi fell behind them without ceremony. Just ahead, waiting without saying a word, was Florida.
By the time they made it into Ocala, Florida, the sun had already started leaning toward the late afternoon, but the heat hadn’t let up none. If anything, it felt heavier here, thicker, like the air had weight to it. It sat on your shoulders, clung to your clothes, made every breath feel just a little slower than it should’ve been. Even the breeze felt different, not something that passed through you, but something that stayed, pressing close like it had its own intentions.
They’d been in town for a few hours already, long enough to walk most of the main stretch, long enough to see who watched too hard and who didn’t look at all, long enough to know this place smiled in your face and kept something else tucked behind its teeth. It was also long enough for Stack to decide he didn’t like it.
“This place sticky as hell,” he muttered, stepping off the wooden porch of the building they’d just walked out of, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the feeling off him. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, already irritated. “Air feel like it touching me too much.”
Smoke stepped out behind him, unbothered as ever, pulling his hat down just slightly against the sun. His movements were slower, measured, like nothing around him demanded urgency. “That’s called humidity.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I gathered.”
Stack glanced around the street, eyes moving slow but sharp, taking everything in whether he meant to or not. The town had more movement than Clarksdale, more color, more noise. Folks moved quicker, talked louder, storefronts busier, wagons rolling through, people calling out to each other like they had somewhere to be and somewhere to get back to. But underneath all that, something else sat there, something quieter and more watchful. Stack couldn’t name it, just felt it settling in the back of his mind like a warning he wasn’t ready to listen to.
“People out here move funny,” he said.
“People always move funny when you ain’t home,” Smoke replied.
Stack clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. His attention was already drifting, scanning faces, doorways, windows, not looking for nothing specific, just looking the way he always did, like something might present itself if he paid enough attention.
They had business to finish. The man they came to see wasn’t ready for them yet and told them to come back later like their time wasn’t worth respecting. So now they had hours to kill, walking the streets and getting familiar with a place neither of them trusted.
That didn’t sit right with Stack, and it didn’t sit right with Smoke either, even if he carried it quieter.
Stack rolled his neck, exhaling sharp through his nose. “I don’t like waiting on nobody.”
“You don’t like not being in control,” Smoke corrected.
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
Stack glanced at him sideways. “It is when I’m the one being made to wait.”
Smoke adjusted his cuff, gaze still forward. “You want to walk back in there and rush him?”
Stack paused, then smirked a little. “I mean… I could.”
“You won’t,” Smoke said simply.
Stack sucked his teeth. “You always take the fun out of shit.”
“Somebody got to keep you from making extra problems.”
Stack let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Man… we got too much time on our hands.”
That was the real issue. Too much time meant too much thinking and too much stillness, and neither of them were built for that, even if Smoke wore it better.
Stack glanced down the street again, eyes narrowing slightly as something crossed his mind. His mouth tilted just a little, something mischievous settling in. “We could find us something to do,” he said.
Smoke didn’t look at him, but he already knew that tone. “What kind of something?”
Stack shrugged one shoulder, casual but not really. “This kind of town? Don’t tell me you ain’t seen it yet.”
Smoke’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, then back ahead. “Seen what.”
Stack gestured loosely down the street with two fingers. “Ain’t no place this lively without a hoe house tucked somewhere close. You know that.”
A beat passed. Smoke didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t dismiss it either. Stack caught that and grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“You restless,” Smoke said.
“So are you.”
“I’m fine.”
Stack gave him a look. “You ain’t fine. You just quiet about it.”
Smoke didn’t respond, but his jaw shifted just slightly. That was enough of an answer.
A few more steps passed in silence before Smoke spoke again, voice low and casual like he was commenting on the weather. “I need some pussy.”
Stack turned his head slow, then broke into a grin, sharp and immediate. “There you go,” he said, amused. “Thought you was gon’ keep acting like you above it.”
“I ain’t above nothing,” Smoke replied, tone flat. “I just don’t talk as much as you.”
Stack laughed under his breath, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Same difference.”
Stack straightened a little, rolling his shoulders again. “Come on. We got time to waste, might as well waste it right.”
Smoke exhaled slowly, considering it, weighing it the way he did everything. Then he nodded once. “Fine. But we not getting comfortable.”
Stack’s grin widened. “I never get comfortable.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is when I ain’t home.”
They turned down another stretch of the street, slower now, less focused on business and more on reading the town differently, watching who lingered, who stood outside too long, what doors stayed closed but busy. It didn’t take long to spot it. The building didn’t look too different from the others at first glance, but the energy around it gave it away. Men went in with purpose and came out a little looser. Women in the windows didn’t belong to the street the way everyone else did.
Stack huffed a quiet laugh. “There it is.”
Smoke’s gaze swept over it once, quick and assessing. “You always know where to look.”
“I know what I like.”
“Yeah. That’s the problem.”
Stack smirked and started toward it, but his steps slowed before he made it halfway. Something pulled his attention sideways, and just like that everything else stopped mattering.
Stack didn’t like having time to think. Thinking made things stretch and made him restless. “Soon as we handle this,” he said, adjusting his hat, “we leaving. Same day if we can. I ain’t sleeping out here.”
“That depend on how the deal go,” Smoke said.
“It’s gon’ go how we need it to go,” Stack replied, tone sharp with certainty.
Smoke didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Stack always spoke like things bent to him whether they did or not.
They moved down the street side by side, their presence noticeable whether folks meant to stare or not. Two men who didn’t belong, carrying themselves like they weren’t asking for space, just taking it. Conversations dipped when they passed, eyes followed and then quickly looked away. Stack noticed all of it.
And then his attention caught on something else entirely.
At first, it wasn’t nothing, just a woman stepping out of a storefront, easing her way through the doorway slow and careful, like she had to think about each movement before she made it, like even something as simple as stepping outside required a kind of quiet effort. One hand rested against her stomach.
He almost looked past her. Almost.
Something about the way she moved slowed his attention just enough to linger. Not her face, not yet, just the way she carried herself, familiar in a way he couldn’t place right away. Then longer. Then still.
She stepped fully into the light, adjusting her grip on the door behind her before letting it close. Her other hand hovered near her stomach, protective without thinking about it. Pregnant. Seven months, maybe.
Stack’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, just focus sharpening into something more precise. She shifted her weight, turning just a little, and that’s when it hit him, hard and sudden, like something snapping into place that had been waiting on him to catch up.
Everything else dropped away. The noise of the street dulled until it sounded distant, the movement around him blurred into something meaningless, even the heat pulled back like his body forgot about it just long enough for this moment to settle in.
“That’s her…” he said, low, almost under his breath.
Smoke heard him anyway. His eyes shifted immediately, not to her, but to Stack first, because something in his tone changed into something that didn’t belong to casual noticing. Stack wasn’t looking around anymore, wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking. He was locked in.
“Who?” Smoke asked, voice even.
Stack didn’t answer. He didn’t blink and didn’t look away.
Smoke followed his line of sight then and finally let his gaze land where Stack’s had already settled. The woman had paused just outside the storefront, adjusting something in her hands before lifting her head like she felt it, like she felt eyes on her the same way she had years ago.
And her eyes found his.
Stack felt it before he even saw it fully. That same look, that same softness, recognition flickering slow behind it like something waking up. Three years gone and still there.
Her lips parted just slightly, like she almost said something but didn’t know what to say. That shy smile didn’t come as quick this time and didn’t bloom as easy. It was still there, just quieter, tired.
And something in her face had changed. Not just the weight she carried in her body, but in her eyes. Something was sitting behind them now that hadn’t been there before, something worn down, something that had been through more than it should have.
Stack took a slow step forward without realizing he moved at all, like his body made the decision before his mind needed to.
His voice came out lower this time, more certain, more settled in something that didn’t need to be explained. “She still mine.”
Smoke looked at him then, really looked, because that wasn’t curiosity, wasn’t recognition, wasn’t even interest. That was possession.
And Stack was already gone.
Stack didn’t realize he was moving at first. One second, he was standing beside Smoke, the noise of the street dulled out around him, the heat pressing in, voices blending into something distant and unimportant, and the next, his feet were carrying him forward like something had taken hold of him from the inside and decided for him.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Every step was slow and deliberate, measured in a way that looked almost casual but wasn’t, like he had all the time in the world and she wasn’t going nowhere, like the space between them wasn’t distance, just something meant to be closed.
His eyes stayed on her the whole way, taking her in, not just looking but studying, memorizing. The curve of her face, softer now but still the same. The way her body had changed, fuller with the weight she carried, but still holding that same shape he remembered, even through the fabric. The way her dress stretched just slightly across her stomach, the way her shoulders curved inward like she was still trying to take up less space than she deserved. The way she stood, careful, like she was always aware of herself now in a way she hadn’t been before. Different, but still her.
Stack reached up as he got closer, pulling his hat from his head in one smooth motion. It wasn’t rushed or awkward, just natural, like it belonged to the way he approached her. He let it hang loosely in his hand at his side, giving her a full look at him without obstruction.
His hair was slicked back clean, parted neatly like he took his time with it, not a strand out of place. His face was sharper than it had been years ago, more defined, more sure of itself. There was confidence sitting in the way he carried himself now, heavier and more settled. When his mouth tilted just slightly into something that wasn’t quite a smile yet, that flash of gold caught the light at the corner of his teeth.
Cherry saw all of it, and for a second, she didn’t move. Her hand stayed resting against her stomach, fingers spread lightly like she was grounding herself without thinking about it. Her eyes moved over him slowly, not rushed, not panicked, just taking him in the same way he was taking her in.
Recognition didn’t hit her all at once. It came in pieces, the way he looked at her first, then the way he stood, then the memory of that hat tipping forward just slightly over and over again three years ago. Her breath stilled as it settled into something real.
He stopped a few steps in front of her, close enough to speak without raising his voice, close enough to feel like he had stepped into her space without asking, like he had every right to be there, but not close enough to touch.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air between them held something thick, something unspoken but understood in a way that didn’t make sense for two people who had never actually met. The sounds of the street started to creep back in around them, but it didn’t reach where they stood.
Stack broke it first. “Hey, butterfly.”
His voice was low and familiar like it had always belonged there, like he’d said it to her a hundred times before instead of never once.
Cherry blinked, and that small, shy smile tried to come back, softer than before, hesitant, like it had to push through everything else sitting on her. “I…” she paused, almost embarrassed by it, like she didn’t know how to explain something that didn’t have words. “I remember you.”
Stack’s mouth curved just a little more at that, enough for that gold tooth to show clearer now. “I know you do.” There was no question in it, just certainty.
Cherry let out a small breath, shifting her weight slightly, one hand still resting against her stomach like it belonged there. “You used to…” she glanced down briefly, then back up at him, “tip your hat.”
Stack lifted the one in his hand just slightly like a quiet echo of it. “Still do.”
That pulled something a little warmer out of her, a flicker of that old softness returning for a second, something lighter pressing through the heaviness she carried, but it faded again just as quick.
Stack’s eyes dropped briefly to her stomach, not lingering too long but not pretending he didn’t see it either. “You pregnant,” he said plainly.
Cherry’s hand instinctively pressed a little more firmly against her stomach like she felt the need to shield it under his gaze even if he hadn’t reached for her. “Yes,” she said quietly.
Stack nodded once like that confirmed something for him, like it fit into whatever he had already decided in his head. “How far along?”
“Seven months.”
He hummed low under his breath, eyes flicking back up to her face, taking her in again with that same steady focus. “You out here by yourself?”
Cherry hesitated, and that question sat heavier than the others. “I’m alright,” she said instead, gentle, deflecting without pushing him away, like she didn’t want to lie but didn’t want to open that door either.
Stack tilted his head slightly, watching her closer now. “That ain’t what I asked.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t let her slide past it either. It held steady on her.
Cherry swallowed, her fingers shifting slightly against her stomach. “My husband…” she started, then stopped, like the word itself didn’t sit right coming out of her mouth anymore.
Stack didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush her. He just stood there, waiting like he already had time for whatever answer she gave, like nothing else in the world was pulling at him.
“He’s… not here,” she said finally.
Stack’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes sharpened just slightly. “Where he at then?”
Cherry looked off to the side for a second, gathering herself, choosing what to say and what not to. “He was doing business,” she said slowly. “It didn’t go well.”
Stack stayed quiet as she continued. “There were accusations. Money, deals, things that weren’t what he said they were.” She glanced back at him, almost apologetic for how unclear it sounded. “He’s in jail.”
The words sat between them. Stack nodded once, and that was it. No sympathy, no surprise, no shift in how he looked at her.
“He ain’t here,” he said simply. “That’s what matter.”
Cherry blinked at him, caught off guard by how easy that came out of him. It wasn’t cruel. It just wasn’t softened. There was no pity in it, no careful handling, just truth the way he saw it.
She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to respond to something that didn’t ask her to feel anything about it at all. “I…” she started, then stopped again, unsure where to go with it.
Stack didn’t press that part. He shifted slightly instead, rolling his shoulders back like he was settling into the space between them, as he had already decided to stay in it. “What’s your name?” he asked.
Cherry hesitated for half a second, then answered. “Cherry.”
Stack’s brows lifted just slightly, like he appreciated that. “Cherry,” he repeated slower, like he was testing how it sat on his tongue, like he was making it his already. “Yeah… that fit.”
She gave a small, almost shy smile at that, eyes dipping briefly before coming back up. “Cherry Mae Whitfield,” she added softly, more formal this time.
Stack nodded once, committing it. “Whitfield.” Then he straightened just a little, shifting his hat in his hand before finally offering his name in return. “Elias Moore. But everybody call me Stack.”
Cherry looked at him a little longer this time, like the name settled something for her, like it gave shape to the feeling she remembered. “Stack,” she repeated quietly.
He smiled then, just enough to show that gold again. “Yeah.”
A brief silence passed between them again, but it didn’t feel strained. It felt full, like something had already been established without either of them saying it out loud.
Stack glanced back the way he came for half a second, where Smoke still stood watching, then back at her. “I’m in town for a little while,” he said.
Cherry nodded faintly. “Oh.”
Stack took a small step back, not leaving, just shifting the space slightly like he knew he had pushed close enough for now, like he knew how to pull back just enough to not break what was forming.
“I’m gon’ see you again,” he said.
Cherry’s breath caught just slightly at that, something uncertain flickering across her face, something that should have resisted it, but she didn’t say no, didn’t correct him, didn’t question it. She just nodded, small and quiet. “Okay.”
Stack held her gaze for another second, like that was enough for him, like that was all the confirmation he needed. Then he stepped back fully, turning just enough to start walking away, but not before looking at her one more time, taking her in again like he was already certain this wasn’t the end of it, like it had never been.
By the time he made it back to Smoke, that same slow confidence had turned into something else entirely, something brighter and more obvious. A grin spread across his face, wide and unapologetic, that gold flashing every time his lips pulled back.
Smoke didn’t move from where he stood, arms relaxed at his sides, eyes already on him before he even got close. He read the expression first, then the energy behind it, and he already knew he wasn’t about to like whatever came out of Stack’s mouth next.
“There it is,” Smoke muttered low, more to himself than anything. “That look.”
Stack stepped up beside him, still half turned like he might look back at Cherry again if he let himself. “Yeah,” he said, voice carrying that same satisfaction. “Yeah.”
Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What you did.”
Stack let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “Man, I ain’t even do nothing yet.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
Stack finally looked at him then, grin still sitting heavy on his face. “She coming with us.”
Smoke didn’t react right away. He didn’t blink, didn’t shift, just looked at him.
“…Who.”
Stack jerked his chin back toward where she stood down the street like it should’ve been obvious. “Cherry.”
A pause stretched between them. Then another.
Smoke let out a slow breath, eyes dragging away for a second before coming back. “The pregnant woman you just met.”
Stack nodded once like that didn’t complicate nothing. “Yeah.”
“The married one.”
“Her husband in jail.”
“That don’t make her not married.”
“It make him not here,” Stack shot back easily.
Smoke stared at him for a second longer, then shook his head just slightly. “You been talking to her five minutes.”
“Long enough.”
“That ain’t how that work.”
“That’s exactly how it work,” Stack said, already starting to move again, expecting Smoke to follow like always. “You just don’t be paying attention.”
Smoke fell into step beside him anyway, because of course he did, but his expression stayed the same, somewhere between disbelief and quiet irritation. “What she say.”
Stack rolled his shoulders, still riding whatever high that moment gave him. “She remember me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“She do though. Told me herself.”
Smoke exhaled slowly. “And the rest.”
Stack glanced ahead as they walked, hands moving a little as he talked now, energy building instead of settling. “Seven months,” he said.
Smoke’s eyes flicked to him. “You counted.”
“She told me. Seven months. Baby healthy.”
Smoke’s jaw shifted. “You asked that.”
“Yeah.”
A beat passed between them.
“You don’t know that woman,” Smoke said.
Stack looked at him like that was the dumbest thing he could’ve said. “I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do enough.”
Smoke huffed a quiet breath. “And the husband.”
“In jail.”
“For what.”
“Bad business. Fraud. Something like that,” Stack said, waving it off like the details didn’t matter. “He ain’t coming back the same way he left.”
Smoke’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You don’t know that either.”
Stack shrugged. “Don’t need to.”
They reached the building they had been in earlier, the one tied to their business, and slowed near the front, settling back into place like they were waiting again. Only now Stack didn’t seem nearly as bothered by it.
He leaned against the post, the same way he had back in Clarksdale, but this time there was something more settled in him, something certain.
Smoke watched him for a second before speaking again. “So let me get this straight.”
Stack glanced at him. “Go ahead.”
“You met a married woman.”
“Mm.”
“She pregnant.”
“Mm.”
“Seven months.”
“Yeah.”
“Her husband alive.”
“In jail.”
Smoke paused, then continued anyway. “And you decided…”
Stack’s grin came back, slow and sharp. “She coming home with us.”
Smoke stared at him, really stared this time.
“…You serious.”
Stack didn’t hesitate. “Dead serious.”
A long silence stretched between them before Smoke shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping out, low and disbelieving. “You done lost your mind.”
“Nah,” Stack said easily. “I found something.”
Smoke looked at him again, longer this time, reading him the way he always did, trying to find the line between impulsive and dangerous. This felt like both.
“And the baby,” Smoke added, watching him carefully. “That part just don’t matter to you.”
Stack’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it settled deeper.
“That baby coming with her,” he said. “So it’s mine too.”
Smoke let out a quiet breath, shaking his head again. “You don’t even hear yourself.”
“I do,” Stack said. “Sound right to me.”
Smoke looked off down the street for a second, then back at him, something almost amused sitting under the disbelief now. “You met her twice three years ago.”
Stack shrugged, easy. “Don’t matter. I been knowing her.”
Smoke let out another quiet laugh, this one a little fuller. “Yeah… alright.”
He didn’t agree. He didn’t believe it. But he didn’t stop him either.
He just leaned back beside him, eyes drifting out toward the street, waiting on business to come back around while his brother stood there already planning a future that hadn’t happened yet and somehow believing it already belonged to him.
By the time they sat down to handle business, Stack wasn’t really there.
He was in the chair. He was at the table. He had a glass in his hand that he barely touched, turning it once, twice, like his body needed something to do while his mind stayed somewhere else entirely. His attention drifted back down the street, back to a woman standing in the sun with her hand resting over her stomach, back to the way she looked at him like she remembered something she couldn’t quite name.
Smoke noticed it immediately.
The man they were meeting with talked too much, same as most men trying to sell something. Words kept coming without pause, numbers stacking on top of each other, routes explained twice over, supply promises dressed up like guarantees that sounded better the more he repeated them. He leaned forward when he talked, elbows pressing into the table like that alone would make his words land heavier, laughed at his own points like he needed them to feel convincing, and kept glancing between them to see if either one was buying it. He tried too hard to sound like he had control over things that clearly weren’t steady, as if he spoke with enough confidence it might turn into truth.
Smoke listened, asked the right questions, pressed where it mattered, picking apart the details and putting them back together in a way that made sense.
Stack didn’t.
“—and I can have it moved up from the south end by the end of the week,” the man was saying, leaning forward like he was closing something important.
Stack nodded.
Didn’t respond.
Didn’t even look at him.
His gaze stayed low, unfocused, like he was watching something that wasn’t in the room.
Smoke’s eyes flicked to his brother for half a second before settling back on the man across from them. “At what volume,” he asked smoothly, voice even, controlled.
The conversation kept moving, but Smoke’s attention split now, one half handling business, the other watching Stack sink deeper into something he hadn’t even tried to hide.
At one point, the man laughed at something he said, loud and unnecessary.
Stack didn’t.
Didn’t even blink.
Didn’t react at all.
Smoke leaned back slightly, tapping his fingers once against the table, a quiet, steady rhythm that matched the way his mind worked through everything being said. His eyes stayed on the man across from them, but there was calculation behind it now, measuring tone, gaps, what was being said and what wasn’t. When he spoke again, it wasn’t rushed or forced. It slid in smooth, redirecting the conversation exactly where it needed to go without making it obvious he had taken control of it. He carried it clean, controlled, like he always did, like this was the part he understood best, holding the room without ever raising his voice.
Stack just sat there, mind somewhere else entirely, replaying a moment that had already passed like it was still happening.
By the time they finished, the deal was close enough to settled, details to be finalized later. Good enough.
Smoke stood first.
Stack followed a second later, slower, like he was stepping back into his body instead of moving with it.
They stepped back out into the heat, the door closing behind them, the noise of the town filling back in around them, louder than before.
Stack exhaled like he had been holding his breath the whole time.
“Man,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “let’s wrap this shit up.”
Smoke looked at him.
Really looked this time.
“You hear anything that man said?”
Stack waved a hand like it didn’t matter. “Enough.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
“It’s enough of one.”
Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose, something closer to irritation now. “You not even trying.”
Stack turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “I don’t need to try. You got it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is today.”
A beat passed between them before Smoke shook his head once, looking off down the street like he needed a second before dealing with him directly.
Then he looked back.
“This about her.”
Stack didn’t deny it.
Didn’t even pretend to.
“Yeah.”
Smoke stared at him, searching his face for something that looked like sense.
Didn’t find it.
“You serious,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do enough.”
Smoke let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but not amused. “That ain’t how that work.”
Stack leaned back against the wall beside the building, folding his arms like he had already settled into his position, like this conversation wasn’t even necessary. “You keep saying that like I’m supposed to care.”
“Because you should.”
Stack shook his head once. “Nah. I know what I’m looking at.”
“And what is that.”
Stack’s mouth curved slightly, something firm sitting behind it, something already decided. “My wife.”
Smoke blinked.
Slow.
Then looked away for a second like he needed to process that without reacting too fast.
“…Your what.”
“My wife,” Stack repeated, easy as anything. “I’m gon’ marry her.”
Smoke let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You done skipped a whole lot of steps.”
“Ain’t no steps,” Stack said. “It’s simple.”
“It’s not simple.”
“It is when you know.”
Smoke looked back at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You don’t know nothing.”
“I know enough.”
A pause stretched between them, thicker this time.
Then Stack added, almost casually, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he’d said yet.
“And that baby mine too.”
Smoke went still.
Then turned his head slowly.
“…Say that again.”
Stack didn’t hesitate. “That baby, it’s mine.”
Smoke stared at him for a long second, searching for a crack in it, something that looked like a joke.
Didn’t find one.
Then he let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh.
“You serious right now.”
“Yeah.”
“You claiming another man’s child.”
“He ain’t here.”
“That don’t make it yours.”
“It will be.”
Smoke shook his head again, slower this time, like he was watching something unfold that he already knew wasn’t going to end clean.
“You lost.”
Stack smirked just a little. “Nah. I’m right on time.”
Smoke looked at him, really looked, and this time the humor started to creep in under the disbelief despite himself.
“You really believe this.”
Stack didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of Smoke, low and dry. “Alright.”
He nodded once, like he had come to a decision.
Not agreement.
Just acceptance.
“I’m not stopping you,” he said.
Stack didn’t ask him to.
“I know.”
Smoke crossed his arms then, leaning back beside him, eyes drifting out toward the street again. “But I’m watching this.”
Stack huffed a small laugh. “Watch all you want.”
“I am.”
A beat passed.
Then Stack added, almost like he couldn’t help himself, grin creeping back onto his face.
“Better get used to it too.”
Smoke didn’t look at him. “To what.”
Stack’s grin widened. “Being Uncle Smoke.”
Smoke closed his eyes for a second.
“…Don’t do that.”
Stack laughed, louder this time. “Uncle Smoky Bear.”
“Don’t ever call me that again.”
Stack was still laughing, shaking his head. “You gon’ be around that baby, might as well accept it.”
Smoke opened his eyes again, side-eyeing him. “That ain’t your baby.”
“It is now.”
Smoke let out another breath, this one heavier, but there was something almost amused sitting under it now despite himself. “Yeah,” he muttered. “We gon’ see.”
They stood there like that, waiting, one grounded in reality, the other already living in something he hadn’t built yet but believed in like it was already done.
And Smoke decided right then he wasn’t going to interfere.
He was just going to watch it play out.
Cherry was home by the time the weight of the day finally settled into her. The small house sat quietly around her, the kind of quiet that didn’t comfort so much as it lingered. The windows were cracked just enough to let the evening air slip in, but it didn’t carry much relief from the heat. It just moved the stillness around.
She moved slowly through the space, setting things down where they belonged without really thinking about it. A basket from the market rested on the table, vegetables still tucked inside, a bit of soil clinging to some of them from where she’d picked through them herself. Her garden sat just outside, small but cared for, one of the few things that felt like hers, something she could tend to, something that grew because she gave it attention.
Today had been long, longer than most, and her hand drifted to her stomach again, resting there the way it always did now, like it had found its place without asking her permission.
She had gone to see her husband first, and the memory pressed in without her inviting it. The jail had been hot, heavier than the air outside, walls holding in everything no one wanted to carry. He had looked the same and not the same all at once, still loud in his own way, still talking like he had control over things he clearly didn’t, still speaking at her instead of to her. He hadn’t asked how she was. He hadn’t asked about the baby beyond a passing mention that didn’t linger long enough to matter. He talked about himself, about getting out, about fixing things, about how everything would be different.
Cherry had stood there, hands folded, nodding where she was supposed to, saying what was expected of her the way she always had, and when she left, nothing about her felt different. Just heavier.
After that, she had gone to the market, moving slow between the stands, picking out what she needed. The sun had been high then, pressing down on everything, making the world feel louder than it actually was. People moved around her, blending together, but none of it really reached her. She kept to herself like always until she didn’t.
Cherry paused near the table now, fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the basket before she pulled her hand back. Her mind moved through the day without asking her permission, the jail, the market, and then him.
Stack.
Elias.
Her breath slowed just slightly as his name settled in her thoughts. Elias. She liked the way it sounded. It didn’t feel rushed or sharp. It sat low and steady, like something that carried weight without needing to prove it.
Her fingers pressed lightly against her stomach again as she leaned back against the table, letting herself feel it instead of pushing it away. The way he looked at her, not past her, not around her, but at her, like she was something worth seeing, like she had been there all along and he was just now stepping into it.
His presence lingered in a way that didn’t make sense. Strong and certain, something about standing in front of him that felt different. Not safe, not exactly, but not unsafe either, just held, like the space around her had shifted without her understanding how.
Cherry closed her eyes for a second, letting that feeling sit in her chest before she exhaled slowly. No one had ever spoken to her like that, not her husband, not anyone, not like she was something to be chosen instead of carried along.
Her eyes opened again, gaze drifting toward the window and the fading light outside. He said he was going to see her again. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He just said it like it was already decided, and the thought of that should have unsettled her more than it did, but it didn’t. It stayed with her, quiet and steady.
Cherry lowered her gaze slightly, her thoughts pulling inward, softer now, less guarded than they should have been. “Elias…” she murmured under her breath, testing it, feeling it settle on her tongue.
Her hand rested more firmly against her stomach this time, not out of instinct, but awareness. For the first time in a long time, something unfamiliar settled in her chest. Not fear, not uncertainty, but something softer, something that felt like the beginning of something she didn’t understand yet.
And for once, she didn’t try to push it away.
The next morning came too quick for Smoke, but not for Stack. He had been up before the sun fully settled into the sky, already dressed, already moving, already decided. The room still held the quiet weight of early morning, that thick stillness before the town stretched awake, but Stack had already stepped past it like it didn’t apply to him.
Smoke sat on the edge of the bed in the boarding house, elbows on his knees, watching his brother pace once, then again, like he had somewhere to be that couldn’t wait another second. His eyes followed him slow, heavy with sleep but sharp enough to read exactly what this was.
“You not even gon’ eat?” Smoke asked, voice rough, low, still waking up.
Stack adjusted his cuffs, smoothing them down with careful attention, barely glancing at him. “I’ll eat later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I meant it then too.”
Smoke let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face, then down his jaw. “You going to see her.”
Stack didn’t deny it. “Yeah.”
Smoke leaned back slightly, studying him for a long second, already knowing he wasn’t about to stop him. “You don’t even know where she live.”
Stack’s mouth tilted just a little, something confident sitting there like it had always been. “I will.”
By the time the town had properly woken up, Stack was already walking through it like he belonged there. The streets were starting to fill, shop doors opening, voices rising, movement building into something steady. He moved through it all untouched by it, stopping where he needed to, asking just enough questions, saying just enough to get what he wanted. He didn’t rush and he didn’t wander. He moved with purpose, like every step already had a destination waiting on it. It didn’t take long. Someone always knew somebody, and Cherry was the kind of woman people noticed, even if she moved quiet, even if she tried not to be seen.
By mid-morning, Stack stood in front of her house. He didn’t step up right away. He looked, really looked. The house sat near the edge of a small lake, the water still and wide, reflecting light in soft ripples that made everything feel calmer than it should have been. The yard was kept, not perfect but cared for in a way that showed consistency, not neglect. The garden off to the side held rows of life, greens pushing through soil that had been turned by careful hands. It felt like her, quiet and soft but steady.
Stack took it all in slow and thorough, like he was already placing himself inside it. Then he stepped up onto the porch and knocked once, firm and certain, like he knew she would answer.
It didn’t take long. The door opened, and there she was.
Cherry.
Her surprise came first, clear across her face before she could smooth it down. Her eyes widened just slightly, her body stilling in the doorway like she hadn’t expected him to become real again this soon.
“Stack…”
Her voice carried everything at once, confusion and recognition with something softer underneath it that she didn’t name.
He tipped his head just slightly, that same Mississippi ease settling into him like it belonged there. “Morning.”
She blinked once, breath catching just enough to notice, then stepped back, opening the door wider without thinking too hard about it. “Come in.”
He didn’t hesitate. Stack stepped inside like he had been there before, like the space had already made room for him. His eyes moved, slow and quiet, taking everything in without making it obvious he was doing it.
The house was bigger than he expected, four bedrooms easy, space that stretched without feeling empty, lived in and real. He stepped further inside, measured and controlled, his gaze catching small details: clean surfaces, things placed with intention, order without stiffness, a kind of quiet care that sat in everything.
Cherry closed the door behind him, her hands folding lightly in front of her like she wasn’t sure what to do with them yet. “I didn’t… I didn’t expect you.”
“I said I was gon’ see you again,” he replied simply.
She let out a small breath at that, something almost like a smile touching her mouth before she looked away, trying to hide it. “This is a nice place.”
Cherry nodded faintly. “My father built it. Left it to me when he passed some years ago.”
Stack’s gaze shifted slightly at that, something deeper settling behind his eyes. He nodded once, taking that in, not just hearing it but placing it somewhere permanent. “Mm. It’s good.”
But his mind didn’t stop there. It moved further, bigger, better. He didn’t say it out loud, but it formed anyway. He’d give her more than this, more space, more comfort, more than what she had learned to settle for. Him. Her. The baby, his baby. Something waiting back in Mississippi that he was already shaping in his head like it existed.
Cherry moved toward the table, adjusting something that didn’t need adjusting, grounding herself in small movement. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked softly.
Stack shook his head once. “I’m alright.”
That wasn’t true, but it wasn’t why he was there.
They talked. At first it came slow and careful, like both of them were testing where the edges were. Cherry kept her hands folded together as she stood near the table, her voice soft when she spoke. “You from Mississippi.”
Stack leaned back slightly where he stood, eyes on her, relaxed but focused. “Clarksdale.”
She nodded faintly, a small shift in her expression. “My husband got, had business there.”
A pause slipped between them. Stack studied her a little closer now, something clicking into place behind his eyes. “I remember,” he said, voice lower. He tilted his head just a little. “You used to walk behind him. Quiet. Didn’t say much. Just watched everything.”
Her breath caught softly, surprise settling deeper this time. “You noticed that?”
Stack’s mouth curved slightly. “I noticed you.”
That pulled a small, unsteady breath out of her, and she looked down for a second, trying to hide the way her mouth curved.
“You always talk like that?” she asked quietly.
“Like what.”
“Like…” she hesitated, searching for it, then gave up halfway through. “That.”
Stack’s mouth tilted, that gold catching faint in the light. “Only when I mean it.”
Her fingers tightened together just slightly. She shifted instead. “What brings you all the way out here?”
“Business,” he said. “Got a place back home. Need supply steady.”
“A business?”
“Juke joint.”
Her brows lifted just a little. “Oh.”
Stack watched that reaction. “You don’t like that.”
“No,” she said quickly, then softened it. “I just… never been to one.”
He studied her for a second, something almost amused in it. “Yeah. I can tell.”
That made her glance at him again, a little more curious this time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You too quiet for it. Place like that loud. People loud. Music loud.”
“And you?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Stack didn’t hesitate. “I’m all that.”
That earned a real smile from her, small but there, before she looked away again.
A small pause settled between them. “How long you staying?” she asked.
Stack didn’t answer right away. He looked at her instead, taking her in like the answer depended on her. “A while.”
Cherry nodded slowly, like she accepted that without asking anything more. Then he shifted just slightly, enough to change the direction of things. “What you eat this morning?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “I… had some fruit.”
“That it?”
“I wasn’t that hungry.”
“You should be. You eating for two.”
Her hand moved to her stomach without thinking, fingers resting there. “I know.”
Stack’s gaze dropped to it briefly, then came back up to her face. “You got a routine?”
“A routine?”
“Yeah. What your days look like.”
Cherry hesitated, not used to someone asking that like it mattered. “I wake up early. Tend to the garden before it gets too hot. Then I rest some. I go into town when I need to. Come back before evening.”
“You be out here by yourself?”
“Yes.”
Stack didn’t like that. It showed in the way his jaw shifted just slightly, even if his voice stayed even. “You shouldn’t be walking around alone like that.”
Cherry looked at him, a little surprised. “I’ve been fine.”
“Still.”
There wasn’t much room in that word, and she didn’t argue it, just lowered her gaze a little.
“What you eat besides fruit,” he asked.
She almost smiled again. “Whatever I make.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
“It is for me,” she said, softer this time, but there was a hint of something in it.
Stack caught that and let it sit for a second before nodding. “Alright.” Then quieter, but more certain, “I’ll make sure you eating right.”
Cherry looked at him again, really looked this time. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
That didn’t sound like he was going to stop.
A small silence passed, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable, just full. Cherry shifted again, gathering herself. “What about you? What do your days look like?”
Stack shrugged one shoulder. “Depends.”
“On what.”
“Money. People. What need handling.”
“That sounds… busy.”
“It is.”
“And you like that?”
Stack looked at her, a little more direct now. “I like what come with it.”
“And what is that?”
His gaze didn’t move. “Control.”
Cherry held his eyes for a second longer than she meant to before looking away again. “I see.”
Another pause settled in, quieter this time. Then Stack spoke again, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sleep alright?”
She blinked. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes ain’t good enough.”
“I manage.”
“You ain’t supposed to just manage.”
That sat with her. She didn’t have an answer for it.
Stack watched her for a second, then eased just a little, his voice lowering. “You get tired easy?”
“Yes. More than I used to.”
“Then you rest when you need to. Don’t push yourself.”
Cherry nodded, almost instinctively. It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it, like it was already decided, like someone was finally paying attention to her instead of expecting from her.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it, without either of them naming it, the space between them shifted, closer and warmer. By the time the morning softened into something easier, it didn’t feel like he was a stranger in her home anymore. It felt like something had settled.
Before he left that day, she surprised herself. “If you and your brother need somewhere to stay, I have a guest room.”
Stack didn’t pause, didn’t question it, didn’t pretend to think about it. “Alright.” And just like that, it was decided.
Over the next few days, Stack didn’t visit. He stayed, and he didn’t ease into her life. He placed himself in it fully. Smoke came with that, not the same way. He didn’t move through her space like it belonged to him. He moved careful and aware, watching more than doing at first, but he was there, and his presence carried something different. He was quieter than Stack, but heavier in a way that made people notice anyway.
The first morning the three of them sat together at the table, it felt new. Cherry moved between them with a kind of quiet attentiveness, setting plates down, making sure everything was right. Stack watched her like he always did, eyes following every movement. Smoke watched both of them.
“You don’t gotta keep getting up,” Stack said, leaning back in his chair. “Sit down.”
“I’m alright,” Cherry replied softly.
“You not. You doing too much.”
Smoke glanced between them, then spoke, voice calm. “He mean it, sit down.”
Cherry hesitated, then slowly took a seat. Stack nodded once like that was settled.
Smoke picked up his fork, then paused, looking at Stack. “You gon’ let her eat before you start telling her what else to do?”
Stack shot him a look. “I ain’t telling her what to do.”
Smoke raised a brow. “You sure about that.”
Cherry looked between them, unsure whether to speak or stay quiet.
Stack leaned forward slightly. “I’m making sure she good.”
Smoke nodded slowly. “That’s what you calling it.”
A small silence passed, then Cherry spoke, soft but present. “It’s alright.” Both of them looked at her. She lowered her gaze just a little. “I don’t mind.”
Stack’s expression shifted, something satisfied settling in. Smoke saw that and said nothing.
Later that afternoon, Stack was outside, already moving through her yard like he had plans for it. “This need fixing,” he muttered, crouched near a loose board.
“It’s fine,” Cherry said gently from the porch.
“It ain’t,” he replied.
Smoke stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching. “You rebuilding her house now?”
Stack didn’t look up. “Improving it.”
“It been standing just fine before you got here.”
Stack tightened something with his hands. “It’ll stand better after.”
Smoke let out a small breath through his nose. “You hear yourself.”
Cherry stepped down slowly, careful, one hand on her stomach. “You don’t have to do all this.”
Stack stood then, turning toward her. “I know.”
Same answer, same certainty. Smoke watched her reaction more than him, the way she didn’t push back, the way she accepted it without agreeing.
That evening, they sat inside again, quieter this time. The light had softened, shadows stretching longer across the floor. Stack leaned back in his chair, watching Cherry move around the kitchen. Smoke leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes on his brother.
“You told her yet?” Smoke asked.
Stack didn’t look at him. “Told her what.”
Smoke’s gaze didn’t shift. “All that shit you was telling me.”
Cherry paused just slightly where she stood. Stack’s eyes flicked to Smoke, warning sitting there. “You always talking.”
“Somebody got to,” Smoke replied.
Cherry turned slowly, looking between them. “Told me what?”
A beat passed. Stack didn’t answer, so Smoke did. “He think he taking you back to Clarksdale with us.”
Silence settled thick in the room. Stack exhaled slowly. “Man—”
Smoke kept going, voice even. “He already decided it. House, baby, all of it.”
Cherry’s hand moved to her stomach again, her expression shifting, not scared, but processing. Stack leaned forward now. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I’m just repeating what you said,” Smoke replied.
Stack looked at Cherry then, something softer slipping into his tone. “I said I’m gon’ take care of you.”
“That’s not what you said,” Smoke added.
Stack shot him a look. “You gon’ be quiet.”
Smoke ignored it. He looked at Cherry instead. “What do you want?”
The question landed simple and direct, no pressure in his tone, just truth. Cherry blinked, caught off guard by it more than anything else. No one asked her that, not like that. Her lips parted slightly, but no answer came right away.
Stack watched her, something tight in his chest he didn’t name. Smoke didn’t rush her, didn’t fill the silence, just let it sit.
Cherry lowered her gaze, her fingers pressing lightly into her dress, into her stomach. “I…” she started, then stopped. Her voice came softer the second time. “I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
Stack leaned back slightly, but his eyes didn’t leave her. Smoke nodded once, like that answer mattered just as much as anything else. “That’s fair,” he said.
Stack exhaled through his nose, looking away for a second before coming back to her. “You ain’t gotta know right now.”
Cherry nodded faintly. The room settled into something quieter after that, not tense, just aware.
Smoke leaned back in his chair, watching both of them, something thoughtful sitting behind his expression now. He saw it clearly. His brother wasn’t playing, and Cherry wasn’t running. That was enough for him to keep watching all the way through.
That night settled slower than the day had, stretching out in a way that made everything feel heavier, like time itself had decided to linger with them instead of moving forward.
The air near the lake carried a softer kind of heat, the kind that didn’t press as hard but still clung to the skin, wrapping around it instead of bearing down. The water moved just enough to catch the last of the fading light, small ripples stretching outward and disappearing into the dark like something being swallowed whole.
Cherry sat beside Stack on the edge of the wooden dock with a plate resting in her lap, her fingers moving slower than they had earlier that day. Every movement felt more deliberate now, more thoughtful, like she was aware of herself in a way she hadn’t been before. She wasn’t as guarded, not the way she had been when he first walked into her house, and something in her had softened, or maybe just loosened enough to breathe.
Inside, the faint sound of water shifting in a tub echoed now and then, quiet but present.
Stack huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head slightly as he glanced back toward the house. “Man in there soaking like he the one pregnant.”
Cherry glanced at him, a small smile pulling at her mouth before she could stop it, the expression softer than it had been earlier. “Maybe he’s just tired.”
“He always tired,” Stack muttered, leaning back on his hands. “Ain’t did nothing but sit and watch me all day.”
That earned a soft, quiet laugh from her, the sound light but real, lingering just a second longer than it needed to.
For a moment, they just sat there side by side without speaking, and the quiet wasn’t empty. It held something steady, something growing, something that felt like it was settling between them without either of them naming it.
Stack glanced at her from the side, watching the way she moved, the way her hand rested on her stomach between bites like it had a mind of its own, like it was always checking, always aware.
“You ain’t eat enough,” he said.
Cherry sighed softly, already knowing this was coming. “I did.”
“That plate still half full.”
“I’ll finish it.”
“Finish it now.”
She looked at him, a little amused, a little something else sitting under it. “You always this bossy?”
Stack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
That made her shake her head slightly, but she took another bite anyway, slower this time, more aware of him watching.
The silence that followed felt softer now, less uncertain. Cherry’s gaze drifted out over the water and her expression changed slowly, the lightness from earlier fading into something quieter and heavier, something that sat deeper in her chest.
Stack noticed it immediately. “What,” he said, not asking, just pulling it forward like it already belonged in the open.
Cherry hesitated, her fingers pressing lightly into the edge of the plate as she grounded herself before speaking. “It’s just…” she started, then stopped, her voice catching on something she wasn’t ready to name yet.
Stack didn’t rush her or interrupt. He didn’t fill the silence. He just sat there watching her like he was waiting on something he already intended to take and hold onto.
She let out a slow breath, her shoulders lowering slightly with it. “I didn’t think I’d be here like this.”
“Like what.”
“Alone.”
The word sat heavier than anything else she had said. Stack’s jaw shifted slightly, something tightening behind his expression.
“You not alone.”
Cherry let out a small breath that almost sounded like a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I am.” Her hand moved over her stomach again, slower this time, more deliberate. “It’s just the baby and me.”
Stack’s gaze dropped to where her hand rested, then lifted back to her face. “That ain’t just you.”
Cherry swallowed, her voice softer now. “It feels like it.” She looked down, her shoulders pulling in slightly like she was trying to make herself smaller without realizing it. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The admission came out quiet and unprotected. “I don’t know how to raise a child by myself. I don’t… I don’t even know if I’m doing any of this right.” The words fell slowly, like they had been sitting inside her for too long.
Stack leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his attention locked onto her fully now. There was nothing casual about the way he looked at her. “You gon’ be fine,” he said.
Cherry shook her head again. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
She looked at him then, searching his face. “How.”
Stack didn’t hesitate. “Because I’m here.”
That sat between them, heavy and undeniable. Cherry didn’t correct it or question it. She just looked at him.
Her voice dropped softer. “He used to say I wasn’t fit for this.”
Stack’s expression sharpened instantly, something darker settling in. “He said I was too soft. That I wouldn’t know what to do. That I’d mess things up.” Each word landed heavier than the last.
Stack’s jaw tightened. “He don’t get to say that,” he muttered, voice low and edged.
Cherry’s gaze dropped again. “He said a lot of things.” There was no anger in her voice, just memory.
Stack leaned back slightly, tension building under the surface. “He don’t get to sit in there and leave you carrying all this by yourself. Don’t get to put all that on you and still have you out here dealing with it like it’s yours alone.”
Cherry didn’t respond right away because part of her had already accepted it, already shaped her life around it. Stack shook his head once. “That ain’t how that go.”
Cherry looked at him again, something fragile in her expression. “Then how does it go.”
Stack’s gaze locked onto hers, steady and unwavering. “You not doing this by yourself.” There was no hesitation in it, no softness, just certainty.
Cherry stilled slightly under that. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m not offering,” he cut in.
Her words stopped. Stack leaned closer just enough to shift the space between them. “I’m telling you.”
The weight of that settled heavy. Cherry’s fingers tightened against her dress. “You don’t even know me like that.”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t.”
Stack’s mouth tilted slightly. “You sound like my brother.”
Cherry blinked. “What?”
“He been saying that since I saw you that first day in town. Same tone and everything.”
A small smile pulled at her lips. “I do not.”
“You do. That same ‘you don’t know me’ look too.”
Cherry shook her head softly. “I don’t look like that.”
Stack’s eyes stayed on her. “You do.”
That made her look away, that shy warmth creeping back into her face before he added quieter, “Still don’t change nothing.”
A quiet pause stretched between them before he said, softer but heavier, “I knew I was gone love you the first time I seen you.”
Cherry’s eyes lifted to his, slow and steady, like she was trying to read something deeper than what he was saying. She held his gaze longer than she meant to, longer than she ever had before.
“Been waiting to see you again,” he added.
The air between them shifted, closer and warmer, something deeper settling in. Cherry’s hand moved over her stomach again, but this time it wasn’t grounding. It was considering.
“You don’t know what you asking,” she said softly.
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
Stack didn’t move back. “You coming back with me.”
It wasn’t loud or forceful. It was certain.
Cherry’s heart picked up, not in panic but in something unfamiliar. “You and the baby,” he continued, “y’all ain’t staying out here by yourselves.”
Cherry looked at him fully then, taking in the way he said it, the way he believed it. It didn’t sound like a possibility. It sounded like a decision.
Something inside her shifted. The fear, the uncertainty, the loneliness didn’t disappear, but they moved enough to make space for something else, something she didn’t understand yet but wanted.
“If I come with you…” she started.
“You will,” he said.
She should have corrected him. She didn’t. “What would that look like.”
“Easy,” he said. “You ain’t gotta worry about nothing.”
She searched his face for doubt and didn’t find any. “You rest. You eat. You take care of the baby. I handle the rest.”
“And you think it’s that simple.”
“It is.”
Then quieter, “I’ll take care of you the way you supposed to be took care of.”
Something in her chest tightened, not from fear but from how deeply it reached. “And the baby,” she said.
“Mine.”
He didn’t soften it or take it back. He let it sit there like truth.
The water moved beside them, the night stretching around them, and Cherry sat there looking at him as something settled into place inside her.
A decision.
She didn’t overthink it or pull it apart. She let it be what it was.
“I want to go,” she said softly.
Stack didn’t smile or celebrate. He just nodded once. “I know.”
Something in her loosened, something that had been tight for too long. Stack’s gaze stayed on her, steady and sure.
“You and my baby,” he said, voice low, “y’all gon’ have a soft life. You ain’t gotta struggle. You ain’t gotta wonder. I got you.”
Cherry closed her eyes briefly, letting that settle into her.
And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
The night didn’t break when her answer settled between them.
It deepened.
The lake moved quiet beside them, slow ripples catching what little light remained, and everything around them seemed to pull inward, closer, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them sitting there on the dock.
Cherry didn’t move right away after she said it.
I want to go.
The words stayed in the air, soft but heavy, and she felt them in her chest more than she heard them. Her hand still rested over her stomach, but her attention wasn’t there anymore.
It was on him.
On the way he looked at her.
Stack didn’t rush to fill the silence. He stayed where he was, watching her the same way he had been all night, steady, certain, like nothing about this surprised him.
Because it didn’t.
He had already decided this.
Cherry felt that in the way his presence settled around her, not pushing, not pulling, just there in a way that didn’t give her much space to doubt it.
Her eyes stayed on his longer than they should have, longer than she would have allowed before.
But she didn’t look away.
Not this time.
Something in her chest felt too full, too open, like everything she had been holding in had shifted all at once and left her standing there without anything to hide behind.
Stack leaned a little closer.
Not enough to crowd her.
Just enough to change the space between them.
“You sure?” he asked, but it didn’t sound like doubt. It sounded like confirmation.
Cherry nodded faintly, her voice quieter now, softer than before. “Yes.”
That was all he needed.
His hand moved first.
Slow.
Deliberate.
It came to rest against her arm, just above her elbow, his touch warm and steady, not grabbing, not forcing, just there.
Cherry stilled under it.
Not pulling away.
Just feeling it.
The difference.
No one had ever touched her like that before.
Not like she had a choice in it.
Not like it was something to be given instead of taken.
Her eyes dropped briefly to where his hand rested, then lifted back to his face.
He was already watching her.
Waiting.
Not asking.
But not taking either.
And that…
That was new.
Cherry’s breath slowed, her shoulders loosening just slightly as something inside her gave way to that feeling instead of resisting it.
Stack’s hand moved again, sliding from her arm down to her hand, his fingers brushing against hers before closing around them, firm but careful.
He didn’t rush it.
Didn’t pull.
Just held her there like he had every right to.
Cherry let him.
Her fingers curled slightly against his without thinking, her body answering something before her mind could catch up.
Stack watched that happen.
Not missing a thing.
His thumb brushed slow against the back of her hand, a small movement, but it sent something quiet through her, something that settled low and unfamiliar.
“You been holding too much,” he said, voice low.
Cherry swallowed, her gaze dropping for a second before lifting again. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You do now.”
The way he said it didn’t leave much room for anything else.
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
Stack leaned closer.
Close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence of him, something grounding and overwhelming at the same time.
His hand lifted from hers, moving slow, giving her time to stop him if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
His fingers brushed along her jaw, light at first, then settling more fully as he tilted her face just enough to keep her eyes on him.
Cherry’s breath caught softly, but she didn’t pull away.
She couldn’t.
Not because she was trapped.
Because she didn’t want to move.
Stack’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes, like he was making sure she was still there with him.
She was.
Completely.
He closed the distance.
Slow.
Giving her time.
Letting her feel it coming instead of taking it from her.
When his lips met hers, it wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t rough.
It was steady.
Warm.
Certain.
Cherry stilled for half a second, the contact unfamiliar in a way that made her chest tighten, then soften all at once.
Then she leaned into it.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Stack felt it.
His hand shifted, moving from her jaw to the side of her neck, holding her there, not tight, just enough to keep her close.
The kiss deepened, not fast, not overwhelming, just building, like everything else between them had been.
Cherry’s fingers tightened slightly against his shirt, finding something to hold onto as the feeling settled deeper into her.
This wasn’t what she knew.
There was no sharpness.
No demand.
No pressure to keep up with something she didn’t understand.
This was…
Slow.
Attentive.
Like he was paying attention to every small way she responded.
Stack’s hand moved again, sliding from her neck down along her arm, then lower, settling at her waist, his touch firm now, grounding.
He pulled her just a little closer.
Cherry didn’t resist.
Her body followed the movement easily, like it had already decided before she did.
The world around them faded further.
The water.
The house.
Everything.
It all fell away until there was nothing left but the space between them and the way it kept closing.
Stack broke the kiss just enough to look at her again, his forehead resting lightly against hers.
“You alright?” he asked, voice low.
Cherry nodded, her eyes still on his, something softer, something more open sitting there now. “Yes.”
That was all he needed.
His hand shifted again, slower now, more intentional, moving along her side, learning the shape of her without rushing it, without taking more than she was giving.
Cherry’s breath caught again, but she didn’t pull away.
Her fingers tightened slightly against him instead.
Stack watched her face more than anything, reading every small change, every reaction, every hesitation that never quite turned into resistance.
He adjusted to it.
Matched it.
Kept her there with him instead of pushing past her.
His touch grew more certain, but never careless, moving in a way that made her feel held instead of handled.
Cherry’s head tilted slightly, her eyes closing for a moment as the feeling settled deeper, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
Her hand came up slowly, resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of him under her palm.
He felt real.
Present.
Not distant.
Not unreachable.
Right there with her.
Stack’s voice dropped lower, closer. “You alright,” he repeated, quieter this time.
Cherry nodded again, her voice barely above a breath. “I am.”
And she was.
Even with everything she didn’t understand yet.
Even with everything moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.
She didn’t feel alone.
Not anymore.
Stack pressed his forehead to hers again, his hand steady at her waist, holding her there like she belonged in that space.
Like she belonged with him.
And Cherry let herself stay there.
Didn’t question it.
Didn’t pull away.
Just felt it.
For the first time without fear attached to it.
Without doubt sitting behind it.
Just…
Wanted.
And held.
And chosen.
His hand moved again, a slow drift from her waist toward the curve of her hip. The fabric of her dress was thin, worn soft from years of use, and she could feel the heat of his palm right through it. He paused there, his thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle over the bone, giving her another chance. Another out.
Cherry didn’t take it.
Her own hand, still resting on his chest, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, holding on.
Stack took that as the permission it was.
His hand continued its path, down over the gentle swell of her belly, his touch reverent, possessive. He lingered there for a moment, his palm flat against her, a silent acknowledgment of the life growing inside her, a life he had already claimed as his own. The possessiveness in the gesture wasn't aggressive; it was a quiet, unshakeable fact.
Then his fingers moved lower, tracing the seam of her dress until they found the hem. He didn’t dive right in. He let his knuckles brush against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a feather-light touch that made her breath hitch and her legs part just a fraction of an inch on their own.
That was all the invitation he needed.
His hand slid beneath the fabric, warm and calloused against the soft, cool skin of her thigh. The air was thick with the scent of the lake and the clean, masculine smell of him. Cherry’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird, but she didn't move. She just waited.
His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on her skin, inching higher. He was watching her, his dark eyes never leaving her face, gauging every flutter of her eyelids, every parting of her lips. He was learning her, mapping her responses with an unnerving patience.
“Easy now,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into her hand. “Just feel it, Cherry. Let me feel you.”
His thumb found the edge of her cotton drawers, stroking along the line of it. The touch was so light, so teasing, it was almost worse than if he’d just grabbed her. A whimper caught in her throat, and she felt a flush creep up her neck.
Stack heard it. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Yeah,” he breathed. “There she is.”
He finally slipped his fingers past the barrier of her drawers, through the soft curls that guarded her sex. The first touch against her folds was electric. She jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. It was different. The sensitivity was heightened, a low-level thrum of awareness that had been dormant for months now, now roaring to life under his touch.
“Shhh, I got you,” he soothed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. His other hand came up to cup the back of her neck, holding her steady. “Just relax for me. Let Stack take care of you.”
His fingers explored her with a maddening gentleness. He wasn’t in a hurry. He parted her slick folds, his middle finger sliding through the wetness he found there. He groaned, a low, deep sound of pure male appreciation.
“Fuck, Cherry,” he breathed, his eyes darkening as he looked down at where his hand disappeared under her dress. “Look at you. So damn ready for me. Been waiting for this, haven’t you? For someone to touch you right.”
She couldn’t answer. All she could do was feel. Feel the slow, circling pressure of his thumb on her clit, a tight, sensitive bundle of nerves that sent sparks shooting up her spine. It was overwhelming, a pleasure so sharp and potent it was almost painful after so long with nothing.
He felt her tense, her thighs trying to clamp shut around his hand.
“Nuh-uh,” he rumbled, his voice firm but not unkind. He shifted, pressing his knee between her thighs, keeping them open. “Stay with me. Don’t you go hiding on me now. I wanna feel every little bit of this.”
He pushed a single finger inside her.
Cherry cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder. The sensation was intense. She was slick, soft, and the way she clenched around his finger was involuntary, a desperate spasm of pleasure. He let her adjust, letting her feel the fullness, the slow, deliberate intrusion.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his lips brushing against her temple. “Feel that? Feel how you’re taking me in?”
He began to move, slowly. He wasn’t just fingering her; he was staking a claim, learning every ridge, every sensitive spot inside her. He curled his finger, making her whole body arch.
“Right there, ain’t it?” he chuckled, the sound smug and utterly confident. He found the spot again, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles while his thumb continued its maddening work on her clit. “Yeah, that’s the spot. You’re gonna give it all to me, ain’t you, Cherry? All this sweet pussy, all for me.”
The words were filthy, but his touch was reverent. It was a dizzying combination that had her spiraling. The pleasure built, a slow, inexorable tide pulling her under. She could feel the baby, a faint, reassuring pressure deep inside, a strange and beautiful counterpoint to the sharp, demanding pleasure Stack was wringing from her body. This was new. This was feeling this while her body was not just her own, and the thought sent a fresh wave of arousal through her.
He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. The stretch was exquisite, a dull ache that bloomed into pure pleasure. He pumped them in and out, his pace steady, his knuckles brushing against her with every thrust.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. He was right there, his face inches from hers, his gaze burning with an intensity that stole her breath.
“Watch me make you come,” he whispered, and then he increased the pressure, his fingers stroking that perfect spot inside her while his thumb flicked her clit, fast and hard.
The world shattered.
A sob tore from her, a tsunami of an orgasm crashed over her, a violent wave of pleasure that coursed through her entire body. Her back arched, her nails digging into his shoulder as she rode it out, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers again and again, pulsing with the force of it.
Stack didn’t stop. He worked her through it, his movements slowing, gentling, drawing out every last aftershock until she was a boneless, trembling mess in his arms.
“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses to her damp forehead, her temple. “So fuckin’ good for me.”
He slowly withdrew his fingers, and she whimpered at the loss. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on hers as he tasted her, a slow, deliberate act of possession that made her blush all over again.
“Sweet as I imagined,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Now… you want a little more? Want to feel what it’s like to have my dick inside you?”
Cherry’s breath leaves her body. She could only nod, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Stack shifted, his movements sure and confident. He undid his belt, the soft metallic click loud in the quiet night. He freed himself, and her eyes widened slightly. He was big, thick, and heavy, the head already flushed and leaking. He took himself in his hand, stroking slowly.
“Never had a pregnant woman before,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Gonna be gentle. But I’m still gonna make you feel it. Gonna make you feel all of me.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, not pushing in, just letting the thick, blunt head of his dick rest against her slick, sensitive folds. The heat of him was incredible. He held her gaze, his hand on her hip, his thumb stroking her skin.
“You ready for me, Cherry?”
She took a shaky breath and nodded. “Yes.”
He pushed forward, just a little.
Just the tip.
The sensation stole the air from her lungs. He was thick, the stretch immediate and intense. It wasn’t painful, but it was overwhelming, a deep, grounding pressure that was completely different from his fingers. He held himself there, letting her get used to it, letting her body adjust to the intrusion.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”
He gave a shallow, experimental thrust, pushing in just a fraction deeper before pulling back to the head again. The slow drag of him against her sensitive tissues was exquisite. A low moan escaped her lips, her hands clutching at his arms.
“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “You like that. You like feeling my dick stretch you open.”
He did it again, a slow, deliberate stroke that was more of a promise than a fulfillment. He was letting her get used to the size and shape of him, letting her body learn the feel of him. Each small thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure through her, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to echo in the very core of her.
“Gonna fill you up so good when I finally get inside you for real,” he murmured against her skin, his words a dark, delicious promise. “Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll feel me for a week. But not tonight. Tonight, I just want you to feel this. Just the tip. Just enough to know what’s waiting for you.”
He gave her a few more of those maddeningly shallow strokes, each one a slow, deliberate act of possession. It was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced, the restraint, the control, the filthy praise whispered in her ear. He was teaching her body, teaching it to respond to him, to crave him, and she was learning fast.
After a few more strokes, he pulled away completely, leaving her feeling achingly empty.
He tucked himself back into his pants, his movements economical, then pulled her into his arms, settling her against his chest. He held her close, his hand stroking her back, her hair.
“You did so good,” he murmured into her hair. “So fuckin’ good for me, Cherry.”
She was still trembling, her body thrumming with a pleasure so profound it felt like a revelation. She rested her head on his shoulder, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
Morning came slow and quiet, like it didn’t want to interrupt what had settled in the night before, like even the day itself understood something had shifted and didn’t dare rush it.
Light slipped through the curtains in thin, patient lines, stretching across the room and settling over the bed where Cherry lay, still and warm, her body heavy with sleep and something deeper than rest. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was the kind of heaviness that came after something changed inside you and didn’t go back.
Stack was already awake, laid behind her with one arm draped low across her stomach, his hand spread there like it had found its place sometime in the night and decided not to leave. His palm rested firm and certain, fingers splayed just enough to feel the curve of her, the life under it, the quiet proof of something he had already claimed in his mind.
Cherry stirred under it, not pulling away, just becoming aware. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light before settling, her body going still for a second as she registered where she was, what had happened, what had changed. Then she felt him, the weight of his arm, the warmth of his chest at her back, the steady, unshaken presence of him, close and real, unmoving like he had no intention of going anywhere. Her breath shifted, softer now, slower, like it had found a different rhythm overnight.
Stack’s hand moved slightly against her stomach, not enough to wake her fully, just enough to adjust, his palm flattening a little more like he was grounding himself there, like he needed to feel it again. Cherry’s hand came down over his without thinking, small and careful but not uncertain.
Stack exhaled slow behind her, his chin dipping slightly toward her shoulder, his hand pressing a little more firmly against her stomach as something shifted under his palm. He stilled, then a quiet, almost surprised huff left him. “There it go,” he murmured.
Cherry’s hand tightened slightly over his. “You felt that?” Stack’s mouth curved, something satisfied settling into it. “Yeah.” His hand moved just a little, like he was trying to catch it again, like he already knew where it would be.
“That’s my son,” he said, voice low but sure.
Cherry let out a soft breath that turned into the faintest laugh, shaking her head against the pillow. “We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”
Stack didn’t hesitate. “It’s a boy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Cherry shifted slightly, turning her head just enough to look back at him, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “You just decided that?”
Stack met her gaze without blinking, completely serious in a way that almost made it worse. “Yeah.”
That made her shake her head again, softer this time, that quiet amusement sitting in her expression. “You are…” she started, then stopped, not even finishing it.
The room stayed quiet around them for a moment, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty but full, like something was sitting there between them that didn’t need to be spoken out loud. Cherry lifted her head slightly, his eyes already on her, already watching like he had been before she even woke up, like he had been waiting for her to catch up to where he already was.
“You don’t ever ease into anything, do you,” she murmured.
Stack’s mouth tilted faintly, that hint of a grin sitting there without fully forming. “Ain’t no point.”
That earned the smallest shake of her head, but there was no resistance behind it, no push, just acceptance, maybe even understanding.
They stayed like that a little longer, neither of them rushing to move, neither of them breaking what had settled between them, and for a moment it felt like something already built. By the time they moved, it wasn’t sudden. It was slow and natural, like something already decided before either of them got out of bed.
Smoke was already up when they came out. Of course he was. He sat at the table with a cup in his hand, posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, lifting the moment he heard them. He didn’t say anything right away. He just looked from Stack to Cherry and back again, taking it in, not missing the shift, not missing the quiet difference in how they stood, how close they were without trying.
Stack didn’t wait. “She coming back with us,” he said, just like that, no build up, no hesitation.
Smoke leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along it as his eyes settled on Cherry now instead of his brother. “Yeah?” he asked, not surprised, not doubtful, just confirming what he already suspected.
Cherry hesitated, not the same way she would have before. This wasn’t fear trying to stop her. This was her thinking, grounding herself in what she was about to step into. Her hand rested against her stomach again, slower this time, more aware, like she was including the baby in the decision instead of separating it from herself.
“It’s fast,” she said quietly.
Stack didn’t respond. He watched her. Smoke did too.
“It’s a lot,” she continued, her voice steadier now. “I don’t… I don’t know what it looks like yet. I don’t know what I’m stepping into.” Her gaze lifted to Stack then, steady but searching, needing something real from him this time. “And the baby…”
Stack watched her.
Smoke let out a quiet breath, setting his cup down before leaning forward slightly, his attention on her now instead of his brother. “He ain’t wrong,” Smoke said calmly. “But he ain’t easy either.”
Stack glanced at him but didn’t interrupt.
Smoke kept going, voice even, grounded in a way Stack wasn’t. “Clarksdale ain’t soft. That life ain’t soft. What he got, what he built… it come with weight. People know him there, and they deal with him a certain way. You step into that, you stepping into all of it, not just him.”
Her fingers tightened slightly against her dress.
Smoke’s tone didn’t change. “But,” he said, quieter now, “he do take care of what he claim. I ain’t never seen him not do that.”
Stack’s jaw shifted just slightly at that, something unreadable passing through his expression, and Cherry noticed.
Smoke leaned back again, giving her space instead of pressing her, letting the weight of it sit where it needed to. “Just make sure you seeing it clear.”
No push, no pull, just truth.
Cherry stood there for a moment, her thoughts moving slower now, more deliberate, more grounded than they had been before. She looked at Stack, then at Smoke, then down at her stomach. Everything sat there at once, the fear, the unknown, the weight, and something else that had started the night before and hadn’t gone anywhere, something that felt steadier than everything else.
She exhaled slowly, like she was letting go of something she had been holding too tight, then lifted her head. “I am,” she said quietly. Her gaze settled back on Stack, steady, clearer now. “I know what I’m stepping into.”
Stack didn’t smile. He just looked at her like he already knew she would land there.
Cherry’s hand rested over her stomach again, her fingers spreading slightly this time, more sure. “I’m still going,” she said.
That was it. That was the decision, final in a way that didn’t need repeating.
Smoke nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear, like he respected it because she understood it.
Stack didn’t say anything right away. He stepped closer instead, not asking, not hesitating, just closing the distance like he always did.
And Cherry didn’t step back. She didn’t question it. She just stood there and let him come to her, like she already belonged in that space, like she had already made room for him there.
And this time, she chose it.
They left the next day.
There wasn’t much ceremony to it, nothing that lingered long enough to feel like an ending. There were no drawn-out goodbyes, no second-guessing, no one standing in the doorway trying to hold onto something already slipping away. Cherry moved through the house that morning with a quiet kind of focus, steady and deliberate, packing what she needed and nothing more. Clothes were folded neatly and careful, placed with intention. Small things were gathered without overthinking. What mattered. What could be carried. What could come with her into something she hadn’t seen yet but had already chosen.
She didn’t rush, but she didn’t hesitate either. Every movement felt decided. The house felt different as she moved through it, like it already knew she was leaving it behind, like it had settled into being something that used to belong to her instead of something that still did. Her fingers brushed over familiar surfaces without stopping, the table where she had sat alone too many times, the doorway she had stood in waiting, the edge of the window where she used to look out at the water and think without answers. Memories sat there, quiet and present, but they didn’t hold her anymore.
She had already sold the house and made that decision before the morning even began. The money was tucked away, saved not for herself but for the baby, something practical, something grounded, something that would follow her even if nothing else did. She hadn’t gone back to the jail and she hadn’t told her husband. There was no conversation waiting to be had, no explanation she owed him that she hadn’t already given in silence.
By the time she stepped outside, the air felt heavier than it had the day before, like Florida itself was pressing in one last time, like it was aware she was about to leave it behind. Stack was already by the car, waiting, of course he was. He watched her come down the steps, his eyes slow and steady, taking her in like he hadn’t seen her just minutes before, like every time she came into view it settled something in him again, something he didn’t question, something he had already decided was his. Smoke leaned against the car with his arms crossed, his gaze quieter but just as aware, taking in the same thing without saying it.
Cherry held a small case in one hand, the rest already packed away in the car, her grip light but sure. She didn’t look back at the house right away. When she finally did, it wasn’t long, just enough to acknowledge it, just enough to let it be what it was. Then she turned away, and that was it.
Stack stepped forward and reached for her case without asking, taking it from her hand like it belonged to him already, like it was part of what he had claimed without needing permission. She let him. She didn’t argue and she didn’t hold on. He placed it in the car with the rest of their things, moving like this had always been the plan, like this moment had been waiting on them instead of the other way around.
Cherry settled into the backseat, not because she was told to but because it felt like the right place to be. Her body moved into it naturally, like she understood her place in this without needing it explained. Her hand rested over her stomach again, fingers spreading slightly, steady and present, grounding herself in something that wasn’t changing even as everything else did.
Stack got in the front and didn’t start the car right away. He turned instead and looked at her, really looked at her, like he was making sure she was still there, still his. Cherry met his gaze and didn’t look away. There was no uncertainty in her expression now, just something quieter, something settled, something chosen. Something passed between them without words, something already decided long before this moment but finally sitting where it belonged. Then he faced forward and started the engine.
Smoke pushed himself off the car and slid into the driver’s seat, his movements easy but his attention still sharp. He glanced at them both through the mirror as the car pulled away from the house, from the lake, from everything Cherry had known before. He didn’t say anything, but he saw it, the difference, the way Stack carried himself now, heavier but more certain, the way Cherry sat in the back, quieter but not unsure, not drifting, grounded and present, part of it now.
The road stretched ahead of them, long and open, cutting through heat and distance, the kind of road that didn’t offer much except forward movement. Florida began to fall behind them, slow at first like it was reluctant, then faster with every mile, fading into something that no longer had a hold on her. Cherry watched it through the window, her gaze steady, not filled with regret, not heavy with longing, just awareness. It had been her life, and now it wasn’t. That was all there was to it.
Stack glanced back at her again, then again, and again, like he couldn’t help it, like he needed to keep seeing her there to believe it was real, like he had already won something he didn’t expect to lose but wasn’t willing to stop checking on. Cherry noticed every time, but she didn’t say anything. She just met his gaze when it found hers, calm and steady, not shrinking from it, not questioning it, certain.
Smoke caught it all in the mirror, the looks, the silence, the way something had shifted between them and settled into place without needing to be spoken out loud. His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel before going still again, the only sign that he was thinking about it more than he let on. He didn’t interrupt it, didn’t question it, didn’t step in the way he could have, but it sat with him, heavy in a different way, not wrong, just real.
The road stretched further, miles passing under them, time moving whether they marked it or not. Somewhere between where they had been and where they were going, between Florida and Clarksdale, between what was and what would be, something had already shifted into place. Something that wasn’t going back, something that didn’t need permission, something that had already decided how this was going to end. And for now, no one tried to stop it.
The road stretched long and quiet beneath them, cutting through heat and dust and winding its way back toward Mississippi like it had been waiting for them all along. It did not rush them or push them forward. It simply carried them, steady and unbroken, as if their arrival had already been accounted for.
The car moved at an even pace, tires humming low against the ground, the sound blending into the rhythm of everything else. The sky sat wide above them, pale and endless, pressing down in that quiet Southern way that made everything feel both open and contained at the same time.
Cherry sat in the backseat with one hand resting over her stomach and the other relaxed at her side. Her fingers were loose now, no tension left in them. She was not watching the road or the trees or the passing fields or the slow change in landscape as Florida faded behind them. She was not watching anything at all. She simply sat there, still but not empty, quiet but not distant.
For the first time since any of this had started, she looked settled. Not safe and not certain, but not drifting either, like something had finally given her a direction she could follow without needing to understand all of it yet.
Stack glanced back at her again, the way he always did, like he could not go too long without checking, like he needed to keep seeing her there to believe she had not disappeared on him. His hand came off the seat in front of him and reached back without turning his whole body, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested beside her, slow and deliberate.
Cherry felt it and did not pull away. Her fingers shifted slightly, just enough to meet his, just enough to let him know she was there with him and not somewhere else. That was all he needed.
Stack leaned back into his seat, one arm resting easy now, his posture relaxed in a way it had not been before, like something inside him had settled now that she was where he wanted her.
“When we get back,” he said, voice low but steady, “I’ma set you up right.”
Cherry’s eyes lifted slightly, not fully, just enough to show she was listening.
“I got a place already,” he continued. “A real home. Nice size. More than enough space. You ain’t gotta worry about nothing out there.”
He spoke like it was already built and already waiting, like the walls were standing and her name was already inside them, like she was just late arriving to something that had always been hers.
“I’m gon’ make sure you good,” he added, quieter now but heavier. “You and my baby. Ain’t nobody gon’ touch what’s mine.”
Cherry’s hand moved slightly over her stomach again, slower this time and more aware, her fingers spreading like she was holding onto something she could not see yet. She did not interrupt him or question him. She simply listened and let it settle.
Stack glanced back again and caught her eyes, holding them for a second longer. “I’m marrying you before that baby get here.”
It came out as easy as everything else he said, without pause or build up, like it had already been decided somewhere before this moment.
Smoke’s eyes flicked up in the mirror immediately, catching that, and a slow side eye slid toward his brother, long and judging, though he did not say anything yet.
Cherry blinked once and a small pause settled over her before the faintest smile touched her mouth, soft and quiet with something warm under it. She was not shocked or overwhelmed. She was simply accepting it the way she had accepted everything else from him.
“You are?” she asked softly.
Stack did not hesitate. “Yeah.”
It was simple and certain, like there was no other version of this where he did not.
Cherry’s smile stayed, small but real now, her eyes softer than they had been before. She did not question it or slow it down or ask how. She just nodded once and went along with it, like she had already decided that believing him was easier than fighting it.
Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose and shook his head slightly as he looked back at the road. “Man,” he muttered, low and unimpressed.
Stack ignored him.
“And he gon’ have somebody watching him too,” Stack went on, like the thought had just come to him and made perfect sense. “Uncle Smokey Bear.”
Smoke’s head turned this time, slow and deliberate. “Don’t start that,” he said flatly.
Stack grinned faintly and glanced back at Cherry. “Go ahead. Say it.”
Cherry hesitated for a second, then looked toward the front seat with a soft smile pulling at her mouth, a little more comfortable this time. “Smokey Bear,” she said.
Smoke closed his eyes briefly and shook his head again. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Cherry let out a small, quiet laugh, the sound light but real and easy in the space between them.
“You don’t have to go along with whatever crazy shit he saying,” Smoke added, glancing back at her through the mirror.
Cherry met his eyes for a second, then looked at Stack and back at Smoke. “I don’t mind,” she said softly, and she meant it.
Smoke huffed under his breath, but there was no real fight in it and no push to argue it further, just acceptance and watching.
The car kept moving, steady and unbothered, the road stretching further ahead as mile after mile folded into the next. Dust rose behind them in soft clouds, lifting and settling again, like the road was swallowing their tracks as fast as they made them.
Stack leaned back in his seat with one hand still reaching behind him, his fingers brushing Cherry’s again, not letting that connection go for long, like he needed to keep feeling her there, like he needed to remind himself she had not changed her mind.
Cherry let him. She did not pull away or question it. She just sat there with her hand in his and the other resting over her stomach, her gaze soft as the world moved past her without asking anything more from her.
Whatever this was and whatever it would become, it did not feel like an ending. It felt like something opening instead, something forming, something uncertain and heavy, something that could hold her or consume her. She did not know yet, but she did not turn away from it either, because for the first time in a long time she was not alone inside it.
The car disappeared further down the long Southern road as the dust trailing behind them slowly settled back into place and the heat swallowed the last signs of where they had been. Ahead of them, unseen but waiting, something new was already taking shape, something that felt like hope or something close enough to it that she chose to believe it anyway.
@blyffe @transparentphantomface @mwahkae @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @jeandoll@bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl @floralistic @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675
Charmed & Dangerous
Pairing: John Clark x Grace Taylor (OC)
Summary: True crime writer Grace Taylor thinks she's found her next book subject in her charming ex-Navy SEAL neighbor, John Clark. As women begin disappearing in their Harlem neighborhood, Grace's professional interest turns to personal suspicion. But in a game of cat and mouse where nothing is as it seems, she might just be hunting the wrong predator.
Warnings: psychological manipulation, stalking, captivity.
The afternoon sun baked the brick of Grace Taylor's Harlem townhouse, turning the familiar deep red into something almost glowing. Inside, the air conditioner hummed a steady battle against the June heat, but Grace barely noticed. Her world had shrunk to the glowing screen of her laptop and the crime scene photos splayed across her dining room table like a macabre deck of cards. Three months. Six women. Vanished from Virginia to Maryland, leaving behind nothing but questions and a pattern that whispered of professional precision.
Grace's fingers hovered over the keyboard, nails painted a deep burgundy that matched the wine stain on her notes from last night's research binge. She was supposed to be writing Chapter Four, but her eyes kept drifting to the window overlooking her small backyard. The fence between her property and the empty townhouse next door had become her thinking spot, a place where she could sip coffee and let the dark corners of her mind untangle the knots of her latest book.
"Serial killers and their signatures," she muttered to herself, tapping a pen against her lips. "Always so fucking theatrical."
The rumble of a moving truck down the street pulled her attention. Grace watched as it backed into the driveway of the neighboring townhouse, the one that had sat empty for six months since old Mrs. Henderson died. Great. New neighbors meant noise, questions, and the inevitable "What do you do for a living?" conversation that always led to either morbid curiosity or uncomfortable silence when she said "true crime writer."
Grace pushed away from her desk, stretching her arms over her head until her shoulders popped. She needed coffee anyway. The thought of fresh grounds and the rich aroma of her expensive French press was calling her name. As she moved toward the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floors, she glanced out the back window again.
The truck's hydraulic lift whined as it lowered a heavy-looking crate onto the driveway. Two movers in matching gray shirts began unloading boxes while a third figure directed them. Even from this distance, Grace could tell this wasn't just some guy moving in. The way he stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, spine straight, screamed ex-military.
"Come on, God," she whispered to her ceiling. "Don't let me get another one of those 'I served my country' types who think that gives them license to lecture me about patriotism."
But then the man turned slightly, and the afternoon sunlight caught his profile. Grace froze with her hand halfway to the coffee grinder. Okay, so maybe she could tolerate a little patriotism if it came packaged like that. Even from across the yard, she could see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his low-cut hugged his skull, the fullness of his beard, perfectly groomed yet rugged enough to suggest he didn't spend too much time in front of a mirror. Dark skin, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a simple gray t-shirt, and—damn—those forearms. Muscled and defined, with veins that stood out as he pointed toward the house.
Grace shook herself mentally. Down, girl. You're supposed to be writing about missing women, not drooling over the new eye candy next door. She busied herself with measuring coffee grounds, the rhythmic scrape of the scoop against the ceramic container a familiar comfort. The water kettle hissed as it heated, and Grace leaned against the counter, allowing herself one more glance through the window.
The man was kneeling beside a box now, unpacking what looked like kitchen supplies. His movements were efficient, purposeful, like he'd done this a hundred times before. There was something almost practiced about how he organized items into groups, how he stacked boxes. Interesting. Most people she'd seen move were chaos incarnate, but this guy moved like he was setting up a forward operating base instead of a home.
The kettle clicked off, and Grace poured the hot water over the grounds, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma filled her kitchen. She carried her mug outside, the ceramic warm against her palms, settling into her favorite patio chair. The wooden slats were familiar against her back, worn smooth from countless mornings just like this one. From here, she had a perfect view of the neighbor's yard over the six-foot privacy fence.
The man disappeared inside, emerging moments later without his shirt.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Grace breathed, nearly spilling her coffee.
The man's torso was a landscape of muscle, his shoulders tapering to a trim waist, abdominals carved with the kind of definition that spoke of countless hours of bodyweight training. A thin scar ran diagonally across his left pectoral, a chocolate line against his skin. Another marked his right bicep, a puckered crescent that told stories that Grace's writer's imagination immediately began spinning. There was an understated grace to the way he occupied a room, even while doing something as ordinary as unpacking.
Grace took a slow sip of coffee, her eyes narrowing. This was more than just a guy who worked out. This was the physique of someone whose body was a tool, honed and maintained with the same precision he applied to everything else. Special Forces, maybe. Or some other alphabet agency that recruited from the military. Either way, he was dangerous, and not just in the "hello, I'm your new neighbor" way.
She watched for another ten minutes as he worked, her writer's mind cataloging details: the way he scanned his surroundings between tasks, how his head tilted slightly when he heard a car backfire blocks away, the subtle shift in his posture when one of the movers dropped something heavy. Alert. Always alert. It was impressive and unsettling in equal measure.
Grace was so absorbed in her observation that she didn't notice when he stopped what he was doing and turned toward her fence. When their eyes finally met across the six feet of wood, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
His eyes. That's what drew her in. Dark and deep-set, they held an unexpected warmth that contradicted the military precision of everything else about him. He wasn't looking at her like she was a threat or an inconvenience. He was looking at her with genuine curiosity, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Morning," he called out, his voice carrying easily across the space. Low and smooth, with a gravelly edge that vibrated right through Grace's bones. "Or afternoon, I guess. Lost track of time."
Grace swallowed hard, setting her coffee mug on the small table beside her. "Afternoon's good. I'm Grace. Grace Taylor." She stood, smoothing down the linen of her loose-fitting jumpsuit. "Welcome to the neighborhood."
"John Clark." He approached the fence, resting his forearms against the top. Up close, he was even more imposing. The scar on his chest was more visible now, and she could see the faint lines around his eyes that suggested he smiled more than his serious demeanor let on. "Good to meet you, Grace. Sorry about all the noise. Trying to get settled before dark."
"No worries. Been enjoying the show." Grace immediately cringed internally. Way to sound like a creep, Taylor. "I mean, the moving process. It's fascinating. The way you organize things."
John's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "Military habit. Can't help it. Everything has its place." He extended a hand over the fence. "John Clark. Just moved up from Virginia."
Grace's hand disappeared in his. His grip was firm but not crushing, calloused in places that spoke of hard work and weapons. "Virginia? What brings you to New York?"
"Change of pace." John released her hand, but his eyes stayed on hers. "Used to the quiet down there. Figured I was ready for some chaos."
"Honey, you came to the right place," Grace said with a laugh. "Harlem's got chaos in spades. What did you do in Virginia?"
"Government work." John's expression remained open, but something shifted in his eyes—a careful blankness that Grace recognized immediately from her years of interviewing law enforcement and military personnel. "Just retired. Looking to start something new."
Grace nodded, filing away the evasive answer. "Well, welcome to the block. Most of us keep to ourselves, but we're friendly enough. Mrs. Rodriguez across the street will probably bring you something Puerto Rican within the next twenty-four hours. It's her welcome ritual."
"I'll look forward to it." John leaned slightly against the fence, his posture relaxed but still alert. "So, Grace Taylor. What do you do when you're not spying on the new neighbors?"
The teasing tone caught her off guard, and Grace felt herself blushing. Damn it. "Writer," she said, recovering quickly. "True crime. Researching my next book."
John's eyebrows rose slightly, his interest clearly piqued. "True crime? That's fascinating. Like, serial killers and investigations?"
"Among other things." Grace crossed her arms, leaning against her own side of the fence. "Currently working on a case involving missing women along the East Coast. Started in Virginia, actually."
The change in John's expression was subtle but immediate. His eyes sharpened, focusing on her with an intensity that made her heart beat a little faster. "Missing women? I hadn't heard about that."
"Not many people have. Law enforcement is keeping it quiet for now." Grace studied his face, looking for any hint of recognition or concern. "Six women disappeared over the last three months. All between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. All with similar physical characteristics."
John absorbed this information with a nod, his expression thoughtful. "And you think they're connected?"
"The timeline suggests it. And the method of disappearance—no forced entry, no signs of struggle, just gone. Like they walked out of their lives and never came back." Grace paused, watching his reaction. "It's the kind of case that keeps me up at night."
"I can imagine." John's voice had dropped slightly, the smooth warmth replaced by something harder, more focused. "Do you work with law enforcement on these things?"
"Sometimes. When they want me to." Grace shrugged. "Mostly, they tolerate me because I sell books and bring attention to cold cases. But this one... this one feels different. More organized."
John was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the street before returning to her. "Organized how?"
"Careful planning. No witnesses, no evidence left behind. The kind of finesse that suggests either law enforcement or military training." Grace watched him closely as she said it, but his expression remained neutral.
"Or someone who watches a lot of crime shows," John offered, his smile returning but not quite reaching his eyes this time. "Everyone's an expert these days."
"True enough." Grace picked up her coffee mug, the surface now cool. "Well, I should let you get back to unpacking. Don't want to slow down your operation."
"It was good meeting you, Grace." John pushed away from the fence, and she found herself watching the effortless way he unfolded to his full height. "Maybe we could grab a drink sometime? I'd love to hear more about your work."
Grace considered it for a moment. Professional distance was usually her policy, especially with potential sources. But there was something about John Clark that intrigued her beyond the obvious physical appeal. His interest in her work seemed genuine, not like the morbid curiosity she usually encountered.
"I'd like that," she found herself saying. "I'm pretty buried in research right now, but maybe next week?"
"Next week works." John's smile was back in full force, and damn if it didn't make her stomach flutter. "I'll stop by with that Puerto Rican food if Mrs. Rodriguez comes through. We can eat and talk crime."
"Sounds like a date." Grace immediately regretted the word choice. "I mean, sounds like a plan. A neighborly plan."
John's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'll take it either way." He gave her a small nod before turning back toward his house.
Grace watched him walk away, noting the way his shoulders remained square even in relaxation. There was something about him that set off her writer's instincts—a combination of practiced charm and carefully guarded secrets that made her want to dig deeper.
As she settled back into her chair, coffee forgotten, Grace found herself smiling. A new neighbor. A potential source. And definitely someone who would make her research breaks a lot more interesting. She picked up her pen and notebook, jotting down a quick observation before returning to her work.
Subject: John Clark. Age approximately 35. Ex-military, possibly special operations. Recently relocated from Virginia. Exhibits controlled demeanor, heightened situational awareness, and exceptional physical conditioning. Shows unusual interest in true crime research. Recommendation: Further observation required.
Grace underlined the last sentence twice. Something told her this new neighbor was going to be far more complicated than the quiet bachelor she'd been expecting. And for a true crime writer, complicated was always the most interesting place to start.
Two weeks had passed since John Clark moved in next door, and Grace had established a new routine. Mornings began with coffee in her backyard, the ritual now accompanied by the rhythmic thud of John's workout routine. The fence between their properties had become a peculiar sort of confessional booth, where casual conversations about weather and neighborhood happenings gradually deepened into something more.
"Another beautiful day in Harlem," John called out one Tuesday morning, his voice slightly breathless as he moved through push-ups with the fluid grace of a big cat. Sweat glistened on his skin, making the muscles of his back ripple with each movement.
Grace watched from her patio chair, coffee mug warming her hands. "Beautiful if you ignore the humidity. I'm pretty sure I could swim through the air out here."
John laughed, flipping onto his back to begin a series of sit-ups. "Humidity builds character. That's what they told us in BUD/S anyway."
"BUD/S?" Grace raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of coffee. "That's Navy SEAL training, isn't it?"
John paused mid-sit-up, his abdominal muscles tensing. "It is." He completed the movement before turning his head toward her. "You know your military acronyms."
"I know my research." Grace set her mug down, leaning forward with interest. "So ex-Navy SEAL, then? Not just 'government work'?"
A slow smile spread across John's face. "Caught me. Navy SEAL, retired. Did twenty years, decided I was too old for that shit anymore." He sat up, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on his knees. "What gave it away?"
"The way you move," Grace said without hesitation. "Too controlled for regular military. And that scar on your chest—I've seen enough documentary footage to recognize knife wounds from training exercises."
John's eyebrows lifted. "You're good. Really good. You should consider a career in investigation."
"Already there, remember?" Grace gestured toward her townhouse. "True crime writer. It's basically the same thing, except I get to work from home and drink more wine."
John's eyes crinkled. "Fair enough." He pushed himself to his feet in one smooth motion. "Coffee time. Want me to grab you a refill while I'm inside?"
Grace blinked, surprised by the offer. "Oh, you don't have to—"
"I insist." John was already moving toward his back door. "Same as you make it?"
"How did you know how I make my coffee?" Grace called after him.
"You told me last week," John's voice floated back from inside his house. "French press, dark roast, exactly four minutes. You're particular about your brewing process."
Grace sat back in her chair, a strange warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the morning sun. He remembered. Not just remembered, but remembered details she'd mentioned in passing during their brief encounters. That was either incredibly charming or incredibly well-rehearsed, and she wasn't sure which possibility unsettled her more.
John returned moments later with two mugs, handing hers over the fence. Their fingers brushed, and Grace could see a small smirk on his face out of the corner of her eye. His hands were warm and calloused, the skin rough against hers.
"Thanks," she managed, taking a careful sip. Perfect. Exactly how she liked it.
"No problem." John leaned against the fence, mirroring her posture from their first meeting. "So, how's the book coming along? Still tracking those disappearances?"
Grace hesitated, her professional instincts warring with the desire to share. Normally, she guarded her research fiercely until publication. But there was something about John's quiet interest that made her want to open up.
"It's getting intense," she admitted, setting the mug on her small table. "I've established a pattern now. All six women disappeared within forty-eight hours of each other, like clockwork. The latest was in Baltimore two weeks ago."
John's expression shifted, the relaxed charm replaced by something more focused. "Forty-eight hours? That's precise. Almost ritualistic."
"That's what I thought." Grace pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around them. "But here's the thing—none of the women knew each other. Different social circles, different neighborhoods, no apparent connections. It's like someone's collecting them."
John was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "Could be someone with access to multiple locations. Traveling salesman, long-haul trucker, someone whose job takes them up and down the East Coast regularly."
"Or someone in law enforcement or military," Grace countered. "Someone with training in how to move unnoticed, how to cover their tracks."
John's eyes met hers across the fence, and for a moment, Grace saw something flicker there—recognition? Concern? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual calm demeanor.
"Or that," he agreed smoothly. "Special operations forces train extensively in infiltration techniques. How to blend in, how to gather intelligence without drawing attention."
Grace leaned forward, her interest piqued. "What kind of techniques?"
John considered her for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. "Reconnaissance mostly. Learning patterns, when neighbors leave for work, when deliveries are made, are the best times to move unnoticed. We call it 'pattern analysis.' Understanding the rhythm of a place so you can move through it without disrupting it."
"Like a ghost," Grace murmured, her mind already racing with possibilities.
"Exactly." John's voice dropped lower, taking on that gravelly quality that vibrated through Grace's bones. "The perfect predator is one that no one sees coming because they're already part of the landscape."
The intensity of his words sent a shiver down Grace's spine, and it wasn't entirely from the thrill of the chase. There was something about the way he spoke, the knowledge behind his eyes, that both fascinated and unnerved her.
"You're good at this," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone she didn't quite feel. "Have you considered a career in investigation?"
John's smile returned, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm done with that life. Just trying to be a normal guy in New York City."
"Is there such a thing?" Grace asked with a laugh, the tension breaking.
"Not in my experience." John finished his coffee in one long swallow. "But I'm willing to give it a try."
As the days passed, their morning conversations became longer, more detailed. John continued to show an uncanny interest in Grace's work, often bringing her articles or news clippings he thought might be relevant to her investigation. He never pushed for information she wasn't willing to share, but his questions were always insightful, his observations on point.
Grace found herself looking forward to their interactions more than she cared to admit. There was something comforting about John's steady presence, something exciting about the way his mind worked when they discussed her research. And if she was being honest with herself, there was something undeniably attractive about the way he looked at her, like she was the most interesting person in the world.
One evening, Grace was hunched over her laptop at the dining table, surrounded by printouts and crime scene photos, when she heard a light tap on her back door. She looked up to see John standing on her patio, holding two bottles of beer.
"Working late?" he asked, his voice low and smooth in the quiet evening.
Grace glanced at the clock. 10:47 PM. "Shit, I didn't even realize what time it was." She ran a hand through her hair, which was probably standing on end from how many times she'd run her fingers through it. "Come on in. The door's unlocked."
John let himself in, moving through her kitchen with the same quiet ease she'd noticed from the beginning. He set one beer in front of her and twisted the cap off the other before taking a long swallow.
"You're going to burn out if you keep this up," he said, nodding toward her laptop screen. "What's so urgent?"
"New development." Grace clicked to a different tab, bringing up a map of the East Coast with red pins marking the disappearances. "Another woman went missing yesterday. In New Jersey this time."
John leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. Grace tried to ignore the warmth spreading through her body at the contact. "That breaks the pattern. Forty-eight hours between each, right?"
"Exactly." Grace pointed to the screen. "This one was only thirty-six hours after the Baltimore disappearance. Something's changed."
"Or your timeline is wrong," John suggested, his eyes scanning the map. "Maybe the Baltimore woman disappeared earlier than reported. Law enforcement doesn't always release information immediately."
"True." Grace minimized the map, pulling up a series of photos. "But there's something else. Look at these."
John leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. Grace fought the urge to shiver. "What am I looking at?"
"Security footage from outside the victims' homes." Grace clicked through the images. "See this vehicle? It appears in three of the six locations. Dark SUV, tinted windows, never the same plates."
John straightened up, his expression suddenly serious. "Military or government plates?"
"Can't tell from the footage, but I'm guessing yes." Grace looked up at him, her eyes wide with excitement. "This is it, John. This is the break I've been waiting for."
John was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on her laptop screen. Grace could almost see the wheels turning in his head, the military mind analyzing the data with practiced precision.
"If it's government plates," he said finally, his voice low and intense, "then you're dealing with someone who has access to official vehicles. Either law enforcement, military, or someone with connections."
"Or someone who steals them," Grace countered, though she knew he was right.
"Unlikely." John shook his head. "Too much risk, too much paperwork involved in reporting stolen government vehicles. Our guy wouldn't take that chance."
"Our guy?" Grace raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at her lips. "Since when did this become 'our guy'?"
John's eyes met hers, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with something more than professional interest. "Since you started sharing your research with me. Since I found myself thinking about this case even when we're not talking about it."
Grace's breath caught in her throat. This was dangerous territory. She'd spent years building walls around her heart, around her life, protecting herself from the kind of vulnerability that came with letting someone in. But looking at John now, with his earnest expression and those dark, knowing eyes, she felt those walls beginning to crumble.
"John," she began, but she wasn't sure what she wanted to say. Don't? Please do? Be careful?
"Grace." He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her skin, sending sparks through her entire body. "Be careful with this. If you're right about who this guy is, he's not just some random creep. He's dangerous."
The concern in his voice was genuine, and it touched something deep inside Grace that she hadn't realized was still tender. "I'm always careful," she said, her voice softer than she intended.
"No, you're not." John's thumb brushed against her cheek. "You're passionate, dedicated, brilliant at what you do. But you're not careful. You throw yourself into these cases like you're trying to solve them single-handedly."
Grace couldn't argue with that. It was her greatest strength and her biggest flaw. "Someone has to care about these women," she whispered, her eyes locked on his.
"I know." John's face was inches from hers now, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "But I don't want you to be the next one I read about in the papers."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Grace's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the chaos in her mind. Part of her wanted to pull away, to retreat behind the safety of her professional distance. But another part, a stronger part, wanted to close the distance between them, to feel his lips against hers, to lose herself in the warmth and safety she sensed just beneath his dangerous exterior.
"John," she breathed, and that was all it took.
He closed the remaining space between them. The kiss began as little more than a brush of lips before deepening naturally. Grace melted into it, her hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until she was breathless and dizzy with want.
When they finally broke apart, Grace was panting, her lips swollen and tingling. John rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged.
"I've been wanting to do that since the day we met," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion.
"Me too," Grace confessed, though she hadn't allowed herself to admit it until now.
John pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "This doesn't change anything about your investigation. You still need to be careful."
"I know." Grace traced the line of his jaw with her finger, feeling the rough texture of his beard against her skin. "But it's nice to know someone's got my back."
"Always." John captured her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "Now, let's look at this footage again. Maybe there's something you're missing."
Grace smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that she felt all the way to her toes. "Work first, huh?"
"Work first," John agreed with a grin. "But later... later we're going to finish that conversation properly."
As they turned back to her laptop, Grace felt a shift in their dynamic. The easy friendship had deepened into something more complex, more dangerous, and infinitely more exciting. And if she was being honest with herself, she wouldn't have it any other way.
The professional boundaries she'd so carefully maintained were blurring, and for the first time in years, Grace found herself not caring. There was something about John Clark that made her want to take risks, to let down her guard, to see where this thing between them might lead.
And as they leaned over the laptop together, shoulders touching, heads bent in concentration, Grace allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she'd found someone who understood the darkness she chased for a living, but who could also bring a little light into her world.
The investigation continued, the clues slowly falling into place, but now there was something more at stake. Now it wasn't just about solving the case, about bringing justice to the missing women. Now it was about protecting the fragile connection growing between them, about nurturing the spark that had ignited with a single kiss in a dimly lit kitchen on a warm June night.
Grace knew she was in trouble. She knew she was breaking all her own rules, crossing lines she'd drawn for her own protection. But looking at John now, seeing the way his eyes lit up when they discussed the case, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers, she found herself not caring about the rules at all.
The rules had been her armor, built brick by painful brick after David. David, her ex-fiancé, who had looked at her with a mixture of pity and condescension when she'd turned down a prestigious law school acceptance to pursue her first book deal. "A true crime writer, Grace? Really?" he'd said, his voice dripping with disappointment. "It's a hobby, not a career. You're throwing away a real future for... what? Ghost stories and gory details?"
He hadn't understood. He hadn't seen the justice in giving voice to the silenced, the purpose in hunting monsters from behind a keyboard. He'd wanted a partner who attended galas, not one who spent nights in morgues and archives. He'd left her for a paralegal who understood the "proper" trajectory of a life well-lived. The breakup had left a scar deeper than any she'd written about, a wound that had taught her to keep her passion and her heart in separate, soundproof rooms.
But John... John didn't just tolerate her work; he was fascinated by it. He saw the strategy in her research, the intellect in her obsession. He didn't ask why she spent her days with the dead; he asked how she planned to bring their killer to justice. That understanding, that quiet respect for the very part of her that had driven another man away, made her feel seen in a way that was both terrifying and intoxicating. It made her want to demolish every wall she'd so carefully constructed around herself. It made her want to break all the goddamn rules.
The morning after the kiss, ordinary routines no longer felt ordinary for Grace. The familiar comfort of her backyard ritual felt charged with a new electricity, the six-foot fence between her property and John's no longer a barrier but a flimsy suggestion of distance. The rules she'd lived by since David—the rules that kept her heart safe and her work separate—lay in ruins around her, and she couldn't bring herself to care.
"Morning," John's voice carried over the fence. He was shirtless again, glistening with sweat as he moved through a series of stretches that made something low in Grace's stomach clench with desire.
"Morning," she called back, her voice softer than she intended. "Still trying to impress the neighbors?"
"Only one neighbor," John replied with a grin, turning to face her. His eyes traveled over her in a way that was both appreciative and possessive, a look that made her feel simultaneously exposed and cherished. "Sleep well?"
"Surprisingly well, actually." Grace took a sip of coffee, her fingers brushing against her lips where his had been just hours before. "You?"
"Like the dead." John's expression shifted slightly. "Busy day planned?"
"The usual. Research, writing, avoiding my editor's emails." Grace set her mug down, leaning forward with interest. "You?"
"Base supply run, then maybe check out that boxing gym on 125th." John approached the fence, resting his forearms against the top. "Need to stay in shape somehow."
Grace's eyes drifted to his torso, to the sculpted muscles that spoke of countless hours of discipline. "I'd say you're doing okay so far."
John's smile widened. "Glad you approve." He glanced toward her back door. "You got time for breakfast? I make surprisingly good pancakes."
The invitation hung between them, casual yet significant. This was it—the moment their relationship shifted from neighbors who occasionally flirted to... whatever this was becoming. Grace found herself nodding before she could talk herself out of it.
"I'd like that."
The next two weeks settled into a rhythm that felt both natural and disconcerting. Mornings still began with coffee and conversation, but now they often took place in one of their kitchens rather than separated by a fence. John would bring her breakfast sometimes, or Grace would make enough dinner for two. Their conversations about the case continued, but now they were punctuated by casual touches, lingering glances, and the kind of easy intimacy that Grace had convinced herself she didn't need.
The kiss had opened something between them, a door that couldn't be closed again. Grace found herself sharing things she'd never told another living soul—not just about her work, but about her life, her fears, her dreams. And John, in turn, revealed pieces of himself, carefully curated but genuine nonetheless. He spoke of his time in the SEALs with a matter-of-factness that belied the danger involved, of the missions he couldn't discuss but that had clearly left their mark on him.
"You know," Grace said one evening as they sat on her back patio sharing a bottle of wine, "I still don't know why you really moved to New York. 'Change of pace' is a bullshit answer, and we both know it."
John swirled the wine in his glass, watching the deep red liquid catch the last rays of sunlight. "Maybe I just needed a fresh start."
"Maybe," Grace countered, "or maybe you're running from something."
John's eyes met hers across the small table, and for a moment, she saw something flicker there, a shadow of pain, of regret. "Aren't we all?"
The conversation was interrupted by Grace's phone buzzing insistently on the table. She glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing as she read the breaking news alert.
"Shit," she whispered, scrolling through the article with growing dread.
"What is it?" John leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers.
"Three women missing in Harlem," Grace said, her voice tight with tension. "All within the last week. All matching the pattern I've been tracking."
John was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Where in Harlem?"
Grace's eyes scanned the article, her heart sinking with each word. "West 140th... Lenox Avenue... right here in our neighborhood, John."
The reality of the situation settled over them like a shroud. The case she'd been tracking from a distance had suddenly arrived on their doorstep, turning their quiet corner of Harlem into a hunting ground for the predator she'd been chasing for months.
"We need to be careful," John said, his voice low and serious. "Extra locks on your doors. Window sensors. Don't go out alone after dark."
Grace looked up at him, surprised by the intensity of his response. "That's a bit dramatic, isn't it?"
John's expression remained grim. "This guy's escalating. If he's operating here, it's because he feels comfortable here. We need to make ourselves harder targets."
The practical advice should have been reassuring, but something about it felt off—too well-rehearsed, too immediate. It was the kind of response that came from training, from experience with situations like this. Grace filed the thought away, telling herself she was being paranoid.
Over the next few days, John's schedule became increasingly erratic. Sometimes he was gone for days at a time, returning late at night with no explanation. Other times, he was home at odd hours, leaving early in the morning or coming back in the middle of the day. Grace tried not to read too much into it—everyone had their own life, their own schedule—but the writer in her couldn't help noticing the patterns, the inconsistencies.
"Late night?" she asked one evening when she found him sitting on his back porch in the dark, long after he'd usually have turned in.
John looked up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light from her patio. "Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither." Grace leaned against the fence, the wood cool against her arms. "Thinking about the case."
"Me too." John's voice was low, almost a whisper. "This guy's getting bolder. The disappearances are closer together now."
"Thirty-six hours between the last two," Grace confirmed, her mind racing with possibilities. "He's speeding up. Losing control."
"Or gaining it," John countered. "Maybe he's getting more confident, more efficient."
The thought sent a chill down Grace's spine. "What kind of person gets more efficient at kidnapping women?"
"The kind we're dealing with," John said simply. "The kind who's done this before."
A week later, a neighborhood meeting was called at the community center to discuss the disappearances. Grace attended out of professional obligation, taking notes in the back of the room as police officers offered reassurances that felt increasingly hollow. John was there too, sitting near the front but not participating, just listening with an intensity that drew her attention.
When the floor opened for questions, John's hand went up. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him.
"Have you considered that this might be the same person responsible for the disappearances in Virginia and Maryland?" he asked, his voice calm and clear. "The timeline suggests a pattern moving north."
The officer at the podium exchanged a look with his colleague before nodding. "We're exploring all possibilities, sir."
"Then you should be looking for someone with military or law enforcement training," John continued, his eyes sweeping across the room. "Someone who understands how to move unnoticed, how to cover their tracks, how to blend into a new environment quickly."
A murmur ran through the crowd, and Grace watched as John's gaze drifted over the assembled residents, his expression unreadable but his posture alert. He wasn't just asking questions; he was scanning, assessing, and storing reactions that were both impressive and unsettling.
After the meeting, as residents milled about discussing the situation, Grace approached John, who stood near the exit.
"That was quite a performance," she said, keeping her tone light.
John turned to her, his expression immediately softening. "Just trying to help."
"You know a lot about this kind of thing," Grace observed, her eyes searching his. "More than most ex-military guys I've met."
John's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "SEALs learn to notice patterns. It's part of the job."
That night, unable to sleep, Grace found herself at her laptop, typing John Clark's name into search engines and databases. The results were surprisingly sparse for someone with his background, no social media profiles, no professional networking pages, no mention in military records or news articles. It was as if John Clark didn't exist before he moved to Harlem.
The digital void was more alarming than any damning evidence she might have found. In an age where everyone left a trail, John was a ghost. Grace told herself it was probably just military training, the habit of maintaining a low profile, but the seeds of doubt had been planted.
Three days later, Grace was walking home from a late-night research session at the library when she felt it, that unmistakable sensation of being watched. She quickened her pace, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag, her heart beginning to pound against her ribs.
The footsteps behind her matched her acceleration, closing the distance with deliberate intent. Grace broke into a run, ducking into a narrow alley between two brownstones, hoping to lose her pursuer in the darkness.
The alley was a dead end, brick walls rising on three sides, the only exit blocked by the shadowy figure now standing at the entrance. Grace pressed herself against the rough brick, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fumbled in her bag for her phone, for mace, for anything that might help.
"Looking for this?" a voice asked from behind her.
Grace spun around to find John standing not ten feet away, his expression grim, his body coiled and ready. In his hand, he held her phone, which must have fallen from her bag during her flight.
"John? What are you—"
"Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice low and urgent. He moved to position himself between Grace and the figure at the alley entrance, his entire demeanor shifting from the relaxed neighbor she knew to something else entirely—something dangerous and deadly.
The figure in the entranceway shifted, deciding whether to press their advantage or retreat. John took a step forward, his shoulders squaring, his hands rising into a defensive stance that was both fluid and practiced.
"You've got three seconds to disappear," John said, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated with menace. "Three."
The figure hesitated, then melted back into the shadows of the street beyond.
"Two," John continued, his eyes never leaving the entrance. "One."
Silence. John remained in position for another thirty seconds before slowly relaxing his stance, turning back to Grace with an expression that was part concern, part frustration.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice returning to its normal pitch.
Grace nodded, her heart still racing. "What the hell was that?"
"Someone who thought you were an easy target." John approached her slowly, his eyes scanning the alley for any additional threats. "You need to be more careful, Grace. This neighborhood isn't safe right now."
"Since when do you patrol the neighborhood at midnight?" Grace asked, her writer's mind kicking into overdrive despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.
John's expression tightened slightly. "I couldn't sleep. Went for a walk. Saw you heading this way."
It was plausible, but something about it felt too convenient. The combat skills he'd demonstrated, the way he'd moved, it was more than the average ex-military guy would possess. It was specialized training, the kind of training that came from special operations, from years of handling situations exactly like this.
"You were good," Grace said, her voice softer than she intended. "Really good."
John's eyes met hers in the dim light from the street beyond the alley. "I had good teachers."
As they walked back to their townhouses, John's arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, and Grace tried to dismiss her suspicions as paranoia. The attack had been real, John's intervention timely and effective. She should be grateful, not suspicious. But the writer in her couldn't ignore the inconsistencies, the coincidences that were beginning to pile up.
The man who'd moved in next door, the man she was beginning to care for, was not who he claimed to be. And as they reached their front doors, parting with a kiss that felt both comforting and dangerous, Grace couldn't shake the feeling that she could be falling for the very monster she'd been hunting for months.
The memory of that night in the alley clung to Grace like the scent of rain on asphalt. Three days had passed, but the image of John's body revving up for combat, the lethal shift in his eyes from neighbor to predator, played on a loop in her mind. She sat at her dining table, laptop open but ignored, a cold cup of coffee beside her. The townhouse felt too quiet, the space between her and John's home suddenly charged with a new and terrifying potential.
What if she had it all wrong? The thought surfaced unbidden, insidious. What if the man in the alley was just some random opportunist, a common street predator, and John's intervention wasn't a rescue at all, but an interruption? What if John had been following her, waiting for the right moment to make his move, and some luckless mugger had stumbled into his territory?
Grace squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing her temples. It was paranoia. It was the dark, obsessive corner of her mind that saw monsters in every shadow. But it wouldn't be silenced. The precision of his movements, the lack of surprise in his voice when he appeared—it was the calm efficiency of a man who had handled such situations before. A man who knew how to create a problem and then solve it, positioning himself as the hero. The ultimate form of control.
Her attraction to him felt like a betrayal now, a weakness she couldn't afford. The memory of his kiss, the warmth of his body next to hers, it all soured under the weight of this new suspicion. She was falling for the very thing she hunted, and the realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.
It was nearly midnight when she forced herself back to her research. The case file for the latest victim, a 28-year-old social worker named Maya Rodriguez, was open on her screen. She'd vanished two nights ago from outside a bodega on Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Grace stared at the woman's smiling photo, at the warm, intelligent eyes that would now only exist in memory, and felt the familiar anger rise in her chest. This was why she did what she did. This was why she couldn't let herself be distracted by a handsome face and a charming smile.
A car door closing outside pulled her from her thoughts. Grace glanced out the window, her breath catching in her throat. John's SUV was parked in the driveway, its engine still running. He moved around to the passenger side, opening the door with ease.
And then he helped a woman out.
Grace's heart hammered against her ribs as she leaned closer to the glass, her breath fogging the pane. The woman was tall, with long dark hair that fell in waves around her shoulders. Even in the dim streetlight, Grace could see the resemblance. Same build as Maya Rodriguez. Same hair color. Same general age.
Something was wrong. The woman moved stiffly, her steps uncertain as John guided her toward the front door with a hand firmly on her lower back. Her head lolled slightly to one side, and she seemed to lean heavily against him, not with the casual intimacy of a date, but with the dependence of someone injured or... impaired.
Grace's true crime instincts kicked in, sharp and immediate. She recognized the movements, the careful positioning of their bodies as John shielded the woman from the street. His head moved in a slow, deliberate scan of the neighborhood before he unlocked the door, a quick, professional sweep of the area that spoke volumes. He wasn't checking for nosy neighbors. He was checking for witnesses.
He guided the woman inside, the door closing softly behind them, cutting off Grace's view. She remained frozen at the window for a long moment, her mind racing. It could be a date. It could be a friend who'd had too much to drink. It could be a dozen innocent explanations.
But it didn't feel innocent. Every instinct she possessed was screaming that something was terribly wrong.
Grace backed away from the window, her hands trembling as she reached for her phone. She needed to call the police. But what would she say? "My neighbor came home with a woman who looked like a missing person?" They'd laugh her off the phone. She needed proof. She needed to know.
The next few hours were a blur of frantic research. Grace pulled up every file she had on the East Coast disappearances, cross-referencing dates, locations, and victim descriptions. Then she opened a new document, titling it "John Clark Timeline."
She started with his arrival in Harlem. Two weeks ago. She checked the dates of the first three Harlem disappearances. All occurred after he moved in. She checked the dates of his unexplained absences. The day he was gone for forty-eight hours? A woman disappeared in Baltimore during that window. The weekend he'd been "visiting friends"? Another victim vanished in Philadelphia.
The pattern was undeniable. The dates were alarmingly consistent. Wherever John Clark went, women seemed to disappear.
Grace leaned back in her chair, the enormity of her discovery crashing down on her. It couldn't be a coincidence. It was too perfect, too precise. John Clark wasn't just a witness or a concerned neighbor. He was the common denominator.
Her attraction to him warred with her professional suspicion, a bitter internal battle that left her feeling sick to her stomach. She remembered the way his eyes lit up when they discussed the case, the genuine interest he showed in her work. Had it all been an act? A way to monitor her investigation, to stay one step ahead?
The next morning, Grace found herself watching his house from behind her blinds, notebook in hand, documenting his movements like she would any other subject of her investigation. It felt wrong, invasive, but necessary. She saw him leave at 8:15 AM, dressed in running shorts and a tank top, returning forty-five minutes later, glistening with sweat. Normal. Too normal.
Around noon, he appeared at her back door, holding two cups of coffee and a folder under his arm. Grace's heart leaped into her throat. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before opening the door.
"Morning," John said, his smile as charming and disarming as ever. "Thought you could use this."
"Thanks," Grace managed, accepting the coffee. Her fingers brushed against his, and she fought the urge to pull away.
"Brought you something else." He offered the folder. "Some research materials I thought might help with the case."
Grace took the folder, her hands trembling slightly. Inside were printouts of news articles about the disappearances, crime scene photos she hadn't been able to access, and detailed maps of the areas where the women had vanished. It was exactly what she needed, exactly what she'd been struggling to find.
"John... this is incredible," she said, looking up at him. "How did you get this?"
"I have contacts," he replied with a shrug. "People who owe me favors. Thought it might help you connect the dots."
Grace stared at him, at the open, honest expression on his face, and felt a wave of confusion wash over her. Was this a genuine gesture of support? Or was he feeding her information, controlling the narrative, making sure she only saw what he wanted her to see?
"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Really."
"Anything for you, Grace." He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her skin, and she had to force herself not to flinch. "We're in this together, remember?"
The words sent a chill down her spine. We're in this together. If he was the killer, what did that mean for her? Was she his partner? His next victim? Or something else entirely?
After he left, Grace spread the materials across her dining table, her mind racing. The information was valuable, but it was also perfectly tailored to her needs. Too perfect. It was as if he knew exactly what she was looking for, exactly what gaps she needed to fill in her investigation.
Her eyes fell on a map of Virginia, where the disappearances had begun. John had mentioned he was from Virginia, but he'd been vague about where specifically. Grace pulled up the property records she'd managed to dig up on him, cross-referencing the address he'd listed with the locations of the first two victims.
Her blood ran cold. John's last known address in Virginia Beach was less than five miles from where the first victim had disappeared. His previous posting in Norfolk was in the same neighborhood as the second. The connection wasn't just possible; it was undeniable.
Grace leaned back in her chair, the weight of her discovery pressing down on her. The man she was falling for, the man who lived next door, the man who had saved her in that alley, was almost certainly the serial killer she'd been hunting for months. And now, he knew she was getting close. The woman she'd seen last night, the woman who looked so much like Maya Rodriguez, was proof of that.
He was escalating, becoming bolder. Or maybe he was just getting sloppy. Either way, Grace knew she was in danger. The question was, what the hell was she going to do about it?
The text message came from John himself, a simple, unremarkable update that sent Grace's heart into a frantic, panicked rhythm. Got called back to Virginia. Family emergency. Be back in a few days. It was followed by a winky face emoji, a casual touch that felt like a threat. Family emergency. In Virginia. The origin point of the entire nightmare she was documenting.
Grace stared at her phone, the screen's blue light illuminating the fear etched onto her face. This was it. The window she needed. The universe was handing her an opportunity wrapped in the plausible deniability of a family crisis. Every instinct screamed at her to call the police, to let them handle it, to retreat to the safety of her professional distance. But the memory of the woman stumbling into his house, the chilling consistency of his timeline, the calculated charm that now felt like a weapon—it all pushed her forward.
"Fuck it," she whispered to the empty room, the words tasting like rebellion. She was a true crime writer, not a coward. She didn't just report on the story; she lived it, breathed it, crawled inside its dark heart. This was no different.
The skills she'd learned weren't from a classroom or a training manual. They were acquired from countless hours reading about BTK's meticulous planning, from studying the blueprints of Ted Bundy's crimes, from understanding the psychology of men who moved through the world like ghosts. She knew how to pick a simple lock; a credit card and steady pressure worked on most residential deadbolts. She knew how to move without making a sound, to distribute her weight, to become part of the shadows. She knew how to observe without being seen.
The sun had just begun to set, casting long shadows across the brownstone facades, when Grace made her move. Dressed in dark clothing, her hair pulled back, she moved through the shared side yard between their townhouses, the space overgrown and neglected, providing perfect cover. Her hands shook as she approached his back door, but her mind was clear, focused. The lock gave way with a soft click in the quiet evening.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. Not the warm, lived-in scent of a home, but the sterile, chemical cleanliness of a hotel room. Lemon-scented cleaner and something else, something antiseptic. The second thing was the organization. It was breathtaking. Not a single item was out of place. The kitchen counters were bare, the cushions on the sofa fluffed, the coffee table devoid of any personal clutter, no magazines, no coasters, no photographs. It was a show home, a stage set for a life that wasn't actually being lived here.
"Jesus," she breathed, her voice swallowed by the oppressive silence. This was the space of a man who erased himself. A man who could pack up and disappear without a trace because there was nothing to leave behind.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she moved through the first floor, her feet silent on the hardwood floors. Nothing. No personal effects, no mail, no signs of the man who made pancakes and brought her coffee. It was all a facade. The charming neighbor was a costume, and this was the empty dressing room.
The basement was her target. It's where secrets were kept, where the messy parts of a life were hidden. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked, opening onto a flight of plain wooden steps. The air grew colder as she descended, the sterile smell giving way to something else—damp concrete, metal, and the faint, coppery tang that she recognized from old crime scene photos.
The basement was unfinished, with concrete walls and floor, a single bare bulb casting a harsh, interrogative light. A weight bench sat in one corner, perfectly aligned with the floor tiles. Along one wall were metal shelves, holding neatly organized storage bins. Everything was labeled: "Winter Gear," "Camping Equipment," "Documents." It was the meticulousness that was so terrifying. The control.
Her eyes were drawn to the far corner, to a door she hadn't expected. It was a solid steel door, set into the concrete wall, with a heavy-duty deadbolt. A padlock hung from a hasp, thick and unforgiving. This was it. The heart of the mystery.
Grace's fingers trembled as she examined the lock. It was a Master Lock, standard issue, the kind a novice would use. It felt out of place, almost insulting. From her back pocket, she pulled a small leather wallet containing her lock-picking tools—a hobby she'd justified as "professional research." The rake and tension wire felt cold and familiar in her hands. It took less than thirty seconds. The shackle sprang open with a satisfying click.
She pulled the lock free, her hand hesitating on the doorknob. What was behind this door? The answer would change everything. It would either confirm her worst fears or make her the worst kind of fool. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The room was small, windowless, and lined with sound-dampening foam. The smell was stronger here, the chemical cleaner trying and failing to mask something else. But it wasn't a torture chamber. It wasn't the den of a monster she'd built up in her mind. It was... an office. A command center.
A large desk dominated the space, its surface covered in maps, charts, and photographs. Grace stepped inside, her eyes widening as she recognized the crime scene photos from her own research. But these were different, higher resolution, with angles and details she'd never seen. Along one wall was a series of monitors, currently dark. Another wall held a collection of firearms, each locked in a rack, their serial numbers carefully logged on a clipboard hanging nearby.
On the desk, amidst the organized chaos, was a file folder. Grace's breath caught in her throat as she saw the name typed on the tab: "Taylor, Grace." Inside were photographs of her. Photos of her leaving her house, of her sitting on her patio, of her talking to John over the fence. He had been watching her. He had been documenting her.
But there was nothing conclusive. No confession, no trophies, no definitive proof that John Clark was the killer. It was all circumstantial, all deniable. It was the room of an investigator, not a predator. The thought was so jarring, so contrary to her expectations, that it took her a moment to process.
The sound of the front door closing upstairs sent a bolt of pure terror through her body. Oh god. He was back. The text message was a lie.
Grace froze, her blood turning to ice. She could hear his footsteps on the floor above, slow and deliberate. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't surprised. He knew she was here.
Panic warred with the cold, clear instinct for survival. She couldn't stay trapped in this room. She had to get out. Moving as silently as possible, she slipped from the office, closing the door gently behind her and re-locking the padlock. She scrambled up the basement stairs, her mind racing for an escape route, but she knew it was useless. He was between her and the door she'd come through.
She emerged into the kitchen to find him leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. The charming neighbor was gone. In his place was a man she didn't recognize, his face a mask of cold calculation, his eyes hard and devoid of warmth. The transformation was absolute, terrifying.
"Grace," he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual smooth warmth. "I have to say, I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd do it."
"John," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She stood her ground, refusing to show the terror that was threatening to consume her.
"Breaking and entering. That's a felony." He pushed away from the counter, moving toward her with a predator's grace. "But then again, you're not really a law-abiding citizen, are you? You're a truth seeker. A hunter."
"What is this place, John?" she asked, her voice stronger than she felt. "What are you doing?"
"I'm doing what needs to be done." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "I'm removing threats. I'm protecting the community."
The coded language sent a chill down her spine. "By killing women?"
John's expression didn't change. "By removing a cancer. Sometimes you have to cut deep to get it all."
He didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it. He spoke in riddles, in justifications that echoed the twisted logic of so many killers she'd studied. The air between them crackled with a terrifying energy, a volatile mix of danger and undeniable attraction. She was terrified of him, but some sick, twisted part of her was still drawn to the power he exuded, the absolute certainty in his eyes.
"I know you've been investigating me," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "I've known since the beginning. You're good, Grace. Really good. But you're out of your depth."
"Am I?" she challenged, her heart pounding. "Or am I getting close enough to scare you?"
A slow smile spread across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You don't scare me, Grace. You fascinate me. You see the patterns, you connect the dots. You're almost there."
"Almost where?"
"To the truth." He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. The touch was electric, sending a jolt through her system that was part fear, part desire. "But the truth isn't what you think it is."
Before she could respond, a noise came from the basement. A soft thud, followed by the distinct sound of the padlock on the steel door being rattled from the inside.
Something was moving in there.
John's head snapped toward the basement door, his body tensing, the mask of calculation cracking for just a moment to reveal something else beneath it—surprise? Annoyance? He turned back to her, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to run and hide.
"Well," he said, his voice a low growl. "It seems our conversation will have to wait."
The rattle from the basement was a gunshot in the silence of the kitchen. It was a raw, frantic sound, the desperate thrashing of metal against metal. It was the noise of a victim.
Grace's blood turned to ice. All her theories, all her late-night research, all her gut-wrenching suspicion had coalesced into this one horrifying, tangible moment. The woman from the other night. Maya Rodriguez. She was in that room. She was alive.
John's reaction was not what Grace expected. There was no panic, no shock at being discovered. Instead, a profound urgency washed over his features, stripping away the last vestiges of his charming neighbor persona. The cold, calculating hunter who had confronted her moments ago was gone, replaced by something else, something focused, driven, and operating on a razor's edge of adrenaline.
"Stay here," he ordered, his voice a low command that vibrated with an authority she'd never heard before. He moved toward the basement door, his movements fluid and impossibly fast.
Grace stood frozen, her mind a battlefield of conflicting impulses. Run. The scream was deafening. Get out, call the police, let someone else handle this living nightmare. But her feet were rooted to the floor. Her journalistic curiosity, the same trait that had led her into this mess, now held her captive. She needed to see. She needed to know.
John reached the basement door, his hand already reaching for the knob. He paused, his back to her, the set of his shoulders rigid. Then he turned, and the look in his eyes recontextualized everything she thought she knew.
"I should have told you sooner," he said, his voice stripped of all pretense, raw and honest. "I'm not the one you're looking for... but I know who is."
The words hit Grace like a physical blow. She staggered back a step, her mind refusing to process the statement. Not the killer? But the timeline, the Virginia connection, the locked room... it was all so perfect. It had to be him.
"What?" she whispered, the word barely audible.
But John was already moving, taking the basement steps two at a time. Grace hesitated for only a second before following, her feet moving of their own accord, driven by a need she couldn't name. She had to see. She had to understand.
The basement was just as she'd left it, the sterile silence now broken by the frantic, muffled sounds from a set of steel doors. John moved with purpose, not to the padlock Grace had picked, but to a small, electronic keypad she hadn't noticed, hidden on another set of doors that she completely missed. He typed in a code, and the heavy deadbolt retracted with a decisive thunk.
He pushed the door open, and the scene that greeted Grace was a vortex of contradictions. It was a bigger command center that was occupied. And in the center of the room, chained to a heavy iron ring bolted to the concrete floor, was a woman.
It was her. The woman from the other night. Maya Rodriguez.
But she wasn't the disoriented victim Grace had imagined. Her eyes were sharp and full of a burning intelligence, her face a mask of fury and desperation. She wasn't cowering; she was pissed and mugging both of them. The chains around her ankles were thick, but they looked like they belonged on a construction site, not in a kidnapper's den.
"John, you son of a bitch, you can't keep me here!" Maya spat, her voice raspy but strong. She tried to lunge forward, but the chains snapped her back brutally. "He's going to kill again! You know he is!"
Grace's mind reeled, trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle that was shattering in her hands. This wasn't a victim. This was a combatant.
Before John could respond, a voice crackled to life from a sophisticated-looking radio setup on the desk. The voice was female, calm and professional, cutting through Maya's enraged shouts.
"John, we have movement. He's made another mistake. And this time, we know where he's going next."
John crossed to the desk, grabbing the radio receiver. "Location," he barked, his voice all business.
"St. Nicholas Park. Near the pond. He's targeting a jogger. Fits the profile. You've got maybe twenty minutes."
John swore under his breath, his gaze flicking from the radio to Maya, then finally to Grace, who was still standing in the doorway, her world tilting on its axis.
He moved toward her, his expression intense, his eyes burning with a fire that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough that she could see the conflict and the resolve warring in his gaze.
"I moved here to hunt him," he said, his voice low and urgent, each word a hammer blow to her reality. "I've been tracking him for a year. He's my partner's brother. A ghost. That's why the house is so clean, why there's no footprint. I'm not supposed to exist."
He gestured toward Maya, who was now watching them with a gleam in her eyes. "She's not a victim. She's his girlfriend. His partner. She helps him pick the targets. She was supposed to be my way to him, but she's more valuable than I thought. She knows his patterns, his triggers. She's the key."
Grace's head was spinning, the pieces of the case flying around in a chaotic storm, refusing to land. John wasn't the killer. He was hunting the killer. The charming neighbor, the ex-SEAL, the man she was falling for... he was a vigilante. A hunter. And he had been using her, feeding her information, watching her, all while conducting his own war in the shadows.
He saw the dawning realization in her eyes, the slow, horrifying understanding of what he was asking. His expression hardened, the urgency giving way to something colder, more dangerous.
"I moved here to hunt him," he repeated, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was more menacing than any shout. "But now that you know... you're either with me, or once he realizes she's gone, you're going to be his next target. Choose."
The choice hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. She could turn and walk away. Call the police. Tell them everything: the locked room, the captive woman, the confession. They would arrest him. They would call her a hero. And they would never find the real killer because John Clark was the only one who knew how to think like him, how to track him.
Or she could stay. She could step into the darkness with him, become part of his hunt, cross a line from which there was no return. She could trade her black-and-white world of law and justice for his world of shadows and blood.
Grace looked from John's desperate, intense face to Maya's chained, furious form, and finally to the radio on the desk, where a silent timer was counting down to another potential murder. Her charming neighbor wasn't a serial killer. He was something far more dangerous. He was a man who had become a monster to fight monsters. And he had been using her—her research, her proximity, her very existence, as bait.
The choice wasn't between safety and danger. It was between two different kinds of damnation. And as she met John's gaze, seeing the reflection of her own horrified resolve in his eyes, Grace knew she was already lost.
@blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist
Sunday Supper and Sins
Pairing: Déjà (Black Female OC) / Elias “Stack” / Elijah “Smoke”
Summary: Three years after a devastating betrayal shattered her relationship and fractured her family, Déjà returns to the Mississippi Delta for a Sunday dinner she never thought she’d attend again. The Moore family still welcomes her with open arms, refusing to let old wounds erase the place she once held in their lives. But while Déjà tries to navigate old memories, lingering hurt, and a man who can’t seem to let go of what he destroyed, an unexpected connection begins to form with the last person she should be looking at. What starts as anger, pride, and revenge quickly becomes something far more dangerous.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, infidelity, cheating, revenge sex, emotional manipulation, jealousy, family drama, toxic relationships, messy romance, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief over lost relationships, emotional infidelity themes, morally gray characters, complicated family dynamics, unresolved trauma.
Three Years Earlier
The air in the hallway of their shared home always smelled of turpentine and linseed oil, a scent Déjà had come to associate with peace. It was the smell of her livelihood, of her soul spilled across canvases in the sun-drenched spare room she’d claimed as her studio. Tonight, the scent was sharper, cutting through the thick, cloying sweetness of the Delta summer that seeped through the window screens. It was a Wednesday, close to midnight. Elijah should have been at the club, ‘The Low Bottom,’ handling the Wednesday night rush, leaving her to the quiet company of her unfinished portrait of a magnolia blossom, its creamy petals captured in thick, impasto strokes.
She’d been wrestling with the painting for a week, trying to capture the way the moonlight seemed to bleach the flower’s edges, giving it an ethereal, almost holy glow. It was a feeling she knew well, the feeling of being seen by him. Five years. Five years since Elijah Moore, with his quiet authority and eyes like old whiskey, had walked into her little booth at the town’s annual arts festival. He’d bought her first-ever sale, a small watercolor of the cypress swamp, and then he’d bought her a beer. He’d been running the club with his brother for two years then, a smooth, dangerous operation that was the heartbeat of their small town’s nightlife. He was Smoke, the calm in the chaos, the one who saw everything and said little. And he’d seen her.
Her bare feet were silent on the cool hardwood floor as she padded down the hall, a smear of cadmium yellow on her cheek like a war paint she didn’t know she wore. She was just going to the kitchen for a glass of sweet tea, a small break before she tackled the stubborn white highlights again. But as she passed their bedroom door, she heard it. A sound that didn't belong. A high, breathy giggle that wasn't hers.
It was her sister’s giggle. Kiera’s.
Déjà froze, her hand hovering over the light switch in the hall. The sound was like a shard of ice in her veins. Kiera was supposed to be in Jackson, finishing up her junior year at Millsaps. She wasn’t due home for another two weeks. Déjà’s mind, a painter’s mind, immediately tried to frame the scene, to find a logical composition. Kiera must have come home early as a surprise. Maybe she was on the phone, her laughter echoing in the empty house. But then she heard another sound. A low, familiar groan. Elijah’s groan.
The turpentine and magnolia-scented peace she’d been cultivating for five years evaporated, leaving behind a toxic vacuum. Her hand, trembling now, left a smear of yellow on the pristine white doorframe as she pushed it open.
The scene that hit her eyes was a masterpiece of betrayal, painted in the lurid glow of a single bedside lamp. Their bed, the one they’d bought together from a flea market in Natchez, the one they’d spent hours sanding and restaining, was a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. Elijah’s back was to her, the powerful muscles she knew so well, the ones that held her at night, flexing as he moved. His dark skin, usually a source of comfort and warmth, was now just the landscape of her ruin. And beneath him, her head thrown back against the pillows Elijah had meticulously fluffed for Déjà every morning, was Kiera. Her sister. Her baby sister, whose face was a mask of ecstasy that twisted into shock when her eyes landed on Déjà standing in the doorway.
For a beat, nobody moved. The world was a silent film. Déjà could see the details with horrifying clarity: the way Elijah’s hand gripped Kiera’s thigh, the same way he gripped Déjà’s when he was deep inside her. The small, heart-shaped birthmark on Kiera’s shoulder, a mark that Déjà had teased her about since they were children. The way the cheap gold chain Elijah was wearing—a gift from Déjà for their last anniversary—swayed between them, catching the light.
It was the sight of that chain that broke the spell.
A sound tore from Déjà’s throat, was a wounded animal’s cry. It wasn’t a word. It was pain.
Elijah froze, his body going rigid. He turned his head slowly, his face, when he saw her, a canvas of pure horror. The cool control he wore like a second skin evaporated, replaced by a naked, boyish panic. "Déjà," he breathed, his voice a ragged thing. "Baby, no—"
But she was already moving. The painter, the lover, the woman who built a world with this man, was gone. All that was left was a sister. A daughter of the Delta, whose blood ran hot and whose temper was legendary.
She launched herself at the bed, not at Elijah, but at Kiera. Her hands, usually stained with paint and gentle with a brush, became claws. She grabbed a fistful of Kiera’s weave, the expensive, silky stuff Déjà had helped her pay for last Christmas, and yanked. Kiera screamed, a high, thin sound of shock and pain as she was dragged sideways across the sheets.
"You!" Déjà’s voice was a raw, ragged shriek. "In my bed! In my fucking house!" Her fist connected with Kiera’s jaw, a sickening, solid thud that sent shockwaves up her own arm. She didn't feel it. All she felt was the fire, the righteous, burning fury of a bloodline betrayed.
"Dej, stop! Get off her!" Elijah was trying to pull her off, his hands on her arms, but she was a whirlwind. She twisted, her elbow catching him hard in the ribs. He grunted, his grip loosening for a second, and she used it. She shoved Kiera back against the headboard, her sister’s face a mess of shock and dawning fear.
"I trusted you!" Déjà screamed, her vision blurred by tears of rage. "I loved you! You were supposed to be my blood!"
Kiera was sobbing now, trying to cover her face. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Déjà!"
"Sorry?" The word was a laugh, bitter and broken. "Sorry don't fix this!"
Elijah finally managed to wrap his arms around her waist, lifting her off the bed. She kicked and thrashed, her bare feet connecting with the wooden bedframe. "Déjà, calm down! Calm down!" His voice was desperate, the voice of a man who knew he’d just detonated his entire world.
Calm down. The words were an insult. She stopped fighting, her body going limp for a moment, and Elijah, fool that he was, thought he’d won. He loosened his hold, and she used that split second to spin around in his arms. Her hand, still trembling with adrenaline, drew back and then swung forward with all the force her body could muster.
Her palm connected with his face. It wasn't a slap. It was a punch. A solid, satisfying crunch of knuckle against bone. His head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his eye.
"You don't get to tell me to calm down," she seethed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You don't get to touch me. You don't get to breathe my air."
He looked at her, his good eye wide with disbelief, a dark, purple bruise already beginning to form around the other. He saw it then. He saw the finality in her eyes. He saw that the woman he loved had just died in that doorway, and he was standing over her corpse.
She didn’t wait for another word. She didn’t look at Kiera, sobbing in their bed. She turned and walked out of the room. She didn't slam the door. She didn't scream again. She walked through the small house that was supposed to be their forever home, her steps steady and sure. She grabbed her keys from the hook by the door, her purse from the chair. She didn't pack a bag. There was nothing in that house she wanted anymore.
She walked out into the thick, humid Mississippi night, the chirping of the cicadas a deafening roar in her ears. The air was heavy, smelling of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. She got into her old beat-up Honda, the one Elijah had helped her fix last month, and she drove. She didn't know where she was going. She just drove away from the turpentine, away from the magnolias, away from the man with the whiskey eyes and the heart full of lies. She drove until the town was just a pair of distant, fading lights in her rearview mirror, and she didn't look back.
Present
The Mississippi heat in June was a living thing. It didn’t just warm you; it pressed down on your shoulders, seeped into your bones, and made the air feel thick enough to swim in. For three years, Déjà had let it press down on her from a distance. But today, as she turned her rented sedan onto the gravel drive of the Moore family home, the heat felt like a welcome, an old, familiar adversary. The air, heavy and sweet, carried the scent of her past: fried chicken crackling in hot oil, collard greens simmering with a ham hock, and the faint, promising sweetness of cornbread cooling on a windowsill. It was the scent of Sunday, of sanctuary. It was also the scent of a battlefield she’d sworn she’d never revisit.
The phone call had been a week ago. The name on her screen had sent a jolt through her, a Pavlovian response she thought she’d trained out of herself. Mama Moore. She’d let it ring twice, her thumb hovering over the decline button, before a wave of something stronger than her own pride, a residual love for the woman who’d been a second mother to her, made her answer.
“Déjà, baby.” Mrs. Moore’s voice was a warm, low hum, unchanged by the three years of silence between them. “How you doing?”
“I’m good, Mama Moore. Just working.” Déjà had kept her own voice neutral, polite.
A heavy sigh on the other end. “Listen, baby. I know things been… strained. But Elijah don’t own this family. He don’t own this Sunday dinner. We miss you. Pearline’s asking for you. We’re having a little cookout. Just family. We invited you.”
Déjà’s heart had hammered against her ribs. She knew what that meant. He would be there. Smoke. Elijah. The man whose face still haunted the edges of her dreams, sometimes in anger, sometimes in longing. She’d spent three years building a life in Jackson, a life of gallery shows, new friends, and a quiet apartment that smelled of fresh coffee and acrylic paint, not betrayal. Going back felt like chipping away at the foundation of her peace.
But then Mrs. Moore had said the magic words, the ones that bypassed all logic and self-preservation. “Baby, you are still my girl. You always will be.”
So she’d agreed. And now, here she was, parking her car between a dusty pickup truck and Elias’s ridiculously pristine, candy-apple red ‘72 Chevelle. She took a deep breath, the humid air filling her lungs, and got out.
The moment her feet touched the gravel, the back screen door flew open.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!”
It was Aunt Carol, a woman built like a linebacker with a laugh that could shake the rafters. Before Déjà could even formulate a greeting, she was engulfed in a hug that smelled of Chanel No. 5 and fried okra. More bodies poured from the house. Mrs. Moore, her face softening with a genuine, unadulterated joy that made Déjà’s chest ache. Granny Moore, her silver hair in neat cornrows, took Déjà’s face in her soft, wrinkled hands and kissed her forehead. They were a whirlwind of affection, pulling her toward the house, their voices a symphony of welcomes.
“Look at you, girl! Still too skinny! You need to eat!”
“Ooh, I love that dress on you! That color is everything!”
“Don’t just stand there, come on in the kitchen. I got some lemonade that’s so sweet it’ll make your teeth hurt.”
Déjà let herself be swept along, a smile plastered on her face that felt surprisingly real. In the kitchen, the chaos was beautiful. Pots bubbled on the stove, counters were covered in bowls and cutting boards, and the radio was playing a low, bluesy tune. This was the heart of the Moore home, the place she’d spent countless hours. This was where she’d learned to make Mrs. Moore’s famous mac and cheese, where she’d sat with a crying Pearline after a bad breakup, where she’d helped decorate for a dozen birthdays. When Elijah had thrown her away, she hadn’t just lost a boyfriend; she’d been exiled from this. This vibrant, messy, loving world.
They fussed over her, shoving a plate of still-warm cornbread into her hands and a glass of that deadly sweet lemonade. They asked about her job as a junior curator at a small but respected gallery in Jackson, about her paintings, about her life. They listened with an intensity that made her feel seen, cherished. And through it all, they pointedly, masterfully, ignored the one person who was supposed to be the center of it all.
Elijah was sitting at the massive oak table on the screened-in porch, a bottle of beer in front of him. He was a statue carved from shadow and cold fury. He’d always had a presence, a quiet authority that commanded a room without him ever having to raise his voice. Now, that presence was a black hole, sucking all the warmth and light toward him and leaving only ice in its wake. He was darker than she remembered, his jaw sharper, the faint lines around his deep brown eyes etched with a permanent scowl. The bruise she’d given him that night was long gone, but the memory of it hung between them, a ghost at the feast.
He watched her, his gaze a physical weight. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just watched, his eyes tracking her every move as she was pulled from one hug to the next.
“Déjà, baby, you remember my cousin Tyree? He just moved back from Atlanta,” Aunt Carol said, introducing a lanky man with a kind smile.
“Nice to meet you,” Déjà said, shaking his hand.
“Elijah, pass your cousin the salt, baby,” Mrs. Moore called from the stove, not even looking at him.
The salt shaker was right beside Déjà’s plate. She reached for it, but Elijah’s hand shot out, snatching it. He leaned across the table, his movements stiff, and handed it to Tyree. “Here,” he grunted, his voice a low growl, the smoke-and-whiskey tone she once loved now just gravel.
The small act of petty cruelty hung in the air. A hush fell over the women in the kitchen. Tyree looked confused, taking the salt with a mumbled thanks. Déjà didn’t flinch. She simply turned back to her conversation with Pearline, who was now filling her in on her latest drama, her calm indifference a weapon more powerful than any retaliation she could have mustered. She could feel the frustration rolling off Elijah in waves. He wanted her to shrink, to feel unwelcome, to be the one who was out of place. But she wasn’t. She was home. And that was driving him insane.
Throughout the afternoon, the slick comments kept coming, little darts thrown with the hope of drawing blood.
“Didn’t know you were still in touch with everybody,” he said when she was laughing with his grandma.
“Still painting those little pictures?” he asked, his tone dismissive, when his mama praised her latest gallery show.
Each time, she met his gaze with a placid smile, never giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. But with every comment, with every possessive glare he shot her way when another male relative paid her a compliment, a new understanding began to dawn on her, sharp and ugly.
He didn’t want her back. He didn’t miss her. He just didn’t want anyone else to have her. He didn’t want her to fit here, without him. He was like a child who throws away a favorite toy, only to get angry when another child picks it up to play with. The hypocrisy of it all settled in her chest, not as sadness, but as a cold, hard anger. He had cheated on her with her sister, in their bed, and destroyed their entire world. And now he had the audacity to be angry that the world he’d destroyed had continued to spin without him at its center.
It was then that she felt another gaze, one entirely different. From the far end of the porch, sprawled in a rocking chair that looked too delicate for his large frame, was Elias. Stack. The younger twin, the unfiltered, chaotic yin to Elijah’s controlled yang. He was a walking temptation, all raw energy and easy confidence. He wore a fitted white t-shirt that strained against his broad chest and a pair of black dickie pants that were artfully worn. He watched the entire tableau with an amused, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He saw everything. He saw the tension in Elijah’s face, the expertly hidden hurt in Déjà’s eyes that she thought no one could see, and the pathetic way his brother was trying to assert a dominance he no longer had any claim to. Their eyes met across the porch, over the heads of their family. Elias didn’t look away. He just took a slow sip of his beer, his smirk widening into a slow, knowing grin. It was a silent acknowledgment. I see you, his eyes said. I see him. And I see the game.
Later, as the sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and purple, Déjà found herself on the porch steps, peeling shrimp with Mrs. Moore. They were laughing about a memory from years ago, a story involving a failed attempt at making gumbo and a very confused fire department.
“I swear, that boy of mine has been a mess in the kitchen since you left,” Mrs. Moore said, her voice softening. “He burned the rice last week. How you burn rice?”
Déjà laughed, a genuine, light sound that felt foreign and good. “Some people just don’t have the touch, Mama Moore.”
The screen door creaked open, and Elijah stepped out onto the porch. He stopped when he saw them, his eyes landing on Déjà’s face, alight with a laughter he hadn’t put there. He saw the easy way she was sitting next to his mother, the way his mother looked at her with a love that hadn’t dimmed one bit. He saw her, in their space, fitting perfectly into the groove she’d left behind.
The irritation that had been simmering in him all day boiled over. It wasn’t just anger; it was a profound, gut-wrenching sense of loss. He had ruined this. He had thrown this woman, this beautiful, vibrant woman who loved his family as much as he did, away for a cheap, meaningless fling. And seeing her here, happy and whole without him, was a punishment more fitting than any she could have devised.
He turned away, walking to the opposite end of the porch and staring out into the sprawling yard, his back a rigid line of defeat. And from his chair, Elias watched his brother, then looked back at Déjà, a slow fire lighting up his eyes.
The sun had bled out, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple. The air, thick with the day's heat and the remnants of a feast, was now punctuated by the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the low, lazy hum of the porch light. The family had migrated from the yard to the long dining table inside, the space now filled with the clatter of plates and the low murmur of conversation that settled over a Moore family gathering like a comfortable blanket. Déjà found herself wedged between Pearline and Aunt Carol, a strategic placement that felt both protective and suffocating. She was part of the fold, but every nerve ending was attuned to the silent, brooding presence at the other end of the table.
Elijah hadn't spoken to her directly since his petty salt-shaker power play. He’d engaged with everyone else, his voice a low rumble of forced civility, but when he looked at her, his eyes were flat, devoid of any warmth. He was treating her like a ghost, a disruptive spirit in his sacred family space, and his family, in turn, was treating him like the intruder. The dynamic was a delicate, vicious dance, and Déjà was beginning to enjoy the music.
Granny Moore emerged from the kitchen with a triumphant smile, carrying a tray of her famous sweet potato pies. The crusts were a perfect golden brown, the filling a glossy, burnt-orange river that promised pure, unadulterated bliss. She placed a generous slice in front of everyone, saving Déjà for last.
“There you go, baby,” she said, setting the plate down with a wink. “I know how you love my pie. Made it extra sweet just for you.”
“Thank you, Granny,” Déjà said, her smile genuine. The old woman’s kindness was a balm, a reminder of everything good that had been tangled up with the bad.
Déjà picked up her fork, but as she went to cut into the pie, the flaky crust gave way under the pressure, and a perfect dollop of the molten filling oozed onto her thumb. It was an innocent mistake, a common occurrence with Granny’s pies. Before she could even reach for her napkin, a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and laced with disdain.
“Still eating with your hands, I see.”
It was Elijah. He wasn't looking at her, but at his own plate, as if the comment were a casual, throwaway observation. But it wasn't. It was a poisoned dart, dipped in the history of their relationship. It was an inside joke, one of a thousand. He used to tease her about her messy, enthusiastic way of eating, calling it his favorite thing about her, a sign of her unapologetic enjoyment of life. He’d kiss the sauce from the corner of her mouth, the chocolate from her lips, and call it his dessert. Now, he’d twisted it into an insult, a public indictment of her supposed lack of class.
A hush fell over the table. Pearline’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Mrs. Moore shot her son a look that could curdle milk.
Déjà didn't flinch. She didn't wipe her thumb on a napkin. She didn't blush with embarrassment. Instead, she slowly, deliberately, lifted her thumb to her lips. Her eyes locked with Elijah’s, her gaze unflinching. She held his stare as she stuck out her tongue and licked the sweet, spiced filling from her skin, the movement slow, sensual, and utterly deliberate. A soft, wet sound in the sudden silence.
She lowered her hand, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Some things are just too good to waste, Elijah,” she said, her voice clear and calm.
The use of his full name was the final twist of the knife. Elijah was for the world, for business, for authority. Eli was for her. Elijah was a formal distance she was now enforcing.
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. His eyes, for the first time all day, flashed with something other than cold fury. It was fury, the kind that came from being publicly checkmated. He had no response. He had been disarmed, and he knew it.
Déjà held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned away, dismissing him completely. She turned her body, her attention, her entire energy, toward the man sitting on Elijah’s other side.
Elias.
He’d been watching the entire exchange, his fork paused midway to his own mouth. Now, as Déjà’s focus landed on him, a slow grin spread across his face. He didn't even try to hide his amusement. He was enjoying the show immensely.
“So, Stack,” Déjà began, her voice lighter now, infused with a new purpose. “Pearline was telling me you finally got that garage up and running. How’s that going?”
Elias leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders relaxing. He was all loose-limbed confidence, the opposite of his brother’s rigid tension. “It’s going, for real. Got a ’69 Chevelle in there right now, trying to bring her back from the dead. It’s a money pit, but what else is new?”
He launched into a story about the engine, about sourcing a rare carburetor, his hands gesturing expressively as he spoke. Déjà laughed at all the right places, her head tilting back, the sound a little louder than it had been before. She leaned in, her elbow on the table, her chin propped in her hand, hanging on his every word. She was giving him a performance, and he was a receptive audience.
“…and the dude who sold it to me swore the transmission was solid,” Elias was saying, his voice a low, engaging rumble. “Lying-ass nigga. I had to drop the whole damn thing.”
As he laughed, a deep, throaty sound, Déjà reached for her napkin. It had slid just off the edge of the table, near his leg. Her hand, moving with a dancer’s grace, brushed against his thigh. It was no accident. The touch was light, fleeting, but it was electric. She felt the hard muscle of his leg through the thin fabric of his pants, and she let her fingers linger for a fraction of a second too long before pulling back with the napkin.
Elias’s voice faltered for just a moment. His eyes, dark and glittering, met hers. The amusement was gone, replaced by something hotter, more intense. He saw exactly what she was doing. And he was all in.
“Damn, Dej,” he said, his voice dropping a register, turning it into something private meant only for her. “You ever come by the garage, I’ll show you how to handle a carburetor. Hands-on and everything.”
The double entendre hung in the air between them, thick and promising. Déjà felt a thrill go through her, a dangerous, heady rush. This was power. Not the quiet, possessive control Elijah used to wield over her, but a sharp, glittering, weaponized power of her own making.
Later, as the plates were being cleared and the conversation shifted to football, Elijah pushed his chair back with a scrape. “I’m getting more tea,” he muttered, standing up and stalking toward the kitchen.
Elias watched him go, then caught Déjà’s eye. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod before getting up himself. “I’ll help.”
The kitchen was the only room in the house that wasn’t laughing.
Through the door, Déjà’s laugh drifted through the kitchen, Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
It hit Elijah like a knife every damn time.
The scent of sweet tea and lemon pound cake hung heavy in the air. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, doing little to stir the thick, humid atmosphere. Somebody’s auntie had left gospel music playing low from a speaker on the counter, a mournful, hopeful sound that only seemed to mock the tension coiled in Elijah’s gut.
It should’ve felt like home.
Instead, Elijah felt trapped.
He stood at the refrigerator with his back to the door, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. He could feel the weight of his family’s judgment, the warmth of their affection for Déjà, a physical force pushing him out, making him an intruder in his own childhood home.
The second he heard the door swing shut behind him, he knew who it was. He didn’t have to turn around. He could feel his brother’s energy, a chaotic, unfiltered counterpoint to his own rigid fury.
“Elias.”
His voice came out rough.
Warning.
Not greeting.
“Don’t.”
Elias snorted, a sound of disbelief.
“Shit.”
The refrigerator door opened, flooding a corner of the room with cold, white light. Ice rattled in a dispenser. A pitcher scraped against glass as it was lifted from the shelf.
“You ain’t even asked what I’m doing yet,” Elias said, his voice deceptively calm.
“I know what you’re doing,” Elijah seethed, the words barely contained.
Elias poured himself a glass of tea.
Slow.
Patient.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Like he wasn’t standing in the middle of a minefield of his brother’s making.
“No,” he said quietly, setting the pitcher down with a soft click. “You know what I’m doing with her.”
The room went still. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken history. Elijah finally turned, his movements sharp and aggressive. Their eyes met. For a second, they looked exactly alike—the same broad shoulders, the same dark skin, the same Moore features carved by their father’s genes. Then Elias’s mouth twisted, a bitter, knowing smirk.
Because they weren’t alike at all.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than Elijah intended, laced with a raw, ugly possessiveness that he couldn’t disguise. And judging by the look on Elias’s face, he heard it too.
For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Elias laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because he genuinely couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Me?” He pointed a thumb at his own chest, his grin widening. “Me?”
“Elias—”
“Nigga, you cheated.”
The room became quiet.
Heavy.
Elijah’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. His eyes darkened, a storm gathering. “That ain’t what this is about.”
“The fuck it ain’t.” Elias’s voice rose, the casual facade dropping away to reveal the anger beneath. He slammed the pitcher down on the counter, the sound cracking like a whip. “You wanna know why I’m pissed?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He took a step forward, his presence filling the small space. “What kills me is that you’re standing here acting like somebody stole something from you. Like somebody took something that belonged to you.” Another step. “But ain’t nobody took shit.”
Elijah’s shoulders squared, a defensive posture Elias knew all too well. “Elias.”
“No.” For the first time all evening, real anger cracked through Stack’s voice. Not playful. Not teasing. Anger. “You wanna know why I’m really doing this? Because she still shows up. After everything. After what you did. She still calls Mama on birthdays. She still checks on Grandma. She still remembers Pearline’s graduation. She still sends Christmas cards.” Every sentence hit harder, every word a hammer blow to the wall Elijah had built around his guilt. “She loved this family, Eli. She loved us.”
Elias shook his head, his expression a mixture of disbelief and disgust, and he took another step closer, invading his brother’s space completely. “And your dumb ass threw that away. For her sister. For what? For a few cheap fucks? And now you’re sitting in here acting all possessive and pissed off, like you have any right to be mad that she’s breathing the same air as us. You don’t. You lost that right.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, venomous whisper that was somehow more cutting than his shout. “Look at me, Eli. I’m the last nigga on earth who should be giving this speech. I fuck. I bounce. I leave women’s numbers on napkins and don’t think twice. I’ve had more ass than a public toilet seat, and I plan on having more. But I’m not blind. I’m not stupid. I know a good woman when I see one. And Déjà… that wasn’t just a good woman. That was the kind of woman you build a whole universe around. The kind that makes a man want to be better than he is. The kind that looks at this loud, messy, all-up-in-your-business family and doesn’t run. She digs in. She loves harder. She stays. You don’t find that. You don’t just get that. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime hand, and you folded it like a fucking coward.”
“You know nothing,” Elijah seethed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Stay away from her.”
“Or what?” Elias challenged, stepping into his brother’s space until they were chest to chest. They were identical, but in that moment, they were miles apart. Elijah was all cold fury and wounded pride; Elias was a blaze of righteous anger. “You gonna fight me? You gonna try and tell me what to do? You had a queen, Elijah. A queen. And you traded her for a damn jester. Don’t you dare stand there and get mad at me for admiring the crown you so willingly threw on the floor.”
Elijah looked away, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself. Elias saw it. Saw the hesitation. The guilt. The truth. His laugh this time was bitter.
“There it is,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, cruel whisper. “I think that’s what really got you fucked up. You thought she’d always be waiting. You thought no matter what happened… she’d still belong to you.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Because Elijah couldn’t immediately deny it.
And that told them both everything.
“Yeah,” Elias said, a slow, sad nod. “Thought so.” He pointed toward the dining room, toward the sound of her laughing with Grandma. “That’s why you mad. Not because she came. Not because she’s sitting at the table. Because she looks happy. Because she isn’t hurting loudly enough for your comfort. Because she’s moving on, she moved on. And you hate it.” He leaned in closer, his voice almost a caress, which made it hurt more. “You don’t miss having her. You miss knowing she wanted you.”
The words almost made Eljah bend over in pain.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But Elias caught it.
And his face hardened.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
The room fell silent. Only the hum of the refrigerator remained. Only the distant sound of laughter outside. Only the ghost of everything Elijah had destroyed. Finally, very quietly, Elijah spoke again, his voice a broken plea. “Stay away from her.”
Elias stared at him, his eyes cold. He grabbed the two glasses of tea. He stared his brother down, his eyes burning with a fury that was as much for Elijah’s stupidity as it was for the hurt he had caused.
“She ain’t yours no more,” Elias said, his voice dropping back to a low, dangerous rumble, a final, absolute sentence. “Not your woman. Not your problem. Not your future.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then delivered the killing blow. “You had your chance.” He turned toward the doorway, then stopped. Without looking back, he said, “And if somebody else sees her worth now? That’s your punishment. Not mine.”
Then he walked out, leaving Elijah standing alone in the suffocating silence, the weight of his brother’s words—and the terrible, undeniable truth in them—crushing him.
The night settled over the Moore house like a shroud. The laughter died down to a low murmur, the clatter of plates replaced by the gentle hum of crickets and the distant drone of a lone cicada. Dinner was over. The energy had shifted from boisterous reunion to the quiet, heavy pull of an ending. Déjà found herself on the porch swing, a thin wool blanket draped over her legs, sipping the last of her lemonade. Beside her, Granny Moore dozed in her rocking chair, her head tilted to the side, her breathing soft and even.
Elijah had disappeared. One minute, he was a brooding statue on the porch; the next he was simply gone. Déjà had felt his absence like a change in barometric pressure, the storm finally breaking and leaving behind a strange, hollow calm. He hadn’t said goodbye. He hadn’t looked at her. He had just retreated into the house, defeated, a wounded animal crawling back to its den to lick its wounds.
It was over. She had done it. She had faced him, faced them, and she hadn’t broken. She had walked through the fire and come out the other side, not singed, but forged. A part of her felt a surge of triumph, a clean, sharp victory. But another part, a quieter, more honest part, felt the profound exhaustion of a long-fought war. She was tired.
“Alright, baby,” Granny Moore murmured, her eyes fluttering open. “Time for this old lady to get to bed before she turns into a pumpkin.” She patted Déjà’s knee, her hand frail but warm. “You drive safe now, you hear? Call me when you get home.”
“I will, Granny,” Déjà promised, leaning over to kiss the soft, wrinkled cheek.
She said her goodbyes, a round of hugs, and whispered promises to visit again soon. Mrs. Moore held her a little too long, her embrace a silent apology for her son’s behavior. “He’ll come around to his senses one day,” she whispered into Déjà’s hair.
Déjà didn’t answer. She just hugged her back, knowing that some senses were lost forever.
She stood on the front lawn, the cool grass damp beneath her sandals, and looked at her rented sedan. It was a sensible, boring car, a silver Toyota that smelled of air freshener and anonymity. The thought of driving it through the dark, winding Delta roads, alone with her thoughts, was suddenly unbearable. The adrenaline of the evening was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. She hated driving at night, a fear Elijah used to tease her about, always taking the keys without a second thought.
“Need a ride?”
The voice was a low, familiar rumble, cutting through her hesitation. She turned to see Elias leaning against the fender of his Chevelle, his arms crossed over his chest. The car was a beast, gleaming under the porch light, a testament to his patience and skill. He looked like part of it, all sharp lines and raw power.
“I have a rental,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
He pushed off the car, a slow, easy movement. “I know. But it’s late. And you look tired.” He wasn’t asking. He was stating a fact, offering a solution. “Come on. Let me take you to your hotel.”
She hesitated for only a second. It was a terrible idea. A dangerous one. But she was so damn tired of being sensible. She nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion.
The ride was thick with unspoken tension. The engine was a deep, throaty purr that vibrated through the leather seats and into her bones. The radio was on, a low, oldie station that filled the silence but didn’t break it. He didn’t talk. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his fingers tapping out a silent rhythm. He drove with an easy confidence, taking the winding roads with a practiced skill that was both thrilling and comforting.
Déjà stared out the window, watching the dark, silhouetted trees rush past. The moon was high and full, casting a silver sheen on the swamps and fields. It was beautiful, but it was a lonely beauty. She could feel Elias’s presence beside her, a solid, magnetic force. He wasn’t looking at her, but she could feel his awareness of her, a palpable energy that filled the small space of the car.
He didn’t drive toward the small, chain hotel on the edge of town where she was staying. Instead, he turned off the main road, following a winding path that led up a small hill. He pulled the Chevelle into an empty parking lot at the edge of a local park, the place teenagers went to make out and escape the prying eyes of the town. Across the lake, the lights of the small city spread out like a carpet of scattered jewels.
He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was absolute. He didn’t turn to her right away. He just stared out the windshield, giving her space, letting the moment settle.
“He’s a fool,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the car itself. “Always has been.”
He wasn’t just talking about the dinner. He was talking about three years ago. About all of it.
Déjà let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “He is.”
He turned to her then, his face half-shadowed, his eyes glittering in the dim light from the dashboard. “You know why you’re here, right?”
The question was direct. No games. No pretense. He was calling her out, not with judgment, but with a shared, understanding clarity.
Déjà met his gaze, her own heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t try to deny it. She didn’t try to play coy. “I’m tired of being the bigger person,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to be the storm for once.”
A slow grin spread across his face. It wasn’t a smirk. It was a look of appreciation. “Well,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl. “It’s about to rain.”
And then he was on her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was a collision. He leaned across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, and he kissed her. It was a kiss of teeth and tongue, of years of unresolved anger and betrayal. It was raw and desperate and hungry. He tasted of moonshine and weed, and something wild and untamed. She kissed him back with equal force, her hands fisting in the front of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about tenderness. It was about catharsis. It was about claiming and being claimed.
The windows began to steam up, blurring the city lights outside until they were just hazy, indistinct smears of color. The air inside the car grew thick and hot, smelling of his cologne, the rich scent of leather, and the sharp, electric tang of their shared desire.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. His eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. “You gonna make him feel this?” he asked, his voice a rough, velvet rasp.
Déjà’s lips were swollen, her pulse racing. “Every time he looks at me.”
“Good.” A feral grin. “Show me what he threw away.”
His words were a lit match to gasoline. She didn’t need to be told twice. She climbed over the console, straddling his lap, the awkwardness of the position forgotten in the surge of adrenaline. The center console dug into her thigh, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was the hard, solid feel of him beneath her, the way his hands immediately came to rest on her hips, gripping her.
He was vocal, and she loved it. “Damn, Dej,” he groaned as she grinded against him, the friction sending shocks to her core.
His hands were everywhere, sliding up her back, tangling in her hair, gripping her ass. He was worshiping her with his touch, praising her with his body. “He’s a fool,” he breathed against her neck, his teeth scraping her sensitive skin. “A goddamn fool.”
She fumbled with the button of his pants, her fingers trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. The sound of his belt buckle coming undone was loud in the confines of the car, a sharp, metallic click that signaled a point of no return. He lifted his hips, helping her push his jeans down just enough.
The act itself was raw, a little desperate, but powerful. It was Déjà taking back control, using her body as a weapon, a balm, a celebration. She was riding him, her back arched, her head thrown back, the city lights painting her skin in a kaleidoscope of colors. She wasn’t thinking about Elijah, not consciously. But in the back of her mind, she knew. This was for him. Every roll of her hips, every gasp that escaped her lips, every time she cried out Elias’s name, it was a message. A final, brutal, beautiful fuck you.
Elias was an eager, more-than-willing participant in her revenge, but he was also genuinely into her, seeing the woman his brother was too stupid to keep. He met her thrust for thrust, his hands guiding her, his mouth praising her, his eyes never leaving hers. He saw the fire in her, the strength, the resilience, and it turned him on in a way he hadn’t expected.
As she rode Elias’s dick, every moan, every time he gripped her tighter, she thought about the night Elijah had her sister in their bed, her walking in on them fucking, and with every thought she fucked Elias harder. The image of Elijah’s back, the muscles she knew so well flexing over her sister, flashed behind her eyelids. She dug her nails into Elias’s shoulders, the sharp sting grounding her, and she slammed her hips down, taking him deeper, a punishing rhythm that was as much for her as it was for the ghost watching from the shadows of her memory. Elias groaned, his head falling back against the seat, his hands gripping her ass so tight it would leave bruises. "Fuck, Déjà," he gritted out, his voice strained with pleasure. "Just like that." She heard Kiera’s giggle, that high, breathy sound, and she clenched around Elias, her body a vice, a silent scream. She leaned forward, her mouth against his ear, her breath hot and ragged. "You feel that?" she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thing. "That's what he threw away." And she rode him harder, faster, chasing a release that wasn't just pleasure, but obliteration.
“Take it,” he urged, his voice strained. “Take what you need.”
And she did. She took everything he was giving her, and in doing so, she took back a piece of herself she thought she’d lost forever. She was the storm. And the storm was glorious.
The second time was slower, but no less punishing.
It wasn’t the frantic, desperate clash from the night before. This was a deliberate, drawn-out reclaiming. The morning sun was just beginning to bleed through the cheap blinds of Elias’s bedroom, painting the room in stripes of hazy gold. The air was thick with the scent of their exertion, sweat, and something deeper, more primal. Déjà was on her stomach, her face turned to the side, her cheek pressed into a pillow that smelled of him. Elias was behind her, his weight a solid, grounding presence, one hand braced on the headboard, the other gripping her hip as he moved inside her with a deep, rhythmic stroke that stole the air from her lungs.
Each thrust was a statement. Each ragged breath a confirmation. He wasn’t just fucking her; he was erasing his brother. With every roll of his hips, he was rewriting the narrative, carving his own name into a story Elijah had tried to burn to the ground. She pushed back against him, meeting him, taking everything he gave, her own release building not as a peak of pleasure, but as a tidal wave of catharsis. When she came, it was a silent, shuddering thing, a full-body tremor that left her boneless and spent.
He collapsed against her, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his breathing harsh and uneven. For a long moment, they just lay there, a tangle of limbs in the harsh morning light. Then he shifted, pressing a soft, surprisingly tender kiss to the damp skin of her back before rolling off her.
Déjà lay there, tangled in sheets that smelled like him—leather, weed, and something uniquely Elias. The sun was brutal now, its rays cutting through the blinds to spotlight the dust motes dancing in the air. Her body ached in a satisfying, visceral way, a pleasant soreness between her thighs, a dull throb in her muscles. For a moment, there was peace. A quiet, settled peace she hadn’t felt in three years. The storm had passed, and in its wake was a strange, beautiful calm.
His arm around her waist tightened instinctively. The peace was shattered, replaced by a jolt of adrenaline. This wasn't just revenge anymore. Revenge was a fire you set and walked away from. This... this felt like she’d been standing too close to the flames and now her clothes were smoldering. She had meant to use him, to be the storm, but the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d praised her body like he was discovering a new continent—it had felt too real. She hadn't just slept with his brother; she'd let him see the hurt his brother caused.
Moments later, the bedroom door creaked open.
The sound was small, insignificant, but it landed in the room like a thunderclap. Déjà didn’t have to look. She could feel him. The air in the room changed, growing heavy, charged with the kind of history that suffocates.
Elijah was standing there, framed in the doorway. He was in the same clothes from last night, his t-shirt wrinkled, his jeans stained with the dust and dew of a night spent outside, or in his car, or wherever he went to lick his wounds. His face was a ruin. The cool, composed mask he wore like a second skin was completely gone, shattered into a million pieces. All she saw was the man she’d loved, the man she’d built a world with, looking at her like she’d just reached into his chest and carved out his heart with a rusty spoon.
His eyes were hollow, sunken, ringed with the dark circles of a sleepless night. They tracked from her face, down the tangled sheets, to the tattooed arm slung possessively over her bare hip. The sound he made was something between a sob and a snarl, an animal’s cry of agony and disbelief. It was the sound of a man breaking.
Déjà froze, the peace of moments before turning to ash in her mouth. She felt Elias stir behind her, his body waking slowly. He blinked, his eyes focusing, and then he saw him. He saw his twin brother standing in the doorway, his face a mask of devastation.
And a lazy smirk spread across Elias’s face.
He didn’t move to cover her. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he tightened his grip on Déjà, pulling her flush against his naked body, a blatant, unapologetic act of ownership. He pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to her shoulder, his eyes never leaving Elijah’s.
Elijah’s voice was a broken whisper, a ghost of a sound. “How could you?”
Elias chuckled, a low, dark rumble that vibrated through Déjà’s back. He nuzzled her neck, his voice a loud, clear mockery meant only for his brother. “Nah, nigga. He paused, letting the silence hang, thick and suffocating. He lifted his head, looked his twin dead in the eye, and delivered the killing blow.
“You acting like I took something from you.”
A pause.
“Can’t steal what a man already threw away.”
The finality of that line hung in the air. It was a complete reversal of their history. It was the ultimate insult, the most profound violation of their bond. In this moment, Déjà was the main event, the one worth keeping, the one worth waking up to. And Elijah was nothing more than the pathetic, lingering memory, the cheap prelude to the main act. It was messy, cruel, and irrevocably shattered their world.
@blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist
MASTERLIST
𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐒
I do not support or excuse his behaviour/ideologies, I only wrote for the character Roman Reigns.
▪︎ MAIN MASTERLIST ▪︎
FORBIDDEN — Part One & Part Two
Roman Reigns x Cody Rhodes x Fem!Reader
I MISSED YOU — One shot
x Fem!Reader
ACKNOWLEDGE HIM — Request
x Fem!Reader
TOUCHING MYSELF — Request
Roman Reigns' POV
BIRTHDAY GIRL — One shot
x Fem!Reader
DADDY'S BACK — One shot
x Fem!Reader
WET DREAM — One shot (kinda)
x Fem!Reader
ORGASM CONTROL — Kinktober 2025
Any wrestler x Fem!Reader
BREEDING — Kinktober 2025
x Fem!Reader
HATE SEX — Kinktober 2025
Roman Reigns x Seth Rollins (Rolleigns)
OOPS... WHERE DID MY PANTIES GO? — One shot
Fem!Reader's POV
BIG (GIRL) ENERGY — Request/Birthday gift
x Plus size Fem!Reader
GAGNANT (WINNER) — One shot
x Fem!Reader
I NEED YOU NOW —One shot
x Fem!Reader
mirror
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 love runs deep, but sometimes the pain runs deeper. and sometimes....it's irreparable. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 six thousand, five hundred, and some change (6k+) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 graphic and dividers by me. 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝mirror❞ by justin timberlake 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 be sure to have read part one, never be the same and part two, say something, before reading this.
⠀ ꨄ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ꨄ
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™⠀
Previously
“I lied because I love you!”
“And that’s the problem!” He shouts, either too deeply embedded into his own feelings to notice the way Solana jumps at his volume or perhaps, in this rare moment, he’s just uncaring. “That’s always been the fucking problem.” Roman punches his hand into his open fist to accompany each perfectly enunciated, sharp word, further emphasizing his frustration. “We’ve been stuck in this goddamn cycle for over twenty years now, and at this point, I don’t know how we break it.” But the frustration collapses with the slump of his shoulders and dip of his lips into a deep frown. “Or if it’s already broke us.”
Gail immediately refocuses on Solana, unsurprised to see her body language mimics that of her husband with the additive of the silent tears that stream down her face. Shoulders also slumped, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to verbalize what Gail knows must crush her to say aloud.
“Feels pretty broken to me.”
The silence is deafening.
Lita casts a quick glance between the two of them, leaned forward as she lowers her voice.
“Okay, there’s a lot—”
“I can’t do this right now,” Roman murmurs. Two set of eyes flick in his direction as he stands, turning in the opposite direction of Solana who remains seated, eyes shut, the tears continuing to fall.
“Roman—“
The last minute attempt to convince him to stay is a failed one. The door shutting behind him with a softness that contrasts everything that just occurred and remains in the small room that suddenly feels overwhelming with an influx of emotions.
“He’s done,” Solana whispers. Gail starts to move to reach and place her hand over Solana’s, but the other woman shakes her head. A one shoulder shrug and the saddest smile that’s ever graced someone’s face. “We’re done.”
“I’m getting really worried.”
Leya’s whispered confession draws the focus of her siblings. Her eyes remain down on her lap, on the intricate design of the pillow that she has hugged against her chest. It’s a sort of therapeutic technique she learned a long time ago. When she was younger and her OCD was the worst it’s ever been. Brie would instruct her to hold a pillow close to her chest, holding and squeezing it while taking deep breaths, pretending that the combination and eventual release of her breath and the tension in her body represented the “bad thoughts” being released.
It was helpful. Very helpful in some cases.
But right now, it’s not doing much.
“He’s still not back home,” Nic adds, frown deepening. His eyes flick around the room, his jaw shifting in the same way their dad's does when he's in the midst of thought, working and mulling over scenarios in real time while still maintaining verbal communication. “And he and mom are talking less and less.”
“Not even that,” Aria speaks up, looking among her brothers and sisters. Like once before, she sits only a few inches away from Leya. A symbolic seating of sorts considering they are two of the few siblings who still live at home. All for obvious reasons, whether it be them still being minors or situations like Leya where it just makes since given her having RJ. But their residing in the home also means that they've been granted a front row seat to the tension that's marred their family home over the past few weeks. “You could….you could tell they were upset with each other before, but now…now they don’t even seem angry anymore. They just seem….sad.”
It’s a shared sentiment among the older of the Reigns kids. Even Aroha, on the verge of her twelfth birthday, has pressed her siblings for questions regarding their parents obvious conflict. Both Aria and Leya have done their best to answer without answering, but Aroha isn't the baby of the family anymore with a limited ability to understand what's going on. She knows that something is very wrong, and there's only so many different ways they can dodge the obvious before she becomes aware of how dire the situation is.
Soon enough, Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ will be the only ones spared from the glaring realization that something is definitely, deeply wrong.
The kids were hoping that the joint therapy session Aria saw on her dad’s calendar when updating his phone for him would be the thing that did it. That helped their parents get through or over this hurdle that they’ve seemingly encountered.
But the evening of said session, Solana returned home alone. Roman didn't walk into the front door until they were setting the table for dinner, and Koa and Kai were feeding the pets.
And once all the younger kids were down for bed, Leya checked the camera app on her phone to see her dad climb into one of the family's many cars, start it up, and drive off.
She must have stared at the empty spot where the car once sat for a good ten minutes. At least until the image was blurred and distorted by the tears that were burning her eyes.
The displeasure of having a front row seat from the moment this all began, when her mom marched into the home carrying with her an energy that would change everything, has meant that Leya has, in many ways, been affected the most by it all. Lost in the chaos of a storm that has no visible end in sight and leaves in its wake destruction that's gradually starting to feel irreparable with each passing day of no reconciliation in sight.
For her and all of the rest of her siblings outside of the OG's 2.0, it’s been the most fucking uncomfortable thing ever. When the rough patch hit years prior, there were at least attempts to feign and maintain the role of a happy couple. Their efforts were not without the holes that the older kids were able to spot plain as day, but the fact that their parents at least tried to pretend that everything was fine, for the sake of not wanting to worry their kids, meant something.
But this isn't then.
Their parents aren’t even trying to force or fake shit. They’re just….there.
“I briefly overheard them talking last night—”
“Really?” It’s the most hopeful Leya has felt and sounded since they all arrived at Lina’s place, needing the space to speak and talk freely without Aroha or their parents overhearing. “What—what did they say?”
Koa shakes his head. His foot taps against the floor, his fingers also moving in rhythmic patterns against his knee. “I couldn’t make out all of it, but something about waiting until after Aroha’s birthday—”
“Waiting for what?”
Kai fixes his gaze on Lina. “He just said he couldn’t make it out.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Guys,” Tama’s deep voice cuts through what’s sure to be a part two from the last time they gathered together, except this time, he’s not about to let things get as far as they did before. He wasn't for it then, and he damn sure isn't for it now. Things were just bad then, but they're significantly worse now, and that's saying something. “Stop it. Now.”
“What if it’s happening this time?” Leya whispers. To herself. Maybe her siblings. She’s not sure. She just knows the sensation of her eyes burning is followed up with a wet feeling against her cheeks. “What if…what if they’re getting a divorced?”
“No way.” Nic's rebuff is quick and sharp. His voice drops an octave, deepening in the way almost all of the boys' voices do when they're irritated or uncomfortable. Again, just like their dad. “No one loves each other more than mom and dad.”
“Certainly doesn’t feel that way anymore.”
“Koa!”
“What?” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been over two weeks, and things aren’t getting any better. They’re only getting worse.”
“I can’t believe he had a stroke and didn’t tell mommy,” Lina voices what she’s been wondering since her sister broke the shocking, alarming news. “They tell each other everything.”
“Not this,” Kai mutters.
Tama starts to check his younger brother once more but opts to try to keep the conversation focused and on topic. “He probably didn’t want to worry her—”
“He’s done a great job with that.”
“Sissy,” Leya sighs. Lina looks at her twin, the solemn expression on a face that’s hers but also not making her shoulders drop. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just—” She swallows, eyes growing watery. “This can’t be happening. Mommy and daddy are soulmates. They can’t—they can’t get divorced.” She looks around the room, a sense of helplessness that’s foreign and suffocating. “They still love each other. I know they do.”
Lina has always been the problem solver of her siblings. Tama as well, but the final say has always been run past her. It’s always been her gift in life. A gift she inherited from her father. Underneath an often rough, tough exterior is a problem solving brain that is typically the source of countless, possible solutions.
But she sits among her brothers and sisters, stunned and damned to the silence that represents failure.
She can’t solve this.
Doesn’t know how.
Her words, however, trigger something within Aria. She lifts her head, slowly, mouthing something to herself. It’s faint and low but heard and noticed by Leya who looks at her with glossy eyes.
“What is it?”
The question manages to temporarily relieve the rest of kids from the depressing realization that the life they’ve always known, loved, and appreciated might be on the path of change.
And not the good type.
Samaria licks her lips, looking around the room, her gaze settling on Tama and Lina.
“I think I have an idea.”
————
The sound of the front door slamming and the soles of her foot slapping against the wooden floor serve as blurred background noise. Everything outside of racing thoughts, most of which were intrusive in nature, have clouded up her headspace. Ever since her phone lit up as she was in the midst of vacuuming out the OG's 2.0 playroom and saw a text from her eldest son. Simple in nature. Heavy in meaning.
We need you.
Solana was out the door in under twenty minutes. The short distance from the Reigns estate and the home of her eldest two children has never felt so far away as she sped through traffic, uncaring of any laws being broken in the process.
All she could think about was the fact that it was rare for her son to send such a short, non-descriptive message. Even more, especially since he moved out, Tama has always preferred to talk over text. At least with her.
So Solana knew that something had to be very wrong, hence the urgency that guided her movements and relentless efforts to make it to her babies.
Except the minute she rounds the entryway and heads for the living room, calls for her son and daughter left unanswered, worry is swapped for something else.
Shock.
Emerging from the kitchen, most likely through the backdoor entrance off said kitchen, Solana stands across from the man she's barely spoken more than ten words to over the past several days.
Roman.
His expression, she's certain, mirrors hers. He eyes her skeptically before his mouth settles into a line and her own mouth parts once and then twice before she manages to speak.
"What—what are you doing here?"
Though the minute it comes out, she immediately both regrets and answers her own question. If Tama reached out to her because something is wrong, of course he'd reach out to his dad as well.
Roman must realize this, too, as his answer never comes, or rather it's intercepted by the sound of footsteps as she turns around to see several of her oldest children. Tama is included in said group, but the expression on his face, on all of their faces, doesn't indicate a level or urgency.
It indicates….anxiety.
Like they're nervous about something.
Roman finally breaks his silence, voicing what Solana is thinking. "What's going on?"
Lina steps forward, her siblings eyes fixed onto her as she motions with her arm to the living room. "Please. Sit." She leans to the side just enough to ensure locking eyes with her father. "Daddy, you too."
And just like that, the concern about what had happened shifts to what's about to happen. Solana, however, would like to believe that her kids wouldn't have called both herself and Roman over here for nothing. So instead of pushing back the way she wants to, she silently walks into the living room, placing her purse on the space beside her.
Roman follows suit, sitting across the way, of course.
Though she understands it and prefers it, she also hates it. As upset and angry and hurt and everything else as she is towards and with her husband, it hasn't dulled the wound in her chest that's been birthed and only grown day after day since this all went down.
"Kids." Solana turns to see Roman is focused on their children who've also joined them in the living room, lined up almost in front of the television. Lina. Leya. Tama. Aria. Nic. "I'm not gon' ask again."
As much as Solana dislikes the almost irritated tone he's taken with them, the question is valid. Though she has a feeling she's not going to like the answer any more than he will.
Tama takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. "Look, we know….we know you guys aren't in a good place right now."
Solana shuts her eyes. Her suspicions have now turned into confirmations.
"Tam—"
"And we know that you've always told us to stay out of it," Lina cuts in, the only one in the group other than Tama, that would have the balls to interrupt Roman like that. "That your marriage is none of our business and between the two of you."
Solana licks her lips, gradually willing her eyes open. "Lin—"
"But whatever is happening between you guys right now is affecting all of us," Nic's additive does nothing more than increase that weight on Solana's chest. She's not stupid. As much as she would like to believe she and Roman have done their best to not allow their situation to impact the kids, that's just not a feasible nor realistic expectation. With the exception of Aubrey and Tavita, Solana knows her children well enough to know they inherited their father's discernment.
They can see what doesn't need to be stated.
Aria takes another deep breath as she takes over for her brother." We know something is wrong, and we love you both too much to sit back and do nothing."
Solana doesn't need to be looking at her husband to see the way his jaw shifts and moves as he works to find the right, best words. “Samaria—”
“Please,” Leya cuts in, stepping forward, lips pressed together as her parents focus on her. “For…for us.”
It’s a bit of a cruel string to pull. A manipulation tactic if not for who it was to evoke it.
The only thing that neither Solana nor Roman can ever say no to.
When it comes to their kids, it’s always a yes.
It’s why, despite them sitting on opposite sofas—Solana on the one facing the TV and Roman on the one adjacent to the TV—they're on the same page for a first time in a long time.
Aria is the one to walk over to them, breaking from her brothers and sisters. “We know that we’re obviously biased since we’re your kids. Not to mention it’s not really our place, but we thought....” She stops, looking over at someone else to take over as she grabs the remote, setting up the television, the emotion in her voice indicative of her struggle. “We thought maybe if you hear it from someone other than us, it’ll help you remember.”
Solana shifts on the sofa, hating the way she struggles to maintain her volume. Indication and reminders of her immense difficulty over the past two weeks in trying to keep it all together. “Remember what?”
Lina is the one to handle the question, the final one, as the kids start to spill out the room.
“That you’re RoSo.”
The term makes both husband and wife still. But whatever is felt from hearing something that carries so much history and weight is redirected when music starts to play. A song she recognizes almost instantly.
Aren't you somethin' to admire?
'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror
And I can't help but notice
You reflect in this heart of mine
The dark screen lights up, cursive black font set against a white backdrop.
RoSo
Solana’s hand drops to her stomach at the transition to Dwayne and Matteo, clearly at the Warehouse, in the midst of a workout. The music remains playing in the background at a lower volume to accommodate the sounds of the interviewees.
“Uncle Dwayne. Uncle Teo.” Tama’s voice is loud and clear, confirming he’s the one filming the two men who stand with light sheen of sweat splayed across their forehead, hands on their waist. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”
Dwayne chuckles, looking at Matteo. “You wanna go first, Fabio?”
Matteo casts a wry smile and glances at the camera. “That’s easy.” He shrugs. “Love.”
Roman’s jaw clenches.
“Fucker stole my answer,” Dwayne curses, also looking at the camera. “But like he said, love. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, either.”
The clips switches as a smiling Afia and Bayley stand next to each other. Like the men, dressed in workout/training attire and clearly at the Warehouse but caught right before the beginning of their sparring session.
“Tias.” It’s Lina’s voice this time as she presents the same question as her brother. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”
Bayley scoffs. “Douche, but that only applies to the first half.”
Afia lightly slaps Bayley on the arm, shaking her head before taking a soft breath. Her pretty eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly in the way she does when in deep thought. “Soulmates.”
“As much as I hate to say anything remotely good about your irritating ass dad, she’s right.” Bayley feigns an over-dramatic sigh before her mouth settles into a small, genuine smile. “Soulmates for sure.”
'Cause I don't wanna lose you now
I'm lookin' right at the other half of me
The vacancy that sat in my heart
Is a space that now you hold
Another transition to another clip that reveals Cameron, Melina, and Mickie, also at the Warehouse, which instantly has Solana convinced that the kids must have asked everyone to meet them there.
That faction of Solana’s friend group only attends the Warehouse for fight nights and major matches, primarily when Roman is fighting, and even then, they’re more there for her than for the actual fights.
And just like the last two times, the same question is presented, but the timbre of Nic’s deep voice is heard instead of Lina’s much lighter, softer one. Mickie is the first to answer in the way that only Mickie would.
“Hot.”
Nic’s exasperated sigh makes Solana smile. “Aunt Mickie.”
Cameron, however, quickly jumps in with her own answer accompanied by a soft smile. “Inspiring.”
Melina casts her a sideways glance, playfully nudging her. “You make them sound like motivational speakers.”
She shrugs, pushing her braids back over her shoulder. “I mean, Solana kind of is.”
It’s hard for Solana to pinpoint exactly what part of what she’s watching affects and impacts her the most. The words. The participants. The effort her children have clearly put in to make all this happen, and in such a short period of time, it seems. Each compliment, however, seems to do something to her. Lessens just a little bit the weight she’s carried with her nonstop the past two weeks.
But she's tuned back in, resisting the desire to look over at Roman who’s also watched quietly thus far, as Mickie makes a ‘pfft’ sound. “Roman isn’t.” She rolls her eyes, lifting her hand to examine her nails. “He’s the meanest person I know.”
“Mickey,” Melina mutters, gesturing to the camera. “That’s his dad.”
“Oh my God, it’s not a secret. Literally everyone knows Roman is mean.” She throws her hands up, looking away, gasping. “Here. You.”
Confusion dwells as the footage becomes shaky before the camera refocuses on an unfamiliar face, but he wears a solid black shirt with a familiar, red insignia on the right side, just above his pectoral muscles.
Bloodline.
However, Solana’s guess would be he’s not of the…..field type. Perhaps something related to tech. Slim build, greasy hair, some strings clinging to his forehead, and the way he pushes his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose as well as the overall startled expression all but confirm it.
There are numerous positions available throughout the Bloodline, and despite popular misconception, not all of them require the ability to maim and kill. There are many other roles that need fulfilling, some of which include sitting behind a desk.
This man is clearly a desk type.
“What’s your name?” Mickie asks but immediately waves away as if physically pushing her initial query to the side in place of what’s most relevant. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Isn’t Roman Reigns an asshole?”
“Mickie!”
Another smile appears on Solana’s face as the nervous expression on the man’s swiftly morphs into something of horror. His widened eyes and dilated pupils magnified 10x over.
“The—the Tribal Chief?” His eyes switch to the camera, slightly above the frame, which Solana would guess is him realizing just who is holding said camera. He gulps. “No. N—no. The—the Tribal Chief is a great man—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” A quiet laugh actually spills over when Mickie literally shoves the man away, prompting outcry from Cameron and Melina. “See, even strangers are afraid of him. Why?” She mouths she word, sound absent but lips easily readable. “Asshole.”
“Ignore her.” Solana watches Melina shake her head when Nic refocuses the camera on her, and even before she can fix her mouth to say it, Solana just knows. Can tell by the gleam in her eyes what the answer is.
“Amor.”
Love.
Additional clips interviewing closest family and friends continue to flash across the screen, but Solana feels frozen in place and time from that word. A word that so deeply encompasses so much of her life. Of her relationship.
Carved into her, metaphorically and physically. The latter of the two further emphasized when she realizes her hand is placed against her chest, fingers covering the black and red ink near her clavicle.
Her tattoo.
The one she got for Roman.
For them.
She swallows, emotion continuing to build as the lyrics burn into her soul.
Show me how to fight for now
And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy
Comin' back here to you once I figured it out
You were right here all along.
Except the emotion only extrapolates when unexpected participants fill up the flat screen TV.
Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ are sitting at the table she recognizes from being the one in their shared playroom. Naturally, all three are wiggly, but only Aubrey is smiling happily. RJ and Tavita instead carry pouts and scowls that remind her so much of….of Roman.
Roman
“Okay, guys—”
Koa’s voice is cut off by a whining, pouting Aubrey as she reaches up with her arms. Tavita and RJ present a question Solana can’t entirely make out. “Can you hold me?”
A heavy sigh makes her chuckle as she wipes at her eyes. Koa offers, in the nicest voice he can, she’s certain, a delayed acceptance. “After, Aubrey.”
Kai’s irritated voice sounds from elsewhere, most likely behind Koa, with his arms crossed and frustration written all over his face. Neither of her twin boys have ever been very good with….little kids. “Why does she always want to be held?”
“I don’t think she knows how to use her legs.”
“Leave her alone. She’s only three.” Aria snaps, and it causes the tears to spill over at a faster, heavier rate. All the kids. All of her kids partook in this, the older ones handling the filming with her younger kids partaking in the answering portion. Hence why she would guess this interviewing of the OG’s 2.0 would be the last set. “And would you two shut up? I don’t want to have to edit this out.”
“Guys.” Kai cuts in, forever the one to keep everyone focused. “Do you know what RoSo is?”
It’s a shared answer with a loud “yeah!” coming from all three.
“Who is RoSo?”
Again, another joint answer, naturally, RJ’s answer differing from that of his technical aunt and uncle.
“Mommy and daddy!”
“Grandpa and abuela!”
Solana sniffles, smiling at the kids’ enthusiastic replies, Aubrey clapping happily. And for the first time since the start of the video, Solana’s eyes drift over to the other side of the room where Roman sits on the edge of the sofa. Leaned over, his hands fisted together over his mouth, brows furrowed and and focused on the screen with the same level of intensity and intrigue that’s sat with her from the moment the video started.
It makes her heart swell.
“That’s right.” Aria giggles and gasps dramatically. “And how do you feel about RoSo?” A beat. “Do you guys love RoSo?”
That final question, however is what really evokes the biggest smile, laughs, and glee from the children with a loud, unanimous “yes!”
The timing is synced perfectly, it seems, as the final refrain begins and all of the clips fill the screen, one by one, sounds muted to allow the music to play louder and without interruption. But it’s when the post-chorus begins that Solana nearly loses it.
“Oh my God.”
Clips of herself and Roman.
From their wedding in Mexico shortly before the girls were born. Solana smiling and holding onto his arm.
Several from their vow renewal ceremonies over the year.
Her dancing playfully as he spins her around and tugs her against him, craning his head down to kiss her shoulder, her own over his forearm. Smiling.
Them in the pool, him holding her as she smiles down and kisses him. Right before he squeezes her ass under the water, prompting her to gasp and swat at his shoulder.
Of her in the kitchen cooking and him sneaking up to hug her from behind. Her hand over her chest, smile on her face and head tilted back to cradle the back of his head as he kisses her.
Roman sitting at the table talking to the kids, giving them one of his many lectures, hand gestures and all. Solana behind him, nodding and playfully mimicking his non-verbals. The amused smile on Leya’s face giving her away as Roman turns to look at her. Her expression immediately dropping, eyes widening with faux innocence. Lighthearted mockery veiled by her quickly kissing his temple and darting away.
Them on the beach, her giggling and attempting to run only for his long legs to easily allow him to catch her. Though the original audio is muted to allow for Timberlake's volalization, Solana can hear her laughter through the screen as he picks her up and spins her back around.
Hospital footage from several of the kids’ births. Roman sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, holding their baby, her peering over his shoulder.
Him holding her against him as she leaned her forehead into his chest, squeezing his arms while he swayed gently with her to ease the pain and discomfort from her contractions.
Her standing between his open legs, comb in hand as she parted his hair while saying something to the kids only to jump when his hands lifted to her waist, clearly squeezing playfully. The smile on her face as she looked down and captured a kiss before gently tugging at his beard before resuming.
Roman's head back, lips slightly parted as she was curled into him, hand on his chest. On the family's private jet, clearly on the way home from one of their vacations. Both of their eyes shut as they stole a rare moment of the peace and quiet needed for a quick nap.
So many clips.
So many stolen moments, some of which, she hadn't even realized her kids captured on video.
So many memories.
By the time, it’s finished, Solana can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t anything. She’s overwhelmed and filled with an abundance of unnamed entities that have her heart heavy, her stomach tight, and her hand over her chest. It’s a trick of the mind, she’s certain, but she can almost feel the thud of her heart against her shaky palm. Her eyes burn and jaw trembles. It’s only as the sight ahead of her becomes blurry and the weight travels down to her legs that she has to move.
Has to find escape, her legs carrying her out of the living room and to the back of the townhouse, through the kitchen and out the back sliding door.
Her vision remains disrupted, big gasps of breath taken to inhale as much of the fresh air as she can handle, but it’s a shaky process. Her inability to regulate her breathing fueled by the sob making its way up the back of her throat. She continues to walk, feet carrying her into the patch of grass the outlines the patio and recently uncovered pool.
The same grass that cushions her knees when she falls to the ground, one hand over stomach, the other covering her mouth as the sob finally breaks through the surface. She’s doubled over, emotions overflowing and manifesting in the way she wails loudly. Intermittent gasps and sharp intakes of breaths as crying battles with the crippling somatic sensations that feel an awful like the early stages of a panic attack.
It most likely is one, too.
It’d be the third one she’s had over the past week.
But new sensations, different yet familiar, gradually seep in and manage to de-escalate. A gentle touch, fingers grazing against her arms. A gentle tug that has her back against against something firm but soothing as the hands shift to where solid, strong arms circle her waist. Solana’s hands naturally fall on Roman’s forearms that secure and lock her to him.
It makes her stomach twist tighter and tears fall harder.
Neither stop her, however, from uttering the first real, authentic words to him since their disastrous therapy session. Any interactions and conversations since then have been forced, fake, and inauthentic.
There’s nothing inauthentic about the heartbroken words that she manages to force out in between gut wrenching crying. “I’m sor—I’m sor—”
“Sol—”
“We’ve—we’ve built a life t—together.” It’s a life she never envisioned for herself. Before Roman, Solana didn’t see herself making it to thirty. But because of him, she’d had her first set of kids by thirty. “I can’t lose—that. I can’t lose you.”
Despite the tightness in her chest and the way her eyes burn from how much she’s cried over the past few two weeks, she manages to channel enough strength to turn to look at him.
It’s like looking at herself. A different side of herself. Harder, stronger, firmer. A pillar. The other and best parts of her in so many ways.
His glossed eyes burn into her, hand lifting to palm her cheek. “Solana—”
“You’re my best friend.” She sniffles, shaking her head as his thumb brushes away her tears. “I don’t know how to do life without you, Roman, and the fact that one day, a day that's sooner rather than farther, is a reality that I will have to face terrifies me. I don’t—" Another deep, sharp intake of breath that makes her chest tighten and shoulders slump once more. "I should have told you about the pregnancy."
"Sol—"
"I hated—hated lying to you. I—I shouldn't have, but I—I thought if I could—if I could spare you from feeling that pain, then—then I was going to do that for you. All you've ever done is protect me, and I—I wanted to be the one to protect you for once. "But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter anymore. It was selfish of her to keep such a thing from Roman. Yes, just as she stated, she wanted nothing more than to protect her husband the way he'd always protected her. Intentions, however, matter not in the face of the outcome and reality. She was wrong, and there's no way around that. Plain and simple.
She bites down on her bottom lip, realizing that this is the moment to lay it all out. Good, bad, whatever it may be, Roman is more than deserving of the truth. He always was.
"For almost twenty years, there wasn't a single day where I wasn't haunted by the —the memories of my rape or—or my mother's murder, and sometimes—sometime both." Solana manages a shaky breath, powering through it all. "I couldn't help it. Couldn't control it. But that…that I could. I—I know you don't believe me, but I hadn't thought about it in years, Roman." She lifts her eyes to his once more, having to push back the next wave of tears just beyond the horizon. "When—when we got pregnant with Nicky, when we had him, I pushed it so far to the back of my mind that it wasn't until we were arguing—"
And just like in the days following both the discovery and the loss, an immense weight on her chest and in her heart. That weighs her down and makes her desperate to reach for something. For someone. Because there wasn't a day that passed that Solana didn't want to tell Roman, didn't want to share the truth as to why they couldn't be intimate. What'd happened. What they'd lost.
But she didn't. And that is a mistake she will have to carry with her for the rest of her life. A mistake that she'll regret for the rest of her life.
Looking at him once more, seeing the emotion dancing in his eyes, a rare display and reflection of vulnerability that's never felt stronger, Solana is overcome once more.
“I love you.”
A combination and accumulation of everything that’s transpired over the past two weeks. Emotions that have deprived her of peace, stripped her of calm and layered her with the weight of loss.
Solana’s children have always been her greatest source of joy, but the fact of the matter is that she has them because of him. Because of Roman.
And as frustrated and upset as she’s been with him, that she was, the bulk of her emotions hasn’t been anger.
It’s been hurt.
A type of pain that she hasn’t experienced in years. Old wounds gradually and torturously ripped open that, prior to this, she was sure she’d healed from. A level of unhealthy codependency.
She would never ever do anything to hurt herself. Would never do that to her kids, nor does she have any desire to not be alive.
But….
There’a sick, twisted feeling that’s sat with her since that session. Since Roman more or less, and maybe she did, too, confirm that their marriage is over. A feeling she hasn't experienced since before he entered her life. Before he turned her existence into living. And just the thought of that living not including him in any sort of capacity….it's something she can't bear.
She can’t. It's why her initial approach to the deeper reason as to why she reacted so strongly to learning of his stroke was traded in for another heavy truth that needed to be addressed. Upsetting to discuss, of course, but not nearly debilitating as that truth.
"I know…" She closes her eyes, hand over his that's still on and hasn't left her face. Same with his intense stare and the presence of his body before her as they remain on the ground, unmoving and frozen in space and time. "I know you're upset with me, and—and that you don't want to see me, s—"
"Solana."
It's not like it's the first attempt he's made to speak in the midst of her verbal catharsis, but something about the pleading undertone of his deep voice penetrates through her dense wall of contrition, regret, and remorse. She blinks away the next set of tears, incapable of ignoring the wave of relief that stems from him looking at her, touching her even, in a way he hasn't in weeks. His regard and disposition towards her, as well as hers towards him, have been nothing short of frigid. But the warmth felt from his touch, seen in his face, and heard in his voice almost instantly melts away the icebergs that formed perimeters around her heart.
And perhaps maybe his.
One hand dips to her waist as Solana realizes at some point in the midst of her sentiment fueled soliloquy, he'd angled them so that her body was facing his. The press of his fingers into her skin as he gently tugged her close made something thud in her chest. A precursor for what would follow following his next statement.
His eyes narrow, gleaming with intensity and adoration she hadn't realized she'd been craving and yearning for so deeply. The absence of his affection has been a sort of torture she hadn't realized she was gradually succumbing to in the midst of their impasse. "All I see is you." Her lips part as a shaky exhale is lost in the midst of her anguish and relief at words that carry more weight than anyone outside of herself and the man in front of her could ever know or understand. "You said you can't lose me, right?" The faintest, smallest hint of a smile weighed down by reciprocated sentiment is preceded by the way he shakes his head in a small, subtle motion. "Well, that makes two of us, cause I can’t be without you, either.”
The combination of the words, the emotions, and the echoing of her own vulnerable confession, is what forces the next wave to the surface. And Solana will never deny that there's a continued theme of selfishness as she throws her body against his, allowing him to hold and cradle the back of her head as she sobs into his chest. Recognizes that there's certainly some level of relief he also feels at this devastating rough patch of theirs finding some sort of path to resolution in comparison to the alternative that was dangerously close to being the final decision. But it, if she had to guess, doesn't outweigh what weight is pulled from off her as he once again reiterates his love for her.
"Tell—tell me—" she hiccups, grasping at his shirt once more. "Tell me what to do to fix this. I'll do—I'll do anything, Roman. Just….just tell me what you need me to do." And she means it. Whatever frustration and anger still lingers towards his concealment of the stroke is heavily outweighed by her desire to heal. To fix.
Whatever it takes.
"We need to get away," he finally answers and pulls back to look down at her. She continues to hold onto his shirt, as if release means releasing him as well. Never. Roman lifts his hand to stroke the top of her head. "This weekend. Leya and Rashad can watch Aubrey and Tavita." Solana nods, her willingness to blindly accept not even allowing her to consider who would watch their youngest set of kids. But of course, Roman is already several steps ahead. He's always been the one to plan and arrange so she doesn't have to. Always done everything he can to make her life as easy as possible.
But ease doesn't exist in her world without him.
She can't imagine a world without him.
"And we'll talk," he continues. Her eyes flutter shut once more when he lies his forehead against hers, minty breath fanning her face. "Okay?"
In perhaps most settings, the promise to "talk" would ignite a massive wave of anxiety. But for Solana, it's exactly what she needs to hear. Exactly what they need to do. Should have done a long time ago. Such a simple but powerful necessity to maintain and sustain a marriage. A marriage she's not willing to give up on. She won't.
She can't.
Whatever it takes.
Nodding in acknowledgement, she can't stop herself from moving her arms around him, holding him as another round of tears accompany her heartfelt, "I love you."
Her eyes clench shut once more as he drops his hand to the small of her back, voice tight and thick. "I love you, too, Solana. I always have, and I always will."
