Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.
Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.
He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.
Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again. Burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.
He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.
Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)
Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...
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Annie guided the rental car slowly down the winding gravel road, watching as the wild, familiar landscape unfolded around her like an old love letter—creased at the corners, worn with time, but still humming with truth. After years of Chicago’s sharp wind and steel-gray skies, Mississippi felt like a fever dream she’d been trying to forget.
She rolled the window down. The air was thick with magnolia, turned soil, and the faintest burn of distant woodsmoke. Summer here always carried the weight of something sacred and forgotten. Cicadas buzzed a low lullaby through the trees, and Spanish moss hung like secrets from the branches.
The past was stitched into everything. The way the breeze moved through the fields, the angle of the sunlight as it dipped behind the old church steeple in the distance. This place didn’t change. It waited.
Her mother’s house stood stubbornly on the edge of the fields. Its porch sagging, paint peeling, the garden unruly and overgrown. Honeysuckle and jasmine curled up the columns like offerings, scenting the air with wild sweetness.
And just beyond the clothesline and the crooked birdbath sat the old greenhouse—her grandmother’s pride, her mother’s joy, and Annie’s first taste of magic. Once, it had been a wonderland of heirloom tomatoes, hot peppers, and lemon verbena, the windows fogged with life and labor. Now, it was a glass skeleton swallowed by ivy and time. One panel was cracked, another missing, and vines crept through the seams like nature reclaiming what was hers.
Even in its ruin, it stood like a memory refusing to be forgotten.
She hadn’t been home in nearly nine years.
Annie stepped out of the car, adjusting her wrap blouse and brushing the travel from her thighs. She was tall, solid, striking—a woman who took up space with quiet grace. Her brown skin glistened in the heat, and her dark curls, loosened by the humidity, tumbled freely around her shoulders.
The screen door creaked open.
Her mother’s voice carried out like a memory. She stood in the doorway, frail but radiant in her own way—wrapped in a floral housecoat and a pink scarf tied neatly at her nape.
Annie swallowed the sudden emotion rising in her chest. “Hey, Mama.”
They held each other on the porch for a long moment, their bodies pressed together in the kind of embrace that says everything words can’t. Her mother smelled like lavender, cooking oil, and love.
“You smell like city,” her mother murmured, pulling back with a soft smile. “But your heart still beats Delta.”
Annie laughed, eyes misty. “Something like that.”
Inside, the house hadn’t changed. The wood floors creaked the same way, the photos on the walls—sun-faded and reverent—watched her pass like quiet witnesses. A fan turned lazily in the corner, and gospel music played faintly from the old radio.
Her mother moved slower now. “I’m fixin’ your favorite tonight,” she said, reaching into the fridge with a frown. “But I forgot the buttermilk. You mind runnin’ into town?”
Her mother smiled. “I want this meal to welcome you proper. Cornbread and catfish, greens and all.”
She lingered, her eyes drifting through the kitchen window toward the back of the property. Beyond the tangle of overgrown grass and wilting wildflowers stood the greenhouse—leaning slightly now, but still there. Stubborn. Waiting.
She stepped out onto the porch, the boards groaning under her weight. Heat shimmered across the yard. And with it came the pull of memory.
She remembered the way the crickets hushed as they crept through the backyard, their bodies close, movements careful, the house behind them dark and still. Her parents were fast asleep, the old box fan in their window humming loud enough to cover the sound of the creaking porch.
“Elijah,” she had whispered, pausing in the dew-kissed grass.
“You sure they won’t wake up?” he whispered back.
Annie turned, grinning, barefoot. “Not unless you knock over Mama’s canning jars again.”
“I was thirteen,” he muttered, mock offended.
She rolled her eyes, and he followed her like he always did.
The greenhouse door had groaned on its hinges when she pulled it open. Inside, the air turned warm and wet, filled with the sharp green scent of tomato vines and damp soil. Moonlight spilled through the foggy panels, casting a ghostly glow across the rows of plants. The place was overgrown, wild with summer—grapevines tangled overhead, basil thick at their ankles.
“Feels like a jungle,” he murmured.
“It is,” she’d said, tugging him deeper inside. “A jungle we built.”
They had spent whole summers in that greenhouse, helping her grandmother weed and plant, falling asleep on burlap sacks, eating strawberries straight from the vine. It had been their hideout. Their secret. Their sanctuary.
Annie had sat down on an overturned crate, the hem of her nightgown catching on a nail. Elijah sat beside her, knees touching. Close—too close. His scent mingled with the smell of night: soap, soil, and something citrus just beneath it.
“I still think about that day,” he’d said, voice low. “When you kissed me in here.”
Her breath caught. She had been fifteen. He, just a few months older. It was midsummer, sticky, and loud with cicadas. She had leaned in, sunburned and barefoot, pressing her mouth to his before either of them really knew how to do it. He tasted like watermelon and nerves.
They had laughed. And kissed again.
“I remember,” she whispered now, alone in the yard.
The greenhouse stood still, a skeleton of memory wrapped in ivy. Annie swallowed thickly, fingers brushing the wooden frame. She didn’t open the door. Some things were too sacred—or too dangerous—to disturb just yet.
With one last look, she turned back toward the car. The keys jingled in her hand. She had buttermilk to buy. And no idea that Bo Chow’s Market held more than groceries. It held the beginning of everything she thought she’d left behind.
Bo Chow’s smelled like hot grease, bleach, and forgotten secrets. The kind of scent that clung to linoleum floors and lived in the cracks of old ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a yellowish tint over jars of pickled okra, canned peaches, and family-sized boxes of instant grits. The air was cool, but not fresh—more like recycled and reheated across decades.
Annie pushed open the front door, greeted by the metallic chime of a bell that rang like an old church warning. She stepped inside and was instantly swallowed by the hush of small-town routine. A red plastic basket swung from her arm as she walked, heels clicking softly across tile floors worn smooth by generations of tired feet.
She moved quickly, head down, aiming for the dairy case.
She didn’t want to linger. Not here. Not now.
Low. Warm. Smooth like molasses poured over whiskey.“Bo, you barely can handle this place since Grace went to visit her people. She only been gone three days.”
Annie stopped mid-step. The chill from the freezer case crawled up her spine and wrapped around her neck like cold hands.
Every muscle in her body tensed.
Time folded in on itself. Her fingers gripped the basket like it was an anchor. Her breath caught in her throat—shallow, sharp, and instinctive.
She didn’t need to see him to know it was him.
The way he dragged out vowels like he had all the time in the world. That same sleepy southern rhythm that used to whisper down her skin at midnight.
She ducked into the cereal aisle, heart hammering. A box of Honey Smacks nearly toppled from the shelf as she backed up too fast.
And slammed into someone.
“Damn! Girl, you always been clumsy.”
Annie spun around. “Pearline?”
Pearline stood there with one hand on her hip and the other gripping a can of green beans, her face a perfect mix of amusement and mild judgment. “I knew I was gon’ run into somebody today, but I ain’t think it’d be you.”
Pearline leaned in, eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t even bother lyin’. You heard him, didn’t you?”
Annie nodded, barely breathing. “Yeah.”
“Well, sugar, you too late now. Look.”
Pearline tilted her chin toward the counter.
Annie followed her gaze—and the breath left her lungs.
Elijah stood at the register, framed by the buzz of the lights above and the dusty glass doors behind him. He looked older. Sharper. Not the boy who used to sneak through her bedroom window smelling like night rain and bourbon. No, this was a man now. Solid. Weathered. Still dangerous.
He wore a black tee that clung to his chest and forearms like a second skin. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and his boots were scuffed and worn, like they’d seen too many miles of regret. His dark brown skin caught the fluorescent glare, highlighting the strength in his jawline, the fullness of his beard. That mustache he used to trim with a razor’s edge was thicker now—more defiant.
But it was the eyes that undid her.
Still deep. Still unreadable. Still pulling at something under her ribs.
Her skin flushed under the weight of his stare. The blouse she wore suddenly felt too thin, her denim skirt too snug. She was exposed. Unraveled. Every part of her remembered him. And she could feel it—he remembered too.
Her voice cracked like old wood.
His eyes softened for a breath. “Annie.”
Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like something sacred. Or maybe something buried.
She didn’t move toward him. Didn’t dare. The floor between them was heavy with everything they never said.
Then the front door blew open with a gust of hot Delta wind.
“There he is!” Stack burst in like a Sunday sermon—loud, smiling, and just a little too proud. “Come on, man, liquor drop comin’ in hot!”
He stopped dead when he saw her. His grin widened.
“Well hot damn. Look what the Delta blew in.”
Annie was bracing herself when his arms swept her up into a quick hug. “Stack,” she murmured, a half-laugh catching in her throat. The kind that masked the shake in her hands.
“You look like a cool drink on a hard day,” Stack said, eyes twinkling. “Where you been hidin’ that smile?”
“Trying to stay outta trouble.”
“Well, you came to the wrong place for that, baby girl.”
Her eyes flicked past him, to Elijah. Still watching. Still quiet.
“You oughta come by the lounge tonight,” Stack said, still holding her hand. “Me and Smoke got The Cypress lookin’ right. New lights, cold drinks, and our cousin Sammie singin’ like he just got kissed by God himself.”
“Sure do. Boy done grew outta his onesie and into a voice that’ll make your knees buckle.”
Pearline laughed behind her. “He ain’t lyin’. That boy good.”
“You should come see,” Stack said, brushing a thumb gently across Annie’s wrist. “Come for the music. Or the hush puppies. Or… you know—unfinished business.”
Annie stiffened. Her gaze flicked to Elijah. He didn’t look away.
“I promised my mama dinner tonight,” she said finally, her voice cool again. Measured. “Can’t break a promise.”
The air between her and Elijah changed.
His jaw ticked once. Hands slid into his pockets like he was holding himself back.
“Then we’ll let you be,” Stacks said, throwing a look at his brother. “We don’t want Mama Jean mad at us.”
Elijah nodded slowly. “Good to see you, Annie.”But the way he said it wasn’t polite. It was personal. Intimate. Like he meant it all the way down.
She held his gaze. “You too.”
And then they were gone.The bell over the door jingled once, then nothing.
Silence wrapped around her again, pressing heavy on her chest.
Pearline stepped close, resting a hand on her elbow. “You okay?”
Annie’s eyes lingered on the door like it might open again. Maybe it wasn’t too late for all the things they never said, but was Annie ready to unpack her resentment.
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