Summary: After eight years, Smoke finally listens to what Annie has to say⊠through a mixtape of her own. What begins as stubborn curiosity becomes a night of memories, revelations, and one undeniable truth: some people never stop being home.
A/N: Thank you @waitingtobreatheagain for the subtitle. đ€
W/C: 11k+
Smoke left Aunt Cherylâs without a second glance backwards.
The gravel crunched beneath the truck tires as he pulled onto the road, the familiar stretch of Mississippi highway unfolding beneath a sky slowly bleeding gold into orange. His knuckles ached every time he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, a steady reminder of the punch heâd thrown and the argument that had come before it. The pain should have made him feel foolish.
Instead, it mostly made him feel tired.
The entire afternoon weighed on him. Annieâs tears. Her yelling. The way sheâd looked at him like he had personally ruined eight years of her life. How she stood in the middle of Aunt Cherylâs yard and told him sheâd spent all those years waiting for him to fight for her.
Then Stackâs voice showed up right behind the memory.
You punched him because she grabbed that suitcase again.
Smoke swore under his breath.
Unfortunately, his brother hadnât stopped there.
The first person she reached for wasnât you.
That part irritated him most because Stack had said it with the confidence of somebody who already knew the answer. Smoke had wanted to tell him he was wrong, and say Isoo got punched because he shouldâve kept his fucking mouth shut. He wanted to tell him it had nothing to do with Annie. The problem was every time he replayed the moment in his head, he arrived at the same conclusion Stack already had.
The punch was never about Isoo.
His jaw tightened.
The road curved gently ahead. Smoke followed it automatically, barely paying attention to where he was going. Heâd driven these roads his entire life. He couldâve found his way home blindfolded. His eyes drifted toward the passenger seat. The mixtape sat there. Quiet. Innocent. Like it hadnât caused a damn thing. Annieâs handwriting stretched across the cover exactly the way it always had. Uneven in places. Slanted slightly to the right. Familiar enough that he recognized it before heâd even registered what he was holding.
Two weeks.
Thatâs what she said. Two weeks making the fucking thing. Choosing songs while thinking about him. The thought annoyed him, confused him. Then irritated him again because confusion felt entirely too close to hope.
His phone vibrated against the center console. Smoke glanced at the screen and sighed. He knew where this conversation was headed.
LEWIS JONES.
For a moment he considered letting it ring. Then he answered. âUncle Lewis.â
âYou done?â
The corner of Smokeâs mouth twitched despite himself. âDone what?â
âActinâ stupid.â
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Small. Brief. Then it was gone.Â
âDepends.â
âOn?â
âHow bad do his face look?â
The answer came without hesitation. âBad enough.â
Smoke nodded once. âAight.â
Silence stretched between them. One of the things Smoke appreciated most about Uncle Lewis was the manâs refusal to fill every empty space with noise. Most people got nervous when conversations slowed down. They rushed to fill the gaps with questions, opinions, or advice nobody asked for.
Lewis never did.Â
The older man let the silence breathe before speaking again. âYou know everybody saw through that shit, right?â
Smoke looked out the windshield. âSaw through what?â
âYou ainât punch that boy âcause he butted in.â
There it was. Smoke shouldâve known. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and watched a pair of headlights pass in the opposite direction.
âYou ainât even know that boy was there half the afternoon.â
Smoke huffed quietly. âThat ainât true.â
âWho you lyinâ to?âÂ
The question came so quickly Smoke almost laughed.
âYou been mad for a long time.â
The words sank in a little deeper. Lewis wasnât talking about the cookout anymore. Smoke knew it. Lewis knew it. Hell, everybody who loved him knew it.
The older man sighed softly through the phone. âYou ever get tired?â
Smoke frowned. âOf what?â
âBeing mad.â
The question caught him off guard, because it wasnât complicated. For a while all he heard was the hum of tires against pavement and the low growl of the engine beneath him. Eventually he shrugged. âI guess.â
Lewis made a low sound. The kind that meant he wasnât buying the answer. âYou know how many arguments me and Cheryl survived because one of us was too stubborn to shut up?â
A smile tugged briefly at Smokeâs mouth. âToo many.â
âExactly.â A pause followed. Then Lewis added quietly, âYou know how many we survived because one of us was too stubborn to talk?â
The smile disappeared. Smokeâs eyes turned to the passenger seat again. To the mixtape and Annieâs handwriting. He looked back at the road. Neither man spoke. The silence stretched longer this time. Thoughtful and heavy at the same time.
âYou know what I keep thinkinâ about?â Lewis asked eventually.
Smoke already knew. Stillâ âNo, sir?â
âThat girl flew all the way back to Mississippi.â
Smoke swallowed.
Lewis continued. âThree states.â
The truck rolled forward through the fading evening light.
âThree states and two weeks makinâ some CD.â
Smoke let the words sit with him.
âYou think folks do that for somebody they donât love?â
The question sat heavy between them. The answer coming fast. No. Of course not. But saying it out loud felt dangerous somehow. So he didnât.
Lewis didnât push either. He never had to, but he still continuedâ âYou ainât gotta forgive her tonight.â
The road stretched empty before him. Fields on one side. Trees on the other. Home getting closer with every mile.
âBut donât spend another eight years punishinâ yourself.â
Something about the way Lewis said it made Smokeâs chest tighten unexpectedly. Yourself. The distinction mattered more than Smoke wanted to admit. Because if he was honest, truly honest, the years hadnât only hurt Annie. Theyâd hurt him too. More than heâd ever admit.
The truck grew quiet again. The sky darkened another shade.
Eventually Lewis cleared his throat. âYou headed home?â
âYes sir.â
âGood.â
Smoke waited.
Lewis chuckled. âGo home.â
âThatâs yoâ advice?â
âYep.â
Smoke rolled his eyes. âYou called me for that?â
Uncle Lewis chuckled. âI taught you construction. Might as well teach you common sense too.â
Despite himself, Smoke laughed. âYes sir.â
The word left before he thought about it. A habit nearly as old as he was. For a minute he considered ending the call. Instead, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.Â
âThank you.â
The line went quiet. Then Lewis answered simply. âWelcome, son.â
There was a tightening in Smokeâs chest. It wasnât that Uncle Lewis had never called him âsonâ before. He had. A handful of times over the years. Usually when Smoke showed up to help with a project around the house or worked alongside him on a jobsite. Small moments. Easy moments. The kind that never seemed important until later. But hearing it now felt different. Maybe because there hadnât been many men in Smokeâs life who earned the right to say it.
His father certainly hadnât. Most of Smokeâs memories of his own father involved whiskey on his breath, anger in his voice, and the sound of boots crossing a porch that made two little boys tense before he even opened the door.
Uncle Lewis had been the opposite. Patient where his father had been cruel. Steady where his father had been unpredictable. The man who taught him how to frame a wall, read a tape measure, show up on time, and finish what he started. Uncle Lewis handed him his first construction job and expected him to work for every dollar of it. He was who Smoke thought about whenever people talked about good fathers.
His throat felt tight suddenly. âYes sir,â he said again.
For a while neither of them spoke. Then, like always, Lewis broke the tension before it could become something either of them had to acknowledge.
âGet home safe.â
âI will.â
âAnd Smoke?â
âYeah?â
Uncle Lewis paused. âListen to that damn CD.â
The line went dead before Smoke could answer. For the rest of the drive, Uncle Lewisâs words followed him home. Not about Isoo or even the part about Annie. It was Uncle Lewisâ question that stayed with him.
You ever get tired?
At the time Smoke had brushed it off. Gave him a half-answer and kept driving. But the farther he got from Uncle Lewis and Aunt Cherylâs house, the harder it became to ignore. Somewhere between North Carolina and Mississippi, between missed calls and unanswered letters, pride and hurt and eight years of silence, carrying it all had become exhausting.
And for the first time, Smoke found himself wondering what it might feel like to finally put some of it down.
By the time Smoke pulled into his driveway, the anger had given way to something heavier than it had been when he left the cookout. It still sat in his chest, still burned every time he replayed parts of the afternoon, but it no longer felt sharp. Sharp things cut quickly. This felt more like a weight. Something dense and stubborn that had followed him all the way across town and climbed into the truck beside him.
The engine idled for a moment after he parked. Smoke rested both hands on the steering wheel and stared through the windshield at the dark outline of his house. Usually coming home felt like relief. Quiet. Predictable. A place where nobody needed anything from him for a few hours. Tonight it felt different. Maybe because he knew exactly what was waiting on the passenger seat. And Stackâs voice had still managed to survive the entire drive.
You punched him because she grabbed that suitcase again.
Smoke exhaled slowly through his nose.
The worst part wasnât that Stack had said it. The worst part was that he couldnât stop thinking about it. He replayed the argument, Annie calling for Isoo, and the look on her face when she said she wanted to leave. He still arrived at the same conclusion. The punch hadnât been about Isoo. It hadnât even been about whatever smart ass shit came out of Isooâs mouth. It had been about Annie reaching for somebody else when everything inside him had been screaming for her to stop running to any and everything, but him.
Eventually he killed the engine and climbed out. The house was quiet when he stepped inside. Not peaceful, quiet. Empty quiet. The kind that made every creak of the floorboards sound louder than it actually was. Uncle Lewis and Aunt Cherylâs house had always been full. Full of people, conversations, and yelling from one room to another. Even when nobody was talking, there was always the feeling that somebody might start. Smokeâs place wasnât like that. Most days he preferred it. Tonight it gave him too much room to think.
The mixtape landed on the kitchen counter while he headed for the refrigerator. He opened the door and stared inside, as though something useful might appear if he gave it enough time. A container of leftovers sat on the top shelf beside eggs, sandwich meat, and vegetables heâd bought because he told himself he was going to start eating cleaner. None of it looked particularly appealing. Smoke shut the refrigerator and got pissed all over again.
Aunt Cheryl had probably made enough food to feed half the county. There had been ribs, potato salad, baked beans and rolls. Even Pearlineâs nasty ass Mac and cheese was there. And at least five desserts. Normally heâd have left carrying enough leftovers to survive the next several days. Instead heâd left carrying a bruised hand and a damn mixtape.
âAinât even get to bring no fuckinâ plate home.â
The complaint sounded stupid the second it left his mouth. Unfortunately, that didnât make it less true.
For half a second he considered getting back his truck, driving to Aunt Cherylâs, and fixing himself a plate like a grown man with priorities. Then he pictured Annie sitting in that house, Stack there with a stupid ass look on his face, and Aunt Cheryl looking at him like she had a sermon ready.
Hell nah.
A little while later he found himself standing over the stove making a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. The entire situation felt ridiculous. Heâd spent the afternoon arguing with Annie, punching Isoo, getting lectured by Stack, and receiving life advice from Uncle Lewis, only to end the night standing in his kitchen cooking like a man who hadnât just had his entire emotional foundation kicked in. The sandwich wasnât terrible. It also wasnât Aunt Cherylâs ribs.
Smoke ate anyway.
Afterward he grabbed a beer, stared at it for a second, then put it back. The whiskey seemed like a better idea. He poured himself a glass and carried it into the living room. A few minutes later, he looked down and found it untouched. His attention kept drifting back to the kitchen counter. To the mixtape. That pissed him off too.
At some point he found himself wiping down countertops that werenât dirty. Then reorganizing a drawer that hadnât bothered him in months. Then checking laundry that didnât need checking.Â
The thought arrived slowly enough to make him feel stupid. He was avoiding the mixtape. A grown ass nigga avoiding a CD. Worse, Annie would probably find it hilarious. That thought alone nearly made him put the fuckinâ thing in the CD player just out of spite.
Instead he took a shower.
The hot water shouldâve helped. Usually it did. Construction work had a way of settling into muscles and joints. A shower could wash away most of a hard day. Unfortunately, there wasnât enough hot water in Mississippi to wash away Annie. She showed up anywayâcrying, yelling, and saying sheâd waited.Â
And she called him Elijah.Â
That always stayed with him. Most people call him Smoke now. Some folks probably forgot Elijah existed. The nickname had become easier over the years. Simpler. Safer. Smoke belonged to everybody. Smoke was the man people expected him to be.
Elijah belonged to Annie.Â
Always had.
After the shower, Smoke dried off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before catching sight of his hand in the bathroom mirror. The knuckles looked worse now than they had at Aunt Cherylâs. Adrenaline had carried him through the drive home, but it wasnât doing him any favors anymore. Swelling had already begun to set across the back of his hand, and purple bruising was working its way beneath the skin.
âShit.â
He flexed his fingers once and instantly regretted it. The punch felt good for about three seconds. Now it just hurt like hell.
Smoke dug through the bathroom cabinet until he found peroxide and a box of bandages his mom had practically forced him to buy after splitting his hand open at a construction site a few months earlier. At the time sheâd fussed at him for nearly twenty minutes about keeping basic first-aid supplies in the house. Standing here now, pouring peroxide across busted knuckles, he hated admitting she mightâve had a point. A few minutes later he found himself sitting on the edge of the bathtub while the antiseptic fizzed against broken skin. The sting should have kept his attention. Instead, his mind wandered right back where it had been all evening.
Annie.
It seemed like no matter what he was doing, every road eventually led back to her. The tears. The yelling. The way sheâd looked at him in the middle of the yard. Then, inevitably, his thoughts landed on the part he hated most.
Isoo.
The punch? Nah. Not even the argument that led to said punch. It was the moment before it. The moment Annie grabbed that suitcase and looked past him. Smoke lowered his head and rubbed a hand across his jaw. By the time heâd wrapped the worst of the damage and tossed the used bandages into the trash, he was in a perpetual state of irritation. Because Stack had been right. And so was Uncle Lewis.
A cigarette seemed like a logical next step. Then whiskey. Then sitting on the back porch convincing himself he wasnât thinking about the mixtape while doing exactly that.
The Mississippi night wrapped around him warm and familiar. Crickets chirped somewhere beyond the fence. A dog barked in the distance. His neighbor several houses over was playing music low enough that only the bass reached him. Smoke sat there until his cigarette burned almost to the filter and the whiskey glass sat empty beside him.
Eventually he ran out of things to do. Heâd exhausted every distraction available.
The house felt different when he walked back inside. It was later now and the whiskey had finally done its job. But now there was no avoiding the fact that Annieâs mixtape was still sitting exactly where heâd left it. Waiting. Patient in the way Annie never was. Smoke shook his head and picked it up off the counter. The plastic case felt surprisingly light in his hands. His thumb brushed across the writing on the cover before he could stop himself.
For Elijah.
Never Smoke.
The version of him she always seemed able to find no matter how deeply he buried it. For a moment he simply stood there staring at the words. Then Uncle Lewisâs voice echoed in his head.
Listen to the damn CD.
Smoke sighed heavily. âYeah, yeah.â
He wasnât entirely sure whether he was answering Uncle Lewis or Annie.
Maybe both.
The disc disappeared into the stereo. Smoke stood there with one hand resting on the shelf beside it, seriously considering taking it back out. The thought lasted right up until he remembered the few hours of his evening had been spent avoiding it.
Enough was enough. He pressed play and static crackled softly through the speakers.
Then Annieâs voice filled the room. âElijah, if youâre listeninâ to this, it means you finally stopped beinâ hardheaded.â
Smoke froze. All he could do was stare at the stereo. Then Annie laughed. Not a big laugh or one of the loud ones that made everybody else join in. This was smaller, the one that usually appeared when she thought sheâd gotten away with something. Her voice came through the speakers again, pleased with herself.
âGood.â
A click followed.
Seconds later the opening notes of Can We Talk came through the living room.
Smoke closed his eyes and laughed despite himself. âOh, she got jokes.â
The song continued playing.
Track 1: Can We Talk
The opening notes of Can We Talk filled the room as Smoke leaned back into the couch. At first he listened the way most people listened to old songs. Half paying attention. Half letting familiarity do the work. The melody was recognizable, pulling up memories he hadnât thought about in years. He could already hear Annie laughing at herself for choosing it. Shit, he was laughing too. Of all the songs she couldâve started with, she picked the one that practically came with a flashing sign attached to it.
The thing was though, the joke stopped being funny about halfway through. The song didnât change, but he did.
The longer he listened, the harder it became to separate the music from the message underneath it. Annie had never been the type to do anything halfway when she cared. If she baked a cake, she spent three days finding the right recipe. If she bought somebody a gift, sheâd somehow remember a throwaway comment they made six months earlier and build the entire thing around it. Every meaningful thing Annie had ever done came with intention attached to it. Looking back, maybe that was why the last eight years had hurt so much. Neither of them had ever stopped caring enough to become indifferent.Â
Theyâd simply found different ways to carry the hurt.
Smoke clenched his jaw until the muscle ticked, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The whiskey sat forgotten on the coffee table. At some point heâd stopped drinking it. He wasnât sure when. His attention had been entirely on the stereo, which was annoying because it meant Annie had managed to hijack his evening without even being in the room.
A bitter laugh escaped him. That sounded about right.
The song continued playing, and with every passing minute Smoke found himself thinking less about the argument at the cookout and more about the years before it. Not the breakup or the misunderstandings. The good parts.Â
Annie stretched across his couch with textbooks scattered around her. Annie stealing fries off his plate after claiming she wasnât hungry. Her singing along to songs she only knew half the words to and making up the rest with complete confidence. There had been a time when talking to her felt as natural as breathing. Somewhere along the way theyâd lost that. Or maybe they hadnât lost it at all. Maybe theyâd simply buried it beneath years of pride, hurt, and assumptions until neither of them remembered where it was.
By the time the song ended, Smoke hadnât moved in several minutes. The room felt quieter afterward, though that probably had more to do with the absence of Annieâs chosen soundtrack than actual silence. He sat there waiting without meaning to. Waiting for the next song and for whatever sheâd decided came next, because curiosity had quietly replaced resistance along the way.
Annieâs voice returned before the next track started. Something in his chest tightened. It wasnât the recording itself. It was how normal she sounded. She wasnât crying, there wasnât any anger in it or heartbreak.
Just Annie.
There was amusement in her voice before she even spoke, the same amusement sheâd carried since she was fourteen years old and entirely too pleased with herself. âBefore you start rollinâ your eyes, yes, I know that one was obvious.â
Smoke shook his head and rolled his eyes despite himself.Â
There she was.Â
Since sheâd stepped back into Mississippi, he wasnât thinking about the woman standing in Aunt Cherylâs yard with tears streaming down her face. He was hearing the girl heâd fallen in love with. The girl who always had something to say, and who could make him laugh when he was trying his hardest not to.
Annie laughed softly on the recording. âIf I gotta suffer through eight years of your stubbornness, you can survive one Tevin Campbell song.â
The smile lingered longer this time. She wasnât wrong, because sheâd always known exactly which nerve to touch. Or maybe hearing her like this reminded him of something heâd forgotten. The Annie sitting safely inside this recording wasnât trying to win an argument. She wasnât defending herself and not asking him to choose between his version of the past and hers. She was simply trying to talk to him. Really talk to him. And judging by the fact that he was sitting alone in his living room listening this closely, it was working.Â
The knowledge came over him slowly as Annie exhaled on the recording and fell quiet for a moment. She hadnât made him a playlist. Sheâd built him a conversation.
And Smoke was finally listening.
Track 2: Truth Is
The silence that followed Annieâs recording didnât last long. A few seconds later another song began to play.
Smoke recognized Fantasia instantly. That alone made him sit back. Annie had always loved Fantasia. Not casually either. That girl treated Fantasia songs like scripture. Back in high school, heâd spent an entire semester listening to Annie defend her against people who insisted she sang too many sad songs. Annie always disagreed.
âThey ainât sad,â sheâd argued one afternoon from the passenger seat of his car. âPeople just donât like the truth.â
At the time heâd rolled his eyes and told her she sounded fifty years old. At sixteen, heâd thought she was being dramatic. At twenty-six, he wasnât so sure.
The song continued playing while Smoke leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. At some point heâd stopped treating the mixtape like background noise. His attention remained fixed on every word, every transition, every choice sheâd made. Annie had spent two weeks putting this thing together. Two weeks deciding what came first and what came next. Nothing about that sounded accidental.
Which meant Truth Is was here for a reason. The message wasnât difficult to understand.
The truth is. Three simple words. Words capable of ruining an otherwise peaceful evening.
Smoke closed his eyes.
The memory arrived before he could stop it.
It was years ago. Long enough that he couldnât remember the exact date anymore. Stack had talked him into going out after work. A restaurant on the other side of town. Some female Stack was messing with at the time had a cousin or a friend she insisted would be perfect for him. Smoke remembered almost none of the details now. Not her name, what she ordered, or what they talked about.
He only remembered the feeling.
The woman was beautiful. Smart too, and easy enough to talk to. The conversation never stalled. She asked questions and listened to the answers. By every measurable standard, the night shouldâve been a success. Stack certainly thought it was. The first thing out of his mouth the next day had been, âSo when you seeinâ her again?â
Smoke remembered shrugging. Remembered saying, âI donât know.â At the time heâd blamed work, timing, then the fact that he wasnât looking for anything serious. The same excuse heâd been feeding everybody for years. Listening to Fantasia now, he found himself wondering if that had ever really been true, because the part he remembered most wasnât the woman.
It was the moment sheâd laughed.
For one brief second sheâd tilted her head back and smiled, and before he could stop himself heâd thought about Annie. The thought had simply appeared.Â
Uninvited and Automatic.
Annie wouldâve laughed louder. Annie wouldâve made fun of him afterward. Annie wouldâve stolen something off his plate and then argued about why it didnât count as stealing.
The comparison lasted all of three seconds. The date never stood a chance after that.
Smoke rubbed a hand across his mouth.
The song continued. Another memory surfaced. Then another. Different women. Different years. Different cities. Every single one ending exactly the same way. Nothing wrong with them. Nothing he could point to and say thatâs why this didnât work. Just a persistent feeling that something wasnât there.
Or maybe somebody.
The thought crept up on him so gradually he almost missed it. For years heâd told himself Annie was the exception. The first love. The one that got away. The person everybody compared others to for a little while before eventually moving on. The problem was âa little whileâ wasnât supposed to last eight years. âA little whileâ wasnât supposed to survive multiple relationships, birthdays, holidays, and entire stages of life. âA little whileâ wasnât supposed to follow somebody into adulthood.
Yet Annie had.
The song was still playing when Smoke lowered his head and stared at the floor. Across the room, the stereo glowed softly in the darkness. The house felt smaller now. Quieter. Like Annie was sitting somewhere nearby saying all the things neither of them had been brave enough to say before.
Truth is.
The words echoed through his head. Not the lyricsâthe title. The confession hidden inside it, because the longer he listened, the harder it became to ignore the possibility that Annie wasnât the only person this song belonged to. Maybe that was why it bothered him. Why he hadnât reached for the whiskey in nearly twenty minutes, because for the first time all night, the mixtape wasnât asking him to think about Annie.
It was forcing him to think about himself and that was a much harder conversation.
Track 3: Garden (Say It Like Dat)
The transition into the next song happened so smooth Smoke almost missed it. Almost. SZAâs voice eased through the speakers, and he understood Annie wasnât done telling the truth.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Of course she picked this one. Of all the songs on the radio, Annie had always gravitated toward the ones that sounded like confessions. Songs that peeled back ugly feelings people normally tried to hide. Songs that admitted things most folks wouldâve rather kept to themselves.
Garden was one of those songs.
Smoke reclined a little further into the couch. Outside, the Mississippi night continued without him. Crickets. Distant traffic. The dog was still barking. The sounds filtered through the screened window above the sink, familiar enough to disappear into the background. His attention remained fixed on the stereo. On what Annie was trying to say. At first he thought the song was about vulnerability. It was about fear.
There was a difference.
What it meant became clear slowly. The way most important things did. Piece by piece. Memory by memory.
Smoke found himself thinking about a night during their sophomore year. Football practice had run late, leaving him sore, exhausted, and running almost entirely on instinct by the time he finally met Annie outside the library. Sheâd talked nearly the whole walk home, telling him about a history article sheâd read, Pearline getting written up in chemistry for arguing with the teacher, and some recipe she'd seen on a cooking show that she was convinced she could make better.
Smoke had listened the way he usually did after practice. One-word answers. A nod here. A quiet laugh there. Enough to let her know he was listening. Or at least heâd thought so.
Along the walk Annie got quiet. He barely noticed at first. She always had something to say. The silence felt strange enough that he eventually looked over at her.
âYou alright?â
She shrugged.âMhm.â
âYou sure?â
âIâm fine.â
Smoke frowned. He knew better. Annie wasnât the type to stop talking unless something was bothering her.Â
He tried again. âWhat happened?â
âNothinâ.â
The answer annoyed him instantly because it was obvious she was lying. They went back and forth for nearly twenty minutes, Annie insisting she was fine while Smoke insisted she wasnât, until she finally stopped walking altogether. Heâd taken another few steps before he looked over. She wasnât beside him anymore. When he turned around, Annie was standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring at the ground.
âYou still like me?â
The question caught him so off guard that he laughed. It wasnât that it was funny, it didnât make any sense to him.
âWhat?â
âYou heard me.â
âWhereâd that come from?â
She shrugged again, refusing to look at him. âI donât know.â
Smoke walked back toward her. âAnnie.â âYou serious?â
Another shrug.
He remembered reaching out and tipping her chin up until she finally looked at him. âOf course I still like you.â
âYou do?â
âMan, whatâŠâ He laughed again, shaking his head. âI thought that was obvious.â
She searched his face for another second before finally smiling, small and almost embarrassed. âOkay.â
Then, just like that, she started walking again.
At sixteen, Smoke thought that had settled it.
Heâd chalked the whole conversation up to Annie overthinking things the way Annie sometimes did. He never stopped to ask what had made her question it in the first place. Didnât consider that spending one evening distracted by football and fatigue had been enough to make her wonder if sheâd done something wrong. Sitting in his living room now, listening to a woman who had flown across state lines carrying a mixtape and eight yearsâ worth of unresolved feelings, Smoke felt that memory differently. Back then heâd blamed Annieâs insecurities. Now he wondered if heâd been looking at them wrong the entire time.
Maybe Annie wasnât asking because she doubted him. Maybe she was asking because she needed to hear it. Needed confirmation, reassurance, and needed something he wasnât particularly good at giving. Now, he wondered how many times sheâd needed words and never gotten them. Because if there was one thing Annie had been asking for their entire relationship, it wasnât grand gestures, gifts or promises.
It was words.
And words had always been the thing Smoke struggled with most.
Track 4: Damage
The next song started before Smoke could talk himself into getting another drink. He recognized the voice. But the artist? No idea. Couldnât have told anybody if they paid him. But heâd heard the song plenty of times on the radio. At the time, heâd never paid much attention to it.Â
Now he did.
That seemed to be happening a lot tonight.
By the second verse, Smoke was on his feet. He didnât mean to stand. He just found himself moving. Restless. The same way heâd been restless beneath the pecan tree earlier. The way heâd been restless sitting on the porch pretending he wasnât thinking about Annie while thinking about nothing else. He crossed into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, one hand rubbing absently across his jaw.
The song continuedâand unfortunately, so did his memory.Â
Standing in Aunt Cherylâs yard crying.
âI came to yoâ house so excited to see you.â
The words hit differently now than they had a few hours ago. At the time heâd been too busy defending himself to really hear them.
Now he couldnât stop hearing them.
âYou acted like you couldnât wait for me to get the fuck outta Mississippi.â
Smoke closed his eyes, because that wasnât what happened. He knew that. Annie knew that now too. At least part of it. But knowing she misunderstood him didnât erase the hurt sheâd carried all these years. For years heâd been focused on the fact that Annie left. Focused on the unanswered phone calls, unreturned letters⊠silence. The feeling of being abandoned. Heâd spent so much time staring at his own wound that heâd never stopped to consider hers. Didnât stop to think about what it mustâve felt like walking out of his house that day believing she was saying goodbye to somebody she loved.
Believing he didnât care.
Smoke exhaled slowly and looked down at his bandaged hand. The irony wasnât lost on him. All afternoon heâd accused Annie of running, but the more he thought about it, the less that word fit. Annie hadnât run from hard things. She stayed through grief, through loneliness. Shit, sheâd spent seven years carrying around his mixtape.
Seven years.Â
Through college. Through apartments. Through every version of herself sheâd become since leaving Mississippi. Sheâd been too afraid to listen to it. Too afraid it would confirm the thing sheâd feared most. That heâd already said goodbye. Yet she kept it anyway. Like some part of her couldnât bear to hear him let her go, but couldnât bring herself to let him go either.
That wasnât somebody running. That was somebody hurting. The thought lingered long after the song ended. Smoke found himself looking at the damage between them and recognizing something heâd spent almost a decade avoiding.
Not all of it belonged to Annie.
Some of it belonged to him too.
Thatâthat left him restless.
Smoke pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and crossed the living room without thinking. He grabbed his cigarettes off the end table, slipped through the back door, and stepped onto the porch. The night air met him immediately, thick with humidity and the familiar chorus of crickets beyond the fence. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the porch railing, hoping the nicotine would quiet the thoughts Annie had spent the last four songs stirring up.
Track 5: Say Yes
By the time Smoke came back inside, the cigarette had done absolutely nothing to help. The night had grown later while he stood on the porch. The sounds of the neighborhood had thinned considerably. The dog that had been barking earlier was finally quiet. The bass from music farther out disappeared. Even the crickets seemed softer now.
The house felt still when he stepped back through the door. Still and entirely too empty. Smoke shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, looking towards the stereo. Part of him considered calling it a night.Â
The smarter part.Â
The part that understood Annie had already managed to drag him through memories heâd spent years avoiding. Unfortunately, the smarter part hadnât been winning much tonight. A few minutes later he crossed the room and sat back down. He pressed play on the stereo remote. The stereo clicked. Then Annieâs voice returned. For a moment she didnât say anything. Smoke could hear movement in the background. Paper rustling. A quiet breath.Â
When she finally spoke, her voice sounded different. Softer. âYou know whatâs really embarrassing?âÂ
A soft laugh escaped her. Smoke could hear the smile in it, because sometimes Annie laughed when she was nervous.
âI almost didnât put this song on here.â A pause followed. âActually, thatâs a lie.â Another small laugh. âI knew I was gonna put it on here. I just kept trying to talk myself out of it.â
Smokeâs attention shifted completely on the stereo. Her voice sounded less playful. More exposed.
âI think what bothers me most is that I know better.â The words came quietly. âI know people probably gonna hear this and think I lost my mind.â Another pause. âMaybe I have.â
Smoke dragged a hand over his chin.
âI called you.â The words landed softly. âI tried to talk to you.â A longer pause. âAnd you made it real clear that whatever we used to be ainât what we are nowâŠ.â
Smoke closed his eyes.
âMaybe thatâs true.â Her voice dropped. âThere really is no us anymore.âÂ
The sentence sat between them. Heavy. Honest.
âButâŠâ A breath. âIf somebody asked me today.â Another breath. âKnowing all that.âÂ
The next words came without hesitation.
âIâd still choose you.â
Smoke stared at the floor.
âIâd still say yes.â
The click sounded. Then the song began. Smoke closed his eyes. For a long moment he didnât move. Didnât think. He didnât do much of anything except listen. The music filled the room, wrapping around everything Annie had just admitted.
Iâd still choose you.
The words lingered because they carried a weight he wasnât prepared for. Yet here Annie was. Still choosing him.
The thought followed him into memories of her.Â
Annie asleep on his shoulder during a movie sheâd sworn she wanted to watch. The way sheâd automatically reach for his hand whenever they crossed a crowded room. How sheâd laugh when something genuinely caught her off guard. How sheâd curl her feet beneath her whenever she sat on the couch.Â
The way sheâd say his name.
After she gave herself to him that first time, it was like a dam broke. They couldnât keep their hands off each other. Every stolen moment, every quiet hour they managed to find, he wanted her again and againâwanted to feel the way her body softened and fit against his, the way her breath would catch as she cried out his name while her fingers would dig into his back like she was trying to keep him there forever. He had never known hunger like that. He couldnât get enough of her skin, her scent, her warmth, or the quiet sounds she made when it was just the two of them and the rest of the world disappeared.
Smoke rubbed a hand across his jaw.Â
That was the part nobody ever talked about. It wasnât just the attraction or the chemistry. It was the familiarity. The comfort. The ease of being understood without having to explain himself. Even as kids, Annie had a way of making his world feel quieter simply by being in it.
His mind went there anyway. Annie now. Grown ass woman. Hips thicker, body filled out in all the right ways. She had that steady confidence in her voice on the tape now, even with the tiredness underneath. He wondered how it would feel to take his time peeling her out of her clothes, no more rushed teenage shit. Slow. Thorough. Learning every new inch of her.
He could picture itâ her looking up at him without that old nervousness, hands sure as hell when she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down. The way sheâd probably arch into him, legs around his waist, knowing exactly how she wanted it. Deep strokes. Heavy breathing. The kind of sex that came with history and hunger and the quiet understanding that theyâd already lost too much time.
There had only ever been one person for him. The only person who felt woven into the fabric of his life so completely that imagining a future without her felt unnatural. The only person who understood his silences without demanding explanations, and who could sit beside him for hours without needing to fill every quiet moment. Somehow, she had always managed to make a room feel less empty simply by existing inside it.
Smoke let out a slow breath, trying to shake the image.
It wasnât just about sex. It never had been.
Annie.
The name moved through him quietly.
The song continued playing. Smoke lowered his head and stared at his hands. One knuckle was still swollen beneath the bandage. His skin still carried the faint scent of cigarette smoke.
The house remained empty. Yet for the first time all night it didnât feel quite as lonely. Maybe because Annieâs voice still lingered in the room. Or maybe because sheâd just admitted something heâd spent trying not to admit himself.
Given the chance, heâd still choose her too.
Heâd say yes.
Track 6: Made For Me
The last song ended, but Smoke didnât reach for the remote. He remained where he was, forearms resting on his thighs, staring at nothing in particular, letting the last few minutes sink in. The house had gone completely quiet again. The clock above the stove ticked steadily behind him. The ice in his abandoned whiskey glass had melted into cloudy water. Outside, the darkness pressed against the windows.
It was late.
Later than heâd thought. The mixtape had stolen most of his night. The thought shouldâve made him mad. Instead, he found himself reaching for the remote before he could talk himself out of it.
The stereo hummed softly.
Then Annie laughed.
The sound caught him off guard. It wasnât loud, but it was familiar. The kind of laugh that always sounded like she was smiling at her own thoughts.
âYou know what annoys meâŠagain?â
Smoke shook his head. Despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitched. Annie had been starting conversations that way for most of her life. âYou know what annoys me?â usually meant Annie was about to say something sheâd spent entirely too much time thinking about.
âI spent years trying to figure out what was wrong with me.â
The smile disappeared. His attention fully on the stereo.
âI thought maybe I was comparing everybody to some impossible version of you that didnât even exist anymore.â
Something tightened in his chest. Her words didnât surprise him. The older he got, the harder it became to ignore how often heâd done the same thing.
The recording continued.
âBut the older I gotâŠâ Her voice softened. âThe more I realized there wasnât nothinâ wrong with me.â
The room seemed to grow quieter.
âI was just lookinâ for you.â
The click sounded. Then the song began. Smoke leaned back slowly against the couch. For a long moment he didnât do much of anything except listen. The song floated through the room while his attention slipped somewhere he usually tried not to let it go.
Years. Entire years. Twenty-six wasnât old. At least that was what everybody kept saying. Yet somehow adulthood had arrived anyway. Careers. Responsibilities. Bills. Funerals. Relationships. Life kept moving whether you were ready for it or not. That was the strange part. Somewhere inside all those years, Smoke had convinced himself heâd eventually wake up one day and Annie would stop being the standard. The way people claimed first loves were supposed to fade. Time, distance, and life were supposed to handle it.Â
Instead, life kept handing him reminders. Jada had been a good woman. She was funny. Easy to talk to. Pretty. He enjoyed being around her, and for a while heâd convinced himself that was enough.
So he tried.Â
He tried to ignore the feeling that something wasnât quite clicking. Tried to believe that whatever heâd shared with Annie belonged to another lifetime, another version of himself that had long since grown up and moved on. But every time he started thinking maybe this could work, something held him back.
It wasnât anything Jada did. That was the problem. Sheâd done nothing wrong. Yet every goodbye came too easily. A few days could pass without seeing her and it never really bothered him. When she left, he missed her company, but never her presence.
Annie was different. She could leave a room and somehow take the room with her. Annie wasnât perfect. Lord knew she wasnât. She overthought things. Jumped to conclusions. Held onto hurt longer than she shouldâve, and when she got angry enough, she could say things sharp enough to leave scars. Yet somehow none of that changed the fact that sheâd always felt right.
Right.
Such a simple word. But it explained more than all the others combined.Â
Annie fit.
It wasnât that loving her had been easy. Quite the opposite. There had been moments when loving Annie felt like the hardest thing heâd ever done. But even then, she still felt right. Like the missing piece of a conversation heâd been having his entire life. Like somebody heâd been searching for long before he knew enough to search.
The song continued. Smoke lowered his gaze toward the floor. For years heâd told himself he was protecting his peace. Protecting his heart and himself from disappointment.
Now he wasnât so sure.
Maybe heâd simply been protecting a place nobody else had ever managed to reach. A place Annie had occupied so completely that every attempt to replace her had failed before it truly began. The thought shouldâve bothered him.
Instead, it felt suspiciously close to relief.
For years heâd told himself there had to be a reason nobody else ever felt right. There had to be a reason he kept comparing Jada and other women to somebody who lived three states away. A reason eight years had passed and Anissa Marie Landry still occupied more space in his head than she had any right to.
It wasnât because something was wrong with him. He wasnât stuck, he didnât believe. He'd simply spent years looking for something heâd already found once.Â
Annie was right. Maybe she had just been looking for him. And maybe heâd been looking for her too.
The thought lingered. Then, before he could stop it, another one followed.
Maybe she was made for him too.
Not maybe.
She was.
Track 7: Thinking Out Loud
The track began so quietly Smoke almost missed it.
For a second he simply sat there, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and whiskey and the emotional beating Annie had spent the last several hours delivering through a collection of songs. The house had gone quiet around him hours ago. The kitchen clock ticked steadily somewhere behind him. Outside, the night pressed against the windows in a blanket of darkness broken only by the occasional passing headlights.
Then the opening notes drifted through the speakers. Smokeâs eyes opened completely. Recognition arrived immediately. Not because he remembered the title. Shit, if somebody had asked him what the song was called, he probably couldnât have answered. But he knew the song. More importantly, he knew exactly where he knew it from.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
âMan.â
The word escaped quietly into the empty house.
Out of every song Annie couldâve chosen, somehow sheâd found this one.
The memory came so fast it almost felt like being pulled backward through time. One minute he was twenty-six years old sitting in the middle of his living room. The next he was fourteen years old standing inside Rollers Skating Rink with rented skates laced too tight around his ankles and half the church youth group packed inside.
The place smelled like floor wax, popcorn, sweat, and stale nacho cheese. Colored lights swept across the rink while music echoed through speakers that had probably been outdated before any of them were born. Every few minutes, somebody crashed into somebody else, and laughter erupted from somewhere across the building.
Smoke had spent most of the evening regretting coming. Skating wasnât his thing. If heâd had his way, heâd be sitting at home. But his mama informed him that sitting in the house all weekend wasnât a personality trait and practically shoved him out the door. Stack had spent the entire ride there acting like the church had personally organized the event for his entertainment.
Unfortunately, the night had gone exactly the way Stack wanted. He was in his element. He was showing off and making a fucking fool of himself while a cluster of girls laughed at everything he said. Every time Smoke looked up, Stack was somehow at the center of another conversation.
Smoke had no interest in any of that. Heâd been perfectly content skating slow laps around the edge of the rink and counting down the minutes until their mama decided theyâd stayed long enough.
Then the youth pastor announced a partner challenge.
Looking back now, he couldnât remember what the challenge actually was. He couldnât tell you the rules, the prize, or whether anybody even won. What he remembered was standing near the wall when the youth leader started pairing people together and noticing there werenât enough partners left.
The youth leader barely finished explaining the challenge before everybody started scrambling for partners. Stack wasted no time, calling dibs on a girl before half the room even understood the rules. Across the rink, Pearline laughed as one of the girls from church grabbed her arm and claimed her for their team. Within seconds everybody seemed to have found somebody.Â
Everybody except Smoke and Annie.Â
Smoke noticed it at the exact same time Annie did. Her eyes met his briefly before darting away.
Neither moved.
The youth leader looked between them and laughed. âBoom, there you go.â
Annie dropped her gaze to her skates. Smoke rolled his eyes.
The youth leader sighed dramatically. âYâall act like I told you to get married.â
That only made things worse.Â
A few minutes later they found themselves skating side by side. The awkwardness lasting all of ten minutes. Annie talked too much for awkwardness to survive around her. Every time the conversation threatened to die, she dragged it back to life with another question. Another observation. Another completely random thought that somehow made perfect sense inside her head. By the third lap sheâd gotten him talking. By the fourth they were arguing about music. By the fifth Smoke found himself looking forward to whatever ridiculous thing was about to come out of her mouth next.
The crazy part was that Annie wasnât even trying. She wasnât flirting, showing off, or doing any of the things girls usually did when they wanted his attention. She was simply being herself. At one point she started skating backwards while carrying on an entire conversation.
Smoke stared at her. âYou gonâ break yoâ neck.â
âIâm fine.â
âYou ainât even lookinâ.â
âI know where Iâm goinâ.â
âDo you?â
Annie laughed. The sound followed him halfway around the rink.Â
The music changed a few minutes later.
Smoke didnât think much of it at first. Songs had been rotating all night. Some people cheered when they recognized one. Others groaned dramatically before continuing whatever conversation they were already having. The speakers crackled slightly as the next track started, and for a second nobody paid much attention.
Then Annie gasped. The sound caught his attention.
âOh, I love this song.â
Smoke glanced toward the ceiling speakers before looking back at her. âNah.â
Annie blinked. âNah what?â
âI ainât skatinâ to this.â
Her expression shifted instantly. Confusion first. Then suspicion. âWhy?â
Smoke pointed vaguely toward the music overhead. âCause this some white people shit.â
She shot him such an offended look that he almost laughed.
âOh my God.â
âWhat?â
âIf you actually listened to the words, theyâre beautiful.â
Smoke snorted. âAight.â
âNo. Not aight.â Annie folded her arms.
The movement nearly threw her off balance and she corrected herself with an irritated little skate adjustment that only made her look more annoyed.
âSorry, this ainât Lil Wayne.Â
Now it was Smokeâs turn to be offended. âAinât nothinâ wrong with Weezy F. Baby, girl.â
âOf course youâd say that. Every song canât be about sex, selling drugs and threatening people, you know.â
âAinât nothinâ wrong with that.â
âThere is when itâs all you listen to.â
âIt ainât all I listen to.â
âSure it ainât.â
The argument continued for another lap around the rink before Annie finally threw her hands into the air.
âYou know what? Forget it.â
Smoke didnât like that tone. âWhat?â
âIâm done arguing with you.â Then she pointed toward the center of the floor where couples were beginning to gather. âIâm gonna skate by myself.â
The words shouldnât have mattered. Looking back now, Smoke knew that. She wasnât leaving, going home, or disappearing. She was moving maybe twenty feet away. Yet something unpleasant sat low in his stomach anyway.
Annie started pushing off before he could fully understand why.
For the first time all evening, the thought of her not being beside him felt wrong. The thought arrived quietly. So quietly that fourteen-year-old Smoke almost missed it. Somewhere over the last hour heâd gotten used to her. The questions, her laughter and used to looking over and finding her beside him. The idea of spending the rest of the night without any of that suddenly felt far less appealing than it should have.
âAnnie.â
She stopped and turned. âWhat?â
Smoke regretted speaking, because now he had to explain himself. His ears felt warm.
âI meanâŠâ
Annie waited. One eyebrow slowly rising.
âIf you wanna skateâŠâ
The corner of her mouth twitched. âYou wanna skate to the white people music?â
Smoke rolled his eyes. âMan, shut up.â
Annie laughed. âNo, answer the question.â
The smile she was trying to hide made it difficult to stay annoyed.
Smoke shook his head. Then finally looked at her. âI wanna skate⊠with you.â
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Before he could make them sound cooler, or could pretend they meant something else.
For a moment Annie just stared at him. She wasnât laughing or teasing him. Just looking. Then something flickered in her expression. Surprise. The honest kind. Then, slowly, she smiled. The smile was different from the others sheâd given him all night. SmallerâŠsofter. Like sheâd suddenly become aware of something she couldnât quite name.
Without saying another word, she held out her hand. Smoke looked at it for half a second before taking it. Her fingers were warm.
That was all.
Nothing dramatic happened. The lights didnât get brighter. The music didnât swell. Nobody stopped skating. The world continued exactly as it had thirty seconds earlier. Yet Smoke became painfully aware of the fact that he was holding Annieâs hand. The awareness followed him straight into the slow skate.
Around them, teenagers paired off beneath the colored lights while the song echoed through the speakers. Some couples talked. Others didnât. A few boys looked like theyâd rather be anywhere else.
Annie looked delighted. She quietly sang along to parts of the song under her breath, mouthing words she clearly knew by heart. Smoke pretended not to notice. He noticed. Every single time.
âSee?â she asked after a minute.
Smoke frowned. âSee what?â
âThe lyrics.â
He groaned. âOh Lord.â
âTheyâre beautiful.â
âThey aight.â
Annie gasped dramatically. ââAightâ?â
âThey ainât Lil Wayne.â
That earned another laugh. The sound landed deep in his chest.
The song continued. The conversation flowed. At some point Annie stopped trying to convince him the song was amazing and started talking about something else entirely. A teacher she didnât like. A test she thought sheâd failed. Pearline threatening to fight somebody earlier that week.
Smoke couldnât remember most of it anymore. What he remembered was how easy it felt. The strange comfort of it. The way an hour had somehow turned into two without him noticing. How being around Annie required less effort than being around almost anybody else.
That was the part that stayed.
Her.
The way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she cared about. How she laughed with her whole body, and she always looked directly at whoever she was speaking to. The way she made ordinary things feel interesting simply because she was the one talking about them. And somewhere along the way, he found himself wishing the night wouldnât end. The thought surprised him enough that he almost looked around to make sure nobody had heard it. When the song finally faded and another one took its place, Annie released his hand and skated ahead a few feet before turning back toward him.
âYou survived.â
Smoke rolled his eyes. âBarely.â
Annie laughed again, then she reached out and grabbed his wrist. âCâmon.â
Before he could ask where they were going, she pulled him towards the middle of the rink.
To this day, Smoke couldnât even remember what they were supposed to be doing the rest of the night. But he remembered everything about Annie that night. Her laughing, singing along to a song heâd spent years pretending he hated. Annie grabbing his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.Â
And maybe that was the night it started.
A week later he would be standing in a crowded school parking lot listening to Jada talking about something, when Stack yelled from across the pavement.
Heâd turned automatically. Not towards Stackâ
Towards Annie.
She stood near the curb laughing with Pearline, her backpack hanging from one shoulder. The sight of her found its place in his chest with the same ease it had at Rollers. Familiar. Comfortable. Natural.
Annie looked up. Their eyes met. Surprise crossed her face first. Then a smile. Small and quick before it disappeared again.
Smoke looked away before she did, but the feeling stayed.
Looking back now, Smoke heâd spent years mistaking the feeling for coincidence. The parking lot after school. Football games on Friday nights. Church on Sundays. Cookouts at Aunt Cherylâs house. Hallways crowded with students rushing to class.Â
Somehow his eyes always found Annie.
At the time, he never questioned it. Annie had simply become part of the landscape of his life. As familiar as Stack, his Mama, and Uncle Lewis. As familiar as home. If he arrived somewhere and she was there, his attention naturally went her way sooner or later. If she wasnât there, he noticed that too.
Back then he thought it meant nothing.
Now he knew better.
A fourteen-year-old boy standing beneath colored lights at a skating rink had looked at a shy girl with a quick smile and a laugh he couldnât seem to get enough of. Somewhere between arguing about music, holding her hand, and wishing the song would last a little longer had quietly taken root inside him.
It wasnât loveâyet. Just the first fragile beginnings of it. The kind of feeling that grows so slowly you donât notice itâs happening until years later, when you look up and find itâs woven itself through nearly every important memory you have.
Smoke leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. A fourteen-year-old boy had taken Annie Landryâs hand and thought the night was better when she was in it.
And whether heâd understood it or not, heâd been looking for her ever since.
Sometime during the night, Smoke fell asleep. He wasnât entirely sure when it happened. One minute he had been lying on the couch staring at the ceiling while Thinking Out Loud drifted through the speakers. The next he was fourteen again, with Annieâs hand in his and her laughter ringing through the air. Even asleep, the memory lingered.
The sound of music pulled him back toward consciousness.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Smoke frowned before he even opened his eyes. Sunlight pressed against his eyelids. His neck ached from sleeping on the couch. One arm had gone numb during the night and the stiffness in his shoulders reminded him that thirty-minute naps and sleeping in an actual bed were two very different things.
Music continued as he laid there listening without really hearing it. His mind was still caught somewhere between sleep and memory. Then different lyrics rolled through the room and his eyes finally opened.
My face turns to gold
Hoping to find my way home
This place I don't know
No yellow brick road to follow
The living room looked different in daylight. The whiskey glass still sat on the coffee table. His bandaged hand rested against his stomach. The CD case remained exactly where heâd left it the night before. Smoke pushed himself upright and rubbed a hand across his face.
The song continued. Unfamiliar to him. At least he thought it was. Frowning, he looked toward his phone. It was lying face up on the coffee table with the screen illuminated.
Spotify.
The CD mustâve ended hours ago. At some point the stereo had switched back to the playlist heâd been listening to earlier while he spent half the evening finding excuses not to press play.
Mmm, take me home, letâs make love, real love
Take me home, let's make real love, real love
Take me home, let's make real love, real love
Take me out of the blue
Smoke glanced at the screen.
Green Papaya â Lianne La Havas
The title meant nothing to him. Still, he found himself listening to the words. Really listening.
Our hearts overgrown
Longing for peace of our own
Found heaven in you
Promise to be pure and true
The house remained quiet except for the music and the occasional creak of old wood settling beneath the morning heat. Sunlight spilled through the windows, painting bright rectangles across the floor while the song floated through the room with an easy warmth that reminded him entirely too much of Annie.
Maybe that was why he couldnât stop listening.
Still mountains to climb
We will survive, still got time
Or maybe everything reminded him of Annie now.
The thought wouldâve pissed him off yesterday. This morning it felt suspiciously close to acceptance.
Smoke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The lyrics continued, soft and thoughtful and intimate in a way that felt less like a performance and more like a conversation. Not a desperate one.
Just someone who knew another person completely.
My partner-in-crime
Hoping you'll love me till we die
The kind of knowing that couldnât be built overnightâ that came from years. The kind that came from paying attention.
And suddenly he thought about Annie knowing he hated tomatoes, but loved tomato sandwiches. How he ate slowly, always taking twice as long as everybody else to finish a meal. How, when he was angry, she never pushed him to talk. Sheâd simply sit beside him in comfortable silence because she knew her presence mattered more than her words. She remembered the houses he used to draw in the margins of his notebooks. She knew he always reached for the corner piece of cornbread. She could tell when he was lying before heâd even finished the sentence.
She knew him.Â
The truth quietly fell into place. Even after everything that had happened, and the years between them, Annie still knew him. His gaze went towards the CD case again. Towards the careful handwriting on the frontâto the evidence of an entire night spent listening to a woman explain herself in every way she knew how.
Something shifted. Not another revelation. Those had come all night long. A decision. Clear, certain and simple. Smoke stood so quickly he nearly knocked the coffee table with his knee.
He needed to see her, not call or text. See her.Â
Today.Â
Now.Â
Before fear had another chance to talk and pride convinced him to stay home. Before he could come up with a single excuse not to go. The urgency surprised him. One minute he was sitting on the couch and the next he was looking for his keys.Â
The kitchen counter. Nothing. Coffee table. Nothing. End table. NopeâŠnot there either.
Smoke frowned. âWhere the fuckâŠâ
He checked the kitchen again. Then checked the coffee table again. Then stopped. The keys were already in his hand. For a moment he simply stared at them. Annoyed. Half awake. Entirely too tired to be trusted.
A laugh escaped him. His shirt was still missing. He was standing in the middle of his house wearing nothing but sweatpants and determination.
He didnât care.
For the first time in years, he knew exactly what he wanted. And for once, he intended to do something about it.
Then came the knock. Three soft taps against the front door. Smoke froze, he thought heâd imagined it. Then the sound came again. Softer this time. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. Because somehow he already knew. The distance between the living room and the front door had never felt longer. He crossed it anyway. Slowly at first. Then faster. His hand closed around the knob. For one brief second he simply stood there. Then he opened the doorâ
And there she was.
Morning sunlight spilled across the porch behind her. She stood there with her braids pulled into a high ponytail and a pale yellow dress that made it entirely too easy to stare. The color shouldnât have done anything for him. It was just yellow. Yet somehow it made her look more beautiful against her smooth chocolate skin. Brighter. Like sheâd carried a piece of the morning with her.Â
Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, fingers lacing and unlacing together while uncertainty flickered across her face. It had been a long time since heâd seen Annie look this nervous around him. Then again, maybe she wasnât nervous around him. Maybe she was nervous about what came next.
Neither spoke. They simply stared at each other. Two people who had spent eight years carrying the same thing in different ways.
Then Annie swallowed. A small smile appeared.
âHi.â
Smoke forgot every single thing heâd planned to say.
End Note: Y'all know Smoke is about to fuck Annie into a coma, right? Right. K, byeeee! âđŸđ
Smoke knew which window was hers without looking at the house number.
Heâd parked three houses down tonight, far enough that nobody would remember his charger if they happened to glance outside, close enough that he could catch movement behind the second-floor curtains. The position wasnât accidental. Nothing about these nights was.
His gaze stayed fixed on the duplex.
He wasnât focused on the building or the street.
It was her.
The television flashed blue against the curtains. A shadow crossed the room and disappeared again.
LaceyBlaze69
Malaya.
By now, smoke could recognize her silhouette faster than he recognized most faces. A tilt of her head. The swing of her hair. The way she crossed a room carrying a cup or a phone or a basket of laundry.
The curtains concealed most of her, but they didnât need to show much. Smokeâs mind supplied the rest.
He watched the second-floor window and waited for her to pass again.
Smoke shouldâve left forty minutes ago.
He knew it.
The job waiting on his laptop knew it.
The burner phone sitting untouched in the center console knew it.
But he remained exactly where he was, one hand resting against the steering wheel as his attention drifted back to the same upstairs windows for the hundredth time that night.
She had been back for over an hour. Alone. At least, as far as he could tell.
Smokeâs gazes lingered on the window. The surveillance feed mounted beside the dash displayed nothing useful now, only the quiet exterior of the building and a timestamp counting steadily forward. Smoke barely looked at it. He didnât need technology to watch her anymore.
That realization should have bothered him. Instead, it settled somewhere deep inside him with a deep seeded satisfaction.
Smoke was close. He was so close. Closer than heâd ever been. The distance between them no longer felt measured in blocks or city streets. It felt measured in moments. One decision. One knock at the door. One conversation that would make him real to her inside of invisible.
His jaw tightened.
Then, the second phone lit up. Smokeâs eyes cut to the device.
Stack.
Smoke stared at the screen for a moment as it vibrated against the center console. Once. Twice. A third time.
Only then did he answer.
âYeah.â
âYou held up?â
In the background, the bass of some slow, thumping trap track rumbled through the phone. A song made for strip clubs. There was laughter in the background. Glass clinks. A womanâs voice sweet and blurred called someone âbabyâ before fading out.
Smokeâs eyes remained on the upstairs window. âWhat you want?â
âI need a favor.â
The request immediately irritated him. It wasnât because his brother was asking for his help. It was when.
Smoke watched Malaya cross the window again before she disappeared out of view.
âItâs important,â Stack said.
âAinât say it wasnât.â Smoke replied.
For a moment, only music filled the line. Then, Stack sighed, abandoning whatever charm he usually wrapped around these conversations.
âOne of my clients is gettinâ cold feet. That one skincare influencer from the LA contract.â
Smoke already knew which one.
âWhat she do?â
âStarted stashing files. Extra backups. Personal cloud storage I ainât authorize.â
That got Smokeâs attention. His fingers drifted toward the burner phone resting beside him.
âWho she talking to?â
âCybersecurity blogger outta Chicago. Small-time, but connected enough to be annoying. Might have federal contacts. Might not. I donât plan on finding out.â
Smokeâs expression darkened. âYou think she gonâ leak?â
âI think she already scheduled it.â
The answer settled heavy in Smokeâs blacked out charger. He hated leaving but business was business. And he refused to let some lame ass influencer hoe fuck up his operation.
âShe got backups?â Smoke asked.
âProbably. Cloud storage. Maybe more.â
Smoke nodded once. âSend me everything.â
âItâs already thereâ
âWhere?â
âYour RED folder.â
A humorless smile touched Smokeâs mouth. âWhatâs it labeled?â
âRATTED.â
The charger started beneath him. Headlights swept briefly across the curb as he pulled away from the spot.
âSo, Iâm cleaning your mess?â Smoke said with a dry chuckle.
âTechnically ours.â
âHow the fuck this my mess? You let this bitch get slick.â
The city rolled past outside the windows in an array of colors. From the outside looking in, Smoke had tints on his windows. Like a two-way mirror.
âAight. Iâm heading over now. Iâll let you know how it go.â
âNo need. I know you got it.â Stack said.
Smoke hung up.
By the time Smoke reached the bypass, Malayaâs neighborhood had disappeared behind him. The only light inside the charger came from the glow of the encrypted software spreading across his console.
Data streams began populating the screen.
Passwords. Access points. Recovery keys. A file opened automatically.
RATTED.zip
DECRYPTINGâŠ
Smoke settled deeper into his seat, one hand on the steering wheel. The disappointment of leaving her lingered beneath his ribs, sharp and unwelcome. But work had always been easier than desire. Cleaner. Simpler. Systems made sense.
People didnât.
Especially not women like Malaya.
For now, Ghost mode is engaged.
No fingerprints. No trail. No mercy.
01:47 AM
Buckhead high-rise. Top floor.
Concierge waved her in with a smile hours ago. The girl had champagne taste and too many secrets tucked inside her rose-gold phone. Smoke didnât go through the lobby. He was already inside. The buildingâs maintenance access was laughably unsecured, just a four-digit pin Smoke could decode in his sleep. Smoke took the elevator to the service hall. Wore gloves. Footsteps inaudible. By the time he reached her door, heâd already looped the hallway feed and disabled the motion sensor near her unit.
She was home. Asleep.
Smoke pulled a small matte device from his hoodie. A USB merged with a scalpel. He presssd it against the bottom of the keypad lock. Held it there. ThenâŠ
Click.
The door slid open and he stepped inside stealthily. From a quick sweep of his dark eyes. Glass table. Dried fruit tray. Rolled yoga mat. Everything curated for a minimalist Instagram aesthetic.
But her tech? Messy.
She left her iPad on the couch and a pink MacBook on the table, lid cracked, camera covered with a sticker that read GIRLS RULE AND BOYS DROOL.
Smoke moved like heâd been there before. He sat on the couch, pulled out his own gear. He wasnât interested in stealing her data. He was here to rewrite it.
Booting: SpoofStack_Protocol_V2
Within seconds, her MacBook mirrored on his screen. Password broken. The cloud decrypted.
And there it was.
A folder labeled: CLIENT ARCHIVE (PRIVATE)
Inside: Screenshots of bank transfers. Server access logs. Snippets of phone calls. Metadata from custom scripts that Smoke himself had built.
She hadnât just collected proof. Sheâd built a timeline.
âCute,â Smoke muttered.
He selected the folder. Duplicated the entire contents. Then deleted the original.
But that wasnât enough.
Now feeding: FALSE_Archive_v1.3
He uploaded an altered copy. The fake archive had the same names. Same structure. But every file told a new story:
Stack was just a consultant.
Smokeâs code was purchased legally.
All server logs showed compliance with DMCA and data privacy.
Her âreceiptsâ now made her look like a willing accomplice to digital blackmail and influencer manipulation.
He encrypted the fake archive to match the original hash key. No one could tell the difference.
Not even her.
But if she leaked it now? Sheâd bury herself.
Smoke stood. He wiped the couch armrest and tucked the cloned drive into a pocket. On his way out, he paused by her bedroom door was cracked. He didnât bother opening it further. He could hear her breathing in her sleep. Then, he was gone. Hallway feed reactivated. Fingerprint spray already dissipating. By the time she woke up, only thing that would feel different was her own guilt.
Outside, Smoke shut the car door with a soft thunk, slid into the driverâs seat, and let the rumble of the Charger settle around him like armor. The inside was pitch-black. No dome light. Just the red glow from the dashboard and the faint buzz of encrypted sync across the Bluetooth rig.
He sat there a second. Gloved hands resting on the wheel. The digital drive in his inner jacket pocket, warm with all the shit heâd just buried.
Job done.
He tapped the hands-free.
âCall Stack.â
Three rings. Then bass. Deep, strip-club bass. Slow trap low like lust wrapped in a haze.
âTalk to me.â Stack said.
âItâs handled.â
âShe wonât double back?â
If she try to, she leakinâ her own stains.â Smoke replied.
âBeautiful. Like poetry, bruh.â
Smoke reached for the gearshift. âIâm out.â
âNah, hold up. Slide through.â
Smoke paused. âWhere you at?â
âThe rotation spot. Underground. Off Decatur. You remember the one. Black light entrance, heat sensor door, only take crypto at the bar?â
Smoke exhaled. Already annoyed.
âAinât this your pussy-and-patron circuit?â
âTonight itâs business, bruh. Private room. Need to talk clientele. Tighten things.â
âAt a strip club?â Smoke quirked a brow.
âAt my strip club,â Stack corrected. âI trust the walls.â
Smoke didnât answer right away. His fingers flexed once on the wheel. His mind had already started drifting. To home.
To his command center.
To Malayaâs face half-lit by LED stripsâŠ
To the way she bit her lip when she thought no one noticedâŠ
âMmm, fuckâŠIâm rubbing this clit just for youâŠcan you see it? Iâm sliding my fingers deep inside my pussyâŠimagining itâs your dick filling me up instead. I want you so bad, DaddyâŠI want you to watch me cum for youâŠâ
âIâm such a slut for you, ainât I? Look at meâŠlook at how Iâm opening myself up. Iâm soaking wet, DaddyâŠIâm just a little toy for you to watch and play withâŠdoes it make you hard seeing me fuck myself like this?â
SmokeâŠyesâŠunhâŠSmokeâŠ
SmokeâŠSmokeâŠ
âSmoke?â Stack called through the phone.
ââŠIâm listening.â
âSlide through. Iâll pour somethinâ strong. You can smoke somethinâ. Then we talk.â
Smoke exhaled through his nose. âSecurity tight?â
âLocked like your vault. Donât worry âbout whispering the code at the entrance. The floor girl âol walk you in.â
There was another pause. Then, Smoke shifted into drive.
âBe there in thirty.â
âAtta boy.â
The line went dead.
Smoke pulled onto the road, tires smooth, engine low and sleek like a predator in motion. The city lights blinked across his windshieldâblues, reds, goldsâbut his focus stayed cold.
When he got there, Smoke pulled up slow. The charger came to a stop at the edge of an unmarked building with blacked-out windows and no signage. Just a single narrow door inset into the concrete, painted deep charcoal, smooth and flat. No velvet rope. No line. No noise from outside. It wasnât a place you found, you were brought there.
Smoke stepped out into the thick night air, the heat of Atlanta still pressing close even after midnight. His matte black leather biker boots touched down on the curb. Every corner of the block appeared to have no motion but watched. You could feel it. Eyes behind tinted glass. A red security light blinked from somewhere above the doorframe, invisible until it caught the metal button of his sleeve. As he approached, the door cracked open just wide enough to let the glow spill out.
Blue. Blacklight.
Inside, the world looked dipped in ultraviolet. Silhouettes moved in slow motion. Melanin Skin glowed in neon, oil-slicked and glistening under the lights. Purple thongs. Fluorescent green heels. The gleam of diamond chains across collarbones and ankle bones and down spines. The bass hit in a deep, sexual crawl. A low trap track chopped with moans and heavy kicks. A sound you could fuck to, kill to, drown in.
The girl standing just inside the door was fine enough to alter a manâs path. Maybe five-foot-six. Rich brown skin slicked to perfection, waist snatched in a sheer one-piece with nothing underneath. Her lips were glossy, her eyelashes long and cruel. She looked him up and down once.
She smiled slow. âHey Twin? This way.â
Her voice was warm but lined with danger. Like if he turned the wrong way, sheâd cut him with it. She turned, hips rolling high and slow in front of him as she led him deeper into the space. The walls curved inward, black-lit murals dancing with movement as bodies passed. Women kissed women on leather couches. Men sat back with cigars while girls bent over laps, bare and grinning, high off liquor and deeper things.
The layout was designed for maximum intimacy and voyeurism. A wide, circular perimeter of plush, midnight-black velvet booths surrounded a central stage area where polished chrome poles rise like silver pillars toward the dark ceiling. The floor is a polished obsidian that mirrors the flashing neon, making it feel as though the dancers are floating on a sea of dark glass.
No phones. No cameras. Only shadows and memory.
One room opened to his left, curtains drawn but not closed. Inside, a woman was tied to a black rope swing, heels still on, one man kissing her thighs while another licked her breast. She was moaning loud, head thrown back. Her body glowed in the light like something caught between reality and pleasure. No one in the hallway stared. This was normal here. Routine.
On the poles, the women are masterpieces of motion and melanin. They represent a breathtaking spectrum of Black beauty, from deep, midnight and rich mahogany to warm honey and golden bronze. Their attire is minimal, designed to leave nothing to the imagination. Some wear sheer, neon-trimmed lace thongs that disappear into the crease of their cheeks. Others are in strappy, high-cut leather sets that push up their breasts and cinch their waists, leaving their midriffs bare and glistening with body oil.
One dancer, a woman with skin the color of dark umber and a towering afro grips the pole with practiced strength. She slides down the chrome in a slow, controlled descent, her thighs gripping the metal tightly before she snaps into a perfect, flat split on the stage. As she holds the position, she arches her back, thrusting her chest forward and grinding her hips in a tantalizing, circular motion that makes the thin fabric of her G-string vanish between her plump, shaking cheeks.
Another performer, a golden-brown beauty with long, flowing braids is a whirlwind of erotic energy. She spins rapidly, her body a blur of glowing skin before suddenly stopping to drop into a deep squat. She turns her back to the crowd, bending over until her chest nearly touches the floor, and begins to shake her ass with a thunderous motion. The muscles in her glutes worked to make that ass ripple and bounce under the black lights, a hypnotic vibration that keeps the patrons mesmerized.
Money flowed like a river. Crisp bills were tucked into the waistbands of thongs, slapped against oiled thighs and rained down from the booths in a constant, fluttering descent. The tactile experience is one of luxury and an erotica. The patronsâall black folksâlean back in the shadows, their eyes locked on the stage. The vibe is heavy with desire and explicit intent. Itâs a space of unapologetic Black eroticism, where the scent of money and lust rains down like the bandz that littered the stage and floor.
Women noticed. They always did.
Smoke kept his face unreadable as they moved through. His gait stayed measured, heavy boots on obsidian tile. Charcoal henley pulled tight over his chest. Silver chain resting low, cool against his collarbone. One ringed hand hung loose at his side while the other stayed near his hip. He wasnât here for indulgence. But eyes followed him anyway.
One dancer paused mid-pour, licking foam from the rim of a glass as she watched him. Another girl leaned against a wall in mesh, nipples pierced and glowing, her mouth parting just slightly as he passed.
He didnât return the looks. He moved like everything around him was already beneath his notice. Like he could take any one of them home, or none of them, and it would all mean the same.
The floor girl finally stopped at a black velvet curtain that looked like it led nowhere. She turned, looked at him again, then reached out and slid her fingers across his chest.
âStackâs waiting in the back. Said donât keep him too long. He got a mood on tonight.â
Then, she stepped aside.
Smoke slipped through the curtain.
The back room hit different.
The music lowered but stayed thick with bass. The lighting shifted to a red-blue gradient that danced over leather booths and mirrored walls. A private bar lined with obsidian shelves glinted with high-shelf bottles and decanters carved like diamonds.
Stack was seated in the center booth like a man who owned everything. Suit jacket off. Cigar in hand. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the rise of his chest and the sliver of a tattoo that disappeared beneath it. A woman was sitting next to him, pretty and thick, wearing nothing but chains and red panties. But she wasnât talking. Just pressing close like she knew her position.
Stack looked up and grinned when he saw his brother.
âBout time.â
Smoke slid into the booth across from him, not saying shit at first. He leaned back, eyes tracing slow as they scanned the room. Then he pulled out the drive and slid it across the table.
âItâs done.â
Stack tapped ash off the end of his cigar and took a sip of something gold from a crystal glass.
âYou rewrite her whole digital memory?â
Smoke nodded once. âShe leaks now, she burns herself.â
Stack let out a low, satisfied sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite approval. More like pleasure at watching the chessboard bend.
âSee, thatâs why I keep you in the cut. All these pretty tech boys with degrees out here movinâ loud. You? You just fuck around and disappear a bitch.â
Smoke didnât react. He just sat there with a stony expression.
The woman next to Stack traced the rim of his glass and leaned in to whisper something, but Stack waved her off without looking. His attention was locked.
âYou didnât have to come out tonight,â Stack said after a beat. âBut I appreciate it. Had to talk to you about tightening the loop.â
Smoke raised a brow. âClientele?â
Stack nodded. âSome of these influencer types? They playinâ messy. Takinâ our tools and runninâ off at the mouth. I need cleaner boundaries. Higher vetting.â
Smoke pulled out his phone. He tapped the encrypted drive. Brought up a blacked-out screen with layers of local and foreign pings.
âAny word about the three that came lookinâ for me?â
Stack took a puff of his cigar resting between two fingers, eyes narrowed in thought.
âNah. And if I had, you know I wouldâve said.â
Smoke nodded once. No accusation, just calculation. His fingers moved quick, swiping through location data, blurred screenshots from party feeds, AI-enhanced license plate reads.
âThey ainât from here.â
âObviously.â
âCheap suits. Bad diamonds. But they knew the lingo.â Smoke paused, looking down at the screen. âKnew enough to know about me. The real me.â
Stackâs jaw tightened. âYou pull names?â
Smoke tapped again.
The table glowed blue with the light from his screen.
âYeah. Pulled prints from the glass that lanky one touched. Traced a rental car from the valet logs. Hacked the damn buildingâs guest Wi-Fi and cross-checked MAC addresses. Got two of their burner IDs off bounce-back signals.â
Stack chuckled low. âMy brother.â
Smokeâs eyes were locked on the screen.
âNames are Harold Kray, Zino Atakni, and the older one? Conrad Fielding. Fieldingâs got history in Marseille. Organized pipeline moves through West Africa, black-market acquisition networks. Used to work under de Costa before that shit collapsed. Heâs the head.â
âAnd the others?â
âSoldiers. Hired muscle with decent resumes. One of them, Zino, used to run messages for a Libyan collector whoâs since disappeared.â
Stackâs lips pressed together. âYou think they freelance?â
Smoke shook his head. âNot with how Conrad was talkinâ. That wasnât freelance energy. That was sanctioned. He was too damn calm. Too rehearsed.â
Stack poured more bourbon.
âThey wanted access,â Smoke said. âThey didnât come for art. They came for me. For the Ghost.â
Stackâs grin faded completely. âSomebody sent âem.â
âI know.â
âWho?â
Smokeâs silence deepened.
âDonât know yet,â he said, but his voice had changed. Lower. Sharper. âBut whoever it isâŠthey want me out the game.â
âDead?â
âDead or cracked open.â
Stack blew out smoke through his nose. âThatâs bigger than art theft.â
âThatâs bigger than us.â
There was a faint moan of the bassline from the next room, a synth-heavy R&B loop wrapped in drum kicks and whispered filth.
Stackâs voice dropped, the way it always did when he shifted from business to indulgence. That smile of his curved slow across his lips, just enough to show the gold cap when he spoke.
The thick, honey-toned woman next to him looked up. Her lips were glossy. Her eyes were misty with a need to be fucked and whatever liquor she drank. She was fine in that round, sultry way. Thick thighs, soft belly, ass too big for most dresses, face too sweet to say no. She blinked up at him and licked her lips once before turning toward his lap.
Stack didnât stop her. He leaned back in the booth, legs spread, cigar held loose between two fingers while she unbuckled his slacks with practiced care. She looked up once, then dipped down.
Smoke picked up a blunt, lighting it, his other hand rested on his thigh. His rings caught the low light. His expression still unreadable. But his eyes slid from the women back to Stack, cold and steady.
âIâm good.â
Stack smirked. âYou always say that.â
Smoke leaned forward just slightly. âItâs been a minute,â he admitted, voice rough with quiet restraint.
Stack raised an eyebrow, surprised at the honesty.
Smokeâs gaze didnât move. âBut the only mouth I want on me like that?â His jaw tightened. âShe donât even know yet.â
Stack grinned wider. âDamn. She got you pressed like that?â
Stack groaned low, his head falling back against the booth cushion.
Smoke stood. âYou done?â
Stack looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His voice was a quiet dare.
âI ainât never done.â
Smoke gave a slow nod. âHandle yours.â
He turned and walked out, his boots heavy on the tile with impatient steps.
And behind him, the club kept spinning. Lights pulsing. Girls moaning. Music thumping under blacklight like a heartbeat you werenât supposed to hear.
âââ
11:45 PMâHis Den
Smoke sat back in his leather chair, the pungent aroma of the blunt between his fingers circulating his head like a menacing fog. He was stripped down, shirtless, skin gleaming under the recess lights of his command center. A black durag was tied tight across his head and his shorts hung dangerously low on his hips, exposing the sharp lines of his V-taper.
Four curved monitors dominated his vision, but only one mattered. He watched the screen, his eyes locked on Malaya. She had logged on late. No fancy lighting, no ring light to wash out the imperfections. Just a dim, yellow bedside lamp that cast long, jagged shadows across the room. The frame was messy. There was a hoodie thrown over a chair, the edge of a babyâs blanket peeking out from behind her.
It was raw. It was honest. And it was killing him.
She looked exhausted. Smoke couldnât see her eyes but he knew they had to be droopy with a vacant expression. She wasnât wearing a wig or a drop of makeup. Her long twists were draped over her shoulders, her skin matte and real. She wore an oversized T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, exposing a glimpse of her collarbone, and simple cotton panties that looked like theyâd been worn all day.
She didnât greet the room with her usual practiced smile and seductive lip bite. She didnât tease. She just laid there, half-propped up against her pillows, thighs spread wide in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like surrender.
Smoke took a deep drag of the blunt, the cherry glowing bright orange, and held the smoke in his lungs until it burned.
He watched her yawn, a genuine, tired stretch that arched her back and pulled the fabric of her T-shirt tight across her breasts, revealing perk nipples. She rubbed her eye with the back of her hand, looking less like LaceyBlaze69 and more like a woman who was drowning in her own life.
âMmmâŠhey lovesâŠsorry Iâm lateâŠI canât even tell what time it is anymore,â she dragged a single finger over her pussy through her cotton panties, rolling her hips in a lazy circle. âI was having the best dream about getting fucked out of my sleepâŠbut I think Iâd rather have the real thing,â Malaya bit her lip. âIâm still so warm from the sheetsâŠcan you tell? Iâm barely awake, but this pussy is dripping for you. Come onâŠtip me something to wake me up.â She released a soft chuckle. âHelp me hit the goal, Iâll show you exactly where I was rubbing myself before I drifted offâŠâ
The chat was moving fast. Men were demanding more. They wanted her to scream, to arch, to play the part of the hungry slut they paid for.
DangerDick84_: Come on Lacey, show that pussy baby.
WillyMoProblems: Take them panties off.
PhantomDweller$: You have pretty toes. I wanna suck âem.
100 Tokens. 300 Tokens. 150 Tokens. 80 Tokens
Malaya didnât react to them. She didnât even seem to be reading. She reached down, her fingers sliding under the elastic of her panties, tugging them aside with a movement that was mechanical, devoid of passion. She began to touch herself, her fingers moving in circles, but her body language was unfocused, and Smoke just knew she was staring past the lens, eyes heavy and uninterested.
Then, she started to moan.
Smoke leaned forward, his chest nearly touching the glass desk. He knew that sound. He knew the difference between her desire and her hustle. These moans were hollow. They were a performance for the bills, a fake melody played to keep the tips flowing. She was faking the pleasure, her voice pitching up in a way that didnât match the deadness in her eyes.
It was a lie, and it made his blood boil.
He hated that she had to do it. He hated that she was forced to pretend to be turned on by the gaze of hundreds of nameless, horny men just to keep a roof over her and Messiahâs heads. The sight of her vulnerability, the way she looked so small and broken in that big, messy bed, hit him harder than any physical blow.
Smoke didnât type or use YungCipher to talk dirty or GoodBodyAnon to be sweet. He stayed as Camera0ff. The silent watcher.
Smoke reached for his mouse and clicked the tip button. He didnât send a small amount. He sent a massive sum, a number that would make the rest of the chat go silent, a number that meant she could turn the camera off right now and not worry about money for a month.
He watched her body language change.
She paused.
Her fingers that were circling her clit slowed down. He could actually see her shoulders drop. Like she was relieved.
Smoke exhaled a cloud of grey, gaze darkening.
He wanted to reach through the screen, grab her by the back of her neck, and pull her into his own bed. He wanted to strip that oversized shirt off and replace her fingers with his tongue.
He wanted to give her a reason to moan that wasnât a lie.
Smoke watched her finish, a quiet, unceremonious climax that left her looking even more depleted than before. As she reached out to end the stream, her shoulders slumped, and for a split second, she looked like she might cry.
The screen set went black.
Smoke sat in the dark, the only light coming from the remaining monitors. He stared at the empty black square where she had been, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair so hard the leather groaned.
He wasnât just obsessed. He was addicted. And the fact that she was breaking right in front of him only made him want to own every shattered piece.
Smoke leaned back in his leather chair, the embers of the blunt glowing. He shifted, shorts riding lower on his hips, his mind drifting back to the time heâd tried to bridge the gap between the screen and the skin.
Heâd used YungCipher for it.
Out of all his personas, YungCipher was the one that carried the most of his actual hunger. He wasnât the quiet ghost of Camera0ff of the protective shadow of GoodBodyAnon.
YungCipher was the raw edge.
He was the one who talked dirty. The one who tipped when she hit a peak, the one who let her know exactly what a real man would do to her if he had her pinned beneath him.
He remembered the messages heâd sent. He hadnât been playing a character then. Every word had been the truth. She didnât need those silicone toys. The tips from strangers was pocket change compared to the life he could provide. Heâd been explicit, his words painting a picture of exactly how heâd handle her. He wanted her to know that he wasnât just another viewer with a credit card; he was the real thing.
You donât need those dildos, baby. I got the real thing waiting for you. Iâll be your favorite big dick. Iâll give that pretty pussy exactly what it deserves.
Smoke could almost feel the weight of her in his hands, the way her tired body would melt under his dominance. He wanted to replace the fake pleasure she performed for the masses with a visceral, bone-deep satisfaction that would leave her shaking and speechless. He wanted to be the only thing she craved.
But she had turned him down.
The rejection hadnât been angry or disgusted. It had been a firm, practiced wall. Sheâd declined the offer to meet, citing her rules.
Smoke didnât feel slighted or insulted. Instead, he felt a dark, twisted sense of pride. He understood. Malaya was guarded for a reason. She was a mother, a survivor, a woman who knew exactly how dangerous the world was. The fact that she wouldnât dare meet a stranger from a chat room, no matter how much he promised or how high he tipped, only made her more precious in his eyes. It meant she was disciplined. It meant she was protecting herself and Messiah.
It also meant that if he wanted her, he not only had to ask for her.
He had to take her.
He had to weave himself into the fabric of her life until he was the only safety she had left.
Since that night, heâd dialed back YungCipher. Heâd stepped away from the aggressive pursuit, retreating into the shadows of his other accounts. He stopped pushing for the meet-up, stopped the overt demands. He went back to being the silent provider, the gentle protector, the ghost in the machine.
He took another stage of the blunt, exhaling a thick cloud that obscured the monitors. He played the long game. He had tested her boundaries and found them strong.
But boundaries were just lines waiting to be crossed.
Smoke looked at the silver laptop on his glass desk, his encrypted phone sitting beside it. He knew everything about her. Where she lived, where she worked, the exact moment she turned off her lights at night.
Smoke just needed the right moment to show her that everything heâd promised as a persona was a reality as a man.
And then Jordan became a name Smoke saw too often.
At first, it had meant nothing to him. A manâs name in a womanâs phone was not enough to move him. Malaya was beautiful, delicate in ways she tried to hide and sweet in ways that slipped out when she forgot to guard herself. Men noticed. Men always noticed. Some sent her messages with too many hearts eyes on social media. Some tried to be funny and failed. Some waited for her cam shows and spent money they didnât have just to make her look toward the screen for half a second. Smoke knew the difference between noise and a threat. Most men were noise.
Jordan had been noise until Malaya started smiling at him.
Edge & ThreadâLocation: North Side 9:05PM
Smoke sat in his private office above Edge & Thread, the monitors casting a cold sheen over the angles of his face. Below him, the barbershop had closed for the day. The last chair had been swept, the last cape shaken out, the last customer sent into the Atlanta night with a fresh line. Up here, everything belonged to Smoke. The locked door. The black desk. The encrypted drives. The wall safe behind a framed print no one but him was allowed to touch.
Malayaâs phone activity was open in front of him.
Smoke told himself it was maintenance. That was the lie he used when he needed one. He had put enough invisible architecture around her life to know when something went wrong, and checking the structure was part of keeping it intact. Messages. Unknown numbers. Strange links. Men who became too aggressive when she ignored them. Clients who thought a tip bought access. He watched for threats because threats had a way of hiding themselves in charm.
But Jordan was not charming in a way Smoke could easily condemn. That was the problem.
The latest message sat near the top of the thread.
Jordan: You still up?
Malaya had answered three minutes later.
Malaya: Unfortunately lol. My sleep schedule is a joke.
Jordan replied with a laughing emoji then a picture of a little boy sprawled across a couch with one sock on, one sock missing, and a Black Panther toy tucked under his arm.
Jordan: Shiloh knocked out like he pay bills lol
Malayaâs response came with three laughing emojis.
Malaya: đđđ He is SO CUTE. Look at him holding TâChalla!
Smokeâs jaw tightened. It wasnât the words. It was the ease of it all. Malaya didnât overthink that response. She didnât perform. She didnât angle herself toward seduction or sweetness. She was simply there, amused and unguarded, letting some man send her pieces of his life as if he had a right to place them in her hands.
Smoke scrolled back.
Jordan didnât text too much. That made him worse. A desperate man revealed himself fast. He pressed for pictures, attention, reassurance. Jordan did none of that. He appeared every few days at first, then more often, then with enough to become expected. A joke in the afternoon to ease the tension while she was at work. A check-in after sheâd clocked out to pick up her son when her baby daddy was supposed to do it. A quick call that lasted eight minutes, then another that lasted twenty-three. One night forty-one.
Forty-one minutes.
Smoke stared at that number longer than he wanted to. He clicked into the call metadata, though he already knew what it would show him. Incoming. Answered. Late evening. Malaya had let it ring once before picking up. It wasnât long enough to avoid him but long enough to see his name and decide what to do with herself before she answered.
Smoke leaned back in his chair and rubbed his thumb along the side of his index finger.
He could picture it too easily. Malaya in her apartment, curled up somewhere, bonnet on or hair loose, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice lower because she didnât wanna wake Messiah. Jordan on the other end with that easy patience Smoke was beginning to dislike. No rush. No pressure. Just conversation.
Smoke opened another window.
Jordan Ellis.
Smoke preferred men with mess. Mess gave shape to intent. Mess gave him handles. An unpaid judgement. A sealed charge. Old warrants. Bitter women in comments. Something. Anything. He searched with the meditated focus of a man taking apart a machine piece by piece.
Jordan gave him almost nothing.
Thirty. Atlanta born. Local employment, steady enough. Rental history clean. No obvious criminal record. No restraining orders. No heavy social media presence. His pages were mostly private, but not hidden well enough to keep Smoke out. Photos loaded one by one. Jordan at a cookout. Jordan holding Shiloh on his hip in front of an aquarium tank, the boyâs small hand spread against his fatherâs cheek. Jordan at his sonâs outdoor birthday party with a paper cone sitting crooked over his tapered curly fro. Jordan at a convention, grinning beside a wall of anime figures, posing like Sukuna.
Smokeâs eyes narrowed.
Malaya: Same smile đ heâs so sweet. Really grew into himself from high school.
Sweet.
Smoke hated that word the most. Sweet men were dangerous when they were real. Not the kind who used softness as bait, but the ones who had grown into patience because life had required it. Jordan had a son. Jordan had responsibilities. A man like that didnât need to impress a woman with volume. He impressed her with being consistent. With remembering. By calling when he said he would. By laughing at old things from school and asking new questions like he actually cares about the answers.
He returned to the messages.
Jordan had asked about her day. Malaya had told him it was long. He sent a voice note instead. Smoke played it once through the isolated feed. Jordanâs voice came through with a smile in it.
âWell, I hope you eat something and get some rest, Malaya. You work so hard. You deserve to be pampered. Donât stay up too late watching Love Island knowing your ass need to be asleep. Then get mad when Messiah wakes up hahaha.â
Malaya had answered with a voice note of her own. Smoke didnât play hers right away. He sat there with his hand on the mouse, looking at the little audio bar as if it had done something personal to him. Her voice belonged to her, but he had collected so much of it that some part of him had begun treating it like a private possession. Her sleepy voice. Her irritated voice. Her calm voice; honeyed and controlled. Her real laugh when she forgot herself. Her little sigh when something made her feel seen. He knew them. He knew the difference.
Now Jordan was learning them too.
Smoke played it. Malayaâs voice spilled into the room with amusement and faint embarrassment.
âFirst of all, donât be clockinâ me! Second, I ate. Kind of. I had fries.â
Jordan replied almost immediately.
Jordan: Thatâs all you eat is fries. You gonna turn into a damn fry đ
Malaya: They are when you mind your business đ
Smoke stared at the exchange. It was nothing. That was what made it something. No naked pictures. No heavy flirting. No late-night confession. Just easy back-and-forth. Smoke could have handled vulgarity. He understood men who wanted a body before they understood the woman inside it. He knew how to deal with that kind. This was worse because Jordan seemed interested in the ordinary parts. Her meals. Her sleep. Her memories. Her jokes. The parts Smoke had been studying from the outside like a locked house with the lights on.
A line of texts appeared farther down, from two days ago.
Jordan: I forgot you used to draw Sailor Moon characters in your notebook.
Malaya: Donât expose me đ
Jordan: Never. I thought it was cute then too lol
Smokeâs hand closed once. There it was. History. He couldnât hack history. He couldnât purchase it, threaten it, erase it, or outrank it. Jordan stood somewhere in Malayaâs past. Some version of her Smoke would never get to see. Drawing girls with moon wands in the corners of her notebook. Smiling at things before life taught her which pieces of herself to hide.
Smoke had files. Jordan had memories. The distinction scraped against something low in him.
He opened Jordanâs background again, harder this time, less patient. He checked financials. Associates. Old addresses. Known relationships. Family connections. He looked for bitterness, instability, some ugliness hidden beneath the calm surface. An angry ex. A custody dispute with teeth. Gambling. Pills. Anything he could name and place between Jordan and Malaya as proof that his instinct was not jealousy but protection. Contentment was a language Smoke did not trust.
He closed the file and returned to Malaya. Her last message to Jordan was from twenty minutes ago.
Malaya: You still watching that show you told me about?
Jordan: Yeah. You were right. It got good after episode three.
Malaya: Told you. You just had to stop being stubborn.
Jordan: đ Iâm working on that.
Malaya: Liar.
Jordan: Maybe. But I listen when it matters.
Smoke read that line twice. Then three times. The words were not much on their own. A soft little flirt, maybe. A door left open. Jordan had not shoved his way through it. He had simply set the sentence down and let Malaya decide what to do with it. She had not answered right away. Smoke watched the timestamp as if he could will it backward. Four minutes. Seven. Twelve. Then the little mark appeared.
Malaya: You always did đ
Smoke went very still. Then, he sat forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled near his mouth. Jordan had not become a problem because he wanted Malaya. Jordan had become a problem because Malaya was beginning to let him matter.
The next message came a few minutes later.
Jordan: We should get together one of these days. Catch up for real.
Smokeâs eyes fixed on it. The typing bubble appeared beneath Jordanâs message, pulsed, disappeared, then returned. Malaya was thinking. He could imagine her biting her lip, not in the way men begged to see on camera, in the way she did when something made her nervous. He had seen that before. She would glance away from the screen, then back. She would smile at herself as if she needed permission to want something simple.
The response came through.
Malaya: Iâd like that.
Smoke did not move. The monitors continued their work around him. Servers blinked. The city passed outside with sirens in the distance and tires whispering over damp pavement. Downstairs, the barbershop slept beneath him, all mirrors and empty chairs, all the dayâs voices and buzzing gone. On the screen, Malayaâs words sat beneath Jordanâs.
Iâd like that.
Smoke read them until they stopped looking like words and started looking like a hand placed somewhere it did not belong. Jordan was not a client. Not a faceless watcher. Not a man begging for pieces of her through a screen. Jordan was warm skin and a familiar smile. A son named Shiloh. A soft-eyed anime nerd who remembered what Malaya used to draw in school and had the patience to wait between messages.
Smoke exhaled through his nose.
He could ruin him.
The thought came cleanly. It sat there like a tool laid on the table. Smoke knew how. He could make Jordanâs life inconvenient by morning and unbearable by the end of the week. A few pressure points. A little disruption. Nothing dramatic enough to point back to him. Men were easy to move when you knew what they loved and what they feared losing.
Malaya had said she would like that.
Smoke leaned back in his chair, the darkness behind his eyes becoming something colder than anger. He had been patient because patience had always worked for him. He had watched, learned, mapped, waited. He had known her patterns so well that knowledge had begun to feel like intimacy. But Jordan was showing him the insult hidden inside that belief. Knowing where Malaya bought groceries was not the same as being the man she called when she was tired. Knowing what time she went live was not the same as being remembered from school. Knowing what made her body respond on camera was not the same as making her smile at her phone in the middle of an ordinary night.
Smoke stared at the screen.
For the first time, distance felt less like control and more like absence. And absence, he was beginning to understand, made room.
âââ
Jordanâs text came just after six.
Jordan: I'm outside.
Malaya looked at her reflection one last time before grabbing her purse. She had settled on a fitted chocolate-brown ribbed midi dress that hugged her figure without feeling overly dressy. A cropped cream denim jacket rested over her shoulders in case the evening cooled off. Gold hoops framed her face, a thin layered necklace that rested against her collarbones, and her twists spilled over one shoulder. Sheâd kept her makeup simple, finishing with nothing more than gloss across her lips. She wasnât trying to impress him. She just wanted to feel pretty.
When she stepped outside, Jordan was leaning against his car, one hand tucked into the pocket of dark jeans. His black T-shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders, and his beard had filled in since high school, giving his face a maturity she hadn't expected. His smile, though, hadn't changed. It was the same warm smile she remembered that always reached his expressive light-brown eyes.
For a second he simply looked at her.
âDamn.â
Malaya laughed. âWhat?â
âYou look good.â
âYou clean up pretty nice yourself.â She returned the compliment.
âI had to. Couldnât let you outshine me.â
She rolled her eyes, smiling as he opened the passenger door for her.
The drive started exactly the way sheâd hoped it would. Easy. The conversation slipped between them without effort. They laughed about teachers they swore had hated them, classmates theyâd forgotten until one of them mentioned a name, and the anime arguments theyâd somehow still remembered years later.
âSo you still watch it?â Jordan asked.
She looked at him with mock offense. âYou asking me that like you donât already know the answer.â
âI had to make sure adulthood hadnât changed you.â
âIt definitely hasnât.â
He grinned. âGood.â
By the time they reached the restaurant, Malaya realized she hadnât checked her phone once. Dinner felt less like a first date and more like picking up a conversation that had simply been paused for several years. Jordan listened more than he talked. When she mentioned work, he asked questions instead of waiting for his turn to speak. When she laughed, he laughed with her instead of trying to top the joke. He remembered little things sheâd mentioned over the last few weeks of texting, surprising her more than once.
âYou actually remembered that?â
âYou told me.â
âThat was like...two weeks ago.â
He shrugged. âI was listening.â
Something about that stirred inside her.
Eventually the conversation turned toward Shiloh. Jordanâs whole face changed. His smile grew and his shoulders relaxed.
For the next several minutes he told her stories about bedtime negotiations, mismatched socks, spilled cereal, and Saturday mornings spent watching cartoons. He wasnât performing fatherhood. Watching him, Malaya understood something.
Kindness looked good on him.
After dinner, neither of them seemed ready to call it a night.
âYou wanna walk for a minute?â Jordan asked.
She nodded.
They wandered the sidewalk without any destination in mind, their conversation drifting from old memories to where life had taken them since graduation.
Jordan glanced over at her. âI was nervous asking you out.â
She stopped walking. âYou were?â
âOh, absolutely. Look at you.â
She laughed. âI would've never guessed.â
âI practiced asking you.â
She blinked. âYou practiced?!â
He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing at himself. âLike...four different versions.â
Malaya burst into laughter, lightly bumping his shoulder. âYou are lying.â
âIâm dead serious.â
âThatâs actually kind of cute.â
âI'll take cute.â Jordan replied with. Smirk.
The drive back to her apartment was comfortable. They listened to music and debated over which animeâs were the best. Jordan eventually pulled into a visitor's space and shifted the car into park. Neither of them reached for the door.
He looked over at her. âIâm really glad you said yes.â
Malaya smiled. âSo am I.â
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didnât.
Their lips met gently. The kiss wasnât rushed or hungry. Their heads swiveled, Malaya reaching out to grip his chin to hold him steady while she damn near stole his breath with those juicy lips that tasted like maple brown sugar. Jordan felt himself getting stiff, squeezing his thighs to try and calm his erection. The kiss was warm, lingering just long enough to make them both smile when they pulled apart. Jordan rested his forehead against hers for a second before quietly laughing. They separated, Jordan licking her gloss from his lips and Malaya fixing hers since some of it got on her chin.
âIâve wanted to do that all night.â
âI kinda figured.â Malaya giggled.
âYou gonna let me see you again?â
Malaya looked at him. âI think that can be arranged.â
She reached for the door handle. As she turned, Jordanâs hand settled lightly at her waist before sliding naturally to the curve of her hip. His fingers gave her ass a playful squeeze over the fabric of her dress.
He laughed. â...Girl.â
Malaya looked back.
âYou stillâŠthick.â
Jordan started singing Bobby V Tell Me since it had come up on the playlist.
Malaya threw her head back, laughing. âOh my God.â
âWhat?â
âYou are so childish.â
âI ainât lying though. Tell me, for real cuz manâŠâ
Malaya shook her head, unable to stop smiling.
âGoodnight, Jordan.â
âGoodnight, Malaya.â
He watched her step up, unlocking her apartment door, and glance back one last time with a small wave before disappearing inside. Only after the door closed did he finally pull away. The door clicked shut behind her, but the warmth of Jordanâs kiss still lingered on her lips. A small, genuine smile played on her face, one that didnât have to be performed for a camera or a tip. He was different. Patient, warm, and the way he looked at her made her feel seen, not just consumed.
As she kicked off her heels and began to peel away her clothes, for the first time in a long time, the place was truly quiet. Messiah was with his father for the weekend, leaving her with a rare, unfiltered solitude. In her bedroom, She paused, her dress slipping over her head, her mind drifting back to the way Jordanâs hand had felt on the cleft of her left ass cheek. She wondered if she should have let him come inside. The thought sent a sharp, electric pulse of lust straight to her core, leaving her thighs feeling heavy and her pussy aching with a sudden, insistent throb.
Malaya was hornyâdeeply, viscerally hornyâand the lingering adrenaline from the date had left her skin hypersensitive. She didnât want to just sleep it off. She wanted to feel something intense, to lean into the friction of her own desire.
With a determined exhale, Malaya transitioned from the woman who had just been on a romantic date to the persona the internet paid to see. It was time for the âGood Girl Gone Filthyâ set.
She transformed her space into a curated altar of simulated innocence and raw filth. First came the lighting. She clicked on the ring light, bathing her face in a professional, clinical glow, but then she layered in the atmosphere. She draped strings of warm fairy lights across the wall and turned on a bedside lamp that changed colors, creating a hazy glow that blurred the edges of the room. She laid out the backdrop. It was a plush, baby-pink faux-fur blanket spread across the floor, topped with a white furry rug that looked soft enough to sink into. It was the perfect contrast to what she planned to do on top of it.
Then came the wardrobe. She slid into pastel pink lingerie with lace trimming that hugged her breasts tight, the fabric straining against her nipples. The thin lace of the crotch area barely covered the swell of her ass and the plumpness of her pussy lips. To complete the âgood girlâ aesthetic, she pulled on a pair of knee-high pastel socks with little bows and fastened a thin charm bracelet around her wrist, the small silver trinkets jingling as she moved. She reached for her hair, deftly styling her long twists into two high pigtails, securing them with oversized satin bows.
Malaya wears a delicate, intricate pink lace mask that clings to the curves of her face, the fabric sheer enough to tease but thick enough to create a barrier of mystery. The floral patterns of the lace cast seductive shadows across her skin, framing her eyes in a way that makes them look wider, more vulnerable, and dangerously focused.
She looked like a doll. The perfect fuck doll.
The final touches were the props. She placed a large, glossy lollipop still wrapped on the nightstand next to a high-powered Bluetooth vibrator that was gifted to her from MoTh3rL0ad88, deep, purple silicone and appeared not so intimidating. Malaya checked her camera angle, ensuring the frame captured the curve of her hips and the inviting dip of her waist, making sure the viewers would have a front-row seat to her descent.
Finally, she reached for her phone and tapped the screen. The heavy, grinding bass of Tinasheâs Nasty filled the room, the slow, provocative beat syncing with the thrum of blood between her legs. Malaya climbed onto the pink fur, arching her back and letting the music vibrate through her skin. She looked into the lens, her eyes darkening, the âgood girlâ mask sliding into place just as she prepared to go live and get filthy.
I been a nasty girl, nasty
I been a nasty girl, nasty
I been a nasty girl, nasty
I been a nasty, nasty, nasty
Malaya clicked the âGo Liveâ button, and instantly, the viewer count began to climb. The screen flooded with a rush of usernames, a digital tide of hungry men eager for their fix. She leaned into the camera, her eyes wide and shimmering, a playful, shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
âHi everyone,â she whispered, her voice an angelic, breathy coo. She brought her index finger to her lips, biting down on the pad of it gently, her gaze fluttering. âI...I didnât think so many of you would be here tonight. Iâm feeling a little shy.â
She giggled, a high, melodic sound, and twirled a stray twist around her finger. She looked like a doll, a pristine image of purity in her pastel pinks and white fur, but the way she let her gaze linger on the lens told a different story. She was playing the part of the innocent girl who had accidentally stumbled into a room full of hungry wolves with brick hard dicks and balls filled with cum, acting as if she were barely aware of how the thin lace of her panties clung to the swell of her ass and wet pussy.
[User: BigDickEnergy99]: Look at those bowsâŠI want to rip them right out of her hair.
[User: VoidWalker]: Stop playing, baby. We know you a little slut for us.
[User: TipKing_X]: Tipped 50 tokens! Show us those cheeks, Good Girl.
Malaya blushed, a performative flush that crept up her neck. âYouâre all so mean to me,â she pouted, bouncing her tits like she was throwing a temper tantrum.
If you keep up with me
I'll keep on coming back
If you do it too good
I'm gonna get attached
'Cause it feels like Heaven when it hurts so bad
Baby, put it on me
I like it just like thatâŠ
As the heavy, grinding bass of Tinasheâs Nasty kicked back in, the âgood girlâ mask didnât falter, it just evolved. Malaya turned on her knees slowly, the camera capturing the dip of her waist and the way her bralette strained against her hard nipples. She turned her back to the lens, glancing over her shoulder with a wide-eyed, innocent expression while her lower body began to move.
She started with a slow, hypnotic roll of her hips, the movement fluid and circular. The white fur of the rug brushed against her thighs as she began to twerk, her cheeks bouncing with a heavy vibration. She wasnât just shaking; she was oscillating, her hips swinging in a precise, tantalizing cadence that made the lace of her panties disappear between the folds of her ass.
[User: HardCoreHustle]: Fuck, that bounce is lethal. Look at her move!
[User: LustLord]: Tipped 100 tokens! Arch that back, Miss Blaze!
[User: DeepDive_88]: She look so sweet but she moves like a fucking pro. I need to see more.
Malaya let out a, staged moan, her head tilting back as she leaned forward, planting her palms on the pink fur. She pushed her ass high into the air, creating a steep, inviting slope. She began to grind against the air, her hips rotating in a slow, agonizing circle that simulated the feeling of a thick dick sliding deep inside her. She looked back at the camera, biting her lip, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with a mixture of fake modesty and real arousal.
âIs this...is this okay?â she whimpered, her voice trembling. âI don't know why Iâm doing this...I feel so naughty, Sir.â
Then, with a sudden, athletic grace that contradicted her fragile persona, she slid backward. In one smooth, fluid motion, she hit a full split on the plush rug, her legs extending wide, leaving her completely open to the lens. The position pushed her panties to their absolute limit, the fabric straining across her ass and her soaking wet pussy, the center of the lace darkening as her arousal leaked through.
She stayed there, chest heaving, her breasts bouncing slightly under the pink cotton. She reached down, slowly tracing the line of her thigh with a manicured nail, her eyes locked on the camera, challenging every man in the chat to tell her exactly how they would ruin her.
[User: BeastMode]: Tipped 200 tokens! Open those legs wider, you filthy little doll!
[User: PureSin]: I can see she's soaking through those panties. Look at that wet spot!
[User: AlphaMale_7]: I wanna see you swallow a whole dick while you in that split, slut.
Malaya slowly pulled herself out of the split, her movements languid. She crawled toward the lens on all fours, her breasts swaying under the pink lingerie, her eyes locked onto the camera with that wide, doe-eyed gaze. She stopped just inches from the lens, her face filling the frame, the soft glow of the ring light reflecting in her pupils.
âYou guys are being so loud,â she whispered, a tiny, teasing smile playing on her lips. âI canât even think...youâre making me feel so...exposed.â
She sat back on her heels and spreading her knees just enough to give them a glimpse of the lace straining against her pussy. With a slow, shaky breath, she pressed her palm flat against her crotch. She began to rub her pussy through the thin fabric of her panties, her fingers circling her clit in a grinding motion. The lace was translucent from her arousal, clinging to every fold of her lips.
Malaya let out a soft, airy moan, her head tilting back as she increased the pressure, her hips lifting off the rug. âItâs so warm,â she whimpered, her voice trembling. âIâm just...Iâm just a little bit wet. Is that bad?â
Then, without warning, she reached down and grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg upward and outward in one fluid, athletic motion. She slid into a perfect side split, her body stretched wide across the white fur. The position was devastatingly open, her pussy centered perfectly in the frame, the pink lace of her panties pulled tight and damp, outlining the plumpness of her labia.
She looked at the camera, her expression a mask of faux-hesitation, her lip trembling slightly. âDo you...do you really wanna see it?â she asked, her voice a breathy, innocent plea. âIâm so shy...Iâve never shown this many people at once.â
The chat exploded. The token count began to skyrocket as the men scrambled to pay for the reveal.
[User: KingKink]: Tipped 500 tokens! SHOW US! Open those legs and show us that pussy now!
[User: RawDogger]: I'll pay anything to see you dripping for us, you filthy doll.
[User: VoidWalker]: Stop playing the innocent act and show us how wet you are!
Malaya giggled, a sound that was becoming increasingly hungry. She lowered her leg and reached over to the side and picked up a large, bright red lollipop, unwrapping it. She didnât take it straight to her mouth. First, she ran the hard candy slowly along the line of her jaw, then down her neck, trailing it over the valley of her breasts. Finally, she slid the lollipop into her mouth. She began to lick it with slow, swirling motions of her tongue, her eyes half-lidded and glazed. She sucked on the candy with a wet, loud slurping sound, her cheeks hollowing as she drew the sweetness in. She looked like a corrupted piece of candy herselfâsweet, colorful, and utterly decadent. As she sucked the lollipop, she began to use her free hand to tease the edge of the lace covering her crotch, hooking a manicured nail under and pulling it just a fraction of an inch away from her skin, teasing the chat with a sliver of her glistening, deep brown lips and dark pink flesh.
[User: BeastMode]: Tipped 300 tokens! Suck that candy like it's a dick while you pull those panties aside!
[User: PureSin]: Look at her eyes...she loves being watched. She's a total slut.
Malaya pulled the lollipop out with a loud, sticky pop, a thin string of glistening saliva connecting the candy to her lips. She let out a breathy, exhausted tease of a laugh.
âYou guys have been so patient,â she whispered, her voice sounding small and fragile in the quiet of the room. âI think itâs time I show you what a good girl Iâve been.â
She reached up, her fingers pulling the straps of her pastel pink lingerie down. She didnât just rip it off; she played the part, sliding the fabric slowly down one shoulder, then the other, teasing the edge of the lace against her skin. As the bra fell away, her breasts spilled out, dark, gum drop nipples hard and peaking in the cool air. She let the garment rest around her waist, leaving her chest bare and heaving, her breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps that she knew the microphone was picking up.
Then, her hands drifted lower, her fingertips grazing the edge of the lace covering her pussy. She hooked her fingers into the lace, pausing for a heartbeat to let the anticipation build in the chat. Slowly, agonizingly, she slid the lace to the side. One by one, each slippery pussy lip revealed itself, a slimy trail of her arousal clinging to the fabric. Clit poking. Labia twitching. The knee-high pastel socks that hugged her calves, adding to the coquette aesthetic she used as a shield.
Malaya spread her legs wide, exposing the depths of her fat pussy to the lens. She was drenched, her folds glistening and plump, the pinkish-red hue of her clit peaking through the wetness. She looked engorged, exposed, and utterly vulnerable, though her face remained a mask of shy innocence. She reached for the lollipop again, but she didnât put it back in her mouth. Instead, she pressed the sticky, sugar-coated candy directly against her pussy.
âMmm,â she moaned, her head rolling back, her pigtails splaying across the white rug. âIt tastes so sweet...I can feel the sugar melting right into me.â
She began to rub the lollipop in slow, circular motions around her clit, the glossy candy coating mixing with her own natural lubrication. The wet, slapping sound of the candy against her flesh filled the speakers. She pushed the lollipop deeper, teasing the entrance of her pussy, the sweetness of the candy contrasting with the saltiness of her own arousal.
âI feel so naughty,âshe whimpered, her voice breaking as she arched her back. âIâm being such a bad girl for you, SirâŠbut Iâm still your good girl, right?â
The chat was an absolute frenzy, a waterfall of demands and tips, but one username stood out, flashing with a generous contribution that had already changed the trajectory of the night.
Camera0ff
Malaya reached over to the side of the white fur rug, her fingers curling around a sleek, high-tech device. She held it up to the camera, bringing it close so the ring light caught every detail.
âYou guys...look what I have,â she whispered, her voice airy and laced with a curated shyness. âI want to say a huge thank you to MoTh3rL0ad88. Youâre so generous...you bought me this beautiful Bluetooth vibrator.â
The toy was a masterpiece of erotic engineering. A deep, midnight purple silicone that looked almost black under the lights, with a polished, ergonomic curve designed to hit every internal sweet spot. It had a smooth, seamless finish and a small, pulsing LED light at the base that glowed a soft, inviting blue, signaling it was paired and ready for remote command. It looked expensive, powerful, and utterly invasive.
âI think...I think Iâm gonna use it just for you guys tonight,â she teased, her eyes hooded as she looked into the lens. âIâm gonna let the chat decide exactly how I feel.â
Malaya spread her legs even wider on the pink blanket. She guided the rounded tip of the vibrator toward her soaking entrance. She let out a small, needy whimper as she pushed the silicone head past her outer lips, sliding it slowly into her tight, wet channel. The friction made her toes curl inside her pastel socks, and she gasped, her head falling back as she seated the toy deep inside her, leaving just the stimulating nub pressed firmly against her swollen clit.
She froze, her body trembling slightly, her hands gripping the edges of the fur rug. She waited, charged with an electric anticipation.
Then, it happened. A low, deep thrum vibrated through her core. It started on the lowest setting. A gentle, steady pulse that felt like a warm current flowing through her pussy. It wasnât overwhelming yet. It was a slow burn, a teasing warmth that began to wake up every nerve ending.
âOh..â she moaned, the sound soft and breathy, barely more than a whisper.
Her hand drifted down, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing the nub in slow circles. The combination of the internal vibration and the external pressure sent a wave of heat crashing through her. She rolled her hips, her pigtails splaying across the rug, her voice dropping to a fragile, needy tone.
âIt feels so warm...mmm, itâs just starting to wake me up,â she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut. âI can feel it...buzzing inside meâŠplease, someone...make it strongerâŠâ
âââ
10:42PMâSmokeâs Den
The frame is tight, a cinematic close-up focusing solely on a large, veined hand with thick fingers gripping a sleek, encrypted smartphone. The skin is smooth, the knuckles prominent, and the thumb is poised with predatory precision over the screen. On the display, a minimalist app interface glows. A simple slider and a series of preset patterns.
The atmosphere in the den is suffocating, a thick blend of Tom Fordâs masculine musk and the charred, caramel scent of Uncle Nearest 1856. The only light comes from the 120-inch laser projector, casting a ghostly, flickering glow over Smokeâs dark skin, turning the matte charcoal concrete of the wall into a living canvas of Malayaâs desperation.
Smoke is a statue of primal intent, sprawled deep in the black Nappa leather pit. His legs are spread wide, claiming every inch of the space, his chest expanded and glistening under the artificial light. He is the picture of disciplined agony. The bass from DâAngeloâs Voodoo vibrates through the floor of the den, a low, swampy auditory stimulation that mirrors the heavy pulsing in Smokeâs groin.
I feel like making dreams come true
Oh baby
When you talk to me
When you're moanin' sweet and low
When you touch me
And my feelings start to show, show, oh
That's the time
I feel like making love to you
That's the time
I feel like making dreams come true, oh babyâŠ
Below his navel, the ferocity of his arousal is on full display. His nine-inch dick is a rigid, unyielding pillar, gorged with blood and pulsing with a heat that feels like it could melt the fabric of his low-slung black shorts. Because of the way heâs leaning back, there is no place for his length to go but up. That dick is pressed flat against the lower wall of his abs, a heavy, thick ridge of flesh that carves a brutal path straight toward his belly button.
The athletic material of the shorts is stretched to its absolute breaking point, the fabric pulled so taut across the wide, flared head of his dick that the blunt silhouette is unmistakable. Every time he takes a slow, calculated sip of the amber whiskey, his abdominal muscles contract, causing his dick to throb violently against the cloth. Itâs a heavy jump. A desperate attempt to break free from the imprisonment of the fabric. A small, dark circle of pre-cum has already begun to dampen the black material, the moisture adding a slick, friction-filled torture every time he breathes.
Smoke refuses to touch himself. The ache in his balls is a dull, heavy roar, a pressure that would drive any other man to madness, but for Smoke, it is fuel. He channels that physical torture into the digital puppetry in his hand.
Smoke leaned back into the depths of his sunken black leather pit, the fabric cool against his bare skin. He wasnât touching himself. The arousal was purely psychological, a dark, pulsing blaze that settled deep in his gut and made his nine-inch thick dick strain against the thin fabric of his black athletic shorts. His heavy, thick shaft was rock hard, the wide flared head pulsing with every beat of his heart, but his hands remained steady. He preferred the power of the ghost in the machine.
Internally, he was a storm of possessiveness. Watching her on the 120-inch projector, her image towering over him on the matte charcoal wall, he felt a visceral surge of ownership. He knew every inch of her. The scar on her knee, the way she breathed when she was actually peaking.
His eyes narrowed, tracking every movement of her body on the screen. He watched her play the part, the faux-innocence in her voice. Good girl. The phrase tasted like iron in his mouth. He hated the act. Smoke enjoyed the tease, there was no doubt about it, but because he knew the woman beneath the costume, he knew she was a mess of need and anxiety, and he loved that he was the only one who truly saw her.
He could see it now. The way her thighs trembled, the glistening wetness coating her pussy as she rubbed that lollipop against herself. She was soaking, her body betraying her âinnocentâpersona. She thought she was in control of the narrative, directing the chat, managing the tips, playing the game.
You think you the one pulling the strings, Malaya, he thought, his gaze darkening. But I own the string. And after that date you had tonight, I think I need to remind you.
His plan was simple: total dismantling. Smoke didnât want her to just orgasm. He wanted to break her composure. He wanted to strip away the âGood Girl Gone Filthyâ act until there was nothing left but raw, uncontrolled desperation. He wanted the entire chat to witness the exact moment her curated performance shattered, leaving her gasping and sobbing for a release that only he could grant or deny. He was going to ruin her in front of hundreds, turning her professional show into a public execution of her modesty.
His face is a battlefield of disciplined lust and predatory hunger.
On the screen, Malaya guided the midnight purple silicone head of the vibrator into her tight, wet channel. Smoke watched her eyes flutter, her breath hitching as she seated the toy deep inside her.
The moment the device was fully submerged, Smokeâs thumb moved.
Slowly, almost agonizingly, his thumb slides the intensity bar just a fraction of an inch to the right. He keeps it on the lowest setting, a mere whisper of a vibration, designed not to satisfy, but to irritate the nerves, to create a craving that canât be scratched.
For a while, he watched her body warm up to it. The goosebumps on her flesh. The way her moans hitched. How she rubbed her clit and bit her lip. His dick bounced within the tight constraints of his athletic shorts. A painful erection that needed tending to but Smoke would rather edge than release. He was on a mission of destroying Malaya.
For making him feel the way he does. For being so goddamn fine. For invading his mind from sun up to sun down.
I got something for you, he thought.
Smoke didnât slide the bar this time. He flicked it. He jumped the setting from the lowest tease to a high, aggressive thrum.
He watched through the lens as Malayaâs entire body jolted. Her back arched violently, her fingers digging into the white fur rug, and a loud, genuine moanâone that wasnât for the tipsâripped from her throat. The sudden surge of power inside her was an electric shock, a violent intrusion of pleasure that bypassed her brain and went straight to her nerves.
Smoke let out a low, guttural exhale, a predatory smirk touching his lips. The game had officially begun.
Smokeâs thumb didnât just slide. It danced with a sadistic tempo across the encrypted screen. He began to cycle through the preset patterns, switching from a steady, aggressive drone to a series of sharp, erratic pulses. He wanted to keep her off-balance, denying her the ability to settle into the sensation, forcing her body to chase a peak that he kept just out of reach.
On the 120-inch screen, the effect was immediate and visceral. Malayaâs composure disintegrated. Her legs, still clad in those innocent pastel socks, began to shake with a violent, uncontrolled tremor. Her thighs clamped shut, then flew open in a desperate, instinctive attempt to either crush the toy deeper into her walls or push it away from the overstimulated nerves of her clit.
Smoke watched with a predatory intensity as her pussy began to weep, the glistening wetness coating the silicone head of the vibrator and leaking out in thick, clear strings that smeared across the white fur rug. He could see the internal contractions of her vaginal walls. The way her muscles gripped the device in starving spasms, trying to milk the vibration out of the machine.
He flicked the intensity to the absolute maximum.
Malayaâs reaction was primal. A guttural, strangled sound tore from her throat, a noise that was completely stripped of the âInnocent Girlâ persona. Her fingers clawed at the rug, bunching the fabric into tight knots as her hips began to buck upward in jagged, uncontrolled jolts. Her chest heaved, the pastel lingerie straining against her waist as she gasped for air, her lungs failing her. Her breasts shook and her ass gyrated.
His eyes are hooded, dark voids that donât blink, locked onto the 120-inch image of Malaya. He isnât just watching her. Heâs consuming her. Every time her thighs tremble or her back arches in a violent spasm. His pupils dilate, absorbing the sight of her surrender like a sponge. There is a slight, savagely crease between his brows, a mark of intense concentration, as if he is calculating the exact millisecond her willpower snaps.
He watched her toes curl tight, her entire frame vibrating in sync with the device buried inside her. The pleasure was so intense it had crossed the line into a form of exquisite torture. Her head snapped back, her neck tendons straining, and her mouth hung open in a silent, breathless scream.
Smoke leaned forward, his eyes locked on the way her stomach rippled, access skin from birth tightening, her core bracing for the impact of the waves he was sending through her. The faint pulse pitter-pattering against her jugular, blood rushing south, pooling in her engorged clit and drenched folds.
He suddenly dropped the setting back to a low, teasing crawl.
The sudden drop caused Malaya to collapse. She slid down the rug, her body going limp for a split second before she began to writhe, her hips grinding frantically against the air, begging for the power to return. She looked wrecked, hair coming undone from the bows, makeup smudged, eyes glazed and unfocused. She was no longer performing for the chat. She was a slave to the signal in Smokeâs hand.
He let her simmer in that desperation for a few seconds, watching her pussy twitch and pulse in a void of denied pleasure. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he slammed the slider back to the top and triggered the âChaosâ patternâa rapid-fire sequence of bursts and long, heavy vibrations.
Malayaâs body snapped taut like a bowstring. Her internal muscles clamped down on the vibrator with such force that she let out a high-pitched, sobbing moan. Her pelvis tilted sharply, back arching so hard her shoulder blades pressed into the floor, and her entire midsection shuddered in a prolonged, violent orgasm.
Smoke watched the way her pussy pulsed around the toy, the rhythmic squeezing of her walls visible even through the camera lens. She was shaking, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches, body completely surrendered to the digital ghost he controlled. He didnât stop it. He kept the vibration screaming inside her, pushing her past the peak, forcing her to ride the wave of an orgasm that wouldnât end until he decided she had had enough.
That mask had been incinerated by the relentless frequency Smoke was pumping into her. She was sprawled across the white fur rug, her limbs splayed and trembling, her head lolling from side to side. A thin, glistening string of drool escaped the corner of her mouth, trailing down her chin as her jaw hung slack. She was panting, the sound wet and desperate, her chest heaving so violently that her breasts bounced with every ragged breath.
âPleaseâŠâ she whimpered, the word barely a sound, more of a broken vibration in her throat. âPlease, Daddy...I canât... I canât take it...please!â
The word Daddy hit Smoke like a physical blow. He watched her on the screen, seeing the way her eyes were out of focus,her consciousness hovering on the edge of a blackout. Her voice had devolved into a series of high-pitched, needy keens and guttural whimpers, a symphony of surrender that told him exactly who owned her in this moment.
Below her, her pussy was a disaster of arousal. It wasnât just wet; it was overflowing. Thick, slimy trails of cream and arousal leaked from her drenched folds, soaking into the white fur of the rug in heavy, translucent patches. Every time the vibrator pulsed, more of her essence was forced out, spraying in tiny, glistening droplets against her inner thighs.
Behind the lace mask, her eyes are glazed with a heavy, shimmering layer of lust and total submission, her pupils blown wide until the irises are nearly swallowed by dark brown. Her eyes dart frantically, flickering with a mix of desperation and a total body surrender, glistening within the ring light like wet gemstones. Every time the vibrator spikes, her eyelids flutter and cross, turning her gaze into a raw, mindless expression of overstimulation that screams she is no longer in control.
The chat was a blur of chaotic energy. Tips were flooding in as the viewers watched a woman be systematically dismantled by an invisible hand. The screen was a waterfall of explicit demands and shock, but Smoke ignored them all. His world was narrowed down to the sight of her breaking.
Smokeâs dick was reacting violently. He remained still, his hands gripping the phone, but his thick length was twitching beneath the fabric of his black shorts. He felt the heavy, thick head of his dick throb in sync with her moans, the veins pulsing with a pressure that felt like it might burst. He was rock hard, strained to the absolute limit, his body buzzing with the reflected energy of her agony and ecstasy.
He saw the moment it happened. Malayaâs entire body suddenly locked. Her toes curled so tight they cramped, and her hips gave one final, desperate upward thrust, her pelvis tilting sharply toward the ceiling.
A sharp, piercing squeal tore from her throatâa sound of total overload.
Then, she erupted.
It was a flood. A massive, violent jet of clear fluid exploded from her core, a torrent of squirt so powerful it sprayed across the rug and splashed against her own stomach. The force of the release was visceral, a physical eruption that shook her entire frame. The volume of the fluid was so immense, the internal pressure so sudden and overwhelming, that it acted like a piston. With a wet, suctioning pop, the Bluetooth vibrator was physically launched out of her pussy, propelled by the sheer force of her orgasm. It flew a few inches across the rug, landing with a dull thud, still vibrating weakly.
Malaya collapsed instantly, her body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She lay there in a widening pool of her own release, her chest heaving, her eyes vacant, completely spent. She was shaking in long, slow tremors, her pussy twitching and leaking, wide open and ruined.
Smoke stared at the screen, his dick throbbing with a punishing ache. He had never seen her lose control like that. He had pushed her past the breaking point, and the sight of herâsoaked, drooling, and utterly defeatedâmade him want to reach through the screen and claim every inch of her wreckage.
Smokeâs expression hardens. His gaze drops from her face to the glistening mess between her legs, his eyes narrowing with a possessive greed. He looks starved. He looks dangerous. The contrast is visceral: Malaya is a shattered wreck of pleasure on the scene while Smoke is a rigid, pulsing statue of restraint, his face a mask of absolute dominance, savoring the knowledge that he is the only one who truly knows how to make her scream.
He watched her weakly push herself up from the white fur rug, her movements sluggish and disjointed. She looked completely shattered, her eyes glazed and her lips parted, a thin string of saliva clinging to her chin. She looked like sheâd been hit by a freight train of pleasure, her pussy gaping and leaking fluid onto the floor.
When the screen finally went black, the âStream Endedâ notification flashing across the 120-inch projection. Smoke didnât move for a long minute. DâAngeloâs voice rushed back in through the speakers, heavy and suffocating. He stood up abruptly, the movement sharp and jagged. He began to pace the length of the sunken leather pit, his bare feet slapping against the cold, matte charcoal concrete. He was wired, his nerves screaming, his blood boiling with a cocktail of possessiveness and raw, unadulterated lust.
I need a blunt, he thought, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. I need to chill the fuck out.
But the internal command was losing the war against the impulse. Every step he took felt like he was fighting the urge to bolt out the door, jump in his car, and drive those thirty minutes to her duplex. He could almost feel it. The weight of her body as he scooped her up the second she opened the door, the smell of her sweat and pussy hitting him like a drug.
He imagined the carnage heâd leave behind in her apartment. He wanted to wreck her. He wanted to slam her against the wall, flip her over the kitchen counter, and drive his big dick balls-deep into her guts until she forgot how to breathe. He wanted to feel her tight walls gripping him, her screams echoing through the halls, marking her as his in a way a Bluetooth vibrator never could.
His chest felt tight, his lungs struggling to pull in enough air. With every breath, his stomach muscles flexed and rippled, tight with the sheer anticipation of a physical release that felt miles away. He let out a shaky, guttural exhale, his shoulders hunching.
Stop it. Chill. Play the long game, his inner voice hissed, but it sounded distant, drowned out by the throb in his groin.
Smoke stopped pacing and looked down. His black athletic shorts were stretched to their absolute limit. His dick was poked straight out, a rigid, pulsing tower that looked like a traffic cone shoved into the fabric. The wide, flared head was straining against the material, the veins thick and hard, twitching with every beat of his heart. He was rock hard, aching and heavy, the pressure in his balls becoming almost unbearable.
He stared at the protrusion, his breath hitching. He was a man of absolute control, a man who mapped out every move and monitored every variable, but looking at the sight of his own lust fueled by the image of Malaya soaked and broken on a rug, he knew he was dangerously close to the edge.
âââ
Elijah Moore had built his life on one principle.
Patterns rarely lied. People did.
His monitors glowed against the darkness of the office tucked above Edge & Thread. Three screens displayed different pieces of three different lives. A ransomware recovery for a music producer in Houston. Cryptocurrency movement connected to an old client in Miami. Security footage from a warehouse outside Atlanta waiting to be archived before sunrise.
Smoke moved through each task with practiced efficiency.
Windows opened. Code scrolled. Files decrypted. Logs disappeared.
By the time the eastern sky began trading black for blue, BLK TRACE had already earned more money than most people would see in a week. He leaned back from the desk, his eyes settled on a different monitor. A familiar route. A familiar vehicle. A familiar morning.
Malaya.
The timestamp rested in the corner of the screen.
Thursdayâ8:14 A.M.
She pulled into the daycare parking lot carrying Messiah against her shoulder. Even through grainy security footage, motherhood had its own flow. She positioned him higher with one arm while reaching for the diaper bag with the other. The little boy wrapped sleepy arms around her neck, unwilling to surrender his mama.
Smoke watched her disappear through the front entrance. Two minutes later she returned alone. She didnât drive toward work. His gaze drifted toward another monitor displaying nothing more than a street map layered with months of routine.
Colored lines crossed the city like veins.
Home â
Daycare â
Work â
Grocery store â
Gas station â
Home again â
Most days followed the same geometry. Thursdays didnât. Every ThursdayâŠthe route bent.
Honey & Oak.
Arrivalâ8:28 | Departureâ9:03
Thirty-five minutes. Every week.
The pattern had repeated often enough that software no longer needed to flag it.
He wasnât interested in coffee. He was interested in decisions. People revealed themselves through repetition. Through what they returned to when nobody was watching.
His fingers rested against the desk.
Thirty-five minutes. Every Thursday.
Why?
He opened another window.
Property records.
Honey & Oak.
Family owned. Nearly eighteen years in business. No police reports worth mentioning. No financial irregularities. No history of violent incidents.
He closed it again.
None of that answered the question. Addresses explained where. They never explained why.
Smoke stood and walked toward the office window.
Malaya always made time for Honey & Oak. Not once. Not occasionally. Every Thursday.
His phone buzzed across the desk.
Stack: Lunch at Mama Deeâs?
Smoke looked at the message before setting the phone back down unanswered. His attention had already drifted elsewhere.
The following Thursday he parked across the street from Honey & Oak.
At exactly 8:27, Malaya pulled into a parking space. She lifted Messiah from his car seat, balanced the diaper bag, and walked toward the entrance. She stayed inside thirty-six minutes. When she came back out, she lookedâŠ
Lighter. Less burdened.
Smoke frowned almost imperceptibly.
The following Thursday he returned.
Then the Thursday after that.
He never entered. He never watched Malaya once she disappeared inside. Instead, he studied Honey & Oak itself.
The pace. The customers. The owners greeting people by name. The absence of hurry. The ordinary kindness exchanged between strangers. It wasnât just a coffee shop, it was a pause. A breather. An escape from reality passed those doors. One small piece of the week that belonged entirely to the people who stepped inside.
Smoke rested both hands on the steering wheel. For months he had believed Honey & Oak was another location on Malayaâs route. Another point on a map. Now he understood something different. This wasnât where she bought coffee, it was where she caught her breath. He looked through the windshield toward the front door.
If he intended to become a part of her everyday worldâŠthere would never be a better place.
Nor a more dangerous one.
Smoke reached for his phone.
Brick answered on the second ring.
âYou busy?â
âI got time.â
âI need to move my standing appointment.â
A brief silence settled between them.
âWhat day you thinkinâ?â
Smoke kept his eyes on Honey & Oak.
âThursday.â
âAight.â
Smoke ended the call.
Across the street, the bell above Honey & Oakâs front door swung open as another customer disappeared inside.
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