#myheartsaysyes

[myheartsaysyes]

“I Ain’t Never Lost My Woman” — Famous Last Words

a modern au Smoke x Annie Oneshot | Family Edition

A/N: Based on this☝🏾post. I put my psychology degree to use on this one y'all. 🫣😂

W/C: 6.6k

C/W: Language, use of the n-word.

The Moore household on a Saturday afternoon feels like organized chaos held together by love, snacks, and Annie’s ability to yell someone’s full government name without moving her lips.

The girls inside arguing over nail polish colors — Yselle (10) claiming lavender is hers and Célise (7) insisting she saw it first. The baby, little Eliane (4), drifts around the house with her princess doll dragging behind her, humming whatever song she last heard in Annie’s car.

By contrast, the back patio was quiet.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore sat sunk into the plush patio loveseat he swore was more comfortable than any couch inside the house. Gray sweats, white tee, chain glinting every time the mounted flat-screen flickered with the football game. The late-afternoon breeze lifted the edge of his shirt, brushing over the tattoos sprawled across his forearms as he leaned back.

A cold beer sweated in his hand, condensation rolling over his knuckles. Every few seconds, the bottom of the can tapped against the arm of the chair—steady, absent, that same quiet rhythm he always fell into when his mind was working harder than he let on.

From the yard, you could hear the commentators shouting, the crowd roaring, and Smoke’s low grunt of approval every time the defense did their job. But even with the TV loud and the game good, he was watching more than he was really seeing—thinking.

Or pretending not to.

The screen door slams, and their fifteen-year-old son stumbles out, backpack still on like he walked home from war instead of a friend’s house.

“Pop…” EJ groans, collapsing into the seat next to Elijah.

Elijah keeps watching the game.

“Yeah?”

EJ hides his face in his hands. “I think… I think Camryn and I broke up.”

Elijah stops watching the game.

Turns his head just enough to look at him.

“Camryn who? Little girl with the butterfly notebook always writin’ yo’ name?”

“Yes!” EJ practically wails.

“Well,” Elijah says slowly, “she had taste. Can’t account for judgment.”

“POP.”

Elijah grunts. “Aight, what happened?”

EJ takes a shaky breath. “She said she wants… a break.”

Elijah lifts a brow.

“A break from what? Y’all algebra homework?”

“POP.”

Elijah shrugs.

“You asked.”

“I’m serious,” EJ pleads. “I’m sad.”

Elijah leans back, sinking into the plush seat cushion beneath him. “Mhmm. I hear you.”

“You don’t sound like it.”

“I do.”

He takes a sip of beer. “Don’t trip, son. Y’all young. When she grow up and her brain turn on, she gon’ realize she fumbled somethin’ good.”

“DADDY.”

“WHAT?” Elijah argues. “That’s encouragement.”

EJ groans and drops his head to his knees. “I don’t know what to do.”

Elijah looks at him for a long moment. Then says, matter-of-fact:

“Well, I can’t help you, son. I don’t know what it’s like to lose my woman.”

He gives a helpless shrug.

“That’s you on some other shit.”

EJ jerks his head up, scandalized.

“If Mama was out here—”

“She’s not out here,” Elijah interrupted calmly.

Inside the open window above them, Annie is absolutely out here.

Or at least listening like the FBI with headphones on.

She freezes in place, holding a laundry basket against her hip, jaw slowly dropping.

…now I know this nigga not out here rewritin’ history. Ol’ lyin’ ass.

She steps into view at the kitchen window.

EJ sees her first.

“MAMA! Mama, Pop out here lyin’!”

Elijah doesn’t even turn around.

“Boy, stop bein’ a snitch.”

Annie emerges onto the porch with the full force of a woman who has receipts filed alphabetically and highlighted.

“ELIJAH MOORE,” she says sharply.

Elijah sighs like the universe is unfair.

“Damn, I ain’t even said it that loud.”

“Oh, you said it loud enough,” Annie says, placing the basket down. “You told our son you don’t know what it’s like to lose yo’ woman.”

“I don’t!” Elijah argues. “I still got you, don’t I?”

“Mm-hmm,” Annie says, crossing her arms. “2006 ring a bell?”

Elijah blinks.

Hard.

EJ turns so fast his neck cracks.

“…what happened in 2006?”

Elijah tries a weak attempt at gaslighting the timeline.

“Nothing—”

“EVERYTHING,” Annie cuts in.

“Annie—”

“You lost me for THREE MONTHS. And you told this child you don’t know what it feels like?”

EJ looks betrayed.

“POP YOU WAS DOWN BAD?”

Elijah glares at Annie.

“Woman, can we NOT—”

“Nope,” Annie says, dropping into one of the patio chairs like she came prepared with popcorn. “You wanna teach him? Let’s teach him what heartbreak looks like from BOTH sides.”

Elijah puts a hand over his face.

“Lord…”

“Tell him you cried,” Annie adds.

“I—STOP TELLIN’ MY BUSINESS.”

“You DID cry.”

“C’mon Mane—!”

EJ turns to Annie, starry-eyed.

“Mama, tell me EVERYTHING.”

Annie exhales, shifting into storyteller mode.

“Alright, baby. Let Mama give you the real tea.”

Elijah leans back and mutters under his breath, “This woman gon’ embellish like hell…”

Annie ignores him, eyes going distant with memory.

“It was raining that night, baby. I had just come home from work, and your daddy—he was already on edge. And when I asked him one simple question…”

Elijah groans loudly.

“Here go the dramatics—”

Annie speaks OVER him.

“…he shut down. Like he always did back then.”

EJ looks at Elijah.

“…you shut down?”

“I grew since then!” Elijah argues. “Damn, can a man evolve?!”

Annie snickers.

“Not fast enough.”

EJ looks between them, hanging on every word.

Annie leans forward, elbows on her knees.

“That night changed everything… because when I walked out that door, your daddy let me go.”

EJ’s eyes widen.

Elijah’s jaw clenches.

Annie turns her head, eyes meeting Elijah’s — soft, knowing, and a little amused.

“You SHOULD tell him what you learned from that.”

Elijah watches her for a moment.

Then sighs, dropping his head in resignation.

“That pride’ll ruin you if you let it,” he mutters. “Back then… I let it. And I damn near lost your mama for good because I ain’t know how to open my mouth and just say I was scared.”

EJ frowns. “Scared of what?”

Smoke looks out over the yard — like the memory sits there under the pecan tree waiting on him.

“Everything.”

Annie reaches over, touches his knee.

Elijah’s hand covers hers.

Automatically.

2006 - Young Annie. Young Elijah. Young and so in love they were stupid with it.

The rain had been coming down since late afternoon, the kind that hits sideways and makes the whole world feel smaller. Annie’s curls were frizzing at the edges by the time she lugged her bag up the stairs to the little apartment she and Elijah shared.

Two jobs.

Eight hours on her feet.

Another two picking up extra shifts.

She was bone-tired, clothes sticking to her from kitchen steam and weather humidity.

But none of that was why her chest hurt.

It was the way Elijah had been acting for weeks—

Quiet.

Closed off.

Going out and not saying where.

Coming back and collapsing into bed like the world was on his shoulders but refusing to hand her even a corner of the weight.

She unlocked the door quietly.

Inside, Elijah was pacing.

His hoodie was half-zipped, hood up. He always did that when something ate at him—like he was trying to hide inside himself.

Keys in his hand.

Phone in his pocket.

Restless energy all around him.

He didn’t even notice her walk in at first.

“Elijah?” Annie said softly.

His head snapped up—too quick.

“Oh. You home.”

“You good?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

He said it too fast, staring at the floor too long to mean it.

The exhaustion inside Annie pressed against something tender.

All she’d wanted today was to come home to him.

To feel close.

To not feel like she was dating a shadow.

So she asked the question she’d been holding:

“Where you go last night?”

He froze.

And Annie knew—before he said a single word—that this was the hill he was going to die on.

He shrugged. “Out.”

“With who?”

“Just… out.”

“That ain’t no answer, Elijah.”

His jaw clenched. “Annie, not tonight.”

“No—tonight IS the night.”

Her voice trembled despite her trying so hard to be calm.

“You been out damn near every night this week. Comin’ in when the sun already up. You don’t talk to me. You don’t let me in.”

His shoulders rose and fell—defensive.

“Mane, why you always gotta get in my fuckin’ head?”

“‘Cause I’m IN yo’ fuckin’ life, Elijah!” she snapped. “I’m yo’ girl. I love you—what part of that look like a problem?”

He winced, eyes flicking away.

Annie stepped forward, pleading now.

“Baby, whatever goin’ on wit’ you, you don’t gotta handle it by yo’self. Just tell me somethin’. Anything.”

“You ask too many questions.”

Annie’s chin lifted a little, but her voice stayed calm — steady in a way that made the room feel smaller.

“If you answered me the first time, I wouldn’t have to keep askin’. I ain’t tryna argue with you—I’m tryna understand you.”

Elijah scoffed under his breath, irritated and defensive.

“Mane, that’s exactly what I’m talkin’ ’bout — all the questions.”

She sucked in a tight breath.

“I’m not yo’ opp. Why you actin’ like I’m out to hurt you?”

He flinched—just barely. Enough that she saw it.

And that made everything inside her ache.

“Elijah,” she said quietly, “why you shut me out every time somethin’ get hard?”

“I don’t shut you out.”

“Yes. You do.”

She gestured to him—hood up, posture defensive, keys in hand like he was already halfway out the door.

“You literally shuttin’ me out right now.”

He looked away.

That hurt worse than yelling.

Annie swallowed, voice soft and honest and trembling:

“I can’t love somebody who won’t let me love ’em.”

Something cracked in Elijah’s expression.

A flicker of fear.

Vulnerability.

The kind of look that said he felt everything she said—

and didn’t know what to do with it.

“Maybe I’m just not good at this shit,” he whispered.

“Then let’s learn together,” she pleaded. “I want to. I want YOU. But you keep pushin’ me off like I’m askin’ for somethin’ crazy.”

Silence.

Rain hammered the windows.

Elijah opened his mouth—

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

Then said nothing.

Instead, he muttered the words that would break them:

“…Mane, do what you want.”

Annie blinked.

“You serious right now?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t feel like doin’ this.”

“Doin’ what? Communicatin’? Bein’ honest? Lovin’ me back?”

He threw his hands up. “Mane, Annie—chill out!”

“Chill OUT?” she scoffed. “So you can keep bein’ dry and weird? Nah, I ain’t chillin’ nothin’.”

He didn’t answer.

And that?

That was enough.

Annie grabbed her purse with hands that weren’t steady.

“… you not gon’ keep treatin’ me like I’m disposable. I’m not beggin’ you to talk to me. Not doin’ that.”

“Mane, c’mon…” he muttered—but he didn’t move toward her. Didn’t take her hand. Didn’t reach for her.

Annie waited.

One beat.

Two.

Three.

He didn’t come.

So she opened the door.

The rain echoed down the hallway behind her, cool air sweeping across her face.

“Elijah,” she said one last time, voice breaking, “I can only knock on a closed door so many times. I’m done.”

And she walked.

He didn’t stop her.

The door closed behind her like a quiet, devastating final word.

Elijah wasn’t built for stillness.

Stillness let thoughts get too loud.

Stillness made you hear your heartbeat in ways that felt like warnings.

Stillness meant acknowledging the things he ignored so well when he was moving.

So after Annie left, he moved.

He paced.

He drove.

He lifted.

He cleaned parts of the apartment he didn’t know existed.

He scrubbed dishes like they made a personal attack on him.

Anything but sit with the truth that he had driven the best thing in his life away.

But stillness always found him anyway.

Usually around 2 or 3 a.m., when the apartment felt too dark and the bed felt too empty.

He’d roll over automatically, hand sliding toward her side—

And catch himself.

Every time.

That sinking, gut-pulling moment when his palm hit cool sheets instead of soft curls and warm skin.

It was a physical ache.

He never told anyone that part.

Stack didn’t knock.

He never did.

“Bro,” Stack said, stepping inside with a bag of takeout. “You look like shit.”

Smoke was slumped on the couch, hoodie up, hood strings pulled tight like he wanted to disappear inside it.

“’Preciate it,” Smoke muttered.

“You eat?”

“Nah.”

“I figured.” Stack tossed the food onto the table. “You talk to her yet?”

Smoke didn’t look up.

“Drop it.”

“Why?” Stack asked, sitting across from him. “You scared?”

Smoke’s eyes flashed.

“Ain’t nobody scared.”

Stack arched a brow.

“You sure? ’Cause you actin’ like somebody who scared.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed.

“I ain’t chasing nobody.”

Stack shrugged.

“Cool. Let your pride suck yo’ dick at night then.”

Smoke finally snapped, “Mane, she wanted space!”

“No,” Stack corrected, leaning forward.

“She wanted you. She just didn’t want the wall you keep standin’ behind.”

Smoke looked away.

Stack went quiet for a moment, studying him.

“You miss her?” he finally asked.

The question hit the tender part Smoke had been protecting.

He didn’t answer.

Stack sighed, softer now.

“Smoke… you can’t act like losing her don’t matter. If you want her back, go say it. If you don’t, then fine. But don’t sit here sulking like somebody stole yo’ puppy.”

Smoke’s throat tightened.

Stack stood, heading for the door.

“Either you go to her, or some other nigga will. And I promise… seein’ that shit gon’ hurt worse than anythin’ y’all argued about.”

That sentence landed harder than Stack intended.

Because deep down, Smoke knew it was true.

It happened on a Wednesday night.

Elijah was standing in the kitchen with the fridge door open, staring at a shelf full of leftovers he didn’t want.

His phone buzzed.

He snatched it up so fast the charger ripped out of the wall.

Only to see a bank notification.

Not Annie.

Not a text.

Not a missed call.

Not anything from her.

And the silence hit him harder than any argument ever had.

He sat down at the table, head hanging, palms pressed to his eyes.

He whispered into the empty room, “Damn, Annie…”

The quiet answered back, cold and lonely.

He didn’t cry—

Not then.

But he felt the pressure behind his eyes, felt that knot forming in his throat like barbed wire, felt the kind of ache no one prepares boys for growing up.

The kind that makes your chest heavy and your breath slow and everything inside you too full.

That night, he finally opened his contacts and typed her name into his phone.

ANNIE ❤️

He just stared at it.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

But still—

He didn’t press it.

Because pride wasn’t done with him yet.

He didn’t mean to go to her job again.

But he ended up there anyway, parked in the corner of the lot, hood up, hands gripping the steering wheel.

He told himself he just wanted to see if she looked okay.

Make sure she was eating.

See if she wore that soft pink lip gloss he loved.

But that wasn’t why.

The truth?

He wanted to see if she looked sad.

Wanted to know she missed him even half as much as he missed her.

But Annie didn’t look sad.

She looked tired, but she smiled at her coworkers. She joked with the girl at the register. She pushed her hair behind her ear the way she did when she was in a good mood.

And then—

A guy approached her.

Tall.

Fade fresh.

Good-looking. Nah, he was aight, Elijah tried to tell himself.

Holding two coffees.

He handed her one.

Annie’s smile widened.

Elijah’s vision tunneled.

Not because she was smiling.

Not because the guy was talking to her.

But because—

For a split second, Annie looked light. Light in a way she hadn’t looked with him lately.

That was the knife.

That was what ripped him open.

In one instant, Elijah realized something impossible to swallow:

She was learning how to live without him.

He hated it.

Hated himself for letting it happen.

He gripped the steering wheel so tight veins popped across his forearm.

His chest felt tight.

His throat felt tight.

And before he could think, before pride could grab him by the collar—

He got out of the car.

Walked straight across the parking lot.

And said her name.

“Annie.”

Her whole body stiffened.

That smile vanished.

Her posture went guarded in half a second.

The coworker stepped back, sensing the tension.

Elijah swallowed hard.

“Can we talk?”

Annie crossed her arms.

“I’m on break.”

“I know.”

His voice was low.

“I won’t take long.”

She studied him—eyes softer than her voice.

“What you want, Smoke?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You ain’t call me.”

“You ain’t call me.”

His breath stuttered.

She wasn’t wrong.

“I’m… I’m not good at this,” he admitted. “I ain’t know what you wanted.”

“I wanted you,” she whispered. “But I can’t reach for someone who backs up every time.”

He looked down.

She said gently, “why didn’t you come after me that night?”

Because he’d never been taught how.

Because pride was easier than vulnerability.

Because admitting he was scared felt like peeling skin off bone.

Because losing her suddenly felt permanent and he didn’t know how to stand in front of that without running.

He didn’t know how to say any of it.

So he forced out the smallest piece of truth he could:

“…I ain’t know how to fight for you.”

Annie’s breath caught.

Elijah kept going, voice shaking for the first time in his life:

“Ain’t nobody ever fought for me. Not once. And when you left… I ain’t know what to do. I ain’t know how to. I ain’t want to say somethin’ wrong and make it worse.”

Silence.

Rain starting to fall again, soft and steady.

Annie’s eyes softened—heart breaking for both of them.

“You don’t gotta come perfect,” she whispered. “You just gotta show up. Honestly.”

He stepped closer.

“I’m showin’ up now,” he said. “Tell me what to do.”

Annie took a slow breath.

For a moment, he thought she’d step into him.

Thought she’d fold.

Thought she’d give him the relief his chest was screaming for.

But Annie wasn’t that girl anymore.

Not after the hurt.

Not after the nights alone.

Not after realizing she deserved a love that didn’t have to be chased.

She shook her head.

“Smoke… no.”

He froze.

Her voice was soft, but steady:

“You got things you gotta work on. Real things. And you can’t fix ‘em through me.”

His mouth parted, but she held up a hand.

“Listen to me. You say you showin’ up now? Cool. But showin’ up one time ain’t enough. Apologizin’ outside my job ain’t enough. Wantin’ me back ain’t enough.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t break.

“If you serious about me—if you serious about what we were—then you gon’ have to prove it. To yourself first. Then to me.”

Elijah felt something crack under his ribs.

“Annie—baby, I’m—”

She shook her head again.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me. I’m not takin’ you back just ‘cause you finally talkin’.”

Each word landed like truth carved in stone.

“You got growin’ to do, Smoke. Some questions you gotta ask yourself. Habits you gotta break and walls you gotta tear down. That ain’t a me job. That’s a you job.”

He swallowed hard—felt it burn all the way down.

She glanced at the door behind her.

“My break’s over.”

He blinked, tears in his eyes. “Already?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Already.”

She stepped back toward the door, rain misting around them.

Before she went inside, she looked at him one last time.

“Smoke,” she whispered, voice breaking just enough to prove she still loved him, “you can’t just come say sorry and expect everything to go back how it was.”

A beat.

One that bruised and healed at the same time.

“If you want me back…earn me. Change for real. Not for a day. Not after two weeks. But for real.”

Then she disappeared inside.

Leaving him outside—standing in the rain—with nothing but her last words echoing like truth he couldn’t outrun.

The door closed.

Just a soft click.

But it hit Elijah like someone slammed a casket shut.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Rain soaked his hoodie, sliding down his jaw, dripping from his lashes. He could hear muffled voices inside—the coworker talking, someone laughing, Annie answering a question.

Life continuing.

Without him.

He stood there long enough that the parking lot emptied out. Long enough that the rain shifted from steady to misty to steady again. Long enough that the coffee cup the coworker gave Annie got thrown out, and Elijah still hadn’t moved.

Finally, he dragged one hand down his face and whispered to nobody:

“Fuck…”

His voice cracked.

He headed back to his car, shoes squelching in little puddles. He sat in the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine. He put both fists against his forehead, elbows on the steering wheel.

He whispered it again—the confession that hurt worse the second time:

“Fuck…”

She didn’t take him back. Not even close. She called him Smoke. He knew what that meant when she did that.

And for the first time, instead of getting mad, instead of shutting down, instead of running—it hit him:

She was right.

He wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t good for her yet.

He wanted to be.

He did.

But wanting wasn’t enough.

She saw through him.

Saw the parts he ignored.

Saw the work he never bothered to do.

He sat there, jaw clenching, eyes stinging, chest tight enough to hurt. He refused to cry.

He swallowed hard, grabbed his steering wheel with both hands, and growled low under his breath:

“Aight, Elijah.

Figure. It. Out.”

Stack opened the door on the second knock, shirt off, sweats on, a plate of microwaved pizza rolls in hand.

He raised a brow.

“Mane, you look like a wet raccoon.”

Elijah shoved past him.

Stack blinked, then shut the door. “Aight… so we havin’ a crisis?”

Elijah dropped onto the couch, hoodie dripping.

Stack sat across from him.

“Talk.”

Elijah didn’t. Not at first.

Stack sighed. “You go see her?”

Elijah’s jaw ticked.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“She ain’t take me back.”

Stack nodded slowly, blowing on a pizza roll.

“Yeah. You deserved that.”

Elijah glared. “Mane—”

“Nope.” Stack held up a hand. “You not finna come in here and bark at ME when YOU the one that fucked up.”

Elijah clenched his teeth, but he stayed quiet.

“Exactly,” Stack said. “Now what she say?”

Elijah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“She told me I gotta work on myself. Real shit. Stuff I can’t fix through her.”

Stack paused mid-chew.

“She said all that? Word for word?”

“Yeah.”

Stack nodded, impressed. “Good. She smart.”

Elijah glared again. “You enjoyin’ this?”

“A little.”

Then Stack put the plate down and leaned in.

“Elijah… you love that girl?”

Elijah didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

“You wanna be with her?”

“Yes.”

“You ready to do what she said?”

Elijah swallowed.

The kind of swallow that hurts going down.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m ready.”

Stack clasped his shoulder.

“Aight then. Time to grow the fuck up, brother.”

It wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t pretty.

Growth never is.

Day 1:

Elijah went home and sat with himself.

Really sat.

Phone down.

TV off.

No distractions.

Just him and the silence he hated.

And he asked himself questions Annie had asked him for months:

Why do you shut down when you feel something?

Why do you walk away when someone tries to love you?

Why can’t you be honest without getting defensive?

And the answers came slow, heavy, painful:

Because he was terrified.

Because nobody taught him how to be open.

Because hiding was easier.

Because he didn’t think he deserved somebody like her long-term.

Because letting her see him scared felt like weakness.

Day 3:

He started journaling.

Yes, journaling.

Stack handed him a notebook and said, “Stop lookin’ scared. It’s just paper, nigga.”

Elijah wrote stuff like:

“I don’t wanna lose Annie.

But I don’t wanna keep breakin’ her either.

I wanna be someone who deserves her.”

Day 5:

He talked to Stack for real.

Not surface-level bro talk.

Actual feelings.

He hated every second of it—but he kept talking.

Stack listened without clowning him (too much).

Day 10:

He stopped disappearing at night.

Stopped driving around avoiding home.

Stopped distracting himself from thinking.

He sat with the fear instead of running from it.

Day 14:

He practiced saying things out loud:

“I’m scared.”

“I don’t know the right words.”

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

“I’m trying.”

Practiced them in the mirror.

Felt stupid.

But he practiced anyway.

She noticed.

Not because he told her—but because his patterns changed.

He wasn’t popping up unannounced.

Wasn’t sending long apology texts.

Wasn’t begging.

Wasn’t making promises he couldn’t keep.

Instead:

He respected her space.

He focused on himself.

He grew quietly.

He showed consistency.

He left a note on her car one morning:

“I’m workin’ on me. Not for a day. For good.”

No signature.

He didn’t need one.

She read it twice.

Then tucked it into her purse.

A month after that parking lot conversation, Annie saw him by accident.

She was leaving work.

Arms full of folders.

Curls tied up.

Sweat on her temples.

She spotted him across the street—hood down for once, hands in his pockets, eyes soft instead of defensive.

He didn’t cross over to her.

Didn’t call her name.

Didn’t chase.

He just nodded at her.

A small gesture.

Respectful.

Controlled.

A gesture that said:

I’m not here to pressure you.

Just here.

Still here.

Her heart did something small and painful and warm all at once.

She nodded back.

And that was it.

But it was enough.

A seed planted.

The beginning of believing he might actually change.

It happened on a Thursday.

Not a special day.

Not an anniversary.

Not anything symbolic.

Just a regular Thursday evening when the sky was purple and gold, the air humid, and Annie was walking home from the bus stop with her headphones in, replaying the past month in her head.

She had seen changes in Elijah.

Real ones.

Not loud, not showy — but quiet, steady, consistent.

He wasn’t popping up at her job.

He wasn’t blowing her phone up.

He wasn’t begging for forgiveness.

He was working.

On himself.

With Stack.

With that notebook he kept folded in his back pocket.

And tonight…she felt something shift inside her.

Not softness.

Not forgiveness.

But readiness.

When she got home and set her bag on the table, something in her paused.

She wanted to talk to him.

Actually talk.

So she sent a text.

“If you free, come by. We can talk.”

She regretted it immediately, pacing in circles.

Until she heard the knock.

A slow, respectful knock.

Not pounding.

Not desperate.

Just… present.

Her heart thudded.

She opened the door.

Elijah stood there in a black tee, jeans, and that chain she loved, but he looked different.

Not in his clothes—in his posture. Hood down. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes calm, not frantic.

He looked like a man who’d been doing work.

Hard work.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” she echoed.

They stood there for a moment — the kind that stretches time — before she stepped aside and let him in.

He walked slowly, carefully, like entering her space was a privilege now, not a guarantee.

She motioned toward the couch.

He sat first.

She sat across from him.

Silence filled the room — not tense this time, but open.

Finally, Elijah spoke.

“I’m not gon’ waste your time.”

Annie’s breath stalled.

He continued:

“I been workin’. On me. Not pretend work. Not ‘say sorry so you take me back’ work. Real shit.”

He paused, palms open on his knees, fingers slightly trembling.

“I been askin’ myself the hard questions. The ones you used to ask me and I ain’t have the words for.”

Annie swallowed.

“What answers you get?”

His eyes lifted to hers.

“That I been scared for a long time. Scared of losin’ you, scared of needin’ you, scared of lettin’ you see me weak. I pushed you away ‘cause it felt easier than bein’ real.”

Her throat tightened.

“And?”

“And I don’t wanna be that man no more.”

His voice didn’t shake — but it was close.

“For you. But… for me too.”

He leaned back slightly, letting the words sit in the air.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me tonight. I don’t expect you to say yes. I don’t expect you to make it easy.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees.

“All I want is for you to know I’m here. For real this time. Not runnin’. Not hidin’. Not shuttin’ down when shit get hard.”

Annie stared at him.

Really stared.

And for the first time, the wall behind his eyes wasn’t there.

“Elijah…” she whispered, voice trembling. “I’m scared too.”

He nodded slowly. She called him Elijah…finally.

“I know. And I won’t rush you.”

Her eyes shined.

“What do you want?” she asked softly.

He inhaled.

“YOU,” he said simply. “Not the easy version. Not the version that put up with my bullshit. I want the you that walked away because she knew what she deserved. I want the chance to match that.”

She pressed a hand over her mouth, tears slipping.

“Elijah…”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t try to hug her or pull her in.

He let her choose.

And that — more than anything — told her he’d grown.

Slowly, shakily, Annie crossed the room and sat next to him.

Not touching.

Not leaning.

Just close.

“I’m willing to try again,” she whispered. “But slow. And you gotta keep doin’ the work. Even when it ain’t fun.”

He nodded hard.

“I will.”

“And if we doin’ this—”

her voice thickened

“—you don’t get to disappear on me no more.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t get to shut down when you scared.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t get to let pride talk for you.”

“I won’t.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“Elijah… don’t break me again.”

He finally reached for her hand — slow, gentle — giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

He laced their fingers together.

“I ain’t letting you go this time.”

And Annie — exhausted, hopeful, scared, and still in love — leaned into him.

Just enough to say:

“Okay.”

Getting back together didn’t fix everything overnight.

They took it slow.

Week 1 — Boundaries & Honesty

Annie set rules.

“Don’t leave me guessing’.”

“Say when you’re overwhelmed.”

“No silent treatment.”

“No shuttin’ down.”

Elijah kept a notebook in his pocket — something Stack teased him for but admired anyway.

Whenever he felt himself closing up, he’d step away, write his thoughts, then come back and talk.

It wasn’t perfect.

Some nights he still stumbled.

But he didn’t run.

Not once.

Week 2 — Relearning Each Other

They didn’t jump back into intimacy.

Instead:

They took walks.

Cooked together.

Watched dumb movies.

Sat on opposite sides of the couch and talked until 2 a.m.

Shared fears.

Shared dreams.

Shared stories Elijah had never given anyone.

Annie said it gently one night:

“You okay with bein’ seen now?”

And Elijah answered honestly:

“I’m learnin’ how to be.”

Week 3 — Showing Up

He started showing up to her job with boundaries.

Not popping in.

Not checking on men.

Just to walk her home.

Quietly.

Respectfully.

He’d say:

“You good?”

“You eat today?”

“What you need from me right now?”

And Annie realized:

He was learning.

Really learning.

Week 4 — Forgiveness Begins

She didn’t forgive him in a single moment.

It was a slow softening.

The way he listened.

The way he didn’t get defensive.

The way he apologized without excuses.

The way he let her cry once — really cry — over how much he’d hurt her.

He held her but didn’t try to “fix” it.

He just said:

“I hear you. Keep goin’.”

And she did.

Week 5 — When Love Found Its Way Back In

They were sitting on her couch, her head on his shoulder, watching a movie they weren’t paying attention to.

Elijah turned his head and whispered:

“I missed you.”

Annie whispered back:

“I missed you.”

Then they kissed.

Slow.

Careful.

Earned.

Nothing rushed.

The kind of kiss that started slow but deepened—his hand on her waist, her fingers running under his shirt, both of them leaning in like they’d been starving for each other.

Kissing that turned into breathing each other in.

Kissing that turned into—

“WHOA—okay, okay, okay—Y’ALL can stop right there.”

EJ threw his hands up, face twisted like he’d just smelled spoiled milk.

“I do NOT need all this information.”

Annie laughs. Elijah smirks.

“Boy, shut up,” Elijah says, flicking EJ’s ear. “Let us finish this damn story.”

“No, PLEASE don’t finish it,” EJ begs, cringing. “I’m beggin’ y’all. My ears—my innocence—”

Annie swatted his knee. “Relax. We ain’t gon’ traumatize you.”

Elijah rolls his eyes. “Anyway—before I was rudely interrupted…”

They kissed.

Slow.

Careful.

Earned.

Nothing rushed.

The kind of kiss that said:

We made it through that storm.

Let’s build something better now.

The Future

That foundation became everything:

EJ.

Yselle.

Célise.

Eliane.

A home full of laughter and loud voices and love that had been sharpened by struggle, but not broken by it.

Elijah never stopped doing the work.

Never stopped showing up.

Never stopped choosing Annie.

And Annie?

She never accepted less than she deserved again.

Together — they became the kind of love you fight for and the kind of parents who teach their son how to love gently and their daughters how to expect to be loved right.

Back to Present

The patio finally quiets down.

The cicadas hum.

The wind moves slow through the pecan tree.

EJ, now sits on the steps on the front porch, elbows on his knees, staring out into the street like he’s solving the mysteries of the universe.

Annie and Elijah exchange a look from the front door — the one that says, go on, let's sit with our boy.

They both join him on the steps — Elijah on one side, Annie on the other.

EJ sighs, long and heavy.

“So… what do I even do now?”

Elijah nudges him with a shoulder.

“You tell us. After hearin’ all our business… what you think you learned?”

EJ pauses, looks at both of them, then squints at Elijah.

“What I learned? Besides the fact that my Daddy lies.”

Annie snorts so fast she chokes on her own spit.

Elijah jerks back. “Boy—what?!”

EJ shrugs, lips twitching. “I mean… you DID say you ain’t never lost Mama.”

He leans back dramatically. “Whole time you was outside cryin’ in the rain like a sad R&B video.”

Annie covers her mouth, wheezing.

“He got you, babe. He really got you.”

Elijah glares at both of them.

“First of all, ain’t nobody cry in no damn rain.”

Annie pats his back. “Mhm. Sure, baby.”

EJ laughs harder. “It’s okay, Pop. You still my guy.”

He taps Elijah’s arm. “Just next time? Just gone and tell the truth from the beginning.”

Elijah looks betrayed.

“I can’t believe I told y’all my business just for y’all to clown me.”

Annie kisses his cheek. “We clown you anyway.”

EJ then picks at a loose thread on his jeans, humor fading into something more thoughtful.

“I dunno,” he mumbles. “That I shouldn’t just… disappear ‘cause my feelings hurt. That I shouldn’t make her guess what I think.”

Annie nods softly.

“Mhm. Good.”

“And like…” He huffs. “I ain’t gotta act tough about it.”

Elijah mutters, “Facts.”

EJ glances up.

“And I should fight for her a little, right? Not beg, but like… show up?”

Annie leans her head against EJ’s shoulder.

“Baby, listen. Love isn’t about who chases the hardest. It’s about honesty. Consistency. Being real without being reckless.”

Elijah adds, “And don’t be petty.”

EJ rolls his eyes. “I ain’t petty.”

“Yes, you are,” Annie and Elijah say in unison.

He groans. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Annie smiles and brushes his loc from his forehead.

“So here’s what you do,” she says gently.

“You text Camryn. Something simple. You don’t beg. You don’t guilt her. And don’t hit her wit’ a paragraph.”

Elijah cuts in:

“Please don’t hit that girl wit’ a paragraph.”

Annie gives him a look. “Babe.”

“What? That ‘ChatGPT’ text gon’ send her runnin’.”

EJ laughs despite himself.

Annie turns back to their son.

“You say: ‘I hear you. If you need space, I respect that. But I’m here when you’re ready to talk.’

“Calm. Mature. No drama.”

Elijah nods. “Solid. Grown. That show her you not a little boy.”

EJ slowly nods, absorbing it.

“And after that?” he asks.

“After that,” Annie says, “you actually give her space. Not pretend space.”

“Meaning,” Elijah adds, “you don’t go postin’ sad lyrics on yo’ stories.”

“Pop—!”

“You don’t subtweet her.”

“Maaaann—!”

“And DEFINITELY don’t flirt with nobody else tryin’ to make her jealous.”

EJ throws his hands up. “Okay, okay! Dang! I get it!”

Elijah smirks.

“That last one sound real familiar, huh? YOU prolly tried that lil’ jealous stunt already.”

“DADDY!”

Annie covers her laugh with her hand.

Then her voice shifts — warm, serious.

“Baby… you don’t gotta be perfect. None of us are. But you can be honest. You can be patient. You can show her you ain’t switchin’ up.”

EJ stares at the yard again.

He nods slowly.

“I think I can do that.”

Elijah leans back on his palms, exhaling into the evening air.

“That’s all relationships are, son. Showin’ up. Over and over. Even when you scared.”

EJ glances between them.

“Did that… really change things for y’all? For real?”

Annie slides her hand over Elijah’s.

Elijah looks at her, eyes soft.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “It did.”

Annie squeezes their son’s shoulder.

“And it can change things for you, too. But if it don’t? That’s okay too, baby.

Elijah nodded. “Yo’ mama right. Trust me, son — one breakup ain’t end of the whole world. You gon’ have more love in your life. More chances. More lessons. You got a whole life ahead of you.”

EJ breathes out, steadier now.

He stands to go inside, pausing at the screen door.

“Thank you. For tellin’ me the truth. Even the embarrassing parts.”

Annie smiles.

Elijah groans.

EJ grins and disappears inside.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll text her.”

The screen door creaks shut.

Elijah wraps an arm around Annie’s waist, pulling her into his side.

“You think he gon’ be alright?” he asks quietly.

Annie rests her head on his shoulder.

“I think he’s gonna be better than alright. He’s learning earlier than we did.”

Elijah kisses the top of her head.

“Good. I want him to love easy. Not heavy like we had to learn.”

Annie murmurs, “He’s got a good example now.”

Elijah smirks a little.

“Yeah? Which one of us you talkin’ about?”

Annie nudges him.

“Both of us.”

They sit there awhile, the sun dipping lower, the porch steps warm beneath them.

Behind the door, EJ’s voice comes alive again —

Yselle complaining, Célise defending herself, Eliane suddenly crying about a marker cap that won’t go back on.

Elijah sighs, “Damn… back to work.”

Annie grins.

“Our circus.”

Elijah stands and pulls her up with him.

“Our circus,” he repeats, kissing her forehead.

“And we the clowns,” Annie says, laughing.

Elijah groans. “Speak for yo’self.”

They step inside together — a team, a partnership, two people who fought hard for each other and won.

Tag List:

@nika324 @partylikemajima @brownskincheyenne @lizbehave @anniensmoke3 @margepimpson @brownsugarcoffy @aellesa @lilblckraincloud @hdfen2474 @magnifique2be @lb-xci @loveabledovee @milkywayzard @katezy2x @nicanotnika @wakandamama @numb1smokeanniestan @sunshinerepublic @pennopencil @shereeluvssinners @chknnwffls @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @shamansha @tnychellee @blue4everrsworld @girlmath101 @bananajoeclone @ayishia101 @summrsovrinterlude @mmbee675 @lestatthelioncourt @nyifly22 @storiesbyasl @thebumblebeesworld @thedutifulone @theegyal @cocoagadgetsworld @hotebonynearby @sighsrollseyes @atpeaceinthestars

[myheartsaysyes]

Where My Shootas

a modern au Smoke x Annie Oneshot | Family Edition

Summary: Smoke takes his four daughters to the gun range for a little “bonding time.” Olivia is thrilled, Alexia is dramatic, Amaya is nervous, and Elise… would rather be anywhere else.

Chaos ensues.

But somewhere between flying brass, teenage attitude, and sister shenanigans, Smoke finds himself reconnecting with each of his girls — especially the one he feels slipping away.

Bless this man. He tried his best. 😂💛

A/N: This is a love letter to Girl Dad Smoke, written because @sunshinerepublic gave the most amazing fanfic prompts for Smoke x Annie here. They are all awesome, but when I saw this prompt, I had to write it first. I hope you all enjoy this fluffy goodness and @sunshinerepublic — I hope I did one of your prompts justice!

CW: FLUFFY CUTENESS!! I had THE WORST DAY EVER today, but being able to read this story again, before posting, brought me joy. 🥹💜

WC: 3.2k

“You sure this is a good idea?”

Annie asked the question while standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. She asked the way wives ask questions right before disaster: soft, sweet… and fully aware they’re about to watch their husbands walk into chaos with confidence and delusion holding hands.

Smoke was kneeling beside the bed, zipping up a black duffel bag with precision like he was prepping for a mission. In a way, he was.

Ear protection.

Safety glasses.

Ammo case.

Snacks.

Pink earmuffs for Olivia.

Hydration tablets because Elise “doesn’t drink tap water.”

He triple-checked everything.

He wanted this to go right.

He needed this to go right.

He didn’t want mistakes today.

He wanted connection.

He wanted his girls — all of them — to feel close to him again.

He finally shot her a look over his shoulder.

“I’m takin’ my daughters to the gun range,” he said, straightening up. “Not the damn Hunger Games.”

Annie snorted, walked in slow, and rested her hip against the dresser.

“Mmhm. And you say that like you forgot who your daughters actually are.”

Smoke zipped the duffel aggressively. “They gon’ be fine.”

She walked closer, cupped his cheeks with both hands, and kissed him gently on the lips, the kind of kiss that meant “I support you” and also “God bless you because you’ll need it.”

“You’re takin’ Elise—who thinks walking outside is a personal attack. Alexia—who thinks volume equals personality. Amaya—she’ll accidentally get knocked over then apologize to the air. And Olivia…”

“That’s my best friend,” Smoke said, pointing at her like that was the trump card.

“That is exactly the problem.”

He frowned. “What problem?”

“You two are… a dangerous duo.” She kissed him again. “And I love you both, but Lord help the other three.”

She turned to walk away — already smiling like she knew exactly how this day was gonna end — and Smoke reached out, swatting her backside with a playful smack as she passed him. Annie yelped and shot him a look over her shoulder, eyes sparkling.

“Really?” she said, grinning.

He shrugged, the duffel strap hanging from his hand. “What? I love you.”

“Mmhm. Good luck, Daddy,” she teased, disappearing down the hall with a sway he pretended not to notice.

Smoke watched her go, the bag suddenly feeling heavier… but his chest feeling lighter.

He whispered to himself:

“It ain’t gon’ be that bad.”

But when he stepped into the hallway and heard three different preteen arguments through closed doors?

…He wasn’t so sure.

The second all four girls piled into the SUV, Smoke realized he’d overestimated his own strength.

They hadn’t even pulled out the driveway good before the chaos began.

Like… instantly.

The moment the last seatbelt clicked.

Olivia — twelve, ponytail lopsided, wearing the pink “Girls Can Shoot Too” shirt Annie bought as a joke — bounced in the front passenger seat because she called shotgun before Elise and Alexia.

“Daddy! Daddy! Can I shoot the rifle? Can I shoot the long one first? Alexia said my arms are noodles but they strong, right? Feel my muscles—” 

She thrust her arm into his face.

Smoke gently pushed it away so he could see the road.

Alexia — fourteen, loud, stylish, hair freshly braided — leaned forward from the middle row dramatically.

“I ain’t say she weak! I said she got linguine arms — with olive oil on ’em. Completely different thing.”

Amaya — same face as Alexia, entirely different wiring — didn’t even look up from her massive fantasy novel.

“It’s really not,” she murmured.

Alexia threw her hand up. “It’s a description.”

“It’s an insult, Lex,” Amaya repeated, flipping a page.

Olivia gasped loudly in the front seat like she’d just discovered betrayal. “Daddy! She callin’ me pasta! You gonna let her?”

Smoke sighed. “I ain’t gettin’ involved in y’all’s nonsense before 10am. Y’all on y’all own.”

In the very back row, Elise — sixteen, makeup perfect, nails perfect, everything perfect — stared at her phone like the world annoyed her just by existing.

She rolled her eyes so hard her soul momentarily left her body. “Can we please get some Starbucks? I can’t be around y’all uncaffeinated.”

Smoke glared at her in the rearview mirror. “You sixteen. Why you need caffeine?”

“Because,” she snapped her gum, “I live with you people.”

Alexia gagged. “Oh my GAWD, Elise, you petty! I love it.”

“I’m not petty,” Elise said. “I’m honest.”

Smoke opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered prayer.

Olivia tapped his arm. “Daddy?”

“What,” he muttered.

“You look real handsome today.”

That softened him — he couldn’t help it. “Thank you, baby.”

Alexia gasped. “Favoritism! Caught in 4K! Write it down!”

“I’m not y’all’s villain today,” Smoke said, merging onto the highway. “Stop playin’ wit me.”

Amaya looked up long enough to say, “Too late. This is already a disaster waiting to happen.”

Olivia pointed at her sisters. “Daddy, they startin’. We need rules.”

Smoke gripped the wheel. “Rule number one: I pick the music. Rule number two: nobody complain about the music I pick.”

Five seconds later:

Elise: “Daddy, this is OLD. Why are they singing about pagers?”

Alexia: “The beat kinda fire though.”

Amaya: “Statistically, Daddy’s music isn’t that bad.”

Smoke smacked his lips. “Statistically? Girl—”

Olivia whispered, awestruck, “Daddy got a theme song. Like in the movies when the main character shows up.”

He smiled.

For a moment… peace.

Even the twins had stopped bickering, Olivia was humming to herself, and Smoke let himself believe — foolishly — that maybe, just maybe, this outing might stay calm.

Then Elise, eyes still glued to her phone, said, “I’m only here ’cause Mom said she’d get me that newest Fenty lip kit if I came.”

Peace shattered.

Smoke blinked at the road, lips tightening.

“Wow. Appreciate the honesty.”

“Anytime.”

He exhaled through his nose.

This was gonna be a long morning.

Smoke parked outside the facility — clean, modern, good ventilation, staffed by pros. He researched obsessively. His girls deserved safe.

Didn’t matter.

The moment they got out the car:

Elise wrinkled her nose so hard she almost folded her whole face. “Oh my God. It smells like… metal… and dust… and struggle.”

“Girl,” Alexia said. “We outside.”

“I can smell it spiritually,” Elise muttered.

Amaya whispered, “What does struggle smell like?”

“Like this,” Elise answered dramatically.

Alexia linked arms with Elise. “Honestly? You right. It do smell desperate out here.”

Olivia scampered ahead, ponytail bouncing. “This the BEST DAY EVER!”

“Slow down!” Smoke yelled automatically.

“I’m fast!” she yelled back proudly.

Amaya stood behind the group, awkward, clutching her book like it was a shield. “Is it loud? It’s loud, right? Should I have brought extra earplugs?”

“Baby, they got ear protection inside, but I also brought some from home,” Smoke assured her, raising the duffle in his hands. “You gon’ be fine.”

Amaya nodded slowly, still fidgeting with the corner of her book. Smoke reached out and squeezed her shoulder — just a little, just enough — and she leaned into it for half a second before straightening back up.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Inside, he signed waivers while the girls stared around like they were entering a zoo where the animals could shoot back.

The instructor started his safety talk.

Olivia raised her hand halfway through. “Um, excuse me sir, question — can I get the gun with the red laser on it? Because I wanna feel like a spy.”

The instructor blinked. “Uh… we can talk about that later.”

Amaya tugged Olivia’s arm. “Let’s please not get lasers right away.”

Elise was texting.

Smoke stared. “Put the phone down.”

“I’m Googling stuff!” Elise lied.

“Like what?”

Elise turned her screen. “I’m checking my horoscope to see if today is a good day to… ‘try something new and risky.’”

Smoke blinked at her.

“…And?”

“It said ‘no.’”

He inhaled a long breath.

This was going great.

They moved to lane 5 — the instructor handed out gear, then let Smoke take lead.

“Alright,” Smoke said, clapping his hands. “Who’s up first?”

Olivia shot her hand in the air like she was about to be drafted for greatness.

“ME. Pick ME. PICK ME DADDY.”

He chuckled. “Aight then, come on.”

Olivia — Daddy’s Bestie

He crouched down to her level, settling the small pistol into her hands — a size perfect for beginners. He checked her grip twice, adjusted her elbows, and tapped her stance with the toe of his boot like he was shaping clay.

“You ready?” he asked.

She nodded like she was about to fight crime, lips pressed tight in determination.

This was the kid who followed him everywhere: into the garage, into the yard, on errands, even into moments he didn’t think a child should find interesting. She’d sit beside him while he fixed things around the house, asking questions, swinging her legs, mimicking him.

She was his shadow. His echo. His hype man.

His little twin flame.

“When you breathe in,” Smoke said, guiding her shoulder, “hold it— then squeeze. Don’t jerk. Squeeze it slow—”

BANG.

Olivia lit up like a Christmas tree explosion.

“I DID IT! I HIT THE PAPER! DADDY LOOK I HIT THE PAPER!”

Smoke swallowed down a warmth that felt suspiciously like tears.

“I saw, baby. I saw.”

Alexia laughed. “Teacher’s pet.”

Olivia flipped her ponytail dramatically. “Don’t be jelly.”

Smoke hid his smile.

His youngest had no fear in her bones… and he loved it.

Alexia — The Drama Queen

Alexia strutted up like she was walking onto a set, not a shooting lane. One hip popped. Braids swinging. A full performance.

“Angle me toward the good lighting,” she insisted. “In case someone takes pictures.”

“Nobody takin’ pictures,” Smoke said.

“You never know. I look cute.”

She did. She always did. Alexia had been dramatic since birth — cried loud, laughed loud, loved loud. The kind of kid who rushed into his arms at full speed, tackling him like a linebacker, and who narrated everything like she was starring in a show.

He guided her hands into place.

“Feet shoulder-width apart. Relax.”

“I am relaxed—”

“You stiff as a board.”

“Wow. Disrespectful.”

She fired.

Screamed.

“OH NAH — that was LOUD! Why nobody warn me?!”

Everybody stared at her.

Even the instructor peeked around the partition.

Amaya whispered, “We did warn you.”

Alexia fanned herself with her hand. “My heart just did a whole TikTok dance.”

Smoke chuckled, but beneath it was something tender.

Alexia always acted brave. But she felt things deeply — heartbreak, embarrassment, fear. She cared what people thought. She cared too much sometimes.

He stepped closer, steadying her hands again.

“You did good,” he murmured. “Try again.”

Her chin lifted. “Oh. I will.”

Amaya — The Secret Sniper

She stepped forward like she was entering a library instead of a gun range — quiet, small, retreating into herself.

Smoke softened.

“Come here, sweetie.”

He adjusted her stance gently, hands hovering near her elbows so she didn’t feel crowded. She never liked being overwhelmed. Even as a toddler, loud noises made her fold into him like she was trying to disappear.

“You don’t gotta rush,” Smoke whispered. “Just breathe.”

She lifted the gun.

Paused.

Squeezed.

Dead. Center.

Alexia screamed. “YOU A HITTA!”

Elise squinted. “Wait… did you mean to do that?”

Amaya blinked, startled. “I… think so?”

Smoke stared at the target, impressed.

This was the kid who read books about archery, physics, angles. Who corrected people gently. Who noticed tiny details others missed.

She wasn’t loud.

She wasn’t flashy.

She wasn’t Alexia’s twin in personality at all.

But she was precise.

Focused.

A quiet storm.

“That’s my girl,” Smoke said softly, pride swelling in him.

Amaya looked at him and smiled.

She didn’t smile big — just the small half smile, a shy one she saved for him.

The one that meant everything.

Elise — Miss Too Pretty To Shoot

She approached like someone had dragged her forward with an invisible rope.

The sixteen-year-old version of the daughter who used to sit on his lap and hold his face with both tiny hands.

The one who used to try and braid his beard crooked.

The one who used to say, “Daddy stay with me,” every night.

Now she rolled her eyes and snapped gum.

She picked up the pistol like it offended her.

“This is… heavier than I expected.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said softly. “Pay attention—”

“I am.”

She lined up—

Fired—

And jumped so hard she nearly collided with Alexia.

Alexia doubled over. “OH YOU JUMPED LIKE A LIL—”

“SHUT UP,” Elise barked.

But she tried again.

And again.

Jaw tight, brows lowered, determined in the way she always hid underneath the teenage attitude.

Slowly — painfully slow — her shots got cleaner.

Smoke saw everything:

Her breathing starting to sync.

Her stance settling.

Her eyes narrowing with real focus — not fake teenage disinterest.

He saw the little girl she used to be flicker behind the young woman she was becoming.

It stung.

In a good way.

In a painful way.

In a way only a father could understand.

For a second, time folded:

Elise at five years old holding his face with sticky fingers.

Elise at ten running into his arms.

Elise at sixteen with wings growing faster than he could catch them.

“Good,” he murmured behind her. “You doin’ real good.”

She didn’t say anything, but her shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit.

And that was enough.

The lounge area smelled like popcorn and cleaning wipes. The twins argued over vending machine chips. Olivia posed next to a cardboard sheriff until Smoke said “Stop flirtin’ with the cardboard, get over here.” Amaya tried reading again but was repeatedly interrupted by Alexia yelling “SELF-CARE!” for unknown reasons.

Elise sat alone at a table, quietly scrolling.

Smoke watched her a moment.

Then walked over and sat down across from her.

“Can I sit?”

She didn’t look up. “You already sittin’, Daddy.”

“…Fair.”

“You mad at me?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“You bored?”

“Kinda.”

“You wish you stayed home.”

She shrugged, a tiny movement. “Not… really.”

Smoke studied her face — older than he remembered, but still his baby girl beneath the eyeliner and attitude.

“You ain’t my little girl no more,” he said carefully.

Her thumb froze on the screen.

“I mean you always gon’ be my baby… but you growin’ up faster than I know how to keep up wit’. And I been holdin’ onto the kid version of you instead of learnin’ the new one.”

He expected her to roll her eyes.

She didn’t.

Instead, Elise slowly set her phone down.

Her lips pressed together, fingers picking at the glittery edge of her phone case.

For a moment she didn’t look at him — she looked everywhere else:

the muted TV on the wall,

the vending machines humming nearby,

the scuff marks on her sneakers.

Her shoulders rose a little… then fell.

Finally she whispered, “I miss us.”

Smoke’s chest hurt.

“I miss us too.”

Elise nodded once, eyes dropping to her lap. She dragged her thumb along the corner of her phone case, breathing slow like she was choosing her next words carefully.

She swallowed. “I’m not tryin’ to push you away. I’m just… different now. And I need you to treat me like… like I’m gettin’ older.”

He nodded slowly.

“I can do that.”

They held eye contact a moment.

Tender.

Awkward.

Real.

“And… Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“I actually don’t hate this. Today.”

It wasn’t a glowing review but coming from a sixteen-year-old?

It was a damn Grammy speech.

She smirked. “That’s the most you get outta me.”

He laughed. “Fair.”

Back on the range, everything changed.

Instead of whining, the girls were suddenly competitive.

Excited.

Focused.

The twins started hyping each other up.

Alexia: “Oooohh! Look at my stance! I’m sturdy!”

Amaya: “Your feet aren’t even even.”

Alexia: “I’m sturdy EMOTIONALLY.”

Olivia practiced her stance like she was preparing for a SWAT team audition.

Alexia then started filming a slow-motion video of herself reloading and muttered, “I look badass.”

Amaya quietly hit center again, then apologized like it was rude.

Elise asked — literally asked — “Daddy, can you fix my shoulders? This feels weird.”

Smoke almost dropped the pistol out of pure shock.

He moved behind her, gently adjusting her arms. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You tense as a church lady in a nightclub.”

She snorted — SNORTED — then fired.

Bullseye.

She turned, startled. “Wait… I did that?”

Smoke nodded. “Yeah. You did.”

Smoke felt warmth bloom in his chest.

This right here?

This was everything.

Alexia proposed it.

“Contest time! Everybody gets five shots. Daddy too. Winner gets bragging rights.”

Olivia gasped. “Daddy ALWAYS wins. He a legend.”

Elise flicked her hair. “That’s why we need to humble him.”

Smoke: “You can’t humble me.”

The girls: “WE CAN TRY.”

Smoke tried to say no.

Three daughters booed him.

One (Amaya) stared disapprovingly.

Olivia said, “Daddy you scared?”

That did it.

Round: The Girls

Olivia: 2 hits — celebrated like she won the Olympics.

Alexia: 3 hits — flexed until Smoke told her to stop.

Amaya: 4 hits — quietly panicked at being good at something athletic.

Elise: 2 hits — argued passionately that one counted for double.

Round: Smoke

He stepped into position.

The girls waited.

He breathed.

Then—

BANG

BANG

BANG

BANG

BANG

Five shots.

Perfect cluster.

The girls groaned like he insulted them directly.

“Elijah Moore, you are SO— ANNOYING,” Elise whined.

“You a menace,” Alexia declared.

Amaya whispered, “It’s mathematically unfair to let him participate.”

Olivia cheered like she was his hype man. “THAT’S MY DADDY Y’ALL!”

Smoke holstered the pistol, smirk soft and smug.

“I told y’all,” he said. “Daddy cannot be humbled.”

The car ride home sounded like a chaotic podcast.

Alexia: “I came in second place.”

Amaya: “Actually you got—”

Alexia: “I SAID WHAT I SAID.”

Olivia: “Daddy and me won tho. As a unit.”

Elise: “The target moved during my turn. That’s sabotage.”

Smoke drove quietly, one hand on the wheel, the other on his face, smiling like a man who got back a piece of something he didn’t realize he’d been missing.

By the time they pulled into the neighborhood, Elise hummed softly as she scrolled. Alexia edited slow-mo footage of herself. Amaya read again, occasionally murmuring probability calculations about who should have won.

Olivia was naming her future guns (“This one Pinky, this one Justice, this one—”)

Smoke parked, turned off the engine, and let himself sit in the quiet a moment.

His girls.

Four of them.

Four personalities.

Four storms.

Four pieces of his heart walking outside his body.

He felt… proud.

And full.

And blessed.

The front door opened. Annie leaned out.

“So? How was it?” she asked, voice teasing.

Smoke got out of the car, standing straight, pretending he wasn’t tired.

“Best day I had in a long time.”

She smiled, slow and knowing. “I told you.”

The girls spilled out of the car and charged Annie, yelling over each other to tell her every detail.

Smoke watched them run inside.

He slid an arm around Annie’s waist.

“They had fun,” he murmured.

“So did you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I did.”

Annie leaned in to kiss him. “You survived the day.”

He sighed contentedly. “They my girls. Ain’t nobody else on earth I’d rather spend my Saturday with…besides you.”

Inside, the girls screamed:

“Mommy I was the BEST—”

“NO I WAS—”

“Daddy CHEATED—”

“HE DID NOT—”

“UNCLE STACK needs to hear about this—”

“DON’T YOU CALL UNCLE STACK—”

Smoke groaned.

“Lord give me strength…”

Annie laughed and pulled him into the noise — the laughter, the chaos, the life they built together.

And Smoke knew, deep down:

He wouldn’t trade a damn second of it.

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

Tag List:

@partylikemajima @brownskincheyenne @lizbehave @anniensmoke3 @margepimpson @brownsugarcoffy @aellesa @lilblckraincloud @hdfen2474 @magnifique2be @lb-xci @loveabledovee @milkywayzard @katezy2x @nicanotnika @wakandamama @numb1smokeanniestan @sunshinerepublic @pennopencil @shereeluvssinners @chknnwffls @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @shamansha @tnychellee @blue4everrsworld @girlmath101 @bananajoeclone @ayishia101 @summrsovrinterlude @mmbee675 @lestatthelioncourt @nyifly22 @storiesbyasl @thebumblebeesworld @thedutifulone @theegyal @cocoagadgetsworld @hotebonynearby @sighsrollseyes @atpeaceinthestars

[myheartsaysyes]

Sinners Masterlist

Thank you @lizbehave for creating this for me. You are such a beautiful person inside and out! 🥹💜

ME

Someone Like You

Smoke x Annie

One - Two - Three- Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight

Remedy: The Series

Modern AU | Smoke x Annie

One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Nine - Ten - Eleven - Twelve - Thirteen - Fourteen - Fifteen - Sixteen - Seventeen - Eighteen - Nineteen - Twenty - Twenty-One - Twenty-Two - Twenty-Three - Twenty-Four

Dead Air

Smoke x Annie

One - Two - Three - Four (coming soon)

Safe Hands

Smoke x Annie

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV

The Mixtape

Smoke x Annie

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V (coming soon)

One Shots

Modern AU | Smoke x Annie

Remedy: Part I

Remedy: Part II

Worth The Wait

Clouded In You

Extra Credit

The Reintroduction

Grand Theft Helmet

Read It to Me

Eyes Closed. Guard Down

Modern AU | Smoke x Annie x Family

Where My Shootas

“I Ain’t Never Lost My Woman” — Famous Last Words

Love, Multiplied

Our First Christmas 🎄

Midnight Don’t Wait

Modern AU | Stack x Annie

Make Me Feel

[myheartsaysyes]

Ashes Between Us

The Remedy Series | a modern AU Smoke x Annie

Summary: After the vault job turns to ash and Brew’s betrayal costs two brothers everything, Smoke and Stack face the one score they can’t split: the truth. Years of buried hurt sit between them in a dim safehouse. One wants to burn it all. While the other wants to be seen for once. In the fallout, Elijah finds refuge in Annie’s arms, while Elias drives until the road delivers him where he’s needed most. Eventually, the twins must decide if blood is thicker than silence—or if some fractures never mend.

A/N: Y’all, this one hurt to write. The boys are bleeding in ways bullets never touched. Thank you for riding with me and them this far—every comment, and every like warms this little heart of mine! We are almost done! 🥹💜

⚠️ Language and sexual situations ⚠️

WC: 6.5k

The news played faintly from Stack’s phone, the voice of the anchor filling the small safehouse with unwanted noise.

“Authorities still investigating the blaze at the estate of local businessman Brewster Gaines. Sources say—”

Stack muted it before the sentence could finish. The silence that followed wasn’t relief — just another kind of noise.

The safehouse was dim, air thick with the scent of metal and burnt powder. Four duffels sat lined on the table, their zippers gleaming in the half-light — untouched, heavy, patient. They’d counted twice — machine first, hands second. Four hundred thousand per bag. Enough weight to change a life or end one.

Smoke stood near the window, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a cigarette that had gone cold minutes ago. He hadn’t spoken since they got there. Just stared at the horizon as if it owed him an answer.

Stack sat across from the table, elbows on his knees, watching his brother. The space between them felt like a confession that neither of them wanted to make.

“You think the Feds’ll pin it on us?” Stack asked finally.

Smoke didn’t turn. “They don’t know our names.”

“Yet,” Stack muttered.

The quiet folded in again. The mini fridge hummed in the corner. A fly buzzed near the ceiling, slow and tired.

“So what now?” Stack said after a while.

Smoke flicked ash into an empty beer bottle and spoke without looking at him. “We get rid of it.”

“Get rid of what?”

“The money.”

Stack blinked. “Say that again.”

Smoke turned, voice low and final. “It’s blood money. Burn it, dump it, don’t matter how. Long as it’s gone.”

Stack laughed, a bitter bark that had no humor in it. “You lost yo’ damn mind? We almost died for that fuckin’ money. Dee died for that money. Malik too. And now you wanna throw it away like it’s poison?”

“It is.”

“Nah,” Stack shot back, standing. “It’s payment. The only thing we got to show for everything we done. For every body we dropped and every night we ain’t sleepin’.”

Smoke’s voice stayed calm. Too calm.

“You keep it then, you carry it. I’m done carryin’ this shit.”

Stack stepped in closer, chest rising fast.

“Since when you decide what we carry? You don’t get to drop yo’ half and leave me holdin’ the whole fuckin’ thing.”

Smoke looked away. “I’m tired, Stack. Tired in a way I can’t crawl out of. All this shit—carryin’ it, buryin’ it—it’s killin’ me.”

Stack scoffed, shaking his head. “Must be nice. You get tired, you get to quit. Rest of us? We don’t get that luxury.”

Stack’s tone sharpened, continuing. “You say we out the game, but you ain’t out nothin’. You still move like him — Brew. Cold. Calculatin’. Like the world’s a board and we just pieces you shuffle around.”

Smoke’s brow twitched. “Watch it.”

“What, I’m lyin’?” Stack took a step closer. “You talk like you the only one who got scars. You act like I ain’t been right here the whole fuckin’ time. You think I’m yo’ fuckin’ sidekick or somethin’?”

Smoke exhaled through his nose, the sound soft but tense.

“You done?”

“No, I’m startin’.” Stack jabbed a finger at his chest. “Every bullet that missed you missed me too. Every body that dropped, I helped dig the hole. But when people talk about Smoke — about you — it’s like I ain’t even fuckin’ there.”

He laughed, short and bitter. “I been yo’ shadow since we was kids. “The Other Twin”. The spare. You get the stories, the name, the fear. I get cleanup duty.”

Smoke turned fully now, eyes narrow. “You want a thank you for stayin’ alive?”

“I want to be seen, muthafucka,” Stack snapped. “You so caught up in bein’ the man that you forget you ain’t the only one been bleedin’!”

Stack’s chest heaved.

“You think Rico ain’t hurt? You think Ray ain’t hurt? Them niggas was ours. I pulled the trigger ‘cause I had to — but I felt that shit.”

His voice cracked.

“You ain’t flinch. Not once. You moved through them like they ain’t mean nothin’. Like Brew taught you.”

Smoke went still — not angry, not cold… something worse.

He swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice carried years he’d never said out loud:

“You think I ain’t feel it?”

A breath, sharp and uneven.

“I felt every one of ‘em. I just learned real young that if I let it show, I ain’t survive the day.”

He tapped two fingers against his temple, not dramatic — haunted.

“Brew taught me how to shut that part of me off. Told me feelin’ things made me weak. Told me a man thinks later — pulls now.”

His gaze dropped to the floor — not ashamed, but exposed.

“So I stopped feelin’ on purpose. ’Cause havin’ a heart ‘round him got people killed.”

He lifted his eyes, voice roughening.

“Don’t confuse quiet with empty, Stack.”

Stack blinked — stunned, but that heat was still there, the kind that made Smoke feel blamed for things he’d never asked for.

That’s when Smoke’s tone shifted, climbing from wounded to volatile:

“You think I wanted any of this?”

He stepped forward.

“You think I chose to be the one everybody run to when shit bad? You think it’s easy watchin’ everybody ‘round you fall and knowin’ it’s on you to keep goin’?”

Stack shook his head, voice rising. 

“Nah. You think it’s easy watchin’ my own brother disappear into a ghost of who he was? You let Brew turn you into him. I seen it happen! Every move, every word, the fuckin’ silence — you his echo, E.”

Smoke’s voice hardened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? That’s who you are now — Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore. Brew’s golden boy. His fuckin’ legacy.”

Smoke’s composure cracked — not in rage, but in rawness.

“You think I wanted to be his? He made me pull a trigger when I was fifteen! You don’t know what it’s like wakin’ up every day wonderin’ if your soul even still there.”

“And I had to watch it,” Stack snapped back. “Had to watch you disappear into his world. You stopped lookin’ at me like a brother years ago. I was just another soldier to you.”

Stack sucked in a breath, the next words dragging out of him before he could stop them.

“And you wanna know what really fucks me up?” 

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack swallowed hard.

“All them years I was right beside you, bleedin’ the same, runnin’ the same, killin’ the same — none of that made you wanna change.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed — the warning look.

Stack kept going anyway.

“But one girl?” He laughed under his breath, bitter and low. “One girl and suddenly you see a whole different life. Suddenly you done with the shit that been killin’ us both.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

Stack shook his head.

“Why she get the version of you I been prayin’ for my whole fuckin’ life?”

The silence exploded between them.

Smoke finally spoke — voice low. “Annie ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.”

“The hell she don’t,” Stack snapped.

“You chose her future. Not ours.”

Smoke stepped in close, tension humming between them.

“You jealous of her?”

Stack shook his head—sad, angry, both.

“I like her. She good for you. She good to you.”

His voice broke open. “But she ain’t the one who bled beside you. Been in the trenches wit you. I was.”

Smoke’s nostrils flared. “That’s what this about?”

Smoke’s face tightened — something flickering there. Something wounded.

Stack stepped closer, voice cracking through years of swallowed hurt.

“Soon as she showed up… I ain’t matter no more. You weren’t even gonna look back, Smoke. You were just gonna leave me in that life alone, but I’m used to that.” Stack sucked in a heavy breath before saying, “you always picked somebody over me. First Brew… even Rico’s ass, now her. You been leavin’ me since we was kids.”

Something in Smoke broke loose — a pressure valve ripping off its hinges.

“I BEEN TAKIN’ CARE OF YOU MY WHOLE FUCKIN’ LIFE!” Smoke roared, stepping in. His voice slammed against the concrete walls.

He yanked his shirt up, jabbing a finger at the frozen-clock tattoo inked over his ribs — the one they never talked about after that night.

“MY FIRST KILL WAS FOR YOU. YOU HEAR ME? FOR YOU. Everything I did — every choice, every fuckin’ line I crossed — I did that tryna keep you alive.”

His hand dropped. His voice didn’t.

“And you don’t even fuckin’ SEE it.”

He stalked forward another inch, eyes burning.

“Every time you fucked up, who fixed it? Every time you fell short, who stood in the gap? ME.”

He hit his own chest once.

“I BEEN CLEANIN’ UP YO’ SHIT, STACK — yours, Mama’s, everybody’s.”

Stack froze, eyes wide but unreadable.

Smoke’s chest heaved. “You talk about standin’ in my shadow, but who the fuck you think built the light for you to stand in, huh? You always had me to lean on, but who the fuck I have?”

The words hit the air like shrapnel — sharp, final, too late to take back.

Stack swallowed hard, his voice barely holding.

“That what you think this was? You think I needed you? You think I ain’t pulled my own weight?”

Smoke’s voice lowered again, trembling.

“You never saw or cared how heavy the weight got.”

That one broke something silent inside them both.

Neither spoke. Stack’s jaw tightened, eyes glassing over as he looked away.

“You think burnin’ that money gon’ fix any of this?”

Smoke looked down at the duffels.

“No. But maybe it stops it from burnin’ us.”

That was it. That was the end of the fight and the beginning of something worse.

Stack grabbed his jacket, not looking back.

“You wanna burn the shit, burn it,” he said, voice hoarse. “I ain’t watchin’.”

He pushed through the door, sunlight slicing across his face — the first clean air he’d breathed in days.

Stack slammed the door behind him, rattling the walls.

Outside, the sun hung low — too bright, too calm for what was inside him. He walked until he reached the far edge of the lot, knuckles flexing, pulse pounding.

Then he grabbed an old rusted pipe from beside the dumpster and swung — once, twice — until it clanged off the metal with a sharp, hollow ring.

Again. Again.

Until the sound turned to something closer to a sob.

He dropped the pipe, chest heaving, tears slipping down without permission.

He’d seen death a hundred times, but nothing had ever felt as final as that fight.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, took one long, steadying breath, and looked toward the horizon.

He wasn’t sure where he’d go. He just knew he couldn’t stay here.

Inside, the safehouse was silent again. Smoke sat alone at the table. The cigarette between his fingers had gone out.

He looked at the duffels, then at the silver lighter beside them — gleaming too bright for something born out of darkness. Brew had given it to him a years ago, the “twin” to the heavy gold lighter he carried everywhere. Same make, same weight… just silver instead of gold. On Smoke’s, E.M. was engraved into the side — not a gesture of pride, he realized now, but a quiet brand. A mark that said you’re mine long before he ever understood he was being claimed.

He thumbed it open. The flame bloomed clean and soft.

He stared into it for a long time. Then he closed it.

The apartment was dark when she stepped inside — the sun long gone, the only light a faint orange glow from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The soft scent of lavender and detergent lingered in her home.

Annie dropped her keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off her shoes, and headed for the kitchen. She flipped on the light—then froze.

Elijah was sitting at the kitchen table — elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing. No TV, no music, just the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.

He still had on the same clothes from earlier, sleeves pushed up, a line of fatigue cut deep around his eyes.

“Elijah?”

His gaze lifted slow, unfocused, then steadied on her.

“You just get off?”

“Yeah.” She studied him. “You cook somethin’? The house smells like rice.”

“Nah. Just boiled some water earlier. Forgot about it.”

She leaned on the counter, arms folded. “You look tired.”

“I’m good.”

“You don’t look good.”

He exhaled through his nose and looked away. “You eat yet?”

“Elijah.”

“I’m askin’ if you ate.”

“And I’m askin’ what’s wrong?”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what? Ask you what’s wrong?”

His hand twitched against his knee. “Annie.”

She stepped closer, her voice quieter now, not backing off. “It looks like you been sittin’ here in the dark for hours, baby. Just talk to me. What happened?”

“Drop it.”

“No. I’m not droppin’ noth—”

“I SAID DROP IT—FUCK!”

He slammed his fist on the counter so hard the glass beside him jumped. The sound cracked through the house like a gunshot. Annie flinched — not from fear, but shock. Elijah froze the second after it happened, breathing rough, eyes wide.

Annie stared at him, heart pounding, and something inside her snapped too. “You must be outta yo’ gotdamn mind?”

She stepped toward him, eyes hard, voice composed, but burning. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong wit you, and I really don’t know who the fuck you think you yellin’ at. But whatever’s eatin’ at you, you don’t get to dump that shit on me and act like I’ma just take it.”

Her words hit hard — the kind of truth that leaves nowhere to hide.

“I ain’t your punchin’ bag, Elijah.” Her arms crossed then — not in defense, but in that stubborn, protective way she had when she cared too damn much. 

“I’m your woman. The one who’s for you, not against you. But if you can’t open up and tell me what’s really goin’ on, then grab yo’ keys, hit that door, and don’t come back till you ready to talk like my man.”

Elijah stared at her, chest still heaving from the outburst. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the fight went out of him all at once. His shoulders sagged; his eyes lost that sharpness that was more defense than anger.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” The words came quiet, rough, half-broken.

He stepped back from the counter, palms dragging down his face. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too close. Without another word, he walked out into the living room and sank onto the couch.

The sound of him sitting — that quiet collapse — said everything his mouth couldn’t.

Annie followed after a moment, arms crossed tight at first, loosening the closer she got.

“Elijah, stop holdin’ everything in.” Her tone gentled, though it didn’t lose its edge. “You been carryin’ all this shit and actin’ like if you just sit still long enough, it’ll disappear. But it won’t. It’s eatin’ you from the inside out.”

He stared at his hands, fingers trembling slightly. Then his voice came, cracked open and low.

“Shit went bad, Annie. Real bad.”

She froze, throat tight but waiting.

“We hit the vault fine. Smooth. But the drop… Brew turned on us.”

He swallowed hard. “Dee got hit. Malik too. Before they died, they told me the truth — Brew been settin’ me up for years. Even the night I got shot…the night I met you, he sent that kid.”

Annie’s hand slid onto his arm. He didn’t look up.

“After that…” His voice frayed, thin and tired.

“We handled what we had to handle.”

A beat passed.

His eyes finally lifted to hers.

“It’s done.”

Annie stayed still. Her thumb rubbed the back of his arm, grounding him.

He dragged in a breath, his voice flattening as he spoke.

He paused, swallowed hard. “And today, me and Stack—” He stopped. “We said shit that been sittin’ between us since we was kids. Shit you can’t take back.”

The quiet that followed was thick. Annie let it sit, her hand finding his knee, warm and steady.

“I don’t know how we come back from it.”

She looked at him for a long time before she spoke. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe y’all just figure out how to live past it.”

He frowned.

“You still here. That means somethin’. But you can’t keep punishin’ yourself for survivin’. You can’t keep buryin’ it all. You do that long enough, it’s gon’ bury you back.”

Elijah’s eyes glistened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. “I’m tired, Annie.”

She slid closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then let me hold you till you remember how.”

He let go then — not loud, not wild — just broke open quietly. Shoulders shaking, breath unsteady against her neck, the way a man does when he’s forgotten what it feels like to be safe.

She held him tighter. Didn’t speak. Just breathed with him.

Time passed in small sounds — the clock ticking, the hum of the fridge, the quiet weight of two people remembering why they stayed.

When his breathing evened out, she brushed her fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

“You not alone no more, Elijah. You ain’t gotta be.”

He nodded once, eyes closed.

Annie’s lips brushed his cheek first, soft as forgiveness. Then lower, along the rough stubble of his jaw, down to the warm pulse at his neck. Elijah’s breath hitched when she lingered there, tasting salt and skin and the faint trace of the day’s exhaustion. She pulled back just enough to find his mouth, slow at first, coaxing, until he answered with a low sound and kissed her back.

She rose up on her knees, swinging one leg over his lap until she straddled him on the couch, thighs framing his. His eyes wide open now. He pulled her scrub top came off in one motion, tossed aside; he tugged the thin cotton tee underneath over her head, fingers trembling just a little. She answered by gripping the hem of his shirt and yanking it up and off in a single impatient pull, fabric catching briefly on his shoulders before joining hers on the floor. Her bra was simple, a pale blue, that he hurriedly unclasped. The straps slid down her arms and he peeled it away, letting it fall.

His hands found her breasts immediately, cupping the weight of them like something sacred. Thumbs swept over her nipples until they tightened into aching peaks. Annie’s head tipped back, a soft moan slipping free. Elijah leaned in, mouth closing over one dark nipple, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make her hips jerk. He moved to the other, greedy, worshipful, drawing the softest cries from her throat.

Her hands dropped to his belt, clumsy with want. The buckle clinked open; the zipper rasped down. She reached inside, fingers wrapping around his length—thick, hot, already swelling harder under her touch. He groaned against her breast, hips lifting into her grip.

His own hands slid down her sides, hooked into the waistband of her scrub bottoms. The drawstring gave with one tug. He dragged the fabric down along with her panties, slow enough to feel every inch of skin revealed. Annie lifted her hips to help, then whispered against his ear, voice low and liquid, “Vini jwenn mwen, ché… fouté mwen dou.”

The Creole rolled off her tongue like honey and heat. Elijah’s eyes flared. They broke apart just long enough to strip the rest—jeans shoved down, scrubs kicked off, everything landing in a careless pile. Then he yanked her back into his lap, mouths crashing together again.

Annie rose up on her knees, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding the blunt head of his hardness to her entrance. She sank down slow, eyes locked on his, watching his pupils blow wide as her wet heat swallowed him. When he was buried deep, she stilled, letting them both feel it—full, joined, home.

Elijah’s gaze dropped to where they connected, watching her lift and circle her hips, taking him deeper on every roll. “Teach me,” he rasped, voice gravel and reverence. “Teach me what you just said.”

Annie smiled, wicked and tender, and started to move. Slow, deliberate grinds that dragged a groan from his chest. “Vini jwenn mwen,” she purred, rising up until just the tip rested inside her, then sinking back down. “Means come to me… come love me right.”

He thrust up to meet her, hands gripping her ass. “Vini jwenn mwen,” he echoed, rough and hungry.

She rolled her hips again, clit dragging against him just right. “Fouté mwen,” she breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck me.”

“Fouté mwen,” he growled, slamming up harder.

“Dou,” she gasped, riding faster, breasts bouncing with every bounce of her thighs. “Gentle… soft… like you love me.” 

He slowed just enough to make her whine, then gave her one long, deep stroke that tore a cry from her throat. “Like I love you,” he growled, and meant it in every language he knew.

She laced her fingers with his, pinning their joined hands to the couch on either side of his head. Used the leverage to grind down hard, circling, chasing the bright coil tightening low in her belly. He met her thrust for thrust, hips snapping up, dick dragging against that spot inside her that made her dizzy.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice breaking.

“Fouté mwen dou, Elijah… fuck me gently… love me strong… love me—”

The orgasm hit her like a wave, rolling from her core outward, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. Elijah followed right after, burying himself deep and coming with a broken groan, hips jerking as he came.

For a moment they just breathed, foreheads pressed together, sweat cooling on their skin.

Then Elijah looked up, lazy and smug, lips curving. “I taught you well.”

Annie burst out laughing, the sound bright and startled, burying her face in his neck. She smacked his shoulder, light and playful. “Shut up, Elijah.”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding tight, and felt the laughter rumble in her chest against his.

The smell of butter and coffee pulled Annie awake before the light did.

For a second, she didn’t know where she was — just warmth, soft sheets, and the faint stirring of someone in the other room.

Then memory caught up.

Last night.

The yelling.

The silence.

The love making.

She sat up slow, adjusting the silk bonnet that had shifted in her sleep, her heart still a little heavy but finally beginning to ease.

The other side of the bed was empty, still dented where he’d slept.

She slipped out, tugging on some sleep shorts and one of his old shirts — the gray one that always smelled faintly like him — and padded barefoot down the hall.

The kitchen was full of soft light.

Elijah stood at the stove, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, bare feet planted solid against the tile. The window behind him caught the early sun, outlining him in pale gold.

On the counter: two plates, scrambled eggs, toast, a pot of coffee steaming hot.

He didn’t notice her at first. His movements were careful, deliberate — cracking pepper, flipping the last piece of toast — the kind of quiet precision that said this was more apology than breakfast.

Annie leaned on the doorway, arms folded, watching him.

“You know…” she drawled, “maybe we should fight more often.”

Elijah turned, startled for half a second — then that slow, crooked grin slid in.

“Why?” he asked, eyebrow lifting. “We ain’t fightin’ no more… are we?”

“No,” she said, stepping in closer, voice low and playful. “But if it means I get to see you in this kitchen… cookin’… lookin’ that good?”

She gave him an obvious once-over. “Might have to schedule another argument.”

Elijah laughed — a real one, deep and warm — shaking his head as he turned back to the stove.

“Girl, stop playin’ before I burn somethin’.”

Annie giggled, then her smile softened.

“But for real— you didn’t have to do all this,” she said quietly.

“I know.” He looked down, turning off the burner. “Wanted to.”

He set her plate in front of her, then sat across, elbows on his knees, eyes still heavy but clearer.

For a while, they just ate — forks clinking soft, coffee steaming between them. 

Finally Annie spoke. “You talk to Stack?”

He shook his head once. “Not yet.”

“You will.”

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “You so sure?”

“’Bout you two? Yes.” She took another sip of coffee. “Y’all don’t know how to stay mad at each other long. You both just too stubborn to admit it first.”

He stared at his plate, thumb rubbing against the edge. “Ain’t about mad, this time.”

“Then what?”

“About who we are now. Ain’t no plan after this. No jobs. No crew. No noise. Just… quiet. And I don’t even know what that looks like.”

She reached across the table, covered his hand with hers.

“Looks like peace, Elijah. Looks like breathin’ again.”

He studied her for a moment — her eyes soft, her voice level — and something inside him unclenched.

“You really think we can do that?”

“I think we already started.”

He didn’t smile exactly, but his shoulders dropped — the smallest exhale of relief.

The light shifted through the window, catching the thin smoke from the coffee, turning it into a ghost that drifted between them and then vanished.

Annie took his plate, rinsed it in the sink.

“We still going to see your mama tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yes we are.”

He came up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. For a while, neither of them spoke. The world outside was waking — cars passing, a dog barking somewhere down the block — but in that kitchen, everything felt still.

“You good?”

He nodded, eyes closing against her neck. “Better.”

And for the first time in weeks, he meant it.

Stack had been driving for hours without realizing he’d left the city.

The sun was already high, bright enough to sting his eyes, but he kept going — past gas stations, past long stretches of two-lane road, past memories he didn’t want to touch. He didn’t even remember pulling out of the safehouse. His hands knew the wheel; his mind floated somewhere behind him.

He hadn’t slept.

Hadn’t eaten.

Didn’t want to be anywhere people could look at him too long.

Eventually the road curved into a quiet neighborhood — the kind with trimmed lawns, slow-moving sprinklers, neighbors who waved at everyone. He exhaled through his nose, recognizing it before the welcome sign.

Mama’s neighborhood.

Of course he’d ended up here.

When he didn’t know where to go, his body always brought him back to her.

He parked in front of their mama’s house — the one he and Smoke bought for her a few years ago. A Southern suburban home with sharp rooflines and soft gray shingles, sitting easy on a manicured lawn. The driveway curved up toward a dark wooden front door framed by tall windows, warm light pooling behind the glass. Neatly trimmed shrubs lined the walkway, and the lone tree in the yard swayed gently in the breeze, casting shadows over the fresh mulch beds.

It looked peaceful. Safe. Exactly what they wanted for her.

Stack walked up to the door and knocked once.

Denise Moore appeared at the door opening it — she was small, beautiful, light brown skin glowing even in the shade. Her short pixie cut framed her face in soft, elegant lines, silver hoops in her ears. She always looked ready for company, even if she’d been asleep seconds ago.

Her hand pressed to her chest.

“Elias…”

He couldn’t speak.

She stepped back and gestured him in. “Baby, come on.”

Her house smelled of coffee and shea butter. Soft music played faintly from the kitchen speaker. Photos lined the mantle — the twins at ten, the twins at fifteen, one of Denise at her high school prom.

She walked slowly but steady, favoring her right leg — MS in remission, but never gone. Stack watched her move, the familiar tightness forming in his chest.

She turned toward him, studying his face with that same piercing observant gaze Smoke had. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You ain’t. Sit down.”

He sat on the couch. She lowered herself beside him.

A long, thick silence settled between them — the kind that only exists between a mother and her child.

Finally she said softly, “Tell me what happened.”

His throat tightened. He looked at the floor.

“It was bad, Ma.”

“How bad?”

“…we said things we been holdin’ in forever.”

Denise nodded once — slow, knowing. “You and Elijah.”

Stack leaned back, elbows on his knees. “Yes ma’am. I ain’t ever seen him that angry.”

“Sounds like y’all ain’t never been that honest with each other.”

He swallowed hard. “I told him he turned into Brew.”

Denise’s eyes closed — not out of shock, but pain. “Lord…”

“And he told me…” Stack paused. “He told me… he been takin’ care of me his whole life. That I wouldn’t be who I am without him.”

Denise didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch.

“He said other things too. Things I ain’t know he even felt.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder — warm, grounding.

“Baby… you know yo’ brother. He carries everything until it breaks him.”

Stack brushed a hand over his face. “I ain’t meant to hurt him. I was angry. And jealous. And tired. And he—he looked at me like I was another weight he had to lift.”

Denise didn’t speak right away — she let the words breathe.

Then:

“Elias… I need to tell you somethin’. And you might not like hearin’ it.”

He lifted his head, eyes dim.

“I made Elijah that way.”

Stack frowned. “What you mean?”

She took a breath, calming herself.

“When y’all were little… I was sick, broke, and drownin’. I dragged you two through hell hopin’ someone would save me. And when Elijah started comin’ home with money… I didn’t stop it. I told myself it was helpin’ the family, but what I really did was put a child in a man—adult’s place.”

Stack’s eyes softened, but she held a hand up — she wasn’t done.

“And every man I brought into our home? I thought one day one of them would step up and be what I needed. But they weren’t good to me. Weren’t good to y’all. I kept hopin’ I could love somebody into bein’ better.”

Her voice thinned — not fragile, but honest.

“I failed both of you in more ways than I wanna count.”

“Ma—”

“Let me finish.”

She moved closer, cupping the back of his neck the way she did when he was small.

“You think Elijah overshadowed you? Baby, he wasn’t tryin’ to be bigger. I made him bigger. I leaned on him. I let him believe he had to hold this whole family together. And I let you believe you were the second boy in the house instead of the second man.”

Stack’s eyes burned, but no tears fell. He blinked them back, jaw trembling.

“You are not less than your brother, Elias. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

He stared at her, chest tight.

“And don’t get it twisted,” she added, trying for humor but her voice cracked. “You turned into a good man. I mean… I don’t know about them women you pick — Lord knows I pray for ‘em — but everything else? You solid.”

Despite everything, a breath escaped him. Almost a laugh.

She touched his cheek, thumb stroking once. “You got a big heart. Bigger than you give yourself credit for. And that scares you — so you hide it.”

He blinked hard.

“You and Elijah… y’all need each other. But you also gotta learn how to stand next to each other. Not behind. Not in front.”

Stack looked down at her small hand on his.

“He think I don’t care,” he murmured.

“He know you do,” she said. “But right now? He hurt. And so are you.”

Stack finally let his head fall back against the couch cushion, breath leaving him slow.

Denise leaned into his shoulder.

“You go home when you ready,” she murmured. “Talk to your brother when you ready.”

A pause.

“And make peace with yourself first.”

He nodded — not fully, but enough.

For the first time in days, Stack felt something loosen in his chest.

Not fixed.

Not forgiven.

Just… possible.

Denise patted his knee once, then pushed herself up with a small grunt.

“Come on,” she said, wiping her palms on her leggings. “Help me cook.”

Stack blinked. “Ma… you don’t gotta—”

“I know what I gotta do,” she cut him off gently. “And right now, I need my son in the kitchen, handin’ me eggs and pretendin’ he know how to crack ‘em.”

A corner of Stack’s mouth twitched. “I can cook.”

“Mhm. And I can dunk a basketball,” she teased. “Get up.”

He stood, following her into the kitchen. She moved slowly but with purpose — opening cabinets, pulling down a skillet, handing him the carton of eggs.

“Fix the grits,” she said, “but don’t make ‘em lumpy. I ain’t raisin’ no heathens.”

He shook his head, smirking despite himself, and got to work.

For the next twenty minutes, the house filled with the familiar sounds of family — spoons tapping, stove clicking on, Denise humming an old Mary J. Blige run under her breath like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Stack stole glances at her — the ease of her smile, the strength in her small frame, the quiet joy of being beside her with no blood on his hands and no gun in reach.

He didn’t know he needed this until he had it.

When breakfast was nearly done, Denise nudged him with her elbow.

“After we eat,” she said, “you takin’ me to a movie.”

He blinked. “A movie?”

“A movie,” she repeated. “One with explosions. Or a fine man. Or both. And then we gon’ walk around Target for two hours pickin’ up things we don’t need.”

Stack huffed a laugh. “That’s what you wanna do?”

“That’s what we used to do,” she said softly. “Before life got loud.”

Something in his chest twisted — a memory, warm and aching.

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Ma. We can do that.”

They ate at the kitchen island — simple food, but Stack hadn’t tasted anything this comforting in years. Denise told him funny stories from her old job, cursed every man she ever dated, and swore she was still finer than half the women in Mississippi.

He didn’t argue.

When they finished, she started clearing the plates, and Stack reached to help — but his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

Monica: Hey, you good?

Stack stared at the screen for a long second — thumb hovering, mind replaying the fight, Smoke’s face, his own words, his mother’s voice.

He typed slow.

I’m straight. At my mama house.

Her reply was almost immediate.

Monica: Good. Stay there as long as you need.

Stack swallowed, feeling something he couldn’t name rise and settle again.

Denise looked up from the sink, eyebrow raised.

“Everything alright?”

Stack locked his phone and slipped it into his pocket.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Everything’s alright.”

And for the first time in a long damn time…

It almost felt true.

Evening settled low and warm over the windshield, the sky a soft bruise of pink and gold. Annie smoothed her hands over her thighs for the fifth time in ten minutes, palms catching on the fabric of her dress.

“Baby,” Elijah said without looking away from the road, “you gon’ rub a hole in them pants.”

“It’s a dress,” she muttered, tugging the hem again anyway. “And it keeps riding up.”

He smiled, that slow, easy way that always settled something in her. “You look good. Real good.”

She exhaled, studying her reflection in the side window. She wore a deep olive wrap dress, the kind that cinched at the waist and flowed soft at the hips. Her curls were pinned back on one side, gold hooped earrings catching the warm light whenever she moved. A subtle gloss shimmered on her lips — one she kept checking even though it hadn’t budged in an hour.

“What about my hair?” she murmured.

“Perfect.”

“My dress?”

“Perfect.”

“My—”

Elijah cut in gently. “Annie. You could show up in scrubs and my mama would still kiss you on the cheek and claim you as hers.”

That pulled a small laugh out of her, easing some of the tension in her shoulders.

He looked unfairly good himself — clean white tee under a dark pine-green cashmere cardigan, sleeves pushed to his forearms, collarbones peeking carved and warm. He wore tailored black trousers and soft leather sneakers, all simple, all quiet, but somehow unmistakably expensive.

On his wrist sat a Vacheron Patrimony — slim, elegant, subtle. The kind of watch only people who understood money recognized. The silver glinted when he rested his hand on the gearshift.

“You sure she’s gonna like me?” Annie asked, twisting the edge of her dress again.

“I’m positive,” he said, eyes softening. “You’re easy to love. My mama gon’ take one look at you and claim you before we hit the door.”

She smiled at her hands, heart beating too close to her throat.

“And that’s more than I got,” Elijah added, eyes returning to the road. “You remember how your brother looked at me.”

“That’s because you scare him.”

“I wasn’t even doing nothin’.”

“You breathed.”

Elijah chuckled, deep and quiet, and she felt the warmth of it settle over her.

A beat of silence passed.

Then Annie asked, “Did you talk to him yet? Stack?”

His smile faded. Not cold — just honest.

“Nah.”

“Are you going to?”

“Not yet,” he said. “We… need space. Me and him been stuck together all our lives. Always movin’ as one. Maybe it’s good we learn how to stand on our own feet for a minute.”

She nodded, watching the lines of his face soften in the fading light.

The neighborhood shifted as they turned — wide streets, porch lights glowing, tidy lawns with wind chimes whispering in the breeze. Denise’s house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac, painted brick warm in the dusk.

Elijah slowed.

Annie inhaled once, deep and steady.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”

But then she froze.

Stack’s car was already in the driveway.

Her eyes cut to Elijah.

He stared forward a second too long.

“Elijah…” she murmured.

He blinked once, jaw tightening in that barely-there way she’d learned to read.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I see it.”

Tag List:

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[myheartsaysyes]

can we see what you look like? 👀

Please enjoy this video of my amazing dance moves… in an attempt to be sexy. 🤭🫣

(This is what happens when y’all ask for visuals.)

[myheartsaysyes]

Will you do face claims for all the characters that we met in The Remedy series? I’m dying to know what Brew looked like.

I should have done this a LONG time ago because I’m sure y’all forgot meeting many of these people, and even I had to go back and look. 🤦🏾‍♀️

But I hope these give you visuals of what I had in my mind for The Remedy Series characters. There is one character in here you haven’t met yet. 🤐

[myheartsaysyes]

My writer friends…

Do y’all ever go back and reread your fics after it’s already been posted—liked, commented on, reblogged…and suddenly you see a typo.

Or a repeated word. Or a sentence that could’ve flowed better. And now you’re just staring at the screen like: “Why didn’t I see that earlier? What was I even trying to say here? I should delete the whole thing. Start a new life.” (Dramatic.. I know) 😩

But instead… you edit it anyway. Even though nobody complained. Even though everyone seemed to enjoyed it.

But those little mistakes make me itch and refuse to let me rest.

Yep… That’s me.

My own worst editor, beta reader, and hater all in one. 😭✍🏾

[myheartsaysyes]

Was Smoke aware he was basically confessing his feelings with that mixtape, or was Annie the only one who understood what it really meant? 👀

Short answer: No? He didn’t fully realize what he was doing. Smoke isn’t sitting there thinking “let me confess my feelings through a mixtape.” 😂 As a teen he does have kind of language, it’s just not verbal or fully conscious. Smoke picking the songs, ordering them, building a flow… that’s him communicating. But it’s instinctive, not articulated. He’s thinking in feeling, not in explanation.

That’s why Annie catching it later hits so hard for her… because he wasn’t saying “goodbye”. She’s basically reading a love letter he didn’t even realize he wrote.

The other part that stings a little for both of them knowing if she hadn’t moved away… he probably would’ve learned how to say it with words.