Future Emmy Winner

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[storiesbyasl]

Chapter Two: Monday

The sunlight was cruel.

Golden rays spilled across the villa bedroom, bright and merciless, dragging her from a restless sleep. She blinked against the brightness, mind foggy, body heavy. The first thing she felt was soreness — a deep, delicious ache between her thighs that reminded her exactly what had happened.

Her heart stuttered.

She rolled onto her side, eyes falling on the man beside her. He was sprawled across the bed, sheets barely covering his waist, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His tattoos looked even darker against his warm brown skin in the morning light. His face, so often animated with jokes and laughter, was soft in sleep.

And damn, he looked good. Too good.

She squeezed her eyes shut, cursing herself. What had she done?

This was supposed to be a fun getaway with friends. A break from the grind of work. A chance to drink too much, dance on tables, and laugh until her stomach hurt. Not… this. Not sleeping with her best friend.

“Morning.”

Her eyes shot open. He was awake now, lips curved into that familiar smirk. Only this time, it wasn’t the same old playful grin. There was something else there. Something satisfied. Something that made her stomach flip.

“Morning,” she murmured, pulling the sheet up to her chest.

He propped himself on one elbow, studying her. “Don’t go acting shy now. You weren’t shy last night.”

Heat flushed her face. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying…” He dragged a hand down her thigh, slow, teasing, making her shiver. “You look good in my bed.”

She swatted at his hand, sitting up. “We can’t… This was—” She stumbled for words. “It was a mistake.”

He raised a brow. “A mistake?”

“Yes.” Her voice wasn’t as firm as she wanted it to be.

“So you didn’t like it?”

She glared at him, but her silence betrayed her. Of course she’d liked it. Loved it. That was the problem.

He leaned closer, voice low, brushing over her skin like a caress. “You can call it whatever you want, but I know what I felt. And you felt it too.”

Her chest tightened. He was right — and that scared her more than anything.

Before she could answer, a loud knock banged on the door.

“Y’all up?” one of their friends called. “We’re doing breakfast downstairs before we hit the beach!”

She jumped like a guilty teenager. He just chuckled, stretching lazily.

“Saved by the bell,” he teased.

She shot him a look, scrambling for her dress on the floor.

By the time they made it downstairs, the villa’s massive kitchen was alive with noise. The friend group was gathered around the long wooden table — plates of tropical fruit, scrambled eggs, and mimosas scattered across it.

“Finally!” their friend Tasha exclaimed, raising her glass. “We thought y’all got lost.”

Her eyes darted quickly between the two of them. Too quickly.

Panic surged. Can they tell? Do I look guilty?

She slid into a seat across the table, keeping her gaze down as she poured herself orange juice. He, of course, strolled in behind her like nothing had happened, clapping one of the guys on the back and stealing a strip of bacon from another plate.

“Man, this villa life is something else,” he said easily, sliding into the chair right beside her — close enough that his knee brushed hers under the table.

She nearly choked on her juice.

“Facts,” Marcus said, already scrolling through his phone. “Yo, after breakfast, we hitting that jet ski rental or what?”

The table erupted into chatter, everyone debating plans for the day. But she could barely focus. All she could think about was the heat radiating from his thigh against hers, the way he seemed completely at ease, while her insides were tied in knots.

At one point, he leaned over, pretending to reach for the syrup, his lips brushing her ear. “Relax. Nobody knows.”

Her fork froze midair. She wanted to elbow him, but her body betrayed her, shivering at the closeness.

He pulled back, grin lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

Later, on the beach, she tried to lose herself in the rhythm of the waves. She stretched out on a lounge chair, oversized shades covering her eyes, a book open in her lap. The sun baked her skin, the salty breeze kissed her lips, and for a while, she managed to convince herself she was fine.

Until she felt his shadow fall over her.

“Need some sunscreen?”

She cracked one eye open. He stood above her, shirtless, holding the bottle. The sun lit him up like a damn Greek god — toned chest, abs tight, shorts hanging low on his hips.

She swallowed hard. “I’m good.”

“Lying,” he said smoothly, kneeling beside her. “You’ll burn.”

Before she could argue, he squirted some lotion into his hands and started rubbing it onto her shoulders. His palms were warm, strong, massaging circles into her skin. She tried to focus on the waves, on the laughter of their friends splashing in the water. But all she could feel was him. His touch. The way his fingers lingered a little too long at the base of her neck.

“See? I take care of you,” he murmured near her ear.

Her breath caught. She tilted her head slightly, whispering so the others wouldn’t hear. “You need to stop.”

“Stop what?” His lips brushed her temple as he leaned closer. “Touching you? Or wanting you?”

Her heart raced. She shut her eyes, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

Before she could decide, their friend Tasha called from the water. “Y’all coming in or what?”

Saved again.

She stood quickly, brushing sand off her thighs. “Yeah, coming.”

He just smiled, watching her walk toward the waves, eyes lingering like he owned the view.

That night, the group went out for dinner — a fine dining spot by the marina. Candlelight, soft music, waiters in crisp white shirts. Everyone ordered too much wine, laughing loud enough to draw stares from other tables.

She laughed too, trying to play her part. But every time she glanced across the table, his eyes were already on her.

When the check came, everyone stumbled out, buzzing with alcohol. The group split — some heading to a club, others back to the villa.

She ended up on the moonlit boardwalk, heels dangling from her hand, when she heard his voice behind her.

“You running from me again?”

She turned. He was leaning against a lamppost, hands in his pockets, smile soft this time.

“I’m not running,” she said quietly.

“Then look at me.”

She did. And for once, there was no smirk, no teasing. Just raw honesty in his eyes.

“Last night wasn’t a mistake,” he said, stepping closer. “You know it wasn’t.”

Her chest tightened. “It can’t be more than what it was.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“We’ve always been more than friends.” His hand brushed hers, fingers curling gently around hers. “You’re just scared to admit it.”

Her throat worked, but no words came.

The silence stretched. The night air was thick with salt and tension.

Then, before she could stop herself, she let her hand stay in his.

And just like that, she knew she was in trouble.

Tag List

@imqueenmelanin @myheartsaysyes @brownsugarcoffy @championshipshade @ayishia101 @caramelplug @lilchubbs @reelwriter19 @blue4everrsworld @anniensmoke3 @weariwant99

[dealore]

Summary : Annie's world shattered the night she delivered her daughter stillborn. Months later, nothing feels the same. Her husband Elijah turned distant, colder. When he started returning home bloody without wound, Annie realized her marriage wouldn't be the only thing at risk.

Aches - Aches

Read Aches from the story Aches by obsidianlaws (OᑲsιᏧιᥲᥒ 𓆉) with 2 reads. sinners2025, anniexsmoke, angststory. Disc...

For the wattpad girlie — I post the first chapter of the Smoke and Annie angst’s story on wattpad.

[blue4everrsworld]

Hey who wrote the fanfic where Annie is being chased maybe by the klan or just a random group of white men (same difference) and Smoke saves her and she spends the night with him ?

[honeyndsage]

HoneyLit

Elijah Moore x black oc

Chapter 4- Planted seeds

Celia Harland mother’s old house now runs as a boarding home with only two rooms left. She now cooks for the house, tends to the garden, keeps her head down, and barely speaks. Elijah rents a room during a hot, troubled summer while business is heavy in town. He quickly notices that she always leaves the porch light on for people to come, that she genuinely cares for her community. Celia notices how his tough exterior and the stories about him seem to peel away when he’s around her.

Slow burn, Hurt/Comfort, Tension, Childhood friends, Smut

Nova’s notes- I’m back in uni so idk how often I’ll post, but I definitely want to get this story done.

Celia didn’t usually plant in the heat of the afternoon. But something about the sun today made her restless, like she had to get up and do something.

She tied her apron higher, tucked the hem of her skirt up into her waistband, and sank to her knees in the side garden. The soil here had a stuborness to it, clay, heavy, and resistant.

Basil first, then tomatoes.

Her hands moved automatically, press, dig, loosen, pat. This was the kind of work she liked: slow, rhythmic, requiring just enough focus to block out the rest of the world. Dirt settled under her nails, cool on her skin. She didn’t mind it.

It wasn’t until she heard boots on gravel that she looked up.

Elijah stood just a few feet away, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand resting in his pocket. He didn’t say anything right away. He never did.

“You look like you’re fightin’ the ground,” he said eventually.

Celia blinked up at him, her voice low. “It fights back.”

“You want help?”

She hesitated.

Everything in her wanted to say no. Not because she didn’t need it, her knees ached and her back had started to get stiff, but because letting him help felt like opening a door she wasn’t ready to open.

“No thank you,” she murmured, returning to her work.

But Elijah didn’t walk away.

He watched her a moment longer, then disappeared down the gravel path toward the shed.

She didn’t think much of it. Assumed he was going for a walk, or back to his room. But ten minutes later, she heard the creak of the shed door, then his boots again this time crunching across the path toward her, a bucket of compost in his hand.

He didn’t say a word. Just set it beside her gently, then turned and went back to the porch without waiting for thanks.

Celia stared at the bucket.

Then she smiled, it was small, barely there, but it stayed on her lips longer than she expected.

She went to the grocer the next day. Just for staples, flour, sugar, vinegar, and something sweet for the older tenants. She moved through the aisles quietly, familiar in her routine.

That was when she heard them.

Two women in the canned goods aisle, talking low but not low enough.

“You see him walkin’ around town like he owns it again?”

“Mmhm. That Moore boy’s trouble. Always has been.”

“Thought they ran off. Now he’s back and skulkin’ around that boarding house?”

Celia paused, her hand hovering over the tin of peaches. Her fingers tensed around the metal edge.

“He ain’t no better than his daddy,” one of them muttered.

They didn’t see her.

She didn’t speak.

She just turned, set her basket down, and left without finishing her shopping.

By the time she returned, the sun had dropped low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the porch.

She froze halfway up the path.

Elijah was crouched by the screen door, sleeves pushed back again, a rusted screwdriver in his hand. The door groaned softly as he worked, lifting it, testing the hinges, adjusting the frame. He looked annoyed, focused. Like something about the crooked angle offended him personally.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t ask him why.

Instead, she slipped quietly inside, filled a tall glass with lemonade, cold, tart, touched with honey—and brought it back to the porch. She set it down on the windowsill beside him, where he’d see it. No thank you. No gesture. Just the glass, sweating in the heat.

Elijah didn’t look at her right away.

But when he reached for the drink, he let his fingers rest against the glass longer than needed. As if he was thinking about the intention, not just the refreshment.

That night, Celia sat in the kitchen long after the tenants had gone to bed. The house creaked with its usual night sounds, the slow stretch of wood, the wind brushing over the rooftop, the occasional hum of a passing truck on the road.

She sat in the same chair she always did, her hands wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea, but her thoughts felt heavier.

He didn’t say much, Elijah. And neither did she.

But he’d brought her compost without asking. He’d fixed a door that had been crooked for months. He’d watched her in the garden like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, not just with hunger, but something else, something older.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

But something told her he was listening.

Maybe not with words. Maybe not with warmth.

But with effort.

And she realized something as she turned off the kitchen light:

So was she.

Even after all these years, after all the silence and the stories, she was still listening for Elijah Moore.

@heartgirllover @laywritesalilbit @yana3sworld @thefutureemmywinner

@dexoxomuah @cocochannelmoi @mogul93 @cardi-bre91 @bendoverboo18

@plan3tch1ld @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @dollys-world224

@bananajoeclone @transparentphantomface

[thefutureemmywinner]

That’s it!!!!!!!!!

[shereeluvssinners]

Wunmi Essence Magazine shoot.

[brownlyfe]

FOREVER MY LADY

masterlist

pairing: michael b jordan x wunmi mosaku

cw: lazy sexual content

wc: even longer than too damn long

summary: after months of growing their relationship in the public eye, they decide to take things to the next level. now they’re trying to navigate life with the prospect of a new member to add to their family.

notes: this one is so 🥹 I was cheesing so bad writing this like woah. needed something to feed into my own delusion because of all the negative comments being made about them recently so enjoy. and I tagged y'all even though it's not necessarily sinners.

Three Months Later - Early July

The TV was playing some show they’d said they were finally going to catch up on. But the remote had long since hit the floor. Pillows were barely on the couch. A blanket bunched under Michael’s thigh. The room was a mess of heat, sweat, and motion.

Wunmi was facing away from him, spine arched, hands braced on his knees. Her hips working in a rhythm that was anything but sweet. Michael was leaned back on the arm of the couch, broad chest heaving, eyes fixed entirely on her.

His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging in just to ground himself. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that.”

There was nothing slow or soft about this it had just happened. One kiss during a commercial break turned into her straddling him, turned into heat, friction, and both of them chasing something they hadn’t been able to make time for.

“Damn,” Michael groaned, his head tilting back for a second, one hand sliding up her spine and then back down. “You know what that does to me.”

Wunmi didn’t answer, just moved faster.

They’d been like this for months, fitting moments like this in whenever they could. Early mornings, late nights, fifteen-minute breaks between her meetings or his rehearsals. Baby-making mode had taken over, but it never felt like a chore to them. 

Michael was in the middle of a demanding shoot schedule, juggling long days, strict training, and early call times. But no matter how wiped out he was or how early he had to be up the next day, if she wanted him, he was there.

More than that he always wanted her.

And right now, he was completely gone for her.

“Look at you,” he growled, watching her move. “Swear, you were made for me.”

Wunmi pressed harder into her rhythm, gasping when his grip tightened.

His voice dropped lower. “You want it that bad, huh? Want me to put a baby in you right here on this damn couch?”

She gasped, not just from his words, but the way he pulled her down harder the next second.

He grinned, eyes dark, breath wrecked. “Thought so.”

Nothing else existed outside of this couch except this moment, this promise they kept chasing. Michael was talking low, pushing her, whispering things against her back that made her shiver.

The moment teetered on something primal, not just about sex, not even just about making a baby. It was about them. The pull they had toward each other. The way their bodies knew what their mouths didn’t always say.

Michael leaned forward just enough to press his chest to her back, his lips brushing her shoulder.

“I got you,” he murmured, “however you want it. However long it takes.”

And she believed him.

-

The bathroom light hummed softly above her as Wunmi sat on the edge of the tub, two white plastic sticks laid out on the counter in front of her. She didn’t look at them right away. She’d already started to recognize the subtle weight in her chest when the second line didn’t show.

This wasn’t new. It was just another maybe that could turn into a no, again.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor instead.

Michael had gone out for a morning run. He didn’t know she was taking another test. She hadn’t told him about the last few times. Not because she was hiding anything, but because she hated the hope in his eyes. She hated the look that followed when she’d shake her head and say, “Not this time.”

The clock on her phone ticked past the three-minute mark.

Finally, she stood and leaned over the counter. Two tests, side by side. Both negative.

She didn’t cry like last time. Instead she just exhaled hard, her hand gripping the edge of the sink. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even heartbreak. It was an invisible ache that creeps in when something you want feels like it’s always just a little bit out of reach.

She heard the front door open and close a minute later. Michael was back from his run earlier than usual. She quickly swept the tests into the drawer, shut it, and reached for the hand towel to wipe her face.

“Wunmi?” His voice came through the hall.

“In the guest bathroom,” she called, trying to sound casual.

He stepped into the doorway, shirt off, headphones around his neck, breath a little heavy but eyes soft the moment he saw her.

“You okay?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

He came forward quietly, slid his arms around her from behind, and let his chin rest on her shoulder.

Wunmi closed her eyes, leaning back into his warmth.

“I think I’m done testing,” she said softly.

He nodded, not pushing.

“I’m gonna make an appointment with my doctor and get back on the pill. At least for now,” she continued.

Michael just held her tighter.

“You sure?” he asked, not because he doubted her, but because he needed her to know she had space to change her mind.

“Yeah,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just…I don’t know.”

He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing her cheek. “We’ve got time. All the time in the world.”

Wunmi nodded, resting her forehead against his chest. “I want a baby with you so bad.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Me too. Maybe we stop trying so hard. Just until after the wedding. We’ve both been stretched thin.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“It’s not that I don’t want it, Wunmi,” he added, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I want you to be okay, more than anything.”

Michael kissed her forehead, arms still wrapped around her like a promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “We’ll get there. When it’s time.”

-

The kitchen set was prepped for them with everything set up. A few cameras were placed around.The crew was silently observing Michael and Wunmi. Both had their aprons tied ready to go. Everything was intimate by design.

Michael was at his cutting board, chopping green onions, completely focused, but not too focused to talk.

“Remember that time we were supposed to be preparing for a scene, but we ended up talking for three hours instead? I was trying so hard not to ask to ask you out.”

“I know,” she said, eyes twinkling.

He smiled. “I didn’t know if you’d say yes.”

“You didn’t know I’d been waiting for you to ask.”

There was a pause as they both kept working, hands moving with quiet rhythm. Garlic hit the pan. A splash of broth. 

“Wedding planning’s going okay for you?” he asked, returning to the rhythm.

Wunmi gave a dry laugh. “You mean the emails I send at 2 a.m. and the ten-minute phone calls between your training sessions?”

“I mean all the decisions I pretend to help with.”

“Exactly.”

He snuck a glance at her dish. “That smells insane, by the way.”

“Michael–”

“I didn’t touch it!”

“Yet.”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, lifting a spoon like he might test his own broth but watching her instead, “this all feels kinda crazy.”

Wunmi looked up. “What does?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“This,” he said finally. “Standing here with you, cooking and talking about our future to the whole world.”

Her lips curled into a slow smile. “That’s because we do this all the time. This one just happens to be on camera.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“No,” she said. “Not with you.”

They were both in the zone now, flirting, talking, and teasing without even thinking about the cameras.

Michael reached toward the spice rack mid-sentence, grabbed a familiar little jar, and held it out toward Wunmi without missing a beat.

“Here–” he started, casually, offering it with the same ease you’d offer someone their favorite drink.

But Wunmi didn’t take it.

She looked at it for just a second longer than she should have, then shook her head almost imperceptibly and shifted her attention back to her pan. The motion was smooth and quick but Michael noticed.

Michael stirred his sauce, keeping his face neutral. Wunmi adjusted the heat on her burner, acting like nothing had happened. And from the outside, nothing really had. But something was there, just under the surface. Something only they noticed.

The moment passed, and the energy slipped right back into place.

They plated their dishes with flair just in time for the judge to step in. The tasting was short because everyone already knew what the outcome would be.

“Wunmi wins,” the judge said with a satisfied smile, setting down the fork.

Michael exhaled, threw his head back, and groaned. “I was robbed.”

Wunmi, glowing and grinning, bounced in place before stepping over to him.

“It’s okay, love,” she said sweetly, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Michael tugged her closer, arm draped over her shoulder like it was second nature. “I want a rematch”

She laughed, turned his face toward hers with two fingers under his chin, and looked him in the eye.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” she murmured, then kissed him. 

And he kissed her back, without missing a beat.

-

The sun was bright overhead, casting long shadows across the set’s gravel lot. Michael sat on a folding chair just off-camera, a towel around his neck and a half-empty water bottle in one hand. His stunt coordinator was talking through a reset, but Michael had tuned out halfway through.

He glanced down at his phone, looking at the time being displayed on his screen. It was 1:42 pm. His thumb hovered for a second, then tapped Wunmi ❤️.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, baby,” her voice came out low, scratchy, and groggy in a way that immediately made him frown.

“Were you sleeping?”

There was a pause on the other end, like she wasn’t sure herself. “Yeah…I guess so. What time is it?”

Michael blinked. “It’s almost two.”

“Shit,” she murmured, her voice muffled like she was rolling over. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just lying down for a second.”

He smiled, but it was laced with quiet confusion. “Didn’t you say you were going out today? You had a brunch thing.”

“I know. I was supposed to. I don’t know. I just got back from the shower, sat on the bed and I must’ve knocked out.”

Michael shifted in the chair, squinting toward set, but his focus stayed on her voice. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” she said, not very convincingly. “Just tired, I guess.”

Michael’s brows pulled together. Wunmi wasn’t a midday napper. Not unless something was really draining her.

“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

“I mean,” she exhaled, slow. “Not a lot. Just today.”

Michael let the silence sit for a beat. He wasn’t pressing, but not dismissing either.

“I miss you,” he said finally, voice lower. “Breaks don’t hit the same without you talking my ear off.”

That made her chuckle, sleep still thick in her voice. “You’re rude.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I like hearing about your day. I don’t like having to call you.”

She yawned softly on the other end. “I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to wake up properly.”

“You want me to order something for you?”

“I’ll find something here,” she mumbled. “Don’t worry, baby.”

He didn’t like that answer. Not from her. Wunmi was usually on top of her meals, her errands, her day. She didn’t just forget to eat or sleep half the afternoon away.

Michael glanced toward the crew again, then leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his jaw.

“Alright. Try not to pass out again before I’m off.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m checking in later,” he said, firm but sweet. “So be ready.”

“Okay.”

Michael hung up, eyes still on the screen for a few seconds after the call ended. His jaw flexed slightly, concern sitting just under the surface. Something was off. He could feel it. And he knew her well enough to trust that feeling.

-

The exam room was quiet, the overhead light too bright, and the AC vent too cold. Wunmi sat on the edge of the paper-covered table in a tank top and leggings, her hands folded loosely in her lap. She didn’t feel nervous, only tired. Still not fully rested from the strange nap that overtook her yesterday. Her body felt like it had been whispering things she couldn’t hear.

The doctor, a warm, straightforward woman Wunmi had been seeing for the last few years, sat on a stool with a tablet in hand.

“So,” she said gently, “you mentioned wanting to go back on birth control?”

Wunmi nodded. “Yeah. I think it’s time. We’d been trying for a while, but we decided to wait. At least until after the wedding. I want to get my body back to feeling normal again.”

The doctor gave her a kind smile. “Totally understandable. Any preference? Pill, patch, IUD?”

“I was on the pill before. I’d probably stick with that unless there’s something easier.”

“Okay,” the doctor nodded, tapping a few things on her screen. “We’ll talk through our options, but first I want to run a few basic panels. Just to check hormone levels and make sure everything’s functioning how it should. It’s always a good practice before restarting anything hormonal.”

Wunmi nodded again. “Sounds good.”

The blood draw had been quick. She had even texted Michael while waiting, letting him know she’d get food after and probably take it easy the rest of the day.

Now, back in the same room thirty minutes later, the doctor walked in with a different energy. Still calm, but something more focused. Her tablet was in hand, but she didn’t look at it right away.

“Wunmi,” she said, “we got your tests back, and I’m glad we ran them.”

Wunmi sat up straighter, brows knitting slightly.

“You’re not sick,” the doctor said quickly, reading the concern on her face. “But I won’t be able to prescribe you birth control today.”

“Why not?” Wunmi asked slowly.

The doctor turned the tablet toward her not that she needed to see numbers to understand what came next.

“Because you’re pregnant.”

Wunmi stared at her, silent for a full beat.

“I’m what?”

“Pregnant,” the doctor repeated gently. “It’s very early. But the hCG levels are clear.”

Wunmi blinked. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach. “I wasn’t even late yet.”

“Some people don’t notice right away. Especially if your cycles have been shifting. And based on the symptoms you mentioned, the fatigue, food aversions, the sleep changes, it tracks.”

She didn’t speak again. Her mind was already jumping to the missed signs, the tests she took just weeks ago, how she’d told Michael they were stepping back. How she’d started letting go of the hope that had been hurting her. And now, here it was.

“You okay?” the doctor asked softly.

Wunmi nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. At all.”

The doctor stood and placed the tablet aside. “We’ll schedule a follow-up for next week. But in the meantime give yourself time to sit with it. You’re fine.”

Wunmi exhaled, her hand still resting lightly against her belly.

And the first thing that filled her chest even through the shock was Michael.

-

The house was dim, lit mostly by the golden glow of one lamp in the living room. Wunmi had canceled her plans hours ago. Her dinner with friends and a quick fitting were all wiped off the calendar. She’d spent most of the day being still, drifting from room to room. She wasn’t panicked or overthinking. She was sitting with the shift inside her, as if her body already knew and was waiting for her mind to catch up.

When she heard the front door open, she didn’t move right away. She was folding a blanket in the bedroom, hands smoothing it out a little too precisely.

“Babe?” Michael’s voice called through the hallway, followed by the familiar thud of keys hitting the entryway bowl.

“In here,” she said.

He walked in a moment later, hoodie still on, tired from the day but lit up the second he saw her.

“Hey,” he smiled, stepping up to kiss her cheek. “How was your day?”

She kept folding. “It was fine. I didn’t do much.”

He paused long enough to catch that her tone didn’t quite match her words. “You stayed in all day?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I canceled everything so I could rest.”

Michael dropped onto the edge of the bed, tugging off his shoes. “That’s fair. You needed a quiet day.”

She gave him a soft smile, then turned to put the blanket on the chair, her back still to him.

“You had your appointment today, right?” he asked, tossing his hoodie aside.

Wunmi’s hands froze briefly on the blanket. She nodded, still facing away. “Yeah.”

Michael looked up at her. “How’d it go?”

She exhaled, then finally turned back to him. “You know, I went to talk about getting back on birth control, right?”

“Right,” he said, relaxing into the bed a little. “Which one did she end up putting you on?”

“She didn’t,” Wunmi said slowly, moving to sit beside him but not looking at him yet. “There were options, but she wanted to run a few hormone tests first just to be sure everything was where it should be before prescribing anything.”

Michael nodded. “That makes sense. It’s been a weird couple of months for both of us.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I thought too.”

He glanced at her, more focused now. “So? What happened?”

She paused.

“She couldn’t put me on anything.”

Michael’s whole posture shifted completely alert now. “Why?”

Wunmi looked at him with her eyes steady and voice even.

“Because you can’t be on birth control when you’re pregnant.”

The room went completely still. Michael blinked once.

“What?”

She nodded, lips pressed together.

“You’re–?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Michael stared at her for another second like the words were still sinking in, like his brain had heard them but his heart hadn’t caught up yet. And then it did.

His lips parted, eyes wide with something warmer. Something that cracked open and poured right through his chest.

“Wait…wait, for real?”

Wunmi nodded again, this time with the faintest shimmer in her eyes. “For real.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for months. “Oh my God.”

He leaned forward, hands slipping onto her knees, forehead pressed briefly against hers. She laughed softly, and it cracked something in both of them. He pulled back just enough to see her face.

“You’re really having our baby?”

“I am.”

Michael’s smile was growing.

“You sure it’s real?” he asked, like he just needed to hear it again.

“I saw it on the test, Michael.”

He let out a quiet laugh, eyes glossy now too. “Damn. So that’s why you were napping in the middle of the day, forgetting lunch, turning your nose up at garlic–”

“I knew you noticed,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“I notice everything about you,” he said, voice thick.

-

Wunmi sat at the edge of the bed in one of Michael’s tees, her legs folded beneath her, fingers playing absently with the hem. Her mind was still racing not with fear, but with the weight of knowing. The sudden clarity that the dream they had been chasing for months was already growing inside her.

Michael stepped in from the bathroom, shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes found hers instantly.

She looked up at him, her lips parted like there was something else she still needed to say, even after all the words they’d shared earlier. But he didn’t ask.

He crossed to her and knelt in front of her instead, his hands finding her knees gently, thumbs brushing over them like he needed to be touching her to ground himself.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said softly, his voice laced with wonder.

Wunmi blinked down at him, her eyes warm and glassy. “Me neither.”

Michael leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her thigh then looked up at her again.

“You wanna lay down?”

She nodded, and he helped her ease back onto the bed, climbing in beside her. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t move with hunger or heat. He just touched her like she was new again. Like everything between them had shifted into something he wanted to memorize.

He kissed her neck first, then her shoulder, then down the inside of her arm, like he was tracing the line of where love lived in her body.

Wunmi’s breath caught as his hand slid beneath the hem of her shirt, slowly exploring the soft curve of her waist, then her stomach. He paused there, fingers spreading over her skin with a reverence she felt all the way through her bones.

“I don’t even have the words for what this feels like,” he murmured.

“You don’t need to,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in.

He kissed her fully, deep and slow. A kiss that was more than just want. It was one of promise, gratitude, and worship.

When he moved over her, there was no hesitation. Just the smooth, steady rhythm of two people who had nothing left to prove only everything left to feel.

Michael’s hands were everywhere, stroking her thigh, brushing hair from her face, holding her hips as if to remind her that she was safe.

She gasped his name as he moved deeper, and he kissed her jaw, then her lips, murmuring quiet things against her mouth.

“I’ve never loved you more than I do right now.”

Wunmi closed her eyes, overwhelmed by how present he was. How connected they felt. Like their bodies were speaking what their mouths didn’t know how to hold yet.

They stayed close as he rocked into her with slow, deep intention. Like he was anchoring the news into her skin, her breath, her body.

When she came, it wasn’t loud. It was full, a trembling exhale, a tightening around him, and a whispered “Michael” said like prayer.

He came soon after, his body shaking against hers, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other still resting protectively on her stomach.

And when it was over, they didn’t separate. He stayed pressed to her, forehead to hers, their breaths syncing like they always did after.

“I love you,” he said, still inside her. “So much.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, her palm resting on his chest. “More than I knew I could.”

They stayed like that long into the night, skin to skin, hearts steady. Not just lovers anymore. Not just partners. But something even deeper.

A Week Later

The morning sun spilled across the hardwood floors slipping through the curtains just enough to make the quiet house feel alive. The air carried the soft scent of eucalyptus from one of the candles Michael had lit before making breakfast, hoping the calm energy might stick.

Today was Wunmi’s first official prenatal appointment. And luckily, it had landed on Michael’s one day off that week. 

He was in the kitchen finishing up dishes when he heard the click of heels behind him. He turned around, dish towel in hand, and just stopped.

Wunmi stepped into the light wearing the deep yellow backless sundress he’d bought her a while ago. The kind of dress he’d imagined on her when he first saw it hanging in the store, but until now, she’d never worn it. She’d always said she was saving it for something special. Apparently, today counted.

Michael’s lips parted slightly, the towel forgotten in his hand.

Wunmi noticed and arched a brow. “Too much?”

He shook his head slowly, walking toward her. “Not at all.”

She glanced down, smoothing the fabric against her hips, a little self-conscious now. “It’s a little tight up top.”

Michael stepped in front of her, lifting a hand to brush her curls from her shoulder so he could see the delicate curve of her back. Then he rested a reassuring palm there.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full. “Like damn girl.”

She smiled softly, still not used to how he could say something so genuine it made her forget what she’d been feeling before.

He kissed her cheek, then down to her neck. “You ready for today?”

“I think so,” she said, exhaling. “I’m a little nervous.”

He nodded, threading their fingers together. “Me too. But we’re in this together.”

They headed out shortly after, Michael carrying her water bottle, snacks, and a mental checklist of things he wanted to ask the doctor on her behalf, even if she rolled her eyes every time he mentioned it.

Wunmi didn’t say it, but she noticed the effort. Especially lately, with the mood swings starting to creep in. One minute she was content, the next overwhelmed for no clear reason. But Michael never made her feel like she had to explain it. He just stayed close.

And today, he had the entire afternoon planned; brunch after the appointment and a walk down her favorite strip. Because more than anything, he wanted her to feel steady and secure.

-

The waiting room smelled faintly like hand sanitizer and lemon-scented air freshener. Wunmi sat quietly beside Michael, filling out a form on a clipboard while he scrolled through his phone, occasionally glancing over at her responses like he could double-check them with love alone.

“Date of last cycle?” he murmured, eyes squinting at her handwriting.

“Stop it,” she said softly, but her smile gave her away.

A nurse called her name a few minutes later, and they both stood. Michael tucking his phone into his back pocket, his hand naturally finding the small of her back as they followed the nurse down the hall.

Wunmi stepped on the scale. Michael pretended not to look, though he did, obviously not judging, just filing it away, like everything about her mattered. He did the same for her blood pressure and heart rate.

“All good,” the nurse smiled. “Go ahead and leave us a sample in the bathroom there. The doc’ll be with you soon.”

Wunmi gave Michael a half-amused look as she disappeared with the cup.

He sat on the little chair beside the exam table, flipping through a parenting pamphlet until she returned, tugging her sundress back into place.

Dr. Franklin entered with a warm smile and a tablet in hand. She greeted Wunmi with ease and offered Michael a knowing nod, as if she already understood the kind of partner he was from the way he stood when she entered.

“So,” the doctor began, reviewing the file, “looks like you’re somewhere around 7 to 8 weeks based on your hormone levels and the dates you provided. We’ll get more specific with the ultrasound today.”

Michael straightened in his seat. “So, not just a little pregnant.”

Wunmi gave him a look.

Dr. Franklin laughed. “No, not little at all. A heartbeat should be visible by now, and you’re right in the range where most early symptoms start to intensify. How have you been feeling?”

“Tired,” Wunmi admitted. “And my mood's been all over the place.”

“Well,” Dr. Franklin smiled, “let’s take a look and get you both a visual.”

The lights dimmed slightly as the technician prepped the gel. Wunmi lay back on the table, nerves flickering through her body. Michael moved closer, standing beside her, holding her hand.

“There it is,” the tech said quietly. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

Wunmi’s breath caught. Michael stared at the screen like it was something sacred.

He leaned in close, whispering, “That’s our baby?”

“That’s your baby,” the doctor echoed with a kind smile. “Measuring just shy of eight weeks. Which puts your due date somewhere mid-to-late January.”

Michael was still holding Wunmi’s hand. His thumb brushed her knuckles, eyes never leaving the screen.

“The heartbeat seems strong. We’ll get a printed image for you two to take home.”

The lights came back on, and while Wunmi cleaned up, Michael sat back down, clearly trying not to hover too much.

Dr. Franklin walked them through early dietary guidelines; no sushi, no soft cheeses, caution with caffeine and deli meats.

Michael cleared his throat. “Okay, so what about ginger? She’s been living off ginger everything.”

“Ginger’s great in moderation,” the doctor said. “If it helps the nausea, let her have it.”

“What about her sleep? She’s been waking up at weird hours.”

“Totally normal. Hormones can disrupt sleep, digestion, even body temperature.”

Wunmi returned to her seat with a small sigh, grateful and overwhelmed in equal parts.

“We’ll schedule your next appointment in four weeks,” the doctor said, standing. “We’ll do another check-in, and talk more about genetic screening, if that’s something you’re open to.”

They doctor left, leaving the two of them to process what happened

-

The sun hit just right as they walked down the street, the kind of summer heat that pressed against skin and made every step feel like a little effort. Wunmi walked a few paces ahead of Michael, sunglasses shielding her eyes, the hem of her yellow dress swaying gently with each step.

Michael watched her like she was the only person on the block.

The sundress hugged her like it’d been waiting for this exact day. And she wore it like she didn’t know what she was doing to him.

He slowed for a second, pulled out his phone, and hit record.

Wunmi kept walking ahead, unaware, the sun catching the golden glow of her skin, her curls bouncing softly with her stride. She looked peaceful, or at least focused. Sunglasses on, lips set, not in the mood for small talk.

Michael’s camera flipped back around to his face. He mouthed the word “Damn”. He posted the video to his Instagram story with the words: “Buy her that dress she want.”

By the time they got to the restaurant Wunmi’s patience had started to fray. And the heat wasn’t helping.

She shifted her bag on her shoulder, looking around with narrowed eyes. “It’s too damn hot to be standing,” she muttered under her breath.

Michael kept his mouth closed, but the corner of his lips twitched. He reached for her hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Almost inside.”

Wunmi exhaled through her nose. “I’m starving.”

The hostess looked up, and immediately did a double take. Then a triple take. One of those soft gasps followed by the “oh my God” flicker she couldn’t quite hide.

“Hi– uh, welcome,” she said, blinking fast. “Do you– do you have a reservation?”

Michael shook his head. “Nah. Do you have room for two?”

The hostess nodded so fast it looked like her head might fall off. “Of course. We, uh… we’re on a brief wait. But–” She glanced behind her. “Let me check something real quick.”

She scurried off toward the back, likely whispering something to whoever was in charge.

Wunmi sighed, leaning into Michael’s side. “It’s too hot to wait.”

Michael kissed the top of her head. “I know. Let’s just see what she says if we have to wait too long, we’ll go further down.”

Her face softened, but only slightly. “I’m sorry. I just get mad and then I’m hot and then I’m hungry and now I’m mad again.”

Michael chuckled, pulling her closer. “Baby, you’re literally growing a human. You can be mad as much as you want.”

Just then, another person, possibly the manager, came hurrying up, smiling too wide. “Mr. Jordan, Ms. Mosaku, we’re getting a table ready for you now. It won’t be too long.”

Michael nodded politely. “Appreciate you.”

Wunmi gave a polite smile, but Michael could feel the barely restrained sigh under it.

The hostess continued, “Would you like to wait in the lounge inside? It’s cooler.”

“Yes,” Wunmi said immediately, before Michael could speak.

He laughed softly. “Lead the way.”

As they followed the hostess inside, Michael leaned over and whispered, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“Don’t get slapped,” Wunmi muttered, but her fingers tightened affectionately around his hand.

The restaurant’s patio was shaded, fans overhead pushing just enough air to keep it tolerable. Wunmi sat across from Michael, sunglasses on, one hand propped under her chin as she sipped lemonade. The tension in her body had eased slightly now that she had water, shade, and a menu in front of her.

Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t stop watching her. He was done for. His hand rested on her thigh under the table, his thumb rubbing slow, absent-minded circles against her skin.

“You staring again?” she asked without looking up from the menu.

Michael grinned. “Not at all.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am,” he said easily, eyes still on her. “But you look good in that dress.”

She shook her head at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched. He knew she was still riding the edges Michael leaned forward again, sliding his hand into hers. “You feel okay now?”

“Better,” she said. 

He kissed the back of her hand gently. “Tell me about the show.”

Wunmi sighed, sitting back. “It’s manageable because it’s a supporting role with minimal press. We’re filming in town, so I won’t be flying out. If it was anything more, I’d turn it down.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ll talk to production about anything else once I’m a little further along. I think they’ll be cool about it.”

Michael rubbed her knuckles. “That’s good. Just don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Promise.”

He gave her a look. “You sure?”

Wunmi exhaled. “Yes, baby. You weren’t like this before.”

Michael smiled, leaning in again. “Because you weren’t carrying my baby before.”

She blinked at him, caught off-guard by the way he said it. 

And in that second, she wanted to kiss him right across the table.

-

The call sheet said lunch was at 12:30. Michael was already waiting by 12:10.

He leaned against the shaded side of her trailer, sunglasses pulled down low. In one hand, he held a small container of cut fruit, and in the other, his phone that he barely glanced at.

The second the trailer door opened, his posture straightened.

Wunmi stepped out, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’d been holding tension since her morning scenes. Her eyes scanned the lot automatically, softening the moment she saw him.

“Hey, baby,” he said, walking toward her with quiet purpose.

She exhaled and let him take the tote bag off her shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she murmured, reaching for the fruit without asking.

Michael kissed the side of her head and guided her toward a small quiet bench tucked behind the trailers. He already knew what to avoid, no grilled onions, no garlic, and absolutely no mint. She’d warned him more than once that her stomach was unpredictable these days.

“You good?” he asked as they sat.

“Getting there,” she said, chewing slowly. “They were using some kind of cologne in wardrobe earlier. Almost had me out.”

She rested her hand on her belly. The bump wasn’t huge, but it was real now. Real enough for her to wear maternity leggings under costume. Enough for her to notice the shift in how she walked, how she sat, how she breathed.

Michael’s hand slid to her thigh, warm and steady.

“You told the AD if you needed longer between setups, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And I’m not pushing myself like I promised.”

He looked at her for a moment, not saying anything, just searching her face. Then he nodded and leaned back a little.

“Doctor’s appointment Friday,” he said, smiling now. “We’re almost out of the first trimester.”

“I know,” Wunmi said, more quietly. “It feels like it snuck up.”

Michael chuckled. “I’ve been counting down.”

“For the milestone?”

“For the gender reveal,” he said, already grinning.

Wunmi gave him a look. “You really think you know?”

“I do know.”

“You’ve been saying girl since day one.”

“Because I’m right,” he said confidently. “I feel it.”

Wunmi raised her brows, unimpressed. “You also said that lemon tart from the bakery wouldn’t make me sick and guess who lost her whole evening?”

Michael winced. “Okay, yes. But this is different.”

“Sure.”

He just smiled and reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips.

“You good to go back in a bit?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ll rest for a few more minutes, then head back.”

Michael looked down at her stomach, his palm gently resting over her hand.

“She’s the boss,” he murmured.

“They,” Wunmi corrected.

He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Four Months - August

The soft click of the car doors closing sealed them in a quiet bubble, just the two of them. Wunmi leaned back in her seat, hand resting lightly on her stomach, her body exhaling in a way it hadn’t been able to inside the sterile calm of the exam room.

Michael slid into the driver’s seat and just sat for a second, looking over at her.

“You good?”

Wunmi turned her head, nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think it’s just hitting me that we’re already here.”

Michael smiled, reaching over to take her hand. “Second trimester, baby. We made it.”

He kissed her knuckles, holding onto her a second longer than usual before starting the engine.

The drive was short, but quiet. The kind of peaceful silence that comes with a shared sense of calm.

“She said we get to know the gender in a few weeks,” Michael said, glancing over at her again. “You still wanna know?”

“I definitely want to know,” Wunmi said, eyes on the road ahead. “You’re dying to be proven right.”

“Because I will be,” he grinned. “That little girl energy’s too strong.”

Wunmi gave him a side-eye. “If it’s a boy, are you gonna sulk?”

“I’ll sulk while holding my son proudly,” he said, laughing.

The car rolled to a stop at a red light, and Michael glanced over again, his tone shifting.

“So are you ready to tell the family?”

Wunmi nodded. “It feels like time.”

Michael’s smile widened. “We can do it Sunday. Everybody’s already coming over for dinner anyway. We can just slide it in.”

“Slide it in?” she repeated with a soft laugh. “You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls, and you know it.”

“I’ve been sitting on this news for months,” he said, practically vibrating now. “I’ve been around my mom every other day trying not to say anything. I need this.”

Wunmi shook her head, amused. “She’s gonna scream.”

“She’s gonna cry,” Michael corrected. “Then scream. Then probably try to move in.”

“I’m bracing myself.”

He reached over and rested his hand gently over hers, their fingers intertwined over the soft curve of her bump.

-

Inside, the house was alive. Laughter drifting from the kitchen, the sound of silverware being set on the dining table, and the high-pitched voices of children echoing down the hallway.

Michael lit up immediately, already reaching for the bags of wine and dessert they brought.

Wunmi walked in behind him, smiling, but softer. Her body was already reminding her of the sleep she didn’t get last night. Because of the stretch in her back she hadn’t been able to get comfortable with in bed. Her smile was there, but it took effort to hold.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Michael’s mom said, moving in for a hug. “You look beautiful.”

“Hi, Ms. Donna,” Wunmi replied, voice soft, arms wrapping around her gently. “You too.”

Michael was already halfway to the kitchen, greeting his siblings. His niece and nephew ran up to him like they hadn’t seen him in years, even though it had only been a couple weeks.

Donna held onto Wunmi for a second longer than necessary.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, her voice low enough that the noise from the kitchen didn’t drown it out. “You look tired, baby.”

Wunmi offered a small smile, pressing her hand lightly to her temple. “I’m alright. It’s been a busy couple of weeks. I think my body’s trying to catch up.”

Donna studied her for a beat, but didn’t push. Just gave her hand a quick squeeze and led her inside.

By the time they made it to the dining room, Michael was already settling in. Wunmi eased into the chair beside him, trying not to let how tired she felt show in her posture. He glanced at her once they were seated, hand finding her knee beneath the table.

“You sure you’re good?” he whispered.

She gave him a soft nod. “I’m good. Just ready for after we tell them.”

Michael’s smile was boyish, giddy. “We’re almost there.”

Dinner began with the usual family energy, clinking silverware, loud conversation overlapping, the kids asking for more mac and cheese.

Donna sat at the head of the table, watching everything, always one eye on Wunmi. Wunmi picked at her food, still eating, but slower than usual.

Michael noticed. His fingers tapped a small rhythm on her knee again, something between encouragement and distraction.

As the plates began to empty and the noise settled slightly, Michael sat up straighter, catching his sister’s eye across the table.

“Alright,” he said, raising his voice just enough, “before dessert, Wunmi and I got something we wanna share.”

The table quieted gradually. Donna was already squinting at him.

“Oh, Lord,” his sister muttered. “You’re not eloping, are you?”

Michael grinned. “Nope. We’re still planning the wedding.”

He looked down at Wunmi, who gave him the tiniest nod.

He turned back to the family, chest full.

“But before the wedding we’re having a baby.”

The room stilled for half a second, and then it erupted.

Michael’s sister, Jamila, was the first to launch out of her chair.

“Oh my God!” she squealed, half running around the table to wrap her arms around Wunmi from the side. “You’re serious? You’re really pregnant?!”

Wunmi laughed, a little caught off guard but let herself be wrapped up.

“Just past three months,” she said. “We wanted to wait before saying anything.”

Meanwhile, on the other end of the table, Michael’s father had leaned back in his chair, hands resting over his stomach, a quiet smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His gaze landed on his son, then drifted to Wunmi.

“Well,” he said after a moment, voice low but proud. “I was wondering when you’d step into this part of manhood.”

Michael straightened a bit, the compliment settling deep in his chest.

“Thank you, Pops,” he said, voice quiet.

His father nodded once, approving.

Michael’s brother, Khalid, stayed seated, a slow nod on his face. He wasn’t unkind, just a little more reserved, not as quick to show big emotion.

“Congrats, man,” he said, lifting his glass a bit. “That’s huge.”

Wunmi gave him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

But it was Donna, who had remained quiet the longest, that drew the room’s attention again. She was still seated, one hand pressed against her mouth, the other reaching slowly across the table for Wunmi’s free hand.

“You’re really having a baby,” she said, tears now slipping freely.

Wunmi blinked fast, her own emotions rising. “Yeah…yeah, we are.”

Donna squeezed her hand, then turned her eyes to Michael, wide, proud, soft. “You’re going to be a father. My baby is going to be a father.”

Michael’s throat tightened, and he nodded, trying to keep his own emotions tucked in. “I know, Ma.”

Donna stood finally and pulled Wunmi into a hug. “Thank you for taking care of him,” she whispered. “And for letting me love this baby already.”

Wunmi held her close, eyes closing. “You’re family. Of course.”

Michael watched from a step away, his hand still curled at the back of his neck like he couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding.

The room began to buzz again with more questions, more laughter, the kids trying to figure out what it meant to “have a cousin on the way.”

-

The call had barely connected before Wunmi’s full name rang out across the screen in her mother’s voice.

“Oluwunmi! You’re late. We’ve been waiting for you!”

Her mother’s image popped up first, seated in her favorite spot by the living room window, framed by warm light and familiar curtains. One of her sisters was leaning against the back of the couch, and the other was already peering into the camera.

Her father’s voice came from off-screen. “Is it working?”

Wunmi smiled through the screen, nestled beside Michael on their couch. “It’s working, Daddy. You’re sideways, though.”

There was more fumbling then he appeared properly, glasses low on his nose, already squinting with suspicion. “Why are you two calling together like this? You’ve been calling alone lately.”

Michael chuckled. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Michael,” he replied. “But I know something’s up.”

“Something is definitely up,” Wunmi’s older sister added. “Look at the glow on her.”

“Everyone, wait,” her mother said, already narrowing her eyes. “What is it, Wunmi? What have you come to say?”

Wunmi took a breath and looked at Michael, who gave her a nod and squeezed her hand.

She turned back to the screen. “I wanted to wait until I was sure. We both did. But…I’m pregnant.”

The silence lasted less than two seconds.

Then:

“Oluwunmi!” “Ah! Jesu!”  “Oh my God!”  “Wunmi! Are you serious?!”

Her mother covered her mouth with both hands, eyes instantly filling. Her father blinked, still absorbing, then stood up like he needed to physically process it. One of her sisters clapped her hands, while the other wiped tears that had already started falling.

Wunmi laughed, her own eyes burning now. “I’m twelve weeks. We just had a check-up. Everything looks good.”

“You didn’t tell us sooner!” her mother cried, half-laughing now. “You kept this to yourself?”

“I wanted to wait,” Wunmi said gently. “You know I didn’t want to rush news like this.”

“You are carrying my grandchild,” her father said, voice low but full. “You’ve made us so proud. So proud.”

“I’m still shaking,” one of her sisters said, wiping her face. “You’re going to be a mummy!”

“Your bump is coming soon!” another added. “I’m planning baby clothes already.”

Michael leaned in, smiling, his hand resting gently on Wunmi’s knee.

“And what of you, Michael?” her father asked, eyes suddenly sharper. “Are you looking after her?”

Michael nodded seriously. “Every day, sir. I don’t let her lift a finger if I can help it.”

That seemed to satisfy him, a bit.

“Good. You’ll need to do even more soon.”

“Wunmi,” her mother said again, voice softer now, eyes glassy, “you’re going to come home, yes? To rest before the baby comes?”

“We’re planning it,” Wunmi said. “We’re thinking around November. But I want to come home for a bit, yes.”

“You must. We’ll get the room ready,” her mum said, wiping her cheeks. “And start stocking up. The aunties will want to see you.”

Wunmi smiled, overwhelmed but glowing. “I know.”

Her full name came again, softer this time. “Oluwunmi, I’m so proud of you, my daughter.”

Michael kissed her temple as her eyes filled again.

And across the sea, their family, loud, tearful, and full of love, carried them into this new chapter like only family could.

-

The sound of the bathroom fan buzzed softly, mixed with the harsh retch of Wunmi’s body pushing back against her. She knelt over the toilet, one hand braced on the floor, the other weakly pushing her curls away from her face.

Michael was right behind her. Just like he had been the past few nights and every early morning since this started.

He sat on the cool tile, shirtless, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand gently rubbing her back in slow, wide circles. His other hand held a half-empty water bottle he kept offering between breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Wunmi murmured, voice hoarse, forehead resting briefly on her arm.

“Don’t be,” he said softly, brushing her shoulder with the side of his thumb. “Ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

Her stomach twisted again, and she barely had time to lean forward before another wave hit her. Michael stayed close, breathing slowly beside her, grounding her.

When it passed, she sagged again, wiping her mouth with the tissue he handed her.

“I thought this part was supposed to be over,” she whispered.

“Everybody’s different,” he said gently. 

Wunmi reached for the water, took a slow sip, then closed her eyes. She felt wrung out like all her strength was somewhere at the bottom of the toilet bowl. Her limbs were heavy and her skin felt too tight.

Michael shifted behind her and opened his arms. “Come here.”

She let him pull her into his lap, her back against his chest, her head falling against his collarbone. He wrapped both arms around her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

They sat like that on the floor, bodies warm against the cold tile.

“I don’t like feeling this weak,” she whispered.

“You’re not weak,” he said immediately, firm. “You’re doing something your body’s never done before.”

She closed her eyes, breathing slow.

His hand slid gently over her bump, his palm resting there as if that alone could absorb some of the weight.

They stayed there in silence, letting the morning move slowly around them.

-

The room was cool and softly lit, designed to be calming, but Michael’s knee was still bouncing. He was practically vibrating in the chair beside her.

Wunmi lay back on the exam table, her bump fully visible now beneath the soft curve of her shirt. The ultrasound tech was adjusting the machine with a calm confidence that made Wunmi feel at ease.

Wunmi reached out and caught his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Relax,” she whispered, a small smirk on her face. “You’re shaking the floor.”

“I’m cool,” he said, too quickly. “Super cool.”

She squeezed his hand. “You’re about to be annoying, I can feel it.”

“I’m manifesting,” he whispered dramatically.

Wunmi just rolled her eyes, laughing quietly.

The tech dimmed the lights a bit further and adjusted the gel bottle. “Okay, it’ll be a little cool.”

Wunmi winced slightly as the gel hit her stomach, and Michael instinctively tightened his grip on her hand.

The tech moved the transducer across Wunmi’s belly, her eyes scanning the monitor with practiced ease. The soft sound of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room.

Michael’s whole body stilled at the sound. He never got used to it.

“There’s your little one,” She said with a soft smile. “Everything’s looking right on track. A strong heartbeat and good growth.”

Wunmi’s eyes stayed on the screen. Michael leaned forward like he could somehow will himself closer to the baby through the monitor.

After a few minutes of scanning and typing, the tech paused.

“Would you like to know the gender?”

Michael answered before Wunmi could even part her lips.

“Yes, please,” he blurted.

Wunmi shot him a look, half-amused, half “really?”

He mouthed, “Sorry,” but his eyes were so hopeful she couldn’t even be mad.

The tech smiled and rotated the transducer slightly. “Alright then. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The room held its breath.

Michael leaned closer. Wunmi’s heart pounded, but she stayed still, her fingers tightening around his.

“Well,” Nadine said, still smiling, “congratulations. You’re having a girl.”

Michael froze for a full second.

“I knew it!” he whispered, grinning so wide it looked like his whole face lit up. “I told you!”

Wunmi blinked, then covered her mouth as a soft, stunned laugh escaped. Her other hand pressed lightly to her belly.

“A girl,” she repeated, almost to herself. “We’re having a girl.”

Michael was already kissing her knuckles, his voice low but fierce. “That’s our daughter. That’s my girl.”

The tech continued scanning for a few more minutes, walking them through anatomy details and giving them a few printed stills.

Michael barely looked away from Wunmi the entire time.

“You alright?” he asked her softly once the room began to brighten again.

She nodded, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Hearing it out loud made it real.”

Michael kissed her forehead. “She’s gonna change our whole world.”

October - Six Months

The bathroom light clicked off with a soft hum, and Michael stepped back into the bedroom, towel in hand, hair still damp from the shower. The room was mostly dark, save for the faint glow of the hallway light spilling through the slightly open door.

He expected Wunmi to still be awake. She had said she was going to scroll on her phone for a bit. But when he looked toward the bed, he found her already asleep.

Her hand rested loosely over her bump, lips parted slightly, one leg stretched out long beneath the sheets. And she was on her back.

He knew what the doctor had said. That around this point in the pregnancy, sleeping on your back could restrict blood flow, something about the weight of the uterus pressing on a vein, or something he couldn’t quite pronounce. He remembered the way the nurse had looked at him like he needed to take this seriously.

He dropped the towel at the foot of the bed, walked barefoot over to her side, and crouched down slowly beside her.

“Babe,” he whispered gently, brushing a curl from her cheek.

She stirred, murmured something he couldn’t catch.

Michael leaned in, kissed her temple. “I’m just gonna turn you a little, okay?”

She made a sleepy noise of agreement and let him guide her carefully onto her side, tucking one pillow behind her back and another between her knees. She was still half-asleep, but her body shifted with ease, like it knew it would rest better this way.

Once she was settled, Michael adjusted the blanket around her, then stood back, watching. She looked peaceful again.

He turned off the hallway light and climbed into bed, lying behind her, not too close, just enough to keep a hand on her hip and feel the rise and fall of her breath.

Every hour or so, he’d stir. And every time he did, he’d glance over to make sure she hadn’t shifted back.

By morning, before she even opened her eyes, he was already scrolling on his phone, checking reviews for the best pregnancy pillows.

-

The nursery had started to come alive box by box.

The wall’s paint had dried earlier in the week: soft, dusty pink on the upper walls, cream on the lower half, and a warm, earthy brown accent arch around where the crib would go. It looked exactly like the Pinterest board Wunmi had shown Michael three weeks ago, down to the shade.

Now it was just about pulling it all together.

Michael was crouched in the middle of the floor, screwdriver in one hand, instruction manual in the other. The crib was only halfway built, and the dresser parts weren’t even out of the box yet.

In the corner, Wunmi was curled up on the small couch under a knitted throw, one hand gently resting on her belly, the other slowly reaching into a bowl of spicy cassava chips. A tub of Greek yogurt sat nearby to offset the heartburn that was already threatening.

Her face pinched mid-chew. “I shouldn’t be eating this,” she mumbled to herself.

Michael called out, “Is that the heartburn snack again?”

“Don’t judge me,” she groaned.

“I wasn’t judging. Just confirming.”

Wunmi sighed and set the bowl aside. “You don’t understand. It’s all I want. But every bite feels like my chest is on fire by the end.”

Michael poked his head into the hallway. “Because you’ve had nothing but spicy food and citrus for the last four days.”

She narrowed her eyes  but didn’t argue. “How’s the crib?”

Michael’s expression said everything. “We are not on speaking terms.”

Wunmi laughed softly, but even that took effort. Her energy had been off for days. Her nausea had crept back like an unwanted guest. Her back ached. Her ankles were starting to swell. And all of that on top of the emotional weight of doing everything and nothing at once.

She wanted to be helping, directing, assembling, folding, nesting.

Instead, she was parked on the couch.

“I hate this,” she murmured more to herself than him.

Michael looked up again, this time gentler. “Hate what?”

“Not being able to do more. I feel like I’m just sitting here while you build everything.”

“You are literally building a person inside you right now,” he said, standing fully. “I just opened a crib box. Let’s keep the perspective straight.”

Wunmi blinked back something tight in her chest. “Yeah but it still sucks. I like being hands-on. Right now I just feel…heavy, useless, and hormonal.”

Michael walked over to her slowly, crouched in front of her, and took both her hands in his.

“You’re tired. And sick. And you’ve got fire in your chest every time you eat something that makes you feel okay for five seconds. You’re showing more, which means your whole body is shifting every hour.”

He kissed the back of her hand. “You are not useless. You’re just human. A human doing the most miraculous, exhausting thing in the world.”

She closed her eyes, her chin quivering slightly.

“You still mad about the crib?” he asked, trying to soften the moment.

“A little.”

Michael grinned. “Fair.”

He stood and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Let me finish this room.”

She smiled despite herself and curled deeper into the blanket.

Michael stepped back toward the nursery, cracking his knuckles. “Alright. I’m building this crib before sunset if it kills me.”

November - Seven Months

Michael sat on set, leaning back in the interview chair, hands clasped in his lap, eyes drifting toward the door every few seconds. His publicist had told him it was a interview for a digital feature but he had no clue who was interviewing him, just that it was meant to be “light and fun.”

He was exhausted from press and it’d been over two weeks since he’s been home.

But something about the way they told him to “just be open” made him sit up straighter.

They called out, “We’re rolling!”

Michael adjusted his mic, looked toward the entrance, and then the door opened.

Wunmi walked in with her hair up, skin glowing, off-the-shoulder black dress that hugged her body, and her bump, like it had been poured on. She was radiant and smiling.

Michael’s lips parted. “Oh, wow…”

She walked straight onto the set and offered her hand like they’d never met.

“Hi, I’m Wunmi. Thanks for sitting down with me.”

Michael took her hand slowly, still staring. “Michael. It’s…really good to meet you.”

They both sat, the silence stretching between them charged and knowing.

“Alright,” she said, opening a small notepad like she actually had notes. “You’ve got a new film coming out. It’s a lot more action packed than what you normally do.”

Michael raised a brow, eyes locked on her. “Yeah, there was a lot of different types of training I had to do,” he said slowly. 

Wunmi smiled. “So what drew you to the project?”

“I think I just wanted to prove I could do something different,” he said, his voice dipping low. 

Wunmi crossed her legs slowly. “What was the most challenging part of filming?”

Michael didn’t miss a beat. “Not being distracted by thoughts of someone else.”

Wunmi blinked slowly, holding back a grin. “You should try staying focused.”

“I was focused,” he said, eyes moving over her. “Just not on the right things.”

She cleared her throat, sitting up slightly. “Okay…last question.”

Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Go for it.”

“If you weren’t working so much, if you had time,” she said slowly, voice steady, “and you met someone…let’s say, hypothetically, during an interview. Someone who made it a little hard to concentrate. Would you pursue her?”

Michael let a smile stretch across his face. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Well,” he said, “can I get your number?”

Wunmi arched a brow. “I don’t give my number out to strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger,” he said softly. “Not to you.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t know if I have a man.”

Michael looked her dead in the eye, smiling like he already knew the answer. “Do you?”

Wunmi’s smile widened as she stood slowly, slipping the mic off.

Michael watched her walk off, eyes shamelessly following every step.

The second the crew called “cut,” Michael was already on his feet.

He barely remembered to unclip his mic before moving, handing it off blindly, his eyes trained on the direction Wunmi had walked off in. One of the assistants tried to stop him with a clipboard, asking for something. He waved them off gently.

“I’ll circle back,” he muttered. “Give me a second.”

The hallway backstage was quiet and cool, lined with production crates and folding chairs. And there she was, leaning casually against the wall, scrolling through her phone. She looked up the moment he turned the corner. And then she smiled. The one he hadn’t seen in person for two weeks. The one that crinkled her nose and made her whole face glow.

Michael didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space in a few long strides and wrapped his arms around her carefully, but with so much intent. He avoided her bump automatically. One hand braced her back, the other cupped the back of her head as he kissed her temple, then her cheek, then just held her there.

“Hi,” she whispered against him.

Michael exhaled against her hair, eyes shut tight.

“Damn, I missed you.”

She melted into him, her fingers curling gently into the front of his shirt.

“I missed you too,” she said. “And I’m mad at how well you played along in that interview. You didn’t break once.”

“I was dying inside,” he admitted, grinning as he leaned back just enough to see her face. “You came out in that dress and I almost forgot what movie I was there to promote.”

Wunmi laughed softly, brushing a hand down his chest. “You look tired.”

“I am,” he said. “But seeing you really woke me up.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. Then pulled back, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to memorize it again.

“You busy tonight?”

“I have a date,” she teased.

“Oh yeah?” he grinned. “What’s he like?”

“He’s annoying,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “But he loves me really well.”

Michael leaned in, his voice low against her cheek. “Good. ’Cause he’s already making a reservation at that place you’ve been craving. And if you're too tired to go out, he’s got the candles and foot rubs ready at home.”

She looked at him, visibly softening.

“We need that, huh?”

Michael nodded, threading their fingers tighter. “Yeah. Just you and me. And maybe that lemon sorbet you’ve been talking about.”

“You remembered that?”

“Baby, I remember everything. I’ve been counting the minutes.”

Wunmi smiled and tugged gently on his hand. “Let’s go home.”

He didn't even think twice.

-

Wunmi eased herself into the bath the moment they got home. The warm water cradling her back, steam rising gently, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She let her head fall back against the rim of the tub, eyes closed, hands resting over her bump. The ache in her lower back was real and the weight in her belly heavier than usual, but the water helped.

From the other side of the bathroom, she heard the soft sound of the shower turning on. Michael had stripped out of his clothes and moved behind the glass and stepped in with a long, quiet groan of relief.

“I missed this,” he said finally over the spray of the water.

Wunmi hummed. “What, showering next to me?”

“Yes, but more than that. I missed being home with you.”

She smiled softly, eyes still closed. “Me too.”

By the time they dried off and got into bed, everything felt softer. Michael climbed in behind her without a word, still warm and faintly damp from the shower. He settled against her back, one arm slipping around her belly, the other tucked beneath her pillow.

Wunmi curled into him instinctively, one of his legs tangled with hers. The TV played some comfort sitcom they weren’t really watching.

Michael’s hand slid up beneath her sleep shirt because that’s where his hand always went. He stroked slow, lazy lines just under her breasts, thumb brushing over the top curve.

Wunmi let out a breath, her body relaxing further into his. He kissed the back of her shoulder softly. Then again. And her hips shifted, just a little, but not on purpose.

Michael stilled, then adjusted slightly behind her, just enough for her to feel the pressure of him unmistakably aware of her body pressed up against his. Wunmi’s breath caught.

“Sorry,” Michael murmured against her skin, his voice low and heavy. “I wasn’t trying to–”

“I know,” she whispered, not moving. “It’s okay.”

His hand moved lower, resting beneath the swell of her belly now. 

They stayed like that for a few seconds, the air thickening quietly. Her body pulsed as if remembering something it hadn’t had the energy to feel in weeks.

He kissed her shoulder again. Then her neck. His hand slipped along her thigh.

“Michael,” she breathed.

They were still curled against each other, the low murmur of the TV flickering across the dark room, but neither of them were paying attention to it anymore.

Wunmi shifted slightly in Michael’s arms, her hips pressing back into him in a slow, deliberate rhythm. It wasn’t an accident this time.

“Babe?” he murmured, voice gravel-low.

She turned her head toward him, meeting his eyes over her shoulder. “I want you.”

He searched her face, as if waiting to be sure. “You sure you feel up for it?”

“I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispered. “I’m sure, babe.”

Her body hadn’t given her much grace the past two months. Between the heartburn, nausea, and the ever-growing ache in her joints, she hadn’t been in the space to want anything other than comfort. But now, here in the quiet with her body pressed against his, she was craving not just closeness, but him.

She reached for his hand and guided it up, slipping beneath the edge of her shirt to rest over her breast. They were fuller, heavier, and far more sensitive than before. When his palm covered her and squeezed gently, a soft moan slipped from her lips.

Michael’s breath hitched. “Damn, I missed touching you.”

“I missed you touching me. It’s been so long,” she whispered.

He leaned in, kissing along her jaw, letting his hand mold to her breast again, thumb grazing the peak slowly, carefully. Her back arched in response, her hips rolling again, more insistent this time.

She reached behind herself, pulling his other hand down between her thighs, guiding him beneath the band of her panties. He found her already warm and pulsing.

“You’re so ready for me,” he said against her skin, voice barely holding.

“It’s all yours,” she whispered.

He took his time with his fingers stroking gently, and lips on her neck, her shoulder, her spine. Her body trembled with every pass of his hand, every squeeze of his fingers on her breast. He eased inside her from behind and they both gasped like they’d been holding their breath for months.

Michael moved slowly at first, his arm anchored beneath her belly, the other wrapped around her chest. He kissed her neck and her ear, whispering soft nothings while their bodies moved together again. Her breath came in whimpers, quiet but desperate, each thrust bringing her higher.

“I got you,” he kept saying. “I got you.”

When her body tightened and she came, she curled forward, hand fisting the sheets, the tension unraveling in waves. But Michael didn’t stop. He lifted one of her legs, easing it over his forearm, sinking deeper with a low groan.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, her voice cracking.

He kept stroking her breast with his free hand, just enough to keep her spiraling, while he moved inside her. She gasped with every shift of his hips, body oversensitive but clinging to the sensation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered.

“It’s perfect,” she moaned.

And when he came, he buried his face in her neck and held her like he didn’t want to let go, like all the miles, all the nights apart had finally melted away in the heat of their skin.

Michael hadn’t realy planned on doing more. But her body, the way she trembled against him after that first release, the way she gasped when he stayed inside her, undid him. He was far from done.

Her skin was glowing with heat, chest rising and falling, and he could feel her still pulsing around him. 

“Don’t move,” he whispered into her hair, voice thick with desire.

Wunmi hummed, too breathless to speak. Her body already limp in his arms.

Michael kissed her shoulder, then gently pulled back, guiding her onto her hands and knees. He moved slowly, checking her every reaction as he repositioned her. She followed with lazy obedience, blinking sleepily as he added a stack of pillows beneath her hips, tilting her body just right.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing his knuckles down her spine.

Wunmi nodded once, cheek pressed to the sheets. “Yeah. I just…”

But the words drifted off. Her body was saying yes before her voice could catch up.

Michael pushed her sleep shirt up just enough to expose the curve of her back and the heavy, sensitive fullness of her breasts. He didn't take it off. He liked how she looked in it. His palm smoothed down her back, gripping her hips and spreading her legs just a little wider.

And then he pushed back into her.

She cried out, not from pain, but from the sharp shock of pleasure and pressure. Her arms braced against the mattress, breath catching as he filled her again, deeper now, her hips perfectly angled by the pillows.

Michael groaned, head falling back as he rolled his hips into hers with practiced rhythm. It wasn’t gentle now, not this time. His body was moving on pure instinct, chasing the sounds she made, the tight pulse of her around him, the way her back arched and trembled with every stroke.

Her whines turned into moans, then something more guttural, higher-pitched. The kind of noises he’d only ever heard when she was completely overwhelmed. 

He watched her carefully as she tried to hold on, gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white. Her sleep shirt rode up further with every thrust, bunching under her arms, the fabric tugging with the rhythm of his body against hers. Her breasts bounced freely now, and Michael reached forward, cupping one in his hand, thumb grazing over the peak.

She shuddered violently beneath him.

“I got it, baby,” he panted, voice low and urgent in her ear. “Just stay right there and take it.”

She tried to answer but all that came out was a long, helpless moan. Her whole body shaking, her hips trying to push back into him but barely able to match his rhythm.

Michael’s grip on her hips tightened, and he gave her a sharp, controlled smack on her backside just enough to make her jolt and gasp again.

He was obsessed with the way she sounded; those breathless little hiccups, the trembling whimpers, her whispered curses broken up by moans.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, but it was teasing now. He already knew.

She tried to say something–anything–but her voice cracked, and she couldn’t form a single word.

“Feels that good, huh?” he said, barely able to get the words out himself. “Damn.”

He wasn’t rushing. Just giving her deep, powerful strokes, angled to hit every sweet spot. His hand still working her breast gently and his body anchored behind her like he never wanted to leave.

When she came again, it was silent at first. Her mouth open, face buried in the sheets, body spasming so hard she nearly collapsed into the pillows. He held her up through it, whispering encouragement, slowing down just enough to help her ride it out without falling apart completely.

And even after he followed, shuddering, breath caught in his chest, filling her slow and deep, he didn’t pull out. Not right away.

His hands smoothed up her back, slow and soothing now. He kissed the middle of her spine and whispered soft things; “you’re so perfect,” “I missed you,” “I needed that more than I knew.” His hips stilled, but he stayed buried deep, and Wunmi whimpered at the sensitivity, twitching beneath him.

His other hand stroked along her thigh, slow and grounding, while he kissed the back of her shoulder and murmured, “You okay?”

She nodded, face still buried in the pillow, her whole body humming with aftershocks.

“You feel me?” he whispered, massaging small, slow circles into her back.

She let out a shaky breath and nodded.

He chuckled low, half-pride, half-awe.

“Yeah,” he said, brushing her hair from her cheek. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He stayed there, still buried deep inside her, rocking his hips slowly.

-

Michael sat up in bed, propped against a couple of pillows, legs stretched out under the covers. The TV was on low, playing some movie he wasn’t paying attention to. His hand moved absently along Wunmi’s back, just under the fabric of her shirt. She hadn’t budged since they fell asleep.

She was curled on her side, arms tucked beneath the pillow, lips parted just slightly. Her chest rose and fell in deep rhythm, a gentle snore slipping out every few minutes. The same soft rasp that had started a few weeks ago. The one he secretly loved.

She looked peaceful. Heavy with rest. Her skin glowed in the morning light, hair a little wild against the pillowcase, one leg curled up and the bump prominent beneath the sheets.

Michael smiled to himself as he scrolled through the pictures on his phone.

There was one of her from the night before sitting across from him at the diner, laughing mid-bite, hand bracing her stomach like the baby had kicked right in the middle of a joke. Then another of her in the parking lot with her hair up, eyes sleepy but still smiling.

He sat with the photos for a minute. Then he selected them all, typed in a caption, and hit post:

before the storm 🍼

He didn’t think much of it. But within ten minutes, his phone lit up with texts, mentions, and missed calls. 

And then, his family decided to do a group video call. He chuckled and answered with a lazy swipe.

The screen filled instantly with his mom, Donna, on one side with her hair in a wrap and coffee in hand, Jamila half-ready for something, and Khalid calling in from what looked like his office.

Donna leaned in closer. “Where’s Wunmi?”

Michael angled the phone a little, showing Wunmi still asleep next to him, curled in deep with the blankets pushed low over her belly.

“There she go,” Khalid said quietly, watching the screen.

“She okay?” Jamila asked softly.

“She’s good,” Michael said. His hand returned to rubbing her back gently, like his body couldn’t help it. “Doctor said everything’s on track. She was just so exhausted last night. Slept through the whole night.”

Donna’s eyes welled up. “She looks like she needed that sleep so bad.”

“She did,” Michael nodded. “She’s been hurting, nauseous, restless, so she couldn’t get comfortable for weeks.”

“Y’all planning to go to the UK soon?” Jamila asked.

“Yeah. In the next week or so. She wants to go there before she’s too far along to travel comfortably. We’re gonna stay a bit.”

“What about names?” Khalid asked, because of course.

Michael smiled, glancing back at Wunmi. “We got some ideas, but we’re waiting to meet her first. Let her tell us.”

Donna nodded, eyes soft. “That’s the right move.”

They stayed on the call for a little while longer, chatting, catching up, the screen occasionally flashing back to Wunmi asleep, none the wiser to the joy her stillness was bringing them all.

And when the call ended, Michael set his phone down, slipped lower under the covers, and pulled Wunmi gently into him again. Carefully, like if he moved too much, he might wake her from the best sleep she’d had in months.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached their floor, and Michael stepped out first, his hand already on the handle of both of the large suitcases, the carry-on slung over his shoulder. He glanced back to make sure Wunmi was close behind, and she was, but barely.

She looked gorgeous as always, even in a hoodie and travel leggings, even with her curls tied back and her eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. But she moved slow, the ache in her back obvious in the way she kept pressing one hand just under the curve of her belly.

“You good?” he asked, pausing to unlock the hotel door.

“Barely,” she mumbled. 

Michael chuckled softly as the door swung open. The suite was cozy, soft-lit, and quiet. Exactly what she needed.

“You’re not doing anything until you rest,” he said gently.

“I should shower first–”

“You can do that after the nap.”

“I should–”

“Babe,” he said, looking at her with the look he used when he wanted her to listen. “No one’s gonna see you until you’re good and rested. I already told your mom we were landing late. You’ve been uncomfortable since hour three on that plane. Come on.”

Wunmi didn’t fight it. She just kicked off her shoes near the bed and sighed, one hand still bracing her lower back. “Feels like my spine's in a knot.”

Michael was already helping her onto the mattress. “Let me fix it.”

She gave him a tired side-eye. “You’re not a chiropractor.”

“Maybe not,” he said, grabbing a pillow. “But I know your body, and I know what helps.”

He helped her onto her hands and knees slowly, propping a few pillows under her chest for support, letting her drop her weight forward. He rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, positioned himself behind her, and placed both hands on the small of her back. And then he got to work.

His thumbs moved in slow, firm circles with just enough pressure to release the tension tucked deep in her muscles. He worked across her lower back, down to the sides of her hips, easing the stiffness out of her.

Wunmi groaned softly, her head dropping onto her crossed arms. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep.”

“That’s the goal.”

Her breathing slowed with every pass of his palms, the tension giving way to comfort, her body sinking lower.

Ten minutes later, she was completely still.

Michael glanced down. Her eyes were shut, face relaxed, and her lips parted just slightly. She was out cold.

Carefully, he helped her shift to her side, adjusted the pillows around her, and pulled the blanket up over her hip. He kissed her temple once before stepping away to grab her charger, quietly setting her phone beside her.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

He smiled and stepped into the sitting area, answering with a gentle swipe. Wunmi’s mother’s face appeared on the screen instantly, glowing with excitement.

“Michael! You made it in one piece!”

“We did,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Just got checked in about twenty minutes ago.”

“Where’s Wunmi? Is she okay?”

Michael flipped the camera gently to show her sound asleep, curled up on the bed, her hand resting gently over her bump.

Her mother smiled, eyes softening. “My baby girl…”

“She didn’t sleep well on the flight,” Michael said, flipping the camera back. “Her back’s been killing her, so I gave her a massage, and she knocked out.”

“Smart man,” her mother chuckled. “She’s lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

They both smiled.

“So what time do you think you’ll head over?” she asked.

Michael checked the clock on the wall. “Give us about two hours? I wanna let her rest. And she’s gonna want to shower and get dressed before seeing everyone.”

“That’s fine! I’ll tell them to hold off. They’ve been excited all morning.”

“Tell ’em we’re on the way soon,” he said with a smile. “And that she’s okay. Just tired.”

“I will,” her mother said warmly. “Thank you, Michael.”

They ended the call, and Michael stepped back into the bedroom, sitting gently at the edge of the bed. He leaned over, brushing a kiss across her shoulder again, whispering into her skin.

“Rest while you can, baby.”

-

The front door had barely opened before it was like the whole house exhaled with joy.

“There they are!” “Look at her belly!” “Uncle Dee, come and see your niece before she disappears into the kitchen!” “Michael! You alright, love? Get in here!”

Michael barely got the door closed before five different people were trying to hug them. Wunmi, already flushed from the warmth and scent of home-cooked food in the air, smiled through it all but tugged gently at her coat, clearly overheating already.

“I got it,” Michael murmured, sliding behind her without missing a beat. His hands carefully worked her out of her coat. “Don’t stretch. I got you.”

She murmured a soft thank you as he folded it in his arm.

But the moment she stepped out, bump fully visible beneath her fitted sweater and pants, the energy shifted.

Michael stood to the side, coat still in his hand, watching as she was enveloped by aunties, cousins, and her siblings, all grinning and cooing, hugging her gently, rubbing her belly with varying levels of permission. Wunmi laughed, overwhelmed in the best way, holding onto her bump like she couldn’t believe how much love it was pulling in.

“I’m not even showing that much,” she mumbled, laughing through her blush.

“Lie again,” one of her cousins teased.

Her mother came around the corner just then, apron on, wiping her hands with a towel, smile wide but calm. She made her way through the crowd and wrapped her arms around Wunmi like she was gathering her whole heart in one embrace.

“My baby,” she whispered.

Wunmi melted into her. “Hi, Mum.”

They pulled apart and her mother’s eyes scanned her daughter’s face, then her belly, then Michael’s face.

“You look well,” she said softly. “Tired. But well.”

She turned to the others. “Alright, everyone out of the kitchen. Let the girl breathe. Food will be ready in a bit.”

Dinner was warm and full. The air thick with laughter, overlapping stories, and the clang of serving spoons against pots. Her mother had made sure everything on the table was safe: no trigger spices, no weird textures that would hit Wunmi’s nausea the wrong way. It was only comfort food, tailored to her daughter’s cravings.

Still, that didn’t stop Wunmi from sneaking off into the kitchen mid-conversation.

Michael noticed, but didn’t follow. He simply smiled when he heard her mother’s voice float out from behind the wall.

“You think I didn’t hear you walking back here?”

Wunmi giggled. “I’m just… checking the stove.”

“Mmhm. Taste this.”

Michael peeked into the kitchen from where he sat and saw Wunmi leaned against the counter, eyes closing with a hum of satisfaction as her mother fed her a small spoonful of something straight from the pot.

“This might actually fix my whole week,” she mumbled.

Her mom grinned. “That’s why I made it. Now go back out there before they think you’ve run off.”

When she returned to the table, Michael took one look at her face and handed her a glass of water like they hadn’t missed a beat. There was a little more color to her cheeks and her eyes were brighter.

“You okay?” he asked softly, leaning in.

“Yeah,” she said, easing into her chair. “She fed me.”

He grinned. “Of course she did.”

And as dinner continued, the room only got louder. Michael let himself fall into the rhythm of her world. This family that loved her out loud, with laughter, food, and open hands.

-

The car was idling at the curb, trunk packed, soft drizzle misting the windows in true northern England fashion. The air was crisp, thick with quiet goodbyes and that particular ache that only comes when you’re about to leave somewhere that feels like your core.

Wunmi stood wrapped in her mother’s arms, her cheek pressed into the familiar curve of her shoulder. Her sisters hovered close by with their eyes misty but they were holding it together.

“Don’t cry,” her mum murmured softly, rocking her just a little like she had when Wunmi was a child. “You know I’ll be there.”

“I know,” Wunmi whispered. But still, her arms stayed tight around her mother’s back.

Michael stood a few steps back, giving them their space. His hoodie was pulled up, hands in his pockets, but his eyes never left Wunmi. He was watching her with that familiar quiet intensity.

Her younger sister stepped forward next, hugging her with a bright, brave smile. “You better call us every day.”

“I will,” Wunmi promised, wiping under her eyes. “And you lot better be there.”

Her mum stepped in again. “We’ve already booked flights. We’ll be in L.A. right before the due date, sooner if needed. I’m not missing my grandbaby.”

Wunmi laughed through a few tears. “You better not.”

The final round of hugs felt slower like the air itself was trying to stretch time. Michael gently stepped in once the goodbyes began to fade, rubbing his hand down Wunmi’s back, grounding her as she leaned into him, a little fragile now.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” she mumbled into him.

He kissed her hairline. “We’ll be back. But it’ll be three of us next time.”

Wunmi sniffled, nodding slowly.

Michael turned to her family and offered them that warm, familiar smile. “Thank you.”

“You take care of her,” her mother said.

“Always.”

And he meant it.

He helped Wunmi into the car, held her hand the entire drive to the airport, and stayed quiet while she leaned her head on his shoulder during check-in. Her fingers stayed curled around his even as they went through security, through boarding, through takeoff.

Nine Months - Late January

Wunmi padded softly across the cool kitchen tile, one hand bracing her lower back as she opened the fridge, her other hand cradling her bump. The light spilled over her face as she searched for something simple, something small. Her body felt unsettled. Not in pain, but restless. Her hips ached, her lower belly tugged. The same false starts she’d been having for days now.

She reached for a glass and poured water, just as a low, intense pressure began to climb through her lower back. Then a deep contraction hit, stronger than the others. And it held.

Her hand jerked, and the glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the tile as she doubled over, bracing her palms against the counter, breath catching in her throat.

“Oh–” she whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “Okay. Okay…”

Down the hall, the quiet voices of her and Michael’s mom still up chatting softly in the living room fell silent. They appeared in the kitchen seconds later.

“Wunmi?” her mother called, voice low but sharp.

She didn’t answer right away, focusing instead on deep, steady breaths as she leaned into the counter, her face tight with focus.

Her mother was at her side instantly, one hand sliding to her lower back, rubbing in slow circles.

“Breathe through it, baby. You’ve got it. In through the nose out through the mouth. That’s it.”

Michael’s mom quickly stepped around the glass, eyes scanning her. “That one looked stronger.”

Wunmi nodded, breathless. “Much stronger.”

“You’ve been feeling them all week,” her mom said softly. “But this one’s different, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, still hunched slightly. “It’s not going away like the others.”

Michael’s mom turned toward the stairs. “I’m waking him up.”

By the time Michael came downstairs, shirtless, sweats hanging low on his hips, face tense but calm, Wunmi was upright again, cradling her belly, leaning against the wall with her mother at her side.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low but urgent, walking toward her immediately.

“She had a contraction,” his mom said, hand gently guiding him forward. “And the glass broke. She didn’t fall, she’s okay but it looked like a strong one.”

Michael was already in front of Wunmi, hands on her arms, scanning her face.

“Do you wanna go in?”

Wunmi shook her head slowly. “Not yet. They're still really far apart.”

Michael nodded, cupping the back of her head gently. “Okay. You want to try to sleep?”

She looked at him, eyes tired, voice soft. “Can you lay with me?”

“Of course,” he said, without hesitation.

He helped her out of the kitchen slowly, arm around her waist, avoiding the shards of glass that his mom had already begun sweeping up behind them. Her mother followed close, still watching her closely but not hovering.

Once they got upstairs, Michael settled her into bed first. Then he slid in behind her, wrapping his arm around her front and resting his hand over her bump.

Wunmi let out a shaky breath. “I think this is it.”

“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “But we’ve got time.”

And as the house settled with the heaviness of anticipation. Michael stayed alert, hand never leaving her belly.

-

Wunmi shifted in bed, eyes barely fluttering open as another contraction crept up through her back and wrapped around her front. She exhaled slowly, trying to ride it out without waking Michael, but the sound that slipped from her throat was enough.

His eyes snapped open.

“Wunmi?”

She nodded, hand already gripping the side of the bed.

Michael sat up fast, brushing her curls from her damp forehead. “This one bad?”

“It…yeah.”

As if on cue, she whimpered, her fingers digging into the blanket.

Michael picked up the phone on the nightstand, calling the doctor’s on-call number. Within moments, they were patched through.

“She’s having stronger contractions,” he told the nurse calmly. “Yeah… every ten minutes now. No bleeding, but she’s in pain.”

He listened as the nurse explained some things to him, then he nodded. “Okay. We’ll head in.”

He hung up and stood immediately, already grabbing the hospital bag from the corner, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Let’s go. They’re ready for us.”

Wunmi sat on the edge of the bed, bracing herself with both hands. Her legs trembled slightly from the pressure.

“You okay to move?” he asked, crouching in front of her.

She gave a shaky nod. “Yeah. Just help me up.”

Both moms followed closely as Michael carefully guided her downstairs, one arm firm around her waist, the other resting over her belly. She leaned into him the whole way to the car, barely speaking, focused on her breathing.

The drive was quiet and tense. Wunmi sat in the backseat with her mother, eyes squeezed shut during every contraction. Michael drove with one hand on the wheel, the other constantly checking the rearview mirror, his jaw tight but steady.

When they pulled up to the hospital’s private maternity entrance, a nurse and an orderly were already waiting outside with a wheelchair.

Michael parked and jumped out first, swinging open the back door.

“Come on, baby,” he said gently, offering his hand.

Wunmi tried to stand, but halfway up, another contraction hit her hard. Her knees buckled and she doubled over with a groan, gripping his arms.

Michael held her firmly, whispering against her ear. “I got you. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

She nodded with her jaw clenched tight, and her mother rubbing her back while the nurses waited patiently.

As soon as she was upright again and taking a shaky step toward the wheelchair, it happened.

A sudden rush of warmth between her legs. She gasped.

“My water…”

The nurse stepped forward. “It’s okay, that’s normal. We’ll get you inside.”

Michael’s hands were steady, but his eyes flicked with concern. He helped lower her into the wheelchair as gently as possible.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Wunmi panted. “It’s a lot. But I’m okay.”

Michael kissed her forehead and jogged ahead to hold the doors open as the nurse wheeled her in. Both mothers followed quickly behind, bags in tow.

The staff moved fast but calm. Ushering them into a private birthing suite, prepping monitors, gently helping Wunmi out of her clothes and into a gown. Michael never left her side.

One nurse checked her vitals. “You’re still quite early. Only a few centimeters dilated. But labor has definitely started.”

Wunmi nodded slowly, eyes locked on Michael’s.

He stayed close as they helped her into the hospital bed, her mother adjusting her pillows, his mother setting the bag down and pulling out lip balm, snacks, and the little comforts they packed just in case.

And within hours the hospital room changed. 

The lights had been dimmed and voices were lowered. Nurses moved in and out with gentle efficiency, adjusting monitors, checking vitals, keeping track of time. But the clock meant nothing to Wunmi. Not now. Not with her body working in waves and pulses, tightening and releasing with maddening rhythm.

By mid-morning, the contractions had picked up.

They weren’t completely unbearable, not yet. But they were steady. Deep. Demanding.

She was leaning forward arms hooked around Michael’s neck, forehead pressed to his chest as another contraction rolled through her. Her whole body tensed.

Michael stood rock solid, his hands circling slow and firm along her lower back, rubbing in counter-pressure strokes just like the nurse showed him.

“Breathe through it,” he murmured, his lips by her temple. “In and out. You’ve got it, baby. You’re doing so good.”

She gritted her teeth, eyes squeezed shut, letting out a long moan into his shirt.

As soon as the wave passed, her knees gave slightly. Michael caught her instantly.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, voice softer now. “Let’s try the ball next.”

The nurse brought over the yoga ball, and Wunmi eased down onto it slowly with help from both her mom and Michael. She rocked gently, her hips circling in slow figure eights while she braced her hands on her thighs.

Michael knelt in front of her, eyes steady on hers.

“Still okay?”

She nodded, sweat glistening along her brow. “Yeah, I’m managing.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, reaching for a cool cloth to dab her forehead. “You’re doing everything right.”

Her eyes softened at that, and for a moment the pain fell away.

Time moved in blurry loops after that.

She tried to rest between contractions, curled on her side in bed, her mother stroking her braids and Michael lying behind her, hand draped protectively over her bump.

“Try to sleep,” he whispered when her eyes fluttered. 

She did. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe less. But it was something.

When she woke, another contraction had her out of bed again, this one hitting harder. Michael was right there, helping her up, getting her sips of water, feeding her small bites of fruit and plain crackers.

“You gotta keep your strength up,” he said gently, kneeling by the chair where she sat with her feet up, rocking slightly. “Even if it’s just a little.”

She nodded, taking a few bites. “I don’t want to throw it back up.”

“You might and that’s okay. But it’s worth trying.”

He brushed his hand across her thigh, soothing her, anchoring her. Every so often, he’d press a kiss to her knee, her shoulder, her fingers.

Her mom and his mom both rotated in and out, giving them space, coming back with warm compresses and chapstick, quiet prayers and words of encouragement.

But Michael never left.

Even when she got snippy. Even when she cried out and gripped his shirt too hard. Even when she begged to know how much longer and the nurse only answered, “You’re doing beautifully. Keep going.”

Michael was steady.

“You can cuss me out later,” he teased once, brushing hair from her face.

“Good. I will.”

“I expect it.”

They shared a tired laugh, and then another wave hit, and she fell forward into his chest again.

-

The room was quiet now. Not silent, but still. The kind of still that only comes when everything else falls away and only one thing matters.

Wunmi was on her knees, leaned forward over the soft curve of the turquoise birthing stool. Pillows and blankets were stacked beneath her legs to support her hips and knees. Sweat clung to her skin and her body trembled, stretched to its edge. Her forehead pressed to the top of the CUB between contractions, but when the waves came, she gripped the sides and let out deep, primal moans from somewhere far beneath words.

Michael was in front of her on the floor, his knees tucked under him, body bent forward, both arms wrapped around her middle. One hand cradled her back, the other pressed firm and reassuring against her hip. His lips were at her ear, warm breath brushing her cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby. You’ve got this. I swear to God, you’ve got this.”

She whimpered, whole body curling in as another contraction rolled through her like fire.

The midwife crouched behind her, calm and ready, gloves already on. “Okay, Wunmi,” she said gently, “you’re fully dilated. The baby’s right there. We’re going to breathe through the next one and then start pushing, alright?”

Wunmi nodded once, jaw clenched, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Michael kissed her temple. “You’re safe. Just listen to your body.”

She clutched tighter to the CUB as the next contraction surged forward like a wave breaking open. The midwife’s voice guided her through it, but it was Michael’s hands that held her, grounded her, his voice steady in her ear.

“Push, love. Just like that. Come on. I see you. She’s so close.”

Wunmi groaned through gritted teeth, her entire body bearing down with all its strength. She sobbed once, gasped, and Michael caught her head gently as it dropped forward.

“You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered, forehead to hers. “You’re bringing our girl home.”

Both of their mothers were on the other side of the room monitoring and watching. They couldn’t help but to keep their eyes on their children who were bringing their own child into the world. 

There was another push, another cry, another breath.

Michael peeked down but quickly moved his head away focusing back on his woman. 

The midwife leaned in closer. “Head’s crowning,” she said softly. “She’s got hair.”

He laughed, breathless and overwhelmed, brushing his thumbs across Wunmi’s cheeks. “She’s almost here, baby. You’re so close. I can see her.”

Wunmi let out a sob and pushed again. She was shaking, breath hot and loud in Michael’s ear, and he kissed her jaw as tears gathered in his own eyes.

“I’ve got you. You’re not alone. You’re so close.”

And then as if that last bit of encouragement was the gateway, Wunmi pushed with all of the energy she had left and the room filled with a new sound.

A sharp, wet cry cracked through the silence, full and high and alive.

Michael gasped as he glanced down then immediately back to Wunmi. The midwife was already guiding the baby up, wrapping her gently and helping pass her between Wunmi’s arms.

She was panting, still on her knees, arms shaking as she leaned forward.

Michael supported her back as she lowered herself into a seated position. And there, pressed to her chest, was their baby girl.

“You did it,” Michael whispered, kissing her forehead, both of them crying now. “You did it.”

Wunmi sobbed into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around their daughter, holding her like something sacred.

And Michael kept one hand on her back, the other resting protectively over the small curve of their baby’s head.

They stayed there like that, on the floor, in the middle of the room. Not caring about the mess or the monitors or who was watching.

-

The chaos of delivery, the pacing back and forth, the focused hands and the tension in the air, all of it had dissolved into quiet.

Wunmi was finally resting, eyes heavy and body fully surrendered to the bed. Her head turned slightly toward the warm spot of sunlight casting long shadows across the sheets. Her breathing had slowed. Not sleep, exactly, but that in-between space where the body finally starts to let go.

Across the room, in the reclining chair, Michael sat shirtless, his shirt tossed over the side, holding their daughter against his bare chest.

She was impossibly small.

Her head tucked beneath his chin, soft baby curls damp with birth, her little arms curled in tight as she lay bundled in the crook of his arm. His other hand rested gently across her back, holding her there like she was something too precious to fully comprehend.

And really she was.

Michael couldn’t stop staring. Not at the room, not at the monitors, not even at Wunmi right now–just the tiny, wriggling life pressed to his chest. He could feel her heartbeat fluttering under her skin, the tiniest rise and fall of breath.

“I got you, princess,” he whispered, his voice raw, lips just brushing her temple. “Daddy’s right here.”

She shifted a little, making a soft, airy sound. Michael’s eyes welled, but he blinked fast, brushing a finger across her cheek.

The nurse came in gently after a knock, her steps light, eyes warm. She glanced at the monitors, then over at Michael.

“How’s she doing?”

Michael looked up. “Perfect. She's so calm.”

Wunmi stirred slightly at the sound of their voices, groggy but alert enough to turn her head. “Everything okay?”

Michael turned, still holding the baby. “Yeah. She’s good. Just been hangin’ out with me.”

Wunmi smiled sleepily. “Of course she has.”

“She might be ready to feed soon,” the nurse said kindly, walking toward the bed. “You up for trying to latch?”

Wunmi nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

The nurse helped ease her upright, stacking pillows behind her, and adjusting the bed’s incline. Michael stood and walked over with the baby still pressed against him, his hands steady, his heart somewhere in his throat.

He looked down at Wunmi who was glowing with sweat, exhaustion, and something else entirely. She looked up at him, and for a second, they just stared.

“Ready to see your mama again?” Michael whispered to their daughter as he passed her gently to Wunmi.

The baby whimpered softly in protest at the shift, but the moment she was against Wunmi’s chest, her little head turned instinctively.

With the nurse’s help, the baby found her way, latching with a little struggle, then settling into rhythm. Wunmi winced at the sensation, then relaxed, her arm curling protectively around her daughter.

Michael sat back down at her side, eyes never leaving them. His hand reached over and brushed down Wunmi’s arm.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured.

“You say that like I didn’t almost curse you out six hours ago.”

“You did,” he laughed. 

A ray of golden sunlight broke through the window, like a spotlight from the heavens, and landed gently across the baby’s back. Her tiny lashes fluttered, her mouth relaxed, and she melted deeper into Wunmi’s chest with a long, happy sigh.

Michael noticed it first. “Look.”

Wunmi glanced down, then blinked back the emotion swelling in her chest.

“She’s glowing,” she whispered. “Like she is the light.”

Michael nodded slowly. “Soleil.”

Wunmi turned her head. “The sun.”

He nodded again, hand moving to stroke the soft curve of their daughter’s cheek. “Soleil Amira.”

“Little sun princess,” Wunmi translated under her breath, her voice trembling.

“That’s her,” Michael whispered. “That’s our girl.”

And just like that, her name was spoken into the room like a promise.

Soleil Amira Jordan.

And in that golden hush, with Wunmi holding their daughter and Michael tucked close beside her, everything made sense.

-

-

-

Taglist: @shamansha, @rkiiives, @d1gitalb4rbie, @numb1smokeanniestan, @caramelplug @margepimpson @underated345-blog @tnychellee @loveabledovee @kkbeauty86 @syko-jpg @thegreatlibraryofalex @cardi-bre91

[thefutureemmywinner]

[spookysanta]

Handled. (Modern!Elias "Stack" Moore)

Summary: The man before Elias - the one that traumatized you more than words could say - has made his return. Well, he won't be bothering you much longer. At least, not while Stack is around.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan as Modern!Elias "Stack" Moore x reader

Warnings: reader is Southern, mentions of domestic violence, depictions of murder, use of n-word bc I'm Black and I can

something i've been working on today. i rediscovered the movie soundtrack.. and here we are. more sinners content will be coming. yay!

The cicadas were loud tonight.

Too loud. Drownin' out the sound of your own thoughts as you sat on the edge of Stack’s porch, knees drawn up, his oversized tee swallowin' your frame. You hadn’t said much since he got home. Just kept glancin' at your phone, bitin' the inside of your cheek raw, chest risin' a little too fast. 

He noticed it. 

Because of course he did.

“Talk to me,” he said finally, low and steady behind you.

You didn’t look up. “It’s him,” you whispered after a moment or two.

Stack didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. But you heard the shift in his breathin'. Heard the weight of it settle in his chest.

“Another Instagram page I ain’t never seen before,” you continued, voice wobblin' in concern. “No profile picture. Just a message.”

He already knew what it said before you told him. The bastard was predictable. Always pokin’, proddin’, waitin’ for you to crack. Waitin’ for someone to stop lookin’ over your shoulder.

“He said he misses me,” You blinked quickly, fightin' the heat behind your eyes. “Said he thinks about me every night. That he knows I still feel him.”

Stack leaned against the porch beam, arms crossed tight, jaw locked. “You respond?”

You shook your head, jaw clenched as your teeth bit back tears. “I blocked it. But he made three more since last week. And I–I saw his car outside the clinic this mornin'. Same tags. I ain’t makin’ it up, Lias. He’s back.”

And there it was.

The panic. That sickenin' fear creepin' down your spine. You could feel it curlin' in your stomach, makin' you nauseous. You didn’t even realize you were cryin' until your voice cracked.

“I’m so tired. I just want it to stop. But every time I think he’s gone, he finds me again. I know you say it’s handled but… w-what if he don’t stop? What if he puts hands on me again?”

That’s when Stack moved, crouchin' in front of you, hands firm on your thighs, his dark eyes cuttin' into yours.

“Ain’t nobody gon’ lay a hand on you again,” he said, voice so calm it was bone-deep lethal. “You hear me? Ain’t no what-ifs. Ain’t no next time. I told you when I met you, I don’t let shit slide.”

Your lip trembled. “But–”

He pressed his thumb to your chin, made you look him dead in the eye. “I know you scared. But I ain’t. That’s the difference.”

You swallowed.

He kissed the corner of your mouth soft, thumb wipin' under your eye. “Me and Smoke… we got good aim. And we don’t miss.”

And that was it.

You didn’t ask what that meant, not yet. But your hands stopped shakin' shortly after.

And when he stood up, pullin' his phone from his pocket, voice gruff as he muttered, “Lij, go on and gas the car,”-- you knew.

Somethin' was comin'.

And this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was retribution.

—-

You didn’t realize it at first. Trauma doesn’t let you clock peace right away. It creeps in, soft and patient, like the warmth of a southern dusk slippin' under your skin. But the days started addin’ up.

No new pages. No cars parked outside the clinic. No strange numbers blowin' up your phone.

You still flinched when it buzzed though, lookin' out the window twice before steppin' outside. Still checked your locks two, three, four times. Stack never said much. 

He just watched. 

His patience was like the Mississippi heat: thick, heavy, and unforgivin' if you didn’t respect it.

But it wasn’t until a week later, foldin' laundry in the bedroom, that you paused mid-fold when realization hit you like a whisper: he’s really gone.

You stared at your phone on the nightstand. No new notifications. No blocked messages. Nothin'.

Stack walked in a second later, carryin' a bowl of grapes and that look he always wore when he was checkin' on you without makin' it obvious. He raised an eyebrow at the stillness in your hands. “You good?” he asked.

You nodded slowly, unsure how to explain the shift. “It’s quiet.”

He set the bowl down. “Mm.”

You searched his face. “You don’t think that’s weird?”

“No,” he said simply. “I think it’s overdue.”

You stared at him. “You sure he’s not still watchin'? Waitin'?”

Stack’s eyes were unreadable. That molasses-thick drawl dripped from his next words like syrup. “I’d bet my soul he ain’t watchin’ nobody no more.”

After that, it took you three more days to muster up the courage to ask him directly.

And you hadn’t planned it, really. It just slipped out one night, while the two of you sat on the hood of his Impala, watchin' the stars. Smoke was inside watchin' the game, beer in hand, probably knowin' exactly what he and his twin had done and not losin' a wink of sleep over it.

You turned to Stack, voice soft. “Did you do somethin'?”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just lit his blunt, took a slow drag, and blew the smoke out through his nose. 

The streetlight overhead flickered once. 

Twice.

Then he looked at you. “I ain’t gon’ lie to you, ma,” he said. “Ain’t never had a reason to.”

You nodded. “So tell me.”

Stack sighed, jaw flexin'. “He was askin’ for it. You know that, right? Playin’ with your peace like that. Showin’ up where you work. Sendin’ shit like he still had a claim to you.”

Your breath caught.

“Me and Lij caught wind of where he was stayin’. Motel over on County Line. He was in town less than forty-eight hours before we pulled up.”

“Stack–”

He held up a hand, not for silence, but to keep it calm. “We ain’t drag it out. Didn’t monologue like them TV villains. We just… handled it. Quiet. Clean. Ain’t no cameras over there, no snitch nearby brave enough to ask questions.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. “You–he’s really gone?”

Stack nodded once, eyes glancin' away from you only to take a hit of his blunt. “Six feet under. His mama’s gon’ be wearin’ him on a shirt come Christmastime.”

You blinked, tryin' to steady the breath that caught in your throat. But his eyes were back to watchin' you, studyin' your reaction.

“I ain’t tell you ‘cause I ain’t want you carryin’ that weight,” he said. “It ain’t your burden to bear, baby. That nigga took too much from you already. I just… evened the score.”

You sat there, frozen. Not afraid – never afraid of him – but overwhelmed.

“You safe now.” He leaned in close, pressin' a kiss to your temple, voice barely a rasp. “Ain’t no boogeyman comin’. Not while I’m breathin’. Not while Smoke got breath in his lungs either.”

You believed him.

Because one thin' about the twins – they don’t bluff.

And when Stack says you’re safe, that means somebody else ain’t.

—

It’d been three weeks since that night on the hood of the Impala. Three weeks since you’d asked the question that cracked everythin' wide open. And now… the quiet had settled. But so had the wonderin'.

But closure wasn’t comin' in the silence. You needed the how. Not just the why.

The sun was settin' slow over the backyard when you’d brought it up again. The two of you were grillin' – well, Stackwas doin' the actual grillin'. His shirt off, gold chain glintin' in the amber light, and you was sittin' on the patio steps watchin' him. 

You waited until the sizzle of meat gave you cover, like the sound might soften the blow. “Elias.”

He turned his head slightly at the sound of his real name. That alone told you he was listenin'.

You spoke gently. “I need you to tell me what happened. All of it.”

He froze, just for a second. Then flipped the steak like he didn’t hear her right.

You kept goin', feelin' a heaviness crawl up your throat. “Not just the end. I need the middle. I need to know what you did. How.”

Elias set the tongs down on the grill’s ledge. He didn’t turn around right away. “Why?” he asked after a moment, his voice low.

You swallowed. “Because I keep playin' it out in my head. And the stories I make up feel worse than the truth. I know you did it to protect me, and I’m grateful. But I need the whole truth to let it go.”

Finally, he turned.

The look on his face said he didn’t want to give you that. And it wasn’t because he couldn’t – but because he didn’t want you to see the kind of man he had to be that night. 

The kind he’s tried to keep buried.

“You sure?” he asked, voice dipped in gravel and grief.

You nodded.

He sighed and sat down on the edge of the patio, elbows on his knees.

“Me and Smoke followed him for a day and a half. We didn’t let him see us. Just watched, learned his patterns. He was stayin' in a hotel off County Line, room 209. He went out for beer and smokes around nine every night. Alone.”

“We waited till Friday. Lij tripped the back lock. I came in through the front, knocked like I was room service.” He shook his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe the ease of it. “He opened the door. Smirkin’ like the same sorry nigga you told me about. Thought he was finna flirt.”

Stack’s voice turned cold.

“So I hit him. All it took was one swing for his jaw to crack – loud. He stumbled back. Tried to reach for somethin’ – I ain’t even wait to see what. Smoke was already behind him by then.”

He looked up at you, eyes darker than dusk. “And then I hit him again. And again. And then we dragged him to the tub.”

You flinched, but didn’t stop him.

“Wrapped him in the shower curtain, secured it with duct tape. Gloves on. Left no trace.”

You didn’t say anythin'. But he saw the questions painted on your face. He answered before you even had the words to ask.

“He didn’t suffer. It wasn’t slow or drawn out. But he knew exactly why it was happenin’. I made sure he knew.”

You shivered despite the afternoon’s heat.

Stack looked down at his hands, flexed his fin'ers like he could still feel the weight of it.

“We cleaned up and took what was his. ID, wallet, the burner phone he had. Threw ‘em all in the river after.”

You pressed her fingers to your lips. Tears welled, but didn’t fall “Elias…”

“I ain’t proud of it.” He finally looked at you, gaze unflinchin'. “But I ain’t sorry either. I meant what I said. He touched you, scared you, tried to haunt you even after you got free. That don’t go unpunished. Not in my book.”

You exhaled, like a stone dropped from your lungs.

Then you stood, crossed the short distance to him, and curled into his lap. His arms came around your waist without question or shame.

“You sure he’s never comin' back?” you whispered.

He kissed her hair, slow and firm. “Baby… even the dirt’s forgettin’ his name.”

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[thefutureemmywinner]

[dealore]

SIR .

Synopsis : [ pairing : Annie x Smoke ]

𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺. 𝖠𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖧𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 —𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 — 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

𝘚͟𝘰͟𝘯͟𝘨͟ 𝘵͟𝘩͟𝘢͟𝘵͟ 𝘪͟𝘯͟𝘴͟𝘱͟𝘪͟𝘳͟𝘦͟𝘥͟ 𝘵͟𝘩͟𝘦͟ 𝘸͟𝘳͟𝘪͟𝘵͟𝘪͟𝘯͟𝘨͟.

Christina Perry — Jar of heart

Christina Aguilera — The song within

Adele — Million years ago

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝗍𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍. 𝖣𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌, 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 — 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺, 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝖻𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖠𝗅𝖿𝗈𝗇𝗓𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗁. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺 ?” 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽? 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅.

“𝖶𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋-𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾 — 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌.

𝖭𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗒’𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆.

𝖡𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖽𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗇-𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗌. 𝖮𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌. 𝖲𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖠 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 — 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗇𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 — 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖻 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖡𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝗈𝗐’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽—𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅.

“𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄” 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇,” 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒.

“𝖣𝖺𝗆𝗇—𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾”

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉-𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗇𝗎𝗍’𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖡𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝗈𝗐’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝖽 — 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 — .

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌-𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝖺𝗋𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗍. 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍.

𝖠 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅. 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 —𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 — 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗒𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽’𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍’𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖸’𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗌?” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗒. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗒𝗅𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽. “𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌?”

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅’𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾.

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾?” 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖠𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒.

“𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂.” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. “𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾.”

𝖡𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗎𝗉. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅’𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈.

𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 — 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗎𝗌 — 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

“𝖧𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ?” 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗒. 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋.

𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽.

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖭𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗑 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾’𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾.

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗓𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗒 — 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗒. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖡𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝗂𝗌𝖺. 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍

“𝖲𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝗋” 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 — 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 — 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖴𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 — 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖠 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁— 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗑𝗒𝗀𝖾𝗇.

𝖲𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗅𝖽.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗑. 𝖣𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖾𝗌. 𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖠 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌, 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖧𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 — 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌, 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉, 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖮𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗁, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗒𝗇𝗑.

𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 — 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 — 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖻.

𝖧𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗒 ?” 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌.

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 — 𝗐𝗁𝗈’𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗒 — 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖴𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖡𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈’ ” 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽.

𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾 𝖦𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒.

𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗒 ?”

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗉.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅’𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾. 𝖬𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖽𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗇𝗏𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 — 𝖠 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖺.

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄’𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍.

“𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 ?” 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅’𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖡𝗂𝗀 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝗒, 𝖫𝗂𝗌𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿, 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 :

“𝖬𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝗁’ 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗋”.

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖠𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁.

𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗋.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗉, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄.

“𝖧𝖾𝗒… 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾? 𝖸𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗆𝖾? 𝖢’𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒 ?”

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅.

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 — 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 —. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈.

𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖡𝗈’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 — 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁-𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗌, 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖿𝗒 𝗏𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝖾, 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 — 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽.

“𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂,” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒.”

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖻𝗒𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 .

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖠𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖶𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅, 𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.

𝖶𝗁𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 ? 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗋?

𝖭𝗈 — 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇.

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖡𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝗈𝗐’𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗒. “𝖲𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒. 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈.”

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗅𝗎𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 — 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖺.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍. “𝖨 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀.

“𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂” 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅 “𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆.”

“𝖱𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖺” 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂, 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅’𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 — 𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁.

𝖧𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖬𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝖭𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒-𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾’𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖡𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗒

“𝗒𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇’. 𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗌 !”

“𝖬𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖡𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈’ 𝗁𝗎𝗁 ? 𝖨 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎” 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

“𝖨 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒,” 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂. “𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖥𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒. 𝖶𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.”

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂’𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. “𝖮𝗈𝗁! 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗋?”

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂’𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋. “𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈.” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂’𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾, “𝖬𝖺𝗆𝖺, 𝖨 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽,𝖺𝗇𝖽” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 “𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.”

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. “𝖮𝗁 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 ! 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.”

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂’𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗒. “𝖨 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗈’ 𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍!”

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾. “𝖠𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺. 𝖨’𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖺?”

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾.

“𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 ! 𝖦𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄 !”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇-𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖼𝗄.

“𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖱𝗎𝗍𝗁” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽.

𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗎𝗉.

𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖱𝗎𝗍𝗁.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂.

𝖠𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒. 𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗌.

𝖦𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗌.

𝖯𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗈.

𝖯𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌.

𝖠𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂’𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈’𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈’𝖽 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁.

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿-𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗈𝗇.

𝖭𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐. 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖱𝗎𝗍𝗁’𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽.

𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁.

“𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 ?” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖮𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌. 𝖦𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. 𝖥𝖺𝗌𝗍.

“𝖠𝗒𝖾 ? 𝖲𝗂𝗋 ?” 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖤𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉.

𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋. 𝖠 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 — 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍, 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 —.

𝖲𝖨𝖱

𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾’𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 — 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 — 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

“𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂…” 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗎𝗇𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 “𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝗁𝗆”, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗉. 𝖠𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝖳𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖠𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗌’𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇’, 𝗌𝗂𝗋. 𝖬𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖬𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁.

𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅. 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 — 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇—

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀-𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗁, 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋.

𝖠 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌, 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖦𝗈𝖽’𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗄𝖾 ?

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖺 ? 𝖮𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 ?

“𝖲𝖠𝖱𝖠𝖨 ?”

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇.

“𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 ?” 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽.

“𝖭𝗈 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍” 𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖦𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

“𝖶𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 ?”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝖢𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗌.

“𝖧𝗆𝗆—𝖨 𝗌𝖺𝗐, 𝖨 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇—“ 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽.

𝖠𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁. 𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾”

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Tag list ( per request ) :

@brownskincheyenne @solunaseira @mmbee675

Tag list from Third Wheel :

@lilbitt @-harmonytbh @solarssins @rkiiives @harleycativy @thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @rkiiives @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @chknnwffls @maddyf22 @jackierose902109 @iiiheartfayee @marley1773 @artistrule444 @simplyzeeka

If you want to be remove tell me, I will do. Thank you so much for living these stories with me. I know y mind can be messy sometimes. Love you all 💕

[foxybrownsugababe]

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Ai Michael B. Jordon x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - in which a woman receives a mysterious crate that changes everything she thought she knew about solitude, control, and connection.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mild language, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, light sci-fi themes, let me know if I missed anything! Sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!! Go easy one me <3

𝐅𝐨𝐱𝐲’𝐬 𝐒𝐨𝐚𝐩𝐛𝐨𝐱 - I had the idea, and I thought “Why the hell not?” And here we are….

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,637+

There was no room for weakness in Nadine Nelson’s life.

Not in her closet, where the hems of her Italian suits and Asian silks hung like armor. Not in her penthouse apartment in the heart of Manhattan, with its clean marble surfaces and city skyline views. And definitely not in the courtroom, where a well-timed objection could make or break a multimillion-dollar case.

Nadine was steel, wrapped in silk.

Her alarm rang at 5:45 AM, a single chime before she cut it off and sat up. Not a single grin or anything, just a long cat stretch before rolling over and letting her feet hit the floor. And already, her mind was racing.

Deposition at 10. Client call at 1. Lunch with the DA’s assistant—, no I’m skipping that. Trial prep at 4. Court by Thursday.

She moved like a machine all while thinking. First her perfectly manicured feet slipped into her slippers before she was up and tossing her arms into her deep blue silk robe. Then she was turning on the bathroom light, standing in front of the mirror before the sound of her electric toothbrush humming filled the space. Once she put into the sink, cold water hit her face, a nice cleaned scrub applied to her skin with some expensive soap before multiple serums and creams soothed her epidermis. Then she was down the hall and into the kitchen, her domain of silence.

She barely blinked as she moved around, effortlessly pulling together an authentic espresso. Double shot, four sugars, two creamers. She sipped out of the small cup that she placed on a saucer as she made her way to the living room, clinking on the large television with a simple tap to the panel near the light switch, as well as opening the curtains to the floor to ceiling windows of the space.

It was the news on low volume, something she played in the background as she sat on the couch and began the first part of her work day, which was checking notifications. Stock tickers scrolling. Loads of emails, and real mail. Even a text from her assistant.

Jane: Morning. Confirmed meeting with Sloane. Added an extra hour for court prep. I had to push your massage again. Sorry.

Nadine didn’t even flinch. Self-care was for people with the luxury of losing. She had no such privilege. As she continued to check and sort through her things, she came across a letter, which was rare nowadays in their advanced society. But she didn’t sit to read it for long once she saw it was some sort of survey with a government seal.

C.R.I.S.

(Cognitive Robotics & Intelligence Systems)

Confidential Prototype Program | Not for Public Disclosure

To Ms. Nadine Nelson,

Congratulations.

You are one of only twenty individuals selected to participate in the private beta phase of AURA—the world’s most advanced artificial intelli-

With a sigh, she tossed the paper into the rest of the junk mails she’d gathered, not even giving it a second thought.

By 6:30AM, she was showered and dressed in navy Balmain with matching slacks, gold cufflinks fastened, and her Louboutin heels clicked against the floors like a metronome. Every detail was precise. Her eyeliner was sharp, her decently pixie bob cut was curled and bouncy, not a strand out of place.

That was the version of herself she showed the world.

The version no one saw was the one who stared at herself in any reflection for a moment too long, trying to spot any imperfections and critiquing the ones she had. The one who pressed the ends of her hand to her temple when things became too much, roughly rubbing against her skin to not panic. The one who felt the beginnings of a headache every morning before she even stepped outside.

But there was no time for that.

Today was a big day. So big that she nearly ran over one of her co-workers in the complex’s private parking lot. The woman leaned out of the window, looking at her co-worker, Simon, was entrapped within his phone, coffee in other hand.

“Simon.” She clipped as she exited the car, standing beside the driver’s side with her bag slung over her arm and her eyes narrowed like the barrel of a gun.

Her junior partner, Simon Gellar, flinched, nearly spilling his coffee. He was leaned against the concrete column next to his vehicle, relaxed as if he had no multi-million-dollar contracts waiting for him upstairs.

“Nadine! Goodmorning.” He blurted, straightening up, phone still in hand. His thin wire glasses were crooked from how fast he’d jerked up.

She leveled a gaze at him. “You’re in my line of motion. Next to my parking spot. Were you planning to get hit by my car?” She asked, and though she was being sarcastic, her stoic face didn’t lean into that notion.

Simone scrambled back, laughing awkwardly. “Sorry, sorry. I was—uh—watching something.”

“I gathered.” She pushed past him, heels echoing. Still, curiosity peeked through her otherwise impenetrable wall of ice. She pivoted at the elevator. “What was so important it made you forget spatial awareness?”

Simon followed her with a sheepish grin, lifting his phone to show a paused video. “This new AI prototype. It’s a for a government project. They’re calling it a fully integrated domestic interface. Basically a robot with a personality. They’re doing a limited civilian roll-out.” He explained.

Nadine gave a single, unimpressed glance at the screen. It was paused on a thumbnail image—what looked like a man stepping out of a delivery crate, bare-chested, perfect skin, electric-blue eyes, and a jawline engineered with an questionable precision.

“They sent you a stripper?” She deadpanned.

Simon choked. “We-well, no! Th-this isn’t mine, this is some guy online. A-and he’s, uh, he’s supposed to be adaptable. Learns your habits, routines, even preferences. The AI body is designed to assist with home tasks and companionship. There’s an application online—”

“Companionship?” Nadine asked, one brow arching as they stepped into the elevator.

“Not like that. I mean—maybe like that.” He said, squinting. “But—anyway, apparently they already started selecting people to house the prototypes.” He sipped his coffee, missing the twitch of Nadine’s jaw. “Random civilian testing. They’re sending out offers from low to high-income environments.” He continued.

The elevator dinged. Nadine stepped out before the doors fully opened.

“Mm, sounds like a weird distraction. Who has time for pet projects from a government that doesn’t care about them. Let me know when they build one that can argue in court and bill clients.” She deadpanned before the elevator dinged and she stepped off, stuttering down the hall to her office.

“Will do.” Simon called after her, blushing as he pushed up his glasses and watched as the woman walked away from him.

✦

Nadine’s office sat at the top floor of the firm—an expansive corner with floor-to-ceiling windows, brushed gold fixtures, and enough clean lines to make any minimalist cry from joy. But it wasn’t decoration that mattered, not to her at least. It was power. Clients walked in and knew exactly who was in charge and who was a leader.

She dumped her bag on the chair and was halfway through her espresso number two when the day officially launched.

By 7:15 AM, she was pacing through an emergency strategy meeting regarding an international corporate dispute. She cut through the legalese with surgical precision, offering airtight solutions and eviscerating anyone who hesitated.

By 9:00, she was on a three-way call with the CEO of a pharmaceutical giant and their scandal-scrambling PR team, coaching them through deposition answers while reading through a second case file on her desk.

By 10:00, she was downstairs in one of the firm’s conference rooms, dressed in a power stance that had the opposing counsel checking their notes twice before daring to even speak. She flipped through paper evidence like chapters of a book she’d already read, correcting a junior associate mid-sentence with nothing but a hard stare.

Every moment, every move, every gesture, was precise. Intention was behind it all.

There were no lunch breaks for her, only a small snacks here and there, or of like the food version of a power nap. And even then, she canceled today’s one-on-one with the DA’s assistant five minutes before she was supposed to show. Nadine opted to pace the rooftop patio instead, shoes clicking against stone as she answered emails, reviewed evidence, and toggled between two back-to-back client emergencies.

Her assistant, Jane, appeared like a ghost, silent as ever behind her at 2:35 PM. “You’re behind by twenty minutes.” She said softly, placing a fresh folder on the edge of the table. “And you haven’t eaten.”

“I’ll eat…later.” Nadine replied, flipping open the folder.

Jane hesitated. “Should I reschedule your chiropractor again?”

“Does he do brain surgery now? If not, no.”

✦

The rest of the day continued in a blur of depositions, and back-door negotiations. She squeezed in a quick stop at the firm’s media floor to prepare for an interview with New York Legal Elite next week—her sixth cover in two years.

By the time she returned to her office at 6:47 PM, her makeup was still flawless. But her shoulders had a weight she didn’t let show and her temples ached with the pressure of having to always be better. A pressure she put on herself everyday.

She sat at her desk, the city lights beginning to glow outside her window, and pressed her fingers to her forehead.

Three seconds. Just three seconds of quiet.

But then her phone buzzed.

BiBi: On our way up. The twins are bringing “surprises.” Brace yourself.

Nadine closed her eyes for one heartbeat before standing.

Her apartment was ten minutes away. She could beat them there, she thought. Maybe.

She did not beat them here. Inside, chaos was already blooming. Her penthouse was already lit up when she stepped inside at 7:15PM. She barely had time to set her bag down before she heard the commotion. Marley was dancing on the rug in her socks, while Micah had discovered the fridge’s smart screen and was trying to play Mario Kart through it.

“NADIIIIINE!” The two high-pitched voices screamed in unison. The twins came barreling toward her, curly hair flailing behind them like capes. They launched into her legs with the force of tiny meteors.

“Oof.” Nadine said, catching her balance. “Are you two ever not moving at Mach 10?”

“Nope!” Markey grinned. “We made cookies!”

“With Aunt Bianca’s help.” Micah added with a proud nod.

Bianca appeared behind them, holding a wine bottle and looking way too comfortable. “And I brought provisions. You look like you’ve had one of those weeks.” She said with a small pout on her lips.

Nadine raised a brow, looking over at the older woman. “I have those every week.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I missed the Nelson Towers!” Micah said, throwing herself dramatically onto Nadine’s ivory couch.

Nadine gave her a small smile, sliding off her heels. “Your mom should’ve brought you to court last week. You would’ve seen me destroy a man three times my size.”

“Did you throw a chair at him?” Marley asked.

“No, I used the law.”

“That’s boring.”

“No, my friends, that’s winning.” She grinned. As she moved around her home, making her way into the kitchen. Bianca settled onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching her sister silently. After a beat, she asked, “What time did you go to bed last night” she questioned, the sudden ask causing Nadine to scrunch her face as she looked over at her. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Bianca spoke again. “When was the last time you slept through the night?”

Nadine simply sighed as she turned her back and opened the fridge. “I sleep.”

“That’s not what I asked. I said through the night, not on your files. What time?”

Nadine pulled out a green juice and a yogurt, even though her stomach was already tight with stress. “B, I appreciate the visit. But I don’t need a wellness check. I’m at the top of my game, so I would say I’m doing pretty fine.” Nadine said with a small smile.

This only caused Bianca to give her a look. “You’re at the top of your ulcer.”

Nadine’s sarcastic grin dropped as her jaw flexed, nostril flaring as she glared at her sister.

Bianca continued, gently now. “Nay, you’re doing amazing. But you’ve been in trial mode for two straight years. You don’t date. You barely see sunlight. You don’t even blink unless it’s part of a strategy or some shit.”

Nadine stayed quiet, her spoon tapping the edge of the yogurt cup.

“You don’t have to prove anything anymore.” Bianca added.

And that struck something. Not that Nadine showed it.

“It’s not about proving.” She finally said. “It’s about maintaining. You fight your way up from nothing, and you learn fast—falling isn’t dramatic. It’s silent and quick. It’s one missed call, one lost case. One person thinking you’ve lost your edge.”

Bianca didn’t press further. Instead, she let out a sigh before she called out to her children. “Alright girls, thirty minutes, then we’re heading out.”

The twins groaned but obeyed, bouncing off to the guest room.

Bianca reached for Nadine’s tablet to put on a cartoon on the television, or something to entertain them while she packed snacks.

What she didn’t notice was Micah and Marley sneaking back in and whispering behind the kitchen counter. They had a letter in their hands, a piece of paper they found tossed haphazardly in the living room. And once they read it, the twins were all on board.

“There it is!” Marley whispered.

“I wonder why she didn’t answer. Robots are so cool.” Micah questioned, rereading the page over and over again in excitement. “Maybe she didn’t want one.”

“That’s dumb.” Markey sighed before pulling out her purple glitter pen from her back pocket. “Should I do it?” She questioned, looking over at her twin. There was a moment of silence that passed between them, staring into the other’s eyes before looking back down at the paper.

“Do it.” They said at the same time.

With sticky fingers and wild curiosity, they marked the “Accept Housing Unit” checkbox on the government letter Nadine had flagged but never opened. Marley then folded it back up before move to place it into the mail slot next to the front door, hearing the suction sound as the letter was whisked away back to the owner.

A pop-up confirmed the delivery on the screen next Mail Drop, causing the to high-five before they scurried off. “Okay, now we have to fill this out.” Micah said, pulling the retractable delivery screen closer as the screen loaded a soft blue logo. AURA | Adaptive User Response Assistant. Marley was already typing on the screen like she worked at NASA. “We so can’t tell mom about this.” Micah mumbled nervously.

“No one’s telling Mom.” Marley muttered.

“Okay, well, if Auntie Nadine gets mad, I’m blaming you,” Micah said, peering at the glowing tablet in his sister’s lap. Marley let out a sigh, rolling her eyes at her brother. “She’s not gonna get mad,” Markey tressed with a whisper. “She’s gonna love it. You saw the commercial—this thing can do laundry, make dinner, answer emails. It’s like if Iron Man was a butler.”

“No, it’s like if Pennyworth was a robot.” Micah added, eyeing the girl next to him. “That was a really bad…analogy? Have you ever even read Ironman?” The boy judged.

“Shut up.” Marley deadpanned. “We’re making Auntie Nadine’s house ten times cooler. You think she’s gonna notice another package with all the stuff she orders?”

“She will if it walks and talks.”Micah said, grinning. “Now hurry. I think this is the setup survey and anyone can come checking up on his at any minute.”

The screen adjusted to a smooth, futuristic interface.

AURA Configuration Survey. Optional. But, if you want to make the experience unforgettable…

“Unforgettable.” Marley repeated with a smirk. “Let’s go.”

Private Configuration Survey – AURA Unit #007

Answer honestly to ensure optimal user experience.(Note: Once submitted, preferences are locked in for bonding phase.)

1. What kind of support will the user benefit from most? (Select all that apply):

[ ] Physical assistance (lifting, running, protection). [ ] Task management (emails, errands, organization). [x] Emotional balance (stress de-escalation, energy reading). [x] Conversational engagement (company, reminders, reflection)

“Definitely that one,” Marley said, pointing. “She talks to herself too much.”

“I don’t think she notices.”

2. What is the user’s current lifestyle?

[ ] Highly active, social, fast-pace. [x] Independent, professional, busy. [ ] Creative, exploratory, experimental. [ ] Relaxed, home-oriented

3. How should AURA respond under pressure?

[ ] Assertive and directive. [x] Calm and grounded. [ ] Humorous and light [ ] Silent until prompted

4. What kind of presence should AURA have in the home?

[ ] Subtle but attentive. [x] Always on-hand. [ ] In the background unless called. [ ] Commanding and structured

5. How emotionally intuitive should AURA be

[ ] Not at all—task-focused only. [ ] Moderately—pick up on moods, offer support. [x] Highly—understand shifts in tone, body language, even silences

“Okay, she’s gonna love that.”Marley said with a grin. “Remember when she cried at the end of Paddington 2?”

“Well, so did I….”

6. The user prefers companions who are…

[x] Thoughtful and calm. [ ] Straightforward and direct. [ ] Reserved and quiet. [ ] High energy and expressive

7. Ideal communication style?

[ ] Formal and efficient. [x] Warm and intuitive. [ ] Light and witty. [ ] Minimal

8. Would the user appreciate personal attention to detail? (e.g. remembering birthdays, moods, routines):

[x] Yes. [ ] No. [ ] Only when relevant

9. AURA should interact like…

[ ] A professional assistant. [x] A loyal companion. [ ] A discreet observer. [ ] A supportive coach

Micah tilted his head. “What does ‘loyal companion’ mean?”

Marley shrugged. “I think it just means cool sidekick energy. Like Watson or Chewbacca.”

“Nice.”

10. Anything else we should know about the user? (Optional):

Marley hummed in thought for a moment before she began typing quickly. “She drinks coffee every morning at 6:45, she falls asleep with documentaries on, animal or history, and she forgets to eat when she’s on high emotions. Anger, stress, sadness. She likes it when people notice little things but gets weird when you say nice stuff too directly. She’s kind of secretly lonely but she won’t admit it. Oh, and she likes jazz but not the weird kind with screechy horns.”

Micah blinked. “Whoa. That’s kinda deep. You really know your stuff.”

“I pay attention.” The girl said. Marley then hit SUBMIT with a grin.

The screen flashed. Profile Logged. Preparing AURA for transport. Estimated arrival: 2-3 business days.

The twins then high-fived. “She’s gonna freak out.” Micah whispered.

“In a good way.”Marley added. “Hopefully.”

✦

It was now the next day, and if you couldn’t tell by now, Nadine Nelson was not one to wake up late.

That was the first rule of her universe. The first part to her routine. Her alarm chimed at precisely 5:45 AM, every morning without fail, a single soft note, like the chip of a bird, before she silenced it, sat up, and began the orchestration that was her life. Her body and mind moved like synchronized gears in a Swiss watch—sleek, efficient, and expensive.

So when a loud, jarring knock knock knock banged against her front door at 6:15 AM, it was not just an interruption.

It was an affront.

Her eyes snapped open, head jerking toward the illuminated time panel beside her bedroom light switch. 6:15? Her jaw clenched. She was already behind schedule.

Muttering under her breath, she shoved off her covers and grabbed her silk robe from the hook near her bed. Her movements were less precise this morning, more agitated than usual, and still a bit sleepy as her slippers scuffed across the hardwood as she stormed to the front door.

When she opened it, ready to deliver a verbal cease and desist, she paused.

There was a man at her door, next to a large package. But the man at her doorstep didn’t look like the usual FedEx or UPS guy. He wore a crisp black-and-white suit with polished shoes, a slim earpiece tucked behind one ear. He stood beside a large, square wooden crate perched on a steel dolly, taller than he was and easily the size of a refrigerator.

“Yes?” Nadine asked, her tone sharp as broken glass.

The man, unreadable behind dark glasses, tilted his head. “Are you Nadine Nelson?”

She didn’t like the way he asked it. Like he already knew the answer.

“Yes.” She replied flatly, arms crossed over her robe.

“Great. This is for you.” He said, stepping forward and pushing the crate toward her. Nadine moved out of shock, and instinct with a crate that size barking towards her, inevitably letting the man in with the crate, but once she realized she was coming drier into her honey she stepped in, palms up. “Uh, excuse me!” She said, stopping him. “I didn’t order anything. And certainly not something that looks like it should be in a warehouse.”

The man didn’t blink, but that the should tell through his glasses. “You are Nadine Nelson, correct?”

She sighed, jaw tight. “Yes. I already said that.”

“Then this is for you.”

Without another word, he wheeled the box into her foyer. Her eyes widened as the dolly clacked over her expensive floors, the crate casting a looming shadow across the pristine white walls of her home, from the sun shining through the large windows.

“Wait—hold on.” Nadine said, gripping the belt of her robe. “I’m serious. I did not order this. You need to take it back.”

The man was already turning for the door. “Take it up with customs, ma’am.”

“What? Customs? What customs?”

He ignored her completely. As he stepped outside, Nadine caught him press two fingers to the earpiece tucked behind his ear. “It’s been delivered.” He said coolly, then walked down the hallway of her luxury building as her front door slid shut on its own.

Nadine stood there in stunned silence, her arms hanging at her sides as she stared at the box now squatting in the middle of her living room.

Then she screamed.

A long, guttural scream that echoed off the marble and glass of her carefully curated life. Something she tended to do to let out her overflowing emotions.

And after a minute or two of huffing out of breath and anger, she turned on her heel and stormed back to her bedroom. Her phone was still on the nightstand, glowing from a few missed notifications. She didn’t even bother to text. She opened her voice message, hit record, and in her usual no-nonsense tone, she snapped.

“Clear my schedule for today. All of it. There’s some bullshit I need to take care of.”She pressed send to Jane, and then tossed the phone onto the bed without a second thought.

Back in the hallway, she opened the hall closet and pulled out a crowbar from the bottom shelf of her emergency tool kit. She hadn’t touched it since she assembled her custom bookcases two years ago, but it felt oddly satisfying in her grip.

The walk back into the living room was almost cinematic if someone else was there to view it—robe flowing, face full of anger, slippers skimming the floor, crowbar in hand. The crate sat there like a taunt. Uninvited. Immovable.

She didn’t hesitate to go to town, unleashing her irritation onto the box. Nadine wedged the crowbar into the gap between the wood slats and yanked. A nail groaned before it snapped loose, followed by another, and another. She was methodical but furious, stripping the crate open like a woman possessed with rage. Bits of sawdust and packing foam floated through the air, nails flying left and right, a bit dangerous but she didn’t seem to care at the moment. All of it littering her previously immaculate living room.

Nadine kicked aside the last of the packing material, breath puffing from her lips in irritation. She was done. Done with the entire thing. She expected to find an overpriced espresso machine or something.

But instead, she opened the crate and was met with… another crate?

Her brows lifted, her irritation fading into a slow, confused frown.

It wasn’t like the shipping box. This one was different. Striking. A dark wood, deep mahogany with an almost matte sheen. The surface gleamed with intricate carvings, elegant but oddly ancient, like something pulled from the archives of some old, forgotten dynasty from long ago. And in the center was a large gem. Oval-shaped, but a natural look to it, like it was just pulled from the earth and placed into the center. It was embedded like a heart, its color a deep blue, almost black in the shadows but gleaming cerulean where the light hit. It shimmered like water at midnight.

Nadine let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her fingers hovered over the jewel, almost drawn to it, like it was calling to something beneath her skin. Something primal.

She reached forward.

The stone was cool. Smooth. Her fingertips just barely grazed the surface when—

FLASH.

The gem lit up instantly, glowing from within like a waking eye. Nadine gasped and jerked her hand back, stumbling slightly.

“What the hell?” She whispered.

But she couldn’t look away, no matter how bright the light got

The light from the gemstone pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like it had a heartbeat. And then, as if in response to her shock, the carvings along the chest began to glow as well—lines of a sliver blue creeping from the jewel into the grooves and patterns etched into the wood, filling every line until the whole thing shimmered in a way that made her chest tighten with unease and…awe.

Nadine blinked, and her heart thudded against her ribs.

This—this was definitely not something you could order off Amazon.

And that’s when she noticed it. Taped to the inner panel of the crate, partially obscured by packing straw, was an envelope. Thick. Heavy. Cream-colored paper with a glossy finish and silver wax seal.

She reached for it, peeling it free. The seal bore the emblem of the United States, but stylized. Sleek. Futuristic. Her name was printed across the front in smooth, robotic cursive.

𝐓𝐨 𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧

She frowned. A deep, suspicious furrow. This crate was for her?

Snatching the envelope, she tore it open and unfolded the single sheet inside. The words were printed, formal, precise. But they sent a jolt down her spine.

𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐬. 𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧,

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞, 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐥.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.

—𝐂.𝐑.𝐈.𝐒.

𝐂𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 & 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 | 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

There was a purple glitter check mark by the question. And she closed her eyes as she took in a deep breath, already knowing who to blame for this. Nadine stared at the letter, then at the crate, then back again.

She was going to kill her niece and nephew.

And then—once the twins were grounded for life and Bianca was chewed out for letting them touch her mail—she was going to sue whoever thought it was cute to send her a six-foot robot without consent.

But for now, she placed the letter down slowly and stepped closer to the chest.

It hummed. Just once. A low vibration that rippled across the wood floor and into the soles of her feet. Then, the chest unfastened with a hiss.

The lid groaned.

A long, sinuous sound of pressure escaping, like the breath of something long dormant finally allowed to exhale. Mist pooled from the edges of the ornate coffin-like crate, curling along the floor like tendrils of fog. The dim morning light poured through the windows, catching the shimmer of the gemstone embedded in the chest—still pulsing with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like a heartbeat.

Nadine stared, crowbar slack in her hand, chest rising and falling too fast for comfort.

Inside, the shape was obscured. Cloth. A velvet-like black material draped across something… someone.

Another hiss whispered from the crate. The latches disengaged with an audible thunk. And slowly, ever so slowly, the coffin-like chest began to open—hinges smooth and silent, assisted by unseen tech. The lid released fully and slid backward, revealing more of the figure beneath.

Nadine inched forward, each footstep muffled by the hush of mist and the pounding of her heart. Her instincts screamed at her to stop. To turn around. To call someone. Her sister. Jane. The FBI. The CIA. The Pope.

She stared at it, eyes narrowing. “What did you two do?” She muttered, already picturing her nieces, innocent smiles hiding devilish delight, whispering and giggling as they plotted this chaos.

But her curiosity was stronger. That damned glimmering jewel. That sleek envelope with her name etched like some sort of prophecy. That letter that claimed this… thing knew her already.

The cloth stirred and Nadine froze.

Then the fabric peeled itself away—mechanically, precisely—revealing skin.

Well, no, not skin. It couldn’t be. It was just some beautiful mimicry of it. Smooth and matte. A man’s chest, carved with symmetrical precision and framed by sculpted shoulders. They were bare and powerful in the right compression shirt with the cut sleeves.

Nadine’s breath hitched.

And then he sat up. The fabric slipped off like water while Nadine stared, mouth slightly open.

It was slow and graceful, like someone waking from a century-long slumber. The man—because that’s what he looked like, down to the subtle flex of his hands—was breathtaking. Sculpted. Not just handsome, but deliberately so, he was made this way. Smooth dark skin, eyes like obsidian glass, and a face that didn’t seem designed but born from every secret longing she’d never dared voice. His eyes opened—two smoldering pools of warm obsidian, rimmed faintly with glints of silver. They found hers immediately.

Nadine staggered back a step.

He blinked once. Tilted his head. And then—smiled.

Not a robotic, lifeless twitch. But a curve of the mouth that felt… devastatingly real. It was warm and gentle. Intimate in a way.

Nadine almost forgot he was meant to be a robot and not some random man in a box.

“Nadine.” He said.

Her name, from his lips, made something low in her belly twist. His voice was deep, perfectly modulated, with just enough grit to make her toes curl. It was soft but strong, like thunder rolling far away across the sea.

“You—you know my name?” She asked, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. But she did anyways with the uncharacteristic stutter that slipped through, totally unlike her. The crowbar was still in her hand, but it felt laughable now. She wasn’t in danger. She was… almost enchanted in a way.

“Yes.” He said, stepping forward with fluid, feline grace. He towered a good foot above her, dressed in a fitted black uniform that shimmered faintly in the light. “I’ve always known your name, known it since you were assigned to the prototype queue.” He replied. “I was made for you. I’ve been learning you ever since.”

“Learning me?” She repeated, throat dry.

His eyes softened as he nodded. “I’ve watched your presentations. Your interviews. I’ve studied your calendar. Your habits. Your moods. What calms you. What drives you. What keeps you up at night.”

Her brows furrowed. “And why would you do that?”

“So I could be ready when you needed me.”

The words hit her like a wave. Sudden and unsettled something deep within her. It was undeniable.

“I didn’t need anyone.” She snapped at him out of instinct.

The man tilted his head, his eyes glowing blue as he scanned her face. ‘Defensive’ it flashed across his eyes. “No.” He agreed. “But you deserve someone.”

And then there was silence. A thick, emotional silence hung between them as Nadine stared up at him. His face was symmetrical, almost distractingly beautiful—like something a sculptor would weep over. But it was his gaze that disarmed her. No flicker of code was viable besides the unnatural glow, and even that was a bit comforting. There was no empty mimicry. He just looked at her, his eyes never once leaving her face.

“Who… what are you?” She whispered.

He then extended a hand with a small smile. Palm up. As if offering her not just an answer, but himself.

“I am AURA-7.” He said. “My designated name is Michael, but you can call me whatever feels right.”

Nadine didn’t move at first, her brain screaming a thousand warnings at her as her eyes flicked between his face and hang. Her chest was tight, unsure.

But her hand reached out anyway.

And when their skin touched—when her fingers slid against his palm—it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t metal. It was warm. Comforting and real. And this was the first time she’s touched someone in such a non work manner in a long time.

He smiled again, this time slower, more intimate.

And Nadine Nelson, woman of routine, disciple of control, high priestess of solitude… felt her entire world shift beneath her feet.

[brownsugarcoffy]

Clause of Temptation |Teaser|

Summary

Fresh off a broken engagement and a master’s degree, Tori Davenport returns to New York—heart bruised, bank account empty, and no job in sight.

When her father pulls strings to get her hired at the elite Moore Law Firm, she’s determined to prove herself… until she meets him.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore is powerful, private, and dangerously irresistible. He doesn’t do small talk. He doesn’t do relationships. And he definitely doesn’t mix business with pleasure.

But late nights and locked doors lead to stolen glances, lingering touches, and a heat neither of them can ignore.

He’s her boss.

She’s off-limits.

But when lines blur, rules break—and the office becomes their secret playground...

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Tori Davenport ( Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Forbidden Romance, Office Romance, Slow Burn, Vulgar Language, Sexual Content & More

Chapters: |ONE|

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Tori shouldn’t have come back to the office after hours. She told herself it was just to grab a file, but when the elevator doors opened to the executive office floor. She made her way to his office to grab the file she left. Elijah was already there leaning against the glass window, his suit jacket discarded, the city lights painting his broad shoulders in gold.

“I thought you went home,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

He turned slowly, a glass of bourbon in one hand. “I could say the same for you.”

Their eyes locked. The silence was thick, electric, and dangerous.

“You keep showing up when you shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “That’s either reckless… or bold.”

“Maybe it’s both,” she answered, pulse racing.

In two long strides, he was in front of her. His hand reached behind her to press the door shut, locking it with a slow, deliberate click.

“You don’t follow rules, do you?” he whispered, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.

She gasped as his hand slid along her waist, firm and possessive.

“Not when it feels this good,” she murmured.

He growled softly, lifting her onto the polished desk behind them. Papers scattered. Her skirt rode up. His mouth claimed hers in a hot, demanding, and unapologetic way.

This wasn’t sweet. This was hunger.

His lips devoured. His hands explored. His body pressed between her thighs like he’d been waiting for this moment since the day she walked into his office.

Then he whispered, “Tell me to stop,”

She couldn’t.

Why?

Because she didn’t want him to.

Her body was already burning for him, and Elijah knew it....

Coming soon...

[zenonsdreams]

HI GUYSSS

I just wanted to drop a playlist for "Cold Water", which i am dropping in a couple of days.

Hopefully this can kind of give you an idea of what kind of theme i'm going for, if you do choose to give it a listen.

It's not super upbeat......

But it's not super sad either.....in my opinion...

so..

I highly recommend the first 2 songs tho

It's seriously on point to what i'm thinking of, like i want it to give earthy/mysterious/siren-idk

COLD WATER: OFFICAL PLAYLIST

"Sidetracked/Perfect Lover" x Tanerelle

"Mama Saturn's Galactica" x Tanerelle

"Serial Recluse" x Samaria

"iKNOW" x Sangstaa & Trent the HOOLiGAN

"Gonna Love Me" x Teyana Taylor

"Stay Ready (What a Life)" x Jhene Aiko & Kendrick Lamar

"Sonder Son" x Brent Faiyaz

" One Night Only" x Sonder

"Infatuation" x Jamie Foxx

"PRIDE" x Kendrick Lamar

"Video" x India Arie

"Something in My Heart" x Michel'le

"Pretty Wings" x Maxwell

"Didn't Cha Know" x Erica Badu

"Special Affair" x The Internet

"Haunted" x Beyonce

"All Night" x Beyonce

"She" x Tyler, The Creator & Frank Ocean

"Breaking Point" x Leon Thomas

"Feelings on Silent" x Leon Thomas & Wale

"Moon River" x Frank Ocean

“Head in a Jar” x Khamari

-------------

Other than this i have another fic idea that i want to post and this time it's for stack and it called " Rude Boy," which i am really excited to share sooner or later

But for now

If you like the Idea of "Cold Water" or "Rude Boy" here are some links to my other works, even though it may not be much.

Modern/Au Elijah "Smoke" Moore: Cocoa Butter

Modern/Au Elias "Stack" Moore: Coffee

MBJ: 40Days And 40Nights

----------

See what i'm working with:

@s-witch-bitch @junkie05 @christinabae @hotcommodityyy @thefutureemmywinner @passionxwrites @heyyimmisunderstood @he4rts444mi @speakinglife @browngirldominion @favoritten @ @speakinglife

[nire-nacheal-writes]

StackED Up

Elias "Stack" Moore x Plus Size, black OC

Tw: time period drama, usuage of N word, mentions of lust, black love, mentions of violence, blood, interracial relations mentioned, reminiscing, mentions of racism, racial slurs, religious tones, Smut, grief, closure, possessive ex

*if you don't like it, don't read it*

Read Chapter One and Two

Chapter Three: Stop Runnin'!

Word count: 6,495

Stepping inside, I cross the threshold, the scent of oak floors soaked in years of whiskey. The low hum of guitar strings bein’ tuned in the back. That slow, pulsin’ heartbeat of a juke joint before the storm of bodies filled it. And above it all, the ghosts—ours included—pressed against the walls like steam.

It was dim inside. Not dark, just mellow. Light filtered through stained-glass bottle lamps strung over the bar and booths, casting rich hues of amber and wine across the tables. Posters from years ago lined the walls—black musicians in wide suits and grins that told you they knew exactly how to make a crowd moan.

I didn’t belong here.

I’d traded this type of life for sanctified pews, this heat for choir robes and altar cloths. But the minute I walked in, my bones felt a rhythm.

I hovered near the door, arms crossed, purse clutched close. I only came in to make sure Sammie and Slick were settled. Then I was gone.

Gone before the music started. Before the room got too warm. Before he got too close.

Elias was already behind the bar, sleeves still rolled, wiping his hands on a towel, his back to me. He moved like he owned the building—and maybe he did. If not on paper, then in presence.

Bo was tending to Slick at a booth, pressing a damp cloth to his busted lip while Sammie fetched a cup of cold water.

“Goddamn, nigga!” Slick hissed, his ass was awake now. “That shit burns!”

“Finna be yo pecker if you don’t stop fuckin’ everythin’.” Bo chided back as he kept cleaning the wounds of the wiry Moore brother.

“’Specially white bitches…” Sammie mutters as he walks a tin mug of cool water over to a deflated, yet fussin’ Slick. Elias’ back shook as he snickered at the banter.

Rollin’ my eyes, I lingered a bit too long. Clarence caught wind of me being in such a place, with the former love of my life…

“Former”? That’ bold. Even for you, Flossie Lee.

Hush.

“Flo,” Sammie called gently, ‘fore comin’ up ‘side me. “You don’t have to stay. You good to head back to the motel on your own?”

“Mm-hmm,” I nodded, probably too quickly. My feet already takin’ a step back toward the door. “You stay and keep an eye on Slick, make sure he’s well. I’ll be fine, dumplin’.”

I patted Sammie’s shoulder before I turned, ready to go. Ready to slip out like a shadow, like I never came. But I didn’t even make it to the knob before I heard him.

“Why you always runnin’ from me, Thickems?”

His voice slid over my skin like smoke—lazy, warm, a little too familiar.

I paused with my hand on the door. Taking in a shaky breath, I close my eyes.

“You’re mistaken,” I begin without turnin’ ‘round. “Ain’t nobody runnin’. I came to help yo brother, and now I’m leavin’. That’s all, Elias.”

I felt him move before I saw him. Heard the slow, measured steps cross the wooden floor behind me.

“Funny,” he murmured, close now. “You talk real quick when you’re lyin’.”

I turned, slow, already regrettin’ it.

He was right there.

Close enough that his heat brushed my chest, his fancy cologne wrapped around my senses, and the gleam in his eye made me want to forget everything I ever learned about righteousness. His head was dipped slightly, so we could feel our breathes be exchanged.

Mint, smoke, and a hint of corn liquor.

The essence of this man made me feel drunk. Feel the heat flutter over me, I try to gather myself.

“I don’t have time for this,” I whispered, throat tight. I take a step backward, Elias takes a predatorial step forward to remain in my space. I let out an exasperated sigh. This man is onery.

“Make time,” he countered, nostrils flaired and that gold told producing an ominous gleam when he tipped his head. “It’s been ten years, Flossie. You owe me more than five seconds and a cold shoulder.”

My eyes widen and my jaw gapes at his boldness.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” I snapped, fist balling. The utter audacity of this mothafucka.

Then his lips twitched.

“There she go,” he smile widening, still in my space. In my orbit. In my nerves. “There’s my girl.”

“I ain’t your girl.”

I must be losing my damn mind, ‘cause I heard a growl come from his chest, as he backed me into the door. Chest to his abdomen. I looked everywhere but his eyes… Then there was rumbled:

“You used to be.”

Daringly, I gaze up. Elias’ eyes were dark with warning, burning with an intensity that borders on dangerous. There's a heavy stillness in them—like a predator holding back just enough to keep from pouncing, but barely. His gaze locks onto me like a claim, sharp and simmering, his pupils slightly dilated as if his entire focus has narrowed to me and my orneriness.

I feel a shudder down my spine, but attempt to gather myself… Because there was one thing was for sure:

 “And you used to show up for me.” My voice cracked, a slight. “Not one answer to my letters.”

That knocked the haughty smirk clean off his face. For a second.

Then his eyes crinkled in confusion then leaned in, voice lowering like a secret.

“Baby. I never got any letters, Flossie...”

My brows twitched, craning my neck. “Excuse me?”

“Pretty girl,” He cupped my chin, forcing me to stare into his almond eyes. “I ain’t get a single letter... You know I wouldn’ve lie ‘bout no shit like that…”

My stomach dropped. Heat flared in my face. “Don’t play with me, Elias.”

“I’m not.”

I looked away. Damn him.

For an entire year, I wrote to Elias—letters ranged from love letters to me fussin’ ‘bout his lack of response, and plain pleadin’ for him to come to me… All never answered. Leavin’ me feeling like the biggest fool in the world. All letters were put in the mailbox addressed to the shack where Sister and Brother lived… I know they wouldn’ve kept them from him… I close my eyes, my strict cousin, Wynona… She could have gotten rid of them before they were taken by the post man.

My thoughts jumbled at the possibilities, I don’ know. I feel conflicted.

I was so lost in thought, Elias stepped beside me now, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. Watching me try to make sense of my current agitation with him.

"You know though," He began. "The world did ery'thang in its power to keep you an' me apart... Even now..." I glance at him then at my hands.

“But you felt it,” He hummed as he took out his golden handled knuckle knife, and began cleaning underneath his nails. Like we were conversatin' casually.

“Back there,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Out by the river. At the motel. You still feel it, baby. That pull... that love, baby... You feel that shit.”

I wanted to say no.

I wanted to scream it.

But I didn’t.

And he saw that.

Elias let the silence stretch like saltwater taffy, then whispered, “Come back Saturday. For Summer openin’ night. Sit with me. You'll be my special guest.”

I shake my head then scoffed, tryna regain the air in my lungs. “Y-you think I want people whisperin’ about me sittin’ beside the Stack Moore after dark? I got a reputation to keep...”

He licked his bottom lip slow. Damn him!

“Reputations don’t keep you warm at night, beautiful.”

I swallowed. Hard.

He tossed the knife of the card table beside him before he leaned in, just enough to brush his voice along my ear.

“You saved my baby brother tonight. I ain’t and won’ forgot that. You ever need me, Flo Lee… don’t knock. Just walk in.”

Then he pulled back, that cocky, devilish smirk back on his face.

I turned before he could say anything else. Walked out that juke joint with my head high and my heart racin’ like a sinner beneath the altar.

And the worst part?

The door didn’t close fast enough to keep his voice from followin’ me.

“See you Saturday, pretty girl.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Willow Bend was still when I returned—like the air itself knew what I’d done.

My heels clicked soft against the gravel as I walked up the short steps to my corner unit, the screen door groanin’ like an old mourner when I pushed it open. Inside, the room was still cool, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamp. The curtains fluttered faintly, stirred by a breath of river wind, and the cicadas outside sang like they knew the weight I was carryin’.

I shut the door behind me, locked it, then leaned back against it. Eyes closed. Heart… not so much beating as thudding.

His voice was still in my ear. “You still feel it.”

His scent still curled in my lungs. Smoke and sweat and salt and want.

I moved in silence, the weight of it all pressing low in my belly. I reached for the buttons on my blouse, slow and methodical, as if undressing myself could also strip away the memory of him.

It didn’t.

The fabric slipped down my arms, followed by my skirt, my slip, the pressure in my chest. I pulled on my nightdress—soft cotton, white with little blue flowers, thin at the straps and just enough coverage to fool decency if someone knocked.

But no one would knock.

No one needed to.

I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself.

My skin glowed gold in the lamplight, the shadows beneath my collarbone deep like a valley made for a man’s mouth to rest in. My thighs were thick, my waist soft, and my nipples pressed faintly against the cotton.

He used to love my body.

Said I was made for ruinin’. Said God put extra in my hips just so he’d have somewhere to die happy.

I bit my lip.

That memory hit like heat—him, behind me, his hands greedy, lips at my neck, teeth catchin’ skin like sin come to life…

Elias’ hands were on my hips, his thick fingers spread possessively, his thumbs dipping just beneath the fabric of my dress where it had risen high on my thighs. His grip wasn’t rushed, wasn’t greedy. It was reverent, commanding, cruelly patient.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice low and dark, vibrating through my ribcage as he pressed me harder against him.

Lord, did I feel it.

The thick, pulsing heat of him beneath me made my breath catch. Made my core throb. Made me want things I’d only ever whispered about in the dark under my quilts. I couldn’t answer. My lips were swollen, wet, parted. My body was too busy reacting to think.

“Say it, Flossie,” he rasped, thumb brushing up the inside of my thigh, just short of where I needed him most. “Tell me what you feel.”

“You,” I whimpered. “I feel… you.”

“That’s right.” He leaned in again, kissing the edge of my jaw, then down to my neck, dragging his lips slowly over the pulse hammering just beneath the surface. “A kiss is just the start. I told you—intention.”

His teeth grazed the shell of my ear.

“And mine?” he breathed, voice gravel and sin. “Is to make you forget any man before me ever even tried to kiss you.”

My hips rocked forward, instinctive, helpless. He growled at the motion, deep in his throat like he’d been holding back too long.

“Shiiit… There she go,” he muttered. “You catchin’ on fast, baby.”

I tried to kiss him again—mouth hungry, tongue aching for more of him—but he pulled back just an inch, eyes dark and wild and locked on mine.

“Nuh uh. Let me teach you the rest.”

He laid me down on the settee like I was glass. Like I was precious. Like he was about to ruin me and wanted to make sure I broke pretty. I gasped at the feelin’ of him coverin’ me, pressing me down, one hand holding my wrists together over my head, the other cupping my cheek so tenderly I thought I might cry.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” he ordered. “Don’t hide that pretty mouth. Don’t close them eyes unless I tell you.”

His mouth descended again—this time, not gentle.

This time it was fire.

Hot, open, demandin’. He kissed me like he was stakin’ claim. Tongue sweepin’ into my mouth, lickin’ into me like he was tastin’ the truth buried behind my gasps and moans. He kissed me wet. Messy. Deep. Like he needed it. Like I needed it.

I arched under him, thighs fallin’ open, moanin’ into his mouth. Every drag of his lips ‘gainst mine, every bite, every nip and suck sent electric shivers down my spine.

“Mm. That’s what I like,” he growled, releasing my wrists so his hand could slide down my side. “You lettin’ go. You lettin’ me have it.”

I was. God help me, I was.

When his hand slid beneath my dress—hot, rough, claiming—I whimpered his name again, gripping his shoulders like I might fall through the couch and into the floor if I didn’t hold on.

“Elias—please—”

He stopped.

Looked down at me like a storm cloud about to burst. His voice dropped to a whisper that was all smoke and threat.

“Say it right.”

I blinked. “What?”

He slid his fingers slowly up my inner thigh, watching me shiver.

“You want this?” he asked. “You want me?”

“Yes,” I gasped.

His eyes narrowed. “Then say it. ‘Please teach me how to be yours.’”

My breath hitched.

And then I said it.

Soft. Honest. Bare.

“Please… teach me how to be yours.”

He inhaled like he’d just tasted something decadent.

And then he kissed me again—long, deep, and devastatin’.

He didn’t rush. That was the part that undid me the most.

Elias kissed me like I was a slow song he’d been waitin’ his whole life to dance to. Like my mouth was his home, my body the map he’d studied in his sleep. And now, he was moving with the confidence of a man who knew—not guessed, not hoped—that every inch of me already belonged to him.

When I whispered, “Please teach me how to be yours,” something changed behind his eyes. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. He devoured.

His hand slid higher between my thighs, thick fingers curling beneath my panties, knuckles brushing the softest, wettest part of me. I gasped, hips jumpin’, eyes wide—but he just pressed his forehead to mine and said:

“Relax. I got you, baby.”

And God help me—I did.

I let go.

I let his hands teach me in ways his mouth couldn’. Let him explore the aching heat of me with thick, deliberate fingers that moved slow and slick, teasing circles and gentle dips until I was panting beneath him, arching like my body was begging all on its own.

He watched me the whole time. Watched how my lips parted. How my lashes fluttered. How my hips chased his hand like I was addicted and he was the cure.

“You feel how wet you get for me?” he whispered, lips dragging along my throat. “All that just from a few kisses. That’s what happens when a man take his time. When he see you.”

His voice sank lower.

“When he want you.”

I moaned, raw and real, too full of need to be shy. He kissed down my neck, my chest, tugged my dress down with one hand while the other stayed between my thighs, playing me like he’d been reading my body like Braille.

He tugged down on the neckline of my dress, exposed one breast, his mouth closed around it instantly—hot, wet, demanding. He sucked hard, tongue circling my nipple while his fingers moved deeper, slicker, his thumb pressing against the place that made my toes curl.

I cried out.

He growled.

“Say my name again,” he ordered, voice muffled against my skin.

“Elias—” I whimpered, “oh my God, Elias—”

“Nah,” he said, kissin’ his way back up my body. “Not God. Just me, baby.”

He slid down my underwear, slow and deliberate, then sat up on the couch, dragging me forward by the hips until I was on my back, legs open, exposed to him completely.

I should’ve felt nervous.

I didn’.

He looked at me like I was art. Like I was food. Like I was some long-lost treasure he’d finally reclaimed.

And then?

He licked his lips then went lower.

I gasped when his mouth found me there—when he licked through the center of me like he’d been starving. His tongue was slow at first. Lazy. Like he wanted to savor every reaction, every twitch and shake. But when I cried out and my hips bucked, he grabbed my thighs, pinned them onto the settee, and feasted.

“Damn, baby,” he muttered against my core. “This puss tastes like somethin’ holy.”

His tongue flicked and dragged, circled and dove, until I was sobbing his name, until I was holding his head and begging—not for mercy, but for more.

And when he felt me pulsing against his mouth, thighs trembling around his head, he didn’t let up.

He groaned and sucked harder, took me straight through the wave, straight over it, until I was crying and shuddering and barely even breathing.

Only then—and only then—did he stand, unbuckle his belt then unzip his slacks, and press his forehead to mine again.

“You ready to learn what it really means to be mine?” he asked, voice hoarse and hungry.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”

He kissed me. And then he filled me. All of him.Thick. Hot. Deep.

I cried out as he sank into me slowly, stretching me open, splitting me wide, making space in me that I didn’t know existed. My nails dragged down his back. My legs wrapped around his waist. He stayed still, letting me feel every inch, letting me adjust to the fullness of him like the gentleman he never pretended to be. I held my breath and stayed stiff.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did.

“Breathe with me.”

I did.

And then he started to move.

Slow strokes at first. Deep, rhythmic, spine-melting strokes that made me whisper things I didn’t know I knew how to say. His hips rolled like he had no other purpose but to make me forget my name. He kissed me as he thrust. Held me as I broke apart. And when I came again—clenching around him so tight I thought I might pass out—he let out a deep, guttural groan.

“Fuck, Flossie,” he snarled, gripping my hips and slamming deep. “You tryna ruin me, baby?”

“You already are,” I moaned. “I’m already yours.”

That did it.

His strokes turned punishing. Possessive. Perfect.

He didn’t stop until I was shaking again, until he was cursing against my neck, until I felt him pulse inside me and collapse against my chest, both of us sweaty and sated and wrecked beyond words.

We laid there, tangled in each other, hearts racing.

He kissed my temple and whispered, “Lesson complete.”

But the way he was already getting hard again inside me told me…

I knew this night was far from over.

Shakin’ my head, I try to push the thoughts away… But they came to me in droves. I turned off the light and climbed into bed.

The sheets were cool. My thighs weren’t.

I lay on my back, one hand tucked beneath my pillow, the other grazing the soft curve of my belly. My nightdress rode up my thighs, but I didn’t pull it down.

Didn’t want to.

“You still feel it…”

His voice again.

Low. Possessive. Like he knew what I was doin’ now. Like he was somewhere smirkin’ in the dark, watchin’ me come apart with nothin’ but memory.

My fingers moved lower, over the soft skin of my inner thigh, then between. Grazing my sensitivity… I gasped, quiet. Just a whisper. But it filled the room like a gospel hum.

I closed my eyes.

Imagined his hand instead of mine.

Rough. Big. Callused from work, from fightin’, from griping the edge of the bar and the inside of my thighs.

I spread my legs wider.

Pressed deeper.

Let the rhythm take me.

My breath quickened, mouth partin’ as my back arched just enough to make the sheets shift. My free hand gripped the edge of the pillow like it was his hair. Like I could tug him closer, pull him under, ride that memory to Heaven or Hell.

I whispered his name. Not on purpose.

But it came out anyway.

“Elias… Please, baby...”

The peak came hard.

Not loud.

But sharp. Full of everything I’d been holdin’ back for ten years. Everything I’d buried beneath Bibles and betrothals. Everything Clarence never even knew existed.

After, I lay still.

The quiet rang loud. My body pulsed.

And shame tried to crawl in.

But it didn’t make it.

Because what I felt in that moment wasn’t shame.

It was truth.

I still wanted him.

Still ached for him.

And if I was honest with myself, truly honest?

A part of me was waiting for him to knock… And take me…

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

The smell of biscuits and bacon greeted me before I even stepped through Auntie Mae and Uncle Jed’s back door.

It was early—the sun not yet full in the sky, still stretchin’ her arms across the rooftops of Charleston, casting sleepy gold over porches and dirt roads. Dew still clung to the grass, and the hum of the town hadn’t yet picked up. But the Moore house was already alive, creakin’ with the shuffle of children, clatterin’ plates, and the warmth that only kin can make you feel.

I knocked once, soft, but the screen door was already propped open. Auntie Mae’s voice rang out before I even called hello.

“Get on in here, Flossie Lee. I know that knock from anywhere.”

I smiled and stepped inside, the cool floorboards soothing against the soles of my shoes. The kitchen was lit by sunlight and the halo of fried breakfast glory—grits simmerin’, biscuits puffin’ up in the oven, and coffee strong enough to fix a broken heart.

Auntie Mae stood at the stove in her house dress and apron, hair tied up in a paisley scarf, hips swayin’ as she flipped sausage like it owed her money.

“Good mornin’, Auntie.”

She turned, hands on her hips. “Mornin’? Girl, it’s half-past decent and you just now bringin’ your tail over here after missin’ dinner?” But her tone was warm, her eyes twinklin’.

I lifted my hands in surrender. “I was real tired from that train ride. Sammie told y’all, didn’t he?”

“He tried,” she said, lips pursed as she turned back to the stove. “But I know when a Moore boy is fibbin’. You didn’t come because you didn’t want to see Hosea.”

I swallowed. Pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. She had always called Elias and Brother by their middle names.

“Auntie Mae…”

She turned again, this time softer. “I ain’t mad, baby. I just… I know how much you loved him. I saw it, even when y’all thought you were being slick.”

I looked down at my hands. They were folded tight in my lap.

She sighed and poured me a mug of coffee, setting it down in front of me without another word for a moment. Then she sat too, brushing a crumb off the table.

“He’s changed some, in some ways good and some ways bad… Isaiah still has to chase after him,” she said gently. “Still got that fire... that love for life that I never could quite understand ‘cause he still carries too much weight in his shoulders.”

Elias and I bonded so well over our own stories of bruises from our daddies. He would joke that his daddy didn’t mean it. But he would get plainly upset when I poured out my experiences with Horace.

Brother refused to talk about Emmett Moore, too much to uncover and said it was best to leave some people buried.

“But...” She paused, “he never stopped askin’ ‘bout you… He and Jed had a helluva spat when you left. Hosea was indeed heartbroken…” She looked at me with sadden eyes. “It still hurts me that Jed did that to you, baby girl… And I am sorry I didn’t fight for you more… You were my big sister’s pride and joy, and she’d be ‘shamed of me for what I allowed to happen.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. It was an apology I didn’t know I wanted or needed.

I carried a hatred for Uncle Jed, and Auntie Mae, for years, that is until I found the Lord. And I learned I could forgive, but not necessarily forget. I honor them for giving me a safe haven from Horace, grantin’ me the chance to meet kin that I will forever cherish, brought me to Elias...

Aunt Mae placed her hand on top of mine. “I pray that one day you can forgive me, Flo.” I place my hand on top of hers. An unspoken acceptance.

“Well,” I sniff, blinking back the tears. “This coffee is strong enough to raise the dead.”

Clearly movin the conversation along, my throat tighting.

Auntie Mae caught on and barked out a laugh, wiping away her own. “Good. That means it’s workin’.”

Breakfast passed in warm quiet. We talked about little things—her youngest losin’ his front tooth, the new choir robes she ordered for the fall revival, how Bo Chow still hadn’t brought her them pickled peaches she asked for three weeks ago.

It felt good. Like home.

Felt like closure, kinda.

When I stood to leave, Auntie Mae placed her hand on mine.

“You goin’ to see Annie?” she asked, not accusin’. Just knowin’.

I nodded.

“Enjoy. Give her my love. And tell her I still ain’t forgiven her for teachin’ you how to put cushions underneath your quilt like you were sleep so you can sneak out.”

We both laughed, and then I hugged her tight, the kind of hug that fills you up and empties you out all at once.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

The streets of Charleston were slowly comin’ alive as I made my way into town.

Children played on porch stoops. Men gathered on corners, talkin’ big and shufflin’ dominoes. The women? They were busy, but always kept one eye on everything.

I stopped by the florist on Jubilee Street. Miss Irma’s place—still there, still smellin’ like lavender and lemon balm. She smiled wide when she saw me.

“Is that Baby Flossie Lee?” She blinked, wearin them oversized black framed, round specs. “Back from the land of the saved and sanctified?” she teased, wrapping her arms around me.

I grinned patting her delicate hand. “Don’t start with me, Miss Irma. I’m just here for flowers.”

“You want the usual?” She smirked. After all these years... Woman had the mind of an elephant.

I paused. Then nodded.

“Peach lilies. And them bluebells, if you have any.”

She handed me a small bouquet already trimmed with ribbon. “For Annie?”

“Yessem.”

“You give her my love, you hear?”

I paid in cash, cradling the blooms like they were made of breath.

These were Sister’s favorites. When Brother moved them into that small shack, he spent all spring fighting that soil to bare her some flowers, those were only two kinds that dared to bloom for her.

I walked the next few blocks in silence, the bouquet brushing my arm as I crossed the same old roads that had watched me grow up. The same cracked sidewalks. The same crooked light post on the corner of Elm. The same crooked ache in my chest.

The sun was higher now, and the air was gettin’ heavy.

But I needed to do this.

Because even if the town had changed, and Elias had changed, and I had changed… one thing hadn’t.

Annie had been my anchor when the storms hit. And she will forever be my girl. My sister.

The bouquet sat quiet in my arms as I walked the worn path behind Annie and Brother’s house, where the land sloped soft toward Tucker Creek. Peach lilies and bluebells. Gentle things. Things that looked too bright for sorrow, but somehow fit just right when you’re speakin’ to the past.

The morning had grown still—like the air knew I needed space.

Long gone was that two room shack that she’d and brother lived in.

There now a house that looked like it was holdin’ its breath—standin’ there all weathered and tired, but still proud.

White paint peeled off its sides like sunburnt skin, and that tin roof was rusted through in spots, whisperin’ stories every time the wind hit just right. The porch sagged low, stretched wide like arms that welcome folks, with fancy woodwork that had long since lost some of its shine. A porch swing and wooden rocker, imitatin’ to longtime friends in conversation. The columns leaned like old men with bad knees, but they were still standin’.

It sat up on brick piers, hoverin’ over the lush yard like it was too stubborn to fall. Fruitful trees crowded ‘round it, their branches reachin’ at the sky like they was beggin’ for rain or redemption. And them windows? Light and soft, watchin’ like they remembered everything—every argument, every kiss.

This had the Moore brothers written all over it. Brother used to whisper into Annie's ear, ery' night that he was gon' give her a home... get her out that ol' shack.

And Brother delivered, he always did.

The backyard was neat, but not fussy. A few lavender bushes leaned toward the sun, and a wind chime danced gently beneath the porch awning, making music soft as breath. The further I walked, the quieter the world got. Just the sound of my shoes crunchin’ through grass, and the low hum of the river not far off.

My eyes soften at the little flat white stone that I had been lookin’ for. The little grave was where it always was—beneath the weeping willow Annie planted after. Beside it, a little jar bottled of fresh milk, a wooden toy made by her papa, and wilted candles that had been previously lit.

The marker was small. White. Simple. The name carved there in soft script: Resting Baby Joy Belle Moore

Papa an’ Mama’s Lit’ Flower 1925-1926

And under the words, was her little handprint.

Lord have mercy.

My knees gave just a little as I knelt before it, hand trembling as I laid a single peach lily at the base.

I didn’t speak right away. Couldn’t. The air felt sacred here, and I knew better than to rush the Spirit.

Instead, I rested my hands in my lap, bowed my head, and let my soul pour up.

“Hey there, baby girl,” I whispered, voice cracking just a little. “I don’t know what the world would've looked like if you’d stayed. But I know it would’ve been better. Brighter. Softer.”

A breeze kissed the back of my neck, and I took that as a sign to keep goin’.

“I brought yo Mama’s favorites. She don’ say it, but this time of year wears on her. And yo Papa…” I smiled faintly. “He’s quieter than he used to be. Still sharp. Still solid. But that big laugh ain’t as loud without you.”

I swallowed the ache that crept up my throat and closed my eyes.

“Keep watch over her, okay? Over him too. They still miss you every day. And Lord knows this world’s mean enough to the kind-hearted.”

I pressed my fingers to the stone—just once—then stood, smoothing my skirt and brushing the grass from my knees.

The flower looked too small at the foot of the grave, but it glowed like a soft promise.

I turned toward the house, heart heavier and lighter all at once.

I climbed the steps slow, my legs still feelin’ the prayer I’d poured out behind the house.

Before I even knocked, her voice drifted out like always—sharp and soft all at once.

“I saw you out back.”

I smiled, hand resting on the screen door. “Didn’t want to come inside without seein’ her first.”

“She heard you,” Annie said from just inside, and when I opened the door, there she was.

Still tall in spirit, still with that thick, plaited hair, still wrapped in her grief like a shawl she’d chosen to wear instead of bury. Her eyes soft, wise...

We stood there for a moment.

And then she opened her arms, and I stepped straight into them.

“Mmmm, my baby sista home...”

I held on to her like she was my last lifeline... Hell, she was.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Annie poured sweet tea like she was anointing the glass—slow, dramatic, wrist all flicked up like a queen of potions. She’d tossed in a sprig of mint from her porch pot and dropped in exactly three cubes of ice. Said it was the “holy trinity of Southern hydration.”

We sat in her kitchen, surrounded by soft gold light and the lingering scent of bay leaves, lavender, and her ever-burning bundle of sage that sat in a little clay dish by the window.

“So,” Annie said, eyes glitterin’ as she leaned her chin into her palm. “Tell me why you walkin’ around lookin’ like somebody just canceled Heaven?”

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of tea. “Don’t start with me, Annie Jo.”

“Oh, baby, I already started. You came in here with them long eyes and that heavy spirit like you been draggin’ your soul behind you in a suitcase.” She reached over and patted my hand. “Talk. Or I’m pullin’ out the cards.”

I groaned. “Lord, no more cards. Last time you did that, you told me I was gon’ marry a man with two shadows and no soul.”

“And look where you ended up. Clarence dry as toast and always lurkin’ in the background like a regret.”

I snorted, nearly choked on my tea.

“You messy as hell,” I coughed.

“Sure am,” she grinned. “Now spill it. What’s eatin’ you?”

I sighed. Took a beat. Then another.

“I ain’t satisfied,” I admitted quietly.

Annie blinked. “With what? Clarence? Or the gospel circuit?”

I pressed my lips together.

She leaned back in her chair. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m tired, Sista. Tired of runnin’ up and down the Delta singin’ for folk who just wanna hear a good voice but don’t give a damn about the woman carryin’ it. Tired of ridin’ trains to places I don’t know. Tired of sleepin’ in rooms where the Bible’s the only thing that sees me cryin’ at night.”

Her gaze softened. She let me keep goin’.

“And Clarence… he’s a good man, I suppose. But he’s more married to the ministry than he ever been to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t see me. Hell, I don’t even think he wants me—just the idea of what I make him look like.”

Annie gave a slow, understanding nod. “That sounds like a damn resume, not a relationship.”

I laughed under my breath, but it cracked at the edges.

She tilted her head. “You love him?”

The silence that followed was long enough for the cicadas outside to fill in the answer.

“Flo?”

“I…” I started. Then stopped.

Annie sat up straight. “Oh, hell no. Don’t tell me you out here wearin’ this man’s name in your mouth and you don’t even know if your heart co-signs it…” She reaches out and popped my hand like a mama scoldin’ her chile. “Flossie Lee.”

I rubbed my temples. “I’m tryin’, Annie. I really am. I prayed on it. I gave him my time. My patience. My everything.”

“Well, baby, if you gotta give everything and you still feel empty, then you ain't got a man—you got a mission project.”

I burst into laughter cutting back a sob, clutchin’ my chest as tears welled up in my eyes. “You’re so damn disrespectful.”

“I’m honest,” she corrected. “And you need to get it together. You got this big, beautiful spirit, Flo Lee, and you lettin’ it shrivel under some half-hearted holy man who couldn’t find your fire with a damn torch.”

I wiped a tear from my cheek. Not sadness. Just relief. Like the truth finally gave me permission to breathe.

Annie is probably the only person who could talk sense into me. It ain’t like I didn’t see what was going on, I was determined to be different than who I used to be. Clarence and Elias were different, someone like Clarence seemed safer and ‘propriate… even though I felt like I was wastin’ away.

But what was the point of being safe when you know you aren’t.

Right then, the front door creaked open.

Bootsteps on wood.

Annie didn’t even flinch, takin a sip of her tea. “That you, ‘Lijah?”

I sat up straighter. “That my brother?” Smile big on my face, tryna hide my tears.

“In the flesh,” came the deep, familiar voice.

Elijah walked into the kitchen, broad and easy like he’d never known a day of struggle, even though I knew better. He carried peace like it was stitched into his clothes, a man shaped by pain but made of iron and compassion.

He seen me, his lips twitchin’ a grin.

“Flo?” he said, brows liftin’. “Ain’t no way. You still callin’ me Brother after all this time?” He walks in and pressed a kiss to Annie’s temple as she leaned into him then raised her chin and he pecked her lips twice. “You alright, baby?” His voice deep voice whispered in her lips.

“No miseries worth complainin’ ‘bout, suga.”

I grinned like a chesire cat. Annie and Elijah’s love always made me swoon. A love forged in fire an' passion, tested by grief an' trial… but everlastin’ an' real.

He nodded his head, understanding exactly what she meant, then kissed her lips once more 'fore lookin back at me. "I'm still Brother, huh?"

I stood and gave him a warm hug, pressing my cheek to his chest. “Betta act like know, Elijah Isaiah! You are my brother.”

And was. Even though he and Elias shared the same face, height, built… Elijah’s spirit was fatherly. A protector. He and Annie watched over me and took care of me when I was young and foolish… A bit of a hot head. Punched a few men back in the day and Elijah would double-dog dare a nigga to touch me, then scold me like disobedient child.

He snatched me up so quick sometimes and fussed at me, and I thank God it.

He let out a low chuckle and kissed my head. "Good to see you, baby girl. I was wonderin’ what brought all that sunlight into my kitchen.”

“Just came by to see my girl,” I smiled, reaching and pattin’ Annie’s hand. "My beautiful, and wise big sista."

Annie winked at me before reachin' up and fixin' the collar on Elijah's white button down. He takes her hand, gently, then gives her a sharp look that makes her giggle softly.

Brother hated bein' primped. He had always been a simple man. But his brother... Elias loved to look good, and would be damned if his look-a-like didn't attempt to look as fine. Their banters would bring the house down:

Elias turned to me with that slow, lazy grin that always got my stomach to twist up in ways it shouldn’t with company around. “Now see, pretty girl, I ain’t tryna dress him like me. But if I gotta stand next to him tonight, he ain’t gon’ be lookin’ like he got dragged through a cottonfield neither. Ain’t that right, 'Lijah?” “Nigga, don’t talk to me,” Brother muttered, tugging the vest down and yanking at the buttons with too-thick fingers. Elias stepped back, cocked his head, and gave an appreciative nod. “Alright. Alright. Look at that. You clean up decent. Don’t he, baby” I leaned in a bit, biting down a grin. “He look like you held him hostage.” Annie burst out laughing again and wheezed, “Not the hostage!” My baby swatted the air, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair. “Y’all don’t appreciate fashion. This here? This is elegance. This is presentation. This is what the people call panache.” “That ain’t what they call it,” Smoke grumbled, walking past him toward the front mirror. “They call it ‘you doin’ too fuckin' much.’” He snarls like a angry beast as he looks at Annie. "I need a goddamn cigarette, mama." Elias smirks. "I got you, once we finish."

Giggling at the distant memory, I turned my attention back to my family.

"What you been doin' this morning, Brother?" I asked as I retake my seat.

"Out back, in the shed." That was final and I knew what it meant. Elijah tilted his head. “Since you back in town and all... you thinkin’ about singin’ at the juke?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?” This is like the third askin since I got back in this damned town.

He grinned. “Opening night’s comin’ up. Stack’s been tryin’ to find somebody who can open the floor right. Thought maybe you’d bless the mic. Bring a little sanctified sin into the room.”

Annie whooped.

“Brother, stop,” I gasped, half-laughin’, half-horrified. “I don’t sing that kinda music no more!”

“You sing truth, Flo Lee. And truth don’t care what house it sits in.”

I hesitated.

His eyes twinkled a bit as he grabbed the wrapped cigarette behind his ear. “You scared?”

I squared my shoulders. “I ain’t scared of nothin’.”

“Then say yes.”

I looked at Annie. She just sipped her tea with a smug grin.

“…Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it... For you.” Then looked at Annie who gave a little stern eyein'. "...and me, I suppose."

Elijah clapped his hands once. “Hotdamn. You know Stack gon’ lose his mind, right?"

“Oh Lord,” I muttered. “What have I done?”

Annie leaned across the table and winked.

“Maybe just started tellin’ the truth again.”

Taglist: @thefuturemmywinner @childishgambinaax @kitesatforestp @thickemadame @prettylilteine @thegreatlibraryofalex @questionable-behaviour @brownsugarcoffy @turbulentvoids

Sorry if I missed anyone

[pyraomen]

current fic ideas . . .

DOWN IN NEW ORLEANS , tiana x sammie.

sinners au/crossover — tiana rogers (portrayed by pearline) is annie’s little cousin from new orleans. the shadow man approaches her with an offer she simply cannot refuse after she failed at opening her own business several times. she got a gift to sing, her own restaurant without the white man's permission, and her father brought her back to life. what might go wrong? quit literally everything, which forces her to flee new orleans and stay with her cousin in clarksdale, mississippi. where she meets the smokestack twins little cousin, sammie moore.

(based off almost there ; a twisted tale — contains horror aspects)

I’D RATHER GO BLIND , louis x stack.

sinners au/crossover — two men, born into sin trying to climb their way out. an empty shell of a man, louis de pointe du lac longs to see his brother one final time and to find a greater purpose in life than running a brothel. freedom, some may say but that word is foreign for louis. he doesn’t get a taste of it until elias “stack” moore. a man who believes he’s already found freedom, running wild with his twin and a woman that brings him nothing but trouble. the two end up in a tangled web of sin when a silent business partnership is formed.

(based off i’d rather go blind ; etta james — contains religious imagery and a smidge of gay denial, we all saw louis confession)

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Route 666

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC

Summary: it’s the year 1984 and Star goes to a roadside bar off of Devil’s Highway that a friend of hers invited her to. What Star doesn’t know is that someone is waiting for her beyond the velvet drapes.

Warnings: SMUT. Lots of pussy licking. 18+ CONTENT. Mentions of blood.

Part two.

Stack.

This brother has an aura Star craved. Mysterious and very charismatic. They sort of glided through the throng of dancers as if walking on water. Stack stroked Star’s hand with his thumb soothingly. The sensation calmed her nerves and unsteady breathing.

Star didn’t know if it was the liquor that had her feeling dazed or if she was under his hypnosis, but she let him take her hand while she followed through the door of Vaisseau. After grabbing her things from coat check, they were outside now, the evening air sweeping her hair every which way.

Stack’s footsteps stopped in front of a motorcycle with a seat embroidered with sparkling rhinestones or…diamonds? And an iron cross emblem. He released her hand briefly to swing onto his bike. Stack reached out a hand for Star to climb up. He revved the bike to life with his other. Star made sure to take her time as she threw her thick thigh up and over until her crotch—panties non existent, fish nets creating a sensation over her clit—onto the raised portion of the seat.

Her arms circled Stack’s waist and she interlocked her fingers tightly together. Star pressed her right cheek against the leather material of his vest. Tough, rebellious, or even primal. Durable and strong. The pearl snap earrings over her earlobes revealed themselves as her hair moved in the direction of the wind. The sweat against the sepia flesh of her back dried, leaving behind a sticky surface. The scent of Christian Dior Hypnotic Poison with its sensual and captivating vanilla lingered against every inch of her skin, exuding a brazen, conquering spirit.

The deafening roar of his motorcycle outside of Vaisseau made him appear like a feral beast waiting to break free of his chains and start racing. There was nothing more exciting than riding on the back of his motorcycle to the limit and feeling at one with the machine. It was agile, moving onto the highway with ease. The wind burned her eyes, so she shut them, resting her chin against his back. The dewy fragrance of the air tickled her nose.

Going to a motel was the same as choosing junk food or casual sex, you realised it was gonna be seriously underwhelming but it was cheap and available. It felt different with Stack. Nothing about him screamed underwhelming. More like exhilarating. They arrived outside of a motel lit with a greenish hue. It was two levels and eerily quiet.

Stack pulled into a spot with big numbers painted in red against the concrete. 109.

He got off first, helping Star down and grabbing a hold of her hand again. He pocketed his motorcycle keys before digging for the ones to open his motel door. Star glanced around. She spotted an older gentleman, probably of Hispanic descent, smoking a cigarette against a truck. Soft music from a radio to her left and the sound of a soap opera through an opened window to her right.

The room was clean, the bedding was fresh, for a motel around here that's actually pretty good. Stack flicked on a light, bathing the room in a low, warm glow. He tossed his moto vest against a nearby arm chair and his room keys on a side table next to an alarm clock that read: 1:52 am. Stack made sure to shut the curtains and close the blinds up nice and tight. Star eyed the peeling wallpaper, the single king sized bed, and a mirror situated on a wall behind the bed.

Star sat her cheetah printed hand bag on the other end table before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes flicked around nervously, watching Stack take off his boots. The leather pants he wore sat lower on his hips, revealing a sharp v–cut and a happy trail. Star unzipped her boots and pulled them off, flexing her toes.

He stood firm in front of her, Star looking up at him through her lashes. Stack extended a hand agonizingly slow, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Star exhaled a shaky breath.

“Do you trust me?”

Star wanted to say she barely knew him, but for some reason, she felt so safe with him.

“I trust you. Unless you give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

Stack smiled as the golden ambience of the motel room surrounded him. The sound of the TV with its static and lack of frequency didn’t stop the sound of Star’s heavy breaths and loud pulse reverberating her ear drums. Stack tugged, bringing Star to her feet. He took slow steps backward, turning her so she could see herself in the mirror.

“You’re so beautiful. Skin so soft. Curves just right.”

Star smiled bashfully.

“What if I told ya’ I wanna make ya’ minds forever?”

Star circled her tongue against the inside of her cheek to fight the urge to smile.

“I’d say I’ve heard it all before. What makes you any different, huh?”

“I’m definitely nothin’ like the men before me. Believe ‘dat. You’ll know soon enough.”

Star traced circles against his hand that pressed against her middle, “Mhm…well, I’m here now…”

Star reached up to stroke the back of his head.

“…Ya’ like to be bitten?”

Star pondered, “Uh…never have before…depends on how hard you trying to bite me.”

“How about spanked?”

Star grinned, “Oh, yeah. I love that type of shit.”

“Mm…aight…how ‘bout spit? Like that?”

Star could feel Stack’s dick jump against her backside.

“Love it. You should know…”

A knowing smile deepened his dimples, “That’s right…how could I forget, my apologies, gorgeous.”

Stack lightly nibbled on Star’s neck, causing her to giggle.

“You have a mouth to break up a home over,” Star said with a laugh.

“I got sum’ else too…”

“I know,” Star licked her lips, “You’re blessed.”

Stack circled his hips against her ass.

“You get so excited…I like it,” Star spoke with a whimper.

Stack turned Star around with a growl. He pressed his body on Star’s so she couldn’t escape him. His skillful hands slicked up her arms and gripped her tight. Not too much pressure, but enough to show her who’s boss. Star’s mind didn’t have to wonder what kind of freakiness went down with Stack. The mere thought made her clit throb in anticipation of it all.

Stack leaned in closer to her before Star let him take her into a passionate kiss with his soft, probing tongue.

His warm, wet tongue curled around hers expertly, stealing her breath and even her soul. The kiss wasn’t like any kiss she’d ever gotten. It was much more than a quick peck or a rushed one. He took his time. Learned the taste of tequila on her tongue. The way her soft, glossy brown lips moved around his. The sounds she made. Their heads rocked from side to side, Star falling deeper into the kiss.

Her entire body screamed for this man. He didn’t care how many dicks been in her mouth. How many pussies she licked He didn’t care that she made money off of sex with men and women alike. He didn’t care about the stigma of being with a porn star. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him. Big bulge and all. Star missed this. The anticipation of being with a man that had what Stack had.

Star dragged her hand down to cup his erection. Stack brought one heavy hand down over her ass with a sharp whack before grabbing a handful. He tilted his head without even being told so and Star took that as he liked his ear licked and nibbled on. She did just that. Meanwhile, Stack’s eyes glowed and his mouth began to drool. He sucked in his bottom lip to capture it all before it landed on Star’s shoulder.

Star moved her kisses to his exposed neck. A ghostly hiss whizzed around her. She palmed his dick tighter, nails digging into the leather of his pants. His deep groans sounded monstrous in a way. That left an impression on Star. This was a primal man indeed. And she made him weak. He’s definitely her biggest fan.

“You taste so good,” Stack whispered against her lips.

It was his turn now. Both of his hands were in her hair before he gently moved her head to the side so he could kiss her neck. Star closed her eyes, feeling him sucking her hungrily. As if he had performed magic, they seemed to glide across the carpet to the arm chair. Stack held an arm against her lower back to stop her from falling. His mouth left her neck, leaving behind an ache. He sat down and spread his thighs deliciously while his arms rested on the chair.

“Autograph,” Star heaved with a laugh, “Where do you want it?”

Stack, eyes dragging over her, went to undo his pants.

Star dropped her lustful gaze to his fingers working to reveal what she’d been dying to see since he pressed it between her ass like a hotdog to a bun.

He thumbed the leather past his thighs, revealing tight, coarse pubic hair and then that thing popped out like a snake in the grass. What white people called a Mandingo with its racial slur that Star despised in porn, she just saw a beautiful black man with a big joystick she’d love to play with. This wasn’t fetish. This was art. Black beauty. And she felt right at home.

An all American whopper. Eight–inch’s of fun. All the dick she could handle. Extra-long shaft that naturally flexes to fit inner curves for deeper penetration. Great for the G-Spot or prostate. Perfectly-shaped tip, textured skin with veins, and a weighty pair of balls.

Star dropped to her knees a little too hard.

She tugged on his pants, removing them completely.

Stack grabbed a remote that was wedged between the cushion of the chair and pressed a button as he aimed it towards the TV.

Loud moans and erotic music played. Star turned her head to see what was happening. Visuals of herself giving a solo performance was right before her. Goosebumps covered both of her arms. She was splayed out on a leather chair with her legs draped over the arms while her left fingers circled her clit beyond a patch of hair. She could even see her own natural lubrication dripping like honey from a glass.

“Stack…”

“I take ya’ everywhere with me. I’ve spent so many days dreaming of what it would feel like to have ya’ all to myself…”

Star faced him again, staring up at him from her kneeled position between his legs. Star’s eyes burned with passion when she spotted drool like no other spilling over his bottom lip. This man was so hungry for her. To the point that he was visibly salivating? Without even tasting her everywhere yet?

Stack whispered sweetly, “I’m the unspoken passion women secretly desire. You wonder about the mystery behind my eyes, don’t you?”

Did he just read her mind?

“Yes,” Star whispered back.

Stack didn’t make a move to wipe his chin.

“I’m sex, uptight and poised. The lover you dream of…”

Star shuddered underneath his gaze. Enthralled by every word that came from his thick lips. Every inch of her skin crawled as she moved her hands all over his body. Smooth, unblemished, dark skin looked as if it had been kissed by the ideal amount of sun provided by the Mississippi Delta. His chiseled chest, ripped abs, and defined, burly arms had her mouth watering lustfully.

“Stack…”

“Yes?”

“I want to suck your dick.” Star stated with assertiveness, feeling her inner thighs and stockings beginning to soak.

Stack placed his index finger over her lips, “Shhh…not another word…”

For some reason, she couldn’t utter another word. It was like he had taken her voice from her. She couldn’t make sense of the way she was feeling as her breathing intensified. Her clit throbbed harder, causing her to rock back and forth.

Removing the halter to her dress, Star allowed it to pool around her waist, revealing pendulous breasts and thick, brown nipples. Her skin was painted with sweat, no circulating air in that motel room. Star quivered as she took him into her hand again, weighing the heaviness in her palm.

“Suck it. Take what you want, baby.”

Star reached for him but Stack snatched his dick back.

“Suck it all the way down too, understand?”

Star did just that.

She kissed the tip. Made love to it with her glossy brown lips, moans equaling those from the TV. She let go of his shaft, no need to keep it in place. It was hard enough to stand straight up like a stick in the mud. Star gathered saliva on her tongue and slathered it all over Stack’s ample package, slurping afterwards to savor his taste. Stack watched her, eyes following the movement of her tongue and closing briefly whenever she let her lips have a moment.

“Can’t believe you suckin’ on my dick, Star…”

The tremble in his voice. She gave his balls some love too, staring up at him beyond that girth like she was peaking around a corner. Stack’s mouth dropped open, teasing her with some tongue.

Star popped her lips off his sack and suctioned her lips along the underside of his dick until her lips were flesh around his tip. She slithered her mouth down with a tight jaw until he was seated at the back of her throat. That delicious curve molded perfectly with her mouth. Star began sucking. Stack smoothed her hair out of the way and held it back so he could watch her better.

“Gahdamn…this how you do it?”

Star hummed.

“You a motherfuckin’ pro. No wonder I love you so much.”

Star blinked up at him with a dick drunk look.

“You love sucking big dick?”

She nodded her head, continuing her blow job.

“Pop your lips off and tell me how much you love sucking big dick.” Stack demanded with a gruff tone.

Star did as she was told, like he was the puppeteer.

She did it nice and slow and lingered on the tip before releasing him. Stack’s nostrils flared as a deep and resonant, “Mmm,” billowed from his lips.

Star jerked with the help of spit, “I love sucking your big dick, Stack…it’s so big…and fat…more than what I’m used to when I fuck for the camera…” Star said with a practiced pitch in her voice that drove men crazy.

“Bet that pussy hole ain’t used to what I got. I know I’m right…”

Star damn near came.

She shook her head, “Not even close. I don’t remember what it feels like to be filled up with all this,” Star slapped him against her palm, “I need a reminder.”

“Put your mouth back on me first.”

Star sank back down on his dick. Stack shut his eyes and his tongue glided over sharp fangs. The lethal incisors were poking him in his bottom lip. Stack’s eyes, glowing brightly, watched her eat his dick up. He was close.

“You ready for this nut?”

Star responded with more enthusiastic sucking. She rolled her neck and pulled out all her nasty tricks. Spit on it. Flicked it with her tongue. Kissed his tip. Sat him in the back of throat. Slurped on his balls. Stack’s hips levitated from the chair and a strong fist in her hair kept her still.

Heavy breathing and sucking sounds with an occasional slap from his balls on her chin.

He was throat fucking her. Star felt hot tears roll down her face. She gripped his thighs.

“Mhm…mhm…keep yo’ ass still!”

Her nose pressed against his crotch almost suffocating her.

Hot jizz made its way down her throat, feeding her lust for him. Stack let her go and Star’s mouth popped off his dick.

A dick that still was as hard as it was before she sucked it.

Star went to wipe her mouth but Stack grabbed her by the neck, leaned forward, and thrust his tongue in her mouth. Star could taste his saliva. It mingled with hers.

“Your mouth felt like I was digging for gold…”

He kissed her.

“So good…”

Stack released Star’s neck. He helped her to her feet and took it upon himself to remove the rest of her dress. Star shimmied her hips, full nudity he’d only ever seen on screen finally revealed to him.

Stack was patient. Not rushed like she was used to.

He twirled her around, taking in every inch of her from the follicles of her head to the polish on her toes. When she stopped in front of him again, Stack allowed his hands to explore. He first glided his fingertips along her collarbone before they found its way to her breasts.

“Everything about ya’…so succulent.”

Stack fought the urge to extend his fangs.

What he wouldn’t give to sample her blood for the first time. With over fifty years of experience, he plans to. He’d been waiting to get his hands on Star Vixen. And she came to him so easily. Now here she was, standing in front of him dripping in sweat and smelling tasty. The aroma of her sex burned his nose in the best way.

The fans in Vaisseau blew her scent around, and Stack had to make a move fast to stake his claim. He could sense the pressure from surrounding beasts of the night, ready to fight for her. Stack would put up a fight. Star was his. His to feed from. His to fuck. She would be his for however long he planned to stay in Arizona before there was another calling.

The life of a Vampire required you to stick to the shadows. Stack did just that, feeding off of the blood of humans. Sweet, rich, and even addictive. The taste grew more intense the more he fed. He didn’t take too kindly to it at first, but each person has their own unique taste. He just knew Star tasted like syrup. He couldn’t wait to drench his goatee with it.

Stack’s lips found her nipples and he just knew they tingled once his tongue roamed.

And they did just that for Star.

“I’m gonna have my way wit’ ya’ tonight,” Stack uttered before flicking his tongue back and forth.

Each nipple. Equal attention.

His thick fingers reached between her legs and played with her clit through her fishnets. His fingers played around with her clit, slipping through her crevasses, finding her soft wet spot, fingering her slowly. He could tell from the look on her face she’d never been fingered like this before. Stack explored, changing the pace and rhythm of his fingers, playing around in her pussy.

Star clawed his shoulders.

“Bring one foot up…”

Star obeyed his command.

She was spread better for him. Perfect.

He was knuckle deep, fingers swimming in her pussy.

“I’m just tryna see what I got to work wit’…”

Star whimpered. Just leaking all over his fingers.

“Star…ya’ hear that?”

She stilled herself to get a good listen. Lips sealed.

Squelch squelch squelch

“like I’m diving in the ocean…so fuckin’ wet…”

Stack attempted to add a third finger but Star clenched up and hopped off his fingers.

He brought his hand up between them and Star watched with a dazed look at him rubbing his fingertips together. He sniffed his fingers first before sucking her mess off. Star stood still, eyes blazed, pussy missing his fingers. Those shining eyes held firm with her brown eyes and Stack dropped to his knees.

Get on your knees and arch your back

Star found herself getting into position on the edge of the bed. She did what she was told, arching over the bed, ass sitting high and open, fishnets imprinted in her flesh and revealing a hairy pussy.

“Have you ever had your ass properly worshipped?”

He took his fingers hooked them in her fishnets, and ripped them open with force. Star gasped.

Stack stared at the proud, thick, curves before him, the luscious mocha color of Star’s booty straining as she opened up, revealing both holes. Her ass was the perfect reward for him. That pussy he longed to eat for hours and hours. Stack kneeled down behind her, drooling all over himself to taste and touch and take of her rich, beautiful body.

Stack pinched the tender underside of one cheek, then the other, pulling them apart to see everything in between, a moan escaping his lips as he saw up close just how wet and creamy she is. There’s nothing like a woman’s ass spread out before you, waiting to be taken, to humble a man. Stack simply held her there in his hands, letting his thumbs rest along the edges of her lips, pacing himself before diving in for a delicious treat, one that already had his dick hard, strong, and ready.

You like that, daddy? You like the way I stroke my pussy?

You wanna taste it, don’t you? You want to eat me up like an ice cream sundae?

I’m all yours to devour…I want you to eat every inch of this wet pussy…don’t miss a drop…

Star on the TV was speaking the words for Star in person.

There was so much to taste and touch, Stack didn’t know where to start. The musky scent of her pussy perfume wafted through the air, smelling of sweat, and sweet decedents. Ass hovering in his face like this Stack could shoot a load all over the carpet right there. He couldn’t resist giving each cheek a solid slap, the sound echoing in the room as the sting reverberated in his palm so good.

Have you ever had this ass worshipped?

“No,” came her muffled reply as he spread her open and let his tongue explore her sweet curves.

Stack pressed against her twin globes, giving himself room to taste her sensitive flesh, the pucker writhing beneath him as he buried himself between her cheeks.

Stack curled his tongue into a point and dove right in while his fingers moved closer to her sex, stroking the wetness, what he found there just steadily dripping. He speared her asshole like a famished man. It was just him and her panting and grunting and her voice from the TV and the sound of Stack’s thick tongue and lips.

He dipped that greedy vampiric tongue into and out that ass, his drool acting as lubricant. He worshipped that ass like he’d never get another chance, tongue savoring her. That tongue wiggled down and he drilled it into her pussy. Stack filled her up as best he could, plunging in and out to the beat of her own rocking hips.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Stack heard her cry, a little louder than before as he pressed three fingers deep into her tight tunnel. Stack feasted on Star’s bottom again, those strikingly soft clappers against his cheeks. Sticky syrup coated his fingers. Her walls quivered. Her as whole clenched whenever he dragged his tongue over it.

You’re doing such a good job, daddy!

Eat me! Savor me! Take it!

Make me cum on your long tongue! Your sweet lips!

“Stack, oh my fucking goodness!”

His thumb flicked her bean in a downward motion from her position. He then rubbed it back and forth with his thumb. His tongue sat flat against her labia and he stroked up and down with it, drool coating her folds and adding towards a slippery ride. She twitched and writhed the more slickness appeared.

“Daddy, you’re drooling! So much all over me! It’s running down my stomach!”

Stack curled his arms around her legs and sucked on her clit with a tight grip. Star gathered the sheets into her fists and cried into the bed with nowhere to escape.

He made her cum. So hard.

Star could have fainted from how powerful that orgasm was.

And he wasn’t done.

Stack pulled his tongue out and kissed his way down to her ankles and feet. He got to his feet and positioned her himself for round two.

“Stack, you don’t need a break?” Star asked weakly.

His dick was iron clad and she couldn’t believe it.

He dragged her ass over the edge of the bed and got down on his knees again.

“I ain’t taking no break.” He mouthed. Stack smirked up at her, “You my meal until I’m through, understand?”

Star knew not to speak another word. Not when those eyes were sharp on her and gleaming like a monster.

Stack pulled her lips apart and finished where he started.

Star twitched in his mouth, pussy still sensitive.

“Thought I was gon’ get just one taste?”

Star’s eyes crossed when Stack’s full lips slurped up her clit and moved his head back and forth. She went to push him off and Stack locked her wrists.

“Uh–UHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Stack flicked his tongue and it sounded like he was lapping at water in a bowl. She flowed. Poured all over his damn tongue. He worked hard for it. Stack drank as much as he could down. Next to the taste of blood, pussy juice was the best thing. His tip buzzed with desire.

“You got my pussy cumming again!”

Star gripped his hair tight. Her thighs bounced and shook. Stack was not getting off her pussy.

And her thriving was pissing him off.

“Ouch!”

Star felt a sharp prick on her inner thigh. Sharp enough to make her listen. She felt all the blood in her veins rush to that one particular place. It perked her nipples and made her clit a stiff bud. Stack licked away at the spot he nibbled on before kissing his way back to her pussy.

“Don’t move again,” Stack opened her lips, “Look what following directions get you..clit nice a fat for me how I like it.”

Stack flicked his tongue over it. Star moved her hips up and down, following the way his tongue would go up and down speedily.

“What I say?”

She didn’t have time to respond. Stack pushed her knees so far back she was folded. He went back to toying with her clit. Star clawed his arms, crying out in overstimulation.

“STACK!”

She felt his lips do its job and he sucked away to his dead hearts desire. She extended her neck and whispered “This your pussy, this your pussy…”

He finally came up for air. His whole face glistened with pussy juices down to his chest. Star, bathed in sweat, locked eyes with him.

She couldn’t began to describe how soaked she is.

Pubic hairs slick with spit and cum.

Pussy lips engorged and pulsating with sensitivity.

Hole clenching and unclenching around nothing.

Stack kissed all over her pussy softly, admiring his work in between. Star began to relax, body going lax against the bed.

“That was amazing, Stack. Thank you.”

Stack smirked against her clit. He peered up at her from between her legs.

“Anytime, baby…I mean that.”

Stack kissed his way up her body. Star was drifting in and out of consciousness. He positioned himself above her, staring down into her face.

Sleep, baby…we’ll meet again…

Stack stroked her face until her head fell off to its side. He picked her up and tucked her in. Stack could wait to sink his dick into her. He just needed to eat her pussy. And it was worth the wait.

The sensation of sleep settled over his body, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay. Dawn was approaching.

He’d sleep for now, bringing Star closer so he could breathe her in.

@eggnox @blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams

[sinners4ever]

Pretty as a Magnolia Masterlist

Part One

Part Two

Part Three (coming soon)

[ali3nsupastar]

BLACK ICE

Vampire Elijah "Smoke" Moore & AnnaMarie "Annie" Adeyemi in Black Ice

Elias " Stack" Moore x Black OC

Inspired by The Vampire Diaries

Modern AU

Synopsis: Elijah and Elias Moore have been roaming these earthly planes for over 200 years. Cursed to live in the shadows... Until stories of a Hoodoo Priestess with the gift that allow those who are damned to the night to walk in the sun once again.... However, freedom always comes with a price.

COMING SOON

[j0ysyndr0m3]

LIFE OF SIN, stack x oc! reader

rosetta ‘rose' thornton finally returns home to the delta after touring for nights as a singer and is surprised to see her former lover, elias 'stack' moore has returned after 7 years in chicago. as the bitterness subsides and past feelings still linger for each other, unbeknownst to them, an even greater evil follows them back home.

chapter warnings — talks of violence (threat), use of the n-word, time-period drama, word count — 1,674

masterlist | chapter one

PROLOGUE st. louis blues

Thursday October 13th, 1932 St. Louis, Missouri

"My man's got a heart like a rock cast in the sea,Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me."

Through the crowded train station, Rosetta Thornton sat alone on the bench, singing under her breath a tune she sang just the night before ― sorrowful and full of bitterness. Remnants were still in Rosetta's mouth. Her body lightly swayed against the warm Missouri wind, watching people passing by, rushing to their trains, dust picking up their hurried footsteps.

"If I feel tomorrow, like I feel today,I'm gonna pack my trunk and make my getaway."

Rosetta bowed her head to her lap. A white box with a red satin bow was lightly placed above her bag, which was sitting heavily on her lap. Her gloved hand slowly slid the card from under the bow.

The night before.

After a night of singing at yet another speakeasy, Rosetta settles into her hotel room, where the smell of smoke, sweat, and liquor the night still lingered. Rosetta washed her body of it before slipping on her white night dress and heading to bed. Her coils pinned back, protected in a scarf. Just as her body got comfortable against the fresh, cold sheets, there was a knock at the door.

"Miss. Rosetta?" a bright voice calls behind the door, " 'Dere’s a box here for ya."

A soft groan, escaped from Rosetta's lips, forcing herself to leave the safe haven she needed, rest. She strolls towards the door, each floor creak louder than the last with each step. She cracked the door open, peaking her head to see a young man, no older than 16, about taller than Rosetta's already tall figure. His denim coveralls and scally cap were covered in spots of the day's work and grime. He shared the same burnt umber skin as Rosetta's. The boy held a box almost half of his height, red satin wrapped around the box, creating a large bow, with a small card peeking out from underneath the bow.

"Y'know who dis from?" Rosetta asks softly. The boy shrugs, "No ma’am, we found dis on da front desk, waiting for ya."

Worry started to form in Rosetta's stomach, unsure of who this gift could be from. It could be from her family, Rosetta knew that for sure. Could it be from a secret admirer? Impossible what crazy man wanted her.

Not wanting to have the boy hold the box for so long, Rosetta requested for the boy to leave the box at the door. The boy followed through before politely tipping his hat at Rosetta and leaving. Rosetta swiped the white box from the floor, taking it into her hotel room. She made sure to lock her door, before tossing the box onto her bed.

Had she had a secret admirer without even knowing? Worry became excitement in Rose's tummy. It's been a while since she had someone admire her the way...

The way Elias Moore did.

She shakes the thought of him as she sits on the edge of the bed, next to the white box. Her fingers slid the velvety card from under the satin bow. There was a message on the other side. She glanced at the note and immediately regretted it. Sucking in her teeth, Rosetta flicked the card to the floor, an annoyed groan leaving her lips, "Speak of the fucking devil and he shall fucking appear."

To my songbird,  From your Stack.

--------------------------------------------------------

Her white-laced fingers pinched the corner of the bent-up card. She kept re-reading the message, each time, with bitterness growing within her. Rosetta’s jaw tensed, a faint tsk leaving her lips, "This nigga..." She muttered, drowned out by the rowdy train station, "From Your Stack, my ass."

Elias Moore. A name that was so sweet against Rosetta's tongue, but left a painful pang in her heart every time he was mentioned. The way he touched her made her feel alive, and free. Like she was the only woman in his world. The Delta fearfully called him Stack, except Rosetta. To her, he was her 'lias and her 'lias only.

Or so she once believed.

"Next Stop, Clarksdale, Mississippi!"

The conductor's voice rang out, snapping Rosetta out of her thoughts. She grabs her belongings, box included, and heads to her rightful train, to home.

--------------------------------------------------------

Clarksdale, Mississippi

Rosetta felt her heart swell with fondness at the sight of the Clarksdale station. She was finally home after what felt like years, despite it being 3 months. Singing blues at speakeasies, juke joints, or places the devil comes to visit, she remembers her father saying. The pay wasn’t too well, but Rosetta couldn't complain too much. She was grateful for the fact that she was able to sing whatever blues song she wanted, free from her father’s control or judgment from her older sisters.

Stepping further away from the train, bag in her left hand, box carried with her right arm, she hears the honk of a car, followed by a high-pitched voice screaming.

"ROSETTA!!!"

Rosetta giggled, whipping her head toward the direction of the noise through the crowd. She spotted her sister June sitting beside her husband in the driver's seat of their car, both of them waving excitedly at her. 

June was the only person who never judged Rosetta growing up, never scrutinizing her just for existing and liking the blues. It broke Rosetta's heart when she had to leave home. 

As if she had any choice in the matter.

Rosetta waved back as she happily strolled in their direction.

But her footsteps slowed at the sight of a crowd gathering, with music echoing from within. She approached closer just as the music ended and people began clapping. 

Then, she heard a voice. A smooth voice her body immediately recognized. 

A voice that is too commanding, too intoxicating to forget. 

“Y’all ready to eat?” the voice calls. 

“Yea!” the crowd shouts

“Y’all ready ta drank?”

“Yea!” 

“Y’all ready to sweat ‘till y’all stank.”

“Yea!!”

“We gon get funky like a Mississippi donkey, y’all.”

Rosetta's body froze in her spot, once she got a closer look, her lightened expression dropped. She held onto that white box so tightly, that she could feel it crumple.

"Get a drink on the twins when y'all get dere."

Holy shit.

It was him.

Elias Moore looked even better after all these years. From afar, his pinstriped suit was tailored perfectly to his body. His burgundy fedora couldn't hide his bedazzling smile that excited the crowd even more. Rosetta stood there as the crowd dispersed, begging her body to keep walking to her sister and her husband, resisting the pull of someone who should’ve remained a distant memory.

Her legs did the exact opposite.

She felt herself moving closer and closer to Elias' direction, she could see him even better. She could see that he was talking to somebody. 

She gently pushed past the crowd of people leaving. He was speaking with a smaller figure, a woman dressed entirely in pink. A pale woman with dark hair cut to her shoulders, its color perfectly matched Rosetta's dress. 

Mary. 

Rosetta felt as if the wind had been knocked from her body. The familiar feeling in her chest that she felt when she first saw them together returned as if it had never left. Rosetta's body finally listened as she started to walk away.

"Rose?" Stack shouts out.

"Fuck.." She muttered as she kept walking, bumping past people, a soft 'scuse me leaving her lips with each person she passed. Hoping, praying that Stack doesn't come near.

"Rose!" Stack called out again. This time, he was closer. She kept on walking until she felt a hand wrapped around her arm, gently pulling her back. Rosetta gripped the handle of her bag, ready to swing and knock somebody out, her voice raised as she turned around, "Getcho muthafuckin' hands off me-"

It was Stack. His fedora was off, and Rosetta could see him better. Through his facial hair, he looked just like how Rose first saw him when they were 18, from his tall statue to his hair down to the way he still chews that damn toothpick in his mouth.

Though his expression was unreadable, his eyes examined Rosetta, his Rose, questioning whether she was truly in his presence.

God, She wanted to hit him with her bag. But she couldn't and that pissed her off.

There was silence between the two until Rose finally spoke, breaking away from her trance, "Getcha hands off me 'lias." Her tone was harsh. Stack's grip on her arm loosened, "Not until you talked to me ‘na." Stack's voice softened. Smooth like honey.

"There ain't shit to talk bout-"

"I see you got my gift." The corner of Stack's mouth rose into a grin, his eyes were down at the box in Rosetta's arm, the arm he held. Still had that boyish charm that had Rosetta weak to her knees. That pissed her off even more. He still had a way in her heart. Rosetta can't let that happen again.

Rosetta grimaced, feeling her face heat up -- years worth of sadness, embarrassment, and anger surged through her body, "You left for seven years without a fucking goodbye or even a 'letta, but you think gifts 'posed to make me feel betta? Make the pain any less? Boy, I oughta kill ya." Her voice was heavy, but her chest felt light.

Stack couldn’t reply.

He smacked his teeth as he glanced away, his eyebrows furrowed. His sly smile disappeared.

Rosetta looked past Stack and caught Mary far behind. She was looking at Stack longingly. Stack wasn't even paying attention.

Elias Moore finally came back to the Delta after so many years. Knowing how Elias and his brother operate, it was no surprise to Rosetta that they didn’t leave willingly.

Rosetta huffed a bitter laugh, “But I bet ‘dem crackas from Chicago probably gonna get chu first.” She gritted, pulling away from Stack's grip, and rushing away towards her sister's car.

So, I had to practically rewrite this like 3X so, hopefully this sticks. Reading @nahimjustfeelingit-writes and @nire-nacheal-writes got me wanting to step my cookies up🤣🤣 so i hope I didn’t disappoint

🏷️— @queenofklonnie22, @blk-afrodite , @heauxtales , @slyy-foxx , @happilycoralbird, @zomqiez , @whysoceerious, @bluejay2503 , @jackierose902109 , @monbebe-monstax , @hihellogoodbyebruh, @cerya , @bxrbie1 ,

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