Carribean beauty 🫶🏾✨🤎

Annie sat up. Reached for her robe off the bedpost.

The house had its morning sounds — birds off the back property, the faint tick of the pipes settling. Normal sounds. Her sounds. Except for the study door, closed at the end of the hall when she stepped out, the line of light beneath it already gone.

He was up. Already.

She stood there a moment longer than she needed to.

Then she went downstairs and put the kettle on.

She didn't go to him. That was the thing she decided in the space between filling the kettle and setting it on the flame. She wasn't going to go to him. She wasn't going to knock on that door, wasn't going to be the one to smooth it over, to make herself small enough to fit back into his good graces before she'd even had her tea.

She'd said a true thing.

He could come to her.

But by the time the kettle whistled and she'd poured her cup and stood at the kitchen window long enough for the steam to thin, she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Steady. Even. Like nothing had happened.

Like nothing had happened.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway dressed for the day — shirt pressed, collar buttoned, shoes already on — and Annie wrapped both hands around her mug and looked at him.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

He moved to the stove like it was any other day. Poured his own coffee. She watched him do it — the economy of it, how he took up space without asking for it, how he was already so thoroughly himself while she was still half-assembled.

"You eat?" he asked.

"Not yet."

He nodded. Leaned against the counter across from her, cup in hand, and looked at her with that particular expression he had — patient, contained, like he was waiting for her to catch up to something he'd already sorted through in the night.

It made her want to throw her mug at him.

"You slept alright?" she asked instead, and she heard the edge in it even as it left her mouth.

Something moved behind his eyes. "Fine."

"Good." She turned back to the window. "That's good."

The silence stretched between them — not comfortable, not exactly hostile. Just there. Full of last night and everything that hadn't been resolved and his footsteps going down the hall and the study door closing and her standing alone by the vanity realizing she felt guilty for something that had been the truth.

She heard him set his cup down.

"Annie."

"I ain’t apologizing," she said. She didn't turn around.

A pause.

"Didn't ask you to."

She turned then. He was looking at her steadily, and there was nothing in his face she could argue with — no anger, no wounded pride dressed up as calm. Just him. Looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at, like he could stand here all morning if that's what it took.

"You didn't come to bed," she said.

"No."

"Because I said the truth."

His jaw shifted. "Because you needed space."

"I needed—" She stopped. Let out a breath. "I needed to not feel like a prisoner in my own house, Elijah."

"You ain't a prisoner."

"I know what I said."

"So do I." His voice was quiet. Level. "And I heard you."

That landed differently than she expected. She waited for the rest of it — the correction, the reframing, the gentle redirection that always came dressed as understanding. But he just stood there, cup on the counter, watching her.

"You heard me," she repeated.

"I heard you." He picked up his cup again. Finished the last of his coffee. Set it in the sink. "I got some business to handle this morning. Be back before noon."

And that was it.

He pressed a kiss to her temple on the way past — brief, certain, like punctuation — and then he was gone. She heard the front door, the particular sound of it closing behind him. Not slammed. Just shut.

Annie stood in the kitchen, mug in both hands, and tried to decide if being heard was the same thing as being understood.

She decided it wasn't.

But she drank her tea anyway.

He came back before noon, like he said.

Annie was in the sitting room with her sewing when she heard the door — and then his footsteps, and then the particular way they slowed at the bottom of the stairs — hesitant, almost, which was not a word she associated with Elijah Moore — before he found her.

He appeared in the doorway still in his morning clothes, hat turning slowly in his hands.

She looked up. Looked at his hands. Looked back at her sewing.

"You busy?" he asked.

"No more than usual."

He came in. Sat across from her in his armchair and didn't say anything right away, which told her more than words would have. Smoke always knew what he was going to say before he said it. The fact that he was sitting there turning his hat in his hands like a schoolboy outside the principal's office meant whatever was coming, he'd been dreading it.

She kept her needle moving. Let him sit in it.

"I got business up north," he finally said. "Have to leave Thursday."

Her needle stilled.

She didn't look up yet. Just let it land. Let it take up space in the room.

"How long," she said.

"Five days. Maybe six."

Now she looked up. He was watching her with an expression she didn't see often — something tight around the eyes, something working in his jaw. Not the controlled stillness he usually wore. Something more like a man bracing.

"You telling me…" she said, "now?"

"I found out yesterday."

She set her sewing down slowly. Folded her hands in her lap. "Yesterday."

"Annie—"

"You came home last night," she said, measured, "sat across from me at dinner, argued with me about a beach trip, slept in your study — and the whole time you already knew you were leaving Thursday."

His jaw tightened. "I ain’t think it was the right moment."

"Mm." She looked at him a moment longer, then picked her sewing back up. Let the silence stretch.

She could see it working on him. Could see him trying to find solid ground and not quite getting there. Good.

"I can’t skate," he said. "If there was any other way—"

"I'm sure."

"I mean it, Annie."

"I know you mean it." She turned her sewing in her hands, not really seeing it. "You always mean it, Elijah. That's never been the question."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The hat had been set aside. He was looking at her the way he sometimes did when he was really looking — not managing her, not steering, just looking. Raw around the edges in a way he'd never allow in front of anyone else.

"I hate it," he said quietly. "I want you to know that. I don't—" He stopped. Pressed his mouth together. "I don't like leaving you."

And there it was.

That soft, exposed place he only ever showed her. The obsessive, devoted, slightly unhinged part of him that needed her the way some men needed air — not gracefully, not lightly, but desperately, completely, in a way that sometimes felt like drowning and sometimes felt like the only solid thing in the world.

Annie felt it. Felt the pull of it, the familiar ache.

And then she felt something else.

The particular shift that happened when the balance tipped — when he needed her more than she needed him in this moment, when the power that was usually his came loose and floated in the space between them, waiting to be claimed.

She set her sewing aside. Looked at him directly.

"Is there anything more important to you than me?" she asked.

His head came up. "What?"

"It's a simple question." Her voice was soft. Almost sweet. "Is there something up north more important than me? Your wife?"

"No — of course not—"

"Then why are you going?"

"Annie, it's business, it ain’t a matter of—"

"But you just said there was no other way." She tilted her head. "So something up north requires you specifically. Requires you to leave. To be gone for almost a week." She let a beat pass. 

"That sounds like something that matters more than me."

"That is not—" He looked almost pained. "That's not what this is."

She said nothing. Just watched him.

"You my world," he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. "You know that. There is nothing — Annie, there is not a thing on this earth I put above you. This is business. It's — it's not a choice."

"Everything's a choice, Elijah."

He ran a hand over his face. She watched him do it — watched the fracture in his composure — and kept her expression perfectly, serenely neutral. Patient. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she wasn't quietly turning a blade.

"I don't believe you don't have options," she said lightly. "You Smoke Moore. You always have options. You just decided this one required you."

"It does require me—"

"Mm." She turned her face slightly away. Just enough. Let him see her doubt it. Let him see her pull back.

She heard his breath change.

"Sugar." His voice dropped. Softer now. Almost careful. "Please don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything." She examined a loose thread on her sewing. "I'm just asking questions. You can answer them or not. You the one leaving."

The silence that followed was thick with him trying to hold himself together. She could feel it. Could feel him across the room like a weather system, all that intensity with nowhere to go, looking for a way back in and finding the door closed.

Good, she thought again. Feel it.

Because she felt it every time he told her no. Every time he handed her back her request, her independence, her small attempts at a life that was also hers — firm and gentle and completely immovable. He never seemed to feel the cost of that. Never seemed to register what it took from her to be contained so lovingly, so thoroughly.

Let him register something for once.

"I'll make arrangements," he started, reaching for the practical. "Lennie will be here, you'll have everything you need, all the accounts—"

"I know about the accounts."

"I'm just saying—"

"Elijah." She looked at him. "I know about the accounts. I'm not worried about money."

He fell quiet.

"I'm worried," she said, softer, and let just enough of the real thing into her voice — just enough genuine hurt to make it land — "about being here. Alone. In this house. While you're in another city." She paused. "Other women seeing a handsome man traveling by himself. Thinking he might be available."

"Annie—" The flash of something almost desperate crossed his face. "You know I would never—"

"I know what you say."

"It's what I mean—"

"Then you should stay." She picked her sewing back up. Simple. Final. "If I'm your world, stay."

"I can't—"

"Can't or won't?"

"Annie, please—"

And there it was. Please. From Elijah Moore. Turning his hat in his hands and saying please to her in his own sitting room like she held something he needed.

She kept her eyes on her sewing.

Let him sit in it just a little longer.

Then, without looking up:

"Who's going to be here with me?"

A pause.

"I asked Stack to come stay."

She looked up slowly. Let him see the full weight of that land on her face — the offense, the disbelief, the particular exhaustion of a woman who has just been told her husband is leaving and also that he doesn't trust her alone.

"Your brother," she said.

"He's family—"

"Will be in my house. Watching me. Like I'm something that needs minding."

"That's not—"

"While you up north." She stared at him. "With other women. Who don't know you're taken."

He looked, genuinely, like a man being pulled in four directions at once. The guilt of leaving. The defensiveness of being doubted. The obsessive need to know she was safe. The desperate desire for her not to be angry.

She watched him cycle through all of it.

Then she picked up her needle, turned back to her work, and said pleasantly:

"Well. I hope that business of yours up north is worth it."

And left him sitting there with nothing to do but feel the weight of every single thing she hadn't said.

He left Thursday morning before the sun was fully up.

Annie was awake. Had been for an hour. She lay on her side facing the window while he moved through the room in the grey pre-dawn quiet — the soft sounds of him dressing, the drawer opening and closing, the particular weight of him sitting on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on.

She didn't turn over.

She heard him pause.

"Angel."

She kept her eyes on the window. The sky was doing that thing it did just before light, that deep blue that wasn't quite night anymore but hadn't committed to morning either.

"Annie." His hand came to her shoulder, warm through the thin cotton of her nightgown. "I'm heading out."

"I know."

"Look at me before I go."

She didn't. She pulled the quilt up a little instead, tucking it under her chin. Small. Deliberate.

She heard his exhale. Long and quiet and controlled, the way he controlled everything — but underneath it, just barely, something fraying.

"Baby, please."

"Have a safe trip, Smoke."

He noted the switch. Seems he wasn’t Elijah to her today.

The hand on her shoulder tightened slightly. Not rough. Just — needing. Like he could hold on long enough to make her turn around.

She didn't turn around.

After a moment he leaned down and pressed his lips to her hair. Stayed there a beat too long — breathing her in, she knew, the way he always did, that particular obsessive cataloguing of her that he probably didn't even realize he did. Like he was memorizing something he was afraid of losing.

She closed her eyes and said nothing.

"I'll call tonight," he said against her hair. "When I get in."

"Mm."

Another pause. She could feel him standing at the side of the bed, could feel him looking at her curled up with her back to him, and she knew exactly what it was doing to him — knew because she knew him, knew every frequency of his obsession, knew that leaving on bad terms was the particular hell he'd built for himself by needing her the way he did.

Good.

The bed dipped as he straightened. She heard him pick up his bag. Cross to the door.

He stopped in the doorway.

She waited.

"I love you," he said. Rough at the edges. Not his usual register — not warm and certain, not a statement so much as something he needed her to have before he walked out.

Annie pulled the quilt a little higher.

"Lock the door on your way out," she said.

The silence that followed lasted three full seconds. She counted them.

Then his footsteps down the hall. The stairs. The front door, closing with a quiet, careful click — like even in leaving he was trying not to disturb her.

She lay there for a long time after.

The room was very still and very his — his smell on the pillow beside her, his book still open on the nightstand, a cufflink he'd missed gleaming dully on the dresser.

She didn't feel as victorious as she'd expected to.

She felt the absence of him like a change in air pressure. Immediate and total, the way it always was — because that was the other side of loving Elijah Moore, the thing she never said out loud. That his presence was so complete, so all-encompassing, that when he left the room it registered in her body before her mind caught up.

She hated that.

She hated that she could be furious with him and still feel the shape of where he'd been.

She lay there another half hour. Then she got up, put on her robe, and went downstairs to make her tea.

Lennie arrived at eight. 

She'd come about three years ago. Smoke had noticed Annie doing everything herself — the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the preserving, the mending, all of it stacked on top of each other from first light to last — and had decided, with the particular logic of a man who loved you and didn't always ask first, that it didn't make a lick of sense for her to be doing all that alone. He'd shown up one Tuesday morning with Lennie behind him and said this is Lennie, she'll be here weekdays like it was already settled. Because it was already settled.

Annie had bristled. Had opened her mouth to explain that she didn't need — that she was perfectly capable — that this house was hers to run and she ran it fine —

Smoke had kissed her forehead and gone back to work.

Lennie had watched him go. Waited until his footsteps faded all the way down the front walk and the door had closed behind him. Then she'd turned to Annie, calm and unhurried, and said:

"I'm old enough to know I work for you, baby. Mr. Smoke just cut the check."

That had been that.

Stack was due by evening.

Annie moved through the morning the way she moved through most things she couldn't control — with her hands busy and her face composed and the part of her that was genuinely unsettled tucked away somewhere it wouldn't show.

She baked. Reorganized the linen cupboard. Sat on the back porch with her second cup of tea and watched the property in the late morning quiet and tried not to think about the fact that by tonight this house would have someone else in it.

Stack.

She'd known Stack for as long as she'd known Smoke — which meant she knew him the way you knew a man's brother. At a slight remove. Through the lens of someone else's love for him. He was easier than Smoke on the surface, quicker to laugh, less likely to let a silence stretch until you felt it in your teeth. He'd always been kind to her. Warm, even.

She'd never had occasion to test what was underneath that.

She wasn't particularly worried about it.

He was Smoke's brother, not Smoke. Whatever this arrangement was — whatever name Smoke had put on it when he'd called Stack and asked this of him — it was going to be five days of someone in her space, underfoot, pretending she needed looking after.

She could manage that.

She was good at managing things.

She heard the car at half past six.

She was in the kitchen, something on the stove, hair pinned up, apron still on — and she'd told herself she wasn't going to go to the door, wasn't going to receive him like company, because he wasn't company. He was an imposition dressed up as a favor and she wasn't going to pretend otherwise.

She heard Lennie let him in. Heard his voice in the front hall — and then Lennie's laugh, bright and surprised, the kind that got pulled out of a person before they'd decided to give it. Then something that sounded like Lennie swatting him on the arm and telling him to behave, and his laugh underneath it, low and genuine.

Annie stirred her pot and said nothing.

His footsteps moved through the house unhurried, like he'd been here a hundred times, like the layout was already his. And then he appeared in the kitchen doorway and she turned just slightly, enough to acknowledge him without welcoming him.

He was leaning against the frame with his jacket already off and his sleeves half-rolled, bag presumably already dealt with, looking for all the world like a man who'd come home rather than arrived somewhere he'd been sent.

"Something smells incredible," he said, and it wasn't a line — it was just true, and he said it the way he said most things, like he hadn't considered dressing it up. His eyes moved to the stove, genuinely curious. "That a roast?"

"Chicken."

"With what — is that tarragon?"

She blinked, despite herself. "Yes."

He made a sound low in his throat that was almost reverent. "Annie." He said her name like it was its own sentence. Like she'd done something personally to him. "You didn't have to do all that."

"I was cooking anyway."

"Still." He pushed off the doorframe, moved into the kitchen with that easy, unhurried way he had — not crowding her, just present — and peered over her shoulder at the pot with unself-conscious curiosity. "Smoke ain’t tell me you could cook like this. He just said you could cook."

"He don’t miss any meals in this house.”

Stack laughed. Full and easy, head tipping back slightly. "Lord, that's true. Man is lookin’ heavy.” He shook his head, still smiling, and moved back to give her space. Leaned against the counter across from her instead, arms loose at his sides. "He gon’ call tonight to check in and I'm gonna have to lie to him."

She glanced at him. "About what."

"Tell him dinner was just alright." He said it perfectly straight. "Otherwise he'll spend the whole week feeling bad he's missing it. And then I'll have to hear about it."

Annie looked at him for a moment.

Then, against her better judgment, against the coolness she'd been intending to maintain all evening — she felt the corner of her mouth move.

Not a smile. Just the suggestion of one.

Stack caught it. Didn't make a thing of it. Just turned to look out the kitchen window at the last of the evening light like he hadn't noticed.

But she saw his own mouth curve.

"Table needs setting," she said, turning back to the stove.

"Yes ma'am," he said easily, and went to find the plates without being told where they were.

The dishes were done by eight.

Lennie had gone home. The house was quiet in that particular way it got after a meal — settled, warm, smelling of food and the faint sweetness of the candles Annie had lit without thinking about it. She stood in the kitchen for a moment after the last dish was put away, hands dry, apron folded over the drawer handle, and listened to the house.

Stack was somewhere. She could feel it the way you felt another person's presence in a space — a subtle occupation, a difference in the air.

She took the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet. Poured herself a small glass. Thought about it. Poured a second.

The back porch ran the length of the house, screened in, the swing at the far end facing out over the yard and the dark tree line beyond. Annie came out here most evenings when the weather allowed. It was hers in a way most of the house didn't quite feel — the one place Smoke never tried to improve or expand or make more than it was.

She sat. Set both glasses on the small table beside the swing. Pushed off gently with one foot.

The night was warm and soft, full of crickets, the occasional low call of something further out in the trees.

She'd been sitting maybe ten minutes when the screen door opened.

Stack stepped out, looked at the second glass, and looked at her.

"That for me or were you just being optimistic?" he asked.

"Figured you'd find your way out here eventually."

He took the glass. Settled into the wicker chair across from her rather than the swing, which she appreciated without saying so. He stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle, and looked out at the yard the way she'd been looking at it — easy, unhurried, like the dark had something worth seeing in it.

They sat like that for a while. Just the crickets and the bourbon and the swing's soft creak.

"You do this every night?" he asked eventually.

"Most nights."

"Smoke come out here with you?"

She considered that. "Sometimes. He doesn't sit still as well as he thinks he does."

Stack made a sound that was almost a laugh. 

"This a good porch," he said.

"It is."

"Good bourbon too."

"Don't tell Smoke. He thinks I drink sweet wine."

He turned to look at her then, something amused and a little appreciative in his expression. "Is that right?"

"He'd have opinions."

"He'd have a whole committee meeting about it." He shook his head, looked back at the yard. "My brother."

"Your brother," Annie agreed, and there was something in the saying of it — fond and tired and complicated all at once — that felt more honest than anything she'd said all day.

Stack heard it. She could tell by the way he was quiet for a moment, not filling the space, just letting it be there.

"He means well," he said finally. Not defending. Just stating.

"I know he does." She pushed the swing gently. "That's the hardest part."

Stack looked at her. She kept her eyes on the tree line.

"Harder to be angry at a man who loves you that much," she said. "Easier when they're careless. When they don't notice. But he notices everything." She paused. "Notices everything and still."

She stopped herself. Picked up her glass.

Stack didn't press. Didn't offer anything to fill the gap she'd left. Just sat with it, which was — she noticed — different from how Smoke would have handled it. Smoke would have had a response. Smoke always had a response.

Stack just let her have the thought.

It was disarming in a way she hadn't expected.

"Thank you for dinner," he said, after a moment. Easy. Moving them back to solid ground without making a production of it.

"You already thanked me."

"Deserved a second one."

She looked at him then. He was watching the yard again, glass resting on his knee, entirely at ease in her space in a way that should have irritated her and somehow didn't quite.

She thought about what she'd expected when Smoke told her. The imposition of it. The indignity. Someone planted in her house to make sure she stayed where she was put.

This wasn't — he wasn't what she'd braced for.

Which was, she supposed, information.

She finished her bourbon. Set the glass down.

"I'm heading in," she said, standing.

Stack looked up. "Goodnight, Annie."

"Night." She moved to the screen door. Paused with her hand on it. "There's coffee things on the counter. Help yourself in the morning."

"Appreciate it."

She went inside. Let the screen door close softly behind her.

Upstairs, she washed her face and got into bed and lay in the quiet of the house — his smell finally fading from the pillow, the bourbon warm in her chest — and thought that this might be alright. Five days of easy company and someone else's presence and then Smoke would be home and everything would go back to whatever it was.

She could manage five days of Stack.

She was almost sure of it.

<<< Chapter 1

__________

A/N One day I'll learn not to turn every prompt into a multi-part situation. Today is not that day, but it is your lucky day. I submitted my resignation today and figured I just use the next 2 weeks to coast while wrapping things up at my job. Therefore... More fics!

__________

My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading!

___________

All Fic Taglist - Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. (Also lmk if you want me to remove you. No hard feelings I promise.)

@chaneajoyyy @pyraomen @browngirldominion @sarcastic-sunshines @rolemodelshit @bbymuthaaa @boonoonoonus @joysofmyworld @twistedsistas-stuff @blackctrl

She doesn’t knock.

Smoke’s assistant is mid-sentence—“Mrs. Moore, he’s in a—” when Annie blows past her like a storm, heels stabbing the marble floor. The door swings open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Elijah looks up from his desk, calm as ever. That only pisses her off more.

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t even look surprised. He closes the file in front of him and watches her cross the office.

Annie keeps walking.

Past the sitting area.

Past the bar cart.

Past the floor-to-ceiling windows she once helped choose because natural light makes people feel less trapped.

Annie stops directly in front of his desk, pulling the thick envelope from beneath her arm. She slams it down so hard the pen holder rattles.

“My lawyer called your lawyer again. It’s been damn near a year, Elijah. A whole fuckin year. Sign the goddamn papers.”

He leans back slowly, his gaze moving over her face—the telltale signs only he would notice. The heat sitting beneath her skin. The slight sheen at her temples. The careful way she held her mouth when she was trying not to say too much.

Annie doesn’t let him breathe.

“What the fuck is your problem? You think this is a game? You’re selfish as hell, you know that? You always have been. Keeping me in limbo ‘cause you can’t stand not havin’ control. Newsflash, Elijah—I’m not yours to control anymore.”

His jaw flexes. 

He stands, slow and deliberate, buttoning his suit jacket like he has all the time in the world.

“You done?”

“No, I’m not done!” She steps closer, voice rising. “You had a year to sign. A year to let me fuckin’ go. But you won’t, ‘cause you’re a selfish muthafucka who—”

He moves then. Gets right in her face, close enough she can smell his cologne and the faint trace of the cedarwood in the office. It wasn’t threatening. Never that. But towering and intense. 

His voice drops low, dangerous.

“Who the fuck you talkin’ to like that, huh? Don’t come in my office makin’ demands like you forgot who I am.”

Annie doesn’t back down. Nose to nose now, breathing each other’s air, eyes locked in pure fire.

“I’m talking to you, Elijah. The man who checked out years ago but won’t let me leave. The man who—”

The door cracks open. The assistant’s worried voice: “Mr. Moore, is everything—”

“GET OUT,” they both snap at the exact same time.

Smoke’s assistant remains frozen in the doorway, eyes moving between them with the uncomfortable realization that whatever this is started long before titles, corner offices, and legal paperwork.

Without taking his eyes off Annie, Smoke says quietly, “Close the door.”

The assistant disappears immediately. The soft click of the door shutting somehow makes the room feel smaller.

Now Annie becomes aware of two things at once. First—at some point during the argument they ended up standing close enough that she can count his eyelashes. Second—she has absolutely no memory of how they got here.

She remembers standing on the other side of his desk. She remembers him standing. She remembers yelling. Then him yelling. Now suddenly there’s less than a foot between them. Close enough that she can see the faint tiredness beneath his eyes. Close enough she catches traces of his cologne underneath coffee and clean cotton. Close enough that she hates herself for recognizing it immediately.

She straightens slightly.

It’s instinct. Creating space.

Smoke notices. Of course he does. His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move back either.

The space remains exactly where it is.

Her chest tightens. She folds her arms.

 “Are you going to sign them?”

His eyes stay on hers. 

“No.”

No hesitation.

The answer irritates her instantly. Her mouth pulls into a disbelieving smile. 

“Then what exactly are we doing?”

Smoke watches her quietly.

She’s always hated that about him. The way he never seemed to waste words. 

His gaze moves over her face before returning to her eyes. Then he says—

“You tell me.”

Her jaw tightens.

His voice stays calm. “You wanted this.”

The words hit somewhere she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Her stomach twists.

Immediately.

Because she’s tired. Because she’s angry. Because she hates that after all this time she still wants him to understand something she hasn’t been able to explain correctly.

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t do that.”

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly. “Do what?”

She lets out a breath and shakes her head. “Act like I woke up one day and decided I wanted a divorce.”

Smoke looks at her for a long time.

Then quietly—

“I think you decided a long time ago.”

Her breath catches. Not because she agrees, but because she understands exactly what he means. She feels herself look away before forcing herself to look back.

When she speaks again her voice comes out lower.

“No.” Her throat works. “No. I decided I couldn’t keep begging to be loved out loud.”

The words stay in the room. 

Neither one moves.

Smoke’s face changes.

Barely.

Most people wouldn’t notice. She notices. Fifteen years. She knows every version of his silence. She watches his jaw work once. Watches something move behind his eyes.

Her chest hurts.

She laughs once under her breath and looks away. “You know what’s crazy?” She grips her purse tighter. “I came in here ready to fight.” Her eyes return to his. “And somehow I’m leavin’ sad again.”

She turns.

Or she tries to.

Her shoulder barely moves before his hand closes around her arm.

Immediate.

Familiar.

She stills before she can stop herself. That realization humiliates her. She looks down at his hand. Then back up.

Smoke doesn’t let go. His thumb rubs once against her sleeve. 

His eyes stay on her. Not on her mouth. Not on her body.

Her.

Suddenly the room goes quiet.

Heavy.

Charged.

They’re still standing too close. Close enough she can see something moving behind his eyes now. It wasn’t anger…. exactly. 

Something worse.

Want.

Grief.

Yearning.

Recognition.

Like he’s looking at her and realizing distance didn’t make her unfamiliar. It just made her unreachable.

Her pulse starts beating harder. She hates that she notices. Hates that she still knows this version of him. Hates that almost a year of separation she still recognizes the look on his face when he’s trying not to reach.

Her throat tightens.

She turns again.

This time his grip tightens just enough. Before she fully understands what’s happening, he steps closer. It wasn’t enough to trap her. Just enough that her movement stops.

His chest brushes hers. His forehead lowers.

Then she feels it.

His face turning slightly. His breath catching. His eyes closing.

And he inhales.

Deep.

Quiet.

Like a man remembering. As if after a year apart, some impossible part of him needed to know she still felt like home.

Her entire body reacts, she’s remembering now….Kitchen hugs. Standing at the stove and feeling him appear behind her. Late nights in their bathroom while she took her makeup off and he leaned into her shoulder. Sunday mornings. Hallway kisses. Years of being reached for without thinking.

Her breath hitches.

Traitor.

She closes her eyes. She hates—absolutely hates how familiar this feels.

Smoke goes still too. Like he felt it. His hand loosens slightly. His forehead stays near hers. And when he speaks his voice is low. Rough in a way she hasn’t heard in months.

“…You still wear my hoodie to sleep.”

Everything inside her freezes. Her shoulders tighten. Her fingers curl around her purse strap.

She doesn’t ask how he knows, because she already knows. Kids talk. Laundry gets mixed. Drop-offs happen.

And Smoke notices things.

Always.

Her eyes open and she swallows, looking at him. Then says quietly—

“You still have my picture in your wallet.”

His eyes stay on hers. His answer comes immediately.

“I never took it out.”

Her eyes stay on him.

Too honest.

Too easy.

Too immediate.

Like he didn’t even have to think about it.

Suddenly she understands something she’s spent trying not to admit—distance never taught her how not to love him. It just taught her how to miss him quietly.

Smoke doesn’t let go.

His thumb moves against her wrist again. His voice comes low.

“Annie.”

She looks up.

He leans in closer—

And that’s where things stop feeling legal and start feeling dangerous.

I didn’t do my normal tagging because I’m not sure who’s really interested in this, but if you want to be tagged, please let me know.

The Chevy C/K sat beneath a leaning pecan tree at the edge of the road, engine off, windows rolled halfway down. Mississippi night pressed close from every side. Thick. Damp. Full of insects crying out in the dark fields beyond the ditch line. Smoke had one arm hanging outside the driver’s window, his cigarette burning between his fingers while the radio glowed green across the dashboard. 

Marvin Gaye’s voice filled the cab like the smoke from his cigarette. Smooth. Hurting. Reaching. 

When you left, you took all of me with you…

Smoke shut his eyes. 

The song had been playing for damn near seven minutes already, but he couldn’t make himself turn the dial. Couldn’t move. Every word felt aimed straight at his chest like Marvin was somewhere in the dark talking only to him. 

Smoke leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled through his nose. Annie’s face kept rising up behind his eyelids anyway. The look she had given him before he walked outta that house. She didn’t get loud or scream. That would’ve been easier to take. 

Nah. 

It was the disappointed quiet that stayed on a man longer than a shout ever could. His thumb rubbed against the steering wheel while the strings climbed higher in the song. The ache in Marvin’s voice made the inside of the truck feel too small all of a sudden. 

Smoke thought about Annie standing in that kitchen earlier, yellow dress tied around her waist while grease popped in the skillet. Earth, Wind, & Fire had been playing from the radio on the counter. She’d asked him something simple. Asked if he was gonna be home tomorrow evening or running around with Stack again. 

Should’ve been an easy answer. 

Instead, he got sharp with her. Started talking like she was tryna control him when really all she wanted was time with her husband. 

Now here he sat in the dark like a fool while Marvin Gaye sang every feeling he’d been too hardheaded to say out loud. Smoke dragged the cigarette deep, then flicked it out of the open window into the treeline. His jaw tightened. 

The radio crackled faintly. 

Baby…baby, please…

“Damn,” Smoke whispered to himself. 

His throat burned suddenly, and it wasn’t from the cigarette. It was from truth. 

Because the song wasn’t just about missing somebody. It was about realizing too late that your pride done carries you someplace empty. And the longer he sat there, the more he could picture Annie alone in that house. Probably curled on that sofa with her arms folded under herself. Probably pretending she wasn’t waiting for headlights to pull back into the front yard. 

That woman loved him down to the marrow. 

Stayed with him through nightmares, bad moods, long silences, and hands that shook some nights when sleep wouldn’t come right. Annie knew parts of him nobody else got close enough to touch, and somehow she still looked at him with those beautiful pools of brown like he was the best thing to ever enter her life. Especially when she ain’t need him. She chose him. 

Smoke swallowed hard and looked down at the keys hanging from the ignition. Marvin’s voice climbed again, ragged and pleading, stretching across the night air like somebody refusing to let go. 

A slow exhale left Smoke’s chest. Then, he nodded to himself. 

“Aight,” he spoke quietly. “Aight.” 

He reached forward and turned the key. The truck rumbled alive beneath him while the song played low through the speakers. Gravel cracked under the tires as he pulled back onto the road, headlights cutting through the dark Mississippi trees. 

Back toward home. 

Back toward Annie. 

The backroads home stretched long beneath the Chevy tires. Two narrow ribbons of black cutting through the Delta while Marvin kept singing through the speakers. WDIA must’ve known what he was going through because they played Distant Lover again for those that missed it the first time. Smoke drove with one hand on the wheel and the other rested against his thigh, thumb tapping slow against his Wrangler jeans every now and then to the melody. 

The smell of wet red clay dirt drifted through the open windows along with honeysuckle and something green from the fields. Every so often, the headlights caught the silver flash of frogs leaping across the road or the pale glow of rabbit eyes vanishing into the brush. 

Smoke barely noticed any of it. His mind stayed on Annie. Stayed on the curve of her hips earlier that evening. The hurt she tried to hide in her voice. The way she had gone silent after he snapped at her. 

That had followed him all night. 

The truck bounced lightly over uneven pavement while he reached forward and turned the radio up just a little more. Marvin sounded torn clean open now. 

But every moment that I spend with you…I treasured it like it was precious jewels, oh, baby…

Smoke let out a dry breath through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “I hear you.” 

His hand tightened around the wheel. Truth was, he’d been carrying too much lately and letting it spill onto the wrong person. Stack had noticed it too. The short fuse. The pacing. The way Smoke has started sleeping less again. Some nights Annie would wake up and find him sitting on the edge of the bed staring into darkness like he forgot where he was. 

But, Annie never pushed. Never made him feel weep for it. 

She just stayed. 

That woman had held him together more times than he can count. And he knew better than to take that kind of love lightly. By the time he turned onto their dirt road, the cigarette smell had faded from his shirt some, replaced by night air pouring through the cab. The house came into view between the trees. Warm yellow light glowed through the front windows. 

Smoke’s chest tightened at the sight. 

Home. 

The truck rolled to a stop beside the porch with a crunch of gravel. Smoke cut the engine, but this time he didn’t sit there thinking. Didn’t stall. Marvin was still singing quietly while Smoke reached over. And shut the radio off altogether. 

Something I wanna say—

The porch light buzzed overhead while he climbed out the truck. Crickets screamed loud in the grass. Somewhere deeper in the fields, a blues guitar drifted faint through the dark from somebody’s radio a mile off. 

Smoke walked toward the house slowly at first, Red Wing work boots heavy against the dirt path. 

Then quicker. Like his body already knew where peace was waiting.

The screen door creaked when he opened it. Inside, the house smelled like grease, cocoa butter, and the tiniest trace of Annie’s perfume still hanging in the air—Avon Occur! A single lamp lit the living room beside the sofa. 

And there she was. 

Curled beneath on of the afghans in her yellow house dress, asleep on her side with one arm tucked beneath her cheek. 

Smoke stopped right there in the doorway. 

His entire face softened. 

Annie looked like she’d tried to stay awake for him. The television flickered silently across her brown skin while a magazine rested half-open near her hip. Her bare feet peeked out beneath the blanket, toenails painted deep orange-red. A color Annie called grapefruit. 

Smoke swallowed hard. 

Lord. 

He stood there for a long second just looking at her breathing. Then, he crossed the room quietly. The floor creaked beneath his weight, but Annie only stirred a little when he crouched beside the sofa. Her forehead pinched faintly like she could feel him there even in sleep. 

Smoke reached out and brushed his knuckles against her ankle beneath the blanket. 

“Baby,” he said with a whisper. 

Annie blinked away gradual, eyes still cloudy with sleep. For a second, she just stared at him like she wasn’t sure if he was really there. 

Then, her expression shifted. She wasn’t angry. No attitude. Just fired hurt. And somehow, that felt worse. Smoke lowered his eyes briefly before looking back at her. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The words came rough. Real rough. Like they scraped his throat coming out. 

Annie remained quiet, watching him carefully from beneath sleepy lashes while the television light danced across both their faces. Smoke rested his forearms against his knees and shook his head once. 

“You ain’t deserve how I talked to you earlier.” His voice stayed low and steady. “I was wrong.” 

Annie looked at Smoke for a long moment before she pushed herself up against the arm of the sofa. The afghan slipped down into her lap, yellow fabric wrinkled beneath it, and Smoke could see where sleep had pressed lines into her cheek. 

Her eyes stayed on him the whole time. Tired eyes. Pretty eyes. Eyes that had watched him leave and still hoped he’d come back through the door anyway. 

Cicadas cried outside beyond the screen windows. 

Finally, Annie spoke. 

“You know what hurt me the most?” 

Her voice came quiet from sleep, thick and warm around the edges, but there was ache sitting beneath every word. 

“It wasn’t even what you said.” 

Smoke’s jaw flexed. 

Annie pulled the blanket closer around herself and looked down at her hands for a second before meeting his eyes again. 

“It’s how fast you pulled away from me.” 

That landed hard. Smoke felt it straight through the center of his chest. 

Annie shook her head lightly, swallowing before she continued. 

“I asked you one little thing, Elijah.” 

The sound of his name in her mouth always did something to him. Especially like this. Hurt. Honest. 

“All I wanted to know was if my husband was gon’ be home with me tomorrow.” Her eyes glistened faint under the lamp light. “And you looked at me like I was tryna trap ya’.”

Smoke dropped his gaze to the floor.

Because she was right. Every bit of right. 

“I know you been carryin’ things,” Annie continued carefully. “I know some days still get heavy for you. I ain’t blind to that.” She pressed her lips together briefly. “But baby, you shut me out so fast lately.” 

The room felt smaller suddenly. Closer. Smoke rubbed a hand slowly over his mouth, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. 

“I ain’t mean to.” 

Annie gave a tiny sad smile at that.

“I know you ain’t mean to.” 

And somehow, that made it worse too. Because she understood him so well. 

Too well. 

Smoke looked up at her finally, eyes dark beneath tired lids. 

“I just…” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Feels like every damn thing been pullin’ at me lately. Stack needin’ me for this and that. Folks actin’ crazy at the shop. Money. Bills. Nightmares still crawlin’ up on me outta nowhere.” He shook his head once. “And then you ask me somethin’ simple and my mind hear it wrong.” 

Annie listened without interrupting him. Smoke’s voices lowered further. 

“Like I’m failing somewhere.” 

That made her expression soften immediately. 

“Oh, baby.” 

She reached for him instinctively. Like she always did. Her fingers slid into his hand, warm and familiar, and Smoke looked down at them joined together like he needed the reminder. 

Annie squeezed gently. 

“You think wantin’ my husband home means you failin’ me?” 

Smoke didn’t answer right away. That silence answered enough. Annie’s face crumpled just a little around the eyes before she shook her head. 

“No.” Her thumb stroked slowly across his knuckles. “No, honey. That ain’t what I be sayin’ to you at all.” 

Smoke finally looked back at her. Annie’s voice turned softer. A deep southern softness that wrapped around bruises. 

“I miss you even when you standin’ right in front of me sometimes.” 

That nearly broke him. 

“You leave before the sun come up. Come home carryin’ the whole world in your shoulders. Half the time you staring off somewhere else even when I’m talkin’ to you.” Her eyes searched his face carefully. “And I know you tryin’. Lord knows I do. But sometimes I just want my man with me. That’s all.” 

Smoke’s throat worked hard. Annie shifted closer on the sofa, blanket falling aside completely now. Her hand slid up his wrist until she could touch the side of his face. 

“You ain’t gotta carry everything alone.” 

The roughness in Smoke’s face cracked a little then. Just enough for her to see it. He leaned into her palm without thinking twice.

Tired. 

So damn tired. 

“I don’t know how to stop sometimes,” he admitted. 

Annie’s eyes watered immediately at the honesty in that. 

“Well…” She gave the smallest trembling smile. “Maybe you start by coming home sooner.” 

A short breath escaped Smoke then, relief touching him for the first time all night. He turned his head and pressed his mouth into the center of her palm. 

“I can do that.” 

Annie’s fingers tugged gently on his kinky hair at the base of his neck, holding him there. 

“I don’t need perfect, Eli,” she whispered. “I just need you.” 

I just need you. 

The words settled over him like Sunday morning light. 

Smoke looked at Annie like he was trying to hold onto every piece of her at once. Her hand still rested against his face, thumb brushing lightly near the corner of his beard.

Then, Annie spoke again.

“And the babies need you too.” 

Smoke’s eyes lowered immediately. 

Annie’s voice remained gentle.

“Aminah been askin’ if you gon’ make it to her school singing next week.” A tiny smile touched her mouth despite everything. “She practiced that whole little song in front the mirror three times today.” 

That pulled something deep in Smoke’s chest. 

Annie continued softly. “Micah carried your work boots through the house this evening talkin’ ‘bout he wanna be just like his daddy.” She shook her head fairly, amused through the sadness. “Almost busted his little behind over them heavy things.” 

Smoke huffed quietly through his nose at that, emotion climbing hard into his throat now. 

“And Imani…” Annie’s face softened all over. “That baby hear your truck before anybody else do. Every evening she wobble straight to the window lookin’ for you.” 

Lord. 

Smoke shut his eyes briefly. 

Too much love sittin’ in one house waitin’ on him. 

Too much trust. 

His calloused hand came up to cover Annie’s where it rested against his cheek, holding it there while he fought to steady himself. When he opened his eyes again, they looked wetter than before. 

“Ain’t no good at this talkin’ shit,” he admitted. 

Annie almost smiled. “I know.” 

Smoke shook his head once, breathing rough through his nose. 

“But I am sorry, Annie girl.” His voice dropped deeper. Honest. Stripped clean. “For tonight. For pulling away. For makin’ you feel alone when you ain’t supposed to.” He swallowed hard. “You my wife, Annie.” 

The way he said it sounded sacred without trying to.

Final. 

“You hear me?” 

Annie nodded slowly, eyes shining. Smoke leaned closer, forearms resting against her knees while his thumb stroked the side of her hand. 

“I love this house.” His gaze drifted around the room briefly before returning to her. “Love our babies. Love hearing ya’ll runnin’ ‘round here actin’ wild.” A tired smile touched him for half a second. “Love knowin’ you waitin’ on me.” His jaw flexed. “I just…” He searched for the words carefully. “Sometimes I get so wrapped up making sure everybody straight that I forget the whole reason I work so damn hard is already here.” 

Annie’s eyes softened so much it almost hurt to look at her. She reached for him again immediately, rubbing her hand across the broad span of his back beneath his shirt. Strong back. Working man’s back. Carrying too much all the time. 

“You don’t gotta prove your worth every second of the day, Eli.” 

Smoke exhaled shakily. 

Her fingers moved steady up and down his spine while his own hand slid across her thigh absentmindedly beneath the blanket. Slow strokes. Familiar strokes. Grounding strokes. Built from years together. 

They stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other. Years sitting inside those looks. 

War. 

Babies. 

Hard winters.

Bills folded on kitchen counters.

Slow dancing in socks.

Crying together in the darkness. 

Holding each other through every version of life they survived. 

Smoke stared at Annie like he still couldn’t believe she chose him. And Annie looked back like she’d choose him every single time again. 

Then, Smoke leaned forward. His hand slid from her thigh up to her waist while he pressed his forehead lightly against hers first, eyes closing briefly as if he needed to feel close before anything else. 

Then, he kissed her. 

Deep. Not rushed. Not heated for the sake of heat. 

Needed. 

A kiss a man gives when he finally comes home to himself. Annie melted into him immediately with a soft sound against his mouth, her fingers curling tighter at the back of his neck while Smoke held her close enough to feel her heartbeat through the thin yellow fabric. He kissed her like apology. Like relief. Like gratitude. Like a man worn thin by the world finally reaching the only place that ever made him feel whole again. 

When the kiss finally broke, Annie rested her forehead against his, noses brushing lightly while both of them breathed the same warm air between them. Smoke’s hands remained at her waist, thumbs brushing against the fabric gathered there like he still needed reassurance she was really in front of him. 

Annie smiled first. Small. Sleepy. Full of love. 

“Come to bed, baby.” 

Smoke looked at her for another second before nodding once.

“Yeah.” 

Annie brushed one last kiss against the corner of his mouth before standing from the sofa. The afghan slid down behind her while she stretched lightly, yellow dress pulling across her hips and thighs beneath the dim living room lamp. 

Smoke watched her the whole way. 

Lord, he loved that woman. 

Annie glanced back at him halfway down the hall, catching him staring, that tired little smile returned again. 

“Don’t sit out here brooding all night neither.” 

A faint grin tugged at Smoke’s mouth then. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Annie shook her head softly at him and disappeared into their bedroom, leaving behind the scent of her perfume, cocoa butter, and home. 

Smoke stayed on the couch another minute after Annie left. 

Just breathing. Settling himself. 

He leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees while he rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. 

Provider. 

Protector. 

Husband. 

Father. 

The weight of those things never left him. But tonight reminded him why he carried it in the first place. 

Smoke stood finally and cut the television off. Then, he reached over and cut the lamp light. Darkness settled through the living room except for the kitchen light glowing faint down the hall. 

The old wood floors creaked beneath his boots while he moved quietly toward the children’s room. 

The door sat cracked open already. 

Inside, moonlight spilled pale blue through thin curtains laying across toys scattered near the wall and little shoes kicked carelessly beside the dresser. 

Smoke paused in the doorway. 

Aminah and Micah were sprawled across the bunk beds without a worry in the world. Micah slept on the bottom bunk flat on his back, one skinny leg hanging halfway over the mattress while one of his comic books rested open on his chest. The Jungle Action Comic Series “Panther’s Rage.” Uncle Stack picked up from some comic shop in Atlanta on one of his business trips. Aminah slept above him curled beneath her blanket with one long braid hanging over the edge of the bed. 

Smoke shook his head lightly at the sight. Then, his eyes moved toward the crib in the corner. 

Imani. Fast asleep with her tiny fists tucked near her cheeks. 

Smoke’s entire expression softened again. He crossed the room carefully, every movement quieter so he wouldn’t wake them. First, he stopped beside Micah, lifting the comic gently from the boy’s chest before laying on it on the floor nearby. Smoke bent and pressed a kiss against Micah’s forehead. 

“Love you, boy.” He whispered. 

Micah only smacked his lips softly in his sleep. 

Smoke moved to the top bunk next. Aminah stirred faintly when he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, but she settled once he kissed her temple. 

“That my girl.” He whispered. 

Then, he made his way to the crib. 

Imani looked so small sleeping there. Her curls spread against the little pillow while the moonlight touched her round cheeks. Smoke rested both hands on the front rail and just looked at her for a second, emotion rising up all over again before he leaned down carefully. He kissed her forehead. 

Imani sighed in her sleep. 

Smoke closed his eyes at the sound. 

Lord, thank you.

When he straightened again, he stood there another moment looking over all three of his babies together. 

His family. 

His whole damn heart sleeping inside one room.

Then, he pulled the bedroom door nearly shut behind him before heading toward the back room where Annie waited. 

And the second Smoke stepped inside and saw his wife sitting there against the headboard with her hair wrapped up and her yellow dress slipping off one shoulder, something inside him settled completely.

Her eyes dropped immediately to his boots. Then to the dirt along the cuffs of his jeans. 

One brow lifted.

“No outside clothes in bed. Smoke.” 

The firmness in her sleepy voice made him grin before he could help it. 

There she go.

Back to herself. 

Back to them. 

Smoke leaned one shoulder against the doorway and chuckled low in his chest. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Annie pointed lazily toward the hamper near the dresser without another word. Smoke laughed softly through his nose and obeyed. 

He unlaced his boots first and set them neatly by the wall before peeling off his socks. Then came the jeans, heavy belt clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by his faded T-shirt. Warm brown skin stretched over muscle, old scars cutting pale against his chest and shoulders from another life Annie never judged him for. 

She watched him the entire time. Not even trying to hide it. Smoke caught her staring and smirked.

“You supposed to be sleep.”

Annie settled deeper into the pillows.

“You supposed to be listening.” 

That made him laugh again. 

Lord. 

Smoke tossed his clothes in the hamper and headed into the small bathroom connected to their room. Annie listened to the familiar sounds while fighting sleep. Running water. Cabinet creaking open. Toothbrush bristles against teeth. 

Domestic sounds. 

Marriage sounds.

Sounds you stop noticing until one night they’re missing. 

Smoke washed his face, letting cool water clear the last of the heaviness from his mind. When he looked up afterward, droplets clung to his beard and lashes. 

For the first time all day, he looked calm. 

By the time  he came back into the bedroom, Annie’s eyes were half closed. Still waiting on him anyway. 

That hit him straight in the chest too. 

Smoke crossed the room and reached over to switch the lamp off. Moonlight poured through the curtains in silver strips. 

The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he climbed in beside her. 

Instantly, Annie moved closer. Like muscle memory. Her head found his chest while one arm draped across his stomach beneath tue blanket. One strong arm pulled her snug against him while the other rested beneath his head. Annie’s fingertips slid slowly down the ridges of his abdomen, absentmindedly and sleepy. Smoke lowered his mouth to the top of her wrapped hair and kissed her there.

Long. Lingering.

“I love you,” he whispered into the darkness. 

Annie hummed softly against his chest. 

“Love you too, Elijah.” 

The fan whirled overhead and the crickets cried outside. Annie’s breathing started slowing little by little against him while Smoke stared up into the dark ceiling, holding his wife close and listening to the peace of his own home around him. 

Then came a soft knock. 

 Both of them blinked. 

The bedroom door creaked open before either of them could answer. 

Aminah stood there in her nightgown holding sleepy little Imani against her hip the best she could. Micah lingered beside her rubbing one eye with his fist, blanket dragging behind him across the floor. 

Smoke lifted his head immediately. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Aminah looked exhausted. 

“Imani woke up crying,” she whispered. “Then Micah got scared ‘cause of the thunder.” 

Right on cue, distant thunder rolled across the Mississippi sky. 

Annie sighed softly against Smoke’s chest. 

Because of course. 

Smoke pushed um himself up onto one elbow while Micah shuffled further into the room. 

“I-I think there’s a m-monster in the closet.” Micah admitted miserably. 

Smoke looked at Annie.

Annie looked at Smoke.

Then both of them smiled at the exact same time. 

Family. 

“Ain’t no monsters in this house,” Smoke said, voice groggy as he held his arm out towards Micah. “Come on here, man.” 

Micah hurried over, climbing onto the bed from Smoke’s side while dragging his blanket behind him. The mattress bounced beneath his little knees before he collapsed dramatically beside his father with a tired sigh. 

Annie laughed softly under her breath. 

“Aminah, baby, bring your sister here before your little arms fall off.” 

Aminah nodded sleepily and crossed the room carefully with Imani tucked against her shoulder. Smoke reached out automatically to steady the baby while Annie pulled the blankets back further. 

“Lay her beside me,” Annie whispered. 

Imani fussed faintly when Aminah lowered her into the bed, tiny face scrunched up with leftover tears and sleepiness, but the second Annie gathered her close against her chest, the baby settled back down. 

Safe. 

Imani’s little hand grabbed hold of Annie’s nightdress while Annie kissed her curls gently.

“There we go,” she whispered. 

Smoke watched the sight from the other side of the bed. 

His whole world right there. Right here.

Aminah crawled in next, slipping beneath the covers beside Annie and Imani while Micah sprawled halfway across Smoke’s side already fighting sleep again. 

The bed suddenly became crowded as hell. Legs everywhere. Blankets twisted. One of Micah’s feet shoved directly against Smoke’s thigh. 

And still, somehow, it felt perfect. 

Annie looked over at Smoke in the darkness, amusement flowing in her tired eyes. 

“Well,” she whispered. “So much for us having room tonight.” 

Smoke snorted quietly. 

“I sleep better with ya’ll in here anyway.” 

That made Annie smile. 

The storm rolled deeper outside, rain beginning to tap lightly against the windows while the fan turned overhead carrying cool air through the room. 

Smoke reached across the bed until his hand found Annie’s beneath the blankets. 

Their fingers laced together naturally. 

Aminah was already asleep curled against Annie’s shoulder. Micah had one arm flung across Smoke’s stomach, knocked out almost instantly. And little Imani breathed tiny warm breaths against Annie’s chest while thunder rumbled far off across the Delta night. 

Smoke stared up at the ceiling for another minute listening to all of it. 

Rain.

His children breathing. 

His wife beside him. 

Home. 

Then Annie squeezed his hand once in the darkness.