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It was something much worse.

The road to Annie’s shop lay just ahead, looming, narrow and rugged. Dirt kicked up from the wheels, a thick cloud of red dust and exhaust smoke that billowed into the sky and disappeared into the trees.

Seven years had gone by. Seven years of Chicago winters and tear-stained letters. Seven years of ache. Seven years of keeping his brother safe. And seven years without the woman who kept them both alive. 

He and Stack shared a lil’ kitchenette apartment in the blackbelt. They ran jobs for Capone, hoarding money, gold, and hooch, and stashing it in a dilapidated warehouse. It was risky business, sure— but Chicago was always a means to an end.

It meant no more busting ass for the white man to roll up a few days after Christmas, cigar in his mouth, smirk on his face, just to tell him he still owed him money after picking his cotton all fucking year.

They had plans. Big ones. They’d open a place where their people could enjoy themselves. Not some raggedy shit that ran out of a plantation shack. They’d buy that old sawmill, patch it up, turn it into a juke joint. 

He’d put his share of the profit into something more stable— a funeral home on Issaquena, running hearses from there to Mound Bayou. And Smoke, he could finally build his wife that house they both dreamed about. Something real peaceful. Two stories, a kitchen, a garden, a picket fence, pigpen and a chicken coop. They could live off the land and fill the house with babies. Little chocolate cherubs with his dimples and her eyes.

He’d begged her to follow him. He said he’d go ahead, set everything up for them, take a job at the stockyard. He’d work his way up and buy them a place over in Bronzeville. Something comfortable, with a view of Lake Michigan. A fresh start.

She refused. Told him that blood kept her bound to the land. That she wouldn’t leave their daughter’s grave untended. She poured her soul into his mojo bag before he left. He’d press his lips to it sometimes, when the ache started to feel tangible. He could still taste the salt from her tears, like she blessed it with them.

He kissed her hard and fucked her slow the night before. Then he tucked his hat and held her softly as she wept on his chest. 

“I love you.”

He didn’t apologize or make promises. He didn’t need to. Their understanding went beyond what words could explain. When she looked up at him, doe eyes red-rimmed and watery, his chest tightened. Her gaze pierced his soul. He kissed her trembling lips once more, then he walked out the door. 

Smoke’s truck stopped short of the house. He took a deep breath. Then he cut the engine, and stepped out of his truck. He looked around, taking it all in slowly. The porch still sagged in the middle; a wayward floorboard still hung loose on the steps. But the garden was tended. The faint scent of rosemary she used to sweep the porch still hung in the air. 

He looked to his left and froze. A little mound of earth. A stone with a small handprint. A bottle of fresh milk. An Egun stick...she taught him that. And a rusted tin for flowers. He took off his cap, the bundle of flowers trembling slightly in his hand.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d been crouching before he noticed the wind had stopped blowing. The throaty flute of a windchime sounded and pollen danced around his head, but he could feel no breeze. A chill ran down his spine. The same chill he felt during long nights in Chicago, when the danger felt close and the longing got rough. Nights he swore he could hear her calling his name in narrow alleyways and the back of speakeasies. 

His voice was thick, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. 

“How you be?” 

Annie shifted her weight, leaning against the doorframe. 

“No misery’s worth complaining about.” She spoke with a rawness that brought him to his feet.

When he finally turned to look at her, his breath left him. She looked regal, leather belt cinching her waist, blue skirts moving like tide. She stood perfectly still inside the doorway, looking like a force to be reckoned with. Like a current.

Grief, longing, love and ache all channeled into something that looked more like peace on her. Acceptance. Purpose.

This wasn’t the woman he left seven years ago, the one who kissed left teardrops on the leather of his mojo bag. Certainly not the woman he met 13 years prior— a shy young woman of 18 whose words were spoken quietly but carried weight.

This woman was different. Born of water and baptized in fire. She stood in front of him, a formidable woman. A pillar, a beacon. Unbridled, unapologetic.

Reborn.

The air was thick, sweltering with a lust-filled heat that rivaled the Mississippi’s. Wet smacks and low grunts echoed off the wall, jars and vials clinked as they fell making room for the slick joining of two bodies drunk with need. 

Smoke wasn’t gentle. He spun her around and shoved her dress up, putting her exactly where he wanted her. There was no formality, no softness— just a raw need to be close. He pushed in with one long thrust that filled her completely. The stretch was overwhelming— he was thick and long, and it made her face twist up in ecstasy. Her hands reached out, her fingernails digging into the warped wood. 

“Nuh-uh, where you goin?” 

Smoke pulled out, angling her hips, spreading her wider. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back onto his dick. This angle hit deeper, making Annie see stars. She squealed in pleasure.

“Ah! Elijah!” 

He set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin spurring him on. He licked up her neck, then buried his face in it, growling in her ear. 

“Who pussy is this?”

“Yours!” 

“Say it,” he gritted, feeling her clamp down on him.

“Ah—this p-pussy belongs to you papa!” 

“Mhmm.” Smoke slowed down his strokes, letting every thick vein glide against her sensitive walls. 

“I’ma fill you up,” he said breathlessly. “Leave you leakin’. Want you walkin’ around that juke full of my nut.” He pulled her hair back, making her arch into him. “You want that baby? Want me to make a mess in you?”

“Yes papa,” she moaned. “I want it drippin’ down my thighs.” 

“Ask nicely,” he grunted, tilting his head. She was squeezing him again, her pussy working hard to milk that nut out.

“Please papa,” she whined. “Please make a mess in me.”

Smoke groaned. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”

He sped up his strokes again and Annie started screaming. “Come on baby,” he barked. “Fuck me back. Show me how much you missed papa’s dick.” 

And like the good girl that Annie was, she followed her papa’s orders.

A Few Hours Later… Smoke and Annie pulled up to the mill just as the sun began to set, the sky the color of a bruise. He cut the engine, going over the events of the night. Annie tried to listen, as he went on about roulettes and Irish beer, but her thoughts kept drifting like something reached into her brain and yanked.

“Smoke, what time is it?” 

Smoke looked down at his watch. “4:32,” he grumbled.

She grabbed her haint beads.

Smoke raised a brow from the driver’s seat. “You good mama?”

Annie hesitated. “Sun rose at six this mornin’. Ain’t due to set for another hour.”

Smoke rubbed her shoulder as Stack approached the truck. “What you thinkin’?”

Annie looked at Smoke dead in his eyes, “This place give me the willies.” 

“Hey sis-in-law, long time no see,” Stack said as he opened the passenger door. He removed his hat and helped her out. 

“Hey Stack,” she said, bringing him into a hug. 

“Thanks for comin’ tonight.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Annie said, still tugging her elekes. Just as she slipped into the building she looked up— three vultures sat perched on the roof. 

Music was flowing, plates were selling, bottles of beer and mason jars of wine and whiskey clinked in the air. Annie stood behind the bar, looking at what her husband and his twin put together for their community with a sense of pride. Still, she couldn’t help but feel an impending sense of doom. 

It wasn’t too often people her color were allowed prolonged happiness. There would always be some white person who came along and disturbed their peace just because they could. That’s what they did— they lived to reduce them to nothing but hard laborers and strip any sense of joy they tried to cultivate. That was their formula— break ‘em before they think they deserve more.

But this…this was something different. 

It felt older— older than Jim Crow and much more sinister.

As soon as Sammie struck his first chord, she felt it.

The veil wasn’t just thinning, it had split wide open.

🎵See I’m full of the Blues, Holy water too… I know the truth hurts, so I lied to you…🎵

“Ain't no way of bringing nobody back once they gone, that don’t involve evil. Best thang we can do for ‘em is free they spirit from the curse.” — Annie Moore

Club Juke turned into a mix of blood, fangs and fire.

Stack emerged from the shadows and lunged, pinning Annie to the ground. 

“No!” Smoke darted towards her, but was intercepted by Remmick. 

“Elias, not Annie!” 

This is it, she thought. She knew when she threw her bones it would come to this, it just hurt to think it’d come at the hands of Stack. That the man in charge of her demise would wear the same face as her husband.

She thought about what she could have done. Then she thought about what happened the last time she didn’t let things play out the way they were supposed to. She thought about Smoke, about what she made him promise. He was screaming her name, pleading with Stack while she sobbed quietly. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to witness the pain on his face. 

“Not you,” Annie whispered between tears. 

Stack pulled her jaw towards him. His eyes shined bright, a chilling pale blue. His mouth twisted into a smirk, drool dripping slowly from his fangs. He smirked wider when she squirmed, taunting her. He was enjoying this, seeing her uncomfortable, hearing his twin plead for her life. He took his time, watching her try to wiggle out of his grip with amusement. Annie braced herself as Stack lowered his head. 

The screams faded. The shooting, snarling, crackle of fire, all dulled like the world was holding its breath. Annie squeezed her eyes shut, praying quietly as she felt fangs tease her neck. 

“Asé.” 

Click-click. BOOM! 

Smoke was freed from Remmick’s grip.

Click-click. BOOM!

“Annie!”

Annie’s eyes flew open to find Pearline standing above her reloading her shotgun, the barrel still smoking. 

“Annie! Get up!” 

Smoke all but dragged her up off the floor, putting a stake in her hand. A not-so-subtle reminder that the fight wasn’t over. Not until they got Sammie someplace safe. “Come on baby, ain’t done yet.”

October 16, 1932 The air felt thick, like the morning after a storm. It smelled of iron, ash, and the morbidly-sweet rot of a juke joint stripped of its soul and forced to its grave. Death moved through the floorboards like a presence, lingering in corners and clinging to walls like shadows that bent wrong. The sun was still on its ascent, the pale light of morning peaking through the rafters, smoking the vampire bodies in its path. 

The shooting stopped five minutes ago, but Annie couldn’t tell. Time here felt like it was holding its breath— like she was standing at the edge of something she couldn’t name, but recognized its shape. Like someone split the veil open and something older stepped out. 

Annie sat on top of the bar, trying to quiet the sounds of pain, horror and surrender that echoed in her head. She was slouched, breath stuck in her throat, limbs trembling under the weight of grief and guilt. Her face was covered— a layer of dust, blood and sweat like a second skin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, raw and filled with tears that cleared a path where they fell like a map no one asked for. Her dress was in tatters, shoes long gone— lost somewhere in the fight. 

Delta Slim’s body was in literal pieces on the stage. Mangled and completely drained of blood, it was a chilling testament to the terror that tore through the night. His harmonica lay amidst a chaotic pile of splintered wood, shards of glass, and blood splatter like a shiny, silver headstone.

Her shoulders shook, tears spilling down her cheeks. The place that was supposed to be somewhere for their community to enjoy themselves became a vehicle of violence and destruction. Of course the klan were involved. Smoke took them out by himself. Picked them off one by one, just like he promised. The mill door creaked open and he stumbled in clutching his side. 

“Baby,” Annie gasped, “you hurt?!” 

Smoke shook his head. “Just a graze. But we gotta go. I got the truck ready.” 

He scooped Annie in his arms and pressed his forehead to hers. His white undershirt was stained red, his pants caked with dirt and gunpowder. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, his hands trembling where he touched her. He had Stack’s dogtags wrapped around his wrist.

“Thought I was gon’ lose you for good,” he murmured. “Ain’t livin’ without you again.”

Annie cradled his face, her tears still flowing. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not without you.”

“Then let’s go home, Mrs. Moore.”

They burned the mill and every trace of what transpired there to the ground until the land was as dark as the blood and ash that soaked it. Black fumes billowed in the air for miles, the smell so vile it burned their eyes. They drove until they couldn’t smell it anymore. Then they kept driving until they saw Spanish moss and swampland. Louisiana.

Her parent’s cottage was still there. Long unoccupied, but still standing. It had a wide porch, a large backyard, and her grandmother’s wind chimes still hanging by the front door. It felt like peace, like this was home now.

Annie swept the floorboards with rosemary and performed her protection spells while Smoke beat the rugs out back and hid their stash under the floorboards. 

They bathed together, her back to his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. They held each other a little tighter that night, the kerosene lamp throwing gold shadows against their skin. He laid behind her and slid in slowly. The thick stretch of him, the power in his strokes made her shudder with pleasure. He was still buried deep when they drifted off, tangled in the sheets, bodies slick with their love. And when the light of dawn made their eyelids flutter awake, he took her again.

Three Months Later January 31, 1933 

Life was joyfully slow. Annie fed the chickens and tended her shop. Smoke found honest work on the railroad. Every morning they watched the sunrise together. Every night they’d hold each other close, listening to the bullfrogs and crickets compete for sound. He’d fuck her filthy every chance he got. Talk her through it, leave her leaking. She stayed so full of him, he filled her with babies, too. 

The kitchen smelled like garlic and saltpork. Annie stood at the stove, apron tied loosely over a faded green house dress that fit a little more snug now that she was showing. She smiled down at her growing belly, rubbing it with one hand and stirring a pot of butter beans with the other. Her hips swayed slowly to the song she hummed under her breath. Smoke sat at the kitchen table, watching her with a tender heat. He crossed the room in two strides, pressing himself against her back.

“I’m hungry,” he said roughly.

“Mmm,” she hummed. “Supper’s almost ready, baby.”

“Nah,” he muttered. “My food right here. Been marinatin’ all day.”

He dropped to his knees and pulled up her dress. No panties. 

“Mhmm.” He smacked each ass cheek. “Arch that back, baby.”

Annie whimpered. She arched her back.

He licked his lips and dove in tongue first.

October 15, 1933  Smoke sat in the living room, rocking their daughter. She babbled and cooed gently as he held her on his chest, just above his heart. 

Annie kneeled at her altar with a heavy heart, eyes wide with unshed tears. She laid a spread out in front of her like something sacred.

A pearl for Pearline. A flask for Slim. An old button from a pair of overalls for Cornbread. Bo’s keychain. And a paintbrush for Grace.

She thought about Cornbread. How Therese had to raise their child alone. Thought about lil’ Lisa, how her parents never came home. She thought about Pearline, a woman just trying to find some escape and got caught in the crosshairs. 

Then she thought about Slim. Thought about how he laid down his life for Sammie. Welcomed death with open arms.

“He’ll be visitin’ Sammie,” she whispered. “Watchin’ him play.”  Then she thought about everyone else at the juke. Her community who came there looking for freedom and fun, and ended up getting burnt by the sun. Those people left behind children, siblings, parents, friends, lovers, lives, legacies. She still remembered standing there next to Smoke, watching the mill burn to ash and feeling the souls stuck on that land, rotting, cursed.

“I think about y’all all the time,” she said to the empty room. “I wanna help y’all crossover proper…just don’t know how.”

A tear fell onto her bottom lip. She licked it, tasting the salt of her pain.  

“I need you grandma, great-grandma,” she pleaded softly. “Please.” 

She bowed her head and cried. “So many people lost that night,” she sniffled. “Just gone. It ain’t right.” 

A windchime sounded outside, but Annie didn’t hear it. The room got colder, the candles flickered once then held steady.

That’s heavy work, baby girl. 

Her head snapped up. “Grandma?”

Abeni. 

That was a different voice.

Annie paused. “Who are you?”

The stolen one.

A third voice. Annie thought for a moment, the constant tears shedding clouding her eyes and her mind. 

“Great-grandma?”

It was silent for a beat. Then—

The flood. The voice said.

Annie gasped. “The one on the other side.”

Your spirit looks sad.

“I could have done something,” she whispered.

Wouldn’t have stopped it no way. That kind of creature, they love to feed on a woman with your gift. Makes ‘em more powerful.

“How do I start? What can I do?”

A body is a good start.

“So they have to be alive?”

That kind, they may walk this earth, but they ain’t alive.

“But I can set their spirits free?”

You can guide it around what’s feedin’ on it. But it ain’t easy. Gon’ take a lot from you, just like it took from me. Their soul has to want it. And some souls, they like bein’ fed on— no matter what they say. Their type— they’re tricksters. Don’t confuse a spirit that wants to be set free with a rotted flesh that wants to lure you in.

Nine Years Later October 25, 1941 

The living room was…loud. A cacophony of toddler babbling, baby cooing and the high pitch of children’s voices. They huddled around the ham radio, turning the knob until they heard the smooth hum of the radio station.

“Hush now! Don’t y’all wanna hear cousin Sammie on the radio?” 

A chorus of yes sir’s rang out. Five to be exact.

“Then be quiet ‘fore ya mama send y’all back to bed,” Smoke barked out. 

Annie appeared from the back room, baby Ezra suckling her breast. “Now why am I in it?” 

Smoke pulled her into his lap, resting his chin on her shoulder. “I just wanted you out here, baby. Missed you when you was gone.”

Annie giggled, moving Ezra to her shoulder to burp. “I been gone for five minutes, Smoke.”

He nuzzled her ear, then kissed her on the cheek. “Five minutes too long.”

Smoke squeezed Annie’s waist when a familiar bassline came over the radio.

🎵Somethin’ I wanna tell ya, ‘fore a long time… It might hurt ya, might lose ya mind…🎵

They looked at each other with recognition. The painful memories of that night still haunted them— Smoke would wake up gasping, covered in sweat. He’d grab his gun and check the locks twice before crawling back in bed. Sometimes Annie would see burning bodies when she closed her eyes. Bo, Grace, Pearline, Cornbread. Slim’s mangled body. His harmonica that laid on the stage like a grave marker. 

Stack came around sometimes. He’d leave candy for the kids, whiskey for Smoke and flowers for Annie. Him and Mary settled across the river in New Orleans, living in the shadows of narrow alleyways, rotting churches, and abandoned mills. They could be around their own kind down there, a certain kind of freedom if you squinted your eyes and looked real close. 

Sammie wrote to his cousins every two weeks. He made it to Chicago and recorded “I Lied to You” at Columbia Records the following year. Took him a whole week to get it done ‘cause the equipment kept shutting down mid-session. He told Annie that sometimes, when he was alone in the booth, he’d smell a whiff of corn liquor, followed by the faint thrum of a harmonica and a familiar cackle. He wrote a song for his old friend that day, the man who sacrificed himself so he could be free. It’d go on to be the second single on his debut album. Called it “Magic (It’s What We Do).”

December 7, 1985 The room held its breath. 

The oxygen machine hissed. The heart monitor beeped rhythmically. Their children, all six of them in their 40’s and 50’s now surrounded Annie’s bedside.

Smoke sat in the chair next to her, staring at the woman he loved since 1919. He was bald now, wrinkled, even walked with a cane— but his presence still filled a room and pressed into the corners. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, just so Annie could hear it. “For givin’ me this life.” 

Annie smiled weakly. “You mean havin’ all your bighead babies?”

Elijah Jr, who looked like he could have been Smoke and Stack’s triplet, spoke up. “Now mama, why we gotta be big headed?” 

Smoke chuckled, rubbing her hand gently. “For lovin’ me. For givin’ me another chance,” he said softly. “And havin’ all my big headed babies.”

Annie choked out a laugh that turned into a cough. 

Their eldest daughter Grace stepped forward, helping her mother sit up. “Mama, the doctor said relax. Don’t be workin’ yourself up.” 

Annie swatted her daughter’s arm. “Y’all don’t need to worry about me. Be laughin’ plenty where I’m goin’.”

“Mama don’t talk like that!” she hissed, voice thick with emotion. 

“Look here,” Annie started. “I told y’all this day would come. Everybody got a time. You just pray that your time come when you ready and not because somebody else decided for you.” 

“Mama….”

Annie sat up fully with Smoke’s help. “Now I want y’all to listen to me. I ain’t got long for this earth. And I ain’t scared. I feel a peace I ain’t never felt before. Know where I’m goin’, I get to see your sister again.”

Smoke squeezed her hand. 

“She would have been 62 this year. But she wasn’t meant to be on this earth that long. I had to learn to accept that. Took a while. Hurt real bad. Wasn’t my fault, or yo daddy’s. Not everybody meant to stay long. Some people shorter than others. Don’t mean they life didn’t mean nothin’. Your sister didn’t make it a year and I still remember her laugh like it was yesterday. Still remember what she smell like — milk and lavender.” 

Annie smiled to herself.

“It used to hurt thinkin’ about her. Thought I’d never think on her without it takin’ a piece of me. But now I feel joy.” She paused. “That’s how I want y’all to remember me. Y’all have a piece of me in you, so whenever you get sad, just remember…you a part of me. I’ll always be here in spirit.” 

Annie looked around the room at her family, the children her and Smoke made out of love and wrapped up in it. She looked at her husband, a formidable man even in his old age. Their eyes held a silent conversation.

“I love you.”

Smoke kissed the back of her hand. “I love you too, mama.”

She winked at him, then she laid back with a smile and closed her eyes. The beep of the heart monitor slowly decreased.

Annie took her last breath that night. Smoke sat by her side— an ever steady presence amidst chaos. He didn’t cry. Didn’t even look sad as the room filled with sobs and screams of their children. He just adjusted her blanket like it would make her more comfortable, kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear. “I’ll see you soon.”

He wouldn’t make it to her funeral.

Stack came by that same night. He looked at his 87-year-old brother and saw the face of a man who ultimately lived life on his own terms. He saw a man who led a life so fulfilling, he was happy to leave it to spend eternity in the sky. He saw a man who he knew he’d never see again in person, not even in the mirror. 

They stood side-by-side under the old oak in the backyard, watching the warmth of the house lights spill out the windows. 

“How’d she go?” Stack asked.

Smoke dipped his head, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Peacefully,” he said quietly.

Stack nodded. “You next,” he said, not a question. 

“It’s my time,” Smoke said with finality.

Stack turned to face his brother. “You know I ain’t good at goodbyes,” he said with a shaky voice. “That’s why it’s never goodbye, always see you later.” He tried to chuckle, but a sob came out instead. “But it’s fuckin’ me up that I won’t be seein’ you later ‘cuz of this…curse,” he choked out. Stack took a deep breath to calm himself. “Maybe Annie can conjure up somethin’ from the spirit world, have me swallow some herbs ‘n shit so I can see y’all again.” 

Smoke looked at his forever 35-year-old twin with a profound sadness. He saw a restless spirit. He saw a 9-year-old Elias, terrified to walk this world alone. He saw a 23-year-old Stack terrified to go to Little Rock alone. His heart swelled. There were so many emotions he wished he could convey, but they all got stuck— like they were meant to be left unsaid. Or maybe because Stack already knew. “I’ma miss you,” was all he could manage to get out.

They pulled each other into a hug.

“Ain’t no me without you,” he sobbed. “I can’t do this shit without you.” 

“You can and you will. You gon’ do it for me. For my lil’ ones. Make sure they don’t get in no trouble.”

Stack chuckled low. “Thought I don’t know how to watch my own back?”

“You ain’t gotta choice now fool,” he laughed. “Annie gon’ put belt-to-ass, even from the afterlife.”

The SmokeStack twins stood under the stars, reminiscing about their glory days and the nights that still haunted them. New York. France. Chicago. Clarksdale. They talked until dawn threatened the horizon. 9 decades. Two brothers. Two paths. Split for eternity. When Smoke turned to the house, he looked over his shoulder one last time and saw tear stained cheeks that matched his own. 

“I love you, lil’ brother.”

“I love you too, big brother.”

As Stack watched his brother slip back into the house, something came over him. It wasn’t a breeze. More like a feeling. A prickling of his skin, like when the temperature drops suddenly. Then her scent wrapped around him— lavender and vanilla, the smell so strong it made his nose tingle. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“Knew you’d come through,” he whispered into the darkness, tears still falling. 

Elijah “Smoke” Moore passed three days later. Peacefully. Just like Annie had. As he took his last few breaths, he smiled weakly at the ceiling. “Told you,” he whispered softly. “I ain’t livin’ without you again.”

When Annie met Elijah

Annie Durel met Elijah Moore in a lecture hall built for three hundred bodies, and somehow the cavernous space still managed to feel claustrophobic. It was freshman year, Introduction to Psychology, eight o’clock in the morning. An hour so ungodly that Annie wondered if the university scheduled it that early on purpose as some kind of psychological experiment on sleep deprivation and human suffering.

The air inside smelled of stale coffee, the damp wool of hoodies that hadn’t quite dried from the previous night’s rain, and the sharp, chemical bite of whatever industrial cleaner the janitorial staff deployed before dawn. Students shuffled in like zombies freshly risen, backpacks slung over one shoulder, orientation-week optimism already fraying at the edges. A few sat with bright eyes and open laptops, ready to absorb wisdom. Most looked like they were calculating how many minutes they could sleep with their eyes open. 

Annie chose the second row.

Not the front—that was for try-hards and future teaching assistants. The second row struck the perfect balance: visible enough to signal seriousness, distant enough to preserve dignity. It was the seat of someone who had already printed the syllabus, color-coded the calendar, and flagged every major assignment in three different highlighters. Her laptop sat open before her like a shield, a spiral notebook beside it, and three pens; blue, black, and neon pink, lined up with military precision along the desk’s edge. Order was Annie’s armor. Even when life refused to cooperate, she could at least control the small rectangle of space in front of her.

People mistook that for confidence. Sometimes it was. Most times it was fear wearing lip gloss and good posture.

Elijah Moore, by contrast, belonged to the back.

For the first few weeks she barely registered him. He was simply there, like the faded motivational poster on the far wall or the faint hum of the ventilation system, part of the architecture rather than a participant. He arrived exactly on time, never bursting through the doors with excuses or drama. He claimed roughly the same seat each class, pulled out a single notebook and one black pen, and then… listened.

Not the performative listening most students offered half an ear tuned to the professor while the other half rehearsed their own clever interjections. Elijah listened like the words might bruise him if he wasn’t careful. Like every sentence had to justify its existence before he granted it space in his mind. His expression rarely changed, but there was a quiet gravity to him, a sense that he was weighing the lecture against some private, internal scale the rest of them couldn’t see.

The moment he truly entered Annie’s awareness came three weeks into the semester.

Dr. Mercer, a wiry man with wild eyebrows and a passion for Socratic torture, posed one of his signature questions. “Do people truly choose who they become?” The room stirred instantly. Abstract debates before breakfast were catnip to freshmen. Hands shot up like weeds. Biology. Environment. Trauma. Privilege. The usual chorus.

Annie waited, then raised her own hand.

“Ms. Durel.”

She straightened, voice clear. “Circumstance shapes us, obviously. But it doesn’t get the final word. At some point we have to choose. Otherwise personal responsibility is meaningless.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the second and third rows. A small glow of satisfaction warmed her chest. She had spoken well, measured, thoughtful, the kind of answer that earned quiet respect.

Then a low voice drifted from the back of the hall.

“Most people only think they’re choosing.”

Annie turned before she could stop herself. He wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze rested on Dr. Mercer, one arm draped casually over the narrow desk attached to his seat. His posture was relaxed but not sloppy, defensive, or trying to score points. It was… certain.

Dr. Mercer’s eyes lit up with academic delight. “Mr. Moore.”

Elijah leaned back slightly. “If you grow up in survival mode, most of what you call choice is just reaction. You’re picking between bad options inside a cage you didn’t build. That doesn’t make you free.”

The lecture hall quieted. Even the perpetual fidgeters stilled.

Annie narrowed her eyes. “So nobody’s responsible for anything?” His gaze slid to her then, slow and deliberate. For the first time, Elijah Moore really looked at her. It wasn’t a passing glance. It was a look of dark eyes— steady and unnervingly patient. As if he were seeing past the second-row armor, the highlighters, and the carefully cultivated certainty.

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what it sounded like,” she shot back.

A corner of his eyebrow lifted, almost imperceptibly. “Then you heard what you wanted to hear.”

Soft laughter scattered across the room like startled birds. Annie’s spine went rigid. Heat rose in her cheeks. She disliked him immediately, with the clean, decisive snap of a closing book.

The lecture continued. Annie told herself she was finished with that arrogant asshole. For once, all semester, the second row felt a little less safe. A little less controlled. She opened her notebook. Underlined three sentences she already understood. Wrote half a page of notes she wouldn’t remember taking. Every few minutes, though, her gaze strayed to the back row. She only wanted another chance to prove him wrong.

Which, she would later understand, had always been the first stage of loving him.

After class, Annie told herself she wasn’t following him. They simply happened to leave through the same doors, walk across the same quad, and head toward the same student center. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she still had three rebuttals she hadn’t gotten to make.

“You know,” she called after him, “for somebody who barely talks, you got a whole lotta opinions.”

Elijah looked over one shoulder. “You chased me down just to tell me that?”

“I didn’t chase you.”

“Sure.”

Annie frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’ve been thinkin’ ’bout my argument.” He stopped walking and looked at her. “’Bout me.”

She hated that he sounded so certain. She hated even more that he was right.

Annie had walked out of that lecture hall convinced Elijah Moore was the most irritating man she’d ever met. She had no way of knowing she’d spend the next four years arguing with him.

Or the next fifteen loving him.

Till Death Do Us Part

They graduated two months apart.

Annie crossed the stage first, her robe swishing against her ankles, the tassel on her cap swinging like a metronome keeping time to a future she had spent four years meticulously planning. Elijah sat through the entire ceremony in the bleachers, pretending he wasn’t watching for her. He failed spectacularly. Every time the announcer called a name, his gaze flicked towards the procession, searching.

He spotted her the moment she stepped off the stage. He was waiting exactly where she’d expected to find him—tall, composed, arms folded across his chest, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who hadn’t yet earned his own degree. Annie saw him immediately. Something warm and inevitable pulled her straight toward him through the crowd.

“You act like you graduated,” she said, smiling.

“I survived listenin’ to your family yell your name for three hours. I deserve somethin’.”

“My family loves me.”

“They loud.”

“You knew that before we started dating.”

“I thought they was performin’.”

Annie laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. Elijah smiled that slow, quiet smile that always seemed to start somewhere deep in his chest before it reached his mouth. And just like that, another milestone folded itself into the growing collection of memories they would carry together, dog-eared and treasured.

The year after college arrived like a sudden wind, full of constant movement. Jobs. Applications. Interviews. Rent checks written with trembling hope. Student loans that loomed like storm clouds. Dreams that had once felt weightless now demanded cash, strategy, and an almost embarrassing amount of grit.

They were young enough to believe hard work could solve almost anything, and fortunate enough that, for a while, they weren’t entirely wrong.

Elijah began in corporate strategy, a world of spreadsheets and conference rooms that tested his patience daily. Annie started building her consulting business one nervous client at a time, working from coffee shops and the corner of their tiny living room. Neither path came wrapped in glamour. Both demanded long hours that bled into nights.

Most evenings found them side by side at their small kitchen table, laptops open, takeout containers pushed to the side, comparing problems neither of them fully understood yet. Sometimes they worked in companionable silence, the only sounds being the clicking of keys and the distant hum of traffic outside.

They argued about ideas, passionate exchanges that left them both sharper. Sometimes Annie would talk through an upcoming presentation while Elijah pretended not to listen, eyes fixed on his own screen. Then, halfway through, he would quietly point out a flaw she hadn’t noticed. She would accuse him of eavesdropping. He would remind her she had been talking loud as hell again.

It was their system. Annoying, effective, but theirs.

Two years after graduation, they got married.

The wedding was small because their bank account demanded it. Annie made it beautiful anyway. Flowers spilled everywhere, far too many, according to every budget-conscious person involved except Annie herself. The venue was modest, the guest list manageable, the budget stretched thin enough to snap. 

None of it mattered in the end.

The only thing Annie remembered clearly was standing at the back of the processional, looking at Elijah. Everything else blurred: the music, the guests, the decorations, even the flowers she had obsessed over for months. All she could see was him, calm, certain, watching her like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She cried before she even reached the altar. Not delicate, cinematic tears. Real ones. The kind that arrived without permission and threatened to ruin the makeup her mother had spent an hour perfecting. When she finally stood before him, she looked up and froze.

His eyes were wet.

“Are you crying?” she whispered.

“No.”

“You are.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Elijah.”

“Face forward, Woman.”

She laughed through the tears. The officiant paused, smiling. Their families laughed too, warm and rowdy. When it came time for the vows, Elijah said “yes” before the officiant had finished the question. The room erupted in delighted surprise. Annie squeezed his hands hard. He squeezed back, grounding her.

Their honeymoon lasted three days. That was all they could afford. Neither of them cared. At the time, three days felt like unimaginable luxury.

Their first apartment as husband and wife waited when they returned: uneven floors that creaked in protest, thin walls that carried every neighbor’s secrets, cabinets that stuck when the weather turned, and a refrigerator that hummed loudly enough to become part of the soundtrack of their life. The couple upstairs argued with such clocklike precision that Annie could practically set her watch by their fights. Annie complained about the apartment constantly. Then defended it fiercely whenever anyone else dared criticize it. 

Because it was theirs.

The first night, they ate takeout on the living room floor surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Elijah spent nearly an hour assembling a bookshelf, doing it wrong twice. Annie fixed it in twenty minutes and spent the next hour reminding him of that fact.

“You gonna mention this forever?” he asked.

“Sure am.”

“You somethin’ else.”

Annie only grinned and pointed to herself with a theatrical flourish. His hand shot out the moment she walked past, pulling her into his lap before she could squeak in protest.

“Boy.”

“No.”

“Elijah.”

“No.”

She laughed despite herself. He kissed her, and the argument ended the way most of their arguments ended in those days with neither person winning, and neither particularly caring.

Life wasn’t easy. Money stayed tight. Every purchase required negotiation. Every bill required careful planning. They learned how far leftovers could stretch, which expenses truly mattered, and that loving someone and learning to live with them were related, but distinctly different skills. They argued about dishes left in the sink, mismatched schedules, budgets that refused to balance, and whose turn it was to call the perpetually unresponsive maintenance man. Annie hated how quiet Elijah became when something weighed on him. Elijah hated how Annie pushed harder the moment she sensed him retreating.

Sometimes they hurt each other without meaning to. Sometimes they misunderstood. Sometimes they got it spectacularly wrong.

But they came back. 

Always.

That was what Annie remembered most when she looked back on those years, not perfection, ease, or constant romance. The returning. No matter how frustrating the fight, how exhausting the week, or how little money sat in their checking account, they always found their way back to each other.

In the softer, private corners of their life, Annie had taken to calling Smoke: Elijah-Smoke.

It had started as a joke sometime in college. Everyone else seemed to divide him neatly into two people. Elijah was the name professors used, the quiet boy in the back of the lecture hall with one notebook and too many opinions. Smoke belonged to everybody else—the name his brother called across crowded rooms, the one his friends knew, the version of him that carried a little more edge.

Annie had decided early that she wasn’t choosing.

“You Elijah or Smoke today?” she’d asked him once after he’d spent twenty minutes helping her study, then threatened to throw her laptop out the window when she complained about SPSS for the sixth time.

He’d looked at her like the question was ridiculous. “I’m me.”

“Okay. Elijah-Smoke.”

His face had gone completely blank.

“That sounds stupid.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It absolutely do.”

She’d grinned. “Too late. That’s your name now.”

It should have disappeared with all the other ridiculous things they’d said to each other in college. Instead, it stayed. Over the years, Elijah-Smoke became something Annie only called him when they were alone. Sometimes teasing. Sometimes affectionate. Other times murmured against his chest when they were half asleep. It belonged to kitchens after midnight, tangled sheets, private jokes, and conversations nobody else was allowed to hear.

The world knew Elijah Moore. The people who loved him longest knew Smoke. But Annie had always known both.

Elijah-Smoke meant all of him. And, more importantly, it meant he was hers.

Success arrived slowly. 

Then all at once.

Elijah climbed quickly through the ranks. Promotions followed one after another. Rooms that once ignored him began to listen. People who had underestimated him learned not to make that mistake twice. Annie built steadily too. One client became three, then ten. Workshops turned into speaking engagements. Speaking engagements turned into waitlists. Women began stopping her after events, eyes bright to tell her she had finally given language to feelings they had carried for years, but never knew how to name.

Neither achievement belonged entirely to one person. Elijah reviewed contracts when Annie was too exhausted to focus. Annie listened to his practice presentations before board meetings. He challenged her thinking. She challenged him. He invested in her—money, yes, but more importantly belief, time, and unwavering attention long before anyone else did.

Annie used to joke that he was her most annoying business partner. The truth was simpler and more profound: he was usually right. Success felt intimate then. Like building an altar together. Every late night, every sacrifice, every risk, every victory carried weight because they could still see each other clearly across all of it. Sometimes she would be putting dishes away and suddenly find herself pinned gently between the counter and Elijah’s chest.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Elijah.”

“No.”

“I have things to do.”

“So do I.”

“Then why are you bothering me?”

His answer was always the same: a slight shrug, a lingering kiss, his hand settling warm against her waist. Because I missed you. As if twenty minutes apart had been too long.

Moments like that happened constantly. Back then, Annie never questioned whether Elijah wanted her. The answer lived everywhere—not just in passionate nights or grand gestures, but in the thousand tiny interruptions that filled ordinary days.

It lived in the smaller moments: the way his eyes followed her when she entered a room, the way his hand automatically found her waist as they passed each other in hallways, the way he would interrupt his own work just to steal a kiss before returning to whatever spreadsheet demanded his attention.

At the time, Annie thought it would always be like that. Not always the same. People changed, life changed, responsibilities multiplied— but she believed the center would hold. That the man who couldn’t walk past her without touching her would always find a reason to reach. That the woman who still smiled every time he walked through the door would always feel seen.

She didn’t know then how quietly distance could grow between two people.  Or how easy it was to mistake building a life together for nurturing the marriage itself.

First Comes Love. Then Comes Marriage. Then Comes…

The first baby arrived three years into the marriage.

Annie spent most of her pregnancy pretending she wasn’t nervous. Not because she feared something would go wrong—she had read enough to know the statistics were on their side, but because she liked preparation, plans, and certainty. Childbirth, however, seemed specifically engineered to mock all three with ruthless efficiency.

By the eighth month, she had amassed enough books to stock her own parenting section at a bookstore. Lists proliferated across the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, and the inside of kitchen cabinets. The hospital bag sat packed and ready by the front door nearly six weeks early, because Annie refused to be caught unprepared for the single most unpredictable event of her life.

He found the entire production hilarious.

“You know the baby don’t care about your spreadsheets, right?”

Annie glared at him from the couch, one hand resting protectively on the swell of her belly. “The baby will care when we forget something important. Like diapers.”

“The hospital got diapers.”

“What if they don’t?”

He stared at her. 

She stared back.

“The hospital?” he repeated.

“You never know.”

“Woman.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

Smoke laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.

Three weeks later, she went into labor. Twenty-one hours after that, she threatened to divorce him. 

Twice. 

The nurse laughed. 

Smoke didn’t. Annie looked entirely too serious.

Their son arrived just after sunrise. One loud, indignant cry. One tiny fist waving defiantly at the world. One look at that wrinkled little face pressed against Annie’s bare chest, and the entire room seemed to turn on its axis. Annie burst into tears. The ugly kind. The kind that rose from somewhere so deep inside her that stopping them felt impossible. Smoke stood beside the bed, simply staring, transfixed. The baby wrapped his impossibly small hand around one of Smoke’s fingers. Annie looked up through her tears.

“You cryin’?”

“Nah.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

The tears tracking down his cheeks suggested otherwise.

They named him Elijah Jr. “E.J.” for short. Smoke insisted nobody was calling him Junior. Annie informed him that after twenty-one hours of labor, she would call their son whatever she pleased. The argument lasted three days. E.J. ignored both of them completely.

Two years later came Ethan. Where E.J. launched himself through life at full speed, Ethan approached everything with caution and curiosity. He watched first. Thought first. Asked questions until adults regretted opening their mouths. If E.J. had inherited Annie’s confidence and Smoke’s stubbornness, Ethan had inherited their shared tendency to overthink absolutely everything.

The twins arrived three years after that: Anaëlle Elise and Arielle Elaine. Six weeks early. Tiny. Chocolate. Perfect. And determined to take over everyone’s lives. The boys adored them, at least in theory. In reality, both spent the first month looking vaguely betrayed by the sheer volume of attention two babies required. The twins didn’t seem concerned. They simply settled into the family as though they had always belonged there.

Life became louder after that. Fuller. Messier. The kind of beautiful chaos that left toys scattered in hallways and crayons in unexpected places. Somehow every room in the house belonged to the children. Even the ones specifically designated as adult spaces. Especially those.

The life they had once dreamed about quietly became the life they were living. Promotions turned into executive titles. Annie’s calendar filled months in advance with keynote speeches, leadership retreats, and consulting contracts she never imagined commanding. Elijah’s name carried weight in boardrooms now. Annie’s carried weight on conference stages. The tiny apartment gave way to a house with enough bedrooms for everyone, then a backyard the children treated like their own kingdom.

Success bought them conveniences they never could have afforded in those early years. A part-time nanny on weekdays when work demanded more than either of them could give. Family vacations that started as weekend road trips before eventually becoming flights to beaches the children still talk about years later. Housekeepers every other Friday because neither of them wanted to spend precious weekends scrubbing bathrooms. 

But the one thing they refused to outsource was being parents.

Homework still happened at the kitchen table. Bedtime stories were still read by familiar voices. Saturday mornings belonged to pancakes, cartoons, and whichever child climbed into their bed first. If one of the kids had a recital, a game, or an awards ceremony, Annie and Elijah were usually sitting in the front row, embarrassing them with applause.

The years blurred together in a whirlwind of basketball games and dance recitals, science fairs and art projects spread across the dining room table. Birthday parties, field trips, parent-teacher conferences, homework battles, lost shoes, forgotten permission slips, and middle-of-the-night fevers. The ordinary, relentless chaos of raising children. Some days felt endless. Most disappeared before either Annie or Smoke could properly appreciate them.

One Saturday afternoon, Annie walked into the living room and found Smoke sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing a plastic tiara. For a minute she simply stared. Anaëlle aka Elle or Ellie, adjusted a blanket cape around his shoulders with the solemn focus of someone preparing royalty for an important event. Arielle aka Ari stood nearby, gripping a sparkly wand like a scepter.

Smoke looked up, entirely unbothered. “The king has no obligation to explain himself.”

Annie folded her arms, fighting a smile. “The king got glitter in his beard.”

The twins gasped in unison. Smoke immediately reached for his face. The girls collapsed into delighted laughter. Annie laughed so hard she had to sit down on the couch. Even E.J., who had reached the age where he found family embarrassing on principle, couldn’t completely hide his smile. The moment lasted maybe five minutes. Nothing important happened. Nobody learned a grand lesson. No milestone was officially reached. Yet years later, it would become one of Annie’s favorite memories, not because it was extraordinary, but because it wasn’t. It was ordinary. Wonderfully, perfectly… ordinary. A moment that seemed insignificant while it was happening, but became precious only in retrospect.

Life felt full then. The kind of full that exhausted you and fulfilled you in equal measure. The laundry never ended. The dishwasher never stayed empty for long. Someone always needed a ride somewhere, needed help with homework. And someone always needed a costume, a poster board, a permission slip, or a ride across town with fifteen minutes’ notice. The house was constantly loud. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps thundering up and down stairs. Music playing from different rooms. Voices overlapping in cheerful cacophony. Laughter drifting from one end of the house to the other.

And somehow, through all of it, Annie and Smoke remained a team. Connected. The children knew it too. The boys rolled their eyes whenever Smoke kissed Annie in the kitchen. The twins made dramatic gagging noises whenever they caught their parents cuddling on the couch. Neither reaction slowed them down in the slightest. 

By then, affection had become part of the atmosphere of the house, as normal as the furniture, as expected as family dinner. Sometimes Annie would be making lunch and suddenly feel Smoke behind her. A hand settling warm against her waist. A kiss pressed against her temple. 

No explanation or reason. Just because.

One afternoon Anaëlle walked into the kitchen, saw her father leaning against the counter with his arms around Annie, and immediately turned around.

“Nope.”

Smoke laughed. “Where you goin’?”

“Somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause y’all bein’ weird.”

“We’re married.”

“I know.” Anaëlle shuddered dramatically. “Still weird.”

Annie laughed until she cried. At the time, she thought those moments would always be there. Not the children—they would grow up. That was inevitable. Not the house, the schedules, or the endless stream of activities. She knew those things would change. What Annie believed would remain was the feeling underneath it all. The certainty. The certainty that no matter how loud life became, she and Elijah would always find each other inside the noise. That no matter how many demands pulled at them from different directions, they would remain each other’s place to rest.

Looking back, she could see that was the part she’d taken for granted. Not his love. Never his love. 

The visibility of it. 

The way it once moved through every room with them. Openly. Effortlessly. Like breathing. 

Like home.

Adeline

By the time Annie handed him the pregnancy test, Smoke had convinced himself their family was complete. They hadn’t ever sat down and formally decided they were done. Their sex life was active and frequent. They made love whenever, wherever. So it wasn’t like they were preventing a pregnancy from happening.

The conversation had arisen over the years the way most conversations do in a long marriage—casually, between grocery lists and basketball practices, while folding laundry or climbing into bed at the end of an exhausting day. They had talked around it more than they had talked about it. Four children felt like a lot. A beautiful lot. A loud, vibrant, overwhelming lot.

Life had finally settled into something familiar and manageable. E.J. was old enough to spend entire afternoons outside with a football in his hand. Ethan had reached the age where every answer led to three more questions. The twins no longer appeared in their bedroom at two in the morning because of a nightmare or a thunderstorm. Now, it felt like they were finally coming up for air.

Then Annie handed him the test.

Smoke stood in the kitchen staring at it. Then at her. Then back at the test. The dishwasher hummed quietly behind him. Sunlight spilled through the windows above the sink, warm and ordinary. Upstairs, one of the kids was arguing over a charger. An ordinary afternoon. And right there in the middle of it, everything changed. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. It wasn’t funny, but somehow, after thirteen years of marriage and four children and more responsibilities than either of them could count, his wife had managed to surprise him completely.

“You for real, right now?”

Annie laughed, the nervousness she’d been carrying dissolved from her face. 

“Apparently.”

Smoke looked at the test again. Then back at her. Then shook his head. A smile spread slowly across his face—disbelieving, happy, a little terrified. 

“You serious?”

Annie laughed. “I don’t know how else to tell you we’re having a baby.”

He was moving before he even realized it. His hands found her waist, then her shoulders, then her face, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to hold her. 

Annie laughed harder.

“Elijah-Smoke.”

“I’m just checkin’.”

“You think I’m lyin’?”

“No.” His smile widened. “I think I’m in shock.”

Annie saw something boyish in him. Something younger. She hadn’t known she’d missed that. He kissed her softly at first, then again. And when he pulled back, she was smiling at him in that familiar way that always made him feel nineteen years old and completely incapable of acting like a sensible adult.

That night they sat on the kitchen floor long after the children had gone to bed. The conversation started with practical things. Bedrooms. Schedules. Car seats. School drop-offs. Whether they were too old to start over. The answer changed depending on which one of them was speaking. Eventually the conversation changed the way conversations used to—from babies to memories, from memories to college, from college to the apartment with uneven floors and broken cabinets, from there to everything they had built since.

At some point Annie curled against his side. His arm settled around her shoulders. And Smoke thought of something he had not allowed himself to think in a very long time. He missed this. This. The feeling of sitting beside his wife with nowhere else to be. No meetings, deadlines, phones vibrating. 

Just conversation. 

Just them. 

The realization settled quietly into his chest. Because he couldn’t remember the last time they’d done it.

The weeks that followed felt lighter somehow. Life was still life. The children still had activities. Work still demanded more time than either of them wanted to give. But something had shifted. Smoke started reaching for Annie again without thinking. 

A hand on her waist as he walked past. A kiss against her shoulder while she cooked. Pulling her into his lap while she complained she had work to finish. The old rhythms returned so naturally that neither of them stopped to question it.

One evening he came home to find the twins sitting cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded by baby name books. He knew he was in trouble.

“We got suggestions,” Anaëlle announced.

Smoke sighed. Of course they did.

For the next thirty minutes, the girls presented names with the seriousness of corporate executives delivering quarterly projections. Most were terrible. A few were concerning. One appeared to come from a cartoon horse. By the end, Annie was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. The girls looked deeply offended by their lack of vision.

For a little while, the house felt exactly the way Smoke wanted it to feel forever. Warm, safe, and alive.

Later that night Annie stood in the doorway of what would eventually become the nursery. The room was empty. Just four walls and a window. Smoke found her standing there with one hand resting gently against her stomach. “What you thinkin’ about?”

She looked over her shoulder, then back into the room.  “Everything.”

He understood that. Because he was too. He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Together they looked into the empty room, already imagining furniture, pictures, blankets, a crib, a future.

Neither of them knew how dangerous hope could be. Only that it felt good to have it again. So they kept planning. Kept dreaming. Kept loving a little girl they hadn’t met yet. 

A little girl they eventually named Adeline Evangeline Moore. 

Long before they knew they shouldn’t.

The appointment fell on a Wednesday. Smoke almost rescheduled it. His calendar had become a battlefield—board meetings, investors, calls, deadlines, a hundred things demanding his attention. 

Then Annie texted him: Don’t even think about it. 

A minute later another message appeared: I know that look.

Smoke smiled despite himself: What look?

Her response came quicky: The one where you convince yourself work is more important than seeing your child.

By two o’clock he was sitting beside her in an examination room. The room looked exactly like every other medical office he’d ever been inside. Neutral paint. Fluorescent lighting. A faint smell of disinfectant beneath recycled air. 

Nothing about it felt significant. Later he would think about that—how ordinary it had looked. How life-changing moments almost never announced themselves beforehand.

Annie sat beside him scrolling through nursery ideas while they waited. For the past week she’d fallen down a rabbit hole of paint colors, rocking chairs, blankets, and furniture. The room that would become Adeline’s nursery already existed inside her imagination.

“You buying that chair?” Smoke asked.

Annie glanced up. “What chair?”

“The one you’ve been lookin’ at for three days.”

Her expression immediately turned guilty, then defensive, then guilty again. “I haven’t decided.”

“Oh you decided.”

“I’m still considering my options.”

Smoke laughed. “You already picked the chair.”

She pointed at him. “I don’t like your tone.”

He smiled. She smiled back.

A few minutes later the technician entered. Routine questions followed. Routine answers. The kind of appointment nobody remembers because it feels so normal while it’s happening. Smoke reached for Annie’s hand without thinking. She laced their fingers together automatically.

At first nothing seemed unusual. Then the technician stopped talking. The conversation simply faded away. The quiet stretched. Then stretched longer. Annie noticed first. He felt it in the way her fingers tightened around his hand.

“Everything okay?”

The technician smiled—a polite smile. Professional. Careful. “I’m going to get the doctor.”

The technician’s silence had stretched too long. Smoke felt it in the sudden tension of Annie’s fingers laced through his, in the way the sterile room seemed to shrink around them. 

The doctor arrived a few minutes later. His expression composed, but weighted with the kind of practiced gentleness that never quite masked the gravity underneath.

Smoke remembered him introducing himself. He would also remember thinking it was strange because they had already met before. He’s been their OBGYN since E.J. Later, he would understand that people often walked around difficult conversations before stepping into them.

The doctor spoke carefully, pulling up the ultrasound images on the screen. There was no heartbeat… No movement. The measurements, the development, everything had simply stopped. Adeline had passed away sometime in the days leading up to the appointment. 

A fetal demise, the doctor called it, his voice low and steady as he explained the medical realities they never wanted to learn. It happened sometimes, even in otherwise healthy pregnancies. There was no clear cause visible on the scan, no cord accident they could pinpoint at that moment, no obvious placental failure, though further testing after delivery might reveal more. For now, it was simply that her heart had stopped beating. 

Adeline Evangeline Moore was gone.

Annie’s breath caught, a small, sharp sound that cut through the quiet hum of the machine. Smoke sat frozen beside her, the words landing like stones dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward, distorting everything. The future they had sketched in quiet conversations, the nursery taking shape at home and in Annie’s mind. The names the twins had debated with such earnestness. 

It all fractured in the space of a few sentences.

They asked questions. Annie’s voice was strong at first, then weaker. Smoke held her hand tighter, but his own thoughts fractured. How? When? Why now, after everything had felt like a second chance? 

The doctor answered what he could— it was likely early in the process, detected at this routine scan. They would induce labor to deliver the baby, a procedure Annie would have to endure in the coming days. There were options for support, for testing, for grief counseling. Words that felt hollow against the weight of what they meant.

The future they had been building disappeared before either of them fully understood it had existed. Smoke looked at Annie. She was staring at the screen, at the place where hope had lived only a few moments earlier. 

And since he’d known Annie, he had absolutely no idea how to help.

The drive home blurred. Annie stared out the window at the passing world that refused to pause. Smoke kept his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel, replaying the grainy image on the screen, the stillness where there should have been life. No dramatic warning. No pain that announced itself. 

Just absence… Quiet, merciless absence.

When they pulled into the driveway, the children were already home. The house stood exactly where it always had. A basketball near the garage. Sidewalk chalk on the front steps. Evidence of a future that had continued moving while theirs stopped.

Inside, the noise hit him immediately. Normally he loved it. That afternoon it made his chest ache.

“Daddy!” Arielle looked up first, then smiled. “Did you see Addy?”

The question landed like a punch. Smoke felt Annie freeze beside him. Only for a second. A tiny pause most people wouldn’t have noticed. 

He did. 

The conversation that followed became one of the hardest moments of his life. Harder than boardrooms, professional failures, and any challenge he had ever faced. Because there was no protecting them from it. No version of the story that hurt less. Only the truth.

The girls cried first. Then the boys. By bedtime the entire house felt different. Quieter. Like it was missing something. Like everyone had unconsciously lowered their voices.

That night Smoke climbed into bed and found Annie already lying there. An ultrasound picture rested on the nightstand. His eyes found it. A grainy collection of shadows. Nothing extraordinary to anyone else. Everything to them. He reached across the mattress and rested his hand on her shoulder. Annie didn’t pull away. She didn’t move closer either. The distance remained. Not physical. Something else. 

Something neither of them knew how to cross.

The induction happened two days later. Smoke remembered almost none of it in order. Only pieces. Annie squeezing his hand until his fingers went numb. The unbearable quiet that followed. The nurse asked, gently, whether they wanted more time.

Annie did.

She held Adeline for nearly an hour, tracing tiny fingers that looked impossibly complete. “Look,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She has your hands.”

Smoke looked. She did. Long fingers. Tiny fingernails.

Perfect.

He’d spent his entire life believing fathers were supposed to protect their children. Standing beside that hospital bed, he had never felt more useless.

The days that followed blurred into a fog of arrangements and condolences. The ultrasound picture on the nightstand became both talisman and wound. Annie spoke of Adeline often in the weeks after, weaving her into the fabric of their days as if naming her presence could keep some part of her alive. 

Smoke listened, nodded, held her when the tears came. But inside, the helplessness gnawed at him. 

At first, Smoke did everything he knew how to do. He canceled meetings. Slept beside her during the day when she couldn’t face getting out of bed. Heated food neither of them ate. Held her through crying spells that lasted until dawn.

He tried. God, he tried.

But grief refused to behave like every other problem he’d ever solved. There was nothing to solve. Nothing to fix. Nothing he could build that would give them their daughter back.

So… distance grew. Annie carried the loss openly, a mother mourning the child she had already named. Smoke carried it inward, retreating to the one place where effort still yielded results.

Work.

One evening Annie found him in his office long after the children had gone to bed. He was staring at a spreadsheet without really seeing it. She stood in the doorway for a moment before speaking.

“Can you come sit with me?”

Smoke looked up. “Give me ten minutes.”

He meant it. He truly did.

Annie nodded. “Okay.”

By the time he walked upstairs, the bedroom lamp was off. She was lying on her side, awake, pretending to be asleep. Smoke kissed her forehead before climbing into bed beside her.

Neither of them said a word.

For Smoke—work had answers, solutions, and rewarded effort. 

Grief didn’t. 

Annie wasn’t asking him to fix her pain. She only wanted him to sit beside her in it. 

And soon—Annie stopped asking.

By the time he understood the difference, the distance between them had already begun to grow.

Everything We Asked For

The first time Smoke knew something was wrong, it wasn’t because Annie said anything. It was because she forgot a meeting.

In thirteen years together, Annie forgetting something was rare enough to be memorable. Forgetting something important was almost unheard of. It came on a Tuesday afternoon while Smoke sat in a conference room halfway through a budget review. His phone vibrated once against the polished table. Then again. Then a third time. Ordinarily he would’ve ignored it, but the screen lit up with Annie’s name.

He excused himself from the meeting and stepped into the hallway before returning the call. She answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

Something in her voice immediately caught his attention. Exhaustion. The kind that settled deep in your bones, the kind that sleep didn’t seem capable of fixing.

“You alright?”

A pause. Then a small, tired laugh. “Apparently not.”

Smoke frowned, leaning against the cool wall. “What happened?”

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

Another pause. 

“My keynote.”

For a moment he thought he’d misheard her. “You forgot your keynote?”

“I forgot my keynote.”

The conference had been scheduled for months. Annie had prepared for it for weeks. Presentations, notes, practice sessions, the kind of preparation she normally approached with military precision. 

And somehow she had missed it entirely.

Smoke closed his eyes briefly. “Baby.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer bothered him, because Annie always knew. Even when things went wrong, she usually knew why. This time she didn’t. Or maybe she couldn’t explain it.

By the time he got home that evening, she had already moved on from the conversation, at least outwardly. The children were scattered throughout the house: E.J. At practice, Ethan occupied the kitchen island with homework, the twins transforming the dining room into an art studio. Everything looked normal. But Smoke couldn’t stop thinking about the phone call.

Over the next several weeks, he started noticing things. Little things. Annie skipped meals. Forgot emails. Lost track of appointments. Nothing catastrophic or alarming, but it was enough for him.

One night he found her asleep on top of the comforter before nine o’clock. The lamp remained on. Her laptop sat open beside her. Reading glasses had slipped sideways across her face. Smoke stood in the doorway looking at her. The house was quiet. The children were asleep. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Annie looked exhausted, not just physically, but something deeper. The sight lodged itself somewhere beneath his ribs.

Three weeks later, Annie walked into the kitchen and found a woman sitting at the island. The woman stood promptly. She looked professional, polished, and friendly.

“Mrs. Moore. Nice to finally meet you.”

Annie stopped, coffee mug halfway to her mouth. She looked at Smoke, then back at the woman, then back at Smoke. “Who is this?”

Smoke glanced up from his laptop. “Good morning.”

“Elijah.”

He hid a smile. “What?”

“Who is this?”

The woman extended her hand. “I’m Danielle.”

Annie shook it automatically, still looking confused. And still looking at Smoke. 

Danielle smiled. “I’m your new house manager.”

Silence.

Smoke watched Annie process the sentence. The blinking started first. Then the frown. 

“What do you mean, house manager?”

Smoke closed his laptop. “The kids. The schedules. The activities. The house.”

“Elijah.”

“You’ve got too much on your plate.”

Her expression softened, just slightly. Enough for him to know he’d touched the truth. 

He wasn’t wrong. 

The children were getting older, not easier. Her business continued growing. The household practically operated like a small corporation. And after Adeline… everything seemed to require twice the energy it once had.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

Annie looked away. 

Smoke continued, because now he could see the solution clearly. Danielle would coordinate schedules, handle vendors, manage travel, track activities, carry some of the weight Annie had been carrying alone. 

By the end of the conversation Annie was smiling. Tired, but smiling. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.”

Relief settled inside him. 

Good. 

He’d fixed it. Or at least helped.

That was how problems had always made sense to him. Find the pressure point. Figure out what could be moved, changed, delegated, handled. Annie had too much on her plate, so he had taken something off it. Not everything. He knew better than to think one person could magically make her life easier overnight. But enough that maybe she could breathe again.

That evening he came home expecting Annie to look lighter. Less overwhelmed. Instead he found her sitting alone on the back patio watching the sun go down. A blanket draped across her lap. A cup of tea cooling beside her. She smiled when she saw him. Warm, genuine—and yet something still felt wrong.

Smoke sat beside her. Wrapped an arm around her shoulders when she leaned against him. They watched the backyard together in comfortable quiet. 

He tried to make sense of it. Danielle had already taken over half the things Annie had been struggling to keep straight. The calendar was organized. The house was handled. The children’s schedules no longer depended on Annie remembering every practice, appointment, form, and deadline herself.

She had help now.

So why did she still seem tired?

Not the kind of tired sleep fixed. Something else.

Smoke looked down when Annie tucked herself closer against his side. His hand moved absently along her arm. He could ask. The thought came and went.

She was resting against him. The house was handled. For once, nobody needed anything from either of them. Maybe this was what she needed too. A little time. Less pressure. Room to breathe.

So Smoke kissed the top of her head and held her closer.Everything around him looked exactly the way he’d always imagined it would. The house. The children. The life. He told himself the rest would follow.

It usually did.

So why did she still seem sad? Smoke didn’t have an answer… yet. He had reduced the workload. He had removed some of the pressure. Annie had told him herself that Danielle was exactly what they needed. So why wasn’t she lighter?

The answers didn’t arrive all at once. It arrived a few minutes here. An hour there. A canceled dinner. A postponed weekend. Tiny things that never seemed important enough to argue about on their own. Life simply kept asking for more of them, and they kept saying yes.

During those years, Elijah accepted another promotion. The title came with a corner office, a larger team, and responsibilities that seemed to multiply overnight. Annie’s business was flourishing too. Invitations to keynote conferences arrived months in advance. Hospitals sought her advice. Healthcare organizations paid for her expertise. The work they had spent years building was bearing fruit in abundance. They celebrated the promotion over takeout Chinese food because neither of them had the energy to go out.

“Look at us,” Annie said, lifting her carton in a mock toast.

Smoke bumped his against hers.

“We made it.”

He smiled. “We did.”

They meant every word. Neither of them knew that success had quietly changed what “making it” looked like.

At first it was temporary. A late meeting. An early flight. A client dinner. A conference that couldn’t be moved. They adapted the way they always had.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Ok.”

“Rain check?”

“Sure.”

The promises were always sincere. That was never the problem. And Smoke always tried to keep them. That mattered to him. If work took Thursday night, he protected Saturday morning. If a meeting ran through dinner, he brought Annie something home and climbed into bed beside her later, exhausted but there. If he missed something, he found another place to show up. That was what responsibility meant to him. You couldn’t always control what happened, but you could control what you did afterward.

Make a mistake. Correct it. Lose time. Find more. For years, that had worked. Or at least Smoke thought it had. Lately, every replacement seemed to need replacing.

Saturday morning became a call he couldn’t ignore. A weekend away got pushed because Annie had a conference. Dinner became eleven o’clock takeout eaten beside laptops because neither of them had finished working.

Nobody was doing anything wrong. That was what made it so difficult to recognize. There was no villain in their house. No affair. No secret. No one choosing not to come home. Just two people who kept promising each other the next available piece of themselves.

Smoke noticed it. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew Annie had grown quieter when he said he was running late. Knew her “okay” sounded different than it had years ago. Knew sometimes when he finally climbed into bed, she was already asleep—or pretending to be. And every time, the same uncomfortable pressure gathered beneath his ribs— He needed to do better. So he tried.

He moved meetings. Delegated more. Came home early only to find Annie working late herself. Planned dinners that got interrupted by children. Protected weekends that disappeared beneath games, recitals, family obligations, and the thousand ordinary demands of the life they had built together.

Sometimes it worked. They would have a good night. Laugh over dinner. Make love. Stay up talking longer than they should. And Smoke would lie beside her afterward thinking— There.

There you are.

There we are.

Then a week later Annie would look at him with that same sadness he still couldn’t identify, and something inside him would sink. Because he was trying. God, he was trying. But lately loving Annie felt like being handed a problem with half the information missing. He could see something hurt. He just couldn’t figure out where to put his hands. So he returned to what he understood. Handle what could be handled. Fix what could be fixed.

Keep moving.

Work had taught him that effort eventually produced an answer. He hadn’t yet accepted that marriage didn’t always work that way.

Danielle proved invaluable almost immediately, to Annie. The laundry stayed folded. Appointments stopped slipping through the cracks. The pantry remained stocked without either of them remembering who had gone grocery shopping. School forms appeared already signed. Birthday gifts were purchased before anyone knew a party was approaching. The machinery of their household ran more smoothly than it had in years.

Annie appreciated all of it. She appreciated Danielle. She appreciated Elijah for seeing she needed help. But every evening, after the children went to do homework, shower, or bedtime, Annie still found herself looking toward the front door.

Danielle had managed the house beautifully. But she couldn’t manage the one thing Annie missed most.

Elijah.

The corporate gala occupied the ballroom of one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead. Champagne flowed freely. Every conversation sounded expensive. The moment they walked through the doors, people started pulling Elijah away—investors, executives, board members. People who wanted his opinion, his attention… his time.

Annie didn’t mind. She’d spent years watching him build this. Watching rooms underestimate him before eventually understanding who they were dealing with. Pride still swelled inside her every time it happened.

At one point she found herself standing near the bar waiting for another conversation to end. Across the room, Elijah stood surrounded by investors. Someone asked a question. He answered. Everyone listened. The group laughed. A woman touched his arm. A man clapped him on the shoulder. 

Elijah looked engaged. Present. 

Suddenly, Annie felt something she hadn’t expected. Recognition. There you are. It startled her how quickly she recognized him. He hadn’t really changed. That version of Elijah had never disappeared. She had simply stopped being the person who received the best of him.

The thought appeared before she could stop it. Her chest tightened. Because she hadn’t imagined this version of him. He was still there. The man who used to spend entire Saturdays talking to her about everything and nothing. The man who called during lunch just to hear her voice. The man who couldn’t walk past her in a hallway without touching her. 

He still existed. She was looking right at him. Which raised a question Annie didn’t know how to answer. 

If he was still here… why did she feel so far away from him?

The thought followed her home. Followed her upstairs and into bed. Elijah climbed beneath the covers nearly an hour later—tired, content, successful. He reached for her automatically. An arm around her waist. A kiss against her shoulder. 

Familiar. Comforting. The touch of a man who loved her. 

Smoke didn’t notice anything unusual. That would bother him later. To him, the night had been good. Annie looked beautiful. She had stood beside him while people congratulated him, smiled when he introduced her, laughed at the right moments, slipped her hand into his when they finally left the ballroom.

He knew he’d spent too much of the evening talking to other people. That came with these things. Annie understood that. She always had. And now she was here. His wife. Warm beneath his arm. Smoke kissed her shoulder and felt her relax against him.

Something inside him loosened.

There.

For all the meetings, flights, schedules, children, and responsibilities constantly demanding pieces of them, this remained. He reached for her. She let him. Smoke closed his eyes. He thought that meant they were okay.

Annie lay awake inside his arms and wondered when being loved by her husband had started feeling so different from being known by him. She then closed her eyes. For a moment she tried to force herself to enjoy the closeness. Then a thought settled quietly into her chest. She wasn’t grieving Adeline anymore. Not entirely. 

She would always grieve Adeline. Always wonder who her daughter would have become. But the ache she carried now felt larger than that. More complicated. Because somewhere along the way she had started grieving her marriage too. 

After that evening, Annie began noticing things she had once dismissed. Elijah answered work calls during Saturday breakfasts. He still came to football games, but sometimes left before the second half. He never forgot birthdays. Never missed anniversaries. And hadn’t stopped kissing her goodbye every morning. But the conversations grew shorter.

The moments grew smaller.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Let me finish this email.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He always came. Eventually.

Without either of them intending it, they had started fitting each other into the spaces left over after everything else had been taken care of.

Months later it followed her into a middle school auditorium. The showcase started at six. By five-thirty, Annie was already seated in the second row, Arielle had specifically asked her not to sit in the back. The auditorium buzzed with conversation. Parents filled rows of seats. Teachers moved through the aisles. Student artwork lined display boards around the room. Annie checked her phone. Nothing. 

Then, ten minutes before the program started, it buzzed: Running fifteen behind. Should still make it before they start. A familiar knot formed in her stomach. 

She typed back: Okay.

A minute later another message appeared: Tell Arielle I’m on my way.

Annie slipped the phone into her purse. Everything was fine. Fifteen minutes wasn’t a big deal. Life happened. People ran late.

The showcase began promptly at six. The principal welcomed everyone. Teachers spoke. Students were recognized. Annie kept one eye on the stage and the other on the doors. 

At 6:10 her phone buzzed again: Running later than expected. Sorry.

The knot tightened slightly. She wasn’t angry. She understood. There was always something understandable. Traffic. Meetings. Client— Reasons. 

Always reasons.

At 6:25 Arielle’s name was called. Annie sat up straighter. Applause filled the room. Arielle walked onto the stage calm, composed, far calmer than Annie felt. The artwork appeared on the large screen behind her. A watercolor painting. Beautiful. The audience applauded again. The art teacher spoke about creativity and storytelling. Arielle accepted her certificate, smiled politely, then looked towards the audience, her family, then towards the empty seat beside Annie.

The moment lasted less than a second. Most would have missed it. Annie didn’t. Something inside her cracked. Quietly. Like ice separating beneath the surface of water.

The program continued. Annie sat perfectly still. At 6:38 the doors finally opened. Elijah stepped inside breathless, suit jacket over one arm, flowers in the other. His eyes found his family. Relief crossed his face. He’d made it. At least partially. He slipped into the seat beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were familiar. 

Too familiar. 

Annie looked at him. The flowers, the apology, the exhaustion. Sincerity. Because he meant it. That was the thing—he always meant it. Every apology. Every promise. Every attempt. He meant all of them. And sitting there beside him, Annie felt something she hadn’t expected. 

Nothing. 

No anger or disappointment. Only certainty. The thought arrived quietly. Without bitterness or accusation. 

Just certainty. 

After the showcase ended, Arielle spent twenty minutes answering questions about her painting. Smoke spent those same twenty minutes making up for lost time by praising her work, taking pictures, asking questions, and telling anyone who would listen how talented his daughter was. Arielle smiled through all of it. Happy, proud, and loved.

As they walked toward the parking lot later that evening, Arielle slipped her hand into Annie’s. “Daddy saw it.” The words came out soft. Hopeful. 

Not a question. 

A statement.

Annie looked down at her daughter. Then back at Elijah laughing with the boys several feet ahead. A good father. A good husband. A good man. Annie squeezed Arielle’s hand. “Yeah, baby. He did.”

Arielle smiled wider. 

Annie couldn’t remember the last time she had waited by the door believing Elijah would arrive exactly when he said he would.

Smoke drove home that night angry with himself. He should’ve made it. Not part of it. All of it.

He had blocked the time on his calendar. Told his assistant nothing got scheduled after four-thirty. Left the office with more than enough time. Then a call came. One call— That became three. By the time he walked into the auditorium carrying flowers, Arielle had already received her certificate.

Smoke had seen the disappointment on Annie’s face. He had seen something else too. Resignation. That bothered him more. Years ago, she would’ve said something before they even reached the car.

“You said you were going to be there.”

“I know.”

“You always say that.”

And then they would argue. Smoke would explain. Annie would tell him an explanation wasn’t an apology. He would get irritated because he had already apologized. She would get irritated because he was irritated. Eventually, they would find their way through it. Tonight, Annie hadn’t said anything. At first, Smoke was grateful. He didn’t have the energy for another argument about something he already knew he’d gotten wrong. He had been late. He felt like shit about it. Arielle had forgiven him. He had spent twenty minutes making sure his daughter knew exactly how proud he was of her.

There was nothing Annie could say that he hadn’t already said to himself. Still, driving behind her car toward home, he couldn’t stop thinking about how easily she had let it go. The thought should have worried him more than it did. Instead, part of him wondered if maybe they were learning.

Maybe after fifteen years they had finally reached the point where every mistake didn’t have to become an autopsy. Maybe Annie understood that being late didn’t mean he didn’t care. Maybe she knew that when he said he was trying, he meant it.

Because he was.

He had started declining more invitations. Handing meetings to other people. Blocking family events on his calendar months in advance. He ate dinner at home more often than he had the year before. His phone still rang too much, but sometimes he let it.

He noticed those things. He assumed Annie did too. And lately they weren’t fighting as much. She didn’t complain when he answered an email in bed. Didn’t ask when he planned to finish working. She didn’t remind him that he had promised to be downstairs twenty minutes ago. And she stopped appearing in his office doorway late at night asking him to come sit with her.

That last one should have told him everything. Instead, Smoke mistook the absence of conflict for peace. He thought maybe the worst of it had passed. Not fixed. He wasn’t naive enough to think fifteen years of marriage could be repaired because they’d gone a few weeks without an argument.

But better. They had to be better.

Didn’t they?

He was coming home. He was showing up. He was trying. And Annie had stopped telling him it wasn’t enough.

Smoke never considered that she had stopped telling him because saying it had become more exhausting than carrying it herself. He thought she had stopped asking because she finally trusted that he would come. 

Annie had stopped asking because she no longer expected him to. She hadn’t stopped loving him. She’d stopped expecting him. 

She couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened. There hadn’t been one argument. One betrayal. One decision. Just hundreds of ordinary days that slowly rearranged the center of their marriage until, without either of them noticing, they were standing beside one another instead of with one another.

Everything they had ever prayed for had finally become theirs. Somehow, in the process of building it, they had started losing each other.

Things We Never Said

The fight started over the thermostat. Annie would hate that fact, it was embarrassing, high-key ridiculous. When people imagined marriages ending, they pictured betrayal, affairs, screaming matches, or cruel words that could never be taken back. Nobody imagined a thermostat. Nobody imagined two exhausted people standing in a kitchen, arguing about things that were never really the problem.

They’d stopped arguing long before this night. Exhaustion had replaced conflict. It was easier to let another disappointment pass than to spend the little energy they had explaining why it hurt. Neither of them thought that peace and distance could sometimes look frighteningly alike.

The house was quiet that night. Unusually quiet. The children were gone for the weekend—E.J. traveling with his team, Ethan spending the night at a friend’s house, the twins having talked their Uncle Stack into a sleepover. For the first time in months, maybe years, Annie and Smoke had the entire house to themselves. Neither knew what to do with it. That should’ve worried them. Instead, they treated the silence like another item on an already crowded to-do list.

Annie sat at the kitchen island answering emails. Smoke stood near the sink scrolling through messages on his phone. A TV series played softly in the background from the Echo Show, though neither of them was watching it. 

The thermostat clicked. 

A few seconds later, Annie frowned. “Why is it so cold in here?”

Smoke didn’t look up. “Because it’s eighty-eight degrees outside.”

“It’s freezing.”

“It’s seventy-one.”

Annie looked towards the thermostat, then back at him. “Why is it seventy-one?”

Smoke finally lifted his head. “Because that’s what it’s set at.”

She stared at him. He stared back. The conversation should have ended there. Instead, Annie stood and crossed to the wall. A second later, the temperature setting changed.

Smoke looked up. “You serious?”

“Yes.”

“It’s one degree.”

“It’s my degree.”

He laughed. Wrong move.

Immediately the look appeared on Annie’s face, the one that warned him he was standing near something he didn’t fully understand. 

“You know what?” she said.

“Nah.”

“You were supposed to call the contractor.”

Smoke frowned. “What contractor?”

“The contractor.”

“The contractor for what?”

“The roof, Elijah.”

His expression changed—slightly, but enough. He remembered. The leak. The one she had mentioned twice. Maybe three times. He’d forgotten. And forgetting wasn’t normal for him. Not when it came to her.

“I’ve been busy.”

The second the words left his mouth, Annie’s face changed. “Right.”

Smoke straightened. “What that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like.”

“I said I’d handle it.”

“You forgot.”

“I forgot one thing.”

Annie laughed—a short, humorless sound. “One thing.”

Smoke felt irritation rise. Now he was being judged for a mistake? He’d forgotten. He already knew he had forgotten. But somewhere beneath the irritation was something older. Something that had been collecting every time he moved a meeting, came home early, made up for a missed dinner, rearranged a weekend, showed up late but still showed up—and somehow found himself standing in front of the same disappointment on Annie’s face.

He was trying. Why couldn’t she see that?

“You act like I don’t do nothin’.”

Annie blinked. The statement surprised both of them. Smoke heard it the second it left his mouth. He knew it wasn’t what he meant. But it was there now, and Annie had heard it.

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The kitchen went quiet. 

Annie folded her arms slowly. “You know what?”

Smoke already knew he wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “What?”

“I can’t remember the last time I asked you for something that wasn’t related to this house, the kids, or your schedule.”

The words landed harder than he expected. A part of him knew she was right. He just didn’t understand why that mattered. 

“We have four children.”

“I know.”

“We have responsibilities.”

“I know that.”

“We built all this.”

Annie laughed again. The sound hurt this time. “I know.”

Something about the way she said it made Smoke’s chest tighten. She wasn’t disagreeing. That would have been easier if she was. Instead she sounded exhausted. Like someone who had spent years carrying something heavy. Years hoping the other person would eventually notice.

“You know what the problem is?” she asked quietly.

Smoke looked at her. “No.”

“I believe you love me.”

The answer caught him completely off guard. For a second he simply stared. Because that wasn’t where he thought this conversation was going. 

“I do.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked slightly. The sound immediately put him on edge. “I know you love me.”

Silence stretched. Then she looked away—towards the living room, towards the life they’d spent years building, towards everything they had once wanted. And when she spoke again, her voice was softer. That somehow made it worse. 

“I just don’t think you see me anymore.”

The words hit him like a punch. Not because they were cruel. Because they felt impossible. 

“What are you talking about?”

Her laugh was small. Disbelieving. Exactly the kind of laugh people made when they discovered they’d been speaking a different language from someone they loved. 

“What am I talking about?”

“Annie—”

“I had a keynote last year and forgot it.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened. “What does that have to do with this?”

“You hired Danielle.”

“Because you needed help.”

“I needed you.” 

Annie took a deep breath and continued. “You kept finding people to carry pieces of my life.” Her voice trembled. “But nobody could carry the part that belonged to you.”

The words landed. Hard. Smoke felt something shift inside his chest. 

Annie shook her head. Tears gathered in her eyes. She didn’t bother wiping them away. “I wasn’t drowning because of schedules.” Her voice broke. “I was drowning because I was lonely.”

The TV series continued playing in the background. But they didn’t hear it. 

Smoke stared at her. Actually stared. Because suddenly he felt like he’d missed something important. Something enormous. Something that had been happening right in front of him.

“I was there.”

The words came out immediately. Instinctively. Like a defense. Annie closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were shining. 

“No.” 

Smoke flinched. She didn’t say it angrily. She said it sadly. “No, Elijah.” The use of his name felt worse than shouting. “I know you were physically there.” Her voice softened. “But somewhere, I stopped being your place to rest.”

The words settled heavily between them. 

Smoke looked away first—towards the dark windows, to the backyard. To anything that wasn’t her face. A part of him knew she was describing something real. He just couldn’t see the shape of it. And if Elijah “Smoke” Moore knew anything, it was how to solve problems he could understand.

Work problems. 

Business problems. 

Financial problems. 

Logistical problems. 

He had built an entire life fixing problems. But standing in that kitchen, looking at his wife, he couldn’t find a solution. He didn’t know what to do.

Annie watched him. Waited. Hoped for an explanation, understanding. Maybe for him to finally say the thing she had needed to hear for years. Instead Smoke said the worst possible thing. “I’ve been carrying a lot too.”

The second the words left his mouth, Annie’s face changed. Like a door quietly closing. Because she heard what he meant. Even if he hadn’t meant it that way. 

She nodded, slowly. “I know.”

Smoke took a step toward her. “Annie—”

“No.” She shook her head. The tears were falling now. Silent. Unstoppable. 

“No.” She looked tired. 

Done. 

The thought terrified him. Annie fought for things she loved. Always had. She argued. Pushed. Demanded. Stayed. This version of her wasn’t fighting. This version looked like she had run out of strength.

“You don’t even know what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Smoke opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because the horrible truth was… he wasn’t sure he did.

Annie looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded once. Mostly to herself. As though something had finally become clear. When she spoke, her voice was almost calm. 

“I think you should leave for a while.”

The words didn’t register immediately. Smoke stared at her. “What?”

“I think we need space.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Annie didn’t threaten things. She didn’t use ultimatums. She didn’t play games. If she said something, she meant it. 

“Annie.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Fear arrived then. Quiet, cold, and unfamiliar. Smoke felt it in his bones. They were no longer talking about a thermostat. Or a contractor. Or a missed keynote. They were talking about their marriage. And he had arrived at that conclusion far too late.

That night Annie packed a bag for him while he sat downstairs trying to understand how they had gotten there. When she carried it to the front door, neither of them spoke. 

The silence felt enormous. 

Smoke took the bag from her. Looked at her and waited. Part of him expected her to stop him. To say something. To change her mind. Instead Annie just stood there. Exhausted. Heartbroken. Certain. The sight hurt more than any argument ever could. 

Smoke reached up, brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then kissed her forehead. The gesture was so familiar it almost broke them both. “Goodnight, Annie.”

Her eyes closed. Just for a second. When they opened again, they were full of tears. “Goodnight, Elijah.”

Smoke walked out the front door. 

And for the first time since freshman year, neither one followed.

Almost

For the first several days after Elijah left, neither of them told the children.

There was always a reason to wait. E.J. was traveling with his team and Annie refused to tell him over the phone. Ethan had a test coming up. The twins had already cried when their daddy hadn’t returned home Sunday night, but Annie had managed to explain his absence with a vague answer about their father needing time to think.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Elijah needed time to think. The problem was, thinking had never required him to leave his family before.

He stayed in one of the furnished apartments his company maintained downtown for visiting executives. It was expensive, quiet, and impersonal. The refrigerator contained bottled water, three miniature jars of mustard, and nothing else. The walls were painted a neutral gray. The furniture looked as though it had been selected by someone who believed human beings should never leave evidence that they had lived anywhere.

Smoke hated it.

The first night, he barely slept. He lay in the unfamiliar bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the mechanical hum of the air conditioning and waiting for sounds that never came. No footsteps in the hallway. No television playing too loudly downstairs. No child opening the bedroom door because they needed water, advice, money, or reassurance that the shadow beside their closet wasn’t moving.

No Annie moving beneath the covers beside him.

He checked his phone more times than he could count. Nothing. He had expected anger. A message demanding to know when he planned to collect the rest of his clothes. Another argument. Something.

Annie sent him the twins’ updated dance schedule. Smoke stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

Then he typed: Got it. He deleted it.

Typed: Thank you. Deleted that too.

Eventually, he responded with a thumbs-up.

Annie stared at the reaction when it appeared on her screen, then locked her phone and placed it facedown on the nightstand. Something about that tiny yellow hand made her want to reach through the phone and punch him. Instead, she turned off the lamp and lay on his side of the bed.

They told the children the following Friday.

Smoke arrived twenty minutes early and sat in his Mercedes G Wagon at the end of the driveway until Annie texted him that everyone was home. He had lived in that house for more than a decade. His name was on the deed. Most of the furniture had been chosen after months of arguing with Annie over fabrics, colors, and whether cream-colored chairs made sense in a house with four children.

Still, when he reached the front door, he knocked.

Annie’s chest tightened at the sound. She opened it and found him standing on the porch wearing dark jeans and a black sweater, one hand tucked into his pocket. His wedding ring caught the porch light.

Neither said a word to one another.

Then Annie broke the silence. “You didn’t have to knock,” Annie said.

Smoke looked past her into the house. “Felt like I did.”

The answer hurt more than she expected, so she stepped aside.

The children gathered in the living room. E.J. sat on the edge of an armchair, shoulders rigid, suspicion already written across his face. Ethan occupied one end of the couch, turning his phone over and over between his hands. The twins sat pressed together beneath a blanket, Anaëlle holding Arielle’s fingers tightly in her lap.

Annie sat beside them. Smoke remained standing until Arielle looked up and asked, “Why you all the way over there?”

He sat immediately.

They explained it carefully. There had been problems. Adult problems. Things they needed time to work through. Smoke would be staying somewhere else for a while, but he would still see them all the time. Their routines would change, but their family would not disappear.

The explanation sounded reasonable. The children hated it anyway. They said nothing for a while.

Anaëlle’s bottom lip trembled first. “So… Daddy’s not coming home tonight?”

Annie felt the question lodge somewhere beneath her ribs. “Not tonight, baby.”

Anaëlle nodded once, then immediately buried her face against Annie’s shoulder, tears coming before she could stop them. Annie wrapped both arms around her automatically, kissing the top of her head while her own eyes burned.

Beside them, Arielle hadn’t cried. She was watching Smoke. Really watching him. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle that refused to fit together.

Ethan finally broke the silence. “So… how long is ‘for a while’?”

Smoke looked at Annie before answering. “We don’t know.”

Ethan frowned. “You mean you haven’t decided?”

“No.”

His fingers kept turning his phone over and over. “But y’all always have a plan.”

Neither Annie nor Smoke answered. Then—

“Are y’all getting divorced?” E.J. asked.

Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at her.

“We don’t know,” Annie answered.

E.J. stood so quickly the chair moved backwards. “How do you not know?”

“E.J.—”

“Nah.” His eyes moved between them. “Y’all been married our whole lives and now you don’t know?”

Smoke leaned forward, forearms resting against his thighs. “Sit down, son.”

“I don’t wanna sit down.”

“I understand you angry.”

“You don’t understand nothin’.”

“E.J.,” Annie warned.

Smoke lifted one hand before she could continue. “Let him be mad.”

His son stared at him, breathing hard. Smoke held his gaze. “You can be mad at me. You can be mad at your mama. But this ain’t because of you. It ain’t because of your brother or your sisters either. Nothin’ any of y’all did caused this.”

“Then fix it.”

The room went painfully still. Anaëlle began crying harder. Arielle reached across the blanket and took her sister’s hand without looking away from her parents. Ethan lowered his head. For the first time in years, there wasn’t an answer he could reason his way towards. Smoke’s face barely changed, but Annie saw the words strike him.

E.J. swallowed. His voice sounded younger when he spoke again. “You fix everything else.”

Smoke looked down at his hands. For once, he had no answer.

The first few weeks became an exhausting lesson in logistics.

Smoke collected the children Friday afternoons and returned them Sunday evenings. During the week, he attended games, practices, recitals, parent meetings, and school functions whenever his schedule allowed. He still paid every bill connected to the house. He still called Ethan on Wednesdays to help with advanced mathematics and texted E.J. before every game. The twins FaceTimed him nearly every night, sometimes carrying the phone from room to room as though he were still walking through the house beside them.

From the outside, the arrangement looked almost civilized. Inside it, Annie and Smoke struggled over everything. 

He arrived too early. She changed pickup times without asking him. He bought the twins new tablets after Annie had already told them no. She scheduled a weekend trip during one of his designated weekends. He accused her of controlling access to the children. She accused him of trying to overcompensate with gifts.

Most arguments began over logistics and ended somewhere far more personal.

“You can’t just show up whenever you feel like it.”

“This is my house too.”

“You don’t live here anymore.”

“Because you told me to leave.”“And you did.”

Smoke stared at her.

Annie wished she could pull the words back. Not because they weren’t true, but because of the look that crossed his face when she said them.

Neither apologized.

There were softer moments too, which somehow made everything worse. The first time Smoke returned the children, he walked them inside without thinking. The twins ran upstairs to show Annie something they had bought. Ethan headed toward the kitchen. E.J. disappeared into the living room. Smoke remained near the front door holding Arielle’s overnight bag. Annie reached for it. Their fingers touched. A familiar current passed between them, immediate and unwelcome.

“Thank you,” she said.

Smoke nodded. “They ate already.”

“Okay.”

“Ethan’s got a project due Tuesday.”

“I know.”

“He said he needed—”

“I know, Smoke.”

His mouth closed.

Annie regretted her tone instantly, but exhaustion prevented her from softening it.

Smoke handed her the bag. Then, without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. The gesture lasted only a second. Muscle memory. Marriage memory.

Both of them froze.

Smoke stepped back first. “My fault.”

Annie’s throat tightened. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. He left without saying goodnight. 

But the biggest “almost” happened three months into the separation.

Smoke had come by Saturday morning to collect the children for a weekend at his brother’s lake house. E.J. and Ethan were arguing upstairs over a missing charger. The twins were still packing despite Annie having told them repeatedly to be ready by ten.

Smoke stood in the kitchen drinking coffee from his old mug. Black ceramic. White lettering. WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD.

Arielle had bought it for him when she was seven.

“You could’ve used a clean cup,” Annie said.

Smoke glanced down. “This one was clean.”

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes met hers over the rim. Annie looked away first. She crossed into the pantry to find snacks for the drive. The space was expansive, shelves lining both walls from floor to ceiling. She reached for a box on the highest shelf and heard Smoke enter behind her.

“I got it.”

“I can reach.”

“You can’t.”

“I absolutely can.”

Smoke stepped closer. His chest brushed her back as he reached over her head. His body fit against hers with a familiarity that made the last three months disappear. Annie went still. Smoke did too. For one suspended moment, they didn’t move. Then his free hand found her waist. His palm settled against the curve of her hip the same way it had thousands of times before. Annie’s eyes closed. “Smoke.”

He lowered the box onto the shelf beside her, but he didn’t step away. His mouth brushed the side of her neck. A soft kiss. Barely there.

Annie exhaled shakily. Smoke kissed her again, this time below her ear, the spot where he knew she was sensitive. Her hand gripped the edge of the shelf. “We can’t,” she whispered.

“I know.” He kissed her there again.

Annie turned in his arms.The first kiss landed somewhere between an accident and a decision. Their mouths met softly, hesitantly, testing whether the connection they had spent months trying to ignore still existed.

It did.

The second kiss carried no hesitation. Smoke backed her against the shelves, one hand sliding into her hair while the other drew her closer. Annie gripped the front of his sweater, kissing him with every lonely night she had spent reaching across an empty bed. Every morning she had awakened before remembering he no longer lived there. Every conversation that had ended before either of them said what they actually meant.

The third kiss broke slowly. Neither of them moved. Smoke rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek as though reminding himself she was real.

“We shouldn’t,” Annie whispered.

“I know.”

Neither stepped away. Smoke kissed her again. This time there was urgency.

Years of habit, longing, grief, and love collapsed into a single moment. Annie’s hands slid from his sweater to his shoulders, then around his neck, pulling him closer as though she could erase every mile that had separated them over the past months. Smoke answered with a low groan against her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest and unraveling what little restraint either of them still possessed.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, settling against the warmth of her waist, then higher, palm spanning bare skin. Annie’s fingers found the buckle of his belt and worked it open without thought, both of them moving with the instinctive familiarity of people who knew each other’s bodies better than they knew how to live apart. He kissed along her jaw, then down the side of her throat, lingering there just long enough to make her eyes flutter closed. She pushed his sweater up, needing the heat of his skin under her hands. His fingers slid to the waistband of her leggings, already starting to ease them down as he pressed her more firmly against the shelves.

For one impossible moment, it felt as though nothing had happened. No arguments. No miscommunication. No separation. Only them.

“Daddy?”

They broke apart.

Anaëlle’s voice came from the kitchen.

Smoke’s forehead dropped to Annie’s shoulder. His belt hung open between them. Annie’s shirt had ridden above her waist; one of her hands was still fisted in the fabric of his sweater. Neither seemed capable of moving.

“Daddy?” Anaëlle called again. “Where are you?”

Smoke closed his eyes. “Pantry.”

“What are you doing?”

Annie pressed her lips together.

Smoke looked at the abandoned snack box. “Getting snacks.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Can you get the spicy chips?”

“Yeah.”

Anaëlle’s footsteps retreated. 

The quiet that followed felt entirely different. Annie lowered her shirt. Smoke fastened his belt with deliberate movements. Neither looked directly at the other.

“We can’t do this,” Annie said.

Smoke leaned against the opposite shelf. “We ain’t do nothin’.”

She gave him a look. His mouth twitched, but the humor vanished quickly.

“This is exactly what I mean.” Annie folded her arms tightly across herself. “We keep acting like nothing has changed whenever it’s convenient.”

“Didn’t feel convenient.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The point is that you can’t come in here, touch me like that, and then go back to your apartment like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Smoke’s expression hardened. “You think it don’t mean anything to me?”

“I don’t know what anything means to you anymore.”

The words cut through the remaining heat.

Smoke straightened. “You know exactly what you mean to me, Annie.”

“No, Elijah. I know what I used to mean to you.”

His eyes narrowed. “This some bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then why are we here?”

Smoke opened his mouth, but Annie shook her head. “No. I’m not doing this in the pantry while our children are here.” She moved past him, then stopped at the doorway. “From now on, when you pick them up, wait in the foyer.”

Smoke stared at her. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“Yes.”

“This still my home.”

Annie’s voice hardened. “Then you should’ve fought harder to stay in it.”

His face changed. She hated herself for saying it.

Still, she walked away.

They began couples counseling the following month. Annie found the therapist. Dr. Beverly Harris, a Black woman in her early sixties with silver threaded through her locs and a way of remaining composed while two people dismantled each other across from her.

Smoke disliked her by the second appointment. He never said that directly, but he didn’t need to. Annie recognized the closed posture, the crossed arms, the slight narrowing of his eyes whenever Dr. Harris asked him to consider something he did not want to consider.

What Annie didn’t fully understand was that Smoke had begun walking into those sessions already braced. By then, he had spent months turning the marriage over in his head. The missed dinners. The late arrivals. Danielle. The nights he had disappeared into work after Adeline. Every conversation seemed to lead back to another thing Annie had needed from him that he had somehow failed to recognize until it was too late.

He knew he had made mistakes. That wasn’t the part he resisted. What he didn’t know how to explain was that he remembered trying too.

He remembered canceling meetings after Adeline. Sleeping beside Annie in the middle of the day because she couldn’t get out of bed. Heating food. Holding her while she cried. Rearranging schedules. Hiring Danielle when Annie started forgetting things. Showing up late more times than he could forgive himself for, but still showing up.

None of it had been enough to stop them from ending up here. So by the fourth session, Smoke had begun hearing questions about Annie’s loneliness as questions about his failure. During that session, Annie described the loneliness she had felt after Adeline.

Smoke sat beside her, staring toward the window.

Dr. Harris waited until Annie finished. “Elijah, what did you hear your wife say?”

Smoke shifted in his chair. “That I wasn’t there for her.”

Annie closed her eyes.

Dr. Harris remained patient. “Is that what she said?”

“It’s what she meant.”

“No,” Annie said quietly. “It isn’t.”

Smoke looked at her. “You said you were lonely.”

“I was.”

“While I was right there.”

“Physically.”

His jaw flexed. There it was again. Not enough. He had been there, but not correctly. He had held her, but not the way she needed. He had worked to keep their life together, but apparently that had only carried him farther away from her. Smoke knew Annie wasn’t saying those exact words. That didn’t stop him from hearing them.

Dr. Harris leaned forward. “Elijah, when Annie tells you she felt lonely, what happens inside you?”

“I hear her telling me I failed.”

Annie turned toward him. “I’m not saying you failed.”

“That’s exactly what you’re sayin’.”

“No. I’m saying I missed you.”

“I was workin’.”

“I know.”

“I was takin’ care of our family.”

“I know that.”

“I was grievin’ too.”

“I know, Elijah.”

“Do you?”

The question filled the room. Annie stared at him. “Do you think I don’t know that losing Adeline hurt you?”

“You keep talkin’ like I just went back to work because I didn’t care.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Dr. Harris looked at him for a moment. “I don’t think you went back to work because you didn’t care.”

Smoke’s eyes moved to her.

“I think work may have been one of the places you knew how to function when grief made you feel helpless.”

His expression changed— Barely, but Annie saw it.

Dr. Harris continued. “That doesn’t make your grief less real. And it doesn’t make Annie’s loneliness less real either. Both can be true.”

Smoke looked away again. That was the part he struggled with. Every time somebody said both could be true, it somehow still felt like the conversation ended with what he had done wrong.

Dr. Harris let the quiet sit for a moment before speaking again. “Elijah, can you stay with what Annie is saying without deciding what it says about you?”

Smoke gave a short laugh. “See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Help me understand.”

“Every session, it feels like we spend an hour talkin’ about what I didn’t do. What I missed. What she needed that I didn’t give her.”

Dr. Harris nodded. “And you want there to be room for what you were carrying too.”

“Yeah.”

“There should be.”

That answer made him look at her.

“But making room for your experience doesn’t require us to erase Annie’s.”

Smoke’s mouth tightened. To him, that was exactly what kept happening in reverse.

Annie leaned forward. “Because you won’t talk about anything else.”

Smoke looked at her. “What you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“I am tellin’ the truth.”

“You’re defending yourself.”

Smoke looked back at Dr. Harris. “And that’s exactly what I’m sayin’. Soon as I try to explain myself, it turns into me makin’ excuses.”

Dr. Harris nodded once. “So when you try to explain your experience, you don’t feel heard.”

“No.”

“And Annie, when he explains his experience…”

Annie’s laugh held no humor. “It feels like he leaves no room for mine.”

Smoke felt something in him close. There it was. Even after Dr. Harris had said there should be room for him, they had somehow arrived back at what he was doing wrong.

He pushed back from the couch. “I’m done.”

Annie’s stomach dropped. “Elijah…”

He shook his head. “I can’t keep doin’ this.”

“You’re leaving?”

“This ain’t counselin’. This is two people tellin’ me why everything I did wasn’t enough.”

Annie stared at him. “You’re proving my point.”

His hand paused on the doorknob. For one second, she thought he might sit back down. He didn’t. Smoke walked out. They attended one more session. Then he stopped going.

Annie continued alone for several months. She learned words for things she had felt but never understood. Emotional abandonment. Pursuer-distancer dynamics. Unresolved grief. Protective withdrawal. She learned that two people could love each other deeply and still create patterns that wounded them both. 

Knowing the names though didn’t teach her how to save them.

Smoke didn’t date. Women expressed interest. Some subtly. Others with enough confidence to make their intentions unmistakable. He ignored all of them. His wedding ring remained on his finger. Annie’s photograph remained in his wallet. Whenever someone referred to her as his estranged wife, something inside him resisted the word.

Estranged sounded temporary. He preferred temporary.

Annie considered dating once. A physician she had met during a leadership summit asked her to dinner. He was handsome, thoughtful, divorced, and appropriately respectful when she explained that her marriage had not legally ended.

“Dinner doesn’t have to mean anything,” he told her.

That was the problem. Annie did not know how to offer someone something meaningless. Not when so much of her still belonged to Elijah. She declined. Smoke never knew anyone had asked.

Nearly a year after he left the house, Annie filed for divorce. The papers arrived at his office on a Monday morning. Smoke opened the envelope alone. He read every page twice, then placed the documents inside the bottom drawer of his desk.

He refused to sign them.

Annie waited two weeks before calling. “Did you get the papers?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you reviewed them?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I’m ain’t signin’ shit.”

She closed her eyes. “Elijah.”

“I said I’m not signin’ a muthafuckin thing.”

“You can’t refuse forever.”

“I can refuse today.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“You think I think this shit a game?”

“I think you’re dragging it out.”

“I’m buyin’ us time.”

“We’ve had time.”

“Not enough.”

“For what?”

Smoke stared through the windows of his office at the city below. “To figure this out.”

Annie’s laugh held no humor. “You don’t want to figure it out. You want me to stop asking.”

“That ain’t true.”

“Then go back to counseling.”

His silence answered her. Annie ended the call.

Weeks became months. New copies of the papers arrived. Smoke ignored them. Her attorney contacted his attorney. Meetings were scheduled and postponed. Negotiations began, stalled, then began again. Every conversation between Annie and Smoke circled the same exhausted ground.

Sign the papers.

No.

Why?

Because I don’t know how to stop being your husband.

He said it only once—Late one night over the phone, his voice so low she nearly convinced herself she had imagined it. Annie sat in the dark afterward, holding the phone against her chest. She didn’t know how to stop being his wife either. But she had learned that loving Elijah was not the same as being able to live with him.

Eventually, patience gave way to anger. Anger gave way to fury. And fury was exactly what carried Annie through the glass doors of Moore Capital on a Wednesday afternoon, an unsigned divorce agreement clutched in her hand.

By the time she reached Elijah’s office, every polite request she had made over the past year had hardened into something sharper. His assistant attempted to stop her. Annie walked past without slowing down.

What followed was loud, ugly, and long overdue. Accusations. Deflections. Fifteen-plus years of love compressed into twenty minutes of anger. Annie slammed the envelope onto his desk and demanded that he sign it. Smoke refused. She accused him of controlling her. He accused her of trying to erase their marriage because fixing it required more patience than she had left.

Neither meant everything they said. Both meant enough of it. When Annie finally turned toward the door, Smoke moved.

His hand closed around her wrist.

Come Home

“Annie.”

The way he said her name—low and rough, stripped of the controlled indifference he had worn throughout the argument, sent a fresh pulse of heat straight through her.

She had barely taken a step before his hand closed gently around her wrist. The movement stopped her in place. Then she felt him behind her.

His chest hovered just shy of her back, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that one shallow breath backward would erase the last inch between them. His thumb traced slow circles against the delicate skin of her wrist, each pass feeling like a promise and a plea all at once.

Her pulse hammered. She swallowed hard, fighting the treacherous pull of his body and every memory it carried. God, she knew exactly what it would feel like if she leaned back even the slightest bit. How easily his arms would find their way around her. How naturally she’d fit there.

“Let me go, Elijah.”

He didn’t move. His dark eyes searched hers, reluctance and raw hunger carved into every line of his face. For one agonizing second, she thought he might refuse. Then his fingers loosened. Slowly. Deliberately. As though surrendering even that small claim on her cost him something he wasn’t sure he could afford.

Annie stepped back on unsteady legs. She turned toward the door, every instinct screaming at her to keep walking. This was why she’d insisted he stay in the foyer. Why she’d stopped letting him wander through the house. Why she’d filed for divorce instead of continuing to live somewhere between wife and stranger. Because every time he touched her… She forgot why they were breaking up.

Her fingers closed around the brass handle. Open the door. Leave. Go home.

She still could. She could drive back to the house, crawl into the bed they’d once shared, and spend another night pretending she no longer belonged to the man standing behind her. Her hand tightened around the handle. She couldn’t remember the last time Elijah had looked at her the way he had just now.

Behind her, Smoke stayed exactly where he was, jaw locked, watching her put distance between them.

This time, he let her go.

When the soft click of her heels continued across the floor, he finally turned away. Defeated. Pissed. Hard as fuck and already aching with the loss of her warmth. He dragged a hand over his mouth, cursing beneath his breath as he walked back toward his desk. The unsigned divorce papers lay exactly where she’d left them. For a long moment, he simply stared at them.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was finally the day he signed them. He reached for the envelope. 

The quiet click of the lock froze him mid-reach.

Smoke turned. Annie still stood with her back against the door, one hand resting on the deadbolt. She hadn’t left. She was still facing the door.

Neither spoke.

The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable. Then Annie drew one shaky breath.

“Touch me.”

Smoke was on her in two strides. His broad chest pressed flush against her back, pinning her gently against the door. One large hand came around her waist while the other planted against the wood beside her head, boxing her in without forcing her to turn. She gasped as the unmistakable hardness of him pressed against her through their clothes, the weight of him making every nerve in her body spark to life.

His breath ghosted hot and ragged across the side of her neck. He didn’t speak right away. Instead he buried his face in her hair and inhaled like a man who’d been holding his breath for a year. The low, broken sound that left him made her knees weak.

“Fuck… you wearin’ it.” His voice was pure gravel. “Black Opium. My favorite. The one that always made me weak for you.” He inhaled her. “Fuck, man”— he groaned. “A whole goddamn year and you still smell like mine. You still fit against me like nothin’ ever changed.” His jaw tightened. “My body never will forget you.”

Annie’s pulse stuttered. She hadn’t meant to wear it. She’d told herself it was just the bottle still sitting on the counter, muscle memory more than intention. But the way he breathed her in made that lie feel paper-thin.

“Elijah…” It was supposed to be a command to stop. It came out breathy and weak, barely a whisper.

He stilled, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he pressed closer. The low, guttural groan that vibrated from his chest made her knees weak. “Baby. You still smell like home. Like my wife. Like the only woman who’s ever driven me this fuckin’ crazy.”

He paused.

“I was gonna sign them papers. But then you walked back in here smelling like this and I’m right back where I started.”

His hand slid lower on her waist, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above her hip bone before venturing higher, cupping the underside of her breast through her blouse. He squeezed gently, then harder, thumb brushing over her already-hard nipple until she whimpered. Annie’s head fell back against his shoulder despite herself. He was everywhere—his heat, his scent, the rigid length of him pressing insistently against her.

Smoke’s other hand trailed down her thigh, slipping under the hem of her skirt. His fingers teased the edge of her panties, tracing the lace but never quite giving her what she needed. “Been wet for me since you stormed in here, haven’t you?” he whispered hotly against her ear, nipping the lobe hard enough to sting. “Has anyone been inside you since I left? Or did you keep it locked up for me?”

She rocked back against him, desperate for friction. “Touch me. Please.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down her spine. Finally, his fingers pushed her panties aside and dragged slowly through her folds. The first contact made her breath hitch—slick heat coating his skin, her clit already swollen and hypersensitive under the lightest pressure. He circled it once, twice, torturously slow, then dipped lower to tease her entrance without entering.

Annie’s hips jerked. Inside, she could feel herself clenching around nothing, that deep, empty ache sharpening with every deliberate pass of his fingers.

He pushed one finger inside her, then two, curling them deep while his thumb continued working her clit in firm, steady circles. The stretch was immediate and intimate; her walls fluttered around him, hot and tight after so long. He pumped slowly at first, scissoring, searching until he found the spot that made her thighs tremble and a broken sound catch in her throat.

“That’s it, baby. Feel how you open for me.” He kept the pace measured, dragging the pads of his fingers along that sensitive ridge inside her on every stroke, never quite giving her the speed she needed. “I want you feenin’ for it. Want you so close you forget why you ever walked away.”

She was close already—embarrassingly so—the pressure coiling low and tight, her inner muscles starting to flutter in warning. He felt it and slowed even further, almost withdrawing, leaving her clenching and empty for a beat before sliding back in. The denial made the next thrust feel sharper; pleasure spiked and then plateaued, leaving her trembling on the edge.

“Please—”

He added a third finger, stretching her wider. The fullness made her gasp. His breath was hot on her neck as he whispered, “Look at you. Almost gone already. No one else could make you shake like this. You almost left me. You was gonna walk away from this. From us. But your body still knows where home is.”

He brought her right to the brink again—fingers curling hard, thumb relentless—then stopped completely, holding her open and pulsing while she shook. The absence was almost painful; her walls clenched around the emptiness, the throb in her clit sharp enough to make her whimper.

“Not yet. I don’t want you to come yet.”

“Please—Smoke, please, I need—”

He stopped cold.

The fingers inside her stilled, then slowly withdrew, leaving her empty and aching. Annie turned, flushed and frustrated, the sharp sting of denial hitting hard only to freeze at the sight in front of her.

Smoke brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on hers the entire time. The wet sound of it, the way his tongue dragged over his own skin to taste her, left her hypnotized. Heat pulsed low in her belly all over again.

Then his voice cut through the haze, low and dangerous.

“What did you call me?”

Annie’s chin lifted, a spark of defiance cutting through the need. “Smoke.”

He stepped in closer, crowding her against the door, the evidence of how badly he still wanted her pressed thick and hard against her hip. “That’s not what you call me.”

The air between them went tight. She held his stare for a long second, then let the name fall from her lips the way she used to in the private corners of their life—soft, intimate, only for him.

“Elijah-Smoke.”

Something dark and hungry flared in his eyes. He hadn’t heard that name in over a year. The sound of it hit him like a physical thing; she saw the exact moment it landed.

Before he could recover, Annie wrapped her fingers around his tie and tugged, stepping forward into the room and forcing him to move with her. She walked backward the rest of the way, never breaking eye contact, leading him by the tie like a leash. Smoke followed like a man in a trance. When the backs of his knees hit the couch cushions she gave him a firm push, and he sat hard.

She caught his wrist—the same hand that had been inside her, still faintly shiny—and brought it to her mouth. Slowly, she licked his fingers clean one at a time. The taste of herself mixed with his skin. A soft, pleased hum left her throat.

Smoke’s pupils blew wide. He watched her like he was remembering every nasty thing they used to do in the dark. A rough sound scraped out of his throat.

“Got-damn, Annie…”

He reached up, threaded his fingers into the back of her hair, and dragged her down into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and a year of missing her. It was sloppy, desperate. While their mouths stayed locked they stripped each other with impatient hands—her blouse shoved off her shoulders, his shirt ripped open and discarded, her bra unhooked and tossed aside. Her skirt and panties came off in one drop.

He broke the kiss only long enough to latch onto her breast, sucking hard, tongue circling her nipple. Annie’s head fell back, a low moan spilling out of her as she held his head against her and arched into it.

“Fuck… yes—”

Annie pushed him back against the cushions and dropped to her knees between his spread thighs. She looked up at him through her lashes, licked a slow stripe up the underside of his thick, veiny shaft, and took him deep with a wet, hungry sound.

Smoke’s head fell back against the couch. A broken groan tore out of him. His eyes rolled, hands fisting in the cushions, feet flexing against the floor as she worked him—hollowing her cheeks, swirling her tongue, taking him so deep she gagged softly and kept going. Spit slicked down his length. She stroked what she couldn’t swallow, greedy and relentless.

“Annie—fuck—baby, wait—” His voice was wrecked. One big hand found her hair, not pulling her off so much as trying to slow her down. “Gonna come—yo mouth—fuck.”

She pulled off just long enough to speak, voice rough and shiny with spit.

“Come here then. I want it.”

She spit on him, spread it with her fist, and sucked him even harder, chasing every reaction. When he finally broke it was with a guttural, almost pained sound, hips jerking as he spilled hot across her tongue and throat. Annie moaned around him as she swallowed and kept sucking, gentle now, milking every last pulse until he was twitching and oversensitive. Only then did she pull off, wipe the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and look up at him with quiet, satisfied heat.

Smoke stared at her like he’d been hit by a truck. His chest heaved.

“Woman…”

Annie started to rise, like she might actually walk away and leave him sitting there wrecked. Before she could take a full step he caught her wrist and hauled her down onto his lap—facing him. One arm banded around her waist; the other turned her face so he could kiss her again—slower this time, but no less hungry.

He didn’t reach between her legs right away. Instead he gripped her hips and lifted her higher, pulling her up his body until she was kneeling over his face. Her knees sank into the couch cushions on either side of his head. Annie caught the back of the couch for balance, looking down at him in surprise.

Smoke’s eyes were black with hunger. He spread her pussy lips open with his thumbs and dragged his tongue through her in one long, greedy stroke. A low, starving sound tore out of him.

“Fuck—still the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He sealed his mouth over her and ate her like a man who’d been starving. Broad, flat strokes, then the pointed tip of his tongue flicking hard and fast over her clit. He sucked it between his lips, groaned against her, and slid two fingers inside her while he worked, curling them exactly the way she needed. Annie’s head fell back, a broken moan tearing out of her.

“Elijah-Smoke—oh my god—”

He didn’t let up. He licked and sucked and fucked her with his tongue until her thighs were shaking on either side of his head and she was grinding down onto his face without shame. When she came it was sharp and sudden, crying out as she pulsed against his mouth. He kept her there through it, drinking every tremor, only easing up when she tugged at his head with trembling fingers.

Then he pulled her back down his body and positioned her over his length. Annie sank onto him in one long, aching slide, both of them groaning at the stretch after so long.

The fullness was immediate and overwhelming—every inch pressing deep, her walls still fluttering from the orgasm. Heat bloomed low in her belly.

“Elijah-Smoke—” The name left her in a broken moan. “Fuck… you’re so deep…”

She rode him slow, rolling her hips, feeling every ridge and pulse of him, then harder, using his shoulders for leverage. Soft, open sounds kept spilling out of her with every drop of her hips.

“Missed this… missed the way you fill me—”

Smoke let her set the pace for a few moments before he growled, gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, and thrust up to meet her. One hand slid up her body and settled lightly around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, thumb resting over her pulse. The possessive pressure made her clench around him.

“Yessss—like that, don’t stop—”

He kept the hand at her throat as he fucked up into her, rough and deep, the wet sound of their bodies filling the office. The dual sensation—thick dick dragging over every sensitive place inside her and the steady, claiming weight of his palm—pushed her higher fast. Her walls began to flutter and tighten.

Annie came with a broken cry of his name, clenching hard around him, pulse after pulse rippling through her. He wasn’t finished. He eased her off just long enough to lay her on her back across the couch, hooked one of her legs and pushed it high—nearly to her shoulder. She was flexible enough to take it, and she pulled it back even farther herself, hand behind her knee, other hand pulling him closer.

The new angle made him sink impossibly deep. Smoke cursed and started fucking her in earnest—hard, precise strokes that dragged over every sensitive place inside her. Each thrust pressed against that swollen spot, sending sparks up her spine; the stretch and friction built again almost immediately, her body already primed and oversensitive.

“Right there—fuck—shit—right there—” Annie’s voice cracked. They kissed through it, messy and open-mouthed, until the pleasure coiled too tight. She came again with the private name on her lips, loud and wrecked—“Elijah-Smoke”—the rhythmic squeeze of her body pulling him over right after. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her with a low, shattered groan, forehead pressed to hers, body trembling through every pulse.

Afterward, they stayed tangled together on the couch, sweat-damp and breathing hard.

Smoke adjusted them carefully until Annie was half draped across his chest, her cheek tucked beneath his chin as though she’d always belonged there. One arm circled her waist while the other moved slowly up and down her back, his fingertips tracing lazy paths along her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing gradually finding the same rhythm again.

Annie looked down at the bruises already beginning to bloom beneath his fingertips along her hips. She caught sight of his teeth marks reflected faintly in the dark television screen across the room and felt a small, weary laugh threaten her throat.

For the first time in months, neither of them felt far away.

Smoke broke the silence first. “I’ve been thinkin’ about that night.”

Annie didn’t ask which one. She knew. “The thermostat?” she asked softly.

He nodded against her hair. “I’ve replayed that conversation every fuckin’ day.”

She listened without interrupting.

“I kept hearin’ all the things you said…” His voice caught. “…but I was so busy tryin’ to prove I wasn’t the man you thought I was…” He swallowed hard. “I never stopped long enough to hear what you were actually askin’ me.”

Annie closed her eyes. “I wasn’t askin’ you to defend yourself.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ you didn’t love me.”

“I know.”

She tilted her head just enough to look at him.

“I needed you to miss me while I was still standing beside you.”

Smoke’s eyes closed. “I do now.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I know that’s too late.” He shook his head slowly. “But I do.”

Annie studied him for a long moment. Since all of this had begun, she wasn’t looking at a man trying to win an argument. She was looking at her husband. Really looking at him. “I know,” she whispered.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against her back. His voice was quiet when he spoke again, rough around the edges. “Can I come home?”

Annie’s fingers curled against his chest. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Smoke’s hand stopped moving along her back. She could feel the change in him immediately. The way his body seemed to brace beneath hers, preparing for an answer he didn’t want but had finally learned he couldn’t control.

Annie lifted her head. “Elijah.”

His eyes met hers.

“If you come home, I need you to understand something.”

He waited.

“I don’t want us to go back.”

Something flickered across his face.

Annie touched his cheek. “I loved what we were. Lord knows I did. But I don’t want to go back to pretending everything’s okay because we had a good night. Or because we made love. Or because we miss each other.”

Smoke covered her hand with his.

“I need us to be different.”

His thumb moved slowly across her knuckles. “Different how?”

“I need you to talk to me before you disappear into yourself. I need you to hear me without deciding I’m telling you you’re a bad husband.” Her voice softened. “And I need to stop waiting until I’m so hurt that all I know how to do is push.”

Smoke looked at her for a long moment. “I can do that.”

“No.” Annie shook her head gently. “You can try.”

His expression changed, because there it was. The thing neither of them had allowed themselves for years. Not a promise that they would never hurt each other again.

Just the willingness to keep trying.

Smoke nodded. “I can try.”

Annie’s eyes burned. “And counseling.”

His mouth tightened instantly.

Despite everything, she almost laughed. “Elijah-Smoke.”

“Damn.”

“Counseling.”

He looked toward the ceiling as though appealing to God personally.

Annie waited.

Finally, he looked back at her. “Aight.”

“With Dr. Harris.”

“Now you pushin’ it.”

“Elijah.”

“I said aight.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Small. Wet. Tired.

Smoke stared at her. And there it was. That laugh. The one he hadn’t realized how desperately he’d missed until he heard it again. His hand came up and cradled the side of her face.

“Can I come home, Annie?”

This time, she understood what he was asking. Not whether he could sleep in their bed again. Not whether he could put his clothes back in the closet or drink coffee from that ridiculous WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD mug every morning.

He was asking whether there was still a place for him beside her. Whether fifteen years of loving each other badly in some places and beautifully in so many others had left them anything worth saving. Whether she still wanted him.

Annie leaned into his palm. “I still want us.”

Smoke’s eyes closed.

“And I’m choosing you,” she whispered. “Again.”

His forehead came down against hers. “Again,” he repeated.

Annie kissed him softly. No desperation or anger. No year of loneliness trying to consume itself in a single afternoon. Just a kiss between two people who had finally stopped pretending love alone would save them.

They would have to tell the children. They would have to return to counseling. There would be hard conversations. New boundaries. Old wounds that didn’t disappear simply because Elijah came home.

The divorce papers would still be sitting on his desk when they finally got up.But they would remain unsigned. Because Annie was still his wife. Elijah was still her husband. And neither of them was finished choosing the other yet.

For the first time in a year, coming home wasn’t about returning to the life they had before. It was about building one they could stay in.

End Note: Soo...what did y'all think? I hope it was worth the wait! 🫣 Y'all know I'm sensitive about my stuff. I hope the smut was good....😩

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When Annie met Elijah

Annie Durel met Elijah Moore in a lecture hall built for three hundred bodies, and somehow the cavernous space still managed to feel claustrophobic. It was freshman year, Introduction to Psychology, eight o’clock in the morning. An hour so ungodly that Annie wondered if the university scheduled it that early on purpose as some kind of psychological experiment on sleep deprivation and human suffering.

The air inside smelled of stale coffee, the damp wool of hoodies that hadn’t quite dried from the previous night’s rain, and the sharp, chemical bite of whatever industrial cleaner the janitorial staff deployed before dawn. Students shuffled in like zombies freshly risen, backpacks slung over one shoulder, orientation-week optimism already fraying at the edges. A few sat with bright eyes and open laptops, ready to absorb wisdom. Most looked like they were calculating how many minutes they could sleep with their eyes open. 

Annie chose the second row.

Not the front—that was for try-hards and future teaching assistants. The second row struck the perfect balance: visible enough to signal seriousness, distant enough to preserve dignity. It was the seat of someone who had already printed the syllabus, color-coded the calendar, and flagged every major assignment in three different highlighters. Her laptop sat open before her like a shield, a spiral notebook beside it, and three pens; blue, black, and neon pink, lined up with military precision along the desk’s edge. Order was Annie’s armor. Even when life refused to cooperate, she could at least control the small rectangle of space in front of her.

People mistook that for confidence. Sometimes it was. Most times it was fear wearing lip gloss and good posture.

Elijah Moore, by contrast, belonged to the back.

For the first few weeks she barely registered him. He was simply there, like the faded motivational poster on the far wall or the faint hum of the ventilation system, part of the architecture rather than a participant. He arrived exactly on time, never bursting through the doors with excuses or drama. He claimed roughly the same seat each class, pulled out a single notebook and one black pen, and then… listened.

Not the performative listening most students offered half an ear tuned to the professor while the other half rehearsed their own clever interjections. Elijah listened like the words might bruise him if he wasn’t careful. Like every sentence had to justify its existence before he granted it space in his mind. His expression rarely changed, but there was a quiet gravity to him, a sense that he was weighing the lecture against some private, internal scale the rest of them couldn’t see.

The moment he truly entered Annie’s awareness came three weeks into the semester.

Dr. Mercer, a wiry man with wild eyebrows and a passion for Socratic torture, posed one of his signature questions. “Do people truly choose who they become?” The room stirred instantly. Abstract debates before breakfast were catnip to freshmen. Hands shot up like weeds. Biology. Environment. Trauma. Privilege. The usual chorus.

Annie waited, then raised her own hand.

“Ms. Durel.”

She straightened, voice clear. “Circumstance shapes us, obviously. But it doesn’t get the final word. At some point we have to choose. Otherwise personal responsibility is meaningless.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the second and third rows. A small glow of satisfaction warmed her chest. She had spoken well, measured, thoughtful, the kind of answer that earned quiet respect.

Then a low voice drifted from the back of the hall.

“Most people only think they’re choosing.”

Annie turned before she could stop herself. He wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze rested on Dr. Mercer, one arm draped casually over the narrow desk attached to his seat. His posture was relaxed but not sloppy, defensive, or trying to score points. It was… certain.

Dr. Mercer’s eyes lit up with academic delight. “Mr. Moore.”

Elijah leaned back slightly. “If you grow up in survival mode, most of what you call choice is just reaction. You’re picking between bad options inside a cage you didn’t build. That doesn’t make you free.”

The lecture hall quieted. Even the perpetual fidgeters stilled.

Annie narrowed her eyes. “So nobody’s responsible for anything?” His gaze slid to her then, slow and deliberate. For the first time, Elijah Moore really looked at her. It wasn’t a passing glance. It was a look of dark eyes— steady and unnervingly patient. As if he were seeing past the second-row armor, the highlighters, and the carefully cultivated certainty.

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what it sounded like,” she shot back.

A corner of his eyebrow lifted, almost imperceptibly. “Then you heard what you wanted to hear.”

Soft laughter scattered across the room like startled birds. Annie’s spine went rigid. Heat rose in her cheeks. She disliked him immediately, with the clean, decisive snap of a closing book.

The lecture continued. Annie told herself she was finished with that arrogant asshole. For once, all semester, the second row felt a little less safe. A little less controlled. She opened her notebook. Underlined three sentences she already understood. Wrote half a page of notes she wouldn’t remember taking. Every few minutes, though, her gaze strayed to the back row. She only wanted another chance to prove him wrong.

Which, she would later understand, had always been the first stage of loving him.

After class, Annie told herself she wasn’t following him. They simply happened to leave through the same doors, walk across the same quad, and head toward the same student center. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she still had three rebuttals she hadn’t gotten to make.

“You know,” she called after him, “for somebody who barely talks, you got a whole lotta opinions.”

Elijah looked over one shoulder. “You chased me down just to tell me that?”

“I didn’t chase you.”

“Sure.”

Annie frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’ve been thinkin’ ’bout my argument.” He stopped walking and looked at her. “’Bout me.”

She hated that he sounded so certain. She hated even more that he was right.

Annie had walked out of that lecture hall convinced Elijah Moore was the most irritating man she’d ever met. She had no way of knowing she’d spend the next four years arguing with him.

Or the next fifteen loving him.

Till Death Do Us Part

They graduated two months apart.

Annie crossed the stage first, her robe swishing against her ankles, the tassel on her cap swinging like a metronome keeping time to a future she had spent four years meticulously planning. Elijah sat through the entire ceremony in the bleachers, pretending he wasn’t watching for her. He failed spectacularly. Every time the announcer called a name, his gaze flicked towards the procession, searching.

He spotted her the moment she stepped off the stage. He was waiting exactly where she’d expected to find him—tall, composed, arms folded across his chest, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who hadn’t yet earned his own degree. Annie saw him immediately. Something warm and inevitable pulled her straight toward him through the crowd.

“You act like you graduated,” she said, smiling.

“I survived listenin’ to your family yell your name for three hours. I deserve somethin’.”

“My family loves me.”

“They loud.”

“You knew that before we started dating.”

“I thought they was performin’.”

Annie laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. Elijah smiled that slow, quiet smile that always seemed to start somewhere deep in his chest before it reached his mouth. And just like that, another milestone folded itself into the growing collection of memories they would carry together, dog-eared and treasured.

The year after college arrived like a sudden wind, full of constant movement. Jobs. Applications. Interviews. Rent checks written with trembling hope. Student loans that loomed like storm clouds. Dreams that had once felt weightless now demanded cash, strategy, and an almost embarrassing amount of grit.

They were young enough to believe hard work could solve almost anything, and fortunate enough that, for a while, they weren’t entirely wrong.

Elijah began in corporate strategy, a world of spreadsheets and conference rooms that tested his patience daily. Annie started building her consulting business one nervous client at a time, working from coffee shops and the corner of their tiny living room. Neither path came wrapped in glamour. Both demanded long hours that bled into nights.

Most evenings found them side by side at their small kitchen table, laptops open, takeout containers pushed to the side, comparing problems neither of them fully understood yet. Sometimes they worked in companionable silence, the only sounds being the clicking of keys and the distant hum of traffic outside.

They argued about ideas, passionate exchanges that left them both sharper. Sometimes Annie would talk through an upcoming presentation while Elijah pretended not to listen, eyes fixed on his own screen. Then, halfway through, he would quietly point out a flaw she hadn’t noticed. She would accuse him of eavesdropping. He would remind her she had been talking loud as hell again.

It was their system. Annoying, effective, but theirs.

Two years after graduation, they got married.

The wedding was small because their bank account demanded it. Annie made it beautiful anyway. Flowers spilled everywhere, far too many, according to every budget-conscious person involved except Annie herself. The venue was modest, the guest list manageable, the budget stretched thin enough to snap. 

None of it mattered in the end.

The only thing Annie remembered clearly was standing at the back of the processional, looking at Elijah. Everything else blurred: the music, the guests, the decorations, even the flowers she had obsessed over for months. All she could see was him, calm, certain, watching her like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real.

She cried before she even reached the altar. Not delicate, cinematic tears. Real ones. The kind that arrived without permission and threatened to ruin the makeup her mother had spent an hour perfecting. When she finally stood before him, she looked up and froze.

His eyes were wet.

“Are you crying?” she whispered.

“No.”

“You are.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Elijah.”

“Face forward, Woman.”

She laughed through the tears. The officiant paused, smiling. Their families laughed too, warm and rowdy. When it came time for the vows, Elijah said “yes” before the officiant had finished the question. The room erupted in delighted surprise. Annie squeezed his hands hard. He squeezed back, grounding her.

Their honeymoon lasted three days. That was all they could afford. Neither of them cared. At the time, three days felt like unimaginable luxury.

Their first apartment as husband and wife waited when they returned: uneven floors that creaked in protest, thin walls that carried every neighbor’s secrets, cabinets that stuck when the weather turned, and a refrigerator that hummed loudly enough to become part of the soundtrack of their life. The couple upstairs argued with such clocklike precision that Annie could practically set her watch by their fights. Annie complained about the apartment constantly. Then defended it fiercely whenever anyone else dared criticize it. 

Because it was theirs.

The first night, they ate takeout on the living room floor surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Elijah spent nearly an hour assembling a bookshelf, doing it wrong twice. Annie fixed it in twenty minutes and spent the next hour reminding him of that fact.

“You gonna mention this forever?” he asked.

“Sure am.”

“You somethin’ else.”

Annie only grinned and pointed to herself with a theatrical flourish. His hand shot out the moment she walked past, pulling her into his lap before she could squeak in protest.

“Boy.”

“No.”

“Elijah.”

“No.”

She laughed despite herself. He kissed her, and the argument ended the way most of their arguments ended in those days with neither person winning, and neither particularly caring.

Life wasn’t easy. Money stayed tight. Every purchase required negotiation. Every bill required careful planning. They learned how far leftovers could stretch, which expenses truly mattered, and that loving someone and learning to live with them were related, but distinctly different skills. They argued about dishes left in the sink, mismatched schedules, budgets that refused to balance, and whose turn it was to call the perpetually unresponsive maintenance man. Annie hated how quiet Elijah became when something weighed on him. Elijah hated how Annie pushed harder the moment she sensed him retreating.

Sometimes they hurt each other without meaning to. Sometimes they misunderstood. Sometimes they got it spectacularly wrong.

But they came back. 

Always.

That was what Annie remembered most when she looked back on those years, not perfection, ease, or constant romance. The returning. No matter how frustrating the fight, how exhausting the week, or how little money sat in their checking account, they always found their way back to each other.

In the softer, private corners of their life, Annie had taken to calling Smoke: Elijah-Smoke.

It had started as a joke sometime in college. Everyone else seemed to divide him neatly into two people. Elijah was the name professors used, the quiet boy in the back of the lecture hall with one notebook and too many opinions. Smoke belonged to everybody else—the name his brother called across crowded rooms, the one his friends knew, the version of him that carried a little more edge.

Annie had decided early that she wasn’t choosing.

“You Elijah or Smoke today?” she’d asked him once after he’d spent twenty minutes helping her study, then threatened to throw her laptop out the window when she complained about SPSS for the sixth time.

He’d looked at her like the question was ridiculous. “I’m me.”

“Okay. Elijah-Smoke.”

His face had gone completely blank.

“That sounds stupid.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It absolutely do.”

She’d grinned. “Too late. That’s your name now.”

It should have disappeared with all the other ridiculous things they’d said to each other in college. Instead, it stayed. Over the years, Elijah-Smoke became something Annie only called him when they were alone. Sometimes teasing. Sometimes affectionate. Other times murmured against his chest when they were half asleep. It belonged to kitchens after midnight, tangled sheets, private jokes, and conversations nobody else was allowed to hear.

The world knew Elijah Moore. The people who loved him longest knew Smoke. But Annie had always known both.

Elijah-Smoke meant all of him. And, more importantly, it meant he was hers.

Success arrived slowly. 

Then all at once.

Elijah climbed quickly through the ranks. Promotions followed one after another. Rooms that once ignored him began to listen. People who had underestimated him learned not to make that mistake twice. Annie built steadily too. One client became three, then ten. Workshops turned into speaking engagements. Speaking engagements turned into waitlists. Women began stopping her after events, eyes bright to tell her she had finally given language to feelings they had carried for years, but never knew how to name.

Neither achievement belonged entirely to one person. Elijah reviewed contracts when Annie was too exhausted to focus. Annie listened to his practice presentations before board meetings. He challenged her thinking. She challenged him. He invested in her—money, yes, but more importantly belief, time, and unwavering attention long before anyone else did.

Annie used to joke that he was her most annoying business partner. The truth was simpler and more profound: he was usually right. Success felt intimate then. Like building an altar together. Every late night, every sacrifice, every risk, every victory carried weight because they could still see each other clearly across all of it. Sometimes she would be putting dishes away and suddenly find herself pinned gently between the counter and Elijah’s chest.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Elijah.”

“No.”

“I have things to do.”

“So do I.”

“Then why are you bothering me?”

His answer was always the same: a slight shrug, a lingering kiss, his hand settling warm against her waist. Because I missed you. As if twenty minutes apart had been too long.

Moments like that happened constantly. Back then, Annie never questioned whether Elijah wanted her. The answer lived everywhere—not just in passionate nights or grand gestures, but in the thousand tiny interruptions that filled ordinary days.

It lived in the smaller moments: the way his eyes followed her when she entered a room, the way his hand automatically found her waist as they passed each other in hallways, the way he would interrupt his own work just to steal a kiss before returning to whatever spreadsheet demanded his attention.

At the time, Annie thought it would always be like that. Not always the same. People changed, life changed, responsibilities multiplied— but she believed the center would hold. That the man who couldn’t walk past her without touching her would always find a reason to reach. That the woman who still smiled every time he walked through the door would always feel seen.

She didn’t know then how quietly distance could grow between two people.  Or how easy it was to mistake building a life together for nurturing the marriage itself.

First Comes Love. Then Comes Marriage. Then Comes…

The first baby arrived three years into the marriage.

Annie spent most of her pregnancy pretending she wasn’t nervous. Not because she feared something would go wrong—she had read enough to know the statistics were on their side, but because she liked preparation, plans, and certainty. Childbirth, however, seemed specifically engineered to mock all three with ruthless efficiency.

By the eighth month, she had amassed enough books to stock her own parenting section at a bookstore. Lists proliferated across the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, and the inside of kitchen cabinets. The hospital bag sat packed and ready by the front door nearly six weeks early, because Annie refused to be caught unprepared for the single most unpredictable event of her life.

He found the entire production hilarious.

“You know the baby don’t care about your spreadsheets, right?”

Annie glared at him from the couch, one hand resting protectively on the swell of her belly. “The baby will care when we forget something important. Like diapers.”

“The hospital got diapers.”

“What if they don’t?”

He stared at her. 

She stared back.

“The hospital?” he repeated.

“You never know.”

“Woman.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

Smoke laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.

Three weeks later, she went into labor. Twenty-one hours after that, she threatened to divorce him. 

Twice. 

The nurse laughed. 

Smoke didn’t. Annie looked entirely too serious.

Their son arrived just after sunrise. One loud, indignant cry. One tiny fist waving defiantly at the world. One look at that wrinkled little face pressed against Annie’s bare chest, and the entire room seemed to turn on its axis. Annie burst into tears. The ugly kind. The kind that rose from somewhere so deep inside her that stopping them felt impossible. Smoke stood beside the bed, simply staring, transfixed. The baby wrapped his impossibly small hand around one of Smoke’s fingers. Annie looked up through her tears.

“You cryin’?”

“Nah.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

The tears tracking down his cheeks suggested otherwise.

They named him Elijah Jr. “E.J.” for short. Smoke insisted nobody was calling him Junior. Annie informed him that after twenty-one hours of labor, she would call their son whatever she pleased. The argument lasted three days. E.J. ignored both of them completely.

Two years later came Ethan. Where E.J. launched himself through life at full speed, Ethan approached everything with caution and curiosity. He watched first. Thought first. Asked questions until adults regretted opening their mouths. If E.J. had inherited Annie’s confidence and Smoke’s stubbornness, Ethan had inherited their shared tendency to overthink absolutely everything.

The twins arrived three years after that: Anaëlle Elise and Arielle Elaine. Six weeks early. Tiny. Chocolate. Perfect. And determined to take over everyone’s lives. The boys adored them, at least in theory. In reality, both spent the first month looking vaguely betrayed by the sheer volume of attention two babies required. The twins didn’t seem concerned. They simply settled into the family as though they had always belonged there.

Life became louder after that. Fuller. Messier. The kind of beautiful chaos that left toys scattered in hallways and crayons in unexpected places. Somehow every room in the house belonged to the children. Even the ones specifically designated as adult spaces. Especially those.

The life they had once dreamed about quietly became the life they were living. Promotions turned into executive titles. Annie’s calendar filled months in advance with keynote speeches, leadership retreats, and consulting contracts she never imagined commanding. Elijah’s name carried weight in boardrooms now. Annie’s carried weight on conference stages. The tiny apartment gave way to a house with enough bedrooms for everyone, then a backyard the children treated like their own kingdom.

Success bought them conveniences they never could have afforded in those early years. A part-time nanny on weekdays when work demanded more than either of them could give. Family vacations that started as weekend road trips before eventually becoming flights to beaches the children still talk about years later. Housekeepers every other Friday because neither of them wanted to spend precious weekends scrubbing bathrooms. 

But the one thing they refused to outsource was being parents.

Homework still happened at the kitchen table. Bedtime stories were still read by familiar voices. Saturday mornings belonged to pancakes, cartoons, and whichever child climbed into their bed first. If one of the kids had a recital, a game, or an awards ceremony, Annie and Elijah were usually sitting in the front row, embarrassing them with applause.

The years blurred together in a whirlwind of basketball games and dance recitals, science fairs and art projects spread across the dining room table. Birthday parties, field trips, parent-teacher conferences, homework battles, lost shoes, forgotten permission slips, and middle-of-the-night fevers. The ordinary, relentless chaos of raising children. Some days felt endless. Most disappeared before either Annie or Smoke could properly appreciate them.

One Saturday afternoon, Annie walked into the living room and found Smoke sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing a plastic tiara. For a minute she simply stared. Anaëlle aka Elle or Ellie, adjusted a blanket cape around his shoulders with the solemn focus of someone preparing royalty for an important event. Arielle aka Ari stood nearby, gripping a sparkly wand like a scepter.

Smoke looked up, entirely unbothered. “The king has no obligation to explain himself.”

Annie folded her arms, fighting a smile. “The king got glitter in his beard.”

The twins gasped in unison. Smoke immediately reached for his face. The girls collapsed into delighted laughter. Annie laughed so hard she had to sit down on the couch. Even E.J., who had reached the age where he found family embarrassing on principle, couldn’t completely hide his smile. The moment lasted maybe five minutes. Nothing important happened. Nobody learned a grand lesson. No milestone was officially reached. Yet years later, it would become one of Annie’s favorite memories, not because it was extraordinary, but because it wasn’t. It was ordinary. Wonderfully, perfectly… ordinary. A moment that seemed insignificant while it was happening, but became precious only in retrospect.

Life felt full then. The kind of full that exhausted you and fulfilled you in equal measure. The laundry never ended. The dishwasher never stayed empty for long. Someone always needed a ride somewhere, needed help with homework. And someone always needed a costume, a poster board, a permission slip, or a ride across town with fifteen minutes’ notice. The house was constantly loud. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps thundering up and down stairs. Music playing from different rooms. Voices overlapping in cheerful cacophony. Laughter drifting from one end of the house to the other.

And somehow, through all of it, Annie and Smoke remained a team. Connected. The children knew it too. The boys rolled their eyes whenever Smoke kissed Annie in the kitchen. The twins made dramatic gagging noises whenever they caught their parents cuddling on the couch. Neither reaction slowed them down in the slightest. 

By then, affection had become part of the atmosphere of the house, as normal as the furniture, as expected as family dinner. Sometimes Annie would be making lunch and suddenly feel Smoke behind her. A hand settling warm against her waist. A kiss pressed against her temple. 

No explanation or reason. Just because.

One afternoon Anaëlle walked into the kitchen, saw her father leaning against the counter with his arms around Annie, and immediately turned around.

“Nope.”

Smoke laughed. “Where you goin’?”

“Somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause y’all bein’ weird.”

“We’re married.”

“I know.” Anaëlle shuddered dramatically. “Still weird.”

Annie laughed until she cried. At the time, she thought those moments would always be there. Not the children—they would grow up. That was inevitable. Not the house, the schedules, or the endless stream of activities. She knew those things would change. What Annie believed would remain was the feeling underneath it all. The certainty. The certainty that no matter how loud life became, she and Elijah would always find each other inside the noise. That no matter how many demands pulled at them from different directions, they would remain each other’s place to rest.

Looking back, she could see that was the part she’d taken for granted. Not his love. Never his love. 

The visibility of it. 

The way it once moved through every room with them. Openly. Effortlessly. Like breathing. 

Like home.

Adeline

By the time Annie handed him the pregnancy test, Smoke had convinced himself their family was complete. They hadn’t ever sat down and formally decided they were done. Their sex life was active and frequent. They made love whenever, wherever. So it wasn’t like they were preventing a pregnancy from happening.

The conversation had arisen over the years the way most conversations do in a long marriage—casually, between grocery lists and basketball practices, while folding laundry or climbing into bed at the end of an exhausting day. They had talked around it more than they had talked about it. Four children felt like a lot. A beautiful lot. A loud, vibrant, overwhelming lot.

Life had finally settled into something familiar and manageable. E.J. was old enough to spend entire afternoons outside with a football in his hand. Ethan had reached the age where every answer led to three more questions. The twins no longer appeared in their bedroom at two in the morning because of a nightmare or a thunderstorm. Now, it felt like they were finally coming up for air.

Then Annie handed him the test.

Smoke stood in the kitchen staring at it. Then at her. Then back at the test. The dishwasher hummed quietly behind him. Sunlight spilled through the windows above the sink, warm and ordinary. Upstairs, one of the kids was arguing over a charger. An ordinary afternoon. And right there in the middle of it, everything changed. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. It wasn’t funny, but somehow, after thirteen years of marriage and four children and more responsibilities than either of them could count, his wife had managed to surprise him completely.

“You for real, right now?”

Annie laughed, the nervousness she’d been carrying dissolved from her face. 

“Apparently.”

Smoke looked at the test again. Then back at her. Then shook his head. A smile spread slowly across his face—disbelieving, happy, a little terrified. 

“You serious?”

Annie laughed. “I don’t know how else to tell you we’re having a baby.”

He was moving before he even realized it. His hands found her waist, then her shoulders, then her face, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to hold her. 

Annie laughed harder.

“Elijah-Smoke.”

“I’m just checkin’.”

“You think I’m lyin’?”

“No.” His smile widened. “I think I’m in shock.”

Annie saw something boyish in him. Something younger. She hadn’t known she’d missed that. He kissed her softly at first, then again. And when he pulled back, she was smiling at him in that familiar way that always made him feel nineteen years old and completely incapable of acting like a sensible adult.

That night they sat on the kitchen floor long after the children had gone to bed. The conversation started with practical things. Bedrooms. Schedules. Car seats. School drop-offs. Whether they were too old to start over. The answer changed depending on which one of them was speaking. Eventually the conversation changed the way conversations used to—from babies to memories, from memories to college, from college to the apartment with uneven floors and broken cabinets, from there to everything they had built since.

At some point Annie curled against his side. His arm settled around her shoulders. And Smoke thought of something he had not allowed himself to think in a very long time. He missed this. This. The feeling of sitting beside his wife with nowhere else to be. No meetings, deadlines, phones vibrating. 

Just conversation. 

Just them. 

The realization settled quietly into his chest. Because he couldn’t remember the last time they’d done it.

The weeks that followed felt lighter somehow. Life was still life. The children still had activities. Work still demanded more time than either of them wanted to give. But something had shifted. Smoke started reaching for Annie again without thinking. 

A hand on her waist as he walked past. A kiss against her shoulder while she cooked. Pulling her into his lap while she complained she had work to finish. The old rhythms returned so naturally that neither of them stopped to question it.

One evening he came home to find the twins sitting cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded by baby name books. He knew he was in trouble.

“We got suggestions,” Anaëlle announced.

Smoke sighed. Of course they did.

For the next thirty minutes, the girls presented names with the seriousness of corporate executives delivering quarterly projections. Most were terrible. A few were concerning. One appeared to come from a cartoon horse. By the end, Annie was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. The girls looked deeply offended by their lack of vision.

For a little while, the house felt exactly the way Smoke wanted it to feel forever. Warm, safe, and alive.

Later that night Annie stood in the doorway of what would eventually become the nursery. The room was empty. Just four walls and a window. Smoke found her standing there with one hand resting gently against her stomach. “What you thinkin’ about?”

She looked over her shoulder, then back into the room.  “Everything.”

He understood that. Because he was too. He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Together they looked into the empty room, already imagining furniture, pictures, blankets, a crib, a future.

Neither of them knew how dangerous hope could be. Only that it felt good to have it again. So they kept planning. Kept dreaming. Kept loving a little girl they hadn’t met yet. 

A little girl they eventually named Adeline Evangeline Moore. 

Long before they knew they shouldn’t.

The appointment fell on a Wednesday. Smoke almost rescheduled it. His calendar had become a battlefield—board meetings, investors, calls, deadlines, a hundred things demanding his attention. 

Then Annie texted him: Don’t even think about it. 

A minute later another message appeared: I know that look.

Smoke smiled despite himself: What look?

Her response came quicky: The one where you convince yourself work is more important than seeing your child.

By two o’clock he was sitting beside her in an examination room. The room looked exactly like every other medical office he’d ever been inside. Neutral paint. Fluorescent lighting. A faint smell of disinfectant beneath recycled air. 

Nothing about it felt significant. Later he would think about that—how ordinary it had looked. How life-changing moments almost never announced themselves beforehand.

Annie sat beside him scrolling through nursery ideas while they waited. For the past week she’d fallen down a rabbit hole of paint colors, rocking chairs, blankets, and furniture. The room that would become Adeline’s nursery already existed inside her imagination.

“You buying that chair?” Smoke asked.

Annie glanced up. “What chair?”

“The one you’ve been lookin’ at for three days.”

Her expression immediately turned guilty, then defensive, then guilty again. “I haven’t decided.”

“Oh you decided.”

“I’m still considering my options.”

Smoke laughed. “You already picked the chair.”

She pointed at him. “I don’t like your tone.”

He smiled. She smiled back.

A few minutes later the technician entered. Routine questions followed. Routine answers. The kind of appointment nobody remembers because it feels so normal while it’s happening. Smoke reached for Annie’s hand without thinking. She laced their fingers together automatically.

At first nothing seemed unusual. Then the technician stopped talking. The conversation simply faded away. The quiet stretched. Then stretched longer. Annie noticed first. He felt it in the way her fingers tightened around his hand.

“Everything okay?”

The technician smiled—a polite smile. Professional. Careful. “I’m going to get the doctor.”

The technician’s silence had stretched too long. Smoke felt it in the sudden tension of Annie’s fingers laced through his, in the way the sterile room seemed to shrink around them. 

The doctor arrived a few minutes later. His expression composed, but weighted with the kind of practiced gentleness that never quite masked the gravity underneath.

Smoke remembered him introducing himself. He would also remember thinking it was strange because they had already met before. He’s been their OBGYN since E.J. Later, he would understand that people often walked around difficult conversations before stepping into them.

The doctor spoke carefully, pulling up the ultrasound images on the screen. There was no heartbeat… No movement. The measurements, the development, everything had simply stopped. Adeline had passed away sometime in the days leading up to the appointment. 

A fetal demise, the doctor called it, his voice low and steady as he explained the medical realities they never wanted to learn. It happened sometimes, even in otherwise healthy pregnancies. There was no clear cause visible on the scan, no cord accident they could pinpoint at that moment, no obvious placental failure, though further testing after delivery might reveal more. For now, it was simply that her heart had stopped beating. 

Adeline Evangeline Moore was gone.

Annie’s breath caught, a small, sharp sound that cut through the quiet hum of the machine. Smoke sat frozen beside her, the words landing like stones dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward, distorting everything. The future they had sketched in quiet conversations, the nursery taking shape at home and in Annie’s mind. The names the twins had debated with such earnestness. 

It all fractured in the space of a few sentences.

They asked questions. Annie’s voice was strong at first, then weaker. Smoke held her hand tighter, but his own thoughts fractured. How? When? Why now, after everything had felt like a second chance? 

The doctor answered what he could— it was likely early in the process, detected at this routine scan. They would induce labor to deliver the baby, a procedure Annie would have to endure in the coming days. There were options for support, for testing, for grief counseling. Words that felt hollow against the weight of what they meant.

The future they had been building disappeared before either of them fully understood it had existed. Smoke looked at Annie. She was staring at the screen, at the place where hope had lived only a few moments earlier. 

And since he’d known Annie, he had absolutely no idea how to help.

The drive home blurred. Annie stared out the window at the passing world that refused to pause. Smoke kept his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel, replaying the grainy image on the screen, the stillness where there should have been life. No dramatic warning. No pain that announced itself. 

Just absence… Quiet, merciless absence.

When they pulled into the driveway, the children were already home. The house stood exactly where it always had. A basketball near the garage. Sidewalk chalk on the front steps. Evidence of a future that had continued moving while theirs stopped.

Inside, the noise hit him immediately. Normally he loved it. That afternoon it made his chest ache.

“Daddy!” Arielle looked up first, then smiled. “Did you see Addy?”

The question landed like a punch. Smoke felt Annie freeze beside him. Only for a second. A tiny pause most people wouldn’t have noticed. 

He did. 

The conversation that followed became one of the hardest moments of his life. Harder than boardrooms, professional failures, and any challenge he had ever faced. Because there was no protecting them from it. No version of the story that hurt less. Only the truth.

The girls cried first. Then the boys. By bedtime the entire house felt different. Quieter. Like it was missing something. Like everyone had unconsciously lowered their voices.

That night Smoke climbed into bed and found Annie already lying there. An ultrasound picture rested on the nightstand. His eyes found it. A grainy collection of shadows. Nothing extraordinary to anyone else. Everything to them. He reached across the mattress and rested his hand on her shoulder. Annie didn’t pull away. She didn’t move closer either. The distance remained. Not physical. Something else. 

Something neither of them knew how to cross.

The induction happened two days later. Smoke remembered almost none of it in order. Only pieces. Annie squeezing his hand until his fingers went numb. The unbearable quiet that followed. The nurse asked, gently, whether they wanted more time.

Annie did.

She held Adeline for nearly an hour, tracing tiny fingers that looked impossibly complete. “Look,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “She has your hands.”

Smoke looked. She did. Long fingers. Tiny fingernails.

Perfect.

He’d spent his entire life believing fathers were supposed to protect their children. Standing beside that hospital bed, he had never felt more useless.

The days that followed blurred into a fog of arrangements and condolences. The ultrasound picture on the nightstand became both talisman and wound. Annie spoke of Adeline often in the weeks after, weaving her into the fabric of their days as if naming her presence could keep some part of her alive. 

Smoke listened, nodded, held her when the tears came. But inside, the helplessness gnawed at him. 

At first, Smoke did everything he knew how to do. He canceled meetings. Slept beside her during the day when she couldn’t face getting out of bed. Heated food neither of them ate. Held her through crying spells that lasted until dawn.

He tried. God, he tried.

But grief refused to behave like every other problem he’d ever solved. There was nothing to solve. Nothing to fix. Nothing he could build that would give them their daughter back.

So… distance grew. Annie carried the loss openly, a mother mourning the child she had already named. Smoke carried it inward, retreating to the one place where effort still yielded results.

Work.

One evening Annie found him in his office long after the children had gone to bed. He was staring at a spreadsheet without really seeing it. She stood in the doorway for a moment before speaking.

“Can you come sit with me?”

Smoke looked up. “Give me ten minutes.”

He meant it. He truly did.

Annie nodded. “Okay.”

By the time he walked upstairs, the bedroom lamp was off. She was lying on her side, awake, pretending to be asleep. Smoke kissed her forehead before climbing into bed beside her.

Neither of them said a word.

For Smoke—work had answers, solutions, and rewarded effort. 

Grief didn’t. 

Annie wasn’t asking him to fix her pain. She only wanted him to sit beside her in it. 

And soon—Annie stopped asking.

By the time he understood the difference, the distance between them had already begun to grow.

Everything We Asked For

The first time Smoke knew something was wrong, it wasn’t because Annie said anything. It was because she forgot a meeting.

In thirteen years together, Annie forgetting something was rare enough to be memorable. Forgetting something important was almost unheard of. It came on a Tuesday afternoon while Smoke sat in a conference room halfway through a budget review. His phone vibrated once against the polished table. Then again. Then a third time. Ordinarily he would’ve ignored it, but the screen lit up with Annie’s name.

He excused himself from the meeting and stepped into the hallway before returning the call. She answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

Something in her voice immediately caught his attention. Exhaustion. The kind that settled deep in your bones, the kind that sleep didn’t seem capable of fixing.

“You alright?”

A pause. Then a small, tired laugh. “Apparently not.”

Smoke frowned, leaning against the cool wall. “What happened?”

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

Another pause. 

“My keynote.”

For a moment he thought he’d misheard her. “You forgot your keynote?”

“I forgot my keynote.”

The conference had been scheduled for months. Annie had prepared for it for weeks. Presentations, notes, practice sessions, the kind of preparation she normally approached with military precision. 

And somehow she had missed it entirely.

Smoke closed his eyes briefly. “Baby.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer bothered him, because Annie always knew. Even when things went wrong, she usually knew why. This time she didn’t. Or maybe she couldn’t explain it.

By the time he got home that evening, she had already moved on from the conversation, at least outwardly. The children were scattered throughout the house: E.J. At practice, Ethan occupied the kitchen island with homework, the twins transforming the dining room into an art studio. Everything looked normal. But Smoke couldn’t stop thinking about the phone call.

Over the next several weeks, he started noticing things. Little things. Annie skipped meals. Forgot emails. Lost track of appointments. Nothing catastrophic or alarming, but it was enough for him.

One night he found her asleep on top of the comforter before nine o’clock. The lamp remained on. Her laptop sat open beside her. Reading glasses had slipped sideways across her face. Smoke stood in the doorway looking at her. The house was quiet. The children were asleep. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Annie looked exhausted, not just physically, but something deeper. The sight lodged itself somewhere beneath his ribs.

Three weeks later, Annie walked into the kitchen and found a woman sitting at the island. The woman stood promptly. She looked professional, polished, and friendly.

“Mrs. Moore. Nice to finally meet you.”

Annie stopped, coffee mug halfway to her mouth. She looked at Smoke, then back at the woman, then back at Smoke. “Who is this?”

Smoke glanced up from his laptop. “Good morning.”

“Elijah.”

He hid a smile. “What?”

“Who is this?”

The woman extended her hand. “I’m Danielle.”

Annie shook it automatically, still looking confused. And still looking at Smoke. 

Danielle smiled. “I’m your new house manager.”

Silence.

Smoke watched Annie process the sentence. The blinking started first. Then the frown. 

“What do you mean, house manager?”

Smoke closed his laptop. “The kids. The schedules. The activities. The house.”

“Elijah.”

“You’ve got too much on your plate.”

Her expression softened, just slightly. Enough for him to know he’d touched the truth. 

He wasn’t wrong. 

The children were getting older, not easier. Her business continued growing. The household practically operated like a small corporation. And after Adeline… everything seemed to require twice the energy it once had.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

Annie looked away. 

Smoke continued, because now he could see the solution clearly. Danielle would coordinate schedules, handle vendors, manage travel, track activities, carry some of the weight Annie had been carrying alone. 

By the end of the conversation Annie was smiling. Tired, but smiling. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.”

Relief settled inside him. 

Good. 

He’d fixed it. Or at least helped.

That was how problems had always made sense to him. Find the pressure point. Figure out what could be moved, changed, delegated, handled. Annie had too much on her plate, so he had taken something off it. Not everything. He knew better than to think one person could magically make her life easier overnight. But enough that maybe she could breathe again.

That evening he came home expecting Annie to look lighter. Less overwhelmed. Instead he found her sitting alone on the back patio watching the sun go down. A blanket draped across her lap. A cup of tea cooling beside her. She smiled when she saw him. Warm, genuine—and yet something still felt wrong.

Smoke sat beside her. Wrapped an arm around her shoulders when she leaned against him. They watched the backyard together in comfortable quiet. 

He tried to make sense of it. Danielle had already taken over half the things Annie had been struggling to keep straight. The calendar was organized. The house was handled. The children’s schedules no longer depended on Annie remembering every practice, appointment, form, and deadline herself.

She had help now.

So why did she still seem tired?

Not the kind of tired sleep fixed. Something else.

Smoke looked down when Annie tucked herself closer against his side. His hand moved absently along her arm. He could ask. The thought came and went.

She was resting against him. The house was handled. For once, nobody needed anything from either of them. Maybe this was what she needed too. A little time. Less pressure. Room to breathe.

So Smoke kissed the top of her head and held her closer.Everything around him looked exactly the way he’d always imagined it would. The house. The children. The life. He told himself the rest would follow.

It usually did.

So why did she still seem sad? Smoke didn’t have an answer… yet. He had reduced the workload. He had removed some of the pressure. Annie had told him herself that Danielle was exactly what they needed. So why wasn’t she lighter?

The answers didn’t arrive all at once. It arrived a few minutes here. An hour there. A canceled dinner. A postponed weekend. Tiny things that never seemed important enough to argue about on their own. Life simply kept asking for more of them, and they kept saying yes.

During those years, Elijah accepted another promotion. The title came with a corner office, a larger team, and responsibilities that seemed to multiply overnight. Annie’s business was flourishing too. Invitations to keynote conferences arrived months in advance. Hospitals sought her advice. Healthcare organizations paid for her expertise. The work they had spent years building was bearing fruit in abundance. They celebrated the promotion over takeout Chinese food because neither of them had the energy to go out.

“Look at us,” Annie said, lifting her carton in a mock toast.

Smoke bumped his against hers.

“We made it.”

He smiled. “We did.”

They meant every word. Neither of them knew that success had quietly changed what “making it” looked like.

At first it was temporary. A late meeting. An early flight. A client dinner. A conference that couldn’t be moved. They adapted the way they always had.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Ok.”

“Rain check?”

“Sure.”

The promises were always sincere. That was never the problem. And Smoke always tried to keep them. That mattered to him. If work took Thursday night, he protected Saturday morning. If a meeting ran through dinner, he brought Annie something home and climbed into bed beside her later, exhausted but there. If he missed something, he found another place to show up. That was what responsibility meant to him. You couldn’t always control what happened, but you could control what you did afterward.

Make a mistake. Correct it. Lose time. Find more. For years, that had worked. Or at least Smoke thought it had. Lately, every replacement seemed to need replacing.

Saturday morning became a call he couldn’t ignore. A weekend away got pushed because Annie had a conference. Dinner became eleven o’clock takeout eaten beside laptops because neither of them had finished working.

Nobody was doing anything wrong. That was what made it so difficult to recognize. There was no villain in their house. No affair. No secret. No one choosing not to come home. Just two people who kept promising each other the next available piece of themselves.

Smoke noticed it. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew Annie had grown quieter when he said he was running late. Knew her “okay” sounded different than it had years ago. Knew sometimes when he finally climbed into bed, she was already asleep—or pretending to be. And every time, the same uncomfortable pressure gathered beneath his ribs— He needed to do better. So he tried.

He moved meetings. Delegated more. Came home early only to find Annie working late herself. Planned dinners that got interrupted by children. Protected weekends that disappeared beneath games, recitals, family obligations, and the thousand ordinary demands of the life they had built together.

Sometimes it worked. They would have a good night. Laugh over dinner. Make love. Stay up talking longer than they should. And Smoke would lie beside her afterward thinking— There.

There you are.

There we are.

Then a week later Annie would look at him with that same sadness he still couldn’t identify, and something inside him would sink. Because he was trying. God, he was trying. But lately loving Annie felt like being handed a problem with half the information missing. He could see something hurt. He just couldn’t figure out where to put his hands. So he returned to what he understood. Handle what could be handled. Fix what could be fixed.

Keep moving.

Work had taught him that effort eventually produced an answer. He hadn’t yet accepted that marriage didn’t always work that way.

Danielle proved invaluable almost immediately, to Annie. The laundry stayed folded. Appointments stopped slipping through the cracks. The pantry remained stocked without either of them remembering who had gone grocery shopping. School forms appeared already signed. Birthday gifts were purchased before anyone knew a party was approaching. The machinery of their household ran more smoothly than it had in years.

Annie appreciated all of it. She appreciated Danielle. She appreciated Elijah for seeing she needed help. But every evening, after the children went to do homework, shower, or bedtime, Annie still found herself looking toward the front door.

Danielle had managed the house beautifully. But she couldn’t manage the one thing Annie missed most.

Elijah.

The corporate gala occupied the ballroom of one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead. Champagne flowed freely. Every conversation sounded expensive. The moment they walked through the doors, people started pulling Elijah away—investors, executives, board members. People who wanted his opinion, his attention… his time.

Annie didn’t mind. She’d spent years watching him build this. Watching rooms underestimate him before eventually understanding who they were dealing with. Pride still swelled inside her every time it happened.

At one point she found herself standing near the bar waiting for another conversation to end. Across the room, Elijah stood surrounded by investors. Someone asked a question. He answered. Everyone listened. The group laughed. A woman touched his arm. A man clapped him on the shoulder. 

Elijah looked engaged. Present. 

Suddenly, Annie felt something she hadn’t expected. Recognition. There you are. It startled her how quickly she recognized him. He hadn’t really changed. That version of Elijah had never disappeared. She had simply stopped being the person who received the best of him.

The thought appeared before she could stop it. Her chest tightened. Because she hadn’t imagined this version of him. He was still there. The man who used to spend entire Saturdays talking to her about everything and nothing. The man who called during lunch just to hear her voice. The man who couldn’t walk past her in a hallway without touching her. 

He still existed. She was looking right at him. Which raised a question Annie didn’t know how to answer. 

If he was still here… why did she feel so far away from him?

The thought followed her home. Followed her upstairs and into bed. Elijah climbed beneath the covers nearly an hour later—tired, content, successful. He reached for her automatically. An arm around her waist. A kiss against her shoulder. 

Familiar. Comforting. The touch of a man who loved her. 

Smoke didn’t notice anything unusual. That would bother him later. To him, the night had been good. Annie looked beautiful. She had stood beside him while people congratulated him, smiled when he introduced her, laughed at the right moments, slipped her hand into his when they finally left the ballroom.

He knew he’d spent too much of the evening talking to other people. That came with these things. Annie understood that. She always had. And now she was here. His wife. Warm beneath his arm. Smoke kissed her shoulder and felt her relax against him.

Something inside him loosened.

There.

For all the meetings, flights, schedules, children, and responsibilities constantly demanding pieces of them, this remained. He reached for her. She let him. Smoke closed his eyes. He thought that meant they were okay.

Annie lay awake inside his arms and wondered when being loved by her husband had started feeling so different from being known by him. She then closed her eyes. For a moment she tried to force herself to enjoy the closeness. Then a thought settled quietly into her chest. She wasn’t grieving Adeline anymore. Not entirely. 

She would always grieve Adeline. Always wonder who her daughter would have become. But the ache she carried now felt larger than that. More complicated. Because somewhere along the way she had started grieving her marriage too. 

After that evening, Annie began noticing things she had once dismissed. Elijah answered work calls during Saturday breakfasts. He still came to football games, but sometimes left before the second half. He never forgot birthdays. Never missed anniversaries. And hadn’t stopped kissing her goodbye every morning. But the conversations grew shorter.

The moments grew smaller.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Let me finish this email.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He always came. Eventually.

Without either of them intending it, they had started fitting each other into the spaces left over after everything else had been taken care of.

Months later it followed her into a middle school auditorium. The showcase started at six. By five-thirty, Annie was already seated in the second row, Arielle had specifically asked her not to sit in the back. The auditorium buzzed with conversation. Parents filled rows of seats. Teachers moved through the aisles. Student artwork lined display boards around the room. Annie checked her phone. Nothing. 

Then, ten minutes before the program started, it buzzed: Running fifteen behind. Should still make it before they start. A familiar knot formed in her stomach. 

She typed back: Okay.

A minute later another message appeared: Tell Arielle I’m on my way.

Annie slipped the phone into her purse. Everything was fine. Fifteen minutes wasn’t a big deal. Life happened. People ran late.

The showcase began promptly at six. The principal welcomed everyone. Teachers spoke. Students were recognized. Annie kept one eye on the stage and the other on the doors. 

At 6:10 her phone buzzed again: Running later than expected. Sorry.

The knot tightened slightly. She wasn’t angry. She understood. There was always something understandable. Traffic. Meetings. Client— Reasons. 

Always reasons.

At 6:25 Arielle’s name was called. Annie sat up straighter. Applause filled the room. Arielle walked onto the stage calm, composed, far calmer than Annie felt. The artwork appeared on the large screen behind her. A watercolor painting. Beautiful. The audience applauded again. The art teacher spoke about creativity and storytelling. Arielle accepted her certificate, smiled politely, then looked towards the audience, her family, then towards the empty seat beside Annie.

The moment lasted less than a second. Most would have missed it. Annie didn’t. Something inside her cracked. Quietly. Like ice separating beneath the surface of water.

The program continued. Annie sat perfectly still. At 6:38 the doors finally opened. Elijah stepped inside breathless, suit jacket over one arm, flowers in the other. His eyes found his family. Relief crossed his face. He’d made it. At least partially. He slipped into the seat beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were familiar. 

Too familiar. 

Annie looked at him. The flowers, the apology, the exhaustion. Sincerity. Because he meant it. That was the thing—he always meant it. Every apology. Every promise. Every attempt. He meant all of them. And sitting there beside him, Annie felt something she hadn’t expected. 

Nothing. 

No anger or disappointment. Only certainty. The thought arrived quietly. Without bitterness or accusation. 

Just certainty. 

After the showcase ended, Arielle spent twenty minutes answering questions about her painting. Smoke spent those same twenty minutes making up for lost time by praising her work, taking pictures, asking questions, and telling anyone who would listen how talented his daughter was. Arielle smiled through all of it. Happy, proud, and loved.

As they walked toward the parking lot later that evening, Arielle slipped her hand into Annie’s. “Daddy saw it.” The words came out soft. Hopeful. 

Not a question. 

A statement.

Annie looked down at her daughter. Then back at Elijah laughing with the boys several feet ahead. A good father. A good husband. A good man. Annie squeezed Arielle’s hand. “Yeah, baby. He did.”

Arielle smiled wider. 

Annie couldn’t remember the last time she had waited by the door believing Elijah would arrive exactly when he said he would.

Smoke drove home that night angry with himself. He should’ve made it. Not part of it. All of it.

He had blocked the time on his calendar. Told his assistant nothing got scheduled after four-thirty. Left the office with more than enough time. Then a call came. One call— That became three. By the time he walked into the auditorium carrying flowers, Arielle had already received her certificate.

Smoke had seen the disappointment on Annie’s face. He had seen something else too. Resignation. That bothered him more. Years ago, she would’ve said something before they even reached the car.

“You said you were going to be there.”

“I know.”

“You always say that.”

And then they would argue. Smoke would explain. Annie would tell him an explanation wasn’t an apology. He would get irritated because he had already apologized. She would get irritated because he was irritated. Eventually, they would find their way through it. Tonight, Annie hadn’t said anything. At first, Smoke was grateful. He didn’t have the energy for another argument about something he already knew he’d gotten wrong. He had been late. He felt like shit about it. Arielle had forgiven him. He had spent twenty minutes making sure his daughter knew exactly how proud he was of her.

There was nothing Annie could say that he hadn’t already said to himself. Still, driving behind her car toward home, he couldn’t stop thinking about how easily she had let it go. The thought should have worried him more than it did. Instead, part of him wondered if maybe they were learning.

Maybe after fifteen years they had finally reached the point where every mistake didn’t have to become an autopsy. Maybe Annie understood that being late didn’t mean he didn’t care. Maybe she knew that when he said he was trying, he meant it.

Because he was.

He had started declining more invitations. Handing meetings to other people. Blocking family events on his calendar months in advance. He ate dinner at home more often than he had the year before. His phone still rang too much, but sometimes he let it.

He noticed those things. He assumed Annie did too. And lately they weren’t fighting as much. She didn’t complain when he answered an email in bed. Didn’t ask when he planned to finish working. She didn’t remind him that he had promised to be downstairs twenty minutes ago. And she stopped appearing in his office doorway late at night asking him to come sit with her.

That last one should have told him everything. Instead, Smoke mistook the absence of conflict for peace. He thought maybe the worst of it had passed. Not fixed. He wasn’t naive enough to think fifteen years of marriage could be repaired because they’d gone a few weeks without an argument.

But better. They had to be better.

Didn’t they?

He was coming home. He was showing up. He was trying. And Annie had stopped telling him it wasn’t enough.

Smoke never considered that she had stopped telling him because saying it had become more exhausting than carrying it herself. He thought she had stopped asking because she finally trusted that he would come. 

Annie had stopped asking because she no longer expected him to. She hadn’t stopped loving him. She’d stopped expecting him. 

She couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened. There hadn’t been one argument. One betrayal. One decision. Just hundreds of ordinary days that slowly rearranged the center of their marriage until, without either of them noticing, they were standing beside one another instead of with one another.

Everything they had ever prayed for had finally become theirs. Somehow, in the process of building it, they had started losing each other.

Things We Never Said

The fight started over the thermostat. Annie would hate that fact, it was embarrassing, high-key ridiculous. When people imagined marriages ending, they pictured betrayal, affairs, screaming matches, or cruel words that could never be taken back. Nobody imagined a thermostat. Nobody imagined two exhausted people standing in a kitchen, arguing about things that were never really the problem.

They’d stopped arguing long before this night. Exhaustion had replaced conflict. It was easier to let another disappointment pass than to spend the little energy they had explaining why it hurt. Neither of them thought that peace and distance could sometimes look frighteningly alike.

The house was quiet that night. Unusually quiet. The children were gone for the weekend—E.J. traveling with his team, Ethan spending the night at a friend’s house, the twins having talked their Uncle Stack into a sleepover. For the first time in months, maybe years, Annie and Smoke had the entire house to themselves. Neither knew what to do with it. That should’ve worried them. Instead, they treated the silence like another item on an already crowded to-do list.

Annie sat at the kitchen island answering emails. Smoke stood near the sink scrolling through messages on his phone. A TV series played softly in the background from the Echo Show, though neither of them was watching it. 

The thermostat clicked. 

A few seconds later, Annie frowned. “Why is it so cold in here?”

Smoke didn’t look up. “Because it’s eighty-eight degrees outside.”

“It’s freezing.”

“It’s seventy-one.”

Annie looked towards the thermostat, then back at him. “Why is it seventy-one?”

Smoke finally lifted his head. “Because that’s what it’s set at.”

She stared at him. He stared back. The conversation should have ended there. Instead, Annie stood and crossed to the wall. A second later, the temperature setting changed.

Smoke looked up. “You serious?”

“Yes.”

“It’s one degree.”

“It’s my degree.”

He laughed. Wrong move.

Immediately the look appeared on Annie’s face, the one that warned him he was standing near something he didn’t fully understand. 

“You know what?” she said.

“Nah.”

“You were supposed to call the contractor.”

Smoke frowned. “What contractor?”

“The contractor.”

“The contractor for what?”

“The roof, Elijah.”

His expression changed—slightly, but enough. He remembered. The leak. The one she had mentioned twice. Maybe three times. He’d forgotten. And forgetting wasn’t normal for him. Not when it came to her.

“I’ve been busy.”

The second the words left his mouth, Annie’s face changed. “Right.”

Smoke straightened. “What that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like.”

“I said I’d handle it.”

“You forgot.”

“I forgot one thing.”

Annie laughed—a short, humorless sound. “One thing.”

Smoke felt irritation rise. Now he was being judged for a mistake? He’d forgotten. He already knew he had forgotten. But somewhere beneath the irritation was something older. Something that had been collecting every time he moved a meeting, came home early, made up for a missed dinner, rearranged a weekend, showed up late but still showed up—and somehow found himself standing in front of the same disappointment on Annie’s face.

He was trying. Why couldn’t she see that?

“You act like I don’t do nothin’.”

Annie blinked. The statement surprised both of them. Smoke heard it the second it left his mouth. He knew it wasn’t what he meant. But it was there now, and Annie had heard it.

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The kitchen went quiet. 

Annie folded her arms slowly. “You know what?”

Smoke already knew he wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “What?”

“I can’t remember the last time I asked you for something that wasn’t related to this house, the kids, or your schedule.”

The words landed harder than he expected. A part of him knew she was right. He just didn’t understand why that mattered. 

“We have four children.”

“I know.”

“We have responsibilities.”

“I know that.”

“We built all this.”

Annie laughed again. The sound hurt this time. “I know.”

Something about the way she said it made Smoke’s chest tighten. She wasn’t disagreeing. That would have been easier if she was. Instead she sounded exhausted. Like someone who had spent years carrying something heavy. Years hoping the other person would eventually notice.

“You know what the problem is?” she asked quietly.

Smoke looked at her. “No.”

“I believe you love me.”

The answer caught him completely off guard. For a second he simply stared. Because that wasn’t where he thought this conversation was going. 

“I do.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked slightly. The sound immediately put him on edge. “I know you love me.”

Silence stretched. Then she looked away—towards the living room, towards the life they’d spent years building, towards everything they had once wanted. And when she spoke again, her voice was softer. That somehow made it worse. 

“I just don’t think you see me anymore.”

The words hit him like a punch. Not because they were cruel. Because they felt impossible. 

“What are you talking about?”

Her laugh was small. Disbelieving. Exactly the kind of laugh people made when they discovered they’d been speaking a different language from someone they loved. 

“What am I talking about?”

“Annie—”

“I had a keynote last year and forgot it.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened. “What does that have to do with this?”

“You hired Danielle.”

“Because you needed help.”

“I needed you.” 

Annie took a deep breath and continued. “You kept finding people to carry pieces of my life.” Her voice trembled. “But nobody could carry the part that belonged to you.”

The words landed. Hard. Smoke felt something shift inside his chest. 

Annie shook her head. Tears gathered in her eyes. She didn’t bother wiping them away. “I wasn’t drowning because of schedules.” Her voice broke. “I was drowning because I was lonely.”

The TV series continued playing in the background. But they didn’t hear it. 

Smoke stared at her. Actually stared. Because suddenly he felt like he’d missed something important. Something enormous. Something that had been happening right in front of him.

“I was there.”

The words came out immediately. Instinctively. Like a defense. Annie closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were shining. 

“No.” 

Smoke flinched. She didn’t say it angrily. She said it sadly. “No, Elijah.” The use of his name felt worse than shouting. “I know you were physically there.” Her voice softened. “But somewhere, I stopped being your place to rest.”

The words settled heavily between them. 

Smoke looked away first—towards the dark windows, to the backyard. To anything that wasn’t her face. A part of him knew she was describing something real. He just couldn’t see the shape of it. And if Elijah “Smoke” Moore knew anything, it was how to solve problems he could understand.

Work problems. 

Business problems. 

Financial problems. 

Logistical problems. 

He had built an entire life fixing problems. But standing in that kitchen, looking at his wife, he couldn’t find a solution. He didn’t know what to do.

Annie watched him. Waited. Hoped for an explanation, understanding. Maybe for him to finally say the thing she had needed to hear for years. Instead Smoke said the worst possible thing. “I’ve been carrying a lot too.”

The second the words left his mouth, Annie’s face changed. Like a door quietly closing. Because she heard what he meant. Even if he hadn’t meant it that way. 

She nodded, slowly. “I know.”

Smoke took a step toward her. “Annie—”

“No.” She shook her head. The tears were falling now. Silent. Unstoppable. 

“No.” She looked tired. 

Done. 

The thought terrified him. Annie fought for things she loved. Always had. She argued. Pushed. Demanded. Stayed. This version of her wasn’t fighting. This version looked like she had run out of strength.

“You don’t even know what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Smoke opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because the horrible truth was… he wasn’t sure he did.

Annie looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded once. Mostly to herself. As though something had finally become clear. When she spoke, her voice was almost calm. 

“I think you should leave for a while.”

The words didn’t register immediately. Smoke stared at her. “What?”

“I think we need space.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Annie didn’t threaten things. She didn’t use ultimatums. She didn’t play games. If she said something, she meant it. 

“Annie.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Fear arrived then. Quiet, cold, and unfamiliar. Smoke felt it in his bones. They were no longer talking about a thermostat. Or a contractor. Or a missed keynote. They were talking about their marriage. And he had arrived at that conclusion far too late.

That night Annie packed a bag for him while he sat downstairs trying to understand how they had gotten there. When she carried it to the front door, neither of them spoke. 

The silence felt enormous. 

Smoke took the bag from her. Looked at her and waited. Part of him expected her to stop him. To say something. To change her mind. Instead Annie just stood there. Exhausted. Heartbroken. Certain. The sight hurt more than any argument ever could. 

Smoke reached up, brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then kissed her forehead. The gesture was so familiar it almost broke them both. “Goodnight, Annie.”

Her eyes closed. Just for a second. When they opened again, they were full of tears. “Goodnight, Elijah.”

Smoke walked out the front door. 

And for the first time since freshman year, neither one followed.

Almost

For the first several days after Elijah left, neither of them told the children.

There was always a reason to wait. E.J. was traveling with his team and Annie refused to tell him over the phone. Ethan had a test coming up. The twins had already cried when their daddy hadn’t returned home Sunday night, but Annie had managed to explain his absence with a vague answer about their father needing time to think.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Elijah needed time to think. The problem was, thinking had never required him to leave his family before.

He stayed in one of the furnished apartments his company maintained downtown for visiting executives. It was expensive, quiet, and impersonal. The refrigerator contained bottled water, three miniature jars of mustard, and nothing else. The walls were painted a neutral gray. The furniture looked as though it had been selected by someone who believed human beings should never leave evidence that they had lived anywhere.

Smoke hated it.

The first night, he barely slept. He lay in the unfamiliar bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the mechanical hum of the air conditioning and waiting for sounds that never came. No footsteps in the hallway. No television playing too loudly downstairs. No child opening the bedroom door because they needed water, advice, money, or reassurance that the shadow beside their closet wasn’t moving.

No Annie moving beneath the covers beside him.

He checked his phone more times than he could count. Nothing. He had expected anger. A message demanding to know when he planned to collect the rest of his clothes. Another argument. Something.

Annie sent him the twins’ updated dance schedule. Smoke stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

Then he typed: Got it. He deleted it.

Typed: Thank you. Deleted that too.

Eventually, he responded with a thumbs-up.

Annie stared at the reaction when it appeared on her screen, then locked her phone and placed it facedown on the nightstand. Something about that tiny yellow hand made her want to reach through the phone and punch him. Instead, she turned off the lamp and lay on his side of the bed.

They told the children the following Friday.

Smoke arrived twenty minutes early and sat in his Mercedes G Wagon at the end of the driveway until Annie texted him that everyone was home. He had lived in that house for more than a decade. His name was on the deed. Most of the furniture had been chosen after months of arguing with Annie over fabrics, colors, and whether cream-colored chairs made sense in a house with four children.

Still, when he reached the front door, he knocked.

Annie’s chest tightened at the sound. She opened it and found him standing on the porch wearing dark jeans and a black sweater, one hand tucked into his pocket. His wedding ring caught the porch light.

Neither said a word to one another.

Then Annie broke the silence. “You didn’t have to knock,” Annie said.

Smoke looked past her into the house. “Felt like I did.”

The answer hurt more than she expected, so she stepped aside.

The children gathered in the living room. E.J. sat on the edge of an armchair, shoulders rigid, suspicion already written across his face. Ethan occupied one end of the couch, turning his phone over and over between his hands. The twins sat pressed together beneath a blanket, Anaëlle holding Arielle’s fingers tightly in her lap.

Annie sat beside them. Smoke remained standing until Arielle looked up and asked, “Why you all the way over there?”

He sat immediately.

They explained it carefully. There had been problems. Adult problems. Things they needed time to work through. Smoke would be staying somewhere else for a while, but he would still see them all the time. Their routines would change, but their family would not disappear.

The explanation sounded reasonable. The children hated it anyway. They said nothing for a while.

Anaëlle’s bottom lip trembled first. “So… Daddy’s not coming home tonight?”

Annie felt the question lodge somewhere beneath her ribs. “Not tonight, baby.”

Anaëlle nodded once, then immediately buried her face against Annie’s shoulder, tears coming before she could stop them. Annie wrapped both arms around her automatically, kissing the top of her head while her own eyes burned.

Beside them, Arielle hadn’t cried. She was watching Smoke. Really watching him. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle that refused to fit together.

Ethan finally broke the silence. “So… how long is ‘for a while’?”

Smoke looked at Annie before answering. “We don’t know.”

Ethan frowned. “You mean you haven’t decided?”

“No.”

His fingers kept turning his phone over and over. “But y’all always have a plan.”

Neither Annie nor Smoke answered. Then—

“Are y’all getting divorced?” E.J. asked.

Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at her.

“We don’t know,” Annie answered.

E.J. stood so quickly the chair moved backwards. “How do you not know?”

“E.J.—”

“Nah.” His eyes moved between them. “Y’all been married our whole lives and now you don’t know?”

Smoke leaned forward, forearms resting against his thighs. “Sit down, son.”

“I don’t wanna sit down.”

“I understand you angry.”

“You don’t understand nothin’.”

“E.J.,” Annie warned.

Smoke lifted one hand before she could continue. “Let him be mad.”

His son stared at him, breathing hard. Smoke held his gaze. “You can be mad at me. You can be mad at your mama. But this ain’t because of you. It ain’t because of your brother or your sisters either. Nothin’ any of y’all did caused this.”

“Then fix it.”

The room went painfully still. Anaëlle began crying harder. Arielle reached across the blanket and took her sister’s hand without looking away from her parents. Ethan lowered his head. For the first time in years, there wasn’t an answer he could reason his way towards. Smoke’s face barely changed, but Annie saw the words strike him.

E.J. swallowed. His voice sounded younger when he spoke again. “You fix everything else.”

Smoke looked down at his hands. For once, he had no answer.

The first few weeks became an exhausting lesson in logistics.

Smoke collected the children Friday afternoons and returned them Sunday evenings. During the week, he attended games, practices, recitals, parent meetings, and school functions whenever his schedule allowed. He still paid every bill connected to the house. He still called Ethan on Wednesdays to help with advanced mathematics and texted E.J. before every game. The twins FaceTimed him nearly every night, sometimes carrying the phone from room to room as though he were still walking through the house beside them.

From the outside, the arrangement looked almost civilized. Inside it, Annie and Smoke struggled over everything. 

He arrived too early. She changed pickup times without asking him. He bought the twins new tablets after Annie had already told them no. She scheduled a weekend trip during one of his designated weekends. He accused her of controlling access to the children. She accused him of trying to overcompensate with gifts.

Most arguments began over logistics and ended somewhere far more personal.

“You can’t just show up whenever you feel like it.”

“This is my house too.”

“You don’t live here anymore.”

“Because you told me to leave.”“And you did.”

Smoke stared at her.

Annie wished she could pull the words back. Not because they weren’t true, but because of the look that crossed his face when she said them.

Neither apologized.

There were softer moments too, which somehow made everything worse. The first time Smoke returned the children, he walked them inside without thinking. The twins ran upstairs to show Annie something they had bought. Ethan headed toward the kitchen. E.J. disappeared into the living room. Smoke remained near the front door holding Arielle’s overnight bag. Annie reached for it. Their fingers touched. A familiar current passed between them, immediate and unwelcome.

“Thank you,” she said.

Smoke nodded. “They ate already.”

“Okay.”

“Ethan’s got a project due Tuesday.”

“I know.”

“He said he needed—”

“I know, Smoke.”

His mouth closed.

Annie regretted her tone instantly, but exhaustion prevented her from softening it.

Smoke handed her the bag. Then, without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. The gesture lasted only a second. Muscle memory. Marriage memory.

Both of them froze.

Smoke stepped back first. “My fault.”

Annie’s throat tightened. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. He left without saying goodnight. 

But the biggest “almost” happened three months into the separation.

Smoke had come by Saturday morning to collect the children for a weekend at his brother’s lake house. E.J. and Ethan were arguing upstairs over a missing charger. The twins were still packing despite Annie having told them repeatedly to be ready by ten.

Smoke stood in the kitchen drinking coffee from his old mug. Black ceramic. White lettering. WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD.

Arielle had bought it for him when she was seven.

“You could’ve used a clean cup,” Annie said.

Smoke glanced down. “This one was clean.”

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes met hers over the rim. Annie looked away first. She crossed into the pantry to find snacks for the drive. The space was expansive, shelves lining both walls from floor to ceiling. She reached for a box on the highest shelf and heard Smoke enter behind her.

“I got it.”

“I can reach.”

“You can’t.”

“I absolutely can.”

Smoke stepped closer. His chest brushed her back as he reached over her head. His body fit against hers with a familiarity that made the last three months disappear. Annie went still. Smoke did too. For one suspended moment, they didn’t move. Then his free hand found her waist. His palm settled against the curve of her hip the same way it had thousands of times before. Annie’s eyes closed. “Smoke.”

He lowered the box onto the shelf beside her, but he didn’t step away. His mouth brushed the side of her neck. A soft kiss. Barely there.

Annie exhaled shakily. Smoke kissed her again, this time below her ear, the spot where he knew she was sensitive. Her hand gripped the edge of the shelf. “We can’t,” she whispered.

“I know.” He kissed her there again.

Annie turned in his arms.The first kiss landed somewhere between an accident and a decision. Their mouths met softly, hesitantly, testing whether the connection they had spent months trying to ignore still existed.

It did.

The second kiss carried no hesitation. Smoke backed her against the shelves, one hand sliding into her hair while the other drew her closer. Annie gripped the front of his sweater, kissing him with every lonely night she had spent reaching across an empty bed. Every morning she had awakened before remembering he no longer lived there. Every conversation that had ended before either of them said what they actually meant.

The third kiss broke slowly. Neither of them moved. Smoke rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek as though reminding himself she was real.

“We shouldn’t,” Annie whispered.

“I know.”

Neither stepped away. Smoke kissed her again. This time there was urgency.

Years of habit, longing, grief, and love collapsed into a single moment. Annie’s hands slid from his sweater to his shoulders, then around his neck, pulling him closer as though she could erase every mile that had separated them over the past months. Smoke answered with a low groan against her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest and unraveling what little restraint either of them still possessed.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, settling against the warmth of her waist, then higher, palm spanning bare skin. Annie’s fingers found the buckle of his belt and worked it open without thought, both of them moving with the instinctive familiarity of people who knew each other’s bodies better than they knew how to live apart. He kissed along her jaw, then down the side of her throat, lingering there just long enough to make her eyes flutter closed. She pushed his sweater up, needing the heat of his skin under her hands. His fingers slid to the waistband of her leggings, already starting to ease them down as he pressed her more firmly against the shelves.

For one impossible moment, it felt as though nothing had happened. No arguments. No miscommunication. No separation. Only them.

“Daddy?”

They broke apart.

Anaëlle’s voice came from the kitchen.

Smoke’s forehead dropped to Annie’s shoulder. His belt hung open between them. Annie’s shirt had ridden above her waist; one of her hands was still fisted in the fabric of his sweater. Neither seemed capable of moving.

“Daddy?” Anaëlle called again. “Where are you?”

Smoke closed his eyes. “Pantry.”

“What are you doing?”

Annie pressed her lips together.

Smoke looked at the abandoned snack box. “Getting snacks.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Can you get the spicy chips?”

“Yeah.”

Anaëlle’s footsteps retreated. 

The quiet that followed felt entirely different. Annie lowered her shirt. Smoke fastened his belt with deliberate movements. Neither looked directly at the other.

“We can’t do this,” Annie said.

Smoke leaned against the opposite shelf. “We ain’t do nothin’.”

She gave him a look. His mouth twitched, but the humor vanished quickly.

“This is exactly what I mean.” Annie folded her arms tightly across herself. “We keep acting like nothing has changed whenever it’s convenient.”

“Didn’t feel convenient.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The point is that you can’t come in here, touch me like that, and then go back to your apartment like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Smoke’s expression hardened. “You think it don’t mean anything to me?”

“I don’t know what anything means to you anymore.”

The words cut through the remaining heat.

Smoke straightened. “You know exactly what you mean to me, Annie.”

“No, Elijah. I know what I used to mean to you.”

His eyes narrowed. “This some bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then why are we here?”

Smoke opened his mouth, but Annie shook her head. “No. I’m not doing this in the pantry while our children are here.” She moved past him, then stopped at the doorway. “From now on, when you pick them up, wait in the foyer.”

Smoke stared at her. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“Yes.”

“This still my home.”

Annie’s voice hardened. “Then you should’ve fought harder to stay in it.”

His face changed. She hated herself for saying it.

Still, she walked away.

They began couples counseling the following month. Annie found the therapist. Dr. Beverly Harris, a Black woman in her early sixties with silver threaded through her locs and a way of remaining composed while two people dismantled each other across from her.

Smoke disliked her by the second appointment. He never said that directly, but he didn’t need to. Annie recognized the closed posture, the crossed arms, the slight narrowing of his eyes whenever Dr. Harris asked him to consider something he did not want to consider.

What Annie didn’t fully understand was that Smoke had begun walking into those sessions already braced. By then, he had spent months turning the marriage over in his head. The missed dinners. The late arrivals. Danielle. The nights he had disappeared into work after Adeline. Every conversation seemed to lead back to another thing Annie had needed from him that he had somehow failed to recognize until it was too late.

He knew he had made mistakes. That wasn’t the part he resisted. What he didn’t know how to explain was that he remembered trying too.

He remembered canceling meetings after Adeline. Sleeping beside Annie in the middle of the day because she couldn’t get out of bed. Heating food. Holding her while she cried. Rearranging schedules. Hiring Danielle when Annie started forgetting things. Showing up late more times than he could forgive himself for, but still showing up.

None of it had been enough to stop them from ending up here. So by the fourth session, Smoke had begun hearing questions about Annie’s loneliness as questions about his failure. During that session, Annie described the loneliness she had felt after Adeline.

Smoke sat beside her, staring toward the window.

Dr. Harris waited until Annie finished. “Elijah, what did you hear your wife say?”

Smoke shifted in his chair. “That I wasn’t there for her.”

Annie closed her eyes.

Dr. Harris remained patient. “Is that what she said?”

“It’s what she meant.”

“No,” Annie said quietly. “It isn’t.”

Smoke looked at her. “You said you were lonely.”

“I was.”

“While I was right there.”

“Physically.”

His jaw flexed. There it was again. Not enough. He had been there, but not correctly. He had held her, but not the way she needed. He had worked to keep their life together, but apparently that had only carried him farther away from her. Smoke knew Annie wasn’t saying those exact words. That didn’t stop him from hearing them.

Dr. Harris leaned forward. “Elijah, when Annie tells you she felt lonely, what happens inside you?”

“I hear her telling me I failed.”

Annie turned toward him. “I’m not saying you failed.”

“That’s exactly what you’re sayin’.”

“No. I’m saying I missed you.”

“I was workin’.”

“I know.”

“I was takin’ care of our family.”

“I know that.”

“I was grievin’ too.”

“I know, Elijah.”

“Do you?”

The question filled the room. Annie stared at him. “Do you think I don’t know that losing Adeline hurt you?”

“You keep talkin’ like I just went back to work because I didn’t care.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Dr. Harris looked at him for a moment. “I don’t think you went back to work because you didn’t care.”

Smoke’s eyes moved to her.

“I think work may have been one of the places you knew how to function when grief made you feel helpless.”

His expression changed— Barely, but Annie saw it.

Dr. Harris continued. “That doesn’t make your grief less real. And it doesn’t make Annie’s loneliness less real either. Both can be true.”

Smoke looked away again. That was the part he struggled with. Every time somebody said both could be true, it somehow still felt like the conversation ended with what he had done wrong.

Dr. Harris let the quiet sit for a moment before speaking again. “Elijah, can you stay with what Annie is saying without deciding what it says about you?”

Smoke gave a short laugh. “See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Help me understand.”

“Every session, it feels like we spend an hour talkin’ about what I didn’t do. What I missed. What she needed that I didn’t give her.”

Dr. Harris nodded. “And you want there to be room for what you were carrying too.”

“Yeah.”

“There should be.”

That answer made him look at her.

“But making room for your experience doesn’t require us to erase Annie’s.”

Smoke’s mouth tightened. To him, that was exactly what kept happening in reverse.

Annie leaned forward. “Because you won’t talk about anything else.”

Smoke looked at her. “What you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“I am tellin’ the truth.”

“You’re defending yourself.”

Smoke looked back at Dr. Harris. “And that’s exactly what I’m sayin’. Soon as I try to explain myself, it turns into me makin’ excuses.”

Dr. Harris nodded once. “So when you try to explain your experience, you don’t feel heard.”

“No.”

“And Annie, when he explains his experience…”

Annie’s laugh held no humor. “It feels like he leaves no room for mine.”

Smoke felt something in him close. There it was. Even after Dr. Harris had said there should be room for him, they had somehow arrived back at what he was doing wrong.

He pushed back from the couch. “I’m done.”

Annie’s stomach dropped. “Elijah…”

He shook his head. “I can’t keep doin’ this.”

“You’re leaving?”

“This ain’t counselin’. This is two people tellin’ me why everything I did wasn’t enough.”

Annie stared at him. “You’re proving my point.”

His hand paused on the doorknob. For one second, she thought he might sit back down. He didn’t. Smoke walked out. They attended one more session. Then he stopped going.

Annie continued alone for several months. She learned words for things she had felt but never understood. Emotional abandonment. Pursuer-distancer dynamics. Unresolved grief. Protective withdrawal. She learned that two people could love each other deeply and still create patterns that wounded them both. 

Knowing the names though didn’t teach her how to save them.

Smoke didn’t date. Women expressed interest. Some subtly. Others with enough confidence to make their intentions unmistakable. He ignored all of them. His wedding ring remained on his finger. Annie’s photograph remained in his wallet. Whenever someone referred to her as his estranged wife, something inside him resisted the word.

Estranged sounded temporary. He preferred temporary.

Annie considered dating once. A physician she had met during a leadership summit asked her to dinner. He was handsome, thoughtful, divorced, and appropriately respectful when she explained that her marriage had not legally ended.

“Dinner doesn’t have to mean anything,” he told her.

That was the problem. Annie did not know how to offer someone something meaningless. Not when so much of her still belonged to Elijah. She declined. Smoke never knew anyone had asked.

Nearly a year after he left the house, Annie filed for divorce. The papers arrived at his office on a Monday morning. Smoke opened the envelope alone. He read every page twice, then placed the documents inside the bottom drawer of his desk.

He refused to sign them.

Annie waited two weeks before calling. “Did you get the papers?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you reviewed them?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I’m ain’t signin’ shit.”

She closed her eyes. “Elijah.”

“I said I’m not signin’ a muthafuckin thing.”

“You can’t refuse forever.”

“I can refuse today.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“You think I think this shit a game?”

“I think you’re dragging it out.”

“I’m buyin’ us time.”

“We’ve had time.”

“Not enough.”

“For what?”

Smoke stared through the windows of his office at the city below. “To figure this out.”

Annie’s laugh held no humor. “You don’t want to figure it out. You want me to stop asking.”

“That ain’t true.”

“Then go back to counseling.”

His silence answered her. Annie ended the call.

Weeks became months. New copies of the papers arrived. Smoke ignored them. Her attorney contacted his attorney. Meetings were scheduled and postponed. Negotiations began, stalled, then began again. Every conversation between Annie and Smoke circled the same exhausted ground.

Sign the papers.

No.

Why?

Because I don’t know how to stop being your husband.

He said it only once—Late one night over the phone, his voice so low she nearly convinced herself she had imagined it. Annie sat in the dark afterward, holding the phone against her chest. She didn’t know how to stop being his wife either. But she had learned that loving Elijah was not the same as being able to live with him.

Eventually, patience gave way to anger. Anger gave way to fury. And fury was exactly what carried Annie through the glass doors of Moore Capital on a Wednesday afternoon, an unsigned divorce agreement clutched in her hand.

By the time she reached Elijah’s office, every polite request she had made over the past year had hardened into something sharper. His assistant attempted to stop her. Annie walked past without slowing down.

What followed was loud, ugly, and long overdue. Accusations. Deflections. Fifteen-plus years of love compressed into twenty minutes of anger. Annie slammed the envelope onto his desk and demanded that he sign it. Smoke refused. She accused him of controlling her. He accused her of trying to erase their marriage because fixing it required more patience than she had left.

Neither meant everything they said. Both meant enough of it. When Annie finally turned toward the door, Smoke moved.

His hand closed around her wrist.

Come Home

“Annie.”

The way he said her name—low and rough, stripped of the controlled indifference he had worn throughout the argument, sent a fresh pulse of heat straight through her.

She had barely taken a step before his hand closed gently around her wrist. The movement stopped her in place. Then she felt him behind her.

His chest hovered just shy of her back, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that one shallow breath backward would erase the last inch between them. His thumb traced slow circles against the delicate skin of her wrist, each pass feeling like a promise and a plea all at once.

Her pulse hammered. She swallowed hard, fighting the treacherous pull of his body and every memory it carried. God, she knew exactly what it would feel like if she leaned back even the slightest bit. How easily his arms would find their way around her. How naturally she’d fit there.

“Let me go, Elijah.”

He didn’t move. His dark eyes searched hers, reluctance and raw hunger carved into every line of his face. For one agonizing second, she thought he might refuse. Then his fingers loosened. Slowly. Deliberately. As though surrendering even that small claim on her cost him something he wasn’t sure he could afford.

Annie stepped back on unsteady legs. She turned toward the door, every instinct screaming at her to keep walking. This was why she’d insisted he stay in the foyer. Why she’d stopped letting him wander through the house. Why she’d filed for divorce instead of continuing to live somewhere between wife and stranger. Because every time he touched her… She forgot why they were breaking up.

Her fingers closed around the brass handle. Open the door. Leave. Go home.

She still could. She could drive back to the house, crawl into the bed they’d once shared, and spend another night pretending she no longer belonged to the man standing behind her. Her hand tightened around the handle. She couldn’t remember the last time Elijah had looked at her the way he had just now.

Behind her, Smoke stayed exactly where he was, jaw locked, watching her put distance between them.

This time, he let her go.

When the soft click of her heels continued across the floor, he finally turned away. Defeated. Pissed. Hard as fuck and already aching with the loss of her warmth. He dragged a hand over his mouth, cursing beneath his breath as he walked back toward his desk. The unsigned divorce papers lay exactly where she’d left them. For a long moment, he simply stared at them.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was finally the day he signed them. He reached for the envelope. 

The quiet click of the lock froze him mid-reach.

Smoke turned. Annie still stood with her back against the door, one hand resting on the deadbolt. She hadn’t left. She was still facing the door.

Neither spoke.

The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable. Then Annie drew one shaky breath.

“Touch me.”

Smoke was on her in two strides. His broad chest pressed flush against her back, pinning her gently against the door. One large hand came around her waist while the other planted against the wood beside her head, boxing her in without forcing her to turn. She gasped as the unmistakable hardness of him pressed against her through their clothes, the weight of him making every nerve in her body spark to life.

His breath ghosted hot and ragged across the side of her neck. He didn’t speak right away. Instead he buried his face in her hair and inhaled like a man who’d been holding his breath for a year. The low, broken sound that left him made her knees weak.

“Fuck… you wearin’ it.” His voice was pure gravel. “Black Opium. My favorite. The one that always made me weak for you.” He inhaled her. “Fuck, man”— he groaned. “A whole goddamn year and you still smell like mine. You still fit against me like nothin’ ever changed.” His jaw tightened. “My body never will forget you.”

Annie’s pulse stuttered. She hadn’t meant to wear it. She’d told herself it was just the bottle still sitting on the counter, muscle memory more than intention. But the way he breathed her in made that lie feel paper-thin.

“Elijah…” It was supposed to be a command to stop. It came out breathy and weak, barely a whisper.

He stilled, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he pressed closer. The low, guttural groan that vibrated from his chest made her knees weak. “Baby. You still smell like home. Like my wife. Like the only woman who’s ever driven me this fuckin’ crazy.”

He paused.

“I was gonna sign them papers. But then you walked back in here smelling like this and I’m right back where I started.”

His hand slid lower on her waist, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above her hip bone before venturing higher, cupping the underside of her breast through her blouse. He squeezed gently, then harder, thumb brushing over her already-hard nipple until she whimpered. Annie’s head fell back against his shoulder despite herself. He was everywhere—his heat, his scent, the rigid length of him pressing insistently against her.

Smoke’s other hand trailed down her thigh, slipping under the hem of her skirt. His fingers teased the edge of her panties, tracing the lace but never quite giving her what she needed. “Been wet for me since you stormed in here, haven’t you?” he whispered hotly against her ear, nipping the lobe hard enough to sting. “Has anyone been inside you since I left? Or did you keep it locked up for me?”

She rocked back against him, desperate for friction. “Touch me. Please.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down her spine. Finally, his fingers pushed her panties aside and dragged slowly through her folds. The first contact made her breath hitch—slick heat coating his skin, her clit already swollen and hypersensitive under the lightest pressure. He circled it once, twice, torturously slow, then dipped lower to tease her entrance without entering.

Annie’s hips jerked. Inside, she could feel herself clenching around nothing, that deep, empty ache sharpening with every deliberate pass of his fingers.

He pushed one finger inside her, then two, curling them deep while his thumb continued working her clit in firm, steady circles. The stretch was immediate and intimate; her walls fluttered around him, hot and tight after so long. He pumped slowly at first, scissoring, searching until he found the spot that made her thighs tremble and a broken sound catch in her throat.

“That’s it, baby. Feel how you open for me.” He kept the pace measured, dragging the pads of his fingers along that sensitive ridge inside her on every stroke, never quite giving her the speed she needed. “I want you feenin’ for it. Want you so close you forget why you ever walked away.”

She was close already—embarrassingly so—the pressure coiling low and tight, her inner muscles starting to flutter in warning. He felt it and slowed even further, almost withdrawing, leaving her clenching and empty for a beat before sliding back in. The denial made the next thrust feel sharper; pleasure spiked and then plateaued, leaving her trembling on the edge.

“Please—”

He added a third finger, stretching her wider. The fullness made her gasp. His breath was hot on her neck as he whispered, “Look at you. Almost gone already. No one else could make you shake like this. You almost left me. You was gonna walk away from this. From us. But your body still knows where home is.”

He brought her right to the brink again—fingers curling hard, thumb relentless—then stopped completely, holding her open and pulsing while she shook. The absence was almost painful; her walls clenched around the emptiness, the throb in her clit sharp enough to make her whimper.

“Not yet. I don’t want you to come yet.”

“Please—Smoke, please, I need—”

He stopped cold.

The fingers inside her stilled, then slowly withdrew, leaving her empty and aching. Annie turned, flushed and frustrated, the sharp sting of denial hitting hard only to freeze at the sight in front of her.

Smoke brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on hers the entire time. The wet sound of it, the way his tongue dragged over his own skin to taste her, left her hypnotized. Heat pulsed low in her belly all over again.

Then his voice cut through the haze, low and dangerous.

“What did you call me?”

Annie’s chin lifted, a spark of defiance cutting through the need. “Smoke.”

He stepped in closer, crowding her against the door, the evidence of how badly he still wanted her pressed thick and hard against her hip. “That’s not what you call me.”

The air between them went tight. She held his stare for a long second, then let the name fall from her lips the way she used to in the private corners of their life—soft, intimate, only for him.

“Elijah-Smoke.”

Something dark and hungry flared in his eyes. He hadn’t heard that name in over a year. The sound of it hit him like a physical thing; she saw the exact moment it landed.

Before he could recover, Annie wrapped her fingers around his tie and tugged, stepping forward into the room and forcing him to move with her. She walked backward the rest of the way, never breaking eye contact, leading him by the tie like a leash. Smoke followed like a man in a trance. When the backs of his knees hit the couch cushions she gave him a firm push, and he sat hard.

She caught his wrist—the same hand that had been inside her, still faintly shiny—and brought it to her mouth. Slowly, she licked his fingers clean one at a time. The taste of herself mixed with his skin. A soft, pleased hum left her throat.

Smoke’s pupils blew wide. He watched her like he was remembering every nasty thing they used to do in the dark. A rough sound scraped out of his throat.

“Got-damn, Annie…”

He reached up, threaded his fingers into the back of her hair, and dragged her down into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and a year of missing her. It was sloppy, desperate. While their mouths stayed locked they stripped each other with impatient hands—her blouse shoved off her shoulders, his shirt ripped open and discarded, her bra unhooked and tossed aside. Her skirt and panties came off in one drop.

He broke the kiss only long enough to latch onto her breast, sucking hard, tongue circling her nipple. Annie’s head fell back, a low moan spilling out of her as she held his head against her and arched into it.

“Fuck… yes—”

Annie pushed him back against the cushions and dropped to her knees between his spread thighs. She looked up at him through her lashes, licked a slow stripe up the underside of his thick, veiny shaft, and took him deep with a wet, hungry sound.

Smoke’s head fell back against the couch. A broken groan tore out of him. His eyes rolled, hands fisting in the cushions, feet flexing against the floor as she worked him—hollowing her cheeks, swirling her tongue, taking him so deep she gagged softly and kept going. Spit slicked down his length. She stroked what she couldn’t swallow, greedy and relentless.

“Annie—fuck—baby, wait—” His voice was wrecked. One big hand found her hair, not pulling her off so much as trying to slow her down. “Gonna come—yo mouth—fuck.”

She pulled off just long enough to speak, voice rough and shiny with spit.

“Come here then. I want it.”

She spit on him, spread it with her fist, and sucked him even harder, chasing every reaction. When he finally broke it was with a guttural, almost pained sound, hips jerking as he spilled hot across her tongue and throat. Annie moaned around him as she swallowed and kept sucking, gentle now, milking every last pulse until he was twitching and oversensitive. Only then did she pull off, wipe the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and look up at him with quiet, satisfied heat.

Smoke stared at her like he’d been hit by a truck. His chest heaved.

“Woman…”

Annie started to rise, like she might actually walk away and leave him sitting there wrecked. Before she could take a full step he caught her wrist and hauled her down onto his lap—facing him. One arm banded around her waist; the other turned her face so he could kiss her again—slower this time, but no less hungry.

He didn’t reach between her legs right away. Instead he gripped her hips and lifted her higher, pulling her up his body until she was kneeling over his face. Her knees sank into the couch cushions on either side of his head. Annie caught the back of the couch for balance, looking down at him in surprise.

Smoke’s eyes were black with hunger. He spread her pussy lips open with his thumbs and dragged his tongue through her in one long, greedy stroke. A low, starving sound tore out of him.

“Fuck—still the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He sealed his mouth over her and ate her like a man who’d been starving. Broad, flat strokes, then the pointed tip of his tongue flicking hard and fast over her clit. He sucked it between his lips, groaned against her, and slid two fingers inside her while he worked, curling them exactly the way she needed. Annie’s head fell back, a broken moan tearing out of her.

“Elijah-Smoke—oh my god—”

He didn’t let up. He licked and sucked and fucked her with his tongue until her thighs were shaking on either side of his head and she was grinding down onto his face without shame. When she came it was sharp and sudden, crying out as she pulsed against his mouth. He kept her there through it, drinking every tremor, only easing up when she tugged at his head with trembling fingers.

Then he pulled her back down his body and positioned her over his length. Annie sank onto him in one long, aching slide, both of them groaning at the stretch after so long.

The fullness was immediate and overwhelming—every inch pressing deep, her walls still fluttering from the orgasm. Heat bloomed low in her belly.

“Elijah-Smoke—” The name left her in a broken moan. “Fuck… you’re so deep…”

She rode him slow, rolling her hips, feeling every ridge and pulse of him, then harder, using his shoulders for leverage. Soft, open sounds kept spilling out of her with every drop of her hips.

“Missed this… missed the way you fill me—”

Smoke let her set the pace for a few moments before he growled, gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, and thrust up to meet her. One hand slid up her body and settled lightly around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, thumb resting over her pulse. The possessive pressure made her clench around him.

“Yessss—like that, don’t stop—”

He kept the hand at her throat as he fucked up into her, rough and deep, the wet sound of their bodies filling the office. The dual sensation—thick dick dragging over every sensitive place inside her and the steady, claiming weight of his palm—pushed her higher fast. Her walls began to flutter and tighten.

Annie came with a broken cry of his name, clenching hard around him, pulse after pulse rippling through her. He wasn’t finished. He eased her off just long enough to lay her on her back across the couch, hooked one of her legs and pushed it high—nearly to her shoulder. She was flexible enough to take it, and she pulled it back even farther herself, hand behind her knee, other hand pulling him closer.

The new angle made him sink impossibly deep. Smoke cursed and started fucking her in earnest—hard, precise strokes that dragged over every sensitive place inside her. Each thrust pressed against that swollen spot, sending sparks up her spine; the stretch and friction built again almost immediately, her body already primed and oversensitive.

“Right there—fuck—shit—right there—” Annie’s voice cracked. They kissed through it, messy and open-mouthed, until the pleasure coiled too tight. She came again with the private name on her lips, loud and wrecked—“Elijah-Smoke”—the rhythmic squeeze of her body pulling him over right after. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her with a low, shattered groan, forehead pressed to hers, body trembling through every pulse.

Afterward, they stayed tangled together on the couch, sweat-damp and breathing hard.

Smoke adjusted them carefully until Annie was half draped across his chest, her cheek tucked beneath his chin as though she’d always belonged there. One arm circled her waist while the other moved slowly up and down her back, his fingertips tracing lazy paths along her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing gradually finding the same rhythm again.

Annie looked down at the bruises already beginning to bloom beneath his fingertips along her hips. She caught sight of his teeth marks reflected faintly in the dark television screen across the room and felt a small, weary laugh threaten her throat.

For the first time in months, neither of them felt far away.

Smoke broke the silence first. “I’ve been thinkin’ about that night.”

Annie didn’t ask which one. She knew. “The thermostat?” she asked softly.

He nodded against her hair. “I’ve replayed that conversation every fuckin’ day.”

She listened without interrupting.

“I kept hearin’ all the things you said…” His voice caught. “…but I was so busy tryin’ to prove I wasn’t the man you thought I was…” He swallowed hard. “I never stopped long enough to hear what you were actually askin’ me.”

Annie closed her eyes. “I wasn’t askin’ you to defend yourself.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ you didn’t love me.”

“I know.”

She tilted her head just enough to look at him.

“I needed you to miss me while I was still standing beside you.”

Smoke’s eyes closed. “I do now.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I know that’s too late.” He shook his head slowly. “But I do.”

Annie studied him for a long moment. Since all of this had begun, she wasn’t looking at a man trying to win an argument. She was looking at her husband. Really looking at him. “I know,” she whispered.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against her back. His voice was quiet when he spoke again, rough around the edges. “Can I come home?”

Annie’s fingers curled against his chest. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Smoke’s hand stopped moving along her back. She could feel the change in him immediately. The way his body seemed to brace beneath hers, preparing for an answer he didn’t want but had finally learned he couldn’t control.

Annie lifted her head. “Elijah.”

His eyes met hers.

“If you come home, I need you to understand something.”

He waited.

“I don’t want us to go back.”

Something flickered across his face.

Annie touched his cheek. “I loved what we were. Lord knows I did. But I don’t want to go back to pretending everything’s okay because we had a good night. Or because we made love. Or because we miss each other.”

Smoke covered her hand with his.

“I need us to be different.”

His thumb moved slowly across her knuckles. “Different how?”

“I need you to talk to me before you disappear into yourself. I need you to hear me without deciding I’m telling you you’re a bad husband.” Her voice softened. “And I need to stop waiting until I’m so hurt that all I know how to do is push.”

Smoke looked at her for a long moment. “I can do that.”

“No.” Annie shook her head gently. “You can try.”

His expression changed, because there it was. The thing neither of them had allowed themselves for years. Not a promise that they would never hurt each other again.

Just the willingness to keep trying.

Smoke nodded. “I can try.”

Annie’s eyes burned. “And counseling.”

His mouth tightened instantly.

Despite everything, she almost laughed. “Elijah-Smoke.”

“Damn.”

“Counseling.”

He looked toward the ceiling as though appealing to God personally.

Annie waited.

Finally, he looked back at her. “Aight.”

“With Dr. Harris.”

“Now you pushin’ it.”

“Elijah.”

“I said aight.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Small. Wet. Tired.

Smoke stared at her. And there it was. That laugh. The one he hadn’t realized how desperately he’d missed until he heard it again. His hand came up and cradled the side of her face.

“Can I come home, Annie?”

This time, she understood what he was asking. Not whether he could sleep in their bed again. Not whether he could put his clothes back in the closet or drink coffee from that ridiculous WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD mug every morning.

He was asking whether there was still a place for him beside her. Whether fifteen years of loving each other badly in some places and beautifully in so many others had left them anything worth saving. Whether she still wanted him.

Annie leaned into his palm. “I still want us.”

Smoke’s eyes closed.

“And I’m choosing you,” she whispered. “Again.”

His forehead came down against hers. “Again,” he repeated.

Annie kissed him softly. No desperation or anger. No year of loneliness trying to consume itself in a single afternoon. Just a kiss between two people who had finally stopped pretending love alone would save them.

They would have to tell the children. They would have to return to counseling. There would be hard conversations. New boundaries. Old wounds that didn’t disappear simply because Elijah came home.

The divorce papers would still be sitting on his desk when they finally got up.But they would remain unsigned. Because Annie was still his wife. Elijah was still her husband. And neither of them was finished choosing the other yet.

For the first time in a year, coming home wasn’t about returning to the life they had before. It was about building one they could stay in.

End Note: Soo...what did y'all think? I hope it was worth the wait! 🫣 Y'all know I'm sensitive about my stuff. I hope the smut was good....😩

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Warmth.

A kind that surrounds itself in an embrace as if in the womb once again, and a comfort that comes with the familiar. The knowing that you know instinctively.

Annie melted into it as if her body was liquid, her eyes shifting aimlessly under her eyelids as wakefulness took its time making its way to the surface.

She cracked one eye open. Faint rays of a setting sun washed her room in orange, purples, and reds. It didnt take long for her to realize that she wasnt resting across a pillow, but a person.

Elijah.

His faint cologne, natural musk, and that ever present lingering scent of tobacco filtered through her nose before her mind caught up. Her head gently shifted with the slow upward and downward movement of his chest as hear ears started to register his strong, steady heartbeat underneath his sturdy chest.

She looked up towards his face. He was already awake.

Awake, and looking at her. His expression softer and more open then she could ever recall seeing before.

Annie shifted her body, lifting her head from the warmth of his chest, his strong arms shifted with her movement, sliding down her sides limply. She spoke, voice raspy and riddled with sleep, "How long you been up?"

"Been a minute." He spoke quietly.

Quiet in a way that felt as if he spoke any louder it would shatter the little delicate bubble they had right now in this moment.

"You been watchin' me this whole time?" Her eyes squinted in faux suspicion.

Elijah cocked his head to the side, "An' if I did? Is that a problem?" He brought one of his hands to rest underneath his chin, looking at her expectantly.

A coy smile graced her lips, Annie cocked her head to the side, mirroring Elijah. "I dont know yet..." she looked deep into his brown eyes searchingly.

"Nothin' enter your mind to wake me up? Looks like most of the day done left already." She took note of the sun that way on its way out, as daylight quietly made its exit to bring forth the approaching nightfall.

Elijah snorted, "You act like this place gon' grow legs and leave if you aint on alert 24/7." His arms circled around her once again, pulling her to him.

"Elijah-" she started fidgeting in his embrace, trying to get up from the bed.

"You think I wouldnt wake you if somethin' was on fire? Aint shit happen 'round here while you was restin' your eyes." He paused, looking her up and down her voluptuous body, a toned down but hard to ignore heat behind his eyes. "By all means, looked like you needed the rest."

Annie felt her cheeks warm at the implication. Memories of what happened between them not too long ago came rushing back all at once. She looked to the side slightly flustered. Not enough for her to dissappear and hide from him. From the looks of things it was impossible for her to do that with him now... especially now.

"Stop lookin' at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you wanna eat me up."

"Well I already did, an' I'll do it again." He stated matter of factly.

She shook her head, "You somethin' else."

"I know thats right. Better not be nobody else like me 'round here." He gruffed, deadly serious.

Annie stared at him in quiet disbelief, "Man if you dont hush up with all that." She grabbed one of her silk covered pillows and swatted at his head, smacking him dead in his face. He didnt have time to lift his arms to shield himself.

"You'd think that audacity of yours would cool down some but here you are just funkin' up the place. I should go back to callin' you Smog." She teased.

"Anisa, you bet' not call me that ugly ass name again." He managed to grab the pillow she was currently assaulting him with. And there it was.

Those elusive dimples of his made their rare apearance. Not a smirk, but a full blown smile this time as he was wrestling the pillow from her hands.

"How you gon' let me get a hit on you? Aint you s'pposed to be a notorious mercenary?" She chuckled.

"It dont count. I let you."

"No you didnt."

She felt a slight rumbled in his chest, a low chuckle emerging from the depths of his diaphragm. "You right..." His voice trailed off, the light atmosphere they both hailed died down, replaced with an undpoken heaviness that quietly bloomed between them. Elijah's raspy voice bled through the heavy atmosphere.

"How you feelin'?..."

Annie drifted her eyes to the side, looking towards the balcony as if it was the most interesting thing on earth.

She felt one of Elijah's hands gently grasp her chin, turning her head to face his own. "C'mon now, aint no point in hiding. I done seen damn near everything by now, I want them pretty eyes on me."

"Ugh...you so annoyin'." She rolled her eyes, though there was no heat behind her words.

"I dont know... Its like Im feelin' everything all at once. My emotions is like a tangled ball of yarn, I dont really know which one I wanna pick out an' start untanglin'..." She spoke earnestly.

"Mmm..." he was quiet for a moment "Mary?..."

Her eyes became heavy with grief. Not the kind from the death of a loved one, but a loss of a different kind. The death of a relationship she thought she had, maybe there never was one to begin with...

Elijah watched her closely, any minute details that ran across her expression to gage where she was mentally. She was a woman that kept things so close to her chest... Almost to her own detriment.

Until he saw her eyes start to shimmer with Un-shed tears. Her lips pursed and she looked off to the side again. Still not quiet comfortable with the amount of vulnerability she was displaying, but when it came to Smoke... Elijah... She couldnt find it in herself to put a cap on what she was feeling.

"I... Im not gon lie Elijah, Im hurt... Real hurt by what she did- has done." She trailed off, deep in thought as she was searching for words she wasnt sure she had in her at this very moment. "I dont even know what to think. All I know is she cant stay, but- I need sometime to collect myself 'fore I make any moves."

He hummed in understanding, firming his grip on her plush body as she tucked her head into the crook of his neck. "Its ok. You dont have to know what to do right now." The warmth of his body, and the rumble of his voice was a grounding comfort against the whirlwind trying to tear through her mind.

She shifted again, lifting her head out the crook of his neck and looked him in his eyes, the setting sun shining its pinks, purples, and oranges against his bronze skin, and reflecting off his deep brown eyes. She saw a newfound softness in them. Maybe it was always there and she simply never saw it, but it made her feel warm and soft on the inside.

Her blatant staring must've got to him because he started to fidget slightly, unsure of what her eyes saw when they looked at him. What was it that was making her eye him so intensely, whatever it was, he hoped she found whatever it is that she seemed to be looking for. And it seemed that he didnt have to wait long.

She caressed the side of his face gently before grasping his chin. Her thumb absently toyed with the coarse hairs of his goatee, before she pulled him in and gently brushed her lips against his. He didnt push, just savored. Following her tempo until she released his lips and found her home back in the crook of his neck, wrapping her arms across his torso as if she was about to crawl underneath his skin. One of his arms pulled her in tight, leaving no space between them.

Anisa lets out a deep seated sigh, relaxing into the embrace before she spoke again, voice hesitant, but heavy with an increasing drowsiness, "Stay with me?... For the night, to sleep- I mean. I could... I could really use the company... Right now."

Her question was stilted and akward. Unused to voicing her needs. Especially her emotional ones.

Elijah shifts suddenly, making way to get up from his laying position, making Annie have to adjust, removing her body from his side. Confusion written all over her face.

"Hold on." He rasps quietly before getting up from her bed and leaving her chambers without another word. The Weight of silence following the click of her chamber door closing behind him was heavy.

Annie blinked, any sleepiness she previously felt dissappeared. Only confusion at his sudden exit.

She couldnt help the niggling feeling of embarrassment peak through. Insecurity reared its ugly head as she was going back and forth with herself.

Maybe she shouldnt have asked him to stay with her.

Was it a step too far? That was a dumb question. How would asking to stay the night be too far compared to what they did.

Why the hell would he say hold on, just to dissappear?

Annie straightened her back and got up from her bed to get dressed for bed on her own. It was a good thing she asked to be left alone for the rest of the day. If anyone were to stumble on to them at any point, she wouldnt know what to do with herself... unless...

She couldnt help the thought that came to her. A part of her, a deeply indignant, petty, part of her couldnt help the thought of Mary being the one to come across them with Smoke's head between her thighs while he made her sing like a canary.

Shit, a part of her wished she did.

Annie quickly shook that thought away, she didnt want to give more thought to that woman than she needed. What she needed now was rest. With or without Elijah.

She went about undressing in a robotic fashion, trying to move as if Smoke leaving her in the midst of her seeking comfort didnt bother her as much as it did.

She made her way back to her bed, sliding under the sheets in a stilted manner. The soft glide of the silk covered mattress did nothing to settle her jumbled mind that, quiet honestly, Elijah made worse.

As soon as she laid her head on one of her fluffy. Cloud-like pillows, she heard a knock at her door. Whoever was behind it, didnt wait for her to answer.

Annie spun around quickly from her phone position, ready to give whoever barged in a piece of her mind before she paused.

It was Elijah in his night clothes with a thin extra blanket tucked inbetween his arm, no doubt from his own chambers.

The sound of feet padding across the room was the only noise that filled the space, as Annie remained quiet as she watched him cross the threshold of her room.

As soon as he reached the foot of her bed, he paused. "Whatchu makin' that face for? I said I was comin' back."

Annie remained quiet for a beat before she scoffed, "I need to know... Since when did "hold on" translate to "Im comin' back"?" She gave him a blank unimpressed stare.

"Aint a direct translation but it mean all the same- now c'mon." He motions for her to move to the side, which she does but not without atleast a little but of attitude, huffing and puffing as she adjusted, making room for him lay down next to her.

Just as he puts one of his knees onto the soft cushion, Annie stops him. "Whatchu got that tissue paper you call a blanket in your hand for?" Lifting a quizzically brow at the aforementioned object nestled in his arm.

"Oh-uh, well... I aint wanna make you feel uncomfortable. Figured Id bring myself a blanket you know an' sleep on top of the sheets.

"Elijah..." she deadpanned.

"Mhm?"

"You talkin' bout bein' comfortable after I had my legs wrapped around you like you was one of my necklaces? I asked you to stay the night 'Lijah." Her face was a strange mix of mirth and disbelief at her husband's antics.

"I-" Whatever rebuttal Smoke had dies in his throat. Yeah it was a little backwards, but he still wanted to be sure she was comfortable.

He wordlessly climbed in. His strong arms fully encompassing her from behind as he settled in. Annie relaxed into his hold, completely melting into his warm embrace.

And as if it were a spell, her eyes grew heavy, and before she knew it, she was out like a light.

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A stream of sunlight slipped through a gap of Anisa's bedroom chamber window's, beaming directly into Smokes closed eyes. His face scrunched as he stirred, squinting against the light. He lifted a heavy arm to block the rays.

He couldnt recall the last time he slept long enough to meet the sun as sun as he woke.

He heard the birds singing their morning songs outside, then the faint bustling of the manor waking up. Servants quietly padding down hallways and tending to their chores. Then lastly, the faint breathing of Annie, her back facing him, but completely molded to his body. There wasnt even space for air to sneak through between them.

Despite the innocent nature of resting together he couldnt help but be brought back to yesterday. She opened up so beautifully to him, in more ways than one.

He half expected her to kick his ass out when he went about making demands to her. But... As stubborn as she could be she damn sure could listen when she wanted, and listen well...

The way she unabashedly played with herself in front of his eyes. As if she had something to prove. As if she wanted to get a point across despite him being the one dealing out directions.

Fuck...

He moved slightly, angling his hips away from Anisa's backside that was currently brushing against his front. He couldnt help his body reacting to the memory, and just the feel of her. Relentlessly reminding him of the pleasure he never took for himself in the midst of taking care of hers.

The rustling he made must have disturbed her sleep as he heard her let out a long exhale. He watched her back as her breath lightened with each exhale, letting him know she was on her way to waking up.

He listened quietly, waiting for her to become fully conscious. Until he heard a quiet groan come from her followed by a hefty yawn.

There was a pregnant pause.

Until she turned around to see that Elijah was still there with her. With the softest that he's ever seen her eyes- the way she completely held her body in all honesty.

He'd seen her in her night dresses before, but their was always a barrier, a wall between them made of their own egos, stress and unfamiliarity with each other. Here, her shoulders were completely relaxed, body melted to the bed, as she rested her head against his arm that was starting to feel a bit static. It definitely fell asleep. Smoke inconspicuously flexed his fingers periodically to get the blood flow going again.

"You ready for the day?" He asked.

A seriousness already started to take over her features.

Damn. He almost regretted saying that with how quick that burst the bubble of comfort they were floating in just moments ago.

"Yeah."

She moved. Swinging her long legs over the edge of the mattress, quickly getting up to walk towards her closet to sort out her own clothes for the day

Huh?

That left Elijah a little curious.

"Anne?"

"Mhm?"

"Wouldnt you have somebody come an' help you get dressed? Why you movin' like you 'bout to do that yourself?"

Her hand paused on a purple dress when he asked her that question. "I asked to be left alone for a while..." she answered without turning around, then continued leafing through the different fabrics.

Wait.

He almost had half the mind to think that she had him right where she wanted him, provoking him on purpose all day yesterday to get him to do what she wanted.

Damn...She really does know what she's doing. Done played my ass like a fiddle.

Smoke couldnt help the low chuckle that escaped him. That caught Annie's attention. "Whatchu over there laughin' about?" She turned around to look at him this time. Eyes curious, but a deeply hidden mirth dancing in her deep, warm, brown eyes.

"Nothin'...just laughin' at Myself is all." He shook his head, a slight smirk etched into his lips.

"C'mon get up now. Feel like you been in my room for years now at this point."

"Woman, you must got some short term memory loss, you asked me to stay remember? Unless you forgot."

"Yeah I asked you to stay the night. Dont you see the sun is up now, I know you couldnt miss them sunrays beaming into your eyes just now. An' I see your ass is still on that bed right now as I speak." She chided.

"Alright, alright Anne' Imma get up." She watched him closely to make sure he made due on his word.

He shuffled his solid body off the bed before extending his arms above his head to give a big stretch. He let out a quiet groan as some of his joints let out audible cracks from being in one position for an extended period of time.

Anisa couldnt help her eyes wandering to his waist of his trousers as his shirt slightly lifted, giving her a peak of his sturdy torso. She could a sliver of his lower abdominals, the slight indents of his obliques, and a whisper of a trail of hair leading past the waistline. It was quickly put to an end as he dropped his shoulders, and his shirt dropping with them.

She let out a breath she didnt realize she was holding, going back to her gowns.

"What about the purple one?"

Elijah made his way over to where she was standing. Her skin prickled at his proximity. She really shouldnt be affecting by his closeness at this point, but some how, now that he had been between her legs and even slept in the same bed all night, it felt worse than before. She was hyper aware of his presence almost to the point of distraction.

It made her think about other things she wanted to do to him. Or him do to her.

She was so caught up, and he was so focused on her pleasure she didnt get the chance to explore him in the way she honestly wanted to. She wanted to know what made him tick. What got him going. She wanted to get more familiar with him. All of him.

He satiated an itch that she herself was almost unaware she was carrying, but all it did was make the itch more deep seated. She wanted more-

"What?"

"The purple one. The dress. The light one, why don'tchu wear that one today? It look nice on you."

He pointed to the lilac dress that was currently clenched in her hand while her mind wandered elsewhere.

"Oh-, yeah you like this one?" She held it to her body to show it off more fully to give him a better view.

He looked her up and down, humming appreciatively. "You gone need any help gettin' your jewelry on?"

She lifted an inquisitive brow, "You wanna help me put 'em on?"

"I like hearing 'em chime everytime you walk. Let's me know your near." He answered earnestly.

She felt heat rise to her cheeks at the implication, the butterflies she felt in her stomach fluttered incessantly. "You like when Im near? Im kinda suprised. Figured we always gettin' on eachothers nerves all the time so..." she started to distractedly toy with her ear, fiddling with the sparse earrings still left on them.

"You think a man thats willing to chase your ass up and down these halls like a mad man wants nothin' to do with you?" He kissed he teeth in fake irritation.

"Ok, ok" she waved him off, "I get the point. Damn." She went and placed her dress across the chair that sat by her expansive vanity, before looking at him expectantly.

"What?" He questioned unsure what it was she was looking at him like that for.

"The hell you mean what? Ain't you gonna leave so I can change first?"

"You wan' me gone?"

"She rolled her eyes, "That's what I just said didnt I?" She narrowed her eyes at him.

He lifted his hands in surrender, "Im gonna go get dressed right quick. Let me know when you ready to put your jewelry on alright?"

"I will Elijah..."

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Just as Smoke finished dressing himself, he heard a tentative knock on his door. He could here Annie's faint voice from the other side, "Im ready when you are." And with that, he opened his chamber door, and followed her back into her room to help with the finishing touches.

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After enough direction, Elijah managed to help adorn her with all the jewelery she picked out for herself to wear today. Especially for the hard to reach places like adding jeweled hair excessories towards the back of her hair.

He placed the last piece across her neck. An opalecent, pearl necklace. He felt the smooth, cool and unblemished surfaces of each pearl slide against her neck as Elijah worked to clip it in place. The heat of his warm calloused hands a sharp contrast to the embellishments.

The dual sensations felt addicting. The slow and measured way he went about helping her with her put herself together, and the way they worked in tandem like a well oiled machine felt ritualistic. Hypnotic in a peaceful way. Nothing but the measured breathing between them both, the rhythmic chime of her jewelry rubbing against itself, and the fleeting heat of his touch everytime his hands brushed against her skin.

"Sorry if things come out looking 'lil crooked. Stack is the more fashionable twin between the two of us."

"Really?"

"Mhm. Me an' him, when we were younger, runnin' 'round the streets with no one but ourselves to watch our backs, he'd be the one to style my hair same as his everytime."

The image of both the twins as boys flashed in her mind. With a younger Elijah sitting down, face all scrunched up and grouchy, as the exuberant younger twin would be talking animatedly as he was doing the older ones hair. No doubt teasing Smoke of his lack of care for his appearance.

The thought made her smile as she looked in the mirror to stare at Elijah now, fully grown, with a no doubt similar grouchy look on his face. Only this time it was in concentration.

"There we go." He said with a final click of the last clasp for her necklaces.

"You finished."

He hummed in agreeance.

She made way to get up and finally start the day. This time on their way out her chambers she made note to gently hold his hand in hers as they walked down the hallways.

Elijah gave her a curious look, but otherwise said nothing. His only response was to firm the grasp he had around her hand.

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The stroll the the council chambers was quiet and peaceful. They made sure to greet the servants discreetly fluttering about the halls.

As they get closer, Elijah noticed that Annie slowed down her pace. Not completely stopping, but definitely slow enough to add some extra minutes to their little commute.

"Elijah."

"Hm?"

"Before we head into the meeting I think..." she paused, collecting her thoughts. "I think Im ready to start looking for new council members now. Its time to clean house. All of it.

"All of it?... Mary too?"

"Yes, that includes Mary. Imma handle that one on my own."

He slowly nodded his head in understanding and turning back around to quicken their pace, but it was promptly cut short.

His arm tugged back as Annie came to a complete stop. She squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back towards her.

"Wait" is all she said.

He could tell her mind was still restless despite giving the green light to start getting rid of those that have been giving her a hard time. Something was bothering her, and something about it was making her hesitant to tell him. It was a strange look on her. He was so used to her having no issue with voicing her thoughts to him. Good, bad, or indifferent

"Anne?"

"If Im gonna do this- If we're gonna do this, then we gonna have to talk about your twin."

"Stack?" He repeated, conflict oozing out of him from almost every pore. His body pulled tight with tension. He already knew where this was headed.

"Dont act lost. You know exactly why I bring that man's name up. Mary's been messy, the council's lazy and destructive, and your brother is sowing confusion in my court." She let go of his hand to fold her arms across her heavy chest before she continued.

"Mary aint all that smart an' the way she move behind that man got her pointing blame at any girl 'cept the man she really need to be mad at. I wouldnt be suprised if Pearline gets the worst of it from that lil stint he played kissin' on her hand in front of her."

"..." Smoke turned his head to the side as he kissed his teeth. He knew this conversation would eventually happen, she had been dropping hints every now and then with her growing suspicions and, quiet frankly, her distate for the other twin. He just didnt think they would have it so soon.

"Elijah."

"Yeah."

"Who else is your brother involved with?" A statement and a question all in one. Her eyes were unwavering as they stared into what felt like Smokes soul and it made him restless. Twitchy. He wouldnt be able to hide anything from her.

If he tried, she would know. Even if she wouldnt say it. Those eyes knew too much.

But the question left him in a predicament he never considered. One that was starting to feed his mounting anxiety. He always had Stacks back, and Stack had his for as long as he had memory. It was damn near programmed into him. Hell, he wouldnt have met Annie if it wasnt for him. Elijah couldnt help but feel like he was betraying his twin by even entertaining a conversation like this.

But if he brushed it aside, he would be doing his wife... Annie, a disservice.

He paused.

When did he make so much space in his heart for her that made the bond he share with Stack, his twin, his other half come into question? When did it start to fray at the edges in such a way that Elijah didnt notice.

Against all his instincts screaming at Elijah make sure to cover for Elias, he went against it.

Elijah let out a long suffering sigh. Its echoe bouncing across the sparse hall they were standing in. He looked her in the eyes, "I dont know them all that well, but a couple of your servants. Wouldnt be too suprised if he was fuckin' on some of them highborns that come through for courtly visits as well, not just Mary."

She hummed knowingly.

He did the right thing.

It didnt make him feel better. It felt wrong even if it was right.

"Thanks for tellin' me." Is all she said, before she wrapped her hand in his, though Elijah's grip on her hand was loose and slightly limp. His eyes were somewhere else, deep in thought.

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The meeting went without much hiccups. Just the usual updating on current affairs but Elijah was noticeably detached throughout the conversation. No straight shooting slick comments were made. If someone asked a question his answers were short and one worded. He wasnt a big talker but the shift bothered Annie.

It reminded her of the reason why she was so hesitant to bring up the issue of his brother. His twin nonetheless. Stack would've been brought up eventually, and from the looks of things he was too intertwined with the people under her charge. It was too messy.

On top of him being the brother to the king? It was a disastrous scandal waiting to happen. One she couldnt allow, regardless of how much Elijah loved his brother...

A feeling. One that was very unwelcomed was starting to take root in her chest, like vines choking out a newly budded flower. Still fresh, still delicate. Unstable.

Whatever new fragile feelings that bloomed within her towards Elijah were already being threatened.

Stack was Elijahs twin.

They've been together since the womb and never once have they been without. From what she could gather from the sparse moments that Elijah shared about his childhood was that they only had eachother. What they had was an old, deeply rooted bond and here she was asking him to (in his mind probably) go against his brother.

Doubt reared its ugly head as its vines grew deeper. How did she expect to take precedence over Stack when her and Elijah started getting somewhere. She knew by now that if it was any other situation she had no doubt that Elijah would have her back but...

Could she trust him on this one?

For once, she didn't want to know the answer.

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The meeting ended with little fanfare.

And Elijah was still somehwere else. Not here.

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Elijah retreated back to the library to work on the build plans.

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Annie went to the garden, she needed to be by water. Not much bodies of water around with the manor being surrounded by dense foliage. She didnt forage, didn't work the land, she didnt even look at the flowers. She just closed her eyes to feel.

The warm beating sun nuzzle against her deep skin, the soft wind tickling the fine hairs on her arms and blowing against her fine silks, the distant beating of humming birds wings, and the earthy floral scent weaving through her senses.

She took her shoes off her feet sinking them into the dewy earth before she sat in the grass, needing to ground herself. To feel the earth. She remembered her late mother telling her to ground herself when things became to overwhelming.

Her warm voice, sweet like honey echoed through her memories, her mothers eyes filled with laughter and mischief. Her eyes had a way of smiling even when her mouth was not. "When you focus too hard 'till the point that you feel your eyes 'bout to cross, and the voices in your head get a bit too loud? You ground yourself to the earth now, ya hear me? 'Cause that's when you know you 'bout to fly away an' get lost somewhere thay know one can come getchu'. An' you dont want to fly too far where your mama can't catch you now dont you?" As she playfully pinched a young Annie's nose.

"Mama that hurt!" She lifted her smaller hands to brush her mothers fingers away from her scrunched button nose.

Her mother cracked a cheeky smile, "I know... but now you aint busy worryin' 'bout all that other stuff. You got no business stressin' bout things that arent for a child... An' why's that?"

Annie shifted uncomfortably, face made up in a pout as she avoided her mother's knowing eyes. "'Cause I got a mama an' a papa to take care of things." She muttered feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Exactly. Dont make that mind a' yours wonder outside to where a child not s'possed to be. Now come grab my hand, let's go find daddy 'fore you float away an' I cant catch you..." her mothers rich laughter like melody the birds sang along with. Little Annie's high pitched squeal jingled like bells across the courtyard as her mother scooped her up in her arms.

She bit her lip at the memory, choking off the emotions threatening to heave out of her lips.

Not now. I cant.

Her heart constricted, like her body was starting to reject yet another thing she wanted to force down to not feel. It felt like she wanted to throw up. Throw up everything still left unsaid, the unspoken grief, the loneliness, the betrayal, the loss... So much of it. The fear. An ever-growing one as her feelings for this man ran deeper than she realized.

She slowed her breathing, opening her eyes. The courtyard was mostly empty save for a sparse few people strolling through the corridors. She saw a familiar figure walking along side her elderly husband.

Pearline.

Seeing her made her heart feel a little lighter. She forgot that she still had someone she knew for sure was in her corner no matter what. She wouldnt do Pearl the disservice if doubting her again.

Pearline saw Anisa by the garden, waving enthusiastically at her in greeting, a big bright smile plastered to her face before she simmered down again, the lingering smile on the woman's face told Annie that they would talk later when they had the chance. Pearline shifted the arm she had wrapped around her husbands to help steady him as he was getting a bit slower these days.

Annie faintly smiled at the much needed reminder 'cause she was well on her way to spiraling. She gathered her skirts and got up. She decided to go to her study room, it had been a while and she needed a different distraction. Maybe when she had time she could build a green house for her more delicate plants. Ones that wouldnt get ravaged by small rodents.

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Her hand wrapped around the handle to her study room. As soon as the handle clicked as she turned it, there were approaching footsteps headed her way at a rapid pace.

"Annie?"

Fuck.

It was Mary.

She wasnt ready for this conversation. Not now, so soon.

Without turning around Annie spoke in a friendly but distant manner, "Come in to the study room with me."

And with that she disappeared behind the door, as a cautious Mary followed behind before taking a seat at the small table tucked to the side.

Annie wordlessly went about organizing the room, setting the scattered books into neat stacks.

Mary watched her silently as the queen guided back and forth across the room, reaching for items she didnt even need to look at to know they were there. She moved about the room as a woman that new every nook and cranny there was to know in the space. The quiet stretched on long enough for Annie to pause mid step to look at Mary with a quirked brow. A look that said, well you clearly wanted to say something, so say it.

She took it as an invitation to speak, "I uh-... Imma just get straight to the point and say it." She started wringing her fingers together nervously until her pale digits started to pink with the constant friction.

"Say what" Annie said, absentmindedly as she resumed her cleaning like she never paused her ministrations.

Mary took a deep breath before she spoke again. "I think you needa get rid of Pearl..."

"Hm... Is that so? Why you say I need to get rid of Pearl? She do somethin'?" Anisa said without pause.

"I know you probly aint all that suprised I said that but I dont know...I think she's been movin' weird lately."

"How?"

"Well, I just cant shake the feelin' that she an' Stack been seein' each other behind my back. I tried to not look into it too deep but... I dont know. Ever since that day when Stack gave her that kiss on 'er hand an' she aint really pull back all that much its just sitting with me." Mary looked off to the side, staring through the lone window in the room. A single streak of sunlight split down the middle almost like a sentient barrier between the two. Annie off to one side and Mary on the opposite end.

"I dont blame her honestly. I know Stack is a handsome man, an' he really knows how to please a woman and shes had no choice but to deal with that mummy she calls a husband but-" Mary's eyes furrowed in restrained anger, "That dont give her the right to go an' fuck on someone else's man." She spat unkindly.

Mary looked to Anisa, anticipating her reaction to the information she just relayed to her. She noticed that Annie continued to move about the room like it was any other day, like Mary didnt just drop the bombshell that she did. She waited for a response that had not come.

Not until Annie placed the final touches on her desk, sliding her plant diagrams into a neat stack and laying it on the oak wood of her desk. She paused a moment to look out that same window for a minute before she ever opened her mouth.

"Mary."

"Yes Anne?"

"I need you to start packing your things by the end of this week and make plans to head back to your mama's."

"Wha-"

Annie sharply turned her head towards Mary. " Dont insult me by talkin' to me like Im some idiot that cant put shit together. I know what you been up to."

Mary started to scramble, "Annie!-"

"Im bein' nice right now 'cause Im only dismissing you from the position of being one of my ladies-in-waiting..." she cut in before looking at Mary with disdain, "Not like you been doin' much waiting from what I can see."

"Wait- Anne, please let me explain I-"

"There aint shit to explain! You went behind my back- I dont even know how many years you've been doin' it for. I cant move on with someone like that in my midst."

"But-"

"Just recieve the dismissal with grace due to inconceivable differences. Theres no need for your scandal to travel and spread more than it has already. Leave with your reputation still intact."

"Anne. You talkin' crazy right now, sayin' Im sneakin' behind your back? What kinda shit is that? That aint me c'mon, we been friends since we were children. Only one doin' the sneakin' round here is that heffa' Pearline sneaking behind my back tryna get a piece of my man. Cant you see?"

"There you go back to the Pearline thing again. When you gon' stop accusin' that woman for the fact that your "man" cant keep his dick to his damn self! You should know Pearl dont move like that. You best stop all that projectin' your doin'."

Mary had the audacity to look bewildered by her accusations.

"-I dont know why the fuck you lookin' at me all confused. Maybe if you were "his peace" he wouldnt have to go 'round lookin' for it between the legs of other women."

Mary's face went white as a sheet when she heard Anisa mention "being his peace". Her skin complexion was sallow against the soft pink of her gown washing her out as if she was drained of all color. She knew the implication of it. "You overheard us. Me an' Smoke... In the hallway- you heard me."

"Yes."

"How? How much?" Her watery voice bounced across the room that she very much wished would swallow her up at this moment.

Annie closed her eyes inhaling a deep breath, she couldnt afford herself to falter infront of her. This woman who she's known for as long as she could remember. "It doesnt matter. I heard enough."

Mary let out a chuckle void of all humor.

It was funny how off Mary's assumptions were. Smoke and Annie always seemed to be at eachothers throats most of the time. She couldnt recall an instance where she saw any outward affection Anisa had for him besides saying that he wasnt all that bad. Clearly there was something she missed. In the way Smoke threatened her life like it was 2nd nature to him when she spoke of Annie. Maybe it was in the lingering glances Annie would cast his way when he was around. Maybe Annie showed a piece of her to him that Mary didnt have access to. That no one had access to. She was so private now a days. Or maybe that piece of her was no longer accessible to Mary. Maybe somehwere deep down, Annie felt her deception without knowing and simply acted accordingly. Maybe...

A lot of maybe's. But one things for certain is that she was no longer welcomed here. She seemed destined to always be just out of orbit. Always an outsider. Except this time its was a banishment of her own making.

Without another word Mary silently stood up and walked out the door in a daze. She didnt have the mind to remember to close it back, leaving it slightly ajar.

Annie stood in the middle of the room for a little, staring at the door Mary just walked out of. She felt the heat of the sun rays beaming out the lone window pressing against her back. The noises, the birds chirping outside, the bustling of the manor come alive, and the distant sounds of her childhood friends footsteps leaving down the hallway started echoing in her mind until it all faded away.

Only her heart and breath could be heard, beating steady. Until it wasnt. Until its skipped a beat. Until it sped up. Elevated like an oncoming train rythmically beating against the rails on a track and her breath quickened and that heat that seemed to be persistently resting behind her eye's fully came to the surface in the physical form of her sorrows.

Tears. Hot tears. That dripped down with no end in sight. Her eyebrows creased in despair as she screwed her eyelids shut, trying to contain the well of her emotions.

Even in the midst of the pain the lingering thought of the walls having ears always remained. Even if she was alone, she never was, and she would never forget that.

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Something felt off.

Stack strolled through the hallways. He was the image of relaxed and carefree. His gait was loose, shoulders a little slouched and his hands in his pockets.

But he was incessantly chewing on a tooth pick, focusing all his buzzing anxiety into that fixed point. His tightened jaw was the only evidence of his mind betraying his look of laid back disposition.

He hadn't seen Smoke since yesterday. The last conversation they had, though brief left him uneasy. He was feeling a growing distance forming in their bond, and no amount of distractions helped the lingering feeling.

The air felt still like the calm before the storm. A stillness that Elias was well acquainted with. The stillness that came in the hateful glare of their daddy just before the rain of beatings he'd take from sneaking a sip of his favorite hooch. His fists cracked like lightening against his small frame.

He blinked.

Elias hated it. That stillness. That silence. It could only mean trouble. Thats why he couldnt stay still. He had to keep moving, one way or another, his only constant was his brother.

The one who was currently no where to be found.

Where the fuck is he? Minute we get here he start actin' like he brand new or somethin' like I aint the reason his ass got in this position in the first place.

Crack!

"Shit"... He'd been working his jaw so much, the toothpick in his mouth gave out, finally snapping in half.

He kissed his teeth before flinging its discarded pieces into the grass somewhere. Fuck it... he decided he would find Mary. Lord knows he was avoiding her ass like the plague but he needed his mind elsewhere. Thinking about where he stood with brother did nothing but agitate him.

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It didn't take too long to reach the quarters where the ladies-in-waiting normally stayed. It was the easiest way for him to run into Mary. Just as he lifted his hand to knock on the door to her chambers he heard footsteps approaching at an increasing pace.

And there she was, but something was wrong. Her face was pink and wet and she looked distressed. Mary was so absorbed in what she was feeling she almost didnt notice the man she had been trying to catch standing at her door, almost running into him.

"Aye- hold up, Mary? What's goin' on?" He scrambled to catch a hold of her as to not crash into him.

Mary quickly got upset, "Now all of a sudden you come 'round and show your damn face! I been tryna find you for days an' you was no where to be found! Move-" she shouldered past him to get into her room.

"Keep your voice down Mary, you know theres other ladies 'round here that can overhear all that hollerin' you doin'." He hushed.

"You dont want 'em to hear? Then close the damn door!"

He stepped in, promptly shutting the door behind him. Before he opened his mouth to repeat the question-

"The queen is kicking me out. I have until the end of the week to be gone..." she said deflated.

Shit.

He almost couldnt believe it. He knew Smoke wasnt all that happy with his plan, but never would he have imagined this. Stack could already piece together what must have happened. Smoke must've told Anisa what Stack told him about Mary and her escapades.

He chose to play dumb.

"Why would she do somethin' like that, I mean, so suddenly? Yall known eachother since yall were kids. What happened?"

Mary fell silent for a beat, until a blooming anger came back once again. She turned around staring daggers at him. "It was that bitch wasnt it?"

"Huh?"

"Dont you "huh?" Me- I know you been sneakin' behind my back, hookin' up with anything that got a pussy 'tween they legs!"

"The fuck-"

"Pearline told you didnt she- spreadin' lies bout me. This why you been avoidin' me? This why you feel you can cheat on me." She lamented, teetering towards hysterics.

Oh boy...

Stack was thrown for a loop.

Pearline?

Only interaction he had with her aside from a passing greeting was that time he kissed her on the hand to introduce himself. Had been anyone else, specially those servants that love to gossip and pillow talk then she would've been on to something. Ironically she was one of the women he didnt do anything with.

"I aint done shit with that girl, I dont know whatchu on right now."

"I dont give a shit if you fucked her or not. One thing I know is you went on an' ran that mouth of yours off to your brother, who went an' told Anisa, an' now Im bein' sent away."

"Its your fault!" She turns away, "I spent all this time tryin' to find you, to talk. Now when your ready to speak Im in the midst of bein' dismissed from court... Get the fuck out Stack. Im done talkin' to you." She spat, turning away as she started putting her belongings together with vigor.

Elias left.

His mind was spinning. He knew something was off and in a split second all his plans seemed to be slipping out of control.

What the fuck was going on?

If Smoke told Anisa about Mary's betrayal, then she probly knows about the things Stacks been up to, since all of a sudden Elijah decided he wanna be a damn motor mouth to this woman. That wasnt like him, he was his twin. They always kept eachothers secrets under wraps for as long as he could remember so what the fuck?

Did Anisa have something on his ass? Smoke barely knew her long enough to be acting like this. Keeping Stack in the dark... Smoke was never the kind of man to act all whipped behind some woman. Unless- no.

He was gonna get to the bottom of this, he was gonna find Elijah and find out what the hell was going on?

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Smoke hunched over the build plans, looking busy while he was blankly staring at the pages. His hand holding a pencil barely moved since he settled in there. Ever since the last conversation he and Annie had, he was anxious. What would become of Stack? Would he have to leave too? Would he be forced to choose between his brother and his wife?

The pencil clattered against the wooden table as Elijah put his face in his hands trying to rub away the mounting stress from the potential choice he might have to make.

That brought up another thing he hadnt fully come to terms with. Why was the choice so difficult for him in the first place? Any other case it wouldve easily been his brother. Like he told himself before they got too deep into this situation that he'd kill anyone or himself if they posed a threat to taking that light out of Elias' eyes. Until...

Until Annie became a factor. He didnt realise... He never came to terms with just how deeply he felt about her. Truly. When did it sneak up on him? He was only doing what felt natural for him. She was the most difficult woman he ever had to deal with, challenging him nonstop, and somehow she was dug so deep into him he felt her in his bones. He never had anyone he cared for as deeply outside of Stack, and now those to people are in opposition of eachother.

Elijah paused.

Did he lov-

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought.

He quickly gathered himself, looking as if he wasnt just spiraling, he cleared his throat, "Come in" he called gruffly.

The person that stepped in had an easy swaggered gait. Elijah knew those footsteps like the back of his hand. "'Lias." He greeted without turning around.

"Smoke." He greeted back, but said nothing.

"How you been?"

"Mary leavin'. She bein' dismissed from court."

"..."

"Why?...why you aint trust me Smoke."

Elijah closed his eyes against the question before taking a deep breath. He turned around to face his younger brother. Gone was the always present mirth hidden in the warm depths of his eyes. Stack looked at him with heated suspicion, but not enough to cover up the twinkle of hurt in his gaze.

"Stack. It aint like I dont trust you an' all, hell- you my brother. We been together since the damn womb. Its just... Im in a hard spot."

"The fuck's that s'possed to mean?"

"It means what the fuck I said it means Stack. I cant just be your brother, I got responsibilities an' shit to take care of. An' like I told you before, havin' a woman like Mary round here, 'specially as someone that s'possed to be a close friend to the queen is a liability waitin' to happen- shit it almost did."

"I'm your brother."

"I know that."

"Then why you aint trust me- It was me that got us into this position in the first place! I was workin' my magic to secure our position." Stack gestured wildly, no longer able to put a cap on his hidden emotions bubbling up to the surface.

"Damnit Stack! I told you before that you aint have to do that shit. To let me take care of it how I see fit-"

"I didnt want you to have to do that. I told you I got you an' you remember what you said when you agreed? You said you'd let me handle all that politickin' and here you go tryna handle shit on your own again. I had it all handled, an' here you go fuckin' up my plans!"

"Whatchu on about? Your my younger brother. I want to protect you, even if its from yourself and your own damn mistakes! Aint nobody ask you to-"

"Your ass must be too whipped by that girl to see any goddamn sense. Stop tryna do that shit. You talkin' to me like I aint a grown ass man. Aint no one asked you to take care of me- you aint my fuckin' dad!" A beat of silence. Elijah's body froze at the mention of their late father.

Stack opened his mouth with a hushed whisper, his tongue was a dagger, "Last I checked he been dead... an' you made sure of it..."

All the air gets sucked out of the room.

A wound. A raw, open, one that's been festering for a long time. Longer than either if them knew.

Elijah was silent. He wordlessly turned around, picked up his pencil and attempted to scribble something down but his hand... His hand was trembling and only worsened as each second passed. He put it back down once ge realized he wasnt gonna be able to get shit done with how progressively worse his tremors were getting. He felt pressure around his head. The sound of his heartbeat and his the woosh of his blood pumping through his veins were deafening to his ears before it quieted down a little.

He could hear the faint sound of Stack's elevated breathing behind him. He was still there.

"Get the fuck outta my face." He rasped. He still didnt turn around to look at his twin.

The only thing he heard was a harsh snort from his twin before he heard the library door slam behind him.

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Stack stormed out of the room so quickly he almost missed Anisa standing right by the door as he breeze passed her. The look he gave her was unreadable. Heavy.

Seeing someone that always had a twinkle of mischief and laughter in his eyes no longer carry it was unsettling. She felt that she saw a glimpse of Stack. A side he wanted to keep hidden.

It was ironic really. Between the two of them it seemed that Stack was harder to read in his emotions despite his more outwardly jovial appearance

It didnt matter though.

There were more pressing things that were going on in her mind. Like the fact that she heard everything.

That Elijah killed their father.

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A/n: the irony of smoke wanting to push Annie to get rid of people. Forgetting that now he's king so he also has personal stake in it via his brother.

Sorry for the egregiously long wait😮‍💨, and sorry for any mistakes I didnt do much editing had a lot of shit going on, but alas were here. Gotta get through a shit ton of character work as everything is starting to spill out exposing everyones wounds. As much as writing it is kicking my ass, its necessary I think for the developement between everyone. Especially Smoke and Annie.

This is technically the first part of everything coming to a head cause writing everything would be too long, definitely more excited to write the next part tho🫠.

Taglist:

Now that she had time to think about it, this was a really bad idea.

The planning of her birthday trip; The aligning of their schedules; The flight down to Miami; The day at the beach; The evening at the casino; The night at the club. It was all one giant bad idea after another, but at this point, there was no turning back.

Months ago, Annie sat down with her friends to pitch this idea: A Dirty Thirty down in Miami. It sounded amazing at the time, and way better than the short drive down to Biloxi. With a trip to Florida, she’d get blue water and sunshine—not whatever land-locked nonsense was happening on the Coast. They’d all agreed—Smoke, Stack and Mary, Pearline and Sammie, Bo and Grace, Cornbread and Therise—and finally the week of the trip was upon them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day one

“You know this finna be a hot mess, right,” Smoke groaned with one hand on the steering wheel. The other sat comfortably between his wife’s thighs, cushioned by her heat. All he wanted was a good birthday trip for his baby, but with Stack involved, it was going to be anything but.

“It’ll be fine, Smokey,” the woman rolled her eyes. They had all decided to book the same flight from Memphis to Miami, and since her husband refused to be in a car with any of their friends, they were driving from Clarksdale separately. The other group was already way ahead of them, having left earlier in the morning. They'd assured the woman of an early arrival at the airport. “You just gotta stop bein’ so negative,” Annie commented, chuckling at something on her phone. Her fingers moved rapidly, and before Smoke knew it, Annie was turning the camera toward him and snapping a picture.

“What the hell was that,” the man huffed in annoyance.

“Nothing,” the woman feigned, but as a notification pinged on her phone, whatever she read made her cackle louder.

“See,” Smoke groaned with a shake of his head. His grip on the wheel tightened because when he looked over, he saw Annie’s messages. The phone beamed with the name of the girl’s group chat, Top Five, a picture of him dancing amongst letters and crying emojis. “Knew y’all asses was gon’ be on some bullshit.”

“Oh, come on, Papa,” Annie pouted, reaching over to touch his chest. She watched as his eyebrows fluttered from the name, only spurring her on. She didn’t care that he was driving, didn’t care that they’d arrive in Memphis in thirty minutes. She only cared about alleviating a little of his pain. “You promised you’d be in a good mood for my birthday.”

“I know, baby,” Smoke sighed, sinking into the seat as his wife’s hands fluttered down his chest. “I’ll be better,” he promised. “I’ll be better for you.”

Hands making their way inside of his sweats, the woman smiled at how calm his breathing had gotten. Smoke would do whatever Annie asked him to. She knew he wasn’t a people person, knew his idea of a vacation was going to museums and shit. She was asking a lot from him, and she appreciated his effort.

“I know you will,” she purred, grabbing a handful of him. She kissed his neck, right where a bulging vein was nestled, before whispering in his ear. “You mind if I take part of my birthday present now, Papa?”

The man who stepped inside of the airport was not the man from thirty minutes ago, and Annie couldn’t have been more proud of herself.

She had already concluded that this five day trip would consist of day drinking, beach going, casino food eating, and making it up to her man that she had taken him out of his element. But he’d be fine. She walked beside him with confident steps as he handled the baggage. His shoulders were soft now. His scowl was gone. His eyes were bright. And whenever impatience grew in his chest from the long TSA line, Annie bumped his shoulder with hers and he was a blushing mess once again.

“You want a snack or drink or anything before we get on the plane, baby,” the man questioned as he walked them and their carry-ons to their terminal. He was going to treat Annie like VIP this week—not that he didn’t already do that.

But he found the woman typing at her phone vigorously, eyebrows tight in anger.

“Everything okay,” the man questioned as she stopped walking altogether. “Annie,” he questioned when she still hadn’t responded. He touched her jaw lightly, forcing her eyes on him.

“They in traffic,” she whispered as if the volume of her voice could make the situation more dire.

“What,” Smoke asked gruffly, and Annie simply turned the phone in his direction.

“They wanted to see the damn pyramid, and now they in traffic tryna get here from downtown,” she blurted out, huffing at how annoying her friends could be.

“This exactly why I didn’t wanna drive with none of them,” her husband rumbled, marching them through the airport and to their terminal. “You can’t knock sense into them fools, and I just know my brother came up with that stupid idea.” They had promised that they’d be here on time, but when they left hours before him and his wife that morning, he should have known better. Their flight was set to board in fifteen minutes, set to depart in forty five, and with traffic and TSA, they’d be lucky if this didn’t end up just being a baecation.

In his anger, Smoke hadn’t looked at Annie once, but if he had, he’d see the tears building in her eyes. The woman quickly wiped at the tear before he could witness it, stuffing her irritation down.

“You okay, Mama,” Smoke asked gently when they found a seat, because even if he hadn’t known she was crying, he knew this would bring her a kind of sad frustration that could ruin this whole week for her. His hand reached for hers, and she accepted it.

“It’s fine,” Annie replied wetly, refusing to look him in the eyes. Instead, she played with his jewelry—his wedding band and the string of a friendship bracelet their daughter had made him. Thinking of the child back at home with Annie’s mother only made her sadder. “I’ll be okay,” she reasoned. Her shoulders rolled back. Her head leveled itself. “It’s my birthday, and I’m goin’ on a trip that my man paid for.”

Smoke nodded sharply, noticing how she still refused to look his way. He hummed to affirm her words.

“And you gon’ fly First Class,” he whispered in her ear, already anticipating the display of gratitude. He’d been handling all the operations; He’d booked flights and hotel rooms and had handled the tickets up until now. He handed hers over, watching the smile take over her face. “I’m sure they’ll make it in time,” he decided assuredly, “but even if they don’t, we gon’ have a good trip.”

“Put pedal to the medal, nigga,” Cornbread barked from the second row. Traffic had just broke, and Stack had that sprinter van on two wheels trying to get to the airport and parked in time. He had indeed come up with the brilliant idea to see the pyramid. They had two hours until they boarded, and all he wanted to do was get to the very top and look out across downtown Memphis.

When he suggested it, everyone—accept Pearline and Grace—were down for the idea, but now, he had Mary, Sammie, Therise, Cornbread, and Bo yelling in his ear, too.

“You don’ ruined our best friend’s birthday, dumbass,” Pearline roared from the furthest row back.

“Annie my best friend, too,” Stack argued nonsensically. But this wasn’t an issue of who was who to who. The problem was that they were running out of time to get there, and no matter what had happened or who had caused it, they all had a whole lot of making up to do.

First Class boarding was called over the loud speaker, urging Annie and Smoke out of their seats. The man handled their carry-ons once more, and as their tickets were scanned, the sound of loud shuffling and yelling pulled their attention away.

Nearly 100 feet away, their friends were booking it toward the terminal, bags and tickets waving in hand. They looked ridiculous and dysfunctional, and even though Annie was upset with them, she couldn’t fight the laugh tearing from her chest.

“What’s up, bestie,” Stack nearly shouted, walking up to Annie’s seat in First Class. He had waited the unbearable minutes for the seatbelt light to go off, and as soon as it did, he was on the move. He had in his hand a little shot-sized bottle of Hennessy, placing it on Annie’s lap tray.

“Leave me alone, Elias,” Annie growled, eyes remaining on the book in her hands. Across the aisle, her husband huffed out a laugh, knowing his brother was going to get nowhere.

Stack's palm landed on his chest, absolutely appalled.

“Oh, come on, girl,” he choked out. His voice dipped, sad and unbelieving. “You only use my birth name when you mad,” he offered.

“Mhm,” the woman nodded sharply. She flipped the page of her book, and he watched her read vigorously.

“You mad at me,” he questioned wetly.

“Mhm,” she hummed once more.

“Really,” he asked again.

“Yep,” she answered back, popping the last consonant of the word. Stack held his hands up, unsure how to approach the situation. His go to move would be to annoy her, and as long as they’d been friends, he definitely knew how to do that, but she was giving him no energy. He knew he’d fucked up real bad this time.

“Come on, Anna Mae—” He tried once more but was swiftly interrupted.

“Leave my wife alone, boy,” the older twin argued. “You’ve upset her enough.”

Glares were sent across the aisle. A nearby flight attendant bit back a laugh.

“Fine,” the younger twin groaned, exhaling deeply. He turned to Annie with a remorseful gaze. His tone shifted serious before he mustered a soft I’m sorry and returned to his own seat.

The cabin was reinstated to its former quiet, the woman’s book tucked between her palms, her husband fumbling with the music he had saved on his phone. Reaching across the aisle, she grabbed ahold of his hand.

“Thank you,” Annie whispered, tangling their fingers. She calmed at the sound of his soft hum.

The drive from Miami International Airport to the hotel was quiet—eerily so. Smoke had arranged transportation for everyone, and with a sharp look, they all understood to keep their mouths shut. Annie had her sunglasses on and her airpods in, tuning out everyone who wasn’t her husband because she simply wasn’t in the mood.

When the plane landed, she’d seen a message from her mother: She wanted me to show you this, it had read, along with a picture her daughter had drawn of their little family. Smoke. Annie. Their babygirl. Standing in the middle of the prettiest field of flowers she’d ever seen. Showing the drawing to her husband brought tears to his eyes and an equal melancholy to her heart.

This grand idea of a birthday trip has been sparked because as she looked over her thirty years of living, Annie realized she hadn’t done enough for her liking. The past few years had been dedicated to working and wifing and mothering, and although she didn’t regret a thing, she simply wished she’d had more fun. But now, a thousand miles away from home, she missed the comfort she knew.

“We’re gonna have fun,” her husband reached over, comforting her with a hand on her thigh. “Babygirl will be there when we get back. And I’m sure we’ll be gettin’ her a bunch of li’l souvenirs, too.”

The night concluded with a family dinner down in the hotel’s restaurant. It was hearty and delicious and all put on Smoke’s room because he loved his wife and wanted her birthday to be as carefree as he could make it. Their friends sat around the table with terrified gazes, and as dessert was finished, they each prepared their apology.

“We’re sorry, girl,” Pearline started off.

“Yeah, we were bein’ inconsiderate,” Sammie continued.

“We weren’t thinkin’ straight,” Bo informed regretfully.

“You didn’t deserve to have your birthday start out with such a mess,” Therise reasoned, passing the proverbial mic.

“‘Cause we know how important this is even outside of it bein’ a celebration of you,” Cornbread gulped.

“We love you, Anne,” Mary announced. “We’re family.”

“And we promise to act right for the rest of the week, bestie,” Stack acquiesced, turning toward the final person at the table.

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Me and Pearl told y’all asses that we didn’t have time to go to the pyramid,” the woman argued, pulling groans from everyone at the table. Hands flew up in annoyance, heads turned at tables nearby, and Smoke just shook his head at their nonsense. “I ain’t have shit to do with this, but whatever,” Grace huffed. Her eyes flitted over to the woman who was meant to be receiving her apologies. Noticing the quirk of her lip and the way her arms crossed beneath her chest, Grace conceded. “We’ll do whatever it takes to make it better, Annie. We promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day two

The start to the day was enough to convince Annie that the worst was definitely behind her.

She woke up in the Presidential Suite to breakfast in bed and a shirtless Smoke laid out beside her. After each bite of her food, her husband rewarded her with a strikingly deep thrust of his hips. He cited the lack of hours in the day, how he wanted to leave time for other things, how he needed to cater to every one of her needs—starting with this. She fluttered around him as strawberry jam tickled her pallet. The taste of runny egg yolk planted itself in her memory right alongside the image of Smoke cumming deep inside of her.

The day only brightened from there. After showering with her husband, she toweled dry and dressed herself in a devilishly skimpy sundress. All summer she’d been upset because she hadn’t tanned her legs enough, and this week, she grew a renewed commitment to her goal. She’d been surprised by her husband’s acceptance of the attire—thighs out, titties out—but it was her birthday trip, so she could do whatever she wanted.

“Here you go, Mama,” the man extended his arm, a neatly dressed box sitting in his palm. Inside held a pair of David Yurman earrings—18 karat, yellow gold, small hoops with diamonds embossed into the edges. Annie stared at them wide eyed because, in her mind, the trip was her birthday gift. She hadn’t been prepared to receive anything more from her husband than his time, but she was nowhere near surprised. This was the type of man she married—the one who went above and beyond for her happiness.

Annie spread kisses along his jaw, beaming over at him in thanks.

The day only got better from there.

A call home to her daughter. A shopping trip with her girls. A calming afternoon by the pool. A few small smiles and sharp nods when drinks were sent their way by strangers as they sunbathed. It was all perfect—until it wasn’t.

Fifty feet away on the opposite side of the pool, a group of five guys sized the women up. They ranged in stature—tall, short, slim, round, muscular. It was as if they were a far less interesting version of their own men, and that’s why when the five of them walked over, none of the ladies gave them the time of day.

“Y’all lookin’ real pretty over here,” the obviously slick talking one of the group announced. His eyes bounced over the ladies as they spread out across their loungers, looking at them like they were five flavors of ice cream he just couldn’t wait to try. “Y’all enjoy the drinks we sent over here?”

Nestled between her friends, Mary tutted, mouth shut.

They all knew how good they looked: Mary in a red and white polka dot bikini; Pearline in a black one piece with diamonds cut out at her chest and stomach; Grace with a bandana wrapped around her chest and a skirt sitting low on her hips; Therise in a purple tankini and dark washed booty shorts; And Annie in a light blue stringed two piece that left little to the imagination.

They looked good, but they weren’t looking for unwanted attention.

“They were fine,” Pearline crooned in response, eyes closed as she focused on her comfort above all else. The rest of the women did the same: politely responding with no further action.

“You got a nice voice,” the youngest of the group of men spoke, sporting a frail yet overconfident smile that didn’t falter even when Pearline refused to acknowledge him.

Beside her, Annie snorted a laugh, removing her sunglasses to read her book better. The men were blocking the sun, casting shadows across the pages and the sunbathing women.

“Y’all want some company,” the largest of the men questioned, smile far too jovial. Therise rolled her eyes.

“Naw,” she replied indignantly.

“You sure,” another man spoke up. He was slim with an easiness to his posture that felt unnatural.

Grace responded in turn with her own sharp denial.

Annie, with her eyes locked on the pages of her book, could feel another pair of eyes on her. They were low and focused, cutting through her like they could reach inside of her to pull her deepest secrets out. She glanced up to find the fifth and final man staring her down. He’d been quiet this entire time, allowing his friends to talk while he just watched. It reminded her of someone she knew.

“Can I help you with something,” Annie growled. She sat her book to the side, looking up at the man who refused to give her her face back. Conversation halted around them, the rest of the group glancing back and forth to see what would happen next.

“Just admirin’ you, baby,” he exhaled in a gruff manner. His eyes were cool, too empty for her to look at for long.

“Don’t baby me,” the woman argued. “We tryna chill. Y’all can’t read the fuckin’ room.” She waved her hand around at the scene: five women who were previously enjoying a quiet, calm afternoon who were now being inconvenienced.

“We tryna chill, too,” the slick talker squawked. “And y’all sexy asses look like a good ass time to me.”

“Nigga, if y’all don’t move on somewhere,” Annie reared back, on the verge of rising from her lounge chair to admonish them. Before she could do so, however, she saw her husband advancing in their direction, Stack, Sammie, Bo, and Cornbread right beside him.

She settled back into her chair, worked her jaw, fought to calm her body because if Smoke sensed any of her upset, he was sure to bring hell on earth.

“Y’all alright over here, Mama,” the man asked as soon as he was in a good enough distance for his words to be heard. His chest was puffed out, biceps flexing.

“They good,” answered the man who’s demeanor reminded her too much of her husband. They traded glaring expressions, eyes full of hatred and possession and warning.

“Nigga, I ain’t talkin’ to you,” Smoke pointed at his chest, getting up in his face. “I’m talkin’ to my wife.” But the largest man of the opposing group laughed it off.

“We just talkin,” he dismissed.

“Ain’t no harm in that,” the slick talker spilled.

“We say whether harm been done, you fuck ass scrub,” Stack chest bumped the man while Smoke eyed the entire group.

“You aight, Anne,” Smoke questioned heavily. His tone was dense, a sound she knew quite well. Years with the man had taught her how he got just before a storm hit—literally and figuratively. With the way tension settled around them, she knew this was the calm just before.

“We good now, baby,” Annie responded, voice turning sweet to help alleviate her husband’s anxiety. “Just tryna enjoy the sun.” The group of women grunted because the sun that they’d been trying to enjoy was still being blocked—ten bodies in their way now.

“Can y’all step to the side with all that testosterone and hostility, please,” Pearline shooed them away with her hand. She adjusted her sunglasses, pursed her lips, settled into her lounger like the picture perfect example of unbothered.

And if, from there, the altercation shifted as husbands and boyfriends worked to rid the disturbance around their women—and if the altercation advanced to include a few loaded threats and a whole lot of pushing—then it was completely and utterly justified.

Annie nursed her husband’s swollen knuckles, dapping rubbing alcohol into the torn skin.

“Fuck, woman,” Smoke hissed as the sharp chemical did it’s job at disinfecting his wounds. His wife rolled her eyes, grabbing the ice she’d retrieved from down the hall.

“Ain’t my fault that you put yo’ hands on them,” she shrugged. She tended to him harder than she cared to amend. This wasn’t the first time she’d cared for his battle wounds, and this wasn’t the last time he’d be defending her honor. She huffed at the realization of it. “You better be glad they threw the first punch or yo’ ass wouldn’t been tryna get bailed out of Miami-Dade County.”

“Whatever,” he tsked. He exhaled deeply, chest rising with air and emotion. Now he’d gone and done it: ruining Annie’s birthday just when things got on track.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day three

“That fool need to sit down somewhere before he drown,” Therise chided, looking out toward her husband who was pretending to be washed out to sea. The tide was high today. The sun was bright with few clouds streaking the sky. It was the perfect time for a beach day.

Like any other beach trip the group had taken to Biloxi or Orange Beach, the crew had stopped by the grocery store, grabbing snacks and drinks and things to make sandwiches when they got hungry. A cold sandwich on a hot day near water was better than anything they could get from one of the local shops. Corralled together, the entire group ate while watching Cornbread and Stack act out a scene from some shipwreck movie.

“They look like mermaids out there,” Smoke grumbled, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his wife. He grinned lowly at the cackle she let out—loud and full of life. The water-going pair had gone on to pretend they were in a baptismal pool.

"Ugly ass mermaids," Bo jabbed, nose upturned. The group chortled, bumping into each other as they laughed unabashedly. Sammie nudged the man's shoulder. Grace tossed her head back to laugh. Pearline held her stomach in an attempt to calm herself.

"Don't do my man," Therise chastised.

"Right," Mary concurred. "My Stack is a sexy mermaid."

"If that's what you wanna call it," Annie giggled as she watched Stack put Cornbread in a headlock. He jumped on the man's back, laughing haughtily—arrogant and boisterous. Quickly, the play-fighting became rough, shifting from mermaids to a full on WWE smackdown. Cornbread fell face first into the water as Stack shouted out in victory, only quieting when Cornbread emerged a second later to drag the smaller man under.

The group watched on with annoyed gazes because they'd been this way since they were kids, taking shit too far and eventually hurting each other.

Smoke was on his feet in a second, meeting Bo's eye as a confirmation that they had to break this shit up before it got too serious. Stack was uppercutting the larger man while Cornbread was dodging the hits, picking Stack up and dropping him in the water.

"Aye! Cut that shit out," Smoke shouted, voice rising above the nonsense in his sickly paternal tone. The women—and Sammie—judged the display as Smoke tackled Stack and Bo attempted to tackle Cornbread. It was petty shit, a side of the men that annoyed them all, but they had to put up with it. With as long as they'd been friends—family, even—they'd fought like brothers, so as Smoke and Bo wrangled the other two, they simply shook their heads and looked the other way.

"Testosterone," Pearline groused, voice lilting in disgust.

"We need to take a trip just us girls next time," Mary suggested before turning to her side. "Sorry, Li'l Sammie."

"It's okay," the young man laughed good-naturedly, advancing to the shoreline to help pull a coughing Stack from the water.

The women continued to talk about their hypothetical man-free vacation—and all the sneaky things they could get up to far away from their watchful gazes.

"I can't believe y'all was just gon' let me drown like that," Stack bickered childishly, arms crossed beneath his chest. They'd been hearing his complaining since he made it back from the water, squawking about rights and wrongs and how family is supposed to be there for you no matter what. Even now, as they walked into the brightly lit casino, he prattled on about what had happened at the beach.

"You were fine," Therise mumbled, eyes on a row of slot machines in the far left corner.

Annie bumped her hip against his, throwing him a playful glare.

"Elijah wouldn't have let you die, Stack," she reminded him, enough knowledge of the twins' life together to know that Smoke would sooner die than let his brother meet that same end. The moment turned sentimental as the quiet understanding settled between them. But, as always, it didn't last for long.

"That's what you get for fuckin' wit' me," Cornbread shouted cockily.

"Negro, please," Stack flailed, riled up again. He pointed around the group. His mouth spat fire. "All y'all full of shit! That's why I'm finna be takin’ all y'all money tonight."

"You ain't takin' shit," Bo answered boastfully. Grace humphed beside her husband, tone just as boastfully.

"Especially not if me and my Bo playin'," she declared.

"Damn," Stack clutched his metaphorical pearls. His head practically spun. "It's like that, Grace," he asked the woman, "it's really like that now?"

She shrugged with a teasing smirk, walking away and toward a poker table. Bo followed right behind her. And Stack, of course, ran to make it to the table before either of them could.

“A damn fool,” Smoke grunted. He shook his head, arm circling his wife’s waist. “What table you wanna hit first, Mama,” the man questioned, simply enthralled by how much there was to do. He leaned into her neck, capturing the scent of her. The second birthday gift he’d given her was a newly released Cartier perfume. It was herbal and dark and alluring in a way that suited his wife perfectly. She’d loved the gift enough to wear it tonight, and he loved it so much that he couldn’t get enough of the way it smelled on her skin.

“Maybe Roulette,” she pondered, leaning forward to whisper in her husband’s ear. “But I’m really just ready to get back to the room. You look so good tonight, Papa.”

As much as Smoke hated vacations where he was forced to be around a whole bunch of people with minimal real relaxing, the man was exhibiting a very calm aura. Annie suspected it was because he wanted to make sure her trip went well, so whenever he got upset, he’d school himself into a better mood. Annie felt it deserved some type of reward.

“Well, we can head back whenever you ready, baby,” he responded huskily, scooping her up in his arms. He knew that tone of voice, that look in her eye.

“Later,” she hummed, looking off behind him at their family scattered across the casino now. Cornbread had wound up at the seafood buffet. Bo and Grace were beating Stack out of every bit of his money as Mary watched on in horror. Pearline and Sammie were on their way to a private karaoke room. And Therise had set up shop at the slot machines where she’d probably be sat for the next few hours. Annie kissed her husband’s neck, right behind his ear. “For now,” she whispered lowly, “I got money to win.”

And win money she did.

Annie bet on black and the same two numbers every single round—her daughter’s birthday. Her husband sat back amazed because being the numbers man that he was, he would have never done such a thing. He would have been in his head calculating the best plays and the highest chances of winning, but his Annie could just feel it. He adored and admired how much she trusted herself, and when she finally decided that she’d had enough, she walked away with over three thousand dollars worth of winnings.

“Damn, that was so sexy,” Smoke breathed into her left ear, pulling her deep into his hold. He couldn’t get enough of his woman, and he needed her to know that every second of every day. He looked down at his watch, noticing the hour hand ticking closer and closer to midnight. “Let’s go cash in,” he urged, dragging her behind him. Annie tipped her head back with a laugh because she knew exactly where this renewed spirit was coming from.

“I told yo’ ass we was gon’ ring yo’ birthday in the right way, didn’t I,” Smoke grunted, hoisting the woman into his arms and pressing her back into the door. Annie was fully in the air—legs wrapped around his waist, arms folded around his neck, dress shimmied up her thighs. Her husband, head clouded by delivering her pleasure, yanked the top of her dress down. He buried his face in her chest. “Love these damn titties,” he moaned drunkenly. “These my fuckin’ titties.”

“They yours, baby,” Annie moaned in agreement, holding the back of his head as he ravaged her. She could feel him growing in his starched-straight pants. All she wanted was to be taken care of now. It was almost her birthday for crying out loud. “Lay me down, ‘Lijah,” she slurred. She tugged at the back of his shirt, shook his shoulders, but nothing moved him. He only growled into her flesh, biting down on her left titty because that was his favorite one. “Please, Papa,” Annie whined as she writhed beneath his mouth. “I need to feel that dick in me.”

The declaration was raw as her annoyance ripped right through her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day four

So, technically, the day began with Smoke fucking his wife against a door because he had promised to start her birthday off right. The clock had struck midnight, but neither of them would be getting rest anytime soon.

“Yeah, give me that pussy,” the man demanded, bouncing Annie up and down the length of him. The woman was dazed. Being pressed between her man’s hard chest and the wood of the door had her body threatening to fall apart. And she was ready to let it happen because she knew he’d be able to keep her together with ease.

She moaned his name into the ceiling, gripping onto his shoulders to stay upright. Each stroke was calculated, firmly determined to make her cum with reckless abandon.

The woman thought back to her original goal for this birthday trip: having fun, experiencing new things, and creating memories. This was surely a moment she’d never forget because as she buried her head in her husband’s neck, allowing her body to fall apart in his hold, the memory became cemented in her mind.

She recovered quickly, renewed and reenergized by the feeling of her husband throbbing against her walls. She tapped his bicep for her to be let down. She padded across the floor to the bed. She removed the remainder of her clothing. And she directed him to lay down, grinning wickedly when he obeyed.

“You so good to me, Papa,” she moaned, rubbing her hands up the length of his legs. She admired the way he’d spread out across the bed, large arms taking up space, shoulders broad, hips narrow, thighs flexed in anticipation. She caressed him there, soothing his rapidly turning mind.

When her tongue swirled around the tip of his dick, they both let out a moan: Smoke from the feeling of his wife—wet and warm; Annie from the taste of her husband—musky and so much like herself. She couldn’t hold back any longer as she eyed the way he fisted the sheets, and when she took him down the back of her throat, he only beared down harder.

Annie was swallowing him in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Her need was insatiable, derived from her desire to make the best of this trip. She wanted them both to remember this. Remember how well she’d taken him. Remember how violently he trembled beneath her. Remember how quickly she made him cum.

He erupted without much warning, holding her head down to the base of him as she continued to bob her head. She liked when the pleasure got too much and turned into something else. She liked having him squirming and crying out for the torture to end.

When he recovered, skin slick with sweat and eyes clouded by lust, he switched their roles with ease. Snatching her up in his arms, Smoke threw Annie onto her back, falling between her open knees.

“You think you run shit,” he mumbled just as his lips found her clit. He didn’t warm her up, didn’t dare attempt to tease; He sucked her clit harshly and ridiculously, pulling the button into his mouth like he was owed the sensation, owed the revenge of his wife shaking on his tongue, too.

The woman lost her mind when the sucking turned sloppy.

Smoke was down at her entrance, slurping and spitting and slobbing all over her pussy so dizzyingly that it had tears forming in her eyes. He’d correctly recognized her attempt at fucking him so good that neither of them could forget it, and he wanted to join in on that game. Who cared if it was probably two in the morning by now? Who cared if they were disturbing anyone else’s sleep? They had things to do and bets to match.

Smoke was two orgasms into eating his wife at this point when his fingers joined the assault. Tongue situated on her hard clit and fingers stroking her walls with practiced ease, the man brought her body to a third climax, drinking every bit of cum he’d facilitated.

The woman above him was spent, body lovingly loosened by the hands and tongue and dick of her husband just because it was her birthday and she’d get whatever she wanted out of him. The man reached down, stroking his length as he watched her come back into her own body. Sweat beaded down her forehead, trickled between her breasts. The sight alone had him on the verge of orgasm, but then she moved to cover herself with a blanket—exhausted.

“I’ll give ya’ ten minutes,” he explained gruffly, breath heavy and face covered in her, “but then I’m gon’ need ya’ to ride this dick, Mama.” He emphasized the message with a smack to her ass. And groaning, Annie watched a butt-naked Smoke walk out of the bedroom to retrieve her a glass of water.

It’s safe to say that Annie and Smoke woke up late as hell, causing them to miss the breakfast reservation he’d made for her at a spot she’d been wanting to try for months. The moment his eyes opened to notice how bright it was in the suite’s living room—where they had inevitably ended up sleeping after winding up fucking on the couch—he knew he’d fucked up.

A pounding at the door shook the remaining sleep from his body, putting him on high alert. He covered a half sleep Annie with a blanket, finding his own boxers and throwing them on.

“What you want, nigga,” the man shouted as he yanked the door open to find his brother with an annoyed expression. Behind him stood the rest of the group, all looking some version of exhausted or hungover or pissed off. But that ain’t have shit to do with him.

“We been callin’ y’all asses,” Stack groaned, pushing his brother to the side and entering the suite. Smoke watched stunned as they all allowed themselves entry, crowding into the living room where a once sleeping Annie was now nowhere to be found.

“We haven’t just been callin,” Mary argued.

“We been callin’, textin’, dmin’,” Therise announced.

“We even tried stalkin’ y’all phone locations but couldn’t get anything,” Pearline grumbled.

“Y’all really gotta charge y’all phones, man,” Sammie shook his head.

But Smoke just simply rolled his eyes, finding his pants from the night before and throwing them on.

“We ain’t gotta do shit,” he grunted. “Y’all ain’t our parents.”

“Y’all went missin’ last night, Smoke,” Grace interrupted in jest.

“And nobody could find you,” Bo concluded.

“And y’all missed breakfast,” Cornbread barked, clearly ready to rub it in his face how good the restaurant was.

Behind him, Smoke could hear the shower running, and all he could think about was his wife. In the shower. Naked.

“Y’all gotta go,” he informed in feigned sadness. In his attempts to usher them out of the door, more arguments sparked, more pointed questions about their whereabouts and why they left in the first place and what they’d been doing until now.

“I mean it’s damn near noon,” Stack erupted, looking at his brother incredulously. His head cocked to the side. His eyes squinted. His head turned with potential reasons before one stuck the landing. “Oh, y’all nasty as hell,” he yelled, jumping up off the couch and looking around the room. Last night clothes littered the floor, Annie’s panties strewn across a lamp shade in the corner. They’d all been too annoyed and exhausted and food coma-ed to recognize the state of the room. But Stack could see it clearly now. “Y’all was fuckin’ on this couch,” he questioned in disgust and disbelief and something close to betrayal. The feeling only worsened as Smoke put his head in his hands and groaned.

“Oh, hell naw,” Cornbread scrambled up from a chair, pulling his wife with him.

“Y’all so damn freaky,” Pearline exhaled, standing primly as the rest of the group moved away from all surfaces with haste.

Smoke didn’t know what was worst: getting woken up but an angry mob of their family or being kept away from his wife who was just a few feet away in the bathroom. He needed them gone, needed her to himself.

Just as he opened his mouth to muster up some bullshit excuse, the bathroom door opened, and Annie stepped out with a robe tied at the waist.

“Can y’all be literally any quieter, please,” she croaked out, throat raw from her—extracurriculars.

“Damn, Smoke,” Grace exasperated while looking at her friend astonished, “did you try to kill our girl last night?”

The whole group recognized the tiredness in the woman’s eyes, how her body sagged in delicious exhaustion, how small marks littered the neckline of her robe. Amusement filled Smoke’s system at the memories from last night: a fucked out Annie splayed across the arm of the couch, holding herself open and demanding to be fucked until she couldn’t even breathe, until she couldn’t think about anything but him.

At the sound of her husband’s firm chuckle, Annie crossed her arms beneath her chest. She settled her weight onto one foot, hip cocked to the side, eyes holding fire. The laugh died in his throat, and the memory flashed in and out behind his eyes.

“I ain’t try to kill nothing,” he mumbled beneath his breath, toying with his bracelet and avoiding her glare.

“Yeah,” Annie responded in warning. “Y’all should have seen what I did to his ass.” Smoke—trembling, writhing, begging, pleading as Annie road him past the point of both of their orgasms. Smoke—hands tied behind him and mouth stuffed with her panties as Annie edged him all night long. Smoke—passed out underneath her as Annie finally got her fill of him just before dawn.

The room feel into a hush: Pearline, Mary, Grace, and Therise smirking at their friend’s wit and Stack, Bo, Sammie, and Cornbread holding back a laugh at Smoke’s stuck expression and how he followed behind the woman like a lost puppy as she entered the bedroom.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he apologized, shutting the door.

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for,” Annie huffed, attempting to find an outfit to wear. She was bent over the suitcase, refusing to meet his eye, sad and pissed and livid. “I’m just annoyed at myself,” she spoke brokenly. “I really wanted to go to that restaurant.”

Smoke looked at the side of her face, emotion building in his gut from the tears rolling down her face. He’d wanted this trip to be perfect, for her birthday to be memorable and happy and stress free, but it seemed that at every turn, something was going wrong.

“How ‘bout this,” he offered, pulling her away from her suitcase and into his chest. He hugged her at the waist, kissed her neck, then her collarbone, then the top of her left breast. “How ‘bout you, me, and babygirl do our own li’l trip out this way in a few months? She gettin’ old enough to where she’ll remember stuff like this. And I saw some things that would be fun to do with her. And that way you’d get a redo of this trip and all the things we ain’t get to do.”

Today was the last full day of their vacation, and with how far out he had to make the reservation, there was no way in Hell that he’d be able to get a table before they left tomorrow afternoon. His kissed her hairline, squeezing her in his arms when she smiled wetly.

“I’ve had a good time so far, baby,” she whispered into his chest. The silence and look he gave her said enough about how shitty the trip had been, but she continued on. “All things aside,” she laughed goofily, “I’ve had a good few days with you and our family. But I’d love a trip with just us three so much.” She hugged him, breathing in his scent, letting it wrap around her.

“Yeah?” the man threw in question, searching for any reluctance in her tone. Meeting his eye, Annie nodded once, kissing the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she responded, voice full and sure.

After the couple was both ready for the day, Annie’s friends sang her happy birthday and practically threw gifts into her open arms. She’d insisted on nothing too extravagant, and they had all done as she hoped. As she opened each gift, she heart swelled at how well they understood her. Boxes of rare crystal vases for her altar, packages of imported herbs, bags of random rocks and trinkets that reminded them the most of her. She felt special, cared for.

Smoke’s gift to her was also far less expensive than the previous ones, but no less valuable; It was certainly the most dear to her heart. Annie opened the gift box to find a photo album engraved with a heart across the front cover, pictures of younger versions of Annie and Smoke nestled between the pages. As she flipped through the pictures of them on their first date at eighteen years old, them cuddled up somewhere nondescript and forgotten to time, them in coordinating outfits on the way to a party in college, them kissing in front of the car Smoke had bought at twenty one, them with their hands linked at age twenty two while making vows to one another, them holding the keys to their brand new home, them bringing their daughter into that home from the hospital—it brought tears to her eyes. Photos of her and her family showed up, her and her girls, her closet friends, her confidants, her and her grandmother when she was a child, her most important achievements, her favorite adventures.

The pictures stopped midway through the book, plenty of space for more memories to be made.

She made eye contact with her husband, his face stoic, his eyes drenched with emotion.

"I want you to fill the rest of that book with everything important to you," he insisted, voice steady despite how much Annie's tears had him wanting to break. "I want you to do all the things that make you happy. I want you to go on trips and explore the world and enjoy your life because you're more than my wife and the mother to our daughter."

His words were nothing but sincere, breathing with consideration. Smoke strongly believed that he as a man could only be as happy as his wife and daughter were. Their feelings took precedence in his life, and no matter how often Annie told him it probably wasn't healthy to care more about others than he did himself, he couldn't change his ways. All his life, Stack had been the most important person to him, and now he had Annie and their babygirl to add to the mix.

The woman sat with his declaration, weighing its honesty, sorting through her own feelings. She was happy—beyond happy—because she had a good life and a strong family at her side. She felt lucky to have the things that she did, proud that she had worked so hard to get and keep them, thankful for the ways life had ironed itself out.

Every person in the room watched a singular tear fall from her eye as she reached out for her husband's hand.

"I don't know what I did to deserve this," Annie sniffled, looking each of them in the eye. "Y'all all mean so much to me."

"And you mean the world to us, hon," Pearline smiled thoughtfully.

"You know we love ya', bestie," Stack affirmed.

"And I love y'all, too," the woman concluded, squeezing her husband's hand and meeting his eyes. They traded words silently, years of knowing each other adding to their ability to speak without words. They'd had so much life together, had been through so many things, and there were only more memories to be made from here.

Day drinking was not something Annie did often, but it was her birthday and she wanted to spend her day doing reckless shit.

Mimosa after mimosa. Lemon drop after lemon drop. Shot of henny after shot of henny. The woman was beyond fucked up, but she was enjoying her day, so her friends drank alongside her and her husband nursed a sweating beer bottle while keeping an eye out for all of them.

Day drinking turned into a night of club hopping with an outfit change and a nap to reset.

When the idea of a birthday trip was proposed, Stack and Mary culled through their extensive knowledge of Miami nightclubs to ensure Annie had the best experience possible. They’d taken their job seriously, figuring out exactly how the night should start off and where it should end up.

Club number one was the tamest of all the establishments. It was sturdy with a dense base of afro beats and the tantalizing scent of weed smoke and brown liquor. It drew the group in and toward the dance floor like a moth to a flame, lighting their bodies up as they sweated through each song.

Club number two was the least crowded and the most expensive, but the food was everything they needed after a whole day of getting drunk. Annie stood at the bar top, eating her wings while rolling her hips to the music, and Smoke pressed his chest to her back. He held her at the waist and inhaled the gifted perfume off her neck. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Stack had convinced everyone that club number three was where the night would really take a turn. They bypassed the line wrapped around the block, going straight for the bouncers. The music thumped through Annie’s chest, forcing her hips into a teasing sway because she was still feeling buzzed from her earlier drinks and she could tell that the night was about to get real interesting.

The younger twin had successfully gotten them through the doors with a wad of cash and a nod to the bouncer, and Annie couldn’t help the way her eyes widened upon entry. Tall ceilings. Second floor balconies. LED lit dance floor. Circle bar top. DJ booth. Bottle girls with sparklers. It was perfect, astonishing even, and when Stack informed the group that he’d bought them an entire section, it only got better from there.

Annie was having the time of her life. No responsibilities. No child climbing up her leg. No boss sending her emails. She danced at the roped edge of their section, throwing her body around and causing nearly the whole room to focus on her. That’s when she began getting attention.

“Damn, baby,” a rough yet feminine voice shouted above the music, pulling Annie’s mind away from the song that had her shaking ass with her friends. She leaned forward, ear towards the woman who couldn’t take her eyes off of her. “You sexy as hell, girl,” she groaned, eyeing Annie’s short dress and the way she flaunted her curves. Beside her, her girls giggled, already knowing how this was going to end.

Annie took in the other woman’s appearance: long braids down the length of her back, graphic tee with what she thought was a musician across the front, cargo shorts that stopped just past her knee, a pair of Jordans that had to be newly released. A watch littered her wrist. A chain suffocated her neck. And damn did she look good.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Annie shook her head, dragging her admiring eyes back to the woman’s face, “but I’m married.” Wandering eyes tamed, she continued to dance. As sexy as she was, Annie’s mind had already moved on from the woman before her, the eyes that still moved the length of her body in appreciation. But then, she was pulled back in.

“I ain’t worried ‘bout no ring, Mama,” the woman laughed, voice dripping lowly. Annie’s friends laughed nervously because if she knew who their friend was married to, the woman would be singing a completely different tune. They watched as she stepped closer to the rope separating the dance floor from their section. They watched as her eyes took their fill of their friend. They searched Annie’s posture for a need for interference. They dreaded what could happen next. “I just wanna show you a good time, baby.”

Annie wasn’t no fool, and she wasn’t moved by nobody’s declarations but her own husband’s. She raised an eyebrow, inhaled a substantial breath, recoiled from the woman’s gaze toward her body. She readied herself to turn her down, but then she felt a heavy hand grip her waist, and she relaxed into her husband’s strong hold.

“She good,” Smoke intoned. His voice carried a heft, a seriousness—his cadence slow—and Annie could feel the heat beneath his skin, melting at the way it surrounded her. She knew he’d been watching the whole thing—he’d kept his eyes on her the entire night—and she appreciated that he hadn’t stepped in until now. In his mind, if she told someone once to move along and they didn’t do so, then that was cause enough reason to intervene.

Everyone held their breaths, hoping the evening didn’t devolve into something like day two by the pool, but the woman held up her hands, apologized for overstepping, and wished them a good night before leaving.

Annie, dazed and beyond intoxicated, turned in Smoke’s arms to capture his lips in a greedy kiss. She’d needed him all day—since she woke up on the couch alone with him at the door trying to get rid of their friends. And all day, he’d been doing little things that made her need for him more immediate.

Watching over her as she drank.

Holding her hand to steady her steps.

Whispering praise and happy birthday’s in her ear.

“You so good to me, Papa,” she moaned, kissing the edge of his ear. The man gripped her ass, pulling her pelvis into his and groaning at the contact.

“Cut that shit out,” he demanded distantly, not wanting her to stop but knowing it wouldn’t take much to have him surrender to her in this state. Annie kissed the length of his neck, dancing against his growing arousal. She knew it would be better later if she teased him now, so sending one more kiss to the edge of his mouth and whispering something filthy into the air, she obeyed.

“Fine,” she crooned, sauntering off to where her friends had disappeared off to. She left a dazed and wanting Smoke behind.

By the time the music was starting to bore, they were all beyond drunk. Cornbread and Therise were falling over each other laughing. Bo and Grace were dancing far less gracefully than they were known for. Stack and Mary were arguing about stupid shit from the past. Sammie and Pearline were damn near fucking in the back of the section. And Smoke and Annie had a tension growing that was sure to destroy them both the second they were allowed to be alone.

When one of them recommended the detour from their club hopping journey, everyone was on board. It got lost who’d suggested it first. Probably Stack because this was right up his alley. Probably Grace because she wanted to know if anyone was bold enough to do it. But it really didn’t matter.

They made it to the tattoo and piercing shop, drunk out of their minds and trying their best to hold it together.

Bo went first, eager to prove that he was brave enough to do it. He emerged from the back with an ace of spades tatted on his forearm.

Grace was next, deciding to get a tragus piercing in her left ear.

Then it was Sammie and Pearline. He got his ears pierced while she got a nostril piercing.

Mary went next, but when she emerged from the room, nothing had visibly changed at all. They noticed the way she tried to fix her shirt, shifting how it landed atop her chest, wincing in pain as the thin fabric stretched across what appeared to be two barbells—one on each nipple.

Stack, with wide eyes darting over Mary’s upper body, went in next, and when he emerged, his smile was thick and michevious.

“Guess what I got done,” he urged the room, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Each incorrect guess was turned down with a smile growing on his face. Each ask for him to turn around or lift up his shirt resulted in nothing but the tattoos he already had. Then Annie gasped.

“Oh my God, Elias,” she groaned, looking at him like he’d lost his ever loving mind because he had to have if he’d gotten that done. But she watched, horrored, as he nodded his head profusely, pointing toward his crotch.

“I got my dick pierced,” he exclaimed, pride expanding the size of the room. It had been a running joke between him and his best friend that he was a big enough whore that he should have already gotten the piercing by now, so he decided to make it a reality. Wide eyes stared back at him and mouths hung open before everyone busted out laughing.

“I know you fuckin’ lyin’,” Cornbread guffawed, holding his stomach in pain, slapping his shin and everything.

But everyone knew it was real because Stack Moore was just that crazy, and he may be a liar on occasion, but this was certainly the truth.

Therise was up next, but since she declined to get either tattoo or piercing—and was clowned for being too scared—Cornbread followed suit and stood beside his lady.

And that just left Annie and Smoke.

The couple wanted to go in separately. That annoying tension still lingered between every look and every brush to the small of a back. Trembling, Annie sat in the chair, tattooist in front of her with tired eyes and a professional disposition.

“Everything spelled correctly?” she questioned the woman, looking into Annie’s eyes for clarity because she’d been in this business long enough to know plenty of people regretted their tattoos the next morning. But with a firm nod from the birthday girl, she proceeded, applying careful pressure as she etched the tattoo into her skin.

Annie and Smoke emerged from their respective rooms at the same time, eyes meeting with a heavy need for the other. The man analyzed his wife: the ram rod straight quality to her posture, the red teariness of her eyes.

Nothing stood out too much until he looked toward her chest, a curled letter appearing from beneath the neckline of her dress.

“What’d y’all get,” Sammie wondered aloud, asking what everyone was dying to know.

Annie’s eyes took in her husband’s appearance just the same. He was solid like always, quiet like always, but his aura held a thoughtfulness that surrounded her. Then she saw it.

His ring finger was bare.

“Got our anniversary tatted,” he answered the question that was running through his wife’s head, damn near forgetting anyone else existed. He flashed the finger, roman numerals sprawled up the inside of his ring finger. Eyebrows knitting in emotion, he cleared his throat before lifting his shirt sleeve. “Then I got this.”

Annie was near bawling them. Because on the side of his right bicep was a simple line tattoo of the drawing her mother had sent her a picture of on their very first day away from home. Her daughter’s drawing. Her family. Her. Smoke. Babygirl. And that damn field of flowers.

“That’s real nigga shit right there,” Stack exclaimed, applauding his brother, and Annie concurred because damn. She had married a good ass man.

Then all eyes were on her because anticipation of her tattoo was driving them up a wall. But she looked at her husband, smirk littering her lips, beguiling him.

“I want Smoke to see it first,” she hummed, kissing the edge of his mouth. “In private.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day five

Annie woke up groggy the next morning, fisting the sheets as she stretched alongside her husband. To her left, Smoke snored violently, and a giggle erupted from the back of her throat at the memory it conjured up.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he growled, biting into the flesh of her chest. He felt like his body was combusting from his need for her, the events of the day compounding. He’d been on edge since they woke up, had needed her all throughout the day when she was teasing him with kisses to the jaw or a hand to his thigh. And now, her tattoo was just making it ten times worse.

His name. His birth name. Embedded into her skin. Right above her heart.

“Fuck, you so sexy, girl,” Annie heard him compliment shakily. His eyes were on every part of her, never staying anywhere for too long because he needed to take all of her in.

“I love you, ‘Lijah,” she purred, hands rubbing his bare chest.

“God,” he exhaled, heaving a broken breath. “Don’t talk like that.”

But Annie giggled because she loved to get him riled up like this. She loved it when he felt out of control. When he felt lost. When he wanted to be conquered but fought it nonetheless. She pushed his chest, forcing him to fall back onto the bed.

Her knees met the floor.

“Let me take care of you, Papa,” she cooed, unbuckling his belt. She admired the way he gasped for air, and she praised him when he allowed her to do as she pleased.

His pants down. Her dress removed. Her bra gone.

The newly erected tattoo shown directly above her left breast—his favorite one. He salivated at the sight, propping himself up on shaky elbows as he watched her work. A tongue darted out to lap up the precum from his tip, and she spat on him, lubricating him the best way she knew how.

“You ready,” she questioned softly, jerking the length of him—up and down, up and down.

The honey to her voice had him nodding his head before he even knew what he should be ready for. And when her titties wrapped around his throbbing dick, a cry escaped his throat.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the tattoo, curling script tingling her skin. And then she looked at his right bicep—the drawing—imagining a larger family than the one that was etched there now, imagining vacations and birthdays and slow afternoons, imagining memories yet to be made.

Her sentimentality began to include the memories from the last few days: the set backs, the bumps in the road, the arguments, the fights—but also the love. It was the final day of their vacation, and in a few short hours they would be on their way to the airport and back home, and no matter how challenging some of the events had been, Annie had enjoyed herself. Alongside her family, she’d had fun and created memories to last a lifetime.

Beside her, the man began to rise from his slumber, hands searching for her.

“I’m right here, ‘Lijah,” she hummed, settling herself into his outstretched arms. She was immediately warmed by his naked body, and his distress was soothed by hers. They both shuddered as their limbs tangled.

"Last night," the man croaked, burying his face in her chest.

"I know," she laughed breathily, shivering at his cooling breath and the recollection of how he’d used it on her last night to push her over the edge. Her husband squeezed her waist, took a deep inhale of her.

"You was tryna turn my ass out, girl," he thundered in disbelief, causing them both to bellow loudly, laughing at the memory of Smoke breaking beneath her.

"I didn't try, Papa," she asserted, rising above his body. She straddled his waist, whining her hips against him. Slow movements lulled them both. Heat and desire made themselves home between them once more as her wet arousal spread across his throbbing length. Smoke became mesmerized as Annie leaned down, whispering in his ear. "I did."

After a lazy morning spent taking care of each other one last good time, the couple showered together before walking down to the beach. They had an hour before check out, an hour to soak up a little more sun before heading to the airport. Holding hands, their feet moved in tandem.

"You enjoy yourself, Mama," Smoke wondered aloud, looking at the side of her face for any inkling that the trip’s mishaps had ruined everything. He never thought the trip would happen without bumps in the road. Matter of fact, the entire time Annie worked out her ideas for it, he was fighting the urge to speak his grievances. Now that everything that could possibly go wrong had gone wrong, he fought back the urge to say I told you so.

Humming and pressing her shoulder into his, Annie pondered her answer thoughtfully.

"I've had the best time," she smiled softly, honestly. She met his gaze, grin spreading wide. She rolled her eyes at his expression. "I know you probably feel different—"

"I don't," he clarified, squeezing her hand. "I had my reservations and some of my predictions came true, but it’s been a good trip."

"It has," she affirmed meditatively.

In the distance, they saw their family where the street met the edge of the sandy beach. They waved their arms, Stack shouting the loudest about needing to get to the airport on time.

"As if his ass can say anything about bein' on time," Smoke grunted. He pulled his wife's hand to direct them both back across the street to check out of their hotel. Annie hid a laugh behind her hand, chuckling because day one of their trip had felt so long ago. Memphis. The airport. The long ass TSA line. The texts from Pearline about traffic. The hope that they'd make it on time. The defeat she felt when boarding was called. The relief she felt when she saw them running to the terminal.

"I can't wait for the next trip," she smiled as they made it to stand beside their friends.

"We can't either, girl," Grace grinned, new piercing shining in the sunlight. Her husband gripped her side, smiling down at her.

"Surprisingly, it wasn't too crazy," Therise deadpanned, pulling laughter from the group.

"Yeah, I was on my very best behavior," Cornbread nodded.

"Yeah right, nigga," Stack huffed, crossing his arms under his chest. "Like attempted murder," he shouted, recalling the play-fighting in the ocean on day three. "No one was on their best behavior. Not Grace and Bo," he admonished—for taking every bit of his money at the casino on night three. "Not Pearline and Sammie," he criticized—for bumping and grinding in the club just last night. "Not Smoke," he howled—for having incited the altercation at the pool on day two. "And for damn sure not Mary," he rolled his eyes—for having said something stupid that brought them to fight on the dance floor of the club.

"Welp," Therise hummed, shrugging her shoulders with a giggle. "I guess me and Annie ain't do nothing wrong."

"Oh, please," Stack scoffed, laughing brightly. “You chose to marry Cornbread, so that’s reason enough,” he shouted. The entire family cackled, Cornbread the loudest, holding his smiling wife close. Stack looked toward Annie, grinning at how happy she looked. “Plus,” he added, “it's my best friend's birthday, so she ain't never in the wrong.”

He moved to Annie's side, circling his arms around her and pulling her into a tight hug. The group all hummed in agreement because they were all here for her and her happiness.

"I love y'all to death," she breathed wetly, wiping tears that streamed down her face, and they all pulled her into a big group hug.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

word count: ~11,200!!!

a/n: ugh i love them so muchhh. this was an absolute bitch to revise, so if there are any typos, don't tell meee :3

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

The house was quiet after the rumble of Smoke’s truck faded into the night, the scent of Annie’s perfume oil and Smoke’s frustration all that was left behind.

Outside, a strong wind swept through the land turning dead leaves into little cyclones. It rattled the bones of the house, making the porch floorboards groan even though no living soul dared to darken their front porch this time of night. The soothing song of crickets rubbing their wings together layered over the quiet of the woods and the sudden, sharp whistle that pierced the night air whenever a train passed by in the distance.

Stack was used to that. A solitude that never felt quiet or empty. Because his twin was always somewhere orbiting him in some way.

He set the book that he never meant to read in the first place down on the coffee table and sighed.

He was happy for Smoke.

He’d seen him with plenty women before. Women he brought back to the house, women he took on dates, good women, beautiful women. 

But he’d never seen him look at them the way he looked at Annie. 

And Annie looked at Smoke the way nobody ever had. Like she believed there was something there worth saving.

He watched them watch each other through the mirror with something in their eyes that lived there like it was second nature. They held whole conversations with just looks and facial expressions. Stack would catch them at it, his eyes flicking curiously between the two. 

That made him chuckle to himself. 

He liked Annie for his brother. She was a good girl. From a good family in New Orleans from what he’d heard from her great-aunt Della. 

Between feelings of genuine happiness and a twinge of protectiveness, something cold and unfamiliar made his gut twist. Something he didn’t want to admit out loud. 

It was something that he hadn't experienced since his father first put his hands on him as a child.

Smoke was a killer. They both were. Sure, most of it was deserved. Between the war and niggas who would have killed them if they didn’t shoot first. But they had innocent blood on their hands too. Ancestral blood. 

Stack stood from the couch and walked towards the back door, deciding to check on the still to keep his mind on things that mattered right now. He passed by their military trunk and paused. He took two steps back and looked over at the trunk that sat untouched for years in their home. Then he turned to crouch in front of it.

The faded blue wooden trunk had years of history soaked into its grain. The top opened with a loud groan of metal creaking on the hinges.

At the top were basic things. Two helmets, two army blankets, bayonets, French guns, knives, binoculars, and ammunition they carried back from the war. 

A tin nestled beneath the blankets caught the light of the candle still burning in the room. He moved the contents of the trunk around carefully and pulled it out, dusting the top of it off with his hands.

It was small, bronze, its edges worn to a muted black, with raised decorative script and decals all over. The bottom of the tin read Christmas 1914. Two large M’s on either side of a female figurehead sat in the center. He liked to think the M stood for Moore, one for each of them. 

Stack took a deep breath then opened the tin. A small oval locket sat inside, right on top of a few crumpled papers, its delicate chain wrapped around the golden pendant like a spiral. His thumb brushed the top before he opened it.

He’d seen the picture a million times but his breath got stuck in his throat every time he laid his eyes on it.

“Mama,” he whispered. It wasn’t the word that hit deep but the intention behind it. He called Miss Cecily—Mary’s mama—“mama” plenty of times to the point that it was almost second nature to him after twenty-some odd-years. But here, looking at the black-and-white photo of the women who lended him his first breath, the word slipping from his lips felt different. Like a spell or an invocation. Like if he said it soft enough she’d appear out of thin air as alive as the eyes staring back at him felt.

She looked happy and her radiance shined through the picture. Stack couldn’t help but grin. She was beautiful. The thing he liked the most about the picture was that she felt alive. He could almost feel her gaze on him through the picture. He had her nose and her smile that spread across her face like a sunrise and lit up her big, round eyes.

He thumbed the lock of her hair that sat to the side of the locket. It was soft, a beautiful texture of kinks and coils that looked dark, like a midnight blue-black, braided into a thick plait. 

Stack’s jaw worked. 

He’d heard stories from people who knew her. What she was like, how she couldn’t wait to meet her children. Miss Cecily’s whole face would light up when she told stories about their friendship and time together. It made him ache for her. And the contents of the tin were the only thing he and Smoke had.

What did she smell like? What did her hugs feel like? What did her voice sound like? 

Would she be proud of them?

It made him wonder about their daddy too. What was he like before the blood and the death and the liquor that hollowed him out?

He pulled out one of the papers decorated with his mother’s writing. 

E.M.

Emmaline Moore.

Her initials were written in cursive on top of the folded squares. 

He didn’t unfold them. He couldn’t. 

Since Miss Cecily handed over the bundle of their mother’s poems, neither he nor Smoke dared to actually read them. They sat in that tin as a testament to her life but something too sacred to actually unfold.

Stack shook his head. He sniffled once, grunting to clear the tears that threatened his throat. He tucked the locket and poem back into the tin and put it back into the trunk underneath the army blankets. He closed the top of the trunk that felt like a door to the past where the memories felt too alive and stung like the back of his father’s hand.

“Fuck,” he sighed, running a hand down his jaw. He stood up and swiftly walked to the kitchen to fill a tin mug with two fingers of moonshine. 

He and his brother had business to attend. Real business. With Clay down here and Duke in Memphis and niggas up North. Talks of carving a life elsewhere clouded his restless thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time, but their first time didn’t last that long. 

Harlem. 

The war. 

They could have stayed. Started over. But they came right back to the blistering heat and familiar hunger of the Mississippi Delta. To the ghosts that lived under the floorboards and the very faint scent of lavender that lived inside that bronze holiday tin. 

Clarksdale was the devil they knew. 

Taking a chug of moonshine, he let the sting settle in his chest. It helped distract his mind…for now.

Stack was already in his room when the front door swung open and Smoke walked in. His footsteps, heavy and grounding, cut through the darkness that sat over the front room like a veil. He dropped his keys by the door, hung up his jacket, and silently walked the few paces to his bedroom. 

His door shut behind him with a soft click. He knew he needed to wash up before bed but he didn’t want to. The scent of Annie still clung to his skin and he wasn’t ready to get rid of it yet.

But he went anyway.

He left his room, trudging to the wash basin outside of their house. It was hidden inside a shed in their backyard near their outhouse; the small space smelled like quicklime, damp soil, and lye soap. 

The water was cold but it was refreshing as he reflected on the night he spent with Annie.

He was starting to feel something for her. 

And although he couldn’t name it yet, he couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny the ache he felt when he was away from her either.

Smoke stripped down, the cool air calming the fire in his blood. 

The soapy rag went across his broad shoulders, down the span of his chest and groin, water dripping down his length that was already starting to react to the thought of her.

When she rolled her hips, grinding herself back on him... 

She only did it once, but what it made him feel—

Like a fiend needing a fix. He wanted more.

He groaned, the sound swallowed by the night around him.

That damn woman. 

All soft-tempered and honey-tongued. Her sweetness made his teeth ache. The worst part was she didn’t even know how much those big eyes and pouty lips made him weak for her. Her curious little gestures being so innocent in intent drove him crazy. 

He’d never tell her either. 

Once he was done, he dumped the water and carried in a bucket of fresh water from the creek for the morning. Then he made his way back into the house. 

The pathway was dark. Pitch black. But Smoke knew the shape of it by heart. He secured the back door and checked the front and the windows without a light to guide him before settling into his bedroom and securing the latch. 

None of that settled his earlier thoughts. Smoke laid back in his bed, one hand resting behind his head. His manhood was still half-hard. He ran the other hand over his chest, his fingertips brushing over the coarse patch of hair scattered there. He didn’t touch it yet. His palm hovered over his crotch so he could feel it twitch under the covers. 

“Damn,” he whispered.

He gave in. To the heat, the thoughts, the wanting. He slipped his hand underneath his drawers and let his restraint lay at his bedside, forgotten just for a moment.

He grabbed hold of it, stroking the shaft lazily as it came to life in his palm. His fingers twisted underneath his sensitive head while his other hand came down to squeeze his balls. His breath hitched. He was already slick with want before he’d truly begun. 

He closed his eyes and thought about Annie lying in front of him on the couch earlier. His arms had been wrapped tightly around her. Her backside that fit in his lap like a puzzle piece. His head buried in the crook of her neck, so close he could feel her pulse fluttering nervously against his lips.

“Damn, Annie,” he choked out behind gritted teeth. “Fuck,” he hissed as his legs started to twitch.

It didn’t take long. He gasped as his release shot out in thick, hot ropes across his chiseled stomach. He tried to catch his breath, smothering his panting in the crook of his arm.

Once his breathing slowed he cleaned himself up, making the decision to sleep naked regardless of the cool draft that crept through the cracks of the house. 

As he drifted off he thought about Annie. Her touch, her skin, her warmth. 

He couldn’t wait to see her again. 

But until then he’d settle for a dream. 

Saturday, December 13, 1919 - The Harvest Party

The gentle drone of hooded dryers softened the laughter and low conversations flowing through the salon, where secrets and sisterhood were shared in equal measure. 

Women occupied nearly every chair and the narrow spaces between them at Ritzy’s on Issaquena, passing combs, hairpins, bottles, and gossip over one another’s heads. Some waited with capes draped around their shoulders while others sat with heads tilted back over washbasins. Hot combs rested over blue flames near the stove, their metal teeth heating to a glow. The smell singed the air, mingling with pomade, perfume, and the sharp sweetness of corn liquor being passed around discreetly.

Nellie and Gigi traded casual conversation between each other.

Verity sat on the waiting bench near the window fanning herself with a folded newspaper. Her friend sat quietly next to her.

“Girl, you gon’ burn every strand off that poor girl’s head foolin’ with that hooch,” Verity said as she watched a hairdresser take a healthy swig from a flask before picking up a hot comb.

“I ain’t had but two swallows,” she replied. “Plus she got enough hair for three women...don’t you girl?”

The girl in her chair smiled sheepishly. 

Annie walked in the salon, shutting the door quickly before the crisp winter air could sneak in behind her. She loosened her coat as warmth settled over her skin.

“Finally!” Nellie called out.

“There she go,” Gigi greeted. “Heyyy Louisiana!” 

She sat near the front window with her hair pressed into glossy waves, silver clips fastened neatly along her temples. Nellie sat in the chair next to her, a towel wrapped around her shoulders while another hairdresser parted and oiled her scalp.

Annie raised an eyebrow as she hung her coat up on the rack. “I ain’t late.”

“You ain’t early neither,” Nellie replied.

“Leave her be,” Gigi waved a hand. “You know she got a lot on her mind.”

Nellie hummed knowingly.

Annie walked to the waiting bench and took a seat next to Verity and her friend after greeting them both before turning toward Nellie and Gigi.

“And what you mean by that?”

Gigi’s mouth spread into a sly grin. “Girl, you know what I mean.”

“I surely do not.”

“Mhmm.”

Annie looked across the salon, searching for a familiar face before she could stop herself. 

“She really ain’t coming, huh?” Annie said to herself. Her eyes widened. She didn’t mean to say that out loud and she definitely didn’t mean for Gigi or Nellie to hear it.

Too late.

Nellie was already sucking her teeth dramatically. 

“‘Course she ain’t. You already know how her husband be. Lock and key.” 

Verity clicked her tongue, a quiet-ish warning aimed at her sister, but Nellie ignored her and rolled her eyes.

It was a reflex to expect to see Pearline across the room, so the absence felt strange. There was no familiar voice joining Gigi’s laughter, no careful smile, no nervous glance toward the door like her husband might appear out of thin air.

One of the hairdressers gestured for Annie to come sit in her chair. She crossed the room and lowered herself in front of the mirror, untying the scarf from around her head while the hairdresser began undoing the straight backs beneath it.

Annie relaxed as the woman’s fingers moved through her hair. Conversation layered over conversation around her. Food, weather, liquor, clothes, shoes—all smalltalk at first. Then the topic of men came up. Which men would come alone, which men would come at all. Who they’d show up with…or without.

Annie casually glanced over at Gigi who was taking a gulp of something in a small brown bottle.

“Here,” she held it out to her. “For your nerves.”

Annie looked at the bottle. “I ain’t nervous,” she mumbled.

Gigi tilted her head. “Then why your knee bouncin’?”

Annie looked down. Her right leg moved steadily beneath the cape tied around her neck. She stopped it instantly.

“See?” Gigi laughed. “Here.” She encouraged her again to take the bottle.

Annie waved her off. “Uh-uh, I’m just ready for tonight.” 

“More for me,” Gigi shrugged, taking another swig.

“Ready for the party,” Nellie asked, “or ready for Smoke?”

Annie felt warmth rise from her chest to her cheeks.

Her hairdresser met her gaze through the mirror. “Keep your head still, girl.”

“Sorry.”

Her hairdresser just grinned.

“Well?” Nellie probed.

Annie sighed. “I’m ready for the party.”

“Mhmm.”

Annie sucked her teeth. “Y’all actin’ like he never seen me befo’.”

“Not like he gon’ see you tonight,” Nellie shot back.

Annie pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“This the first time everybody gon’ see y’all together since you agreed to let him court you proper.”

“So?” Annie questioned, almost bashfully. “That don’t mean nothin’.” 

“Girl please,” Nellie said, almost brazingly so. “It means everything.”

“I guess.”

“Mhmm,” Gigi agreed. “And tonight you gon’ see it for yourself. Everybody gon’ be lookin’ at the woman who got Smoke Moore to call on her proper.”

“I hope he ain’t got a weak heart,” Verity remarked, proud, from across the room. Her friend’s lips pulled tight, her fingers tensing on the hem of her blouse.

“Okay?” Nellie chimed in. “‘Cuz from what Pea said about your dress, it ain’t for the faint of heart.”

Annie chuckled to herself, her cheeks warming.

Her hairdresser removed a hot comb from the flame. She tested it against a square of paper towel and watched a faint brown line appear before crossing back over to Annie. 

“Hold still.”

Annie sat up straight, hands gripping the arms of the chair as the metal comb passed close to her scalp, the hot fumes pressing sharply against the delicate skin there. 

“Whew!” 

She exhaled as the comb moved further down her strands, smoothing them as the teeth raked through her thick hair. It was a nice, albeit fleeting distraction from the conversations that went on around her, but Gigi’s words replayed in her mind. 

Smoke had walked beside her before. He’d been seen with her all around town and walked close enough for people to whisper. But tonight would be different.

Annie would go to the party with her friends and Smoke would show up…whenever he decided to show up. 

That meant she’d be waiting on him. Which left her with nothing but time. Time to be anxious. Time to wonder when he’d finally get there. Time to feel the room shift when he did. The thought made something flutter beneath her ribs.

Would he find her immediately, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath the brim of his hat watching her from across the room?

Would he come straight to her, or would he make her wait while he greeted everyone else?

And more importantly, what would she do when he was standing in front of her?

Stand quietly and let him take her hand?

Smile like he hadn’t been occupying her thoughts all day?

Annie’s knee began bouncing again.

Her hairdresser paused, hot comb inches from her scalp. “Annie-girl.”

Annie immediately stilled her leg. “Sorry—I’m sorry.” She bit her lip.

“Told you,” Gigi smirked. “Nerves.”

Annie just sat quiet looking at herself in the mirror. Half her hair had been smoothed and shaped while the other half remained thick, free and wild around her face. She looked like she was caught between two versions of herself.

The version of herself who first arrived in Clarksdale and the one staring back at her in the mirror. 

Before, people looked at her because she was new. But now…now they’d be watching her because she got chose.

And not just by anyone.

By one-half of a pair of twins so infamous, the town—no, the county—called them the SmokeStack twins.

Smoke was a man who wore silence like clothing. A man whose hand covered hers when she touched his heart. A man who looked at her like she was the only person in the room.

They’d see him walk towards her. They’d watch how close he stood, where he put his hands, whether his expression softened when she spoke. Every dance would be evidence. Every glance would be collected and carried home as gossip. 

And they’d watch Annie too. To see whether she welcomed his attention. Whether she leaned into him. Whether she acted differently now that Elijah Moore had chosen to court her.

The flutter beneath her ribs increased almost violently.

Maybe she wasn’t nervous about being seen with him.

Maybe she was just nervous about how much she wanted to be.

“You smilin’,” Gigi’s voice went sideways, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“She been smilin’ since you said Smoke’s name,” Nellie said with a grin.

“Y’all worry too much about what I’m doin’.”

Annie held her hand out for the bottle, which Gigi happily obliged. She uncapped it, sniffing it before taking a small swallow. She grimaced as the liquor burned across her tongue. “Lord, I do not know how y’all drink this stuff straight.” 

“‘Course we do,” Nellie blurted incredulously with bugged out eyes, “we’re your friends!” 

The three women laughed.

Annie glanced around at the crowded salon. The shop bell rang constantly—if one woman was stepping out, another was stepping in. Face powder dusted the countertops, stockings draped over chair backs, purses lay open, revealing lipstick and tiny bottles of perfume. Gigi was laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach. Nellie bickered with her hairdresser about which direction she wanted her curls turned. Even the salon owner, Lottie Mae, wasn’t above taking a discreet sip from the mysterious brown bottle making its rounds. 

When she first arrived all those months ago she imagined finding something like this—a community of women who teased her, made room for her, watched her, and cared enough to ask her if she was nervous. 

Pearline’s absence was still noticeable, a quiet ache beneath all the noise.

But even more noticeable was Annie’s place among them. And sitting in this salon chair, laughter, heat and chaos all around her, she felt perfectly held.

Smoke leaned back in a barber’s chair, striped plastic cape draped across his shoulders and a hot towel sitting over his beard. A slew of grooming tools plus a shaving mug and brush sat on a small metal table off to the side of his chair. 

Brown’s Barbershop was lively, low conversations carried over the sound of soft music drifting from the corner. The smell of hair tonic, aftershave, and a hint of cigar smoke clung stubbornly to tobacco-stained plaster walls. 

“How much we takin’ off today, Smoke?” Roy, the barber, asked as he removed the towel from Smoke’s face.

Smoke looked at his beard in the mirror. “Just trim the sides a little,” he replied, “and clean up the edges.” 

“Gotchu,” Roy said with a nod.

“He could stand to lose a few inches from the top too.” A voice rose over the hum of the shop, commanding with a teasing edge. “And use some of that pomade in there too so he don’t look like a field nigga on a hot day.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “Ignore him.” 

Roy just chuckled, shook his head and picked up his shears.

Stack sat in the open backroom of the shop slapping cards down on a table, eyes full of mirth. Judging by the annoyed groans and curses coming from his opponents at the table, he’d just played somebody out of their money. He gathered his winnings and pushed up from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping against the wooden floors. The mirrors on the wall watched him stalk towards Smoke’s chair by the window.

“Big brotha gotta look extra nice tonight,” Stack said teasingly. “Ain’t that right?” 

Roy grunted as he trimmed the sides of Smoke’s beard. “Oh yeah? Why is that?” 

Smoke ground his teeth. “Stack.” 

Stack tilted his head. “Smoke.”

“We goin’ to that party tonight over at Messenger’s,” he said to Roy.

“I ain’t think y’all went to those,” Roy muttered in concentration.

“We don’t,” he shrugged,“we makin’ an exception this year.” He smirked, his smile spreading slowly as he stared at Smoke in the mirror. Smoke glared back, his own expression void of warmth. 

“The only thing y’all make exceptions for are dollars.” 

That pulled a low chuckle out of Smoke.

“And beautiful women,” Stack added. 

Roy waited for Stack to explain because beautiful women were nothing the twins were ever short on. And never, as long as he’d known them, were they ever a reason for them to go to a party at a juke. He looked up from his tools, eyes darting between Smoke’s unreadable face and Stack’s daring gaze staring back at his twin.

“Oh…he ain’t tell you?” Stack said, low enough so his voice only reached the three of them.

Roy blinked, eyebrows raised.

“Smoke got a special lady he goin’ to see tonight,” he said, holding his suspenders with his thumbs, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

Roy started trimming the top of Smoke’s hair now. “This somebody gotta name?”

“Annie,” Smoke finally spoke.

“Annie,” Roy echoed as he circled the chair to get another angle. “And she special, huh? How special?”

“She’s my woman,” Smoke said with finality. “And I’m only goin’ ‘cause she gon’ be there.”

“Can’t say I know that name,” Roy voiced, “but if she got you comin’ out the house more, I like her already.”

Smoke chuckled low. 

“Me too,” Stack started, his eyes darting around. “Yeah, she real nice. Beautiful. Tall. Voice real soft…like a blanket. Like somethin’ that makes you wanna—-”

“Stack,” Smoke hissed.

Stack just grinned wider. 

Roy shook his head and twenty minutes later, both Smoke and Stack were leaving the barbershop smelling of hair tonic and Hoyt’s just as the sun was starting to retreat behind the buildings. 

They walked past the cobbler, past the tailor shop, past the flower girl posted at the corner, her knitted white shawl barely shielding her thin frame from the bitter air, and hopped into their Dodge Brothers Model 30 parked just outside the general store. 

Smoke started the engine as Stack spread out casually in the front seat.

“Couple niggas in there turned they heads.”

“Who?”

“One nigga damn near choked on his drink.” Stack laughed to himself. 

“Who else?”

“Few niggas from Maybell. One of them friends with Terry. You know he used to stay over at Della’s?”

Smoke shook his head. “Vultures.”

Stack barked out a laugh. “Relax big bro, you knew this was gon’ happen.” He looked out the window as town buildings turned into flat countryside. “You know these niggas sniff out innocence like a sacrificial lamb. Shit.”

“Stack…,” Smoke said, his voice held an edge to it that made Stack’s parted lips snap shut. Something possessive in Smoke sparked hot, much hotter than it did in the barbershop where he knew Stack’s words were bait. “Watch your mouth.” 

Stack held both hands up in defense. “You right, my bad.” He looked over at his brother. “My fault.”

“You good,” his jaw worked, “just don’t be gettin’ carried away talkin’ ‘bout what’s mine.”

Stack smoothly changed the subject to something lighter and less personal—clothing. That was his lane. Clothes, shoes, hair, hats—you name it, he knew where to get it, and he was good at it too. 

Smoke liked his clothes to fit looser, more relaxed. Stack had taken it upon himself to pick out his outfit for tonight and something in him didn’t feel like fighting him on it. 

A cream long-sleeved collared shirt, a pair of charcoal-colored trousers with a clean crease down the front, and a bow tie were hanging up for Smoke when he got back from his bath.

“I ain’t wearin’ no bow tie, nigga,” he said, voice flat.

Stack stopped what he was doing and turned slowly. “You can’t not wear a bowtie.”

“I ain’t wearin’ no fuckin’ bow tie.” 

Stack just shook his head and pulled a pair of suspenders with black leather tabs from his wardrobe. He tossed them to Smoke who caught them with one hand.

“Thought you wanted to look sharp.”

“I ain’t say all that.”

“You ain’t have to.”

He stepped into the trousers and suspenders first before shrugging on the shirt, the collar concealing the aluminum dog tags hanging around his neck. He fastened a dark-colored waistcoat over the shirt and stepped into a pair of polished black leather boots before sticking a pistol in the back of his trousers’ waistband. A black knee-length wool overcoat completed the look.

He kept his accessories simple, his Elgin watch with a steel case and a brown leather wrist strap, a pair of leather gloves that he put in the pocket of his overcoat, and nothing more but the clean line of his clothes and the smell of his cologne.

Stack looked him over as he set the iron on the stove for his own clothes. High-waisted trousers in a rich, warm tobacco brown with a matching waistcoat. Light collared shirt with a burgundy tie, gold tie and double-ridged collar bars. Cap-toe oxford shoes and a burgundy fedora with a narrow black grosgrain. 

“You still need a bow tie.”

Smoke sucked his teeth, pulling at his collar.

“A bow tie…a tie…somethin’....your neck look too empty.”

“Man…”

“Trust me…you gon’ thank me later,” he said with a knowing grin. “I know you tryna impress her.”

Maybe his brother was right. He wanted to impress her. Wanted to see her big, brown eyes grow even wider when she saw him across the room. 

He didn’t know if he was ready to see her in a short dress that showed any kind of thigh. He just might lose it if somebody stared at her too long. But he wasn’t about to sit at home while it happened. So he’d let Stack dress him. As long as Annie’s face lit up….shit.

He was doing it again; his thoughts just drifting off to her like they’d been doing more often lately.

As long as her face lit up, he’d swallow his pride tonight. 

Aunt Della’s boarding house was thrumming with life as usual, lodgers spread throughout the first level. But tonight it held the life of a particular young woman who felt like she stood at the threshold of something bigger than herself.

The women sat around Annie’s room laughing, gossiping, and trying not to mess up their new hairdos. Annie kept one leg tucked under her while Gigi sat cross-legged on the floor and Nellie sat next to Annie on the bed with her back on the wall.

Golden hour poured into the room through the lace curtains like honey over toast, slow and warm.

Della stepped into her doorway and couldn’t help but grin at the scene in front of her. Her eyes flicked from Nellie listening intently while Gigi narrated a story excitedly with her hands. Then her eyes moved to Annie and she saw the three generations that dwelled inside of her. 

Annie had her mother’s eyes, big, brown pools of warmth that freckled in the sunlight.

Her grandmother’s grace. Like a river, smooth, solemn, calm.

She had the caul that covered her great-grandmother over her spirit like a veil.

And something else.

Her hand dropped to the pocket of her apron where a small pouch sat. 

A few days ago…

Della sat tall in her front room chair and let the steady tick of the grandfather clock punctuate her thoughts while the house slept. She liked it that way. Running a boarding house rarely gave her room to sit alone with her thoughts. The only time she could spare was when the world was dreaming. 

A thick wax candle burned low on the coffee table. The scent of her chewing clove filled the air along with the heady fragrance from her tea, its steam curling around the smoke from the candle like two ghosts doing a dance. Her knitting lay in her lap, half done, half discarded, fingers still holding the needle. 

Annie had walked in a few hours ago, face so bright it looked like she swallowed the sun. But as the house quieted down, something tugged at her spirit.

It wasn’t a warning. Not exactly.

But the longer she sat there, the harder it pulled, like a physical tugging of her ribs. The slow, methodical drip of the yard pump felt like it was getting closer. The sound of the low crackle of embers from the woodstove seemed louder.

“Alright,” she said to herself. She pushed off the chair, left her knitting on the cushion, and blew candles out one-by-one as she walked through the house. The smoke curled around her like spirits guiding her forward.

The underground chamber was so quiet, it felt like the room was holding its breath. That wasn’t unusual. But the silence was disturbed by the constant drip of water from one particular spot in the ceiling. Della huffed under her breath and slid a bucket underneath it. She passed the heavy oak door with two padlocks and stood in front of the door to a smaller room, more narrow on the inside, darker. No locks on the door. 

She gathered what she needed. A tiny cloth bag. Horseshoe nail. Lodestone. Strands of hair. Then incense smoke clouded the small room. She tied the bag with a miller’s knot then closed her eyes and set her intentions. The whiskey touched the pouch three times. Just enough to feed it, not enough to flood it.

“Soil of my soil. Bone of my bone. Blood of my blood. I bless you…Asé.” 

“You okay, auntie?” Annie asked, looking towards the doorway.

Aunt Della blinked once and smiled warmly. She palmed the mojo bag in her apron pocket. “Just thinkin’ about how much you look like your mama.”

Annie fiddled with the edge of her robe.

“Y’all want some drinks?”

Gigi hopped up. “Yes, please!” She hustled to the doorway. “I can help!”

Aunt Della shook her head and they walked out the door towards the staircase. Their voices faded as they walked downstairs. Nellie hugged her knees and tilted her head towards Annie.

“You excited?”

“Nervous,” Annie chuckled. 

“Nervous? Fo’ what?”

Annie hummed. “I dunno, I just…got butterflies.”