Livia

and that was it. no fight, no begging, just the quiet pain of two people pulling away.

but letting go didn’t mean cutting ties.

months later, your phone buzzed at two in the morning. you were half asleep and lying in bed with the tv still playing some rerun you weren’t paying attention to. the name flashing on your screen made your chest tighten. ony.

you answered anyway. his voice came through low and warm like it always did. “yo, you up?”

you laughed a little while rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. “yeah, what you want ony?”

“nothin’ for real, just checkin on you.” he said it like it was casual but you could hear the way his tone softened like he was trying not to sound too eager.

you shook your head even though he couldn’t see you. “boy, you always checkin on me late at night.”

he chuckled. “that’s when i miss you the most.”

conversations like that came and went and they scattered across months, always unexpected. a song dropped and he’d text you a link while saying it reminded him of you. you’d send him a dumb meme that only the two of you would find funny and he’d call you just to hear you laugh. it was never consistent and never planned but it was always there.

your birthday came around the next year and you were sure he’d finally forget. he didn’t. instead, a delivery guy showed up at your door holding a bouquet so massive you had to drag it inside sideways. you stared at the arrangement, stunned, before snatching up your phone and calling him.

when he picked up you didn’t even bother with hello. “onyankopon, why the hell i just get a thousand dollar flower arrangement at my door?”

he laughed that deep sound that still hit you right in the chest. “’cause it’s your birthday, ma. what else imma do?”

“normal people send texts,” you shot back while pacing your kitchen and staring at the ridiculous roses like they held all the answers.

“and normal dudes don’t love you the way i do. stop playin.” his voice was teasing but you could tell he meant every word.

you tried to stay annoyed but the smile creeping across your face betrayed you.

over the years you saw him with other women. instagram models, influencers, and pretty girls who always seemed perfectly styled. sometimes they popped up on his story or sometimes in pictures after a game. it never surprised you. he was onyankopon and the nfl made him bigger than life but it never touched you the way it probably should’ve. because even when they were around, he was still calling you, still checking in, still making sure you knew your place in his life was untouchable.

one night, after seeing him post another girl, you couldn’t resist. “she cute,” you teased while you leaned back on your couch with your phone pressed to your ear.

“don’t do that,” he muttered like he was annoyed but really just didn’t want to play.

“what? i’m just sayin.”

his tone dropped lower and more serious now. “stop actin like you don’t know ain’t nobody you.”

the words stuck with you. they were heavy and sweet all at once.

and then there were the late night conversations— the ones that slipped past the boundaries y’all swore you kept. one night, when you were curled under your blanket, lights off, voice hushed so no one else could hear, he asked softly, “what you doin.”

“layin down…bout to sleep,” you whispered.

he paused for a beat then asked, “you thinkin bout me?”

you smiled into the dark. “nah.”

he let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “you lyin.”

“…maybe.”

his reply was quiet but firm and the kind of thing that settled deep in your chest. “ion care how long it’s been. you still mine.”

and the worst part—the best part—was that you couldn’t even argue.

no matter the years, no matter how much distance stretched between you, ony never stopped being the same man who held you down from the beginning. a gentleman through and through. and even with time and fame pulling him higher he never let you forget that you were his number one.

your phone buzzed while you were in the middle of untangling christmas lights. you glanced down and saw onyankopon’s name lighting up the screen. for a second you just stared at it. you hadn’t talked to him in a couple weeks—nothing unusual for y’all—but something about the timing made your chest tighten.

you picked up anyway, thumb swiping across the screen. his face filled your screen now with his hoodie pulled low and chain glinting against his chest. he was in the car with the city lights flashing behind him.

“yo,” his voice came through smooth and almost too casual.

“what’s up,” you said, trying to sound flat even though your pulse was jumping.

he leaned back in his seat, lips tugging into a small smile. “so… your moms hit me.”

you paused, blinking. “my momma?”

“yeah. invited me to y’all christmas party,” he said while rubbing his chin like he was trying to gauge your reaction. “i ain’t wanna just pop up so i figured i should call you first.”

you snorted while shaking your head. “of course she did. she act like you her second son.”

he grinned at that while his teeth flashed a pearly white. “you know she love me.”

“she love you too much,” you muttered while sitting back on your couch and twirling the cord of the lights around your finger.

his tone softened. “so..you want me to come or not?”

you hesitated but your lips parting like you had something smart to say but nothing came. finally you mumbled, “it’s whatever.”

ony laughed low while tilting his head. “nah, it ain’t whatever. you know if you don’t want me there, i won’t pull up. simple as that.”

you rolled your eyes but the way he said it so gently and serious like he meant it down to the bone made your throat feel tight. “you already know my momma gon drag you in even if i say no.”

“still,” he said while leaning forward now and filling the screen. “i ain’t tryna disrespect you. so i’m askin.”

the silence stretched as christmas lights blinked across your lap. you looked at him through the phone, at the man who was somehow still the same even with nfl money and fame stamped across his name.

“do what you want, ony,” you whispered, trying not to let him hear the slip in your voice.

his gaze lingered before he smirked like he knew you better than you knew yourself. “aight then. front door or side?”

you bit back a laugh while shaking your head. “front door. act normal.”

“say less,” he said, grin widening. “oh and don’t be mad when i stunt on everybody.”

“boy, you sound real confident.”

“when it come to impressing you? always.”

he hung up before you could clap back, leaving you staring at your reflection in the black screen.

the days leading up to christmas, your family worked your nerves. your mom was the worst just casually dropping ony’s name into every conversation.

“ony say he stopped by the store for me. carried all them bags to the car like it was nothin. such a gentleman.”

you shot her a look over the kitchen counter. “he nfl ma. he pick up trucks for a living.”

“still,” she said with a little smile like she knew exactly what she was doing.

then your aunt chimed in when she came over to help wrap presents. “girl, that boy fine. i seen him on tv last week. you lucky you had him once. if it was me—”

“please stop right there,” you cut in, slapping tape on the wrapping paper.

your cousins were worse, whispering and giggling about how “uncle ony” was gonna look when he walked through the door.

by christmas eve, the whole house felt like it was waiting for something. your mom humming louder than usual, your aunties sneaking looks at you whenever his name came up and you pretending not to care while secretly counting down the hours.

the truth was, you couldn’t stop thinking about that facetime call. the way he asked first, the way his voice dipped when he said he ain’t want to disrespect you, the way he smirked at the end like he already knew how this would play out.

you told yourself it was nothing. you told yourself you were over it. but deep down you knew the second he stepped into that house the air was gonna shift.

and everybody would notice.

the smell of cinnamon and baked ham filled the house while holiday music was humming low under the chatter of relatives already piling in. laughter bounced off the walls, kids ran through the hallways with toy cars and dolls, and every so often someone yelled over the noise to ask if the macaroni was ready.

you were upstairs standing in front of the mirror for the fifth time that evening while tugging at the rim of your red strapless mini dress. the white fluff trimming the top and bottom gave it a playful holiday look but paired with your heels that had a matching fluffy accent, it was giving way more than “family christmas.” your hair was done in a curly flip over that framed your face perfectly, lashes fluffed to full drama, lips lined and glossed just right.

you looked like fine as fuck and you knew it.

but instead of confidence, nerves ran wild through you.

you dabbed powder on your nose even though it didn’t need it and reapplied gloss that hadn’t faded while you fluffed your curls again just to keep your hands busy. the truth was, you weren’t really fussing over your reflection. you were listening. straining for the sound of a car pulling up outside, waiting for your phone to buzz with a message, checking the time every other minute.

your stomach twisted with equal parts excitement and dread. because tonight wasn’t just family—it was onyankopon.

a knock came at your door followed by your mom’s voice. “baby you ready? folks already askin’ where you at.”

you grabbed your phone pretending to look busy before opening the door. your mom’s eyes swept over you, widening with a proud smile. “mmhmm. now that’s how you dress when my son coming.”

you nearly choked. “ma.”

“what?” she said, raising her hands like she was innocent. “ain’t like the whole house don’t know he on the way.”

before you could argue, your cousin popped up behind her with a grin. “so what you gon do when he walk in here fine as hell, huh?”

you rolled your eyes while brushing past them. “y’all annoying.”

downstairs, the living room was loud with voices, cousins and aunties piled on the couches while uncles argued over a football game on tv. the second you stepped down the noise shifted. heads turned, whistles rose, and someone clapped.

“oooh, miss santa,” your uncle teased. “your boyfriend gon lose his mind when he see you.”

“uncle jr please,” you muttered but your cheeks burned.

still, your eyes kept darting to the window and your ears tuned for the crunch of tires in the driveway. every time a car slowed outside, your heart skipped, only to fall when it wasn’t him. you found yourself checking your phone obsessively, swiping down on the screen for a notification that never came.

at one point, your aunt leaned over while passing you a plate of cookies. “you nervous, huh? keep starin’ at that window like you waiting on santa himself.”

you shot her a look but your throat was dry. because she wasn’t wrong.

and when your little cousin shouted, “he here!” from the front room before you even heard the doorbell ring, your heart nearly stopped.

the doorbell rang once before the house fell into that strange hush that only happens when everyone’s waiting on the same thing. your little cousin darted to the front door, yanking it open before your mom could even get there.

and there he was.

ony filled the doorway like he owned it. broad shoulders framed by a black designer coat and the collar trimmed in fur. he had a clean fade, sharp enough to slice, the line of his subtle beard just as crisp. diamonds hit the light when he smiled—those grillz flashing like he’d brought the city right into your momma’s living room. his neck and wrists glinted with icy jewelry, watches and chains layered in a way that said rich without him having to say a word.

tattoos peeked from under the sleeve of his coat, winding down his hands and fingers as he reached to dap up the uncle closest to him. “wassup, unc,” he said smooth, his voice dropping low and easy like he’d never left.

the room erupted.

your aunties fawned, your uncles slapped his back, cousins swarmed him like he was a celebrity—which he was—but here, he was still just ony.

“look at you,” your mom said, stepping up with her proud smile and hugging him tight like he was her own son. “so handsome, lawd.”

“appreciate you, ma,” he answered while leaning down to kiss her cheek, grillz catching the christmas lights again.

you stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the rail without realizing, trying to breathe steady as the family crowded around him. he laughed easy, that familiar sound, dapping hands, hugging shoulders, every move smooth like he’d rehearsed it.

but even with all the noise and all the love aimed at him, his eyes found you quick. across the room, past the cousins and the kids tugging at his chain, he saw you. the way his gaze dragged down your body slow made your skin heat like nobody else was in that house.

his smile shifted then. still warm and still polite but softer and more private. the kind of smile he never gave anyone but you.

your uncle clapped him on the back pulling his attention for a second but you already knew—you were next.

you were still at the bottom of the stairs when the crowd around ony finally loosened, your cousins trailing off to brag about him, your uncles attempting to drag him into football talk, your mom fussing about fixing him a plate. he kept nodding, answering easy, but his eyes… his eyes didn’t leave you.

when he finally started moving your way it felt like the whole room stretched out, each step dragging in slow motion. his chain caught the light, his grillz glinted when he smiled, but it wasn’t the show he was putting on for everybody else. this was for you.

“damn,” he murmured when he stopped in front of you, voice dropping low, only for your ears. he let his eyes sweep you one more time from the curls flipped over your shoulder to the white fluff trimming your dress, before locking back on your face. “you really had to show out like this?”

your lips parted but your throat was dry. all you could do was tilt your head trying not to let him see how shaky you felt. “you the one who walked in here lookin’ like a someone’s life savings. don’t start wit me.”

his laugh rumbled, soft, the kind that made your chest ache with old memories. he leaned in just enough that the scent of his cologne hit you. “nah, f’real though. i missed this… missed you.”

your pulse skipped and you fought to keep your voice steady. “you ain’t even been here ten minutes and you already startin trouble.”

“ain’t no trouble,” he said, shaking his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “just bein’ honest.”

ony’s eyes lingered like he was cataloguing every detail about you to keep later. the crowd was still buzzing behind him but his body shifted just enough that it blocked most of them out. it was deliberate—the same way he used to do back in high school when he wanted you to feel like the only person in the room.

“you look good, mama,” he said lowly and his tone smooth but weighted like the words carried more than just a compliment. “real good.”

your chest tightened and you rolled your eyes just to break the tension. “i know.”

he smirked a flash of diamonds when he leaned a little closer while lowering his voice until it brushed over you. “still cocky as ever.”

“still flirtin like you ain’t been gone,” you shot back but your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

his eyes narrowed slightly like he caught it. like he caught everything.

“gone don’t mean i let you go,” he said plain and easy, no hesitation.

your lips parted but the words caught in your throat. because the way he said it wasn’t some slick line. it was real and it rattled you more than the grillz, more than the chains, and more than the nfl shine.

“ony…” you started but he tilted his head while cutting you off before you could even find the right words.

“nah, don’t ‘ony’ me,” he murmured, his tone low and steady, his eyes locked on yours. “you know what it is. you been knew.”

your heartbeat stuttered. you wanted to move, to look away, to say something that would put space back where it belonged. but you didn’t. you couldn’t.

the sound of your name being called from across the room snapped at the edges of the bubble but ony didn’t move. his gaze stayed fixed like he was daring you to look away first.

and you didn’t.

not until his phone buzzed in his pocket and he finally leaned back while licking his lips slow before giving you one last look. “we gon talk,” he said, almost like a promise. “don’t try to duck me tonight.”

your stomach flipped and your grip tightening on the rail behind you as he finally turned letting the noise of the party swallow him up again.

the moment ony slipped back into the crowd, the noise of the house rushed in again. your aunt’s voice cut through first. “mmm, i saw that,” she sang while grinning at you from across the living room with her wine glass raised.

you blinked at her trying to play dumb. “saw what?”

“don’t play,” she laughed while shaking her head. “boy ain’t take his eyes off you since he walked in.”

your cousins, already bold with soda and sugar, started chiming in. “they gon get back together,” one of them said loud enough to make the uncles laugh. “watch.”

you ducked into the kitchen to avoid the stares while pretending to check on the desserts. but even there you weren’t safe. your mom slid up beside you with a knowing look.

“he still love you,” she said simply while handing you a tray of cookies like that wasn’t the heaviest thing she could’ve dropped on you.

you huffed, grabbing the tray. “momma, please.”

“what? i’m just sayin’,” she replied, smiling as she wiped her hands on a towel. “any fool with eyes can see it.”

back in the living room, ony had made himself at home on the couch, coat off now, tattoos bold against his skin. kids piled on him like he was still the big cousin from back in the day and not some nfl star. he laughed and let one of your nephews tug at his chain, even leaned back to let your uncle grill him about the last game he played.

and yet, through it all, you felt it. his eyes finding you every chance they could. a glance over the rim of his drink. a pause in his laugh when you passed through the room. a small smirk tugging at his lips when you caught him looking and tried to act unbothered.

later, while you were passing out plates, you brushed too close, your hand grazing his shoulder as you set one down beside him. it was a simple touch, nothing anyone else would notice but the way his head turned quick, eyes catching yours—it froze you in place.

“thanks, mama,” he said low and voice pitched just for you.

you swallowed hard while forcing a casual smile before moving away, your heart pounding like you’d just done something forbidden.

every little thing felt like that. charged. the brush of his hand when he handed you a cup, his laugh rumbling behind you when one of your cousins joked too loud, the heat of his presence filling the space even when you weren’t standing close.

by the time the music turned up and folks started dancing in the living room, you were too aware of him. every step, every glance, every word. and when he finally leaned back in his seat, arm stretched over the couch, eyes tracking you across the room like he had all night—your stomach twisted.

because you knew. he wasn’t just here for christmas dinner.

he was here for you.

you slipped into the kitchen again, needing a breather. too much laughter, too many stares, and way too much of ony’s eyes on you. the room was quiet compared to the chaos in the living room, the hum of the fridge and the faint clatter of dishes the only sounds. you leaned against the counter, taking a long sip of water, trying to slow your heartbeat.

but then the door creaked and you knew before you even looked.

onyankopon.

he slid in with that same ease he carried everywhere, closing the door halfway behind him. no announcement, no words at first—just that heavy presence filling the room.

“you hidin’ from me?” he asked finally, voice low, almost teasing as he leaned against the doorframe.

you set your cup down carefully, refusing to look rattled. “i’m takin a break. everybody loud as hell out there.”

“mm,” he hummed while pushing off the frame and strolling closer, his chains glinting under the kitchen light. “sound like an excuse.”

your eyes cut up at him, ready to clap back but he was already there, close enough that the warmth of his body touched yours. he looked down at you, head tilted, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“you gon keep runnin’ from me all night?” he asked, softer now.

your throat went dry. you forced a shrug, though your pulse betrayed you. “ain’t nobody runnin’. i just—”

before you could finish, his hand brushed the counter beside your hip, leaning in just enough that your space wasn’t yours anymore. not touching, not yet, but near enough that every nerve in your body screamed at the closeness.

“stop playin wit me,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “you know i came here for you.”

your breath hitched. you wanted to push him off, wanted to tell him he was too much but the truth was written all over your face. and he saw it. he always did.

“ony,” you whispered but it didn’t come out like a warning. it came out like a confession.

he leaned in, close enough for his cologne to curl around you again, rich and warm, that same scent from years ago mixed with something sharper, grown. “say the word, i’ll back off,” he said, his voice so soft you almost missed it under the laughter spilling faint from the other room. “but i ain’t tryna act like this don’t exist no more.”

for a long moment, neither of you moved. just the sound of your breathing, just the weight of his words hanging in the space between you.

and then footsteps echoed down the hall, voices approaching. ony’s jaw flexed but he didn’t move until the last second, pulling back slow, his eyes still burning into you.

“we gon finish this later,” he said quietly, almost like a promise, before slipping out of the kitchen just as your cousin pushed in, asking if there were more drinks.

you gripped the counter hard while trying to steady yourself and your heart still racing like he was right there beside you.

wrapping paper littered the floor, kids squealed over toys, and your uncles argued about who was cheating in spades at the dining table. the house was still buzzing but it wasn’t the same heavy buzz from earlier. it was softer now, warm and winding down.

you were curled up on the arm of the couch, sipping on cocoa, doing your best to stay invisible. ony sat a few feet away, lounging back with his legs spread, coat off, tattoos on full display. he laughed when your little cousin shoved a toy at him and helped him put batteries in i while leaning down to listen to whatever story the kid rambled.

but even while playing big cousin, his eyes flicked to you. again and again.

and every time, your chest tightened.

finally, when the noise turned up again around the tree, he pushed up from the couch, brushed past you with the faintest graze of his hand on your thigh, and nodded toward the hallway. it was quick and subtle—something only you would notice.

your stomach flipped but you followed.

the hallway was dim, just the glow of christmas lights from the living room spilling in. you leaned against the wall near the coat closet, heart hammering in your chest. ony stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the sparkle of his grillz when he smirked.

“been waitin’ on this all night,” he said, low, his voice rougher now, like he was holding it in too long.

you crossed your arms, trying to keep steady. “what, cornerin’ me like i’m one of your plays?”

he chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer, his chain brushing against your shoulder. “nah. i don’t play when it come to you.”

your breath caught. his hand came up, fingers brushing lightly against your arm and even that small touch set your skin on fire.

“ony—” you started, but he cut you off, his eyes steady on yours.

“don’t do that,” he murmured. “don’t act like you don’t feel this. been years and it’s still the same.”

you swallowed hard, your back pressing into the wall as his presence caged you in. the noise of your family opening gifts, laughing, tearing paper—it was still there but muffled like the world had slipped out of focus.

“you drive me crazy,” you whispered, your voice breaking more than you wanted.

he smiled then, soft and deep, his thumb grazing your jaw. “good. ‘cause you been drivin’ me crazy since i left.”

before you could think, before you could second-guess, he leaned down, closing the space. his lips brushed yours once, testing, and when you didn’t pull back, he kissed you full—slow and deep like he had all the time in the world to remind you what you’d been missing.

the taste of him was familiar and new all at once, sweet with a hint of liquor. your hands found his chest, then his coat, clutching tight as if to anchor yourself. he kissed you like he’d been starving, but careful too, like he wasn’t gonna let anyone ruin this moment.

when he finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing hard. his voice dropped to a whisper.

“told you we was gon finish this.”

your lips parted, but no words came, just the quick rise and fall of your chest.

and he grinned, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, stealing one more kiss before the sound of someone calling your name down the hall snapped the moment in half.

he leaned back slow, licking his lips, eyes still locked on you. “go on,” he murmured. “we’ll talk.”

and just like that, he slid back toward the noise of the living room, leaving you pressed against the wall, dizzy, your heart pounding harder than it had all night.

the party had finally started to wind down. wrapping paper was trampled across the floor, empty cups stacked in the kitchen sink, and kids were finally corralled upstairs by your mom. you were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, still feeling the heat of ony’s lips against yours, your mind replaying the moment like it had been a dream.

your phone buzzed, screen lighting up. his name. your heart skipped a beat, and you snatched it up before checking the message.

outside. you good?

you smiled, typing back quickly.

yeah… still sittin here tryna breathe.

a minute later, another buzz.

good. look, i don’t want this to end tonight. meet me outside for a sec?

you bit your lip, hesitating. part of you wanted to ignore it—keep it casual and keep it safe—but the pull in your chest said otherwise.

…alright. five minutes.

you slipped on your heels, careful not to mess up your dress or your hair, and padded out the front door. the crisp night air hit your face, cool against your flushed skin and you saw him leaning against his car at the edge of the driveway. the lights of the house behind you made him glow, the icy chains glinting, his clean fade sharp under the porch light.

“you came,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“yeah, couldn’t resist,” you murmured, stepping closer. the sound of the wind and distant laughter from inside made it feel like you were the only two people alive.

ony tilted his head, letting his eyes roam over you slow. “still fine as hell,” he said low, his voice vibrating in the quiet. “ain’t changed a bit.”

your stomach flipped. “you gon say that every time you see me?”

“every time,” he said, taking a step closer. the air between you thickened, the pull almost magnetic.

your hand brushed his arm lightly and he caught it, thumb stroking over your skin. “you know i ain’t playin’. all these years, all this time, i been wantin this… wantin you.”

you swallowed hard, letting yourself absorb the weight of the words, the way he said them so matter of fact, like nothing else mattered. “ony…”

he leaned in, capturing your lips again, slower this time, tasting you, claiming what he’d been holding back all these years. your hands found his chest, clutching, pulling him closer, needing the contact, needing him to be real and here.

when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark and intense, he whispered, “we ain’t done. you hear me? not tonight, not ever.”

your heart thumped, your breath coming faster than it should and all you could manage was a shaky nod.

he smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek, before pulling back toward the car. “you comin with me tonight?” he teased but his eyes promised the night wasn’t over.

you watched him with wide eyes, chest still racing, mind buzzing, already counting the moments until you could be alone with him again.

“yeah…”

you slipped back into the house just long enough to grab your purse and mumble something about “stepping out real quick.” no one paid too much attention—everyone was half asleep or arguing over who left wrapping paper on the floor.

ony’s car was idling at the curb, sleek and black under the streetlights. you hurried across the lawn, heart pounding and slid into the passenger seat. the door shut, shutting out the noise of outside , and suddenly it was just the low hum of the engine and ony’s cologne wrapping around you.

“mm,” he hummed, glancing over with that slow smile. “thought you was gon play me and stay inside.”

you scoffed, crossing your arms like you hadn’t been counting down the seconds to get out here. “please. don’t flatter yourself.”

ony chuckled, deep and warm, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. “mhmm. crazy how you talkin’ like that after you damn near melted in my mouth earlier.”

your face heated instantly. “boy, shut the hell up.”

he laughed harder, tilting his head to look at you. “look at you gettin’ all shy now. that lil front you put on around everybody? where my real girl at?”

you rolled your eyes but your voice betrayed you coming out softer than you meant it to be. “ain’t no ‘front.’ i just… wasn’t tryna give nobody a show.”

“so what you call this?” he teased, eyes flicking down to your lips before turning back to the road. “cuz the way you kissing and the way you lookin’ at me right now… don’t feel like no fake act.”

you shifted in your seat, chewing your lip, your tough girl act slipping more with every mile. “maybe i missed you,” you muttered barely above a whisper.

that made him grin wide and the pave stones in his grill caught the glow of the dash lights. “ohh, there she go. finally said it. you missed me.”

you groaned while shoving his shoulder. “don’t start.”

he caught your wrist, holding it against his chest, his voice dropping low. “nah, for real. you don’t even gotta say it again. i felt it soon as you kissed me back.”

you tried to look out the window, but the corners of your lips were betraying you with the tiniest smile.

“see?” he teased, squeezing your hand before letting it go. “get an attitude all you want but you mine. been mine.”

“i ain’t nobody’s,” you fired back but your tone was softer than it should’ve been, more playful than defiant.

he smirked while leaning back in his seat like he’d already won. “we gon see.”

the car filled with the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward at all—just heavy, charged, every glance and brush of air between you saying the things neither of you dared yet.

eventually, the car slowed under the buzzing yellow lights of the corner store, the one you both had been coming to since high school. the sign flickered like always, half the bulbs burnt out, the parking lot cracked and uneven. ony eased his suv into a space and killed the engine.

“you want somethin?” he asked, already unbuckling, that same calm tone like he’d been asking you this every night for years.

you hesitated with your arms crossed over your fluffy trimmed dress. “depends. you even remember what i like?”

he smirked, grill catching under the lights, the chain on his neck glinting as he leaned over closer. “ma, stop playin’. gimme five minutes.”

then he was gone, stepping out like he owned the whole damn block—tattoos peeking out from his coat sleeves, jewelry catching every bit of light. the fade clean, the shoulders broad, the walk heavier now.

nfl player, onyankopon.

the world knew him different but you couldn’t help seeing the same boy who used to drive you around in a beat up impala while talking about his dreams.

you leaned back in his seat, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. that’s when you really noticed the car. the leather so soft you sunk into it, the huge digital dash glowing like something out of a spaceship. the faint smell of newness mixed with his cologne.

your eyes roamed over everything until his phone lit up on the console. the lock screen was him. sweaty after a game, helmet under his arm, head tilted down with that same serious expression that used to drive you crazy. arms cut, tattoos flexed, chain dangling in the middle of his chest.

“of course,” you whispered while shaking your head with a smile. “nigga got himself as his wallpaper.”

you looked down at your own hands—new set of nails glinting with charms, the tattoos on your wrist catching under the car light. you had changed too. maybe not in the same spotlight way but you weren’t the same girl he left behind either.

just as the thought settled, the door opened and cold air rushed in. ony dropped two bags on your lap with a grin. “what i tell you? hot fries, peach arizona, and them lil’ sour straws you fiend for.”

you blinked at the bag then up at him. “you really remembered?”

he shot you that look, the one that always meant ‘don’t insult me.’

“mama, i don’t forget nothin ‘bout you.”

your chest tightened, something sweet and heavy pressing right under your ribs. you tried to hide it, digging into the fries instead, mumbling around a bite, “boy, whatever.”

ony laughed low, putting the car in gear again. “see, actin all hard. but i got you smilin right now. go ‘head, keep frontin”

and you hated how right he was—because sitting there in his car, chewing on fries he remembered you loved, you were smiling so hard it hurt.

the hum of the engine filled the silence again as ony pulled out of the lot, the city lights streaking across the windshield. you had your legs crossed, bag of hot fries balanced in your lap, sipping on your arizona like it wasn’t the middle of december.

he glanced at you quick, grin tugging at his lips. “ain’t changed a bit. still sittin there with them fries like it’s gourmet.”

you side-eyed him, licking the red dust off your finger. “and? still hittin.”

“ain’t say it wasn’t.” his voice dropped into that playful drawl, smooth and teasing. “just funny to me. i could put you in any steakhouse in the world, you still gon want this lil’ corner store meal.”

you snorted, shifting in the seat. “better than whatever them lil’ insta girls be cooking you.”

he turned his head, brows lifting, grill flashing as he smirked. “ah so you been keepin tabs?”

your stomach flipped. “boy, don’t flatter yourself. everybody see you with them.”

ony chuckled, one hand on the wheel and the other drumming slow on his thigh. “mhmm. soundin a lil’ jealous to me.”

you sucked your teeth, looking out the window so he couldn’t see your face. “ain’t nobody jealous. i just… know your type. always been pretty faces you can show off.”

he laughed again, but softer this time, shaking his head. “nah, don’t do that. you know damn well none of ‘em touch you. that shit ain’t never been deep. i had fun, whatever. but they wasn’t you.”

you went quiet, chewing slow, the weight of his words sitting between you. finally, you muttered, “you still could’ve fooled me.”

ony’s hand slid off his thigh, resting across the console, fingers brushing close enough that you could feel the warmth. “i ain’t never fooled you. i always made sure you knew where you stood.”

your throat tightened because he was right. the late night texts, the gifts, the way he never let you slip too far out of orbit—he always kept you tethered.

you sighed, soft. “you ever think about us? like… for real. not in a memory. but like… what it would be now?”

his jaw flexed while his eyes fixed on the road. “all the time. don’t mean it’s easy, though. i be movin’ city to city, cameras everywhere. you know how messy that shit get.”

you stared at him, at the side of his face under the passing lights. “so what, you saying it wouldn’t work?”

“nah, i’m sayin’ we gotta figure it out,” he answered with a steady tone. “ain’t no girl i want on my arm more than you. it just mean we gotta move different. be ready for the noise.”

you bit your lip, your attitude slipping again, the softness creeping back in. “i don’t like sharin’. you know that.”

ony finally turned his head, catching your eyes, his own dark and sure. “good. ‘cause i ain’t givin you nobody to share with.”

the way he said it—like it was a fact, not a promise—made your chest ache. you tried to mask it with a laugh while shaking your head. “boy, you think you slick.”

he smirked while pulling into a quieter street, houses spaced out wide, his neighborhood. “nah, i just know what i want and you know it too.”

you sat there, fries forgotten, arizona sweating in your hand, heart pounding at the thought that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something again.

the suv purred up a long driveway, lined with soft lights that glowed against the winter dark. when the house came into view, your lips parted before you even realized. glass walls, clean modern lines, the whole front lit like it had been pulled out of a magazine.

“ony,” you whispered, half laughing, half stunned. “this all you?”

he smirked, shutting the engine off. “who else it belong to?”

you shook your head, still staring. “nigga, i remember when you was beggin me for gas money. now you livin’ like this?”

he leaned across the console, his cologne filling the small space, voice low. “don’t act surprised. told you back then i was gon’ make it.”

you rolled your eyes but your chest warmed. “yeah, yeah. nfl star. whatever.”

the front door opened to more of the same—wide ceilings, polished marble, art on the walls. everything smelled new, like money. you kicked your heels off at the door without even thinking, toes curling into the soft rug.

“this shit don’t even feel real,” you murmured, glancing around as he locked the door behind you.

“get used to it,” he said simply, tossing his keys on the counter and motioning for you to follow.

you trailed after him through the open living room, until he slid a glass door open and the cold night air hit your skin. the backyard opened up into a wide deck, string lights hanging loose above. the pool stretched long and clear, steam curling off it into the night. and just beyond—the city, lights scattered like stars below.

your breath caught. “oh my god. it’s like a damn postcard.”

ony looked at you instead of the view, arms folded across his chest. “i ain’t even really use it like that. be on the road too much. but felt like you should see it.”

you glanced at him, then back at the pool. the water glowed a deep blue, steam rolling off the surface. “it’s heated?”

“of course.”

a silence settled and you tugged lightly at the hem of your fluffy trimmed dress, biting back a smile. “you ain’t tell me we was swimmin. i ain’t bring no suit.”

he smirked, stepping closer, voice dipping. “who said you need one?”

your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “boy—”

“what?” he interrupted, grin wide now. “you scared?”

you scoffed, heart racing. “i ain’t scared of nothin’.”

“so jump in.”

the dare in his tone pulled at something in you.

you stood there at the edge, arms folded like you were weighing your options. ony leaned back against the railing, watching you with that half smirk, half dare expression.

“what’s the hold up?” he teased, voice low. “water warm. i already told you that.”

you gave him a look over your shoulder, lips twitching. “you real bold for somebody who don’t know if i’ma actually do it.”

“ma, please.” he laughed under his breath, his eyes dragging slow down your figure. “you ain’t never been the type to back down. go ‘head.”

your pulse quickened while your cheeks warmed but you slipped your heels off anyway, the soft tap of them hitting the deck echoing under the string lights. fingers found the hem of your dress, tugging slow. you let it fall in one motion, pooling at your feet, leaving nothing underneath but skin catching the glow of the pool lights.

ony’s smirk broke, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered. his voice dropped even lower. “damn.”

you tilted your head, playing it off with a coy little shrug, though your heart was racing. “what? you told me i ain’t need a suit.”

he bit down on a smile, shaking his head, chains glinting as he shifted. “nah, you right. i just wasn’t ready.”

you giggled soft, stepping down the first rung of the pool ladder, dipping your toes in before sliding in fully. the warm water hugged you instantly, smoothing against your skin, making your shoulders relax. you moved slow, letting the water rise up to your chest, curls sticking to your damp shoulders as you glanced back at him.

“you comin’?” your tone was light, playful, even though you knew damn well what you looked like standing there in nothing.

ony didn’t answer right away. he peeled his coat off, tossed it aside, then pulled his shirt over his head in one clean motion. his tattoos stretched over his chest and arms, the ink dark against his skin. then he dropped his pants, climbing in the pool with the kind of confidence that made your stomach twist.

the water rippled as ony moved toward you, slow, his shoulders breaking through the steam like he had all the time in the world. you floated back a little, just enough space to tease him, your hand gliding across the surface.

“why you starin’?” you asked, voice soft but edged with a smile.

his eyes didn’t leave you. “’cause i can. been waitin to.”

you let out a quiet laugh, turning your face away like it might hide the way your stomach flipped. “boy, shut up.”

“nah, for real,” he said, closing the gap, his voice lower now, smoother, like the words were slipping straight into your skin. “you know how long it’s been since i seen you like this? no crowd, no cameras. just us.”

the water lapped against your chest as you stopped backing away, letting him come close enough that the steam wrapped around both of you. his hand skimmed under the water, brushing along your thigh so lightly you almost thought you imagined it.

“ony…” your tone held that warning but it came out softer than you wanted, almost a sigh.

he leaned in, water dripping from his head onto your shoulder, his lips so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “what?” he asked, low and teasing. “you gon tell me you don’t want this?”

your chest rose, heart racing. “i ain’t say that.”

he chuckled, low and deep, before finally closing the space. his mouth caught yours in a kiss that was slow, almost reverent at first, like he was savoring it. then his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer and the kiss deepened, heat curling tight in your stomach.

you melted into him before you even realized, fingers tangling at the back of his neck, nails brushing damp skin. he tasted so familiar and new at the same time, enough to make your knees weaken under the water.

when he finally pulled back, lips brushing your cheek, his forehead rested against yours. “see? still mine.”

you laughed breathlessly, trying to cover the way your body trembled, the way your heart thudded. “you swear you own me or somethin’.”

“don’t gotta swear,” he murmured, his hand tracing the curve of your hip beneath the water. “you here. that’s all i need.”

the kiss lingered, stretching into another and another—his lips tugging at yours like he’d been starving for it. his hand slid lower, cupping the back of your thigh under the water, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“ony,” you whispered against his mouth, half warning, half wanting.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, water beading down his skin, grill glinting faintly in the pool lights. “what?” he asked, voice rougher now. “you gon tell me stop?”

you swallowed, nails dragging lightly over his shoulder. “i should.”

“but you not.” his smirk was sharp, confident, and too right. his hand slipped higher, guiding your leg around his waist. the water moved with you, rippling as you clung tighter to him.

the heat that had been simmering between you all night finally broke open. your body pressed flush against his, his mouth claiming yours again, hungrier this time. you felt the hardness of him beneath the water, pressing into your hip and your stomach fluttered with that mix of nerves and want you hadn’t felt in forever.

“fuck,” you breathed, pulling back enough to look at him, your lips swollen. “we really doin’ this?”

he grinned, leaning close until his teeth grazed your jaw. “been waitin’ too long not to.”

he guided you backward through the water until the edge of the pool stairs hit behind your calves. he sat back, pulling you with him, settling you on his lap in the shallow end where the water barely covered your waist.

you gasped at the shift, the thick press of him against you and his hand tightened on your ass. “yeah,” he murmured, low and sure. “just like that. sit down on it.”

you hesitated, eyes darting to the back deck, the wide open city. “ony, we outside.”

“ain’t nobody lookin’,” he said, voice dark with amusement. then he leaned, pulling his phone off the pool deck where he’d tossed his pants. with one hand he unlocked it, screen glowing. “matter fact—” he lifted it, angling the camera toward you as his other hand gripped your waist. “lemme see how bad you missed me.”

your pulse spiked, heat rushing to your face. “you not serious.”

“dead serious.” his eyes held yours, sharp and steady. “gon keep it just for me. swear. now show me.”

the dare in his tone, the weight of his gaze, the way his body felt under you—your resolve snapped. you slid down onto him slowly, water rippling around you as he filled you, a gasp tearing from your throat. his hand tightened at your hip, phone lifted to catch the arch of your back, the water dripping down your skin, the way your mouth fell open.

“fuckkk,” ony groaned, his voice thick. “look at you. ridin’ me already. missed me that much, huh?”

your nails dug into his shoulders, your body moving on instinct, grinding down slow as he stretched you. “shut up,” you moaned but the words broke into a whimper when he shifted his hips.

the water slapped against the pool walls with every slow roll of your hips, the sound mixing with your soft, broken moans. ony’s phone gleamed in his hand, angled low so it caught everything—the curve of your body glistening under the pool lights, the way your breasts bounced as you rode him, his chains catching the glow as they dipped into the water.

“look at you,” he gritted, voice rough, almost a growl. “ain’t even shy no more. takin’ me like you was waitin on this.”

your head fell back, lips parted, a sharp moan ripping from your chest as he shifted his hips up into you. “f-fuck, ony…”

he groaned deep, holding the camera steady with one hand while the other gripped your waist so hard it’d leave marks. “say that shit louder. lemme hear how good i’m fuckin’ you.”

your nails clawed down his shoulders, water splashing as you bounced harder, chasing the heat curling low in your stomach. every wet clap echoed in the quiet night, mixing with your gasps and his ragged breathing.

“yeahhh,” he rasped, tilting the phone so the screen framed your face. “eyes rollin’, mouth open—fuck, ma, you sooo pretty like this.”

your lashes were wet, cheeks flushed, lip gloss long gone, and you couldn’t stop the way your voice shook when you cried out his name again. “ony… i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he cut you off, snapping his hips up so hard you almost screamed. “you gon give me that nut. right here. while i’m recordin’. let everybody know who you really belong to.”

the water rocked around you, splashing over the steps, your thighs trembling as the heat inside you snapped. you clenched around him, back arching, nails digging into his skin while your moans spilled out raw, unfiltered.

“fuckkk,” ony groaned, teeth flashing in the glow of his grill as his own body stiffened beneath you. his hips jerked up, hard and deep, a guttural curse slipping from his chest. his free hand yanked you down tight, burying himself as he spilled into you, the phone still locked on your face while you came apart on top of him.

the sounds filled the night—the slap of water, your gasps, his heavy groans—until it slowed into messy, wet stillness. ony let the phone drop to the deck, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, both of you trembling and breathless in the steam.

“told you,” he panted against your skin, voice hoarse but smug. “still mine.”

and all you could do was cling to him, chest heaving, knowing deep down you didn’t even want to argue.

The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.  

He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream. 

Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry. 

And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.  

Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.” 

And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…  

When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.

Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself. 

Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter? 

A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.  

An incoming call.  

Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High. 

“…Hello?” 

“Hey, baby.”

Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy. 

“I’m real sorry to call like this—”

Your grip tightens. 

“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“

“He’s fine.”

She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…” 

A pause. The shuffle of papers. 

“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.” 

Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.  

“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.  

Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting? 

“What happened?” 

Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.” 

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot. 

"I’m on my way." 

The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.  

The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.  

You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.  

“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!” 

Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—” 

Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.  

“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.” 

One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat. 

“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.” 

The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you. 

“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—” 

“Momma.” 

Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.  

And so, you follow.

The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.  

“…Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.”

One word, clipped.  

“Does Coach know what happened?”

“Not yet.” 

That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.

“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”

Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.  

His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.  

“…Head hurts.” 

“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—” 

Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel. 

The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.  

“Wait—" 

Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.  

“Ti-Loup—Asaud!” 

He slows down by a millisecond. 

“I still need to know what happened—“

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“Nothing?” 

You frown, “Look at your damn face!" 

You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble. 

“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”

This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.  

“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?” 

The words hit like a slap.  

For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here. 

“Fine.” 

The word comes out quieter than you meant.  

“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”

His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.  

“Momma—” 

But you’re already walking away.

The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.  

This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.  

Then—keys. 

The front door swings open, and there he is.  

Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand. 

“‘Where my baby at?" 

His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin. 

“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.” 

You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.

“Hi, Papa.” 

He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.  

“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.” 

He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.” 

You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.  

Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.  

“What’s wrong wit’ you?” 

You pick at the hem of the jersey.  

“‘Had… a day.” 

He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“ 

“He’s suspended.” 

The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.  

“Fuck you mean suspended?”   

You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.  

“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."

His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.  

“"Y'all got into it?" 

“He didn't want to talk to me." 

A muscle in his temple jumps.  

“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."

His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option." 

For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.  

“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first." 

You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.  

And then—  

"ASAUD!" 

His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble. 

“Get yo’ ass out here.” 

You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.  

Silence.  

Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant. 

Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.  

Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement. 

His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.  

“‘You alright?"

Asaud’s throat bobs.  

“Yes, sir." 

Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.  

“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?" 

Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.  

“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.” 

“What’d you say to her?" 

“I ain’t say nothin’." 

“Tch." 

A sharp click of his tongue.  

“Tête levée quand tu m'parles." 

Head up when you talk to me. 

The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—  

“Désolé, Pops—"

“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"  

The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent. 

“‘What he say to you?" 

“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"  

Onyankopon looks back to Asaud. 

“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"  

He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.  

"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”

Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.  

“I asked you a question." 

“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.  

“Nah, see—you acted like it."

 Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?" 

The words land like bricks.  

"Look at her." 

Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.  

“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.” 

Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.  

“Apologize." 

“I’m sorry, Momma." 

Your chest tightens. 

“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.” 

Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.  

"...I fought Jamal." 

That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend? 

Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?” 

“...Cheer team girl." 

The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening. 

“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?” 

The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—  

“Hey, let’s just—" 

”Who the girl?" 

Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.  

"Sabine." 

“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?" 

“Onyankopon!” 

He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.  

“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I  need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."

“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.  

“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver." 

He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard. 

“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you." 

Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—  

“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.” 

The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.  

“Asaud!" 

But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.  

"You right." 

A pause—sharp, loaded.  

“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."

His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do." 

Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.  

"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities." 

Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go." 

Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—" 

"Pop’s nothin’." 

Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.  

“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked." 

The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.  

Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.  

“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.” 

And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.  

Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.  

But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.  

Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.  

Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.  

The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.  

“‘What you doin’, Papa?” 

He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.  

“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.” 

A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.  

Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.  

Some things never changed.

The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.  

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.  

"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat." 

Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.  

“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too." 

You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."

Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."

“His name is Tango.” 

“Same shit."  

Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.  

“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head." 

You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.  

“You need to eat too, baby.” 

Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.  

“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.  

The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.

You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats. 

"Did you check on your son?" 

The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.

“Nah. But I know you did." 

A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"

You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.

 “Funny. He’s asleep.” 

Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—  

“You do know you were wrong, right?" 

“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."  

You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."

 Stubborn man.

He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—  

”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"

Silence.  

You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl." 

“He’s sixteen.” 

“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?” 

He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.

“You tryna be funny.” 

“I’m not."

 Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."

The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.  

You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer. 

"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”  

A beat. 

“Yeah." 

You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”  

Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got." 

Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.  

Then—  

“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that." 

The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more." 

Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.  

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?" 

His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”  

You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…" 

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. 

“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell." 

You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.

 “Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?" 

That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.

“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."

You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying." 

“And you horny." 

You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.

 “...You love me?" 

For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both. 

Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?" 

And yeah. That was your answer.  

The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.  

He pauses. Frowns.  

Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite. 

Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.  

Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.  

Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.

 "Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?" 

Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face. 

“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"

“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.  

You flick his ear. 

He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to." 

You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"  

Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight." 

You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits. 

“Eat ‘fore it gets cold." 

Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously. 

“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?" 

"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"

“Hush, Ony.”

Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud. 

“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part." 

The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.  

You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.” 

Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.

“…Yes Edition?”

You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!" 

Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now. 

“Whatever I want?"

You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already." 

“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?" 

For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once. 

“Aight, bet.” 

He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today." 

Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee. 

“Hell nah I’m not!" 

You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.  

“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head." 

Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.

 This was gonna be an adventure. 

The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.  

Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.  

You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.  

Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.  

You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.  

“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.  

You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!" 

Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.

“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like." 

Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.  

The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.  

Were you his older siblings? Friends?  

Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother. 

Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow. 

The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.

The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?” 

Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.  

Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."

Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"

“Yo’ day, right?"

You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.  

Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.  

The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.  

“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip. 

“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.” 

His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.

“You feel that? That’s control. ‘You nervous, ‘that gun know.” 

And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.  

“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.” 

Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.  

"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.  

Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.  

Asaud whistled low under his breath.  

“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?" 

“He wanted to be one, actually.” 

Asaud turned to you, brow arched. 

"Pops wanted to be in the army?”   

Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.  

"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you." 

A beat of silence. Then—  

“What happened?" 

Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester." 

The words hung heavy between you.  

“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up." 

Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?” 

You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.  

“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”

Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.” 

A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.  

You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud. 

“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you." 

Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.” 

Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions. 

“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.  

You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from." 

Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.  

Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late." 

“Aight, Aight,”  Asaud groaned, “Y’all weird. Monster trucks next—before y’start kissin’ or sum’." 

And just like that? You were onto the next.

The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal. 

The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.  

Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?" 

Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression. 

“I did. ‘Preciate y’all." 

You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye. 

“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?" 

Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.

“Yes, ma’am." 

“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?" 

Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.

 "I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her." 

You hum, tilting your head.

 “I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?" 

Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week." 

Onyankopon blinks. Slowly. 

Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"

Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?” 

Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?” 

You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—” 

Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.  

Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.  

“Asaud?” 

He freezes.

 “Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?” 

“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?” 

“Haven’t what?”  

Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow. 

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.” 

The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest. 

“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.” 

Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell. 

“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage." 

“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.

“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!” 

Oh, my baby!

Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."

You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?" 

Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—" 

You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.” 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says,  “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating. 

Then? 

“Does the pull out method really work?" 

Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—  

Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—

“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—" 

“OHMYGOD—“

 You shriek in Creole,  “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”

Really, in public?

“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”

You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin. 

"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."

 Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.  

Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."

Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.” 

Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode. 

“What do you really like about this girl?”

Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen. 

“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual. 

“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."

You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist. 

“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"

Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend." 

Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”

You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.

“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—" 

“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit." 

Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?" 

Asaud’s throat bobs.

The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.  

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.  

“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head. 

“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."

He thinks on his words for a moment. 

Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real." 

A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.  

“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.

Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.

“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?" 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.  

“I’m knowin’, Momma."  

Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"

He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops." 

That’s all it takes.  

You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.  

“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!" 

My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !

Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—" 

“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!" 

I’m not done with you! 

Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.  

“Take yo’ medicine, boy."

Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.  

"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!" 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—  

“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."

Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops." 

You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs. 

“Baby, lemme get a bite of—" 

“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon. 

“You better ask yo’ husband!" 

Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.  

“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.  

Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.  

“You okay, baby?" 

Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes." 

You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.  

Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed. 

“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”

You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.  

“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"

“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.  

Your eyes narrow slightly.  

“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?" 

“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."

“Language, ‘Mal." 

Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei." 

You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.  

“You men are so strange." 

Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?" 

Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party." 

Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening. 

“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"

You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.” 

He exhales through his nose. 

“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.” 

Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it." 

"We out, then. Love y’all!” 

You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!" 

Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.  

"What you starin’ at, girl?" 

You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.  

“My amazing husband." 

“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”

You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.

“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."

“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?" 

You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole." 

And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.  

“Why you feenin’?” 

You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth. 

“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—" 

Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.  

“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?” 

You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.  

Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.” 

Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.  

“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.  

You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench. 

“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.  

“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background. 

Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.  

“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.  

You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.

“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.  

You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting. 

“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.” 

You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.” 

You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.  

You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything. 

So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.  

His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—  

“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.” 

Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.  

Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.  

“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”

You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.

His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.  

The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—  

“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”

Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—  

“Shit.”

Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.  

“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!” 

You’re too big. 

“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?” 

“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!” 

I can’t.

The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.

"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?" 

You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?

You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.  

“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.  

But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.  

“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?" 

’Made a big fuckin’ mess.

Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.

“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.” 

This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.  

His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.  

Too deep. Too much. 

Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.   

Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.  

“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.” 

Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.  

A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.  

“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!" 

Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.

The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate. 

“Missed this shit... missed you…” 

You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—  

“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—" 

Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.   

“I love you—love you so much—“ 

Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—  

“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.” 

Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat. 

"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.  

You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.  

“Sound so pretty,” you slur.

He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure. 

“Chill.”

His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.  

His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him. 

“Fill me up, baby.” 

And that’s all it takes.  

Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.  

You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body. 

Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn." 

“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…" 

His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.” 

He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.  

Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.  

“Oh, ‘you tired now?”

You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."  

“Aight. We hunchin’ again?" 

“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve." 

He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes. 

“It's what time?" 

You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in. 

“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.  

Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes. 

“Imma' kill yo' son." 

Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”

“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?" 

You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing. 

“Stop it!” 

He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant. 

“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?” 

You scrunch your nose.

“No. And you’re grumpy.” 

A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.  

“Imma’ let up, aight?" 

Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.  

“'…’Kay.” 

His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."

You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.  

The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.  

“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.  

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.  

“’Love you more, girl.” 

“c’mon, luh baby, drop that ass on me,” he huffs. one of his calloused hands is gripping your hair, using it as leverage to pull your head back. his other is gripping your side, tugging you down to meet his hips as they thrust up and up and up, a never ending rhythm.

“can’t,” you whine. he’s too damn much. his touch, his smell, his dick. it’s too hard to keep up with the sheer power of his hips. honestly, you don’t even know why he’s asking you to do anything.

“don’t do that,” he groans at your fucked out face. he loves seeing that beautiful face of yours all fucked out. he loves seeing how he can absolutely rock your shit. “don’t make me nut before I can make you cry.”

his grip on your curls tightens just so, the tingle of the pull only adding to your fucked out state. “fuck,” you moan, feeling yourself clench around him. it reminds you just how much space he’s taking up inside you. makes you feel full.

he huffs and hooks his arms under your legs, standing and lifting you with ease. “gimme my shit, baby. quit playin’ wit me.”

the swing of his hips has your eyes bucking wide, your hands gripping his shoulders as he brings you down again and again.

“mmm, yeah, that’s it, huh? I’m fuckin’ you right, baby? tell me,” he coos, his voice slightly labored and amused. you can only moan, your head tilting back.

you feel light as a feather, regardless of your size. you’re on cloud fucking nine, nothing but a puddle of pleasure. you know you won’t fall. if anything, you’re about to experience the best orgasm of your damn life.

“yeah, thas right. just let me fuck you like you deserve. hold on tight, baby.”

heyyy… been a long time, huh… 🫣

Nesting had become one of your favorite pastimes. Ever since you’d found out that you were carrying his little boy, the both of you were delighted. His room was already painted. The walls a warm cream with powder blue trim, his name in big bold slate letters above his crib. It had become your favorite place in the house as you impatiently awaited his arrival. At the moment, you sat on the edge of the chair folding up another batch of brand new clothes that had been washed and dried, a handful of which had been previously hung in his closet. You ran your fingers over the soft cotton of each article of clothing, straightening tiny onesies, unintentionally counting little socks as you paired them up and put them in his dresser. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you ran a hand over your belly.

 “Baby?” The sound of his father’s voice caught you off guard but sent baby boy into a sudden burst of energy, unleashing an array of kicks to you. “Oh god,” you groaned as you carefully stood to your feet. “Come get your son, he seems to think my ribs are the best place to be,” you huffed softly as you tottered out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind you as you followed Smoke's loud laugh until you found him in the living room. “I told you he wasn’t gon’ play no game wit’ you, but you ain’t wanna listen. What was it you said to me again?” Your brows furrowed deep, confusion settling on your bare profile as you waited for him to answer his own question because you genuinely had no clue. “Nut in this pussy, papa…” He mocked, but his words sent a shiver down your spine, your legs quivered. Yet, your jaw dropped, as if you were appalled that he would ever suggest you’d say such a thing. It was the honest truth though. Talking each other through your orgasms was exactly what got you here; you never knew when to shut up. You teetered on the balls of your feet before wobbling to him.

He laughed lightly as he watched you, shaking his head in all amusement. “You like my baby and my lil’ circus act all in one.” You swatted at him playfully. Even without looking up at him, you could feel his eyes on you. Drinking in the sight of your curves, the sway of your hips, and swollen breasts as you walked to him in your mumu. He caught your wrist before you could swat at him again and pulled you the rest of the way until your were between his legs then he pulled you down into his lap, a soft huff leaving his pair as he settled down under your weight comfortably. “You know you can’t be sittin’ on me like this, I be wantin’ to touch on you.” He said jokingly, though you knew he was telling you the absolute truth. There wasn’t a day that had passed that you didn’t end up panting his name.

Your brows furrowed deeply. “Who’s stopping you?” Your bottom lip wedged between your teeth. “She’s been waiting on you all day. I almost took care of her myself.” You taunted. Elijah’s hand collided with your ass. “Now you know you woulda been upset ‘cause you needed me to finish you, for you. Stop allat playin’.” He laughed. It was true. You couldn’t seem to cum without him and that was even before pregnancy. It was like your pussy only responded to him, fuck what you thought and how it was supposed to go. “You can have it anyway you want it, as long as you come find me.” You smirked, raising up from his lap and wandering off in another direction of the house. Since moving into the house, there was one place you hadn’t touched so you took your time waddling there and patiently waited until you heard his steps. You turned to face him with a mischievous smile. Outside, bent over the balcony while you overlooked the city and came? Sounded like heaven. The crisp evening air kissed your skin. “You just a horny freaky fuck,” Smoke laughed while he unbuttoned his pants. You grabbed at the bottom of your dress, lifting it up and bunching it at your waist as you leaned over the balcony, legs spread and ass poked out toward him. You glanced over your shoulder and locked eyes with him, seduction laced in your tone and lust in your eyes. “Mhm, and you love it. So come handle it.”

He didn’t play when it came to being back inside you, the shit was a drug for him. Something so sweet, so addicting. “She ready for me?” The question was rhetorical, your pussy watered like a mouth would at the sight of him. You were currently standing in a pool of cream. He sank into you with a low, deep breath. A shiver ran down your spine just as he kissed the back of your neck. His hand found its place right around it, just as it always did and he began fucking you slow. There was nowhere to be other than right here, right now. Your toes curled against the pavement, breathy moans left your lips, your fingers gripping the railing as you laid your head back against his shoulder and he rested the side of his face against your head. “It feels so good to have you back home,” you cooed. Your eyes rolling shut as you inhaled a deep breath and reached one hand back to grip his thigh. “It feels good to be right… back… home…” A deeper stroke for each of the last three words. The last causing a downpour of your honey to come rushing out as you gushed, a muffled whimper spilling past your lips like you needed to be quiet.

“Wave to the neighbors, pretty girl.” Your eyes shot open after a few seconds delay, a smile on his profile as he raised a hand to point in the direction of your neighbors who weren’t too far off watching you get fucked on your balcony, fully immersed and enjoying the scenery. “Wave, don’t be rude.” He dropped one hand and smacked your ass roughly. “Augh, fuck!” You raised your hand, waving it in their direction but also not, cause you didn’t give a fuck who was watching, just as long as he didn’t move, they could see everything they wanted to. “Stay right there, dada. You feel soso good.” He listened, always did. Elijah was the quietly slick at the mouth type, but it was in a such direct way that if you didn’t know him, you didn’t catch the underlying intent. He was that attentive. “Mm..mhm. That’s that spot ain’t it? Stay right ‘chea?” He beckoned, pulling his hips back slowly before puncturing through your walls so that the head of his fat dick kissed it, over and over and over again until you let out a high-pitched squeal. You stood on the tips of your toes, legs spreading more as you opened up further for him to dig in you. “Let that shit out, let them white folks see yo’ pretty ass cum on this dick.” His fingers went to your clit, rubbing it in skilled circles which made you tense up. He knew your body like it was the back of his own hand so you did, your body obeying his command without pause, all while he strummed your clit like the strings of his guitar that often lulled you to sleep.

But he wasn’t done with you yet, not by a long shot. Grabbing the back of your mumu, he pulled out, grumbling as the cool air hit his wood and made it twitch. He guided you to one of the chairs, pushed it up against the concrete wall and directed you to put your hands on it, so that you could use it to stay balanced and not tip over⸻as if he would’ve actually let that happen. “Hold up that dress so I can see this pretty ass pussy I’m diggin’ out.” Beautifully submissive. Shit like this is exactly why you ended up pregnant. You pulled it up over your stomach, and took a deep breath because you knew when he slid in you wouldn’t be able to breathe properly.

Smoke slapped his dick against your slippery folds, making you jump slightly, you shook your round ass from side to side, making it clap while you teased him and patiently awaited his reentry. You could see and feel the eyes of your neighbors on you still, even with the soft hustle and bustle of the night, you swore you could hear their whispers and gasps and it made a devious smile spread across your face. Smoke’s hand pressed against your lower back then trailed up your spine, you arched as much as you could and as he filled you up again, you unintentionally moved forward, the pleasure and pressure of him too much to take all at once. You heard him grunt as he repositioned himself and planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Pull’at knee up. I don’t know what you runnin’ fa’, but you know better.” He pulled you back to him, ass flush against his pelvis as you began throwing your ass back at him. You clasped around him, walls clamoring as you began dancing on his dick and he just stood there, taking it all in while you fucked him like you owned him, because you did. You rolled, gyrated, and popped, his hands slamming against your ass as a silent praise to the fact that he loved the way you were doing him. “Mm… my sweet, sweet boy. It feels like you’re about to burst.” You purred, you slowed hips rolling as you listened to the sound of your pussy talking back while she got played in. He gritted his teeth and sent another smack to your ass that was so hard it echoed off the concrete wall. “I’m finna, keep throwing that shit back just like that.” He loved watching your walls suction around him, loved seeing him come out covered in all white as you painted your masterpiece. Your belly bounced against your thighs, sweat beading on your back making the fabric that clung to your body heavier as he bent over you, chest pressed against you while he swung his hips back to pick up speed again.

“Look at you,” Smoke rasped against your ear, one hand back around your throat as he held your head steady so you could look out at the lowering sun as it set. “Big belly, fat ass, greedy pussy. I’d put another baby in this good shit right now if I could. You know I love this shit?” Your mouth gaped, walls clenching around him as an answer because you couldn’t. The chair scraped the ground with every thrust, threatening to slide but his weight kept you steady. His free hand slid over your stomach, resting just at the bottom so he could press against it and feel himself pushing from the inside. You gasped, eyes rolling.

“Eli—,” you whined, your voice high and cracking. “I can’t,”

“Yes you can,” he cut you off, his bucking harder, not letting up as he pressed into you. The last thrust was the one that broke the dam, you flooded his pole and you heard him shudder in your ear. “Milk this dick, baby. That’s right, Big Mama. Gon’ take all this nut, lemme hear you leaking when you walk back in the house.” One last, deep stroke and he was letting out his heavy load with a low moan. “Fuuuuck, this pussy so good to me.” He pulled out, watching his nut spill out of you before taking his fingers, and scooping it up before he shoved it right back inside, making you jolt. His dick followed immediately after, stroking his seed back. “Keep that, that’s all mine.”

You whimpered weakly as he leaned forward and kissed the side of your neck. He took your hand into his, carefully helping you up and resting his hand on the small of your back so he could walk you back in the house. “Good girl,” He didn’t bother fixing himself, just looked up and waved to the peeping neighbors once again with a satisfied smirk as you walked ahead of him. The sound of your love smacked between your thighs as soon as you crossed the threshold and he let out a chuckle. “Mhm. That’s what I like to hear. You need some more?”

as if she could sense something was bothering him, his phone rang out with the standard facetime tune. jae was always on point like that. picking up the phone he tried to fix his face as best as he could. it was no use. jae could read him like a book she’d seen a million times.

“hey mama” he grinned lazily down at the phone.

“hello my love” she said with a smile before focusing back on the large pot she had simmering on top of the stove.

“i just called to check in. i could feel that something was bothering you”

jaelyn had long ago figured out when something was troubling smoke. she’s always been in tune like that. able to sense when something was wrong, when something needed fixing. it was in her bones. in her spirit. her grandma used to say it was a gift. that gift helped her to know her man even more.

“just tired mama” he replied. he could never fix himself to front for jae. that tough guy facade fell 10 years ago back at the beginning of their relationship. just young, dumb, and in love teenagers.

“you been working too hard baby. i keep telling you to take a break. don’t even stress it anymore, i got your favorite meal waiting for you when you get home” she said continuing to stir the stew beef around in the pot.

“matter fact i’m coming home now. stack can hold it down for the rest of the day.” smoke decided while standing up from his seat to grab his suit jacket and keys.

“i’ll be waiting when you get here lijah” jae gazed at the camera with nothing but love coating her words.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗. ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ★

hearing the key pad beep from inside the kitchen, jae put the finishing touches on the plate she prepared for smoke. baked macaroni crisped to perfection. she knew her way around the kitchen.

smoke walked steadily into the kitchen. hands finding jae’s hips on instinct. he could feel the stress melting away already. his connection with jaelyn so deep that it could heal parts of him he didn’t know existed.

jae ran her nails up and down the side of his neck before turning in his arms.

“go sit down baby, i got your plate right here.” she said pushing him away slightly.

smoke sat down as jae come over to the table with his plate. he looked down at it then back up at her like he was witnessing the whole world. his wife knew exactly what he was needing after a long day.

“eat up baby, i’ll be waiting for you upstairs”

smoke savored the meal. feeling all the love jaelyn poured into it to make sure he was satisfied. he ate a lil quicker after that, to be into those same warm hands that prepared the food.

walking upstairs he could smell warm vanilla wafting through the air. he followed the scent into the bathroom where jae was waiting for him in her brown silk robe and lighting a blunt.

he settled behind her and lowered his head into her neck. inhaling the familiar scent of cocoa butter and her signature perfume.

elijah looked over at the tub and saw it filled to the brim with dried flowers floating atop the water. he knew right then that jaelyn drew the bath for the both of them.

heart swelling in his chest, he took a second to take in all the things she did for him without him asking.

all his life smoke had to care for everyone else. being a father to stack. a shoulder to lean on for sammie. but jae was who smoke could depend on at the end of the day.