CAFÈ AU SUCRE ROUX

*NOTE: i am not a professional archivist or historian! just a black american passionate about my history. as such, this board is heavily centered on black americans and afro-caribbeans, although there are photos from across the diaspora, including africa and the UK.

*additionally: pins on pinterest come from all over and may not always have the correct information, depending on who uploaded it. while i’ve taken great lengths to research undated photos, some categorized pins are educated guesses based on the hair, fashion, or photography style of the photo. uncategorized pins are photos i can’t confidently connect to a specific decade without potentially mislabeling.

with this in mind, this board acts as a handy visual guide, but should be used in addition to your own research. happy researching! 🖤

Vlad Tepes Pov

It was our 5th wedding anniversary at a beachfront restaurant in Dakar.  By then, we’d traveled all over the world together. Dakar was our favorite destination by far. The first time we visited, I played her songs from my music collection on my antique record player and cooked her a nice meal. That was the night I asked her to marry me. And because she was a witch, she already saw it coming. We always came back to Dakar at least once a year. Our 5th anniversary was no exception to the rule. We’d made love 4 times in a row on that particular evening. I eventually convinced her to get dressed and come out to celebrate properly.

I know every detail about that special night. The hour, the temperature, what the bartender was thinking, what the air smelled like. And yet, the most important detail I can remember was how she looked at me. A humidity hung in the air, clinging to her like a second skin, though her clothes left little to the imagination. She was shining. God lived in her face. Really, her beauty was proof that there was someone out there behind the curtain, one called life. 

The slit in her dress stretched from her chest all the way down to her belly button. If she turned, I could see her entire back from top to bottom. Her wedding ring matched the piercing on her navel. Absolutely superb, she was. She no longer flinched at my stare. She grew used to it. There was a self-assurance she accumulated with each new year of her life. She was 34, the oldest and most striking she’d ever been. I was relieved when she reached her thirties. It was all I ever wanted for her—for her to live her life. And she had. 

The assertiveness was always there deep down. It came on slowly as Amina became more successful.  Her financial independence from me was a ship that passed years ago by that point. At the very least, she appeased me by letting me pay for dinner. She vacationed on the other side of the world with Nya, who was in medical school at the time. She drove a paid-off car that she bought within her first year as a professional painter. Paid the rent on a brownstone in Manhattan to make traveling for work easier. Frequented the Four Season spa like it was her religion. She was all grown up in every sense of the word. 

 Everybody wanted a piece of Amina Boudreaux. Less than 6 months into her studies at Ironwood, she took off like a shooting star and never looked back. Her paintings had been featured in movies and television productions. Her art had been everywhere from Art Basel to MoMoA. Work trips were booked out months in advance. People invited her to boards to speak on her journey as an artist. Somehow, she’d mastered the art of storytelling so well that she got a book deal. With our shared passion for art, we opened a co-owned gallery in Los Angeles. 

Sure, I was acclaimed in the business world, and my philanthropy made my name known far and wide, but Amina's success was different. More public. At least one person stopped her when we were out together, and it always started with…

“ Are you…???.”

And then she’d go, “Yes. That’s me.”

And it would always end with, “ Oh my god! I love your work!” 

She didn’t slack on her spiritual pursuits. She’d always had this innate ability to heal, and that talent grew. Over the years, she helped countless women with a multitude of issues, from illness to infertility to familial hexes. If nothing else, this was a woman who had it all. Who’d proven to other women that they, too, could have it all. The relationship, the job, the lifestyle. Everything. 

It all started with a singular question, that night in Dakar. One that had been dancing along the outermost margins of her tongue for years. I had my suspicions about why she was so steadfast in her studying to become a High Witch. Having been the quickest to rise into her position, it was time for her to gently herd me where she wanted me. And herd—she did. 

She swirled the decorative umbrella around her drink, pulling it out to taste it. “ Have you had any second thoughts about not wanting any kids?” she asked through her calculated, glowing, brown pools. In fleeting moments, I forget which version of her was staring back at me. 

“ Well, when you look at me like that, I reconsider it”, I half-joke. 

She smiled softly. A giddiness hidden behind her gaze. Still, she reacted to me as she did when we first met. Though we’d since fallen into a rhythm of comfort, the passion was still there. Still burning strong like the embers of the hearth in our Poenari bedroom. There was always something there. I would never be able to get my fill of her. Not then. Not now. Not ever. “ I’m being serious”, she said.

“ Once or twice. I only think about our children, though. It’s more of a daydream, really. I let my mind wander at the thought...” I excused. Years prior, during our first date, I insisted that I’d closed that chapter of my life. I felt that it was the safe answer. I had my gargoyles. I had my job. I thought it could be enough. How could I have told her, " Of course, if you can miraculously give birth to our deceased children.” 

She leaned in, seemingly captivated. It wasn’t something we talked about often. The wound was still too fresh back then. But when she rested her chin in her palm and blinked up at me with those piercing eyes, I failed to resist. I continued. “ I used to have this silly thought…Maybe I wake up from some dream, open my eyes, and they’re standing at the foot of our bed, all a little older but still needy. Still, little kids. I used to think about what they’d say. How they’d sound”, I pondered.

She smiled warmly at me. The dimples in her cheek imprint the exact spots where I kiss her every single morning. “ It’s not silly. Keep going. What do you think they’d say?”, she hums. 

I let out a long sigh, shoulders loosening. “ Alexandru would tell me some facts he learned about the world. About an animal or a country. Something he just discovered—he loved reading. Petru would accuse him of hitting him earlier. He’d probably skip past me and crawl under you. And Hamda. I didn’t get to know her for long. I imagine she’d be a lot like you. Just…observing. In her own little world, she is special and curious. Maybe even a little mischievous…” I shake my head as if to clear the fantasy away. 

“ No, no. Stay there. Go further. You gotta’ take me to the end of it. I love it when you talk like that…”, she pressed. 

I smiled at the hopefulness in her face. I thought it was endearing how she always juxtaposed our dynamic as teacher and student. She always wanted to know about the world from my perspective, but I’d learned so much from her already. “ From time to time I think about what they’d have been like as adults….”, I hint. 

“ I think Alexandru would be a lot like you. Quiet maybe? What do you think?” she suggests. 

I chuckled defensively, shaking my head. “ I don’t want him to be like me.”

“ That’s because you don’t see what I see...”, she said. I feel her feet sink into my lap from under the table. “ But, go on ”, she urged. 

“ I like to think that Alexandru would be loud—at least when he has to be, especially with the stutter and all. I didn’t want him to be afraid to speak”, I pressed. My tone was more serious than I wanted it to be ….

She nodded quietly, giving me her full, undivided attention. I look away from her to gather my thoughts. “ Alexandru would have loved academia. And…Petru would be the wild card, I think. He was obsessed with swords and fighting. I think he would have been a skilled swordsman. A fighter. But he didn't just love fighting. He was passionate about what he loved—you.” I snorted. She laughed out loud. She saw those visions firsthand, and by then she could see everything. She shared those memories with me like home videos. 

“ And…Hamda”, she trailed off curiously. 

“ The boss”, I joked. 

Her face lit up at the thought. “ I like the sound of that. She would whip all of you into shape”, she laughed. 

We went quiet for a moment, then she muttered, “Your voice to the universe’s ears, right? Or whoever and whatever you subscribe to?” She shrugged. She didn’t push for more in that moment, but instead took another long swig of her drink, looking out to the water. Hook, line, and sinker. I was already in a thought spiral by then. I was so sure that I knew the possibilities of this world. I gave way to a community that defied all physics and logic. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. There are some things in this world that you can only experience once. But I was wrong. So, so wrong. 

Later in the night, we continued watching the waves from our balcony in Dakar. It was very late at night, and we burned through an entire bottle of wine. We hadn’t spoken to each other for hours. A habit we formed when we first met. We knew how to enjoy each other's company, even without speaking. This time, though, we were both thinking. I  knew she was working up the courage to ask me more. Suddenly, she let the words slip quietly to me. “ If I told you that I think that I can get them back, would you let me try?” 

For every excuse I made, she had a rebuttal. For every doubt I voiced, she had a counterargument. It really all came down to fear. This was the one thing I knew that I couldn’t give her. My mind couldn’t grasp how much legwork her magic could do. “ Don’t you think about how unfair it is that we’re here and they’re not?” she asked. That was the final straw. No more debates. We owed it to our children to at least try. 

She anticipated that a viable pregnancy would take a few years, so she decided to stop aging. She was at her ideal health. Minimal drinking, no smoking, healthy diet, working out, and minimal stress. Being a High Witch allowed her this perk, which she used to her advantage. She didn't want to risk waiting too long and falling into perimenopause, which could happen as early as the mid to late 30s in some cases. Key word—some. The added fear-mongering about “Advanced Maternal Age” from human experts didn't make things much easier. Did I think that would happen? No. I knew that it wouldn’t, but human doctors were so finicky about the correlation between age and reproductive health. It was her choice, of course. 

I underestimated the number of detours and pivots that would take place. Amina’s career had morphed into this multi-tiered otherworldly state. She often straddled the line between a miracle worker, an artist, a witch, a teacher, an alchemist, and a scientist. We’d become ships in the night, with her even busier than I was. Ironwood needed her expertise as the headmaster of the potion and herbology department. Naturally, we were being torn in different directions. What little time we had together was spent on working towards an objective. Making a baby. 

She believed she could temporarily heal me. I can’t count how many concoctions she made me drink. Some tasted fairly nice, and others were absolutely wretched. I’d turned into her guinea pig. I couldn’t, and still can’t, digest anything, yet her genius somehow made it so that it all went down smoothly. Nothing came back up. Once again, a master in her field. I had to give her credit for it. 

On the topic of souls, they were still a mystery to me at the time. Amina had to get approval from a witch council to bring our children back to us. As Deborah warned, ethics were always being brought into question. Why should a soul be brought back? In many cases, there was little reason to bring anyone back. We were sure the committee would forbid her, but as it turns out, they have a soft spot for children. 

It would be a two-step process. Get her pregnant and then allow the souls to enter her body. “Soul Regeneration,” Zanto called it. As an expert in mediumship, Zanto was of great value to us. I knew little of the Ins and Outs. What I did know, however, was that it started with a collection of items. Dolls, teething necklaces, toys, clothes, locks of hair, and baby teeth. Anything that could possibly create an energetic charge large enough to call the child back. This could happen nowhere but Poenari. Zanto would help guide the children back into Amina.  It wasn't a guarantee, and it didn't always work. Notably, Amina would have to make it past 4 weeks pregnant before any regeneration could take place. Why? Well, Zanto hadn’t seen it work before a certain point. There was a “sweet spot” for this sort of thing. Witch rules were always so one-off and specific yet also unspecific? I left it to the professionals.

Amina made a habit of roaming the halls of Poenari, collecting the marbles that the gargoyles brought to her over the years. I only knew them to be peace offerings. They’d taken a strong liking to her, eventually becoming more protective than they needed to be. She came around over the years, growing affectionate towards them. One evening, she ran to me with a pouch of the marbles she’d collected over the years. She ran in place, stomping her feet as she tried to find the words. I looked over my laptop, watching her jump and down. “ Do you know what these are ?!?!”, she squealed. 

“ Marbles..??”, I chuckled. 

“ Eyes”, she whispered, pulling one out of the bag. She held it up over her eyeball. They were, in fact, eyes. Brown eyes, yellow eyes. Pupils and all. “ I used this wolf eye on you in my spell. They brought it back, but they found others too. This one is Hamda’s eye”, she pulled another marble out of the bag. Then Petru. Then Alexandru. Each child had a varying shade of brown.

I looked back at the little stone bodies peeping around the corner at us. 

“ Brilliant... Even for them”, I chuckle. 

“ It’s almost like they knew this whole time”, she grinned, rolling them around her hand. “They’re going with the kids' stuff,” she called, taking off down the hall. Her little legion followed her closely. 

For a while, nothing happened. No baby. No heart beat. She had all her parts. A working and healthy uterus. A perfectly regular cycle. Two normal ovaries. It was I who was defective. Every concoction she conjured up was to somehow fix that for a very short window.  As one would imagine, it was no easy feat. Here she was, a woman who had relieved so many other people of their reproductive issues, struggling to have a child to call her own. I blamed myself. She blamed her magic. 

Every now and then, we’d get really close. I’d notice a change in how I felt. We would try again, what followed resulted in... almosts. The almosts hurt us both to the core. The lines were so faint on the pregnancy test that blood work had to confirm it. Too early to take that sigh of relief. Too early for any definitive symptoms, even. A slight change in her chemistry would have prompted me to tell her to see the doctor. One week there would be a positive and the next, nothing.  It wouldn’t take. We couldn’t make it past the 4th week. We’d later find that my DNA damage was causing the issue. In other words, once again, I was the problem. 

Dr. Bach was a willing collaborator in our journey. He was not only a physician but also the leading researcher in vampirism, which meant his expertise was most needed. Amina was attempting to do something no other witch or human had ever done. Creating a live viable embryo from a man who was practically dead. That had to be documented and studied. 

Together, they’d already transformed the research on vampire biology and physiology. 

“ Mr. Tepes, I mean no offense when I say this, but you are no spring chicken. The smoking and drinking stop today. If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do it right. I don’t care if the libations and the tobacco have no direct damage to your heart or lungs. We need to approach this as if you were a mortal man. We need to reverse the DNA damage and improve the quality of the sperm”, Dr. Bach lectured. 

Amina shakes her head. “ I don’t understand. Is this a sperm health issue? Shouldn’t my magic be able to replace whatever is depleted?” she scoffed. 

“ If you’re making a pathway for his body to create live sperm, and you’re only doing it for a very short window, then what’s present at the time of conception needs to be healthy and intact. Creating pathways for pregnancy is one thing. Fixing the damage is the other half of the battle”, he preached.

I can’t even remember how many times I apologized to her. The last thing I wanted was to be the midwife to her suffering. Amina entered a tunnel-visioned state after Dr.Bach left. She left herself no time to grieve or process, insisting, “ Ya’ don’t know what ya’ don’t know.” Somehow, our last almost pushed our attempts into overdrive. There were too many people involved. Too many people waiting. The doctors' appointments were nonstop, and every small change was documented. 

It felt like the entire world knew we were trying, from Zanto to Dr. Bach to the twins, to the married couples we hosted from time to time. Vampires I haven’t spoken to in years sent us flowers and unisex baby clothes. Organic diapers and expensive nipple balms. The pressure was getting worse. Amina was no longer interested in the passion or the excitement of starting a family. She only wanted a result. The longer it took, the more personal she took it. Our breaking point was when Nya announced her first child with Alex. 

The couple broke the news at a family get-together. Alex and Nya had been married for three years and had no issues conceiving. I could hear her heart beating out of her chest when she turned to Amina for her reaction. Amina was happy for Nya. They talked extensively about their children being best friends for life. Amina even started arrangements for a top-of-the-line baby shower to celebrate her friend. But at night, I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. 

After I rummaged through the sound of the squirrel running by our pool, the maid doing her last load of laundry, the low rumble of TikTok playing on our chef's phone, the splat of a cricket landing in the pool, the rustling of a bird in its nest, I finally fine-tune my hearing to the 2nd floor to the far right. In a low, muffled tone, I hear the familiar sniffle of her cries. 

“ Please come back. Please. Come back to me”, she begged. 

I sent the staff home and tried to approach her gently. At first, she insisted that she didn’t want to talk, but I insisted. I owed it to her to be honest. “ Maybe it’s time we took another break?” I suggested carefully.

She was sitting on the closet floor holding Petru’s bonnet. Her eyes and nose were rubbed and raw from the number of times she wiped her face. She was on defense the moment I walked into the closet. 

“ No”, she said defensively. 

I squat down to meet her gaze. “ This is taking a lot out of you right now, Amina”, I soothe. 

“ Well, that’s easy for you to say”, she scoffed as she stood up. I could already see where this was headed. “ You’re not the one who starts fucking bleeding out every time it fails.” 

My brows shoot up from the sharpness of her words. In an instant, she went from wounded to defensive. My mouth tries to find the words before my mind could. I blinked a few times, trying to recalibrate. “ None of this has been easy. I’m just saying it’s really distressing to watch you go through this and not be able to fix it. You’re overworking yourself…”, I warn. 

She dismissively cuts her eyes at me.  “ You didn’t really want this. Not like I wanted it. I should have known when you made all those excuses back in Dakar. I couldn’t take no for an answer,” she muttered under her breath. 

“ Amina”, I warn. 

She continues. “ You have no idea what this feels like. To be so physically attached to this. To be so powerless over this. To know that I’m the one behind how fucked up everything is. I don’t want you to tell me how I didn’t fail. I want this to work”, she sneers.

“ We’ve been trying. I’ve tried, but this isn’t working for Amina. Things are changing between us. I barely see you, and when I do, you’re upset. …”, I sigh tiredly. 

She rolled her eyes. “ All you have to do is stick it in”, she spat. 

I turn towards the entrance, momentarily contemplating whether I should leave. I felt myself losing patience, but my anger won. For a millisecond, we just stood there, looking at each other. I was so stunned at the words that left her mouth that all  I could do was squint at her and shake my head in disbelief. “ If I didn’t want this, do you think I would have done all those things that you and our doctors asked me to do?”, I croaked. I run a tired hand over my forehead, trying to calm myself. “ It was my loss too, Amina. Do you think it makes me feel good to hear my wife lose her composure at the end of every month for the one thing I can’t fucking give her? Then all these people are in our fucking business, treating me like a goddamned science experiment. People I haven’t talked to in years are asking me personal questions. Questions they have absolutely NO business asking. Every time I go to an appointment, I'm getting grilled by the doctor for failing to rise to the occasion. You never stopped to think about how that might have made me feel?”, I sneered. The words were bitter in my mouth. Talking to her like that made me hate myself. Truly. 

I noticed her gaze soften, and she pulled back. She lets out a long sigh, wiping a hand over her face. “ Look, I’m sorry…that I didn’t ask you about how you felt in all of this. To answer your question, no, I didn’t think about it. At least not extensively”, she paused. Her eyes dart around the room in panicked desperation. Already so scared that I would shut the whole thing down. “ I just need a little bit more time.  I- It’s a part of the process. We’re getting closer. I can feel it!” she begged. 

“ This isn’t healthy anymore, Amina. You’re becoming a shell of yourself. We’ve been trying for years. I don’t want to disappoint you anymore”, I plead. 

She rolled her eyes dismissively. “ It’s not you. My spells aren't—.”

My temper flares. For the first time ever, I actually shout at her. 

“IT'S ME”!!, I say with my hands out. “ IM FUCKED. ITS ME! THIS IS NOT WORKING!”

She flinched, and I despised it. I heard her heart racing all the way from across the room. Her composure crumbled, and she broke down, sinking back onto the wooden floor. I backed away, as if the distance would give her some relief. It didnt. At the time, I believed that I fucked this whole thing up even more.  

“ I’m sorry…”, I stammer. I sway from one foot to the other. In disbelief that I lost control like that. Control was the onlything I had. It was the only thing that made our dynamic safe. It was the only thing that gave her autonomy. Her face rested in her hands as she curled up, away from me. I wanted to hide from her. I wanted to hide from this. But if I walked away, I knew the damage it would have done. 

I met her at her level, sitting beside her before I pulled her into my lap, bridal style. She didn't try to slink away from me. She just further collapsed into me as if the physical comfort was what she wanted all along. I sunk my face into the top of her soft hair. 

“ I’m sorry”, we said in unison. She sniffled, rubbing her wet cheek into my shirt before leaning back to look at me. “ I didn’t ask how all of this made you feel, did I? I didn’t ask permission to let so many people in. I just let it spread like wildfire”, she hiccuped.

I hated to see Amina upset. We'd never experienced those kinds of issues in our marriage before then. After we talked a bit more, we eventually reached an understanding. She calmed down before she straddled me, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “ I just wanted to make this right”, she sighs. 

“ You already made it right. You didn’t fail, Draga", I reassured her quietly. 

I pull her back into me. From my shoulder she mutters in finality. “ Yeah, actually…a break would be good. I’m tired now”, she sniffles. “ I’m tired now…” 

We took a year-long break. During that time, Amina and I opened another dual-owned gallery in Baton Rouge. She sold her highest-selling painting yet and showcased her work overseas. Focusing on Nya’s pregnancy eventually became cathartic for her. She was of great help to her friend, taking her to her doctor's appointments when Alex was away on business. We were ecstatic when we were offered to be the godparents to her little girl. Alex was so enamored by his daughter that he lost his train of thought when he looked at her. I remember those days fondly. We offered to help, but we knew the couples had large families, which meant no shortage of extra hands. 

We circled back to the idea of parenthood and agreed to give it one last shot, working towards our goal discreetly. We fine-tuned the process. I continued abstaining from smoking and drinking, as did she. There wouldn’t be the continued testing, however.  We detested anything that would stress us both out. 

I turn to her. “Maybe our mistake was allowing all of this to feel closer to building a machine than to making a life”, I commented in bed. I flipped through a book about postpartum hormonal shifts.  Amina placed Hamda’s mittens under her pillow before fluffing it. 

She shrugged slowly. “Aren’t we all machines in a sense?”

I grimace, closing the book and setting it down on the nightstand. “ That’s debatable”. 

She turned to look at me on her side. “ Is it? Our hearts are electricity. Our brains are the computer. Our muscles, the engines…” She yawns. 

“ Eyeing this so closely, I feel, is taking away from the process of bringing a child into the world. The spontaneity of the way it comes to us.  Up close, of course, it will seem as if there is no progress. When’s the last time we really took our time?” I suggested. 

Her eyebrow raised curiously, smiling at what I’m sure were old memories. “ If I let you take your time, I’d be stuck in Poenari for days, and we have jobs ”, she countered. 

I shook my head. “ Is that so horrible?” 

She goes quiet, looking back at the tv. She was already becoming invested. I heard her heart quicken by a few beats. Excitement. “ You know, I think you need an attitude adjustment. You need some of your humility back”, I teased quietly, flipping through the book. 

Her head swung to me in surprise. “Excuse me ?!”, she chuckled. 

I smirked. “ Oh yes. That’s what’s been missing”, I nod to myself. 

Amina crossed her arms. “I’ve got plenty of humility.” 

I shrugged. “ Of course you do. I'm simply referring to the kind you get from my hand”, I hint. I hold my palm up, turning the back of it towards her. Her eyes grazed over my knuckles and then back at me.

She abdicated, needing the break much as I did. With so many residences, there would be times when I’m in one country and she’s in the other. So we left the next morning. We hadn’t even been fully inside the Poenari before I started peeling her clothes off. A mouthful of her couldn’t even satiate me, I was on her in a way that bordered on concerning the moment our feet touched marble. Sounds came out of her mouth that would have worried any bystander. I relieve staff for most of the day. But I knew my wife with my hands tied and my eyes covered. I knew her limits. I’ve been in her head. It didn't scare me in the slightest. 

It was as if we were under some spell. Candlelight dinners were flipped in seconds. She'd end up crawling on the table while trays of food shattered to the floor. We left dinner picking gelatin from our hair. We couldn't leave each other's sight. Every single word we spoke was a confession. I'd grown addicted to the raw honesty I pulled from her in those heightened states. 

We flitted through the halls like newlyweds. Ancient memories blended with new ones until I had trouble remembering what century I was in. It was as if we were retracing old steps. Spilling old secrets. We frequented the places we used to spend time together. There was finally nowhere to go. No appointment to rush to. I took my wife in the old way. Before, time seemed to quicken. Before facial recognition and speeding cameras. Before, life seemed to run a mile per minute. A slow, measured, and all-consuming pace. 

Then Spring came, the snow melted from the mountains, and the ice stuck to the edges of Poenari was washed away by the sun. Something had changed. What was supposed to be two weeks of retreat turned into another three. 

The two lines on her test read "pregnant." Then came the blood test. Yet again, Pregnant. At her official appointment, she was five weeks along. Even more of a shock, the fetuses looked larger than they should have been. I nearly passed out when I saw the three gestational sacs on the screen. 

All of those sessions with Zanto had worked. Everything finally worked. Triplets, as rare as they were, were no coincidence. Somehow. Amina was able to bring our children back.

Amina spent most of her pregnancy in Poenari. She couldn’t get quite as comfortable anywhere else. I ensured that Amina had the best care, providing her with a private obstetrician familiar with supernatural maternal care. This way she’d receive a personalized treatment plan with frequent communication throughout the week.  We were on the precipice of something extraordinary. Her pregnancy was in a league of its own. It was yet to be determined if the children would possess any of my vampiric abilities. 

At that time, I never knew a human being could sleep so much. Symptoms-wise, her pregnancy was fair. Morning sickness was rare, and heartburn was strictly associated with red sauces and oranges. Otherwise, she got on pretty well, all things considered. There was no getting around the fact that a triplet pregnancy was high risk. I hated to be the one to give lectures on the importance of slowing down, but it had to be said. I loved seeing her waddle to the bathroom in the mornings to fix her hair even though she wasn’t going anywhere. She was gorgeous all the way to the end. No matter how much she complained about her swollen ankles or fingers. No matter how much she missed her old T-shirts. She was stunning. 

Over time, it became clear that she would not make it to a “full-term” twin pregnancy. Her discomfort was constant in those last weeks. With their lungs and brains fully developed, our children wouldn’t need extensive medical intervention, her doctor felt. A decision was made to schedule an early cesarean at 28 weeks. 

I found the procedure fairly barbaric. Sure, I’ve had some fairly brutish moments over the past few hundred years, but this was different. The pushing of the organs, the separating of flesh, the digging. I used research to quell my anxiety, but in the end, it did little to settle me. And to think that in my time, these procedures were a last-ditch effort to save the child and not the mother. Long ago, I had night terrors of having to make that choice. Having to choose between my son and my wife. I couldn’t imagine a worse fate for our family.

A few weeks before her cesarean, Amina had been wanting to see her aunt for quite some time. Aunt Sheila was getting older and trips over 30 minutes were irritating for her arthritis. Both of us worked out a plan so that Amina could see her before her due date. 

Having to show up at an 80+-year-old woman’s house and compel her and her family to let me take her to Wallachia via shadow travel felt like a testy situation. Ever since that day Sheila threatened me, I’ve been steering clear of her. I wasn’t entirely sure if she even liked me, and to be honest, she wasn’t sure either, from her thoughts. She thought I’d take care of her niece, though, at the very least. 

“ My lord. What in the world? What is this place?”, Sheila gasped, looking around at the grand paintings. I step back from my protective embrace around her shoulders. 

I waited until her gaze met mine again and compelled her. “ Right now you don't care about this place. You have no curiosity about where you are. Your only objective is to visit Amina. You think the gargoyles are puppies. When you leave this place, your memory will be that you visited Amina at her house in New Orleans.” 

A dazed look settled over her tired eyes, and she repeated the command back to me. “I don’t care about this place. I think the gargoyles are puppies. I’m visiting Amina in the 8th ward…” she slurs back. 

“ I drove you to visit Amina”, I add. 

She slowly nodded, still under my control. “ You drove me to visit Amina. 

She broke out of her daze and quietly followed me to the bedroom. Amina was lying in bed reading a book. When she heard her aunt round the corner, she was already beaming, attempting to get up. 

“Oh, Don’t you get up, Mimi. My goodness, have you got yourself in a situation?” Aunt Sheila cooed as she closed in on her niece. 

The two embrace. Amina mouthed a “thank you” over her shoulder as she nuzzled into her aunt. I smiled at the exchange.  Sheila pulled away, and Amina lifted her shirt over her belly and pressed her aunt's hand to it. 

“ Girl, you’re about to pop. Three?”, Sheila hissed dramatically. 

Amina just laughed. “ Yeah. I can’t even believe myself sometimes…” she said. 

“Sleep while you can”, Aunt Sheila joked. 

“ That’s what everybody has been telling me”, Amina sighed. 

One of the gargoyles runs in, circling the bed posts. I try to coax them out of the room. “ You two sure are animal lovers. Bless your hearts. One moe' thing to do", Aunt Sheila observed. Her tone slightly borders on judgy. 

“ Already starting with the shade”, Amina snorted. Sheila smirks, knowing her niece caught that. “ We’ll have plenty of help.” 

“ Good. Good. And how ya’ feeling?” said Sheila as he leaned in to press her hand to the side of Amina’s cheek. 

Amina shrugged, but I could see the tears forming in her eyes. Aunt Sheila grabbed her niece's hand. I quietly left the room so the two of them could talk. At the time, she was terrified about going under the knife. Multiple times per day, I had to diffuse her growing anxiety about her due date. Now that she was going to be a mother, her own mortality had come into question so many times. She herself was motherless now. She didn’t want that for our children. I knew that a visit from Aunt Sheila would settle her. They spent the afternoon in deep conversation, which I tuned out for the sake of their privacy.

A few weeks later, we found ourselves in the operating room. My fingers wrapped firmly around Amina's hand as she looked up at the OR lights. She was strapped to the operating table with one free arm. I briefly slipped the surgical mask down on my face to press a kiss to her forehead. She was shivering all over. Dr.Ngozi said it was a side effect of the epidural. The needle was so long that I had to actively look away. Everything about women’s health was so overly complicated and harsh. One would think they’d have found an easier way to achieve the same result. 

I remember the indescribable look on her face when she stared back at me. No tears. Just pure fear.  It was her first surgery in her life.  All she could manage was “I wish my mom were here.” I tried my best to soothe her, but I was just as terrified as she was. During the entire pregnancy, neither one of us could fully relax. I could feel her worry from the other end of the house daily. Then suddenly it had all come to a head. 

I heard the first cry. Dr. Ngozi held each twin over the sterile field so we could see their faces. Amina was as quiet as a church mouse. At the time, it didn’t register with her that she was a mother. All she could focus on was the fact that she’d been cut open, and I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t want to leave her here or allow her mind to part ways from her body.  I stayed seated beside her as the nurses ran tests. 

Hamda was placed in my arms. There was a pink fitted hat on her head, and I remember how perplexed I was at her size. She was so tiny that I was afraid I’d break her if I held her too tight. I stared at her little face, cranky and fussy. I bounced her softly, lulling her to the sound of my voice. She opened her big, dark eyes, squinting in the OR light. They roll around the room, introspective, as she calms down. 

Amina holds our sons in each of her arms. Her eyes swam from one face to another. She can't believe they're real. She was quietly trying to verify who was who between the two of them.  We shared the same look. Disbelief. I looked down at Hamda, who was now sucking her fingers quietly as she fell back to sleep. It had been so long since I felt my heart again. Their presence had wounded something in me. Opened something in me that had long closed. It’s pain and love coexisting. I shouldn’t have been given a chance to do it over… but I was. 

 https://pandora.app.link/rMrHOulHn4b

In the quiet of the recovery room, sometime around midnight, all three of them were wide awake. Their tiny eyes blinked around the room, mixed up on their nights and days. Amina sat in her hospital bed staring at Hamda and Petru inspecting their tiny fingernails. Their feet weren’t much wider than the pads of my thumbs. It almost felt wrong for something so sweet and so defenseless to be born into a world like this one. 

The tears finally hit her then, in the dark. The realization fell over her like a heavy blanket. That they were, in fact, her children. Children she grew and made from scratch. That our lives would be changed forever. In a sense, who we were before was gone now. Something of the past. The future belonged to them. Priorities shift when our eyes meet. “ Thankyou”, I cry. “Thank you. I'm sorry I ever doubted you."

Nothing can prepare anyone for how much space such a tiny human can take up in your life. Let alone three. With each passing month, the decision to leave my forward-facing position at my company grew stronger. The triplets were simply a handful. Even with hired help, they were a handful. Even the gargoyles have trouble keeping up with them. They weren't regular children. They were advanced. They hit milestones well before they were supposed to. There were little things that tipped us off to how different they were. They were talking early, walking early, taller than other children their age. Their hand-eye coordination was well beyond what would be considered appropriate. Dr.Bach would stop by to run a few tests every few months. His hypothesis was that they were already displaying vampiric traits in secret. He found a collection of toys stuck to the ceiling in one of the watch towers. It was easy to think that gargoyles were doing it at first. I’ll admit I had my dismissive moments. 

What truly confirmed their true nature was when they got into my stash. The three of them had worked together on a secret plan at just 18 months old. They came running into the study with their hands and mouths covered in red. Amina screamed, checking them for injuries. 

They led us to the absolute mess they made. Bloody handprints stained the walls and carpet, and their footprints were outlined on the marble floor. Hamda walked to the edge, licking it before a trail of blood could slink to the floor. They never asked for it again. We let Dr. Bach know, and he warned us that there may come a time when they would request blood. Neither Amina nor I was ready for that day. 

They eventually had a growth spurt, a tricky facet of childhood I had long forgotten. There were groans of “I'm hungry” every hour. We offered a multitude of foods, including yogurt pouches, crackers, fruits, and cheese. It was as if they couldn't get full enough. I vividly remember filling each of their sippy cups with blood from the canisters I kept in a separate room. Amina seemed terrified, unsure if it would work, but at her wit's end. They took to it immediately, and the whining stopped. We had finally figured out what had been missing from their diet. The growth spurt that ensued afterward had our heads on a swivel.

At age two, they would have periods where they would sleep half the day and then barely sleep at all. Their habits would change monthly. Amina and I tried everything to get them down. Then the next month they'd sleep from 7pm to noon. We lined up numerous doctors' appointments, and to no avail, they were perfectly healthy on all fronts. Dr. Bach suggested that as they grew older, their sleeping patterns would change. They wouldn't have to sleep as much as a normal human, but would certainly need more than a vampire. 

I eventually decided to step away from my work, relinquishing my title as CEO while still profiting as the Founder and Chairman Emeritus. This would cut my work down to five hours per week, only stepping in to make major decisions for Meridian Property Group. New ventures or acquisitions would only require my approval signature. My main goal is to focus on long-term investments, succession planning, and major acquisitions. Anything too large for the CEO to handle, I would take ownership of. This meant fewer meetings, only needing about 1 every month. Any in-person visits to the office would be reduced to a few times per year. Long story short, the money would make itself. As an international company, it had all the tools it needed to sustain itself. This was my second chance with my children, and I wouldn't miss a moment. Not like before.

Amina was hesitant at first when I posed the idea. I had made it clear to her that I wanted to be the primary parent while she focused on her expanding career. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing it alone. There were so many people ready and willing to lighten the load, from Nya to her aunt Sheila and, of course, Zanto, whom Amina had grown very close to. And of course staff. We had a few nannies on standby.  It took a while for her to fully let go. Eventually, she started taking on more opportunities almost 2 years postpartum. Returning to Manhattan 2 days out of the week to network. 

We found our rhythm as parents. Managing children with growing abilities while still finding time for our own hobbies. During our downtime, we filed through art portfolios, selecting art to feature in one of the galleries. Amina loved to help me pick the artists to feature over dinner. Date nights were still and always would be designated for Fridays. 

Now 4 years old, the triplets are in their last full year with me. I felt proud to say that I taught them most of what they knew. I taught them how to read, how to count, and how to brush their teeth. I taught them their colors and numbers. Of all the things I've accomplished, nothing in this world made me prouder than my own children. 

They’d be starting school next fall, which meant less time with us. I was torn about it. I liked the idea of having a little more time to myself, but when I was away from them, I thought about them constantly. Amina and I had been looking into schools for children like ours. The supernatural world had but so few. 

I designated myself to make breakfast in the mornings. My staff could have done it but I wanted it to be special for the kids. Besides, I'm always the first one up. My morning starts the same as it always does. Hygiene, read over company reports, smoke, then prepare breakfast. The kids were creatures of habit like me, so they had the same thing every morning. Fruit, eggs, meat of choice. Though they had an affinity for bacon more than anything. 

Hamda loves Strawberries, Petru loves Bananas, and Alexandru loves Kiwi. After I get them ready for the day, they sit patiently in the dining room, playing with Legos. I have to re-cook the bacon because I burned it while defusing an argument between Petru and Hamda. Ethiopian Jazz keeps them relatively calm in the morning, lessening the likelihood of any meltdowns. The Melodies sweep through the house from the overhead speakers as I plate up the last of the bacon. 

I round the corner, seeing Hamda press her finger against her sharp little fangs, retracting them into her mouth when she sees the food. They put their toys away as I set the table. A little arm wraps around my leg, which pulls me out of my focus. It’s Alexandru, now the youngest and the neediest. This time around, I'm the favorite, and he's my little shadow in more ways than one. 

“ Sit down.. I'm almost done”, I instruct gently. Alexandru doesn't move an inch until I guide him back to his seat. He fidgets around as expected for a kid his age.  I don’t yell at him when he slides from his seat again and wraps his arms back around my leg. What had I forgotten this morning? Then I realized that I hadn't said good morning to him, nor had I given him a hug. Hugs were big in this house, especially between multiples. The inevitable fights always ended in a truce. A hug was a peace offering. A reset. But they were also how I started the morning. My mind must have been somewhere else. I swept through the morning, going straight into their routine by taking them to the bathroom to fix their hair and guiding them as they brushed their teeth. 

I find that the most trivial and quizzical things matter to a child. The things we forget in adulthood. Of all my children, Alexandru, the one who looked the most like me, had the most gentle heart. I suppose I had one once upon a time, too. Though it's too far away to remember. To be the first face he sees in the morning was surely impactful for someone who had lived only 4 years. I pick him up because that's all he really wanted anyway. I wrap him in a bear hug, swinging him side to side playfully. I feel the vibration of his giggles against my chest and kiss him on the top of his head. “ Good morning, Alexandru,” I muttered into his temple.

Every time I do this, I feel that I am undoing something terrible that happened to me. When I look into his eyes, it makes me wonder how it was so easy for my father to harm me. He knows nothing about the world, yet everything about it. I’m in awe of his curiosity. His gentleness. His receptiveness to the moods of others and his watchfulness.  He is four feet tall of walking truth, a mirror to all that he encounters. He broke me open completely. All of my children have in different ways, I suppose. Maybe this is why people become enraged with children—because their humanity and innocence are a reminder of what they’ve lost or given up. Most of all, they have exposed where I have been most wounded and where I have stopped growing. 

I set him down, and all is well as he climbs back into his seat. Once I've filled their plates, I sit at the table and talk with the kids, cradling a cup of coffee. A ritual older than they realize. As soon as the triplets could sit up by themselves, I’d wake them up, make their bottles, fix myself a cup of coffee and sit in the green room. I’d always believed black coffee to be a dad drink. I want them to be able to say “my dad drinks coffee” with children their age. Or even, “My dad drinks coffee in the morning with me” 

One normal thing. One normal thing to tell their friends along the way. To know they had a father who was as simple as he was complicated. To know that their father wasn’t all that different from most dads who tried. That...I loved them despite how different our family was. Despite how different they would surely become. If there was nothing else in this world they could relate to, they had this. They could turn on the TV and see the dad in the sitcom drinking coffee in the morning and say, “ My dad does that too.” 

“ What did you dream about, Dad?” Hamda asks me. A smile just like her mother's when she beams at me. The question is a testament to how often we talked to them. 

“ Hmm”, I tap the table, looking around. “ I dreamt about your mom coming home.” I smile. 

“ I miss mommy”, Petru says with a mouth full of bacon. 

“ Me too”, Alexandru chimes in. 

“ Me three”, I said. “ Who’s ready to ride the horses today?”

A choir of “Me!” echoed off the walls of the dining room. Some of the smaller gargoyles hung around the table waiting for the triplets' inevitable burst of energy. They seemed to be the only creatures in this house that could tire them out. It created a nice distraction so that I could answer some weekly emails. 

“ What should we do after the horses?” I ask patiently. 

Hamda perks up at the questions. I already knew what she’d say. “ We should play Mancala!” The boys agreed with her, just like her mom. She loved games. 

“ Okay. Mancala. Then what will we have for lunch?”, I chuckle. 

“ Pizza!” the three of them said in unison. I’d been outnumbered. BUT it was Thursday. They’d always wanted pizza on Thursdays. 

“ Petru. You get to pick the movie today”, I remind him. 

“ What movie do you want to watch, Petru?” Alexandru asks. 

He thinks for a moment, mouth smeared with the ketchup he requested for his eggs. “ Hmm…Ratatouille”, he says astutely, as if we hadn’t watched that very same movie last month. Alexandru and Hamda groaned because he’d always choose from the same 4 movies. Ratatouille, Spy Kids, Brother Bear, or Rugrats in Paris. But fair is fair, and the kids loved the sentient street rat subplot more than anything. 

After breakfast, I put away the dishes and got the kids ready for their horse lessons, which last all but three hours. As Hamda requested, we all played Mancala before lunch. Demitri ran and got pizza for the kids. They jumped up and down in excitement as he passed the box to one of the nannies. Pizza and then a movie before nap time. 

After nap time they had their snack before going to their foreign language lessons and any of their other extracurricular’s before dinner. They were nearly fluent in Romanian and Arabic, but still chipping away at Spanish. Amina said that I could be intense when I set a goal for the kids. I took every parenting book that I read very seriously. Before they were born, one of the books expressed the importance of teaching a child a new language before age 7. I started with teaching them the basics from the moment they could form a sentence.

Amina had also dedicated time to learning Romanian and had since moved on to Arabic. It was beautiful to hear her speak in what was technically her mother tongue. Learning foreign languages had opened up a whole new world to her. She was reading from manuscripts brought to Poenari by her past life with proficiency. 

As our day wound down, the chefs worked on dinner while I helped the kids get clean for bed. I braided Hamda’s hair into two pigtails to make it easier to style in the morning. She always fussed about it and tonight was no different. After dinner, we waited up for Amina. 

Amina’s keys jiggle in the doorway, and the kids stampede her. “HII!!”, she squeals as they jump on her and tackle her to the floor. She picked each of them up into bear hugs, kissing their smiling faces. 

“ Alright, Alright. Let her breathe”, I chuckled as she fought to get off the floor. The staff takes her luggage, but I go for her coat and hang it in the coat closet. Before she could get settled, she was hit with a wall of questions. 

“ Did you sell a lot of paintings?” 

“ Do you see any tigers in Thailand?!”

“ Did you bring me back any dessert?” 

“ Yes, no, and yes”, she chuckled. She opened up her tote and pulled out three packs of Thai candy. The kids started to jump around as they held up their bags of sweets. 

“ Anybody who wants candy tonight is going to be brushing their teeth a second time”, I warn. They didn’t care, they raced to the living room to open their snacks. 

“ Honey. I’m hooomee....”, Amina sang in a teasing manner, arms outstretched and waiting for me. I didn’t watch much TV in the ’50s, but I did know about I Love Lucy. She joked that I was a ’50s housewife. I never really minded it. In fact, I found it pretty funny because a couple of hundred years ago, it was starkly different. I don’t think I would have minded it back then if I could have done so without judgment. 

I pull her in by the waist, slotting my lips over her own. All these years later, she’s still not immune to my touch. I felt the same way about her. The tension in her body melts, and her mouth opens ever so slightly, giving me permission to deepen the kiss. She’s sweet against me. I don’t know whether it was the candy she ate before she got here or just her. The closer she presses into me, the more I believe it’s just her. Her essence alone. If it were a trap, I’d lose every time. 

Her hand sinks into the back of my head. It unravels whatever civility is left in me as I lean forward, leaning her back as I dive into her mouth. A giggle comes up but fizzles out when my hands press into the globe of her backside. 

We rush at the speed of two people, governed by three very nosy children. Rushes and hushed and hard. Her hand reaches under my shirt. Pulling me closer and closer until the inevitable chorus of “mama” and “Papa” subdued us both. She pulls away first, muttering something about bedtime. I peck her between every other word, over and over until we hear tiny footsteps running in our direction. 

“ Papa”, Petru called. “ Can we watch another movie?” he asks hopefully. I’m so eager for my wife that I let the kids have it. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they crashed. I hear them run back to the couch, crumpling more candy wrappers. She steals a kiss before clicking down the hallway in her stilettos. I’m not ashamed to say that I watched her leave before I was pulled back into the living room by Hamda. 

Amina reemerged about 5 minutes later, hair pinned up and hands washed. She joined the kids and me on the couch. Every single one of them scooted onto her, leaning against her. Petru finally chose something different, a movie called “The Parent Trap” from our endless collection of physical media. Movies were the only screen time we allowed the kids, and they cherished movie nights more than anything.

Stolen glances across the couch say what we can’t. Thank god the kids don’t last long- maybe 15 minutes before they drift off to sleep. They’re all splayed across Amina like a litter of puppies, squirming every time she moves. Eventually, we carried them off to their bedrooms. I balance two kids on my shoulders, and Amina handles Hamda. We put them in their respective rooms, closing their doors quietly.

Amina and I tiptoed down the hall and the stairs until we got back to the living room. We pick up the stuffed animals, puzzle pieces, and board games from the floor. The maids close out their shifts, leaving the quietness of Poenari to ourselves. I pour her a tall glass of wine, and one for myself. 

Any kiss after we were alone was just indulgent. The perfect word to describe this marriage. I don’t believe in too much of a good thing. But then again, I never really have. I don’t question just how much we enjoy each other's company. I don’t care why we do. Be it from chemistry, astrology, or instinct. We just do.

We end up sitting on our bedroom floor, door closed and terrace doors wide open. With our backs against the bed, we flip through her father's old CD collection. The soft notes of Al Green flit between the empty spaces of the master bedroom. Nights usually ended like this. A drink or a smoke or both. We made a vow to always set aside time every day. To this day, it hasn't changed. 

“ So. How much did it go for?” I prompt. 

She lands on the Marvin Gaye section of the collection. 

“ Mm… 1,635,000 Thai Baht”, she hummed casually. Clearly a mild day for her. I do the calculation in my head. 50 thousand American dollars. I would expect nothing less from Thai nobility. 

“ Did he like it?” I ask.

She nodded enthusiastically. “ He cried. Which I was really surprised by, because portraits aren’t really my strong suit, but they insisted he wanted me. He said I really captured her spirit”, she smiled fondly. “ He obviously doesn’t know that she visited me and told me what to put on the canvas”, she snorts. Amina had found a way to merge her artistic gifts and her spiritual gifts. As it turns out, spirits could be pretty particular about how they're depicted in art. 

“ Well, did she like it?” I ask in a hopeful tone.

“ She said it was fine and left.” She shrugged, taking a last swig of her wine. 

“ I consider that a job well done”, I quipped, pulling her into my lap. She pulled the cigarette from behind my ear and offered the end to me. I light it with the tip of my finger. She takes a few drags before placing it in the corner of my lips. I look at the doorway, noting the blankets stuffed under the door. We only smoke here. We don’t let them see, per my request. 

“Where’d you pick up that nasty habit ?” I joke, turning my head to exhale the smoke. 

She snorts playfully. “There’s this guy…” 

It starts raining, and I hear her yawn. I knew then that we wouldn’t be up for much longer. I couldn’t blame her, though. I’m sure the jet lag was getting to her.

She starts. “ One of the K-12 schools called me back. They seemed really eager to have the kids. The dean kept going on and on about the diversity of the students. You know, at first, I thought she was talking about race, but then she started listing all these different creatures. Werewolves, elves, orcs, Minotaurs. I don’t know when any of this will finally feel normal”, she sighs.

The things that go bump in the night have children of their own. It’s not often that it happens, but it did happen. Until a few short years ago, it never happened for vampires. Our children were one of a kind. It brought us both great pride and great worry. Parenting them was a learning curve. I shake my head, feeling the worry seep in before any of the excitement could. “ Where is this school?” I ask curiously. 

She perked up. “ It’s hidden like ironwood. They’ll need portals to get to and from”, she says.

I frown. “ We could always homeschool”, I suggest. 

Amina’s expression flattened as she shook her head at me. “ They need to be around kids their own age if they’re going to have any sense of normalcy. Playdates at Nya’s and with their cousins aren’t enough. They need to be socialized, Vlad”, she warned gently. 

“ Is there anything normal about our lives?? They certainly won’t have a normal one..”, I counter. 

She playfully rolls her eyes. “ You’re scared to let go. Admit it”, she teased. “ With the triplets enrolling in school…Haven't you thought about putting the suit back on? I think some time to do your own thing will be good for you. You do an awful lot for all of us.” 

I scoff. “ If you saw how big a 4-year-old Minotaur was, you wouldn’t want that little shit around your kids either.” 

Amina’s jaw drops. “ OH my god???” she blubbers. “ Oh my god, you’re….terrible”, she cackled. 

“ What?!” I ask. 

She slaps my chest. “ I would say racist, but that wouldn’t be the right word. The word, I think, would be species—st,”  she huffs, trying not to hold back a laugh. 

I roll my eyes playfully, taking another long hit of my cig. “ I don’t want the kids hurt…is all”, I explain. 

She turns around, straddling me to get a good look in my eye. “ Getting hurt is a part of life, Vlad. I think you need to be more concerned about our kids hurting somebody else’s kids. They are very smart and cerebral, like you. If their abilities continue to develop, they’ll have a lot of unchecked power that they’ll have to learn how to handle in social settings. Being around other kids will teach them the importance of self-control and patience. Especially patience with people who are different from them”, she pleads sweetly. “ Besides, I thought you liked having something to do. Ya’ know? Having something else to think about other than doctors' visits, and horse riding lessons and who’s leaving crumbs in the bed.” 

I pause for a beat, thinking. “You… may be right”, I sigh tiredly. I knew I’d already lost this battle. School taught children how to be functional adults. There was no way around it. I pass the cig back to her, turning my head to exhale my smoke. I caught a glimpse of a handmade Father’s Day card sitting on the TV mantle behind us. “I have plenty to do between the kids and the galleries. If nothing else, I’ve had a lot of time to grapple with what I was put on this earth to do, and honestly, I think I’m just meant to be a dad. That’s my job”, I confess. 

Her gaze softens as she presses the flat of her hand against my cheek. I already see the tears forming in her eyes. She’d been so tender-hearted since she became a mom. She could cry at the drop of a hat—as the Americans say. I was the same way now, too. It left us both so surprised by how children could deepen our capacity to love one another. 

She leans over to kiss me on the cheek. “You really are the best daddy.” She begins to trail a line of kisses from my cheek all the way to my mouth. 

“ And you take really, really, really good care of your wife”, she mutters against my skin. 

I expect her to turn away, but she deepens the kiss, settling the seam of her dress pants at my crotch. Soft nips at my bottom lip put my body on alert. As she pulls away slowly, she uses her left hand to pop the buttons on my shirt. Starting at the bottom, she unfastens each button while watching for my reaction. She takes a long drag of her cigarette with her slender manicured nails, making no move to deter the smoke from my face as she reaches the last button at the top. 

“ I should take good care of you too, huh?” she asks innocently. Her tone isn’t doing much to hide the intentions of her face. I can feel arousal begin to course through my body.  There were a lot of things I loved about my wife. Her resilience, her empathy, her motherhood, her power, her weaknesses. But at the top of the list was her unwillingness to pull her punches. It’s no surprise I like it when she makes it hurt. 

I’m staring too long and too hard. She tilts her head patiently. She was clearly waiting on an answer. “ Yes”, I mutter quietly. I’m perfectly still. I don’t want any sudden movement to ruin the momentum of this moment. 

She needed this.

This moment alone after her shitty day at work. This time to herself after putting up with Smoke acting like he could run shit. This was her damn house that she took care of. Fuck it if Elijah fronted a few bills. He only did it because he was a control freak. But this was Annie’s house, her business, and she needed this.

That morning, she realized she was out of coffee creamer after the pot had already been made, and Annie needed a perfect, homemade cup of coffee with her hazelnut creamer to start her day right. Then, her pantyhose ripped on the way out the door, and she hadn’t shaved in weeks, so it was between wearing shitty ass tights to the office or hairy ass legs. Then, she remembered that she was supposed to leave early that day because she needed gas, and since Smoke had been acting like he ran her life, she decided today would be the day she wanted to be an independent woman and pump her own gas. Then, when she showed up to work, inevitably late, her boss was standing near her desk with a stack of folders that took her all damn day to sort through. There’d been no lunch. No break. No chance to call her man.

So how could anyone blame her?

She needed this, damnit.

Over the years, Annie had found that when life was doing her in, the best way to fix it was to either manifest and set some intentions or to orgasm. She’d been doing the first thing often enough, and though the latter half of her day had settled some, there was a lingering frustration that needed to be overcome.

And her man wasn’t there to fix it because he had his own life, and his own house, and his own shit to do.

Reaching over into her side table drawer, she pulled out their vibrator. It was cute and petite and an electric blue because when Smoke had chosen it out of the sea of other toys, he’d commented that it looked “tough” (He meant to say that it would look good settled between her thighs and pussy lips as he used it to tease her later that day—but he was too shy in the environment to admit it). Annie twirled it in her hand, contemplating her next move. Smoke had put rules and regulations on their vibrator like he was the damn FDA, and the most important rule was that she couldn’t use it without him.

When she’d heard it, disbelief had entered her system. Who was he to be demanding shit? Who was he to be calling shots like that? He knew how sexual Annie was and how important an orgasm and pleasure could be. But Smoke saw that electric blue vibrator as theirs. It was theirs to explore with, theirs to use together. So if he wasn’t in her home and on her bed, Annie was not to be permitted access to it.

But this was her damn house. The house she made a home. The house she would have paid every bill for if her man wasn’t such a damn control freak.

When the vibrator hit her clit, a bolt of energy ran through her. All throughout her body, her muscles tightened, and a sharp gasp parted her lips. When Smoke would use it on her, he'd start all slow and shit, dragging it through her folds on the lowest setting just to piss her off. But Annie didn't want to be teased right now. She wanted release and pleasure as quickly and as easily as possible. Knees wide open, feet pressed into the bed, and head thrown back, she felt every ounce of the day begin to wash off of her. She started to forget all about the coffee and the pantyhose and the gas and being late and her boss and all those stupid folders. The only thing she cared about was how good her body felt right now and how quickly she was about to tumble over the edge.

~~~~~

When he stepped foot into her home, nothing seemed too out of place. He placed his keys in the dish and shrugged his jacket off. He removed his shoes and set them right beside the haphazardly-placed heels she had worn to work.

Smoke hadn’t heard from his girlfriend since that morning, but if he knew anything about her, the text saying she was out of her favorite hazelnut creamer was the perfect set up for an awful day. He’d already been at work himself, so he couldn’t save her, but he made sure to buy her a fresh bottle as soon as he could. Settling the creamer in the fridge, Smoke went in search of his girlfriend. He wasn’t the type to call out for her because she was the type to only be in one of two places: the living room or the back patio. And when both of those places came up missing, his attention was sparked.

It was like his body tuned in to find her. His ears perked up at every shuffle and buzz. His feet tingled with every vibration.

“I know she better not,” the man mumbled under his breath, gritting his teeth and already in motion toward her bedroom. He kept his steps light no matter how much he wanted to stomp. He needed to see this. He needed to look upon her wrongdoing.

The closer he got to her open bedroom door, the more her sweet moans filled his ears. He could tell she was exhausted by the whine that accompanied her cries of pleasure, and even though he wanted to halt her when he saw their—his—electric blue vibrator, he refrained. Shoulder pressed into the doorframe, he analyzed the roll of her hips and how her jaw dropped open when she shifted the toy upwards. He marveled at the sheen covering her body and how she went harder than he normally would.

He could tell she was chasing it, and as much as he hated it, he knew she probably needed this. Annie was a woman of order—after his own heart. She had systems. Procedures. Those misplaced heels at the door had been one sign that she was losing it, and her work attire which was tossed in piles on the floor and across a chair was another. He hated how much he knew she needed this, but he kept quiet and sat back watching the show nonetheless.

~~~~~

Her need had turned carnal.

She craved it. That release. That pleasure. That succumbing to her own body and crumbling as the result of her own efforts.

She’d been holding the toy in place, but now she was growing more courageous. She attempted to move and her body thanked her by releasing a tremble up her spine—encouragement that allowed her the peace of mind to circle her clit. She did it quickly, completely uncaring because if she was going to have this, she wanted it now.

Nails piercing the fabric of her sheets and feet grounding her in place, Annie felt herself tipping gloriously over the edge of her desire. Her body trembled. Her thighs ached, but that meant nothing because she was getting what she deserved after a long ass day where nothing went as planned. Bright color filled her eyes and her chest practically lifted into the air as she came with the vibrator between her legs, pressed right up against her clit.

And when she turned it off and the last buzz rang out softly in the dense air, her heart sank.

She was finally able to pay attention to her surroundings again, finally about to care, and the first thing she noticed was his cologne. Strong. Teak. Spice. It was his signature scent, and Annie could pick him out in a line up of men with her eyes closed—and she realized then that her eyes were closed. She was afraid to open them, afraid of the jumpscare that would be an angry Elijah upon seeing their—his—vibrator where it didn’t belong without his permission.

But, shit, this was her house and her bed and her pussy and her bad day. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted. Yeah—so believable.

There he stood: shoulders filling out the doorframe, eyebrows set in a scowl, jaw working in an effort to calm himself down.

As scared as she was, as regretful as she was, Annie could never deny the fact that her man was sexy as fuck. He was all shoulders and unsettling disposition, and that was the biggest turn on for a bitch with a bad day. Where her body had previously calmed down from the height of her orgasm, deciding that the awfulness of today had been rid from her, she was sparked again by greed to be taken care of by her Elijah. This was her bad day, and she should be receiving treatment from all sides.

“Hey, baby,” Annie breathed, shaky and sultry at the same time. She attempted a smile and her best and brightest soft eyes, but he wasn’t giving in.

“Put it down,” Smoke huffed, stepping one foot into the room. He had to gain control quick because Annie thrived off doing the exact opposite of what she was told. Her pout grew deeper and her finger moved back toward the button on the underside of the toy. She needed it. Turning it on and yelping from the vibrations that ran through her oversensitive body, she tried again to get her way.

“But, ‘Lijah—”

“I said put it down, Annie,” he interrupted, reaching for her wrist, but contrary to the response he hoped to gain, Annie moaned. Right in front of his face like she hadn't been properly touched or taken care of in ages. And that's truly how she felt inside her body. She watched her man scrunch his face in confusion and disbelief, rubbing the vibrator against her cunt as the feeling of Smoke's heavy breath brought her to the edge again.

“You in big trouble, baby girl,” he gritted, looking down at her, lust quickly clouding his eyes. His hand reached for her waist, but he didn't make her stop.

Got 'im, Annie thought, throwing her neck back in silent, wicked laughter when he began to kiss her pulse point. Her stomach curled deliciously, and even though she'd just cum, she felt like she could go for the rest of the night.

"Just give me what the fuck I want," she grumbled in his ear. Teeth marked her skin in response, keeping the memory of him on her body, and she laughed lowly from her throat. "Come on, baby," she coaxed, hips rutting against the vibrator and his left thigh. "Take care of what's yours, Daddy." The plea left her mouth raw. Her climax was near, desire at an all-time high. It was just in her reach, and just as her pussy clenched around nothing, Elijah sharply pulled the toy away from her.

Annie trembled against the sheets, orgasm ruined in a way that left her fluttering in disappoint. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and before she knew it, her head was turning away from her man's face.

"Turn over," Smoke bellowed, wrecked in his own unique way.

"Fuck you," she croaked, too concerned with the view of him putting the toy far out of her reach. She writhed in the sheets, throwing a fit at him ruining this for her. "The fuck you even doin' over here? Don't you got a house or business to tend to or something? Always in my fuckin' face." Every word was laced with annoyance. She was pissed, angry, livid, because her bad day was just getting worse and worse. Now she was in trouble and her orgasm had been stolen and she was having a horrible day.

"I know yo' morning started off bad or whatever," Smoke deadpanned, "but you ain't finna talk to me like you ain't got no fuckin' sense. Now turn that ass over."

Huffing and groaning—like she ain't want it when she really, really did—Annie assumed the position. Smoke enunciated each word to make sure she heard him good and clear, and the woman could tell that even though punishment was coming her way, he was also working to soothe her and alleviate all pain because he understood.

"You know better, baby girl," the man roared, hand coming down to rain hits upon her ass. Gasping, she grabbed ahold of a pillow, stuffing her face in it to hide her moans. "You don't touch my shit when I ain't here," he growled. "This my pussy, and that's my damn toy. But since you had such a bad day and you obviously ain't thinking straight, I'll go easy on you."

"Please, Daddy," she moaned, pressing her ass back into his hand. One spank landed on the back of her thighs far too close to her pussy for her to hold it in any longer. She rattled off every thing she needed done to her. She needed to be put in her place, needed to be reminded that she was his, needed to remember why it was important to listen to what she was told.

~~~~~

When it came to Annie, Smoke grew soft. It was something she had teased him about early on in their relationship because no matter how much she pissed him off, he was always going to give her whatever she wanted. She commanded his attention with ease, and how can you blame him when she pled with such a pretty, whiny voice; when she batted her eyelashes and apologized for doing what she shouldn't have?

They'd end up in this position again—with her not listening and doing something she had no business doing—but for now, he was giving in, letting her have it, and showing her just the type of rough nigga he could be—because she'd asked.

Each thrust of his hips felt like an ambush, stealing her breath, looting her ability to do anything other than cry out his name. He smacked her ass with each stroke, and when she recoiled against his pelvis, he couldn't help what happened next. Leaning into her, he pressed the arch of her back further into the bed, stuffing her face into her emotional support pillow.

His thrusts sped up, and his words came out wet and reckless.

"This my shit," he slurred, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. "This my damn pussy and you gon' listen to what the fuck I got to say."

"Y-yes, Daddy," Annie stammered, clawing herself up the bed.

"Fuck you think you goin'," Smoke questioned warningly, dragging her impossibly closer to him.

"Nowhere," she avowed. "I swear I-I ain't goin' nowhere!" The woman begged for forgiveness and appealed for mercy, but all she wanted was for him to go harder, stronger, rougher. She needed it to help her forget what had occurred up until this point. The only thing she needed to remember about today is that she had wound up with her face down and ass up with her nigga fucking her into the mattress. The more he tightened his hold on her hips, the closer she got to that glorious restructuring of her brain.

Fucked out of her mind is what Elijah called it, fucked silly and without a single care in the world.

So close.

Almost to the tipping point.

When Smoke reached over to retrieve the vibrator once more, he knew this would be the thing to successfully rid her mind of any thoughts. He pressed it into her folds, rubbed her clit, held it there until she was stuttering all the while making sure that his strokes stayed consistent and that she couldn't possibly want for more.

"Imma cum, Daddy," she thundered. Tears fell down her face, darkening the cloth of the pillow, and the man knew then that she was ready.

"Cum for me baby girl," he permitted, and as she broke apart, he held her through her fall, succumbing soon after.

~~~~~

Sheets changed, bodies clean, and clothed in soft fabric, Annie clung to Smoke's body, seeking refugee in his hardiness. He stroked up and down the length of her back, and she slipped further and further into him.

"I bought you creamer," Elijah admitted softly. His eyes that had been on the ceiling took in the woman's face. A glorious calm had settled into her features but her eyes looked appreciative because he understood. He cared.

"Thank you," she whispered, cuddling closer into his warmth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

word count: ~2,800

a/n: i hope you enjoyeddd

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

The young woman sat atop a plush stool in front of the mirror, tears glittering her eyes—but she had to push all emotion down for now. Today was supposed to be a big day. Droves of flowers. Swarms of family—and people she’s never seen a day before in her life. Every little girl's big dream coming to fruition. Behind her in the mirror, she could see her folks moving about the room, trying to finish last minute details or simply busying themselves so much that it caused the stress to rise in her system. And tears were glittering her eyes.

She'd thought about today since before she could remember. The dress. The cake. The first dance. The man at her side.

Her mind droned on over all the things that felt imperfect and incomplete now that her dream had seemed to swarm her without noticing, and without even realizing, her exhausted body began to weep.

Above her, the woman halted—brush along her temple, unmoving and apprehensive.

“Do you need a second,” the makeup artist whispered, cautious of her volume as to not bring attention to her state, but the young woman just released an exhausted laugh and shook her head. Her family and friends were still moving around wild behind her, and she hated that it took someone who knew nothing of her life to notice her state—to care.

“I’m fine,” she punctuated with sorrow. Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, she stared back at herself once more. This had all happened so fast: the meeting of the fathers; the drafting of the contract; the planning of the wedding. She'd had little to no input in any of it. And she still had yet to see the face of her groom. One hour until she was set to be married, and she had no idea who she was committing herself to—but she had no choice in the matter.

Her daddy—Mississippi’s soon-to-be first Black governor. And her soon-to-be husband’s family—major donors to his widely successful campaign. They have shares in several major businesses out of the state—Nissan Motor Co., Howard Industries, Southern Tire Mart—and somehow, without the young woman knowing it, her parents had made the decision to offer her up as thanks for all their assistance along the way. But she viewed it as payment.

Everyone knew the Moore's. 30 years ago, they were into shady and illegal bullshit, and now it was far more shady with legal loopholes and connections to sustain them. With her having the Moore last name, they were almost guaranteed protection for the rest of time; Her daddy just had to win his election next month, and she had to say yes at the altar.

“Anna Mae,” she heard a shrill voice shout from behind her. Looking through the vanity mirror, she saw her mother, wide-eyed and stressed. As the older woman turned toward the makeup artist, her tone became more pleasant but clearly very annoyed. She pointed at the young woman, flailing. “I thought she was supposed to be done by now,” she questioned, talking as though her daughter was not even there.

The makeup artist swallowed thickly, hands moving toward the eyeshadow palette with haste.

“Almost,” she offered. “We took a small break to regroup, but I can have her done in fifteen.”

“Fifteen?! She’s supposed to be seeing her fiancé in five,” the older woman condemned, her high-pitched voice cracking with anger. But the information she had offered sparked the young woman’s attention. She looked up as her mother and the makeup artist consulted, agreeing that everything will be completed in the nick of time. She felt as if she were a child; She was talked over, completely disregarded as if she weren’t there at all. Clearing her throat, she finally spoke up.

“I’m going to meet him before the wedding,” she wondered aloud, voice quiet, showcasing how apprehensive she still was about the whole ordeal. Her mother, standing over her and peering down like she’d been personally inconvenienced by the sound of her voice, rolled her eyes.

“Yes, Anna Mae,” she began, looking down at her watch with an annoyed huff. “In two minutes and fourteen seconds, you will be meeting your fiancé. We won’t have time to dress you before then, but your robe will suffice for now.”

And with that, she exited the room as if she hadn’t entered like a tornado bringing rain. The makeup artist continued, pity filling out every muscle in her face, and the young woman’s eyes dampened once more before assuming the role she’d unknowingly been given at birth.

Stone-faced, the man clenched his fists while peering through the window. Outside, flowers were being delivered and guests would soon be arriving too, but inside this room, he would be meeting his fiancée for the very first time.

He bit back a snarl, stuffing down his emotions. This had to be done. This was for the family. For legacy. For future. For himself. For his brother. What had to be done had to be done, and he knew he was the only one right for the job. Across the room, his twin stood at attention, eyes just as sharp but with a lighter air due to his ease and carefree nature. On the couch sat the Moore family lawyer, their primary council, and their father. The oldest of the three Moore's smirked with a deep evil grin, shades concealing his eyes.

"This gon' be perfect for us," he barked in laughter, words going out into a void. Everyone in the room sat detached, barely hanging on to the moment at hand, but he was ecstatic. "I had a dream about this shit here," he exclaimed. "Yes, sir, I did! 'Fore y'all was born, me and y'all mama used to talk 'bout this." Smiling silly and faraway like time had finally caught up with him, the man looked toward his oldest son, suddenly sentimental. "She used to say 'Eli, our boys gon' be something important some day,' and look at you now. I just wish she could see it."

The twins—too similar and too different at the same time—shared a look. One that said they'd been hearing the same shit all their lives. One that said they wished they mama would've shacked up with another man. One that sent apologies back and forth for how differently their father saw them when they were so similar.

The oldest swallowed thickly when his twin diverted his eyes, leaving him to do the same. He went back to watching the window, dreaming that all of this would resort in a better life far away from his daddy's rule—but he knew better.

Big Eli commanded attention. He was resilient in a way that struck fear in the hearts of every cop, judge, and politician in the state of Mississippi, and if he was forcing his son into something like this, it was because he knew this would last; He'd made it so.

His son only cared about doing what needed to be done. He held no regard for the other family or for the young woman he'd be bound to. The way he saw it was that they were trying to settle a debt, and he was just coming to collect.

Across the room then, the door opened, but he refused to turn around just yet. Through the window, he watched as the world moved, not even caring for what was going down behind him. The situation was enough to pull an exasperated laugh from him.

"Eli Moore," one man uttered, boastful and solid in a politically correct way.

"Henry Laveau," the other man guffawed, shaking the outstretched hand laughably before turning to greet his wife. "Michelle, it’s lovely to see you again," he offered, toning down his rowdy nature and bowing his head. His attention rose quick when meeting the next set of eyes, fully straightening his posture and stepping forward with a hand offered in her direction. "And it's even lovelier to finally meet the young woman my son is to marry," he smiled devilishly, licking his lips at her appearance.

The young woman held her head high, eyes piercing through him. Not once did they lower to his hand. Not once did she motion to shake it. She just held his eye contact with a straight face, showing her disdain for the situation.

"Feisty one I see," he laughed off, pulling his hand back and smoothing down his hair. Across the room, the younger twin allowed a laugh to escape his lips, and for the first time since she'd entered the room, the woman allowed her eyes to take in the space around her. Along with her mother, father, and their lawyer was Eli Moore, two people sitting on the couch who looked like advisors or lawyers themselves, and two other men nearly identical to each other. The one who'd laughed stepped to the older man's side.

"I'm Elias. But folks call me Stack," he prattled while his eyes traveled down the length of her satin robe. She noticed the way he focused on the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, and it made her cross her arms underneath her chest and settle her weight onto one foot. She rolled her neck, annoyed and refusing to interact before her mother spoke up behind her.

"Don't be rude, Anna Mae," the older woman argued, pushing her forward, causing her to stumble slightly.

"I'm Annie," she choked out, scowl deepening when the man's smile widened.

I know they don't think I'm about to marry this goofy ass fool, she yapped to herself, but before the thought could linger, the other young man across the room turned in her direction. When their eyes met—both full of a unique mixture of fear and anger and obligation—they stayed right there on each other.

Although it would soon be offered, Annie required no explanation for who the man was. They both carried the same weight, the same disgust. As much as she wanted to drift her attention away, something about him held her in place.

"This my oldest—Smoke," Eli boomed. Smacking his hand against his son's shoulder when he moved to stand in front of Annie, he looked over at him with proud eyes. "Y'all make a nice lookin' couple, don't it," he laughed, but Annie's nostrils flared, and her arms closed around herself impossibly tighter.

She was set to marry this strange man and enter into a strange family all because of her parents and their lack of care for her wellbeing and desires.

"Can we get a second alone," she all but demanded, eyes trained ahead. Around them, everyone threw out looks of confusion, glancing toward the time on overly expensive watches or the documents in their hands. Things had to be neat and in order, and none of them had time to dilly dally.

"You're getting married in thirty minutes, baby girl," her father stepped close. He broached with caution, attempting to pull her eyes toward him, but she refused to stop looking at Smoke, at the ruffle between his brows. "You gotta sign that contract before we do anything else," Henry reasoned, but she was hearing none of that.

"I know that, daddy," Annie snapped, emotion welting in her chest, "but I will not allow you to force me into a marriage before I even get a chance to talk to my future husband alone."

The Moore men watched with differing layers of amusement. Eli looked as if he were realizing Annie's attitude would either be a gift or a curse in the long run. Stack chuckled as if he hadn't expected so much energy out of someone of her background—but loving it nonetheless. And Smoke swallowed as if he weren't sure what he was even allowed to feel.

He tracked her every movement. The narrowing of her eyes. The clenching of her jaw. The bobbing of her throat. The swaying of her robe when she shifted. Annie looked toward everyone, expecting them to move toward the door and honor her command, and when Smoke saw her neck roll one last time before everyone put their feet in motion toward the door, his eyebrows raised in what could only be described as him being impressed.

When the door closed, the room settled in a deafening quiet.

She leveled him with a look that could kill.

"My daddy might think I'm stupid," Annie began, stepping forward into Smoke's personal space. She cursed him with her eyes, spoke ill on his name without even having to say the words outright. "He may think I am, but I ain't no little girl. I know what yo' family do. I know why we gettin' married. But that don't mean I gotta like it." Her nostrils flared—large and round, bearing her anger—but the man refused to speak.

"So you ain't gon' say nothing?" Annie threw in question, only to watch as Smoke blinked—once. "Impossible," she rolled her eyes, crossing her arms tight, and emotion grew in the man’s chest.

Something dark and wanting yet full of despair and anxiety.

"Look, neither of us want this," Smoke grumbled, eyes falling away from her body. "My daddy ain't give me no say in this. He told me this was happenin' probably around the same time yo' folks told you. But just because we gettin' married don't mean I'm gon' try to control you the way they control us. I ain't that type of man, and I can tell you clearly ain't that type of woman," his voice tapered off, giving Annie the chance to be offended.

Her face screwed up, and her head reared, and her mouth spat her lividity.

"What the hell does that mean—"

"I'm just sayin'," he breathed, stepping forward. His hands raised at his sides, almost as if he were approaching a frightened animal. He sighed, hating the position they were in but knowing what needed to be done. "Let's get through this together and figure out later what’ll be best for both of us movin' forward, alright?"

Annie was skeptical. She didn’t trust many people—especially those her daddy worked with—and she hardly trusted any men. But as she looked Smoke in the face, something in her stomach flared, something in her leg twitched.

Rolling her shoulders back, she spoke confidently.

"What’s your real name," she questioned with strength, eyes unwavering once more.

Smoke swallowed. His veins bulged. His hands shook. His muscles tightened.

“Smoke ain’t good enough for you,” he threw back, and he immediately knew answering a question with a question was not something a woman like Annie would put up with.

“I’m not marrying you if I don’t know the name your mama gave you,” she roared, eyebrows tight. “You say you wanna get through this together and figure shit out, but if you don’t even want me to know yo’ name, then we ain’t finna do shit!” At that, the young, fiery woman turned on her heels. Her robe lurched with the movement, and Smoke was far too caught up in the flash of thigh he received to notice her moving toward the door in a hurry. When her hand was around the doorknob, preparing to put an end to the whole affair, Smoke came up behind her and pressed his chest to her back. His hand covered hers on the knob.

“It’s Elijah,” he breathed in her left ear, relishing in the visible presence of a shiver down her spine. And when she spoke his name back, voice curling around each syllable with care, his body immediately ignited in a similar reaction.

~~~~~

The terms of the contract were simple: Elijah Moore and Anna Mae Laveau were to be wed in an effort to settle Henry Laveau’s debt to Big Eli and the Moore Family; And the contractual marriage would be null and void if Henry Laveau's campaign were to fail.

~~~~~

The twins, as always, had taken to watching the room—standing with their heads held high in their designated spots at the altar. Stack was directly behind his brother, scoffing internally at how packed the room was.

"Eli know he wrong for lettin' them Laveau's do yo' wedding like this," he grunted, rolling his eyes at a woman who was making her way to her seat on their family's side. "We don't even know most the people in this damn room. Look at that bitch over there," he whispered, pointing down the aisle, "wearin' black at somebody wedding like she ain't got no sense."

"Mhm," the older twin all but blew smoke from his nose. His nostrils flared as the last few people trickled in—late and loud. He thrived off punctuality, off order, and he couldn’t resist looking down at his watch and willing this sham of a wedding to commence.

Lace and tulle drooped off every surface. Long-stemmed bouquets flaunted their beauty. As the last guest made their way to their seat on the Laveau side, the overhead lights dimmed just slightly before the strum of a harp reverberated across the space.

As grand as the venue, so was the size of the wedding party—but as Smoke’s eyes narrowed upon each arm-locked couple walking down the aisle, his anticipation for the bride grew deep in his chest.

After one pluck of a harp string, he had to remind himself that this was just business. After another pluck, he had to remind himself that this wasn’t some fairytale where he got the girl and the acclaim in one swing of a sword to the throat of some devious dragon. He hardly knew Annie, had had only one—very heated—conversation with her. But his throat bobbed when the doors at the back of the venue opened to reveal the soon-to-be governor ushering in the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His hands twitched at his sides, begging him to reach out for her.

Anna Mae kept her eyes locked on Elijah. Each step she took, she willed herself to not look away. She needed to see every emotion pass over his face. She needed to remind herself that even if she had no say in getting married, she was not going to allow her husband to run all over her. But her attempt to intimidate him with eye contact failed as her own gaze turned soft—just for a flash of a second before reverting.

And his gaze shifted to match her softness without faltering.

~~~~~

“We are gathered here today to witness the union of Elijah Moore and Anna Mae Laveau,” the officiant squawked, hearty voice blanketing the room. Ceremonially, the minister droned on, but the young pair could hardly pay attention to the words he spoke. They were in their own heads about what the future would hold upon saying I do, and every few seconds they attempted to communicate with the other telepathically, overthinking the inevitable.

I hope you Moore’s don’t ruin me, Annie spoke to herself. She exhaled deeply, eyes drifting to the man directly behind her groom. At least it seems like I got the more serious twin. And I can’t lie that he’s a beautiful man. Maybe this will all work out in the end? Who the hell am I kidding? My daddy did this for him, and like always I’ll end up being miserable.

This isn’t real, Smoke reminded himself as his heart swelled while watching his bride. This ain’t real, and this wedding is fake. But even if it is, I’ll at least make sure she’s happy.

Each of them held emotion in their eyes, conflicted by all that was happening around them—to them. They held hands when prompted. They spoke when willed. And when it came time to bestow the title of husband and wife upon them, they leaned in and kissed each other like they’d done it a thousand times over.

~~~~~

The reception was a blur.

People were everywhere. Asking for pictures. Giving unwarranted advice. Congratulating them. Saying how proud they were. They hardly got a second to themselves that wasn’t full of other people prying into their lives, so when it came time to leave the venue for the hotel that had been set up for the pair, Smoke and Annie had no idea what to do.

The first kiss they shared together lingered in their minds as they rode the elevator. The number of each floor illuminated slowly, ticking by as they stood shoulder to shoulder. Annie was the first to shift her eyes away from their reflection in the closed doors and to the man’s face. When Smoke looked over at her, her breath grew shaky.

“We have a lot to talk about,” he admitted reluctantly, voice groggy from exhaustion and too much talking for a man like him. He watched with anticipation as the young woman nodded.

“Not tonight though,” she huffed, pulling at her fingers and twisting the new jewelry her ring finger now held. Gazing down at it, tears of disbelief caused her to shudder. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful man,” Annie began, words barely above a whisper, “but I’m gonna need some time for this to feel real.”

Elijah understood, of course he did. He had been saying it himself all day, and he would never want to press her toward any emotion. They’d been put into a difficult position by people who were meant to care for them. But now, it was up to themselves to make the best of a weird situation.

That night, Smoke slept on the couch in the suite, allowing Annie the king-sized bed to herself. And there, she laid on her back, eyes wide open as she thought about how her life had been fully imagined for her, how she had been shaped and molded by her parents to be a perfect doll that they could handle in whatever way they saw fit. She didn’t want that for herself any longer, and if she was going to be married to this man, it was seriously time for her to start making sound decisions for her own life.

With the room-serviced breakfast in front of them, the young pair, avoided conversation and each other’s eyes by stuffing their mouths with food. Smoke looked past Annie, eyes toward the window, but the young woman kept her head on her plate. The silence wasn’t fully uncomfortable. There was an understanding there: they were tired, exhausted, fed up of being pawns, but there was also the truth that they had to make the best of what was now.

Mississippi’s gubernatorial election would be in one month, and there’s no way Annie’s father could lose. With the Moore’s on his side, it was nearly guaranteed, so she knew there’d be no way out of this. She thought the null and void clause couldn’t save her.

But nothing is ever guaranteed.

“You want kids,” she asked first, hoping to gauge what his reaction said about how tight of a leash this marriage would hold on her.

Smoke’s ears perked up immediately, eyes drifting over with intention. He swallowed his last bite, paying attention to how Annie’s shoulders had squared off.

“I think so,” he breathed, straightening his spine. When a questioning look passed over her face, he continued. “I think I’d be a good father. Think I’d be able to give my children what my daddy couldn’t give me and Stack. But the situation is important to consider.”

“What do you mean,” the woman wondered, brow crooked.

“You,” he admitted. “If you don’t want kids, I ain’t gon’ force you. If you don’t want to birth children, then we can look into adoption or something. I want children, but they ain’t something I need if the circumstances don’t align for everybody involved. You included.”

The young woman swallowed and willed her face to remain neutral. It was a bare minimum answer, what any decent person would say, but it meant the world to her. He didn't need to know all that just yet.

“Where we gon’ live,” Annie asked next. She hardly gave his last answer time enough to breathe before she was expecting more of him, but Smoke didn’t back down or shy away. He pushed his plate to the side before speaking.

“I like the home I live in now. It's big with plenty of space for the both of us, but I want something that’s ours. So when all this newly married energy dies down, I'd like to find something perfect for the both of us." He watched her every move: the sharpness of her eyes, the shifting of her body, the shine of her ring finger when she moved to drink from her glass of water. She was his wife; He was her husband. He'd always wanted a life of his own; Someone—besides his brother—to love and protect and care for. He just hadn't expected it to happen like this. "What you think of that," he questioned, desperate to know what was happening behind those eyes.

Annie breathed through her nose, sighing as she mulled the question over. She'd learned so much about the woman she wanted to be through her mother's silence, through her complacency. She'd learned so much about the man she wanted as her husband through her father's boastfulness and unpredictability. She liked Elijah's quiet demeanor. She believed him to be honest, hoped it so.

"I think I'd like that," she answered simply, glass in her hand as she watched him closely.

~~~~~

As the days ticked closer to Henry Laveau’s projected victory, Anna Mae and Elijah’s connection grew stronger. Conversations about the hard stuff grew to include things that allowed the pair to understand each other as individuals. They weren’t concerned with their parent's, colleague's, or community's opinions. It was just them—newly married and hoping for the chance to make their forced relationship something mutually beneficial.

~~~~~

During the weeklong hotel stay, Smoke arranged for Annie’s things to be moved into his home. It was large—but not overstated. Homey—but not stuffy. It smelled like him, felt like that dangerous calm she’d been recently introduced to and was quickly growing to appreciate.

Her first night in his home—their home—Smoke cooked for her, showed her around, explained that she’d have her own bedroom for her upmost comfort. The fact that he cared so much meant the world to the young woman, but as she walked through the home, part of her wanted to stop him, admit what her heart had been feeling since the moment they first met. Elijah made Annie's heart flutter. Elijah made Annie feel safe—comfortable—and part of her had grown used to him sleeping in the same room, even if he’d spent the entire mini honeymoon on the couch across from her. She liked the sound of his breath or when he would shift from his left side to his right. She liked knowing he was near.

So that’s how they ended up here.

Annie abandoned the room Smoke set up for her with all the things that had previously brought her comfort before they’d met. Then she tiptoed down the hallway and two doors down. Standing before the man’s bedroom door, she knocked solidly and kept her eyes forward.

“Everything okay,” Smoke asked as soon as the door was opened. His words were rushed and worry drenched his eyes, but all Annie could focus on was the lack of shirt covering his upper body.

Her eyes slipped down his chest, falling over the peaks and valleys of a part of him she hadn't yet seen.

“Ye-yeah,” she coughed out, ridding her mind of those thoughts. She pointed in the direction of her bedroom, nervous yet determined. “It’s very nice, but I think I’d be a little more comfortable if we slept together. I mean, like—like if I stayed in your room—if you’re okay with that—obviously.” The suggestion came out jumbled and lacking the confidence the young woman normally possessed. She was embarrassed to be asking such a thing, upset at herself for seemingly not being able to sleep without the young man anymore. She wanted to laugh at her own self—and her reaction to the new person in her life—but as she went to do so, Smoke was already holding the bedroom door more open and allowing her entry.

Annie blinked in shock and a tiny bit of awe before entering, her shoulder lightly brushing against Smoke’s chest. A shudder ran through him and his stomach tightened. The husband would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of the wedding more times than he should’ve, if he said he hadn’t thought of the one kiss they’d ever shared. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been sat up in bed with Annie on his mind. But as he closed the bedroom door behind him and watched his wife step quietly toward the bed, his breath caught itself on the way out.

“I don’t know if I can sleep without you in the same room anymore,” Annie laughed embarrassedly, shuffling under the covers on the far side of the bed. The way she settled herself brought a goofy smile to Smoke’s face because he couldn’t deny the comfort they had brought out of each other. A week ago, they didn’t even know each other’s names, and here they were, sharing space like they always had. “Have I ever told you that you smell really good,” the woman questioned. She moved the comforter to her nose and took a deep inhale.

“No, you haven’t,” Elijah smiled, sitting next to her on the bed. “But I could tell because when we hugged earlier you wouldn’t let me go.”

“Okay, but that has more to do with you feeling good than smelling good,” Annie laughed, unsuccessfully trying to deflect. She tossed her head back as her giggles continued. They snuffed out the room's nervous energy, surrounding the young couple in warmth.

Her husband grinned in victory at having her erupt into a fit of laughter, soon moving to shift under the covers with her. He faced her, head cradled by his palm, and when he reached out, he tangled his other hand in her nightgown.

“You feel good, too.”

It was simple and honest.

And with an ease that neither of them quite understood, it lit Annie ablaze.

Nothing had been clearly determined when the married pair shuffled closer to each other. Nothing had been decided when their bodies inevitably collided.

Annie’s hands found themselves at the back of Smoke’s head, fingers running through his hair and holding his face close to hers. She shivered when his palms laid residence to her waist and right under the curve of her breast, and when he shuddered a breath—warm and timid against her lips—she pulled him in.

The kiss was passion-filled and drenched in tension that had been growing for days. Between shared meals and quiet laughs. Between calls from family and updates on business and how bad the polls had tanked.

They had been inching closer to each other in ways only the two of them could understand, but now they were in a fully private space with no real care in the world besides each other. Before now, they had used their newness as an excuse to not explore what was right in front of them. But they were ready to touch each other like they’d been avoiding. They were to taste and feel and experience. They were ready to let themselves fall under the spell of their desire.

And there was no turning back.

Their breaths turned hot, and when Annie’s mouth opened to Elijah’s tongue, a heady need overcame her.

Smoke, trying his best to listen to his wife’s direction, allowed his hand to drift up the length of her thigh. Rough fingers traversed skin softer than what he felt worthy enough to experience, toying with the laced edge of her gown.

And as his fingers retreated to give Annie a second to collect herself from the moans quaking her, she uttered an honest please, and he gave her everything she’d been wanting.

~~~~~

One month—the time between the wedding and the election—and the hopeful politician had tanked in the polls, the republican nominee skyrocketing in the public’s favor.

It had been hanging over the heads of both families, lingering in every corner of their minds. Henry was concerned with his duty to Mississippi and his potential legacy as the first Black governor of the state. Michelle was anxious about her duty as his wife, what new and challenging tasks his position could spring onto her. Eli worried about his investment in the Laveau’s, how this could tank him if it went sideways. But Annie and Smoke were only worried that if Henry Laveau didn’t win, their marriage would be annulled.

As the votes were tallied for each county, anxiety flooded their bodies. Fear coursed through their veins.

They made up their minds, just as the decision was about to come in, that no matter what happened, they’d always make their way back to each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

word count: ~5,600

a/n: i'm like soooo obsessed. i hope y'all enjoyed!!! send me requests fr thoo

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

Smoke left Aunt Cheryl’s without a second glance backwards.

The gravel crunched beneath the truck tires as he pulled onto the road, the familiar stretch of Mississippi highway unfolding beneath a sky slowly bleeding gold into orange. His knuckles ached every time he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, a steady reminder of the punch he’d thrown and the argument that had come before it. The pain should have made him feel foolish.

Instead, it mostly made him feel tired.

The entire afternoon weighed on him. Annie’s tears. Her yelling. The way she’d looked at him like he had personally ruined eight years of her life. How she stood in the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s yard and told him she’d spent all those years waiting for him to fight for her.

Then Stack’s voice showed up right behind the memory.

You punched him because she grabbed that suitcase again.

Smoke swore under his breath.

Unfortunately, his brother hadn’t stopped there.

The first person she reached for wasn’t you.

That part irritated him most because Stack had said it with the confidence of somebody who already knew the answer. Smoke had wanted to tell him he was wrong, and say Isoo got punched because he should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut. He wanted to tell him it had nothing to do with Annie. The problem was every time he replayed the moment in his head, he arrived at the same conclusion Stack already had.

The punch was never about Isoo.

His jaw tightened.

The road curved gently ahead. Smoke followed it automatically, barely paying attention to where he was going. He’d driven these roads his entire life. He could’ve found his way home blindfolded. His eyes drifted toward the passenger seat. The mixtape sat there. Quiet. Innocent. Like it hadn’t caused a damn thing. Annie’s handwriting stretched across the cover exactly the way it always had. Uneven in places. Slanted slightly to the right. Familiar enough that he recognized it before he’d even registered what he was holding.

Two weeks.

That’s what she said. Two weeks making the fucking thing. Choosing songs while thinking about him. The thought annoyed him, confused him. Then irritated him again because confusion felt entirely too close to hope.

His phone vibrated against the center console. Smoke glanced at the screen and sighed. He knew where this conversation was headed.

LEWIS JONES.

For a moment he considered letting it ring. Then he answered. “Uncle Lewis.”

“You done?”

The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Done what?”

“Actin’ stupid.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Small. Brief. Then it was gone. 

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How bad do his face look?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Bad enough.”

Smoke nodded once. “Aight.”

Silence stretched between them. One of the things Smoke appreciated most about Uncle Lewis was the man’s refusal to fill every empty space with noise. Most people got nervous when conversations slowed down. They rushed to fill the gaps with questions, opinions, or advice nobody asked for.

Lewis never did. 

The older man let the silence breathe before speaking again. “You know everybody saw through that shit, right?”

Smoke looked out the windshield. “Saw through what?”

“You ain’t punch that boy ‘cause he butted in.”

There it was. Smoke should’ve known. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and watched a pair of headlights pass in the opposite direction.

“You ain’t even know that boy was there half the afternoon.”

Smoke huffed quietly. “That ain’t true.”

“Who you lyin’ to?” 

The question came so quickly Smoke almost laughed.

“You been mad for a long time.”

The words sank in a little deeper. Lewis wasn’t talking about the cookout anymore. Smoke knew it. Lewis knew it. Hell, everybody who loved him knew it.

The older man sighed softly through the phone. “You ever get tired?”

Smoke frowned. “Of what?”

“Being mad.”

The question caught him off guard, because it wasn’t complicated. For a while all he heard was the hum of tires against pavement and the low growl of the engine beneath him. Eventually he shrugged. “I guess.”

Lewis made a low sound. The kind that meant he wasn’t buying the answer. “You know how many arguments me and Cheryl survived because one of us was too stubborn to shut up?”

A smile tugged briefly at Smoke’s mouth. “Too many.”

“Exactly.” A pause followed. Then Lewis added quietly, “You know how many we survived because one of us was too stubborn to talk?”

The smile disappeared. Smoke’s eyes turned to the passenger seat again. To the mixtape and Annie’s handwriting. He looked back at the road. Neither man spoke. The silence stretched longer this time. Thoughtful and heavy at the same time.

“You know what I keep thinkin’ about?” Lewis asked eventually.

Smoke already knew. Still— “No, sir?”

“That girl flew all the way back to Mississippi.”

Smoke swallowed.

Lewis continued. “Three states.”

The truck rolled forward through the fading evening light.

“Three states and two weeks makin’ some CD.”

Smoke let the words sit with him.

“You think folks do that for somebody they don’t love?”

The question sat heavy between them. The answer coming fast. No. Of course not. But saying it out loud felt dangerous somehow. So he didn’t.

Lewis didn’t push either. He never had to, but he still continued— “You ain’t gotta forgive her tonight.”

Smoke stared ahead.

“You ain’t gotta fix everything tonight either.”

The road stretched empty before him. Fields on one side. Trees on the other. Home getting closer with every mile.

“But don’t spend another eight years punishin’ yourself.”

Something about the way Lewis said it made Smoke’s chest tighten unexpectedly. Yourself. The distinction mattered more than Smoke wanted to admit. Because if he was honest, truly honest, the years hadn’t only hurt Annie. They’d hurt him too. More than he’d ever admit.

The truck grew quiet again. The sky darkened another shade.

Eventually Lewis cleared his throat. “You headed home?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.”

Smoke waited.

Lewis chuckled. “Go home.”

“That’s yo’ advice?”

“Yep.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “You called me for that?”

Uncle Lewis chuckled. “I taught you construction. Might as well teach you common sense too.”

Despite himself, Smoke laughed. “Yes sir.”

The word left before he thought about it. A habit nearly as old as he was. For a minute he considered ending the call. Instead, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. 

“Thank you.”

The line went quiet. Then Lewis answered simply. “Welcome, son.”

There was a tightening in Smoke’s chest. It wasn’t that Uncle Lewis had never called him ”son” before. He had. A handful of times over the years. Usually when Smoke showed up to help with a project around the house or worked alongside him on a jobsite. Small moments. Easy moments. The kind that never seemed important until later. But hearing it now felt different. Maybe because there hadn’t been many men in Smoke’s life who earned the right to say it.

His father certainly hadn’t. Most of Smoke’s memories of his own father involved whiskey on his breath, anger in his voice, and the sound of boots crossing a porch that made two little boys tense before he even opened the door.

Uncle Lewis had been the opposite. Patient where his father had been cruel. Steady where his father had been unpredictable. The man who taught him how to frame a wall, read a tape measure, show up on time, and finish what he started. Uncle Lewis handed him his first construction job and expected him to work for every dollar of it. He was who Smoke thought about whenever people talked about good fathers.

His throat felt tight suddenly. “Yes sir,” he said again.

For a while neither of them spoke. Then, like always, Lewis broke the tension before it could become something either of them had to acknowledge.

“Get home safe.”

“I will.”

“And Smoke?”

“Yeah?”

Uncle Lewis paused. “Listen to that damn CD.”

The line went dead before Smoke could answer. For the rest of the drive, Uncle Lewis’s words followed him home. Not about Isoo or even the part about Annie. It was Uncle Lewis’ question that stayed with him.

You ever get tired?

At the time Smoke had brushed it off. Gave him a half-answer and kept driving. But the farther he got from Uncle Lewis and Aunt Cheryl’s house, the harder it became to ignore. Somewhere between North Carolina and Mississippi, between missed calls and unanswered letters, pride and hurt and eight years of silence, carrying it all had become exhausting.

And for the first time, Smoke found himself wondering what it might feel like to finally put some of it down.

By the time Smoke pulled into his driveway, the anger had given way to something heavier than it had been when he left the cookout. It still sat in his chest, still burned every time he replayed parts of the afternoon, but it no longer felt sharp. Sharp things cut quickly. This felt more like a weight. Something dense and stubborn that had followed him all the way across town and climbed into the truck beside him.

The engine idled for a moment after he parked. Smoke rested both hands on the steering wheel and stared through the windshield at the dark outline of his house. Usually coming home felt like relief. Quiet. Predictable. A place where nobody needed anything from him for a few hours. Tonight it felt different. Maybe because he knew exactly what was waiting on the passenger seat. And Stack’s voice had still managed to survive the entire drive.

You punched him because she grabbed that suitcase again.

Smoke exhaled slowly through his nose.

The worst part wasn’t that Stack had said it. The worst part was that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He replayed the argument, Annie calling for Isoo, and the look on her face when she said she wanted to leave. He still arrived at the same conclusion. The punch hadn’t been about Isoo. It hadn’t even been about whatever smart ass shit came out of Isoo’s mouth. It had been about Annie reaching for somebody else when everything inside him had been screaming for her to stop running to any and everything, but him.

Eventually he killed the engine and climbed out. The house was quiet when he stepped inside. Not peaceful, quiet. Empty quiet. The kind that made every creak of the floorboards sound louder than it actually was. Uncle Lewis and Aunt Cheryl’s house had always been full. Full of people, conversations, and yelling from one room to another. Even when nobody was talking, there was always the feeling that somebody might start. Smoke’s place wasn’t like that. Most days he preferred it. Tonight it gave him too much room to think.

The mixtape landed on the kitchen counter while he headed for the refrigerator. He opened the door and stared inside, as though something useful might appear if he gave it enough time. A container of leftovers sat on the top shelf beside eggs, sandwich meat, and vegetables he’d bought because he told himself he was going to start eating cleaner. None of it looked particularly appealing. Smoke shut the refrigerator and got pissed all over again.

Aunt Cheryl had probably made enough food to feed half the county. There had been ribs, potato salad, baked beans and rolls. Even Pearline’s nasty ass Mac and cheese was there. And at least five desserts. Normally he’d have left carrying enough leftovers to survive the next several days. Instead he’d left carrying a bruised hand and a damn mixtape.

“Ain’t even get to bring no fuckin’ plate home.”

The complaint sounded stupid the second it left his mouth. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it less true.

For half a second he considered getting back his truck, driving to Aunt Cheryl’s, and fixing himself a plate like a grown man with priorities. Then he pictured Annie sitting in that house, Stack there with a stupid ass look on his face, and Aunt Cheryl looking at him like she had a sermon ready.

Hell nah.

A little while later he found himself standing over the stove making a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. The entire situation felt ridiculous. He’d spent the afternoon arguing with Annie, punching Isoo, getting lectured by Stack, and receiving life advice from Uncle Lewis, only to end the night standing in his kitchen cooking like a man who hadn’t just had his entire emotional foundation kicked in. The sandwich wasn’t terrible. It also wasn’t Aunt Cheryl’s ribs.

Smoke ate anyway.

Afterward he grabbed a beer, stared at it for a second, then put it back. The whiskey seemed like a better idea. He poured himself a glass and carried it into the living room. A few minutes later, he looked down and found it untouched. His attention kept drifting back to the kitchen counter. To the mixtape. That pissed him off too.

At some point he found himself wiping down countertops that weren’t dirty. Then reorganizing a drawer that hadn’t bothered him in months. Then checking laundry that didn’t need checking. 

The thought arrived slowly enough to make him feel stupid. He was avoiding the mixtape. A grown ass nigga avoiding a CD. Worse, Annie would probably find it hilarious. That thought alone nearly made him put the fuckin’ thing in the CD player just out of spite.

Instead he took a shower.

The hot water should’ve helped. Usually it did. Construction work had a way of settling into muscles and joints. A shower could wash away most of a hard day. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough hot water in Mississippi to wash away Annie. She showed up anyway—crying, yelling, and saying she’d waited. 

And she called him Elijah. 

That always stayed with him. Most people call him Smoke now. Some folks probably forgot Elijah existed. The nickname had become easier over the years. Simpler. Safer. Smoke belonged to everybody. Smoke was the man people expected him to be.

Elijah belonged to Annie. 

Always had.

After the shower, Smoke dried off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before catching sight of his hand in the bathroom mirror. The knuckles looked worse now than they had at Aunt Cheryl’s. Adrenaline had carried him through the drive home, but it wasn’t doing him any favors anymore. Swelling had already begun to set across the back of his hand, and purple bruising was working its way beneath the skin.

“Shit.”

He flexed his fingers once and instantly regretted it. The punch felt good for about three seconds. Now it just hurt like hell.

Smoke dug through the bathroom cabinet until he found peroxide and a box of bandages his mom had practically forced him to buy after splitting his hand open at a construction site a few months earlier. At the time she’d fussed at him for nearly twenty minutes about keeping basic first-aid supplies in the house. Standing here now, pouring peroxide across busted knuckles, he hated admitting she might’ve had a point. A few minutes later he found himself sitting on the edge of the bathtub while the antiseptic fizzed against broken skin. The sting should have kept his attention. Instead, his mind wandered right back where it had been all evening.

Annie.

It seemed like no matter what he was doing, every road eventually led back to her. The tears. The yelling. The way she’d looked at him in the middle of the yard. Then, inevitably, his thoughts landed on the part he hated most.

Isoo.

The punch? Nah. Not even the argument that led to said punch. It was the moment before it. The moment Annie grabbed that suitcase and looked past him. Smoke lowered his head and rubbed a hand across his jaw. By the time he’d wrapped the worst of the damage and tossed the used bandages into the trash, he was in a perpetual state of irritation. Because Stack had been right. And so was Uncle Lewis.

A cigarette seemed like a logical next step. Then whiskey. Then sitting on the back porch convincing himself he wasn’t thinking about the mixtape while doing exactly that.

The Mississippi night wrapped around him warm and familiar. Crickets chirped somewhere beyond the fence. A dog barked in the distance. His neighbor several houses over was playing music low enough that only the bass reached him. Smoke sat there until his cigarette burned almost to the filter and the whiskey glass sat empty beside him.

Eventually he ran out of things to do. He’d exhausted every distraction available.

The house felt different when he walked back inside. It was later now and the whiskey had finally done its job. But now there was no avoiding the fact that Annie’s mixtape was still sitting exactly where he’d left it. Waiting. Patient in the way Annie never was. Smoke shook his head and picked it up off the counter. The plastic case felt surprisingly light in his hands. His thumb brushed across the writing on the cover before he could stop himself.

For Elijah.

Never Smoke.

The version of him she always seemed able to find no matter how deeply he buried it. For a moment he simply stood there staring at the words. Then Uncle Lewis’s voice echoed in his head.

Listen to the damn CD.

Smoke sighed heavily. “Yeah, yeah.”

He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was answering Uncle Lewis or Annie.

Maybe both.

The disc disappeared into the stereo. Smoke stood there with one hand resting on the shelf beside it, seriously considering taking it back out. The thought lasted right up until he remembered the few hours of his evening had been spent avoiding it.

Enough was enough. He pressed play and static crackled softly through the speakers.

Then Annie’s voice filled the room. “Elijah, if you’re listenin’ to this, it means you finally stopped bein’ hardheaded.”

Smoke froze. All he could do was stare at the stereo. Then Annie laughed. Not a big laugh or one of the loud ones that made everybody else join in. This was smaller, the one that usually appeared when she thought she’d gotten away with something. Her voice came through the speakers again, pleased with herself.

“Good.”

A click followed.

Seconds later the opening notes of Can We Talk came through the living room.

Smoke closed his eyes and laughed despite himself. “Oh, she got jokes.”

The song continued playing.

Track 1: Can We Talk

The opening notes of Can We Talk filled the room as Smoke leaned back into the couch. At first he listened the way most people listened to old songs. Half paying attention. Half letting familiarity do the work. The melody was recognizable, pulling up memories he hadn’t thought about in years. He could already hear Annie laughing at herself for choosing it. Shit, he was laughing too. Of all the songs she could’ve started with, she picked the one that practically came with a flashing sign attached to it.

The thing was though, the joke stopped being funny about halfway through. The song didn’t change, but he did.

The longer he listened, the harder it became to separate the music from the message underneath it. Annie had never been the type to do anything halfway when she cared. If she baked a cake, she spent three days finding the right recipe. If she bought somebody a gift, she’d somehow remember a throwaway comment they made six months earlier and build the entire thing around it. Every meaningful thing Annie had ever done came with intention attached to it. Looking back, maybe that was why the last eight years had hurt so much. Neither of them had ever stopped caring enough to become indifferent. 

They’d simply found different ways to carry the hurt.

Smoke clenched his jaw until the muscle ticked, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The whiskey sat forgotten on the coffee table. At some point he’d stopped drinking it. He wasn’t sure when. His attention had been entirely on the stereo, which was annoying because it meant Annie had managed to hijack his evening without even being in the room.

A bitter laugh escaped him. That sounded about right.

The song continued playing, and with every passing minute Smoke found himself thinking less about the argument at the cookout and more about the years before it. Not the breakup or the misunderstandings. The good parts. 

Annie stretched across his couch with textbooks scattered around her. Annie stealing fries off his plate after claiming she wasn’t hungry. Her singing along to songs she only knew half the words to and making up the rest with complete confidence. There had been a time when talking to her felt as natural as breathing. Somewhere along the way they’d lost that. Or maybe they hadn’t lost it at all. Maybe they’d simply buried it beneath years of pride, hurt, and assumptions until neither of them remembered where it was.

By the time the song ended, Smoke hadn’t moved in several minutes. The room felt quieter afterward, though that probably had more to do with the absence of Annie’s chosen soundtrack than actual silence. He sat there waiting without meaning to. Waiting for the next song and for whatever she’d decided came next, because curiosity had quietly replaced resistance along the way.

Annie’s voice returned before the next track started. Something in his chest tightened. It wasn’t the recording itself. It was how normal she sounded. She wasn’t crying, there wasn’t any anger in it or heartbreak.

Just Annie.

There was amusement in her voice before she even spoke, the same amusement she’d carried since she was fourteen years old and entirely too pleased with herself. “Before you start rollin’ your eyes, yes, I know that one was obvious.”

Smoke shook his head and rolled his eyes despite himself. 

There she was. 

Since she’d stepped back into Mississippi, he wasn’t thinking about the woman standing in Aunt Cheryl’s yard with tears streaming down her face. He was hearing the girl he’d fallen in love with. The girl who always had something to say, and who could make him laugh when he was trying his hardest not to.

Annie laughed softly on the recording. “If I gotta suffer through eight years of your stubbornness, you can survive one Tevin Campbell song.”

The smile lingered longer this time. She wasn’t wrong, because she’d always known exactly which nerve to touch. Or maybe hearing her like this reminded him of something he’d forgotten. The Annie sitting safely inside this recording wasn’t trying to win an argument. She wasn’t defending herself and not asking him to choose between his version of the past and hers. She was simply trying to talk to him. Really talk to him. And judging by the fact that he was sitting alone in his living room listening this closely, it was working. 

The knowledge came over him slowly as Annie exhaled on the recording and fell quiet for a moment. She hadn’t made him a playlist. She’d built him a conversation.

And Smoke was finally listening.

Track 2: Truth Is

The silence that followed Annie’s recording didn’t last long. A few seconds later another song began to play.

Smoke recognized Fantasia instantly. That alone made him sit back. Annie had always loved Fantasia. Not casually either. That girl treated Fantasia songs like scripture. Back in high school, he’d spent an entire semester listening to Annie defend her against people who insisted she sang too many sad songs. Annie always disagreed.

“They ain’t sad,” she’d argued one afternoon from the passenger seat of his car. “People just don’t like the truth.”

At the time he’d rolled his eyes and told her she sounded fifty years old. At sixteen, he’d thought she was being dramatic. At twenty-six, he wasn’t so sure.

The song continued playing while Smoke leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. At some point he’d stopped treating the mixtape like background noise. His attention remained fixed on every word, every transition, every choice she’d made. Annie had spent two weeks putting this thing together. Two weeks deciding what came first and what came next. Nothing about that sounded accidental.

Which meant Truth Is was here for a reason. The message wasn’t difficult to understand.

The truth is. Three simple words. Words capable of ruining an otherwise peaceful evening.

Smoke closed his eyes.

The memory arrived before he could stop it.

It was years ago. Long enough that he couldn’t remember the exact date anymore. Stack had talked him into going out after work. A restaurant on the other side of town. Some female Stack was messing with at the time had a cousin or a friend she insisted would be perfect for him. Smoke remembered almost none of the details now. Not her name, what she ordered, or what they talked about.

He only remembered the feeling.

The woman was beautiful. Smart too, and easy enough to talk to. The conversation never stalled. She asked questions and listened to the answers. By every measurable standard, the night should’ve been a success. Stack certainly thought it was. The first thing out of his mouth the next day had been, “So when you seein’ her again?”

Smoke remembered shrugging. Remembered saying, “I don’t know.” At the time he’d blamed work, timing, then the fact that he wasn’t looking for anything serious. The same excuse he’d been feeding everybody for years. Listening to Fantasia now, he found himself wondering if that had ever really been true, because the part he remembered most wasn’t the woman.

It was the moment she’d laughed.

For one brief second she’d tilted her head back and smiled, and before he could stop himself he’d thought about Annie. The thought had simply appeared. 

Uninvited and Automatic.

Annie would’ve laughed louder. Annie would’ve made fun of him afterward. Annie would’ve stolen something off his plate and then argued about why it didn’t count as stealing.

The comparison lasted all of three seconds. The date never stood a chance after that.

Smoke rubbed a hand across his mouth.

The song continued. Another memory surfaced. Then another. Different women. Different years. Different cities. Every single one ending exactly the same way. Nothing wrong with them. Nothing he could point to and say that’s why this didn’t work. Just a persistent feeling that something wasn’t there.

Or maybe somebody.

The thought crept up on him so gradually he almost missed it. For years he’d told himself Annie was the exception. The first love. The one that got away. The person everybody compared others to for a little while before eventually moving on. The problem was “a little while” wasn’t supposed to last eight years. “A little while” wasn’t supposed to survive multiple relationships, birthdays, holidays, and entire stages of life. “A little while” wasn’t supposed to follow somebody into adulthood.

Yet Annie had.

The song was still playing when Smoke lowered his head and stared at the floor. Across the room, the stereo glowed softly in the darkness. The house felt smaller now. Quieter. Like Annie was sitting somewhere nearby saying all the things neither of them had been brave enough to say before.

Truth is.

The words echoed through his head. Not the lyrics—the title. The confession hidden inside it, because the longer he listened, the harder it became to ignore the possibility that Annie wasn’t the only person this song belonged to. Maybe that was why it bothered him. Why he hadn’t reached for the whiskey in nearly twenty minutes, because for the first time all night, the mixtape wasn’t asking him to think about Annie.

It was forcing him to think about himself and that was a much harder conversation.

Track 3: Garden (Say It Like Dat)

The transition into the next song happened so smooth Smoke almost missed it. Almost. SZA’s voice eased through the speakers, and he understood Annie wasn’t done telling the truth.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Of course she picked this one. Of all the songs on the radio, Annie had always gravitated toward the ones that sounded like confessions. Songs that peeled back ugly feelings people normally tried to hide. Songs that admitted things most folks would’ve rather kept to themselves.

Garden was one of those songs.

Smoke reclined a little further into the couch. Outside, the Mississippi night continued without him. Crickets. Distant traffic. The dog was still barking. The sounds filtered through the screened window above the sink, familiar enough to disappear into the background. His attention remained fixed on the stereo. On what Annie was trying to say. At first he thought the song was about vulnerability. It was about fear.

There was a difference.

What it meant became clear slowly. The way most important things did. Piece by piece. Memory by memory.

Smoke found himself thinking about a night during their sophomore year. Football practice had run late, leaving him sore, exhausted, and running almost entirely on instinct by the time he finally met Annie outside the library. She’d talked nearly the whole walk home, telling him about a history article she’d read, Pearline getting written up in chemistry for arguing with the teacher, and some recipe she'd seen on a cooking show that she was convinced she could make better.

Smoke had listened the way he usually did after practice. One-word answers. A nod here. A quiet laugh there. Enough to let her know he was listening. Or at least he’d thought so.

Along the walk Annie got quiet. He barely noticed at first. She always had something to say. The silence felt strange enough that he eventually looked over at her.

“You alright?”

She shrugged.“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Smoke frowned. He knew better. Annie wasn’t the type to stop talking unless something was bothering her. 

He tried again. “What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

The answer annoyed him instantly because it was obvious she was lying. They went back and forth for nearly twenty minutes, Annie insisting she was fine while Smoke insisted she wasn’t, until she finally stopped walking altogether. He’d taken another few steps before he looked over. She wasn’t beside him anymore. When he turned around, Annie was standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring at the ground.

“You still like me?”

The question caught him so off guard that he laughed. It wasn’t that it was funny, it didn’t make any sense to him.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Where’d that come from?”

She shrugged again, refusing to look at him. “I don’t know.”

Smoke walked back toward her. “Annie.” “You serious?”

Another shrug.

He remembered reaching out and tipping her chin up until she finally looked at him. “Of course I still like you.”

“You do?”

“Man, what…” He laughed again, shaking his head. “I thought that was obvious.”

She searched his face for another second before finally smiling, small and almost embarrassed. “Okay.”

Then, just like that, she started walking again.

At sixteen, Smoke thought that had settled it.

He’d chalked the whole conversation up to Annie overthinking things the way Annie sometimes did. He never stopped to ask what had made her question it in the first place. Didn’t consider that spending one evening distracted by football and fatigue had been enough to make her wonder if she’d done something wrong. Sitting in his living room now, listening to a woman who had flown across state lines carrying a mixtape and eight years’ worth of unresolved feelings, Smoke felt that memory differently. Back then he’d blamed Annie’s insecurities. Now he wondered if he’d been looking at them wrong the entire time.

Maybe Annie wasn’t asking because she doubted him. Maybe she was asking because she needed to hear it. Needed confirmation, reassurance, and needed something he wasn’t particularly good at giving. Now, he wondered how many times she’d needed words and never gotten them. Because if there was one thing Annie had been asking for their entire relationship, it wasn’t grand gestures, gifts or promises.

It was words.

And words had always been the thing Smoke struggled with most.

Track 4: Damage

The next song started before Smoke could talk himself into getting another drink. He recognized the voice. But the artist? No idea. Couldn’t have told anybody if they paid him. But he’d heard the song plenty of times on the radio. At the time, he’d never paid much attention to it. 

Now he did.

That seemed to be happening a lot tonight.

By the second verse, Smoke was on his feet. He didn’t mean to stand. He just found himself moving. Restless. The same way he’d been restless beneath the pecan tree earlier. The way he’d been restless sitting on the porch pretending he wasn’t thinking about Annie while thinking about nothing else. He crossed into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, one hand rubbing absently across his jaw.

The song continued—and unfortunately, so did his memory. 

Standing in Aunt Cheryl’s yard crying.

“I came to yo’ house so excited to see you.”

The words hit differently now than they had a few hours ago. At the time he’d been too busy defending himself to really hear them.

Now he couldn’t stop hearing them.

“You acted like you couldn’t wait for me to get the fuck outta Mississippi.”

Smoke closed his eyes, because that wasn’t what happened. He knew that. Annie knew that now too. At least part of it. But knowing she misunderstood him didn’t erase the hurt she’d carried all these years. For years he’d been focused on the fact that Annie left. Focused on the unanswered phone calls, unreturned letters… silence. The feeling of being abandoned. He’d spent so much time staring at his own wound that he’d never stopped to consider hers. Didn’t stop to think about what it must’ve felt like walking out of his house that day believing she was saying goodbye to somebody she loved.

Believing he didn’t care.

Smoke exhaled slowly and looked down at his bandaged hand. The irony wasn’t lost on him. All afternoon he’d accused Annie of running, but the more he thought about it, the less that word fit. Annie hadn’t run from hard things. She stayed through grief, through loneliness. Shit, she’d spent seven years carrying around his mixtape.

Seven years. 

Through college. Through apartments. Through every version of herself she’d become since leaving Mississippi. She’d been too afraid to listen to it. Too afraid it would confirm the thing she’d feared most. That he’d already said goodbye. Yet she kept it anyway. Like some part of her couldn’t bear to hear him let her go, but couldn’t bring herself to let him go either.

That wasn’t somebody running. That was somebody hurting. The thought lingered long after the song ended. Smoke found himself looking at the damage between them and recognizing something he’d spent almost a decade avoiding.

Not all of it belonged to Annie.

Some of it belonged to him too.

That—that left him restless.

Smoke pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and crossed the living room without thinking. He grabbed his cigarettes off the end table, slipped through the back door, and stepped onto the porch. The night air met him immediately, thick with humidity and the familiar chorus of crickets beyond the fence. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the porch railing, hoping the nicotine would quiet the thoughts Annie had spent the last four songs stirring up.

Track 5: Say Yes

By the time Smoke came back inside, the cigarette had done absolutely nothing to help. The night had grown later while he stood on the porch. The sounds of the neighborhood had thinned considerably. The dog that had been barking earlier was finally quiet. The bass from music farther out disappeared. Even the crickets seemed softer now.

The house felt still when he stepped back through the door. Still and entirely too empty. Smoke shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, looking towards the stereo. Part of him considered calling it a night. 

The smarter part. 

The part that understood Annie had already managed to drag him through memories he’d spent years avoiding. Unfortunately, the smarter part hadn’t been winning much tonight. A few minutes later he crossed the room and sat back down. He pressed play on the stereo remote. The stereo clicked. Then Annie’s voice returned. For a moment she didn’t say anything. Smoke could hear movement in the background. Paper rustling. A quiet breath. 

When she finally spoke, her voice sounded different. Softer. “You know what’s really embarrassing?” 

A soft laugh escaped her. Smoke could hear the smile in it, because sometimes Annie laughed when she was nervous.

“I almost didn’t put this song on here.” A pause followed. “Actually, that’s a lie.” Another small laugh. “I knew I was gonna put it on here. I just kept trying to talk myself out of it.”

Smoke’s attention shifted completely on the stereo. Her voice sounded less playful. More exposed.

“I think what bothers me most is that I know better.” The words came quietly. “I know people probably gonna hear this and think I lost my mind.” Another pause. “Maybe I have.”

Smoke dragged a hand over his chin.

“I called you.” The words landed softly. “I tried to talk to you.” A longer pause. “And you made it real clear that whatever we used to be ain’t what we are now….”

Smoke closed his eyes.

“Maybe that’s true.” Her voice dropped. “There really is no us anymore.” 

The sentence sat between them.  Heavy. Honest.

“But…” A breath. “If somebody asked me today.” Another breath. “Knowing all that.” 

The next words came without hesitation.

“I’d still choose you.”

Smoke stared at the floor.

“I’d still say yes.”

The click sounded. Then the song began. Smoke closed his eyes. For a long moment he didn’t move. Didn’t think. He didn’t do much of anything except listen. The music filled the room, wrapping around everything Annie had just admitted.

I’d still choose you.

The words lingered because they carried a weight he wasn’t prepared for. Yet here Annie was. Still choosing him.

The thought followed him into memories of her. 

Annie asleep on his shoulder during a movie she’d sworn she wanted to watch. The way she’d automatically reach for his hand whenever they crossed a crowded room. How she’d laugh when something genuinely caught her off guard. How she’d curl her feet beneath her whenever she sat on the couch. 

The way she’d say his name.

After she gave herself to him that first time, it was like a dam broke. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Every stolen moment, every quiet hour they managed to find, he wanted her again and again—wanted to feel the way her body softened and fit against his, the way her breath would catch as she cried out his name while her fingers would dig into his back like she was trying to keep him there forever. He had never known hunger like that. He couldn’t get enough of her skin, her scent, her warmth, or the quiet sounds she made when it was just the two of them and the rest of the world disappeared.

Smoke rubbed a hand across his jaw. 

That was the part nobody ever talked about. It wasn’t just the attraction or the chemistry. It was the familiarity. The comfort. The ease of being understood without having to explain himself. Even as kids, Annie had a way of making his world feel quieter simply by being in it.

His mind went there anyway. Annie now. Grown ass woman. Hips thicker, body filled out in all the right ways. She had that steady confidence in her voice on the tape now, even with the tiredness underneath. He wondered how it would feel to take his time peeling her out of her clothes, no more rushed teenage shit. Slow. Thorough. Learning every new inch of her.

He could picture it— her looking up at him without that old nervousness, hands sure as hell when she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down. The way she’d probably arch into him, legs around his waist, knowing exactly how she wanted it. Deep strokes. Heavy breathing. The kind of sex that came with history and hunger and the quiet understanding that they’d already lost too much time.

There had only ever been one person for him. The only person who felt woven into the fabric of his life so completely that imagining a future without her felt unnatural. The only person who understood his silences without demanding explanations, and who could sit beside him for hours without needing to fill every quiet moment. Somehow, she had always managed to make a room feel less empty simply by existing inside it.

Smoke let out a slow breath, trying to shake the image.

It wasn’t just about sex. It never had been.

Annie.

The name moved through him quietly.

The song continued playing. Smoke lowered his head and stared at his hands. One knuckle was still swollen beneath the bandage. His skin still carried the faint scent of cigarette smoke.

The house remained empty. Yet for the first time all night it didn’t feel quite as lonely. Maybe because Annie’s voice still lingered in the room. Or maybe because she’d just admitted something he’d spent trying not to admit himself.

Given the chance, he’d still choose her too.

He’d say yes.

Track 6: Made For Me

The last song ended, but Smoke didn’t reach for the remote. He remained where he was, forearms resting on his thighs, staring at nothing in particular, letting the last few minutes sink in. The house had gone completely quiet again. The clock above the stove ticked steadily behind him. The ice in his abandoned whiskey glass had melted into cloudy water. Outside, the darkness pressed against the windows.

It was late.

Later than he’d thought. The mixtape had stolen most of his night. The thought should’ve made him mad. Instead, he found himself reaching for the remote before he could talk himself out of it.

The stereo hummed softly.

Then Annie laughed.

The sound caught him off guard. It wasn’t loud, but it was familiar. The kind of laugh that always sounded like she was smiling at her own thoughts.

“You know what annoys me…again?”

Smoke shook his head. Despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitched. Annie had been starting conversations that way for most of her life. “You know what annoys me?” usually meant Annie was about to say something she’d spent entirely too much time thinking about.

“I spent years trying to figure out what was wrong with me.”

The smile disappeared. His attention fully on the stereo.

“I thought maybe I was comparing everybody to some impossible version of you that didn’t even exist anymore.”

Something tightened in his chest. Her words didn’t surprise him. The older he got, the harder it became to ignore how often he’d done the same thing.

The recording continued.

“But the older I got…” Her voice softened. “The more I realized there wasn’t nothin’ wrong with me.”

The room seemed to grow quieter.

“I was just lookin’ for you.”

The click sounded. Then the song began. Smoke leaned back slowly against the couch. For a long moment he didn’t do much of anything except listen. The song floated through the room while his attention slipped somewhere he usually tried not to let it go.

Years. Entire years. Twenty-six wasn’t old. At least that was what everybody kept saying. Yet somehow adulthood had arrived anyway. Careers. Responsibilities. Bills. Funerals. Relationships. Life kept moving whether you were ready for it or not. That was the strange part. Somewhere inside all those years, Smoke had convinced himself he’d eventually wake up one day and Annie would stop being the standard. The way people claimed first loves were supposed to fade. Time, distance, and life were supposed to handle it. 

Instead, life kept handing him reminders. Jada had been a good woman. She was funny. Easy to talk to. Pretty. He enjoyed being around her, and for a while he’d convinced himself that was enough.

So he tried. 

He tried to ignore the feeling that something wasn’t quite clicking. Tried to believe that whatever he’d shared with Annie belonged to another lifetime, another version of himself that had long since grown up and moved on. But every time he started thinking maybe this could work, something held him back.

It wasn’t anything Jada did. That was the problem. She’d done nothing wrong. Yet every goodbye came too easily. A few days could pass without seeing her and it never really bothered him. When she left, he missed her company, but never her presence.

Annie was different. She could leave a room and somehow take the room with her. Annie wasn’t perfect. Lord knew she wasn’t. She overthought things. Jumped to conclusions. Held onto hurt longer than she should’ve, and when she got angry enough, she could say things sharp enough to leave scars. Yet somehow none of that changed the fact that she’d always felt right.

Right.

Such a simple word. But it explained more than all the others combined. 

Annie fit.

It wasn’t that loving her had been easy. Quite the opposite. There had been moments when loving Annie felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done. But even then, she still felt right. Like the missing piece of a conversation he’d been having his entire life. Like somebody he’d been searching for long before he knew enough to search.

The song continued. Smoke lowered his gaze toward the floor. For years he’d told himself he was protecting his peace. Protecting his heart and himself from disappointment.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe he’d simply been protecting a place nobody else had ever managed to reach. A place Annie had occupied so completely that every attempt to replace her had failed before it truly began. The thought should’ve bothered him.

Instead, it felt suspiciously close to relief.

For years he’d told himself there had to be a reason nobody else ever felt right. There had to be a reason he kept comparing Jada and other women to somebody who lived three states away. A reason eight years had passed and Anissa Marie Landry still occupied more space in his head than she had any right to.

It wasn’t because something was wrong with him. He wasn’t stuck, he didn’t believe. He'd simply spent years looking for something he’d already found once. 

Annie was right. Maybe she had just been looking for him. And maybe he’d been looking for her too.

The thought lingered. Then, before he could stop it, another one followed.

Maybe she was made for him too.

Not maybe.

She was.

Track 7: Thinking Out Loud

The track began so quietly Smoke almost missed it.

For a second he simply sat there, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and whiskey and the emotional beating Annie had spent the last several hours delivering through a collection of songs. The house had gone quiet around him hours ago. The kitchen clock ticked steadily somewhere behind him. Outside, the night pressed against the windows in a blanket of darkness broken only by the occasional passing headlights.

Then the opening notes drifted through the speakers. Smoke’s eyes opened completely. Recognition arrived immediately. Not because he remembered the title. Shit, if somebody had asked him what the song was called, he probably couldn’t have answered. But he knew the song. More importantly, he knew exactly where he knew it from.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Man.”

The word escaped quietly into the empty house.

Out of every song Annie could’ve chosen, somehow she’d found this one.

The memory came so fast it almost felt like being pulled backward through time. One minute he was twenty-six years old sitting in the middle of his living room. The next he was fourteen years old standing inside Rollers Skating Rink with rented skates laced too tight around his ankles and half the church youth group packed inside.

The place smelled like floor wax, popcorn, sweat, and stale nacho cheese. Colored lights swept across the rink while music echoed through speakers that had probably been outdated before any of them were born. Every few minutes, somebody crashed into somebody else, and laughter erupted from somewhere across the building.

Smoke had spent most of the evening regretting coming. Skating wasn’t his thing. If he’d had his way, he’d be sitting at home. But his mama informed him that sitting in the house all weekend wasn’t a personality trait and practically shoved him out the door. Stack had spent the entire ride there acting like the church had personally organized the event for his entertainment.

Unfortunately, the night had gone exactly the way Stack wanted. He was in his element. He was showing off and making a fucking fool of himself while a cluster of girls laughed at everything he said. Every time Smoke looked up, Stack was somehow at the center of another conversation.

Smoke had no interest in any of that. He’d been perfectly content skating slow laps around the edge of the rink and counting down the minutes until their mama decided they’d stayed long enough.

Then the youth pastor announced a partner challenge.

Looking back now, he couldn’t remember what the challenge actually was. He couldn’t tell you the rules, the prize, or whether anybody even won. What he remembered was standing near the wall when the youth leader started pairing people together and noticing there weren’t enough partners left.

The youth leader barely finished explaining the challenge before everybody started scrambling for partners. Stack wasted no time, calling dibs on a girl before half the room even understood the rules. Across the rink, Pearline laughed as one of the girls from church grabbed her arm and claimed her for their team. Within seconds everybody seemed to have found somebody. 

Everybody except Smoke and Annie. 

Smoke noticed it at the exact same time Annie did. Her eyes met his briefly before darting away.

Neither moved.

The youth leader looked between them and laughed. “Boom, there you go.”

Annie dropped her gaze to her skates. Smoke rolled his eyes.

The youth leader sighed dramatically. “Y’all act like I told you to get married.”

That only made things worse. 

A few minutes later they found themselves skating side by side. The awkwardness lasting all of ten minutes. Annie talked too much for awkwardness to survive around her. Every time the conversation threatened to die, she dragged it back to life with another question. Another observation. Another completely random thought that somehow made perfect sense inside her head. By the third lap she’d gotten him talking. By the fourth they were arguing about music. By the fifth Smoke found himself looking forward to whatever ridiculous thing was about to come out of her mouth next.

The crazy part was that Annie wasn’t even trying. She wasn’t flirting, showing off, or doing any of the things girls usually did when they wanted his attention. She was simply being herself. At one point she started skating backwards while carrying on an entire conversation.

Smoke stared at her. “You gon’ break yo’ neck.”

“I’m fine.”

“You ain’t even lookin’.”

“I know where I’m goin’.”

“Do you?”

Annie laughed. The sound followed him halfway around the rink. 

The music changed a few minutes later.

Smoke didn’t think much of it at first. Songs had been rotating all night. Some people cheered when they recognized one. Others groaned dramatically before continuing whatever conversation they were already having. The speakers crackled slightly as the next track started, and for a second nobody paid much attention.

Then Annie gasped. The sound caught his attention.

“Oh, I love this song.”

Smoke glanced toward the ceiling speakers before looking back at her. “Nah.”

Annie blinked. “Nah what?”

“I ain’t skatin’ to this.”

Her expression shifted instantly. Confusion first. Then suspicion. “Why?”

Smoke pointed vaguely toward the music overhead. “Cause this some white people shit.”

She shot him such an offended look that he almost laughed.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“If you actually listened to the words, they’re beautiful.”

Smoke snorted. “Aight.”

“No. Not aight.” Annie folded her arms.

The movement nearly threw her off balance and she corrected herself with an irritated little skate adjustment that only made her look more annoyed.

“Sorry, this ain’t Lil Wayne. 

Now it was Smoke’s turn to be offended. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Weezy F. Baby, girl.”

“Of course you’d say that. Every song can’t be about sex, selling drugs and threatening people, you know.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“There is when it’s all you listen to.”

“It ain’t all I listen to.”

“Sure it ain’t.”

The argument continued for another lap around the rink before Annie finally threw her hands into the air.

“You know what? Forget it.”

Smoke didn’t like that tone. “What?”

“I’m done arguing with you.” Then she pointed toward the center of the floor where couples were beginning to gather. “I’m gonna skate by myself.”

The words shouldn’t have mattered. Looking back now, Smoke knew that. She wasn’t leaving, going home, or disappearing. She was moving maybe twenty feet away. Yet something unpleasant sat low in his stomach anyway.

Annie started pushing off before he could fully understand why.

For the first time all evening, the thought of her not being beside him felt wrong. The thought arrived quietly. So quietly that fourteen-year-old Smoke almost missed it. Somewhere over the last hour he’d gotten used to her. The questions, her laughter and used to looking over and finding her beside him. The idea of spending the rest of the night without any of that suddenly felt far less appealing than it should have.

“Annie.”

She stopped and turned. “What?”

Smoke regretted speaking, because now he had to explain himself. His ears felt warm.

“I mean…”

Annie waited. One eyebrow slowly rising.

“If you wanna skate…”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “You wanna skate to the white people  music?”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “Man, shut up.”

Annie laughed. “No, answer the question.”

The smile she was trying to hide made it difficult to stay annoyed.

Smoke shook his head. Then finally looked at her. “I wanna skate… with you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Before he could make them sound cooler, or could pretend they meant something else.

For a moment Annie just stared at him. She wasn’t laughing or teasing him. Just looking. Then something flickered in her expression. Surprise. The honest kind. Then, slowly, she smiled. The smile was different from the others she’d given him all night. Smaller…softer. Like she’d suddenly become aware of something she couldn’t quite name.

Without saying another word, she held out her hand. Smoke looked at it for half a second before taking it. Her fingers were warm.

That was all.

Nothing dramatic happened. The lights didn’t get brighter. The music didn’t swell. Nobody stopped skating. The world continued exactly as it had thirty seconds earlier. Yet Smoke became painfully aware of the fact that he was holding Annie’s hand. The awareness followed him straight into the slow skate.

Around them, teenagers paired off beneath the colored lights while the song echoed through the speakers. Some couples talked. Others didn’t. A few boys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Annie looked delighted. She quietly sang along to parts of the song under her breath, mouthing words she clearly knew by heart. Smoke pretended not to notice. He noticed. Every single time.

“See?” she asked after a minute.

Smoke frowned. “See what?”

“The lyrics.”

He groaned. “Oh Lord.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They aight.”

Annie gasped dramatically. “‘Aight’?”

“They ain’t Lil Wayne.”

That earned another laugh. The sound landed deep in his chest.

The song continued. The conversation flowed. At some point Annie stopped trying to convince him the song was amazing and started talking about something else entirely. A teacher she didn’t like. A test she thought she’d failed. Pearline threatening to fight somebody earlier that week.

Smoke couldn’t remember most of it anymore. What he remembered was how easy it felt. The strange comfort of it. The way an hour had somehow turned into two without him noticing. How being around Annie required less effort than being around almost anybody else.

That was the part that stayed.

Her.

The way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she cared about. How she laughed with her whole body, and she always looked directly at whoever she was speaking to. The way she made ordinary things feel interesting simply because she was the one talking about them. And somewhere along the way, he found himself wishing the night wouldn’t end. The thought surprised him enough that he almost looked around to make sure nobody had heard it. When the song finally faded and another one took its place, Annie released his hand and skated ahead a few feet before turning back toward him.

“You survived.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “Barely.”

Annie laughed again, then she reached out and grabbed his wrist. “C’mon.”

Before he could ask where they were going, she pulled him towards the middle of the rink.

To this day, Smoke couldn’t even remember what they were supposed to be doing the rest of the night. But he remembered everything about Annie that night. Her laughing, singing along to a song he’d spent years pretending he hated. Annie grabbing his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

And maybe that was the night it started.

A week later he would be standing in a crowded school parking lot listening to Jada talking about something, when Stack yelled from across the pavement.

He’d turned automatically. Not towards Stack—

Towards Annie.

She stood near the curb laughing with Pearline, her backpack hanging from one shoulder. The sight of her found its place in his chest with the same ease it had at Rollers. Familiar. Comfortable. Natural.

Annie looked up. Their eyes met. Surprise crossed her face first. Then a smile. Small and quick before it disappeared again.

Smoke looked away before she did, but the feeling stayed.

Looking back now, Smoke he’d spent years mistaking the feeling for coincidence. The parking lot after school. Football games on Friday nights. Church on Sundays. Cookouts at Aunt Cheryl’s house. Hallways crowded with students rushing to class. 

Somehow his eyes always found Annie.

At the time, he never questioned it. Annie had simply become part of the landscape of his life. As familiar as Stack, his Mama, and Uncle Lewis. As familiar as home. If he arrived somewhere and she was there, his attention naturally went her way sooner or later. If she wasn’t there, he noticed that too.

Back then he thought it meant nothing.

Now he knew better.

A fourteen-year-old boy standing beneath colored lights at a skating rink had looked at a shy girl with a quick smile and a laugh he couldn’t seem to get enough of. Somewhere between arguing about music, holding her hand, and wishing the song would last a little longer had quietly taken root inside him.

It wasn’t love—yet. Just the first fragile beginnings of it. The kind of feeling that grows so slowly you don’t notice it’s happening until years later, when you look up and find it’s woven itself through nearly every important memory you have.

Smoke leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. A fourteen-year-old boy had taken Annie Landry’s hand and thought the night was better when she was in it.

And whether he’d understood it or not, he’d been looking for her ever since.

Sometime during the night, Smoke fell asleep. He wasn’t entirely sure when it happened. One minute he had been lying on the couch staring at the ceiling while Thinking Out Loud drifted through the speakers. The next he was fourteen again, with Annie’s hand in his and her laughter ringing through the air. Even asleep, the memory lingered.

The sound of music pulled him back toward consciousness.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Smoke frowned before he even opened his eyes. Sunlight pressed against his eyelids. His neck ached from sleeping on the couch. One arm had gone numb during the night and the stiffness in his shoulders reminded him that thirty-minute naps and sleeping in an actual bed were two very different things.

Music continued as he laid there listening without really hearing it. His mind was still caught somewhere between sleep and memory. Then different lyrics rolled through the room and his eyes finally opened.

My face turns to gold

Hoping to find my way home

This place I don't know

No yellow brick road to follow

The living room looked different in daylight. The whiskey glass still sat on the coffee table. His bandaged hand rested against his stomach. The CD case remained exactly where he’d left it the night before. Smoke pushed himself upright and rubbed a hand across his face.

The song continued. Unfamiliar to him. At least he thought it was. Frowning, he looked toward his phone. It was lying face up on the coffee table with the screen illuminated.

Spotify.

The CD must’ve ended hours ago. At some point the stereo had switched back to the playlist he’d been listening to earlier while he spent half the evening finding excuses not to press play.

Mmm, take me home, let’s make love, real love

Take me home, let's make real love, real love

Take me home, let's make real love, real love

Take me out of the blue

Smoke glanced at the screen.

Green Papaya — Lianne La Havas

The title meant nothing to him. Still, he found himself listening to the words. Really listening.

Our hearts overgrown

Longing for peace of our own

Found heaven in you

Promise to be pure and true

The house remained quiet except for the music and the occasional creak of old wood settling beneath the morning heat. Sunlight spilled through the windows, painting bright rectangles across the floor while the song floated through the room with an easy warmth that reminded him entirely too much of Annie.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop listening.

Still mountains to climb

We will survive, still got time

Or maybe everything reminded him of Annie now.

The thought would’ve pissed him off yesterday. This morning it felt suspiciously close to acceptance.

Smoke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The lyrics continued, soft and thoughtful and intimate in a way that felt less like a performance and more like a conversation. Not a desperate one.

Just someone who knew another person completely.

My partner-in-crime

Hoping you'll love me till we die

The kind of knowing that couldn’t be built overnight— that came from years. The kind that came from paying attention.

And suddenly he thought about Annie knowing he hated tomatoes, but loved tomato sandwiches. How he ate slowly, always taking twice as long as everybody else to finish a meal. How, when he was angry, she never pushed him to talk. She’d simply sit beside him in comfortable silence because she knew her presence mattered more than her words. She remembered the houses he used to draw in the margins of his notebooks. She knew he always reached for the corner piece of cornbread. She could tell when he was lying before he’d even finished the sentence.

She knew him. 

The truth quietly fell into place. Even after everything that had happened, and the years between them, Annie still knew him. His gaze went towards the CD case again. Towards the careful handwriting on the front—to the evidence of an entire night spent listening to a woman explain herself in every way she knew how.

Something shifted. Not another revelation. Those had come all night long. A decision. Clear, certain and simple. Smoke stood so quickly he nearly knocked the coffee table with his knee.

He needed to see her, not call or text. See her. 

Today. 

Now. 

Before fear had another chance to talk and pride convinced him to stay home. Before he could come up with a single excuse not to go. The urgency surprised him. One minute he was sitting on the couch and the next he was looking for his keys. 

The kitchen counter. Nothing. Coffee table. Nothing. End table. Nope…not there either.

Smoke frowned. “Where the fuck…”

He checked the kitchen again. Then checked the coffee table again. Then stopped. The keys were already in his hand. For a moment he simply stared at them. Annoyed. Half awake. Entirely too tired to be trusted.

A laugh escaped him. His shirt was still missing. He was standing in the middle of his house wearing nothing but sweatpants and determination.

He didn’t care.

For the first time in years, he knew exactly what he wanted. And for once, he intended to do something about it.

Then came the knock. Three soft taps against the front door. Smoke froze, he thought he’d imagined it. Then the sound came again. Softer this time. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. Because somehow he already knew. The distance between the living room and the front door had never felt longer. He crossed it anyway. Slowly at first. Then faster. His hand closed around the knob. For one brief second he simply stood there. Then he opened the door—

And there she was.

Morning sunlight spilled across the porch behind her. She stood there with her braids pulled into a high ponytail and a pale yellow dress that made it entirely too easy to stare. The color shouldn’t have done anything for him. It was just yellow. Yet somehow it made her look more beautiful against her smooth chocolate skin. Brighter. Like she’d carried a piece of the morning with her. 

Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, fingers lacing and unlacing together while uncertainty flickered across her face. It had been a long time since he’d seen Annie look this nervous around him. Then again, maybe she wasn’t nervous around him. Maybe she was nervous about what came next.

Neither spoke. They simply stared at each other. Two people who had spent eight years carrying the same thing in different ways.

Then Annie swallowed. A small smile appeared.

“Hi.”

Smoke forgot every single thing he’d planned to say.

End Note: Y'all know Smoke is about to fuck Annie into a coma, right? Right. K, byeeee! ✌🏾💜

Tag List: