D’s World

That particular Tuesday morning, she'd been in good spirits.

Stack remembered that too — the specific quality of her mood, light and anticipatory, the way she'd hummed while she dressed and come to find him in the warm tangle of the bed where he was still trying to talk himself into consciousness.

She'd perched on the edge of the mattress and put her hand on his arm. "I'm heading out. Market first, then Decatur."

"Mm." He'd found her hand without opening his eyes. "Your flowers."

"My wisteria," she corrected, with the primness of a woman defending something she knew was ridiculous and had decided not to care. "They were coming in beautiful last week. I want to take some cuttings before the heat gets to em’."

"You and them flowers, I swear." He'd cracked one eye open to look at her. She was already done up — hair pinned, a pale yellow dress, looking like the kind of morning a man would want to wake up into. "Normal women collect dishes. Spoons. You out here unnaturally attached to a weed."

"Wisteria ain’t a weed."

"It's growing on an abandoned fence, in the middle of—"

"It is not a weed," she said, with great dignity, and he'd laughed and pulled her down and kissed her temple and her cheek and the corner of her mouth until she was trying not to smile and failing completely.

"You a crazy woman," he'd murmured into her hair. Fond. Helplessly fond.

"You in love with this crazy woman," she'd said back, soft and certain, and pressed her lips to his jaw before she stood and smoothed her dress and went.

He'd listened to her footsteps move through the house. The quiet of the front door.

Then he'd turned his face back into the pillow and gone back to sleep, easy and untroubled, because it was Tuesday and Annie was going to the market and then to her flowers and then home.

That was how Tuesday worked.

The juke was quiet in the late afternoon — the interim hour between the day men leaving and the night crowd arriving, when the place belonged mostly to the staff and the sound of chairs being set right.

Stack was going over the week's receipts at the back table when Deacon Hollis wandered in, which was not unusual. Deacon was seventy-something and had been drinking at this particular establishment through three different owners and two of his own wives. He came in most afternoons for one glass of something and whatever conversation was available.

He settled at the bar and said to the boy wiping down the counter, "Busy on Decatur Street today. Had to go all the way around."

Stack didn't look up.

The bar boy made a sound of mild interest.

"Some kind of commotion," Deacon continued, with the relish of a man who had no urgent business anywhere and could therefore linger on details. "Couple hours back, maybe more. Police come through, asked some questions. Seemed like somebody saw something they shouldn't have, or something got moved that shouldn't be."

Stack turned a page.

"Right near that empty lot," Deacon added. "The one with all them purple flowers on the fence."

Stack's hand stilled on the page.

Just his hand. Nothing else visible changed — not his expression, not his posture, nothing that the room would have clocked as meaningful. But his hand stopped moving, and in the space behind his eyes something very cold and very focused began assembling itself.

The lot with the purple flowers.

Annie's lot. Annie's Tuesday. Annie who had left that morning with a cloth in her bag for wiping down the blooms and had said I want to take some cuttings before the heat gets to them and whom he had not heard from since.

He set the receipts down.

"Deacon," he said, and his voice came out even. Measured. "What time you say that was?"

Deacon turned on his stool, pleased to have an audience. "Oh, two o'clock maybe? Half past? The officers was already gone by the time I come through, but old Ruth from the dress shop was still standing outside talking about it. Said she'd seen a woman—"

Stack was already standing.

Deacon blinked. "You alright, son?"

But Stack was already moving through the back, already pulling the curtain aside that separated the main room from the office where Smoke was doing what Smoke was always doing — sitting with numbers and a cigarette and that particular quality of stillness that could mean anything or nothing.

Smoke looked up.

He took one look at his brother's face and put the cigarette down.

"Talk," he said.

Stack talked. Smoke listened with the unnerving focus he brought to all things that required it, and when Stack finished, Smoke didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at the middle distance. Doing the same arithmetic Stack had already done and arriving at the same unbearable sum.

Then he stood, picked up his coat, and said, "Let's go find out."

They found out.

A man named Lenny Briggs, one of their runners, who had heard something he hadn't known what to do with and had been working up the courage to come to the juke when Stack found him first on the corner of Fifth and Marsh. Lenny had the look of a man who would have preferred not to be found.

He told them what he knew.

Slim’s men — a rival outfit who had been circling the east side numbers territory for the better part of a year, looking for a pressure point, looking for the particular lever that would bring the Moore brothers to a table they hadn't chosen. They had found their lever. They had taken her off the street somewhere between the market and the lot — right around the wisteria, which Stack would think about for a long time after — and they had her at the old Beaumont property on the south road.

Lenny gave the address with the energy of a man trying to make a down payment on his own continued wellbeing. Stack received the information without expression, said "Thank you" in a voice that was quiet and even and somehow worse than shouting, and turned south.

Smoke fell into step beside him and put one hand briefly on his brother's arm. The old signal. Wordless. Be smart. We get her first. Everything else after.

Stack's jaw was granite. He nodded once.

They were smart. They were fast.

There were two men outside and three within.

Smoke handled the outside — efficient, practiced, the kind of violence that begins and ends cleanly because it has a purpose and knows what that purpose is. Then he pushed through the door.

Stack was still in the room with the last one.

The man was on the floor. Had been on the floor for a while, by the look of it. Stack was crouched over him, one knee on the ground, and he was not finished. The man had stopped being a threat some time ago and Stack had continued anyway, methodical and terrifyingly quiet — no rage in his face, which was somehow worse than rage. Just something hollow and absolute, like a door that had been opened onto nothing.

Smoke stood in the doorway for a moment and watched.

Then he said, "Stack."

Stack didn't stop.

"Stack." Harder this time. Not a shout — Smoke didn't shout — but weighted. The kind of voice that expected to be heard.

Stack's hand stilled.

He stayed crouched for a moment, breathing. The sound of it filled the room — ragged, too fast.

Smoke crossed to him and put one hand on the back of his neck. Firm and present. "She's in the back," he said, low. "She's okay. We got her. Come on back now."

A long beat.

Stack looked down at what was in front of him. Something shifted in his face — not quite recognition, not quite regret. More like a man surfacing from very deep water and finding the light strange.

He stood. Didn't say anything. Just turned and walked toward the back of the building, and Smoke followed, and neither of them looked back at the room.

The door came off its hinges.

Not broken — removed. Stack had simply decided it was in his way and dealt with it accordingly, and Smoke caught it without breaking stride and set it against the wall with the quiet efficiency of a man long accustomed to making the world cooperate, and stepped through the threshold behind his brother.

The room was dim. Smelled like damp wood and kerosene and something metallic that neither of them dwelled on.

And there, in the far corner —

There she was.

Their matriarch. Their woman. Their Annie.

Smoke exhaled. Just the one breath. One single moment of relief so complete it was almost physical, before he folded it away and put it somewhere safe.

Stack didn't bother with any of that.

He crossed the room in four long strides. Annie barely had time to register him before he pressed her back against the wall — not rough, not cruel, but absolute. Like he needed something solid behind her. Like he needed to know she couldn't be taken anywhere else.

"Stack—" Smoke started.

The younger twin didn't hear him. Or if he did, it didn't matter.

His hands came up to her face. Both of them. Palms bracketing her jaw, thumbs moving across her cheekbones, fingers pressing back into her hair. Frantic eyes cataloguing everything — the dried tear tracks, the slight swelling at her wrist, the small cut at the corner of her lip that made something behind his eyes go very briefly and very darkly wrong before he forced himself onward. Keep checking. Keep confirming.

Here. Alive. Breathing. Theirs. Home.

Annie had never felt more precious than in that moment. Not cherished — that was too soft a word for what was happening. Something rawer. Something that lived below language.

Once he had confirmed what he needed to confirm, he swept down and claimed what had always been his.

Blood still painted his face. She could smell the iron as he descended, and some distant sensible part of her registered that it should frighten her — the state of him, what it implied, the fact that none of that blood was his.

But she was not always a sensible woman when it came to these men.

She let him have it. Let him take the kiss like it was owed — because it was. Raw and primal and a little gruesome the way all true things are a little gruesome. His chest heaved against hers, and his hands were trembling — Stack's hands, which she had never once seen tremble — moving over her arms, her sides, her face. Touching. Feeling. Verifying.

She felt it all move through her like weather. His fear. His fury. His absolute, immovable devotion.

I know, she thought. I know, baby. I know.

She murmured it into his hair when he finally broke, forehead dropping to her shoulder, a shudder moving through him she felt with her whole body.

"I know. I'm here."

Smoke stood back and watched.

Because Stack needed this. Maybe Annie needed it too — to be held this completely, this desperately, after hours of not knowing when or whether. But Stack needed it most. So Smoke stayed where he was and gave the man the room.

Annie met the older twin's eyes over Stack's bowed head.

Nothing passed between them except everything. She saw the tightness at the corner of his jaw. The controlled version of the same thing Stack was barely containing. She held his gaze until she saw his shoulders drop a single fraction of an inch.

I see you. I'm alright. He's alright. We're alright.

Stack made a sound then — small and cracked and quiet, pressed into her shoulder. The kind a man makes only when he doesn't mean to. She felt it like something giving way.

She pulled him in tighter.

"It's okay," she murmured, hand pressing flat between his shoulder blades. "I'm here, baby. I ain't goin' nowhere."

He held on.

Annie had been the one taken.

But it was Stack who felt like he had lost his heart.

A long moment passed. Then, muffled against her shoulder, rough and still unsteady — somewhere between a reprimand and a man who had been terrified into raw honesty:

"And you ain't gon’ do no shit like that again."

Annie closed her eyes.

Her hand moved slow and steady through his hair.

"No," she said softly. "I ain't."

Smoke pulled the lamp low before he sat at the foot of the bed.

It was well past midnight. The house had gone completely quiet. Annie lay in the middle of the bed, Stack curved against her back with his face tucked into her hair, one arm thrown across her waist like a man holding on even in sleep.

Cleaned up now. Dressed down. The blood long gone — Annie had done it herself at the basin, quiet and methodical, and Stack had sat on the edge of the tub and let her. Had not said a word while she washed his hands and his face and his split knuckles, which told their own particular story that she had received without comment and without flinching.

She was awake. Smoke had known she would be.

"He out?" Smoke asked, low.

"Mm. Fought it some." Her hand moved slowly through Stack's curls. "But he's out."

A beat of quiet between them. The lamp flame held steady.

"You alright?" he asked.

"I'm whole," she said. Her particular answer — the one that meant something more than fine and less than undamaged and asked him to understand the distance between those things.

He accepted it. He would look at her properly in the morning.

"Elijah." Soft but weighted.

"I'm listening."

She was quiet a moment, eyes on the ceiling.

"I ain’t never seen him like that," she finally said.

Smoke was quiet too, for a long stretch of seconds.

He had been there. He had witnessed what Annie had not fully seen — what had happened in those rooms before they reached her. He knew the shape of what his brother had done, and he knew that Stack, of all people, of all the men Smoke had stood beside in all the years of their lives — Stack was not supposed to be the one who went that far past the line.

"No," Smoke said. "Neither have I."

She absorbed that. Let it settle.

"Was it bad?" she said.

"Depended," Smoke said, "on which side of it you were on."

A breath that was almost a laugh. "That ain't an answer."

"It's the honest one." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at his brother's sleeping face. The furrow still between his brows, even now. "He went past what was needed. Kept going after it was done. I had to call him back." A pause. "Twice."

Annie's hand stilled in Stack's hair for just a moment. Then resumed.

"He was ahead of me the whole way there," Smoke continued, quieter now. "I known Stack all my life. Watched him in situations that would've laid other men down. He's always had something working up here even when he's pushed — he thinks. He's always been able to think." He paused. "Tonight he wasn't thinking."

"What was he doing?" she said.

"Feeling," Smoke said simply.

Annie closed her eyes.

Stack shifted against her in his sleep, brow tightening, and she made a soft sound and his face smoothed again, like he could hear her even under everything.

"He knew something was wrong before anyone told him," she said. Not quite a question.

"Yes."

"How?"

Smoke was quiet for a beat. "Your flowers."

Annie stilled.

"Deacon came in talking about a commotion on Decatur. Near the lot." Smoke glanced at her. "Stack was across the room. He heard the words purple flowers and that was all it took."

Something moved across Annie's face. Too complicated to name.

"All those Tuesdays," she said softly.

"He knows your Tuesdays, Annie." Smoke's voice was matter of fact, the way he said things that were simply true and required no decoration. "He knows how long the market takes and which way you walk and what time you're usually back. He noticed before any message came. Before anyone came to us at all. He put it together himself."

She was very quiet for a moment.

"Lord," she breathed.

Outside, the wind moved through the pecan trees, that soft sound of a summer night settling into itself.

"You need to say something to him when he wakes," Smoke said. "Not about what happened in that room — he doesn't need to explain himself and you don't need the details. But he needs to hear that you see him the same." He looked at her steadily. "That tonight ain’t change your eyes when you look at him."

"It didn't," she said. And then, smaller: "It just — added to what's already there."

Smoke held her gaze for a moment. Then nodded once, slowly.

"And me," she said, after a breath.

"And you," he confirmed.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he agreed. "When he's with us and you've both rested. But Annie." His voice dropped a register, quiet and absolute. "What you love doing, where you go — none of that changes. But how you move through the world when we not with you?" He held her gaze. "That's the conversation we're gon’ to have."

Annie's chin lifted slightly. She didn't argue it. But she held his gaze long enough to communicate that it would be a conversation and not a sentencing, and Smoke acknowledged that with the smallest dip of his head.

Good enough for tonight.

He rose and came around to his side — the familiar geography of their life, every night for years — and settled in.

The bed held all three of them, as it always had.

Annie lay in the dark and looked at the ceiling and listened to the two men breathing, one deep in sleep, one slipping toward it.

She thought about that morning. The yellow dress. The cloth she'd tucked into her bag for the blooms. Stack's voice still rough with sleep, laughing at her — you and those flowers, I swear — and pulling her down and kissing her like she was something ridiculous and wonderful and entirely his.

Crazy woman.

Your crazy woman.

She pressed her lips to his temple in the dark. Soft as a secret.

His arm tightened across her waist even in sleep.

Love should be calm, she thought. Peaceful. The kind of thing you can sleep inside of and wake up still held by.

But she thought about the words purple flowers landing across a quiet room. About the hand going still on the receipts. About Smoke’s thirty-some years of knowing someone so well that the wrong silence sounded like a scream.

The act of love, she thought, was something else entirely.

She exhaled.

She was home.

They were home.

Outside, somewhere, her wisteria grew on its rotting fence — untended, extravagant, stubbornly beautiful — and knew nothing about any of it.

______

A/N If you could find it in your hearts to forgive me? 🥺 Don't know what to say that would explain this absence so I'm not going to say anything. Feels like all I give ya'll is excuses for real. I am okay. Doing well. Life is just lifeing, interviewing for a new job (pray I get it!) I'll be in Chicago next week actually. So I'll def do some writing there :) Hope you're all well. Hope you enjoy this bite sized piece of our lovely trio. Love you <3

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This work of art is part of "The Moore Kind" universe. Where Smoke, Annie, and Stack exist as a Trio. If you'd like to learn more about them, check out My Masterlist 😘

___

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

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Lamar walked closer, circling Stack like he was inspecting a doppelgänger.

“Y’all dead serious?" he asked. “Like…twin twin?”

Stack nodded. “Apparently.”

Lamar pointed between them. "Nah, this is crazy. You just been hidin’ this nigga??”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. “I ain’t know about him either.”

That sobered the room quick as hell.

Stack noticed that. The way everyone seemed to respect his brother. Now that he got to know him a little bit better, he understood why.

They didn’t press or make any more snide comments. They just nodded and picked their weights back up.

“Damn,” Lamar sighed deeply before nodding at the younger twin. “Well…welcome, bro.”

Stack nodded back. “Appreciate it.”

Smoke kept walking once the men resumed their strength training. 

“Locker rooms back there,” he said. “Office you seen. Smith machines over here.”

Stack followed, hands in his pockets now, more relaxed.

“You built all this yourself?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“No partners?”

“Hell nah.”

Stack nodded slowly as understanding crossed his face. “Same.” 

Smoke glanced at him.

That was the first real moment of mutual recognition again. Not just blood but mindset and work ethic.

“You know what’s crazy?” Stack said after a beat.

“What?”

“We did the same thing.”

Smoke raised a brow. “How?”

“Built something from nothing,” Stack explained. “Different industries. Same drive.”

Smoke considered what Stack was saying for a second and then nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I see that.”

They walked back to the lobby, Smoke a stride or two in front of Stack. 

Stack smirked as a thought crossed his mind. “You still should’ve gotten a better logo though.”

Smoke stopped mid-step and then turned slowly. “…You got jokes?”

Stack shrugged. “I run branding too.”

Smoke stepped closer. “You saying my shit ugly?”

“I’m saying it could use a little refinement.”

Smoke stared at him, then a slow grin spread across his face. “Yeah, you my brother for real.”

By the time Stack left Sunrise Athletics, the Mississippi sun had started melting gold across the streets. His chest felt lighter. Not even close to being completely healed but lighter in the way a locked room felt once somebody finally cracked a window open.

He drove back to the Airbnb with one hand on the wheel and the other resting against his mouth, replaying everything Smoke had said.

You got me now.

The words wouldn’t leave him alone, and neither would the image of Smoke laughing. It had changed his whole face. He wondered why Smoke didn’t smile often. 

Stack pulled into the driveway slower than necessary, staring at the house for a second before killing the engine. The front porch light was already on. You always left a light on for him no matter where you were. Something about that tiny detail always pulled at his heartstrings. 

He grabbed the grocery bag before stepping out of the car and climbed the steps two at a time before unlocking the door.

The smell of garlic and butter hit him first. Then something sweet underneath it he couldn’t place. 

Ricotta? Mascarpone?

Your voice floated from the kitchen, interrupting his thoughts. “Baby, if you didn’t bring me a sweet tea, don’t even come in here.”

Stack chuckled instantly, and before he could respond, you appeared around the corner wearing one of his hoodies and fuzzy socks, stopping short the second you saw his amused face.

“Oh,” you murmured as your expression softened immediately. “You look…refreshed.”

Stack shut the door behind him quietly. “I think I am.”

That alone told you everything. You crossed the room quickly and wrapped your arms around his waist. Stack folded around you on instinct, burying his face into your neck for one long second like he needed to recalibrate.

“How’d it go?” you asked softly as you cupped the back of his neck and hugged him tighter. 

Stack exhaled sharply against your skin. “I got a brother,” he whispered, like he still couldn’t believe he was saying it out loud.

Your chest tightened. “You guys have a good talk?”

“Mhm.”

“And?”

Stack pulled back slowly, looking at you with eyes that still carried traces of earlier tears.

“He’s…” Stack laughed softly to himself. “He’s real as hell.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s your type of person.”

“Nah,” Stack corrected immediately. “That’s my big brother.”

The pride in his voice almost made you emotional.

You guided him toward the couch, sitting beside him while he talked, and for the next twenty minutes, Stack unraveled.

He told you about the gym first. How solid the facility was and how people respected Smoke without him having to demand it. How swiftly Smoke moved through the building like he’d bled for every square foot of it.

“He built all that himself,” Stack said quietly. “No partners. No handouts. Just…him.”

“Just like you, huh?” You noted as you watched the admiration spread across his face.

"You're proud of him already,” you observed gently.

Stack looked down at his hands. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I really am.”

Then he told you about the office they had in Smoke’s office. The lies and timelines. The realization that both parents had made separate choices to erase half of their children’s lives.

You held his hand tighter through that part, and when he mentioned a picture from it, he squeezed your hand tighter and stopped talking. 

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “What picture frame?”

Stack swallowed hard before announcing, “He has a kid.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“Little girl named Elisa.” Stack nodded slowly, eyes distant now. He chuckled weakly before continuing. “Pretty kid too. Missing teeth. Smoke said she runs the whole house.”

You smiled despite yourself, but Stack didn’t. His brown eyes filled with more unshed tears.

“That shit broke me, baby,” he admitted quietly as tears finally fell down his cheeks.

Your heart cracked a little at the honesty in his voice.

“I realized…” He paused, jaw tightening. “I realized I’m somebody’s uncle, and I missed her whole life.”

You moved closer immediately, pressing against his side. “Elias…”

“I know it sounds dramatic—”

“It doesn’t.”

Stack looked away quickly, embarrassed by the emotion threatening to crawl back up his throat.

“I just kept thinking…” he sniffled. “What else did we lose?”

You rested your head against his shoulder carefully. “I know it’s a lot to adjust to, baby,” you said softly. “You still have the future. Make every day count.”

Stack closed his eyes. “Smoke pretty much said the same thing.”

You smiled faintly. “See? Big brother already making sense.”

That finally got a laugh out of him.

“There’s more,” he said.

You lifted a brow. “More than surprise siblings?”

“He asked why we came down here.”

“You tell him about the kid Sammie?”

Stack looked at you like he still couldn’t believe the sentence he was about to say.

“Sammie Moore is our cousin.”

You slapped his chest. “Get the fuck out.”

“I’m dead serious!”

You blinked at him in disbelief. “The singer??”

“Yes!”

“The one you’ve been stalking on social media for three weeks?”

“I was scouting talent,” Stack countered immediately.

“You had post notifications on that young man.”

“He can sing!”

You laughed so hard you almost slid off the couch.

Stack laughed with you this time, head falling back against the cushions. The sound filled the room and your heart warmly because for the first time since Mississippi, he didn’t sound defeated. He sounded alive and ready to navigate this new relationship with his twin. 

When the laughter settled, you studied him carefully. “You like him.”

Stack’s smile softened instantly because he already knew who you meant.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I really do.”

“Was it awkward?”

“At first.”

“And now?”

Stack thought about the hug and the way Smoke had looked at him like he mattered already.

“…No,” he said honestly. “Not anymore.”

You squeezed his thigh gently. “I’m so happy for you, honey.”

Stack looked at you for a long moment before leaning over and pressing his lips to yours in a slow, grateful kiss. 

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I don’t know how you always know what to say.”

You smiled. “Contract lawyer. Expensive skill set.”

He huffed softly, then his expression shifted again—more thoughtful this time. “He wants you to come tomorrow night.”

Your brows lifted. “Me?”

“Mmhmm. We’re meeting Sammie at this place called Club Juke.” Stack paused. “And confronting our Dad there too.”

You blinked once. “What kind of Tyler Perry multiverse is this?”

Stack groaned loudly. “That’s exactly what I said.”

You laughed again, but then your expression softened. “You nervous?”

“A little.”

“About meeting Sammie?”

Stack shook his head. “About confronting Dad.”

That sobered the room immediately.

You reached for his face gently. “Just remember you’re not alone. You got me and Smoke now.”

His eyes searched yours. “Smoke said something like that too.”

“See?” you teased softly. “Your brother and I are already sharing dialogue.”

Stack grinned despite himself, then his phone buzzed with a new message. 

Smoke: Annie said y’all should come by for dinner before Club Juke tomorrow. Don’t wear nun fancy. Elisa gon’ probably spill juice on you.

Stack stared at the message for a second, then smiled so wide it almost looked boyish.

“What is it?” you questioned.

He turned the phone toward you, and your heart melted as you read the text from Smoke. Because somehow, less than forty-eight hours after learning each other existed…they were already trying to become family.

— 

The next evening, Stack spent entirely too long deciding what to wear. Which was objectively ridiculous because he owned a modeling agency. He styled editorial campaigns for a living. He had personally sat front row at Fashion Week while people twice his age begged for his approval.

“You’ve changed shirts four times,” you called from the bathroom doorway, already dressed and glowing with amusement.

Stack glanced up from fastening his watch.

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Three and a half.”

You snorted.

The Airbnb bedroom smelled faintly like your perfume and his cologne, the warm Mississippi evening drifting through the cracked balcony door. Outside, cicadas buzzed loud enough to sound electrical.

Stack checked himself in the mirror again. Dark jeans, fresh sneakers, and a black fitted tee under a lightweight jacket. An effortless casual look. 

“You look fine, honey,” you told him.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

Stack adjusted the sleeve of his jacket unnecessarily. “I don’t know what the protocol is.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For…” He gestured vaguely. “Brother—uh, family stuff.”

That almost took you out. You laughed so suddenly Stack frowned at you.

“Don’t laugh, Y/N. I’m serious.”

“No, baby, I know,” you giggled, walking over to smooth your hands down the front of his shirt. “It’s just cute.”

“I don’t want to be cute.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, that’s the only reason why I’m marrying you and trying to give you a kid.”

Stack rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You fixed the collar of his jacket gently. “There’s no protocol. Just be yourself.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake,” you said. “Your brother already likes you.”

The word still visibly affected him.

Brother.

Every time somebody said it, Stack looked like part of him still couldn’t believe he’d earned the title. Before he could answer, his phone buzzed.

A text from Smoke.

Stack opened it immediately.

Smoke: Y’all better not be dressed like y’all going to the Grammys. Sammie performing at a juke joint not the BET Awards.

You burst out laughing after reading over his shoulder.

“Oh my God, he knows you already.”

Stack typed back quickly.

Stack: I naturally have range and elegance. That’s not my fault.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Smoke: You sound irritating as hell.

Stack grinned.

Stack: And yet you texted me first.

This time, the reply took longer.

Smoke: Shut up and hurry up. Annie already made too much food.

Something warm spread across Stack’s chest again. Not in an overwhelming way but in a sense of grounding. Like roots finally growing where there had been nothing but empty space before.

—

Smoke’s house sat in a quiet neighborhood lined with broad trees and deep porches, the kind of street where people still waved from driveways and kids rode bikes without anybody panicking every five minutes.

Warm light glowed from the windows. It was a beautiful home. Pastel blue with eggshell trimmings. A real home. 

Stack slowed as he parked along the curb. His stomach flipped relentlessly as his fingers fidgeted with the keys.

“Hey,” you said softly, touching his arm. “You sure you okay?”

Stack stared at the house.

“Yeah,” he exhaled sharply. “I just…” His throat tightened unexpectedly.

This was the first time in his life he’d ever walked into a sibling’s home. The first time he’d be meeting his niece and sister-in-law. A family he didn’t know he already had. 

You squeezed his hand. “C’mon, Uncle Stack.”

He looked at you sharply and then groaned. “Don’t start.”

You laughed and climbed out first.

By the time Stack made it to the porch, the front door swung open, and here stood Smoke. He was wearing a black tee, grey sweats, and glasses low on his nose this time, which immediately caught you and Stack off guard because something about it felt weirdly intimate and domestic.

Smoke looked between the two of you, then his eyes zeroed in on Stack’s outfit.

“…Nigga.”

Stack blinked. “What?”

Smoke pointed at him. “Why you dressed like you about to accept an NAACP award?”

You burst into laughter instantly.

Stack looked offended. "Man, this is casual.”

"No, it ain’t,” Smoke deadpanned. “You look way too moisturized and expensive.”

“You say that like it’s a crime.”

Smoke stared at him for another long second. Eventually he stepped aside with a muttered, “Man, come on in here.”

Stack walked in smiling and immediately got hit with the smell of cornbread, seasoned meat, and something sweet baking in the oven.

His chest tightened again because the house sounded lived in. Gracie’s corner was playing somewhere in the distance, with tiny footsteps upstairs. Pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.

A family.

Real, warm and alive. 

“Annie!” Smoke called toward the kitchen. “Your new brother-in-law here dressed like he sellin’ luxury watches.”

“Leave him alone!” Annie called back immediately. “At least somebody in this house got style.”

Smoke looked betrayed.

“See?” Stack said smugly.

Smoke sucked his teeth loudly and shut the door behind him.

Suddenly, tiny footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“Daddy?!”

Stack barely had time to turn before a little blur launched down the staircase at dangerous speed.

“Elisa, slow down—”

Too late.

The little girl skidded around the corner, beaded braids bouncing wildly before she stopped dead in front of Stack.

Big brown eyes blinked up at him, and Stack couldn’t help but stare right back.

Because Jesus Christ. She really did have his face. Not completely but enough. More than enough to knock the air clean out his lungs.

Elisa tilted her head slowly and then pointed. “You look like my daddy.”

The room went quiet.

Smoke leaned against the wall, watching carefully.

Stack crouched slowly to her level, heart pounding so hard he could almost hear it.

“…Yeah,” he said, nodding gently . “I know.”

Elisa squinted harder before gasping dramatically. “WAIT.”

Smoke rubbed a hand over his face immediately like he already knew chaos was coming.

"Your daddy's brother?” Elisa asked as she poked Stack’s nose.

Stack blinked. “Uh…”

“She’s been asking questions all day,” Annie announced, appearing from the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel.

Stack nearly forgot how to speak again because Annie was beautiful. Smile warm and eyes soft but sharp at the same time. The kind of woman that immediately explained why Smoke had built his whole life around protecting his peace.

Annie smiled at Stack gently.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Annie.”

Stack stood quickly. “Hi. I’m Elias—uh, Stack.”

“I know." Annie laughed softly. “I’ve heard about you for twenty-four hours straight.”

Smoke groaned. “Baby—”

“You too,” Annie said sweetly as she extended her hand to you. “Y/N, right?”

You nodded and grabbed her hand. “Yes, I’m Elias’s fiancé. Very nice to finally meet you.” 

Elisa tugged Stack’s sleeve suddenly. “So you my uncle?”

Stack looked down at her, and hot tears welled up in his eyes again. That grief resurfaced and made his heart ache. His eyes flicked briefly toward Smoke, almost uncertain.

Smoke held his gaze for a second and then nodded once in certainty. 

Stack looked back at Elisa slowly.

“…Yes, Elisa,” he whispered. “I’m your uncle Stack.”

Elisa grinned so wide it nearly killed him. “COOL.”

Then, before Stack could even process the emotional damage of being claimed by a four-year-old, she grabbed his hand.

“C’mere,” she ordered.

Stack blinked. “Where we going?"

“To my room.”

Smoke immediately snorted. “Yeah, good luck.”

Annie pointed toward Smoke without even looking at him. “Don’t start.”

"Elisa, don’t show rooms,” Smoke muttered. “She likes to interrogate people.”

“I do not!”

“You absolutely do.”

Elisa ignored both of them and tugged Stack harder. “Uncle Stack!”

The title hit him right in the chest again.

Not Elias or mister. 

Uncle.

It was as if she had made the decision in under thirty seconds, and that was that.

Stack let her drag him halfway toward the stairs before glancing back at you helplessly.

You were trying so hard not to laugh and failed miserably. 

“Save yourself,” you mouthed.

“Coward,” he mouthed back.

Smoke folded his arms, watching the whole thing with poorly hidden amusement. “Go ahead. She gon’ ask you your favorite color, your blood type, and your credit score.”

Elisa gasped loudly. “Daddy!”

“What?” Smoke defended. “I’m warning him.”

“She only asked for my credit score once,” Annie recalled casually before disappearing back toward the kitchen.

Stack barked out a laugh.

Then Elisa tugged again. “C’mon!”

Stack finally surrendered. “Alright, alright.”

The staircase creaked softly beneath them as Elisa pulled him upstairs with the urgency of somebody unveiling a museum exhibit.

Halfway up, Stack glanced down. Smoke was still standing near the front door. Watching with curiosity and something else he couldn’t define. 

Like he was witnessing something he never thought he’d get to see.

Their eyes met briefly, and Stack realized something that almost unraveled him all over again. Smoke wanted this. Not just the uncovered truth but this family folding together naturally.

Smoke gave him one small nod.

Go ahead.

Stack swallowed and followed Elisa upstairs to her room, and it looked exactly how Stack imagined it would.

Neon pink and chaotic. Tiny sneakers kicked beneath a pink beanbag chair. Stuffed animals lined up against the wall like they paid rent. Crayon drawings taped everywhere. One crooked picture frame held a photo of Smoke asleep on the couch with newborn Elisa sprawled across his chest.

Stack smiled before he could stop himself.

“He drools in his sleep,” Elisa informed him seriously.

Stack coughed to hide a laugh. “Good to know.”

“He says he don’t.”

“He lying?”

“Yes.”

Stack nodded solemnly. “Damn—I mean, uh, dang. Starting the relationship off with secrets already.”

Elisa giggled, then she climbed onto her bed and patted the comforter beside her expectantly. Stack hesitated only a second before sitting carefully. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

Elisa studied him openly for a long moment. No fear or uncertainty in her eyes, just curiosity. 

“You really Daddy’s brother?” she asked.

Stack nodded slowly. “Looks like it.”

“How come I never seen you before?”

And there it was, the million-dollar question. Simple from a child. Devastating for everyone else.

Stack’s throat tightened as he searched carefully for an answer a four-year-old could carry.

“Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes,” he explained. “Big ones.”

Elisa considered that deeply before she said, “Daddy says 'sorry' a lot when he make mistakes.”

Stack let out a surprised chuckle that helped ease the ache in his chest. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She leaned closer confidentially. “Mommy too.”

“That sounds healthy.”

“What’s healthy?”

“Your house. Your family.” 

Elisa beamed proudly like she personally paid the mortgage.

Downstairs, laughter drifted faintly from the kitchen. Warm and inviting. Stack listened to it for a second too long because suddenly he could picture their family dynamic.

Smoke carrying Elisa through the house after bath time. Annie scolding because somebody tracked mud through the kitchen. Movie nights, birthday parties, and Christmas mornings.

Years of memories Stack hadn’t even known existed. Grief brushed against him again quietly this time—not sharp enough to cut, but enough to still sting.

Elisa noticed immediately. She was such an observant kid. 

“You okay, Uncle Stack?” she asked softly.

Stack blinked quickly and smiled.

“Yeah, Peanut.”

That nickname slipped out naturally.

Elisa smiled so wide it revealed the little gap in her teeth again. “You talk like Daddy.”

Stack looked down for a second, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

A knock sounded softly against the doorframe. Smoke entered and leaned against the door, arms folded across his chest.

For a second, nobody spoke. Smoke’s eyes moved between Stack and Elisa sitting together on the bed. Something unreadable flickered across his face. It wasn’t sadness or anger, something deeper. Wonder, maybe. Like he was staring at a piece of his life he thought was nonexistent.

“Elisa,” Smoke said gently, “let your uncle breathe.”

“I am letting him breathe.”

“You been interrogating that man for ten minutes.”

“She asked for my credit score,” Stack deadpanned.

Smoke pointed immediately. “See?”

Elisa dissolved into giggles.

Smoke shook his head, but Stack caught the smile pulling at his mouth before he hid it. Then Smoke’s expression softened again.

“Dinner ready,” he said.

Elisa hopped off the bed instantly and sprinted past him. Smoke stepped aside just in time.

“Don’t run, Elisa Moore!” Annie yelled from downstairs automatically.

Tiny footsteps somehow sped up even more.

The brothers were left alone in the doorway for a moment.

Smoke looked at Stack carefully. “You good?”

“No,” he admitted as he sighed deeply. “But…I think I will be.”

Smoke nodded like he understood exactly what that meant. Then his gaze drifted briefly toward Elisa’s room. Toward the life they were standing inside.

“You already got her attached,” Smoke muttered.

Stack huffed softly. “Think she attached herself.”

“Yeah,” Smoke agreed. “She do that.”

A comfortable moment of silence passed, then Smoke clapped a heavy hand against Stack’s shoulder.

“C’mon, lil bro,” he said. “Before Annie start yellin’ at both of us.”

This time when Smoke called him "lil bro," Stack smiled without any sadness attached to it at all.

The dining room felt expensive in the kind of way that couldn’t be bought. Not curated but lived in. 

The table was already set by the time Stack and Smoke came downstairs—plates stacked neatly, glasses sweating with sweet tea, cornbread still steaming beneath a towel-lined basket. Music played softly somewhere in the background, something old-school and smooth humming through the house while Annie moved around the kitchen with practiced ease.

Stack noticed immediately that Smoke stayed close to her without even realizing it. A hand brushing her lower back as he passed. Annie stealing roasted potatoes off his plate while he pretended not to notice. Years of domestic choreography. 

“You gon’ keep standing there staring or sit down?” Annie teased, pulling Stack from his thoughts.

Stack blinked. “Sorry.”

“She does that to people,” Smoke mentioned. 

Annie pointed a spoon at him immediately. “Don’t start.”

Smoke held his hands up. “See what I deal with?”

“You love what you deal with,” Annie corrected.

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Unfortunately.”

“Daddy!” Elisa gasped dramatically from her booster seat. “That’s rude!”

Smoke walked over and kissed the top of her head. “You right, Peanut. My bad.”

Stack watched the interaction quietly, chest aching again—but softer this time. Not so much as grief but a healthy kind of longing. The kind that made him want more of this new life instead of mourning the old one.

By the time everyone sat down, the atmosphere had shifted fully into something easy and comfortable. It was almost as if the house itself had decided Stack belonged there.

“You better eat before Elisa start stealing,” Smoke warned as Stack reached for his fork.

“I do not steal,” Elisa argued.

Annie took a sip of tea calmly. “You stole three of my fries at lunch.”

“That was sharing.”

Smoke looked at Stack. “See what I’m saying?”

Stack chuckled around a mouthful of pot roast. “She definitely yours.”

“Elijah swears she only acts like me,” Annie said.

“She do.”

“Liar.”

“Baby, she just argued semantics over french fries.”

You snorted into your drink.

Elisa pointed at you suddenly. “What your job do?”

The table quieted slightly.

You blinked. “My job?”

Elisa nodded seriously while chewing cornbread. “Daddy said Uncle Stack got a model business. You one of his models? You not that tall.” 

Smoke nearly choked on his sweet tea.

Stack covered his face instantly. “Oh my God.”

Annie burst out laughing.

“Elisa!” Smoke coughed. “That is not what I said.”

"Yes, it is,” Elisa argued confidently.

“No, baby, I said she’s a contract lawyer.”

“Oh.” Elisa thought about it. “That sounds boring.”

You barely contained a snort. “Sometimes it is.”

Elisa gasped. “Do you get sleepy at work?!”

Stack looked deeply amused now. “She interrogating everybody tonight.”

“Told you,” Smoke muttered.

You smiled at Elisa warmly. “I help people understand really important paperwork before they sign things.”

Elisa blinked. “Like homework?”

“Honestly? Kinda.”

“Ew,” Elisa said immediately.

The entire table laughed.

“But it’s important,” you added dramatically. “Because if people don’t read contracts carefully, they can lose money.”

That caught her attention. “Daddy likes money.”

You nodded. “So does your uncle.”

“How much money do people lose?” She pressed. 

Stack leaned back in his chair. “Enough that your daddy would start raising hell.”

Smoke nodded immediately. “Facts.”

“Elijah Moore,” Annie reprimanded.

“What, woman? I ain’t curse.”

Yet somehow that made everyone laugh harder.

Elisa pointed at Stack next now. “So you the model boss?”

Stack sat up straighter. “I am.”

“What that mean?” She questioned as she picked at the vegetables on her plate. 

“It means I help talented people become stars.”

Smoke glanced over. “That was smooth.”

“Thank you.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “You definitely from Chicago.”

“You say that like Mississippi ain’t produced greatness.”

“Name five things.”

Stack pointed around the table instantly. “You, Elisa, Annie’s cornbread, Sammie apparently, and…” He paused dramatically before adding, “This sweet tea.”

Annie laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.

Smoke looked offended. “Oh, so you flirtin’ with my wife through beverages?”

“She made the tea!”

“Still.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I am.”

Annie shook her head fondly while Stack grinned into his drink.

Then Elisa asked you a question so simple and direct. Childlike in the most dangerous way.

“So…” she started, swinging her legs beneath the chair. “Are you Uncle Stack’s wife?”

The table quieted for half a second.

You nearly inhaled your sweet tea wrong. Stack blinked once before looking over at you instinctively, and the second his eyes landed on you, his whole face softened.

“Not yet,” he said warmly. “But she will be.”

Heat bloomed instantly in your chest.

Across the table, Annie smiled so wide she had to hide it behind her glass.

Smoke leaned back slowly, eyebrows raised. “Oh, so we being serious tonight.”

Stack pointed his fork at him immediately. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t say nothing.”

“You was about to.”

“I absolutely was.”

“Elijah,” Annie warned, laughing now.

Elisa gasped dramatically. “You getting married?!”

“Yes,” you answered this time, smiling despite yourself. “Next spring.”

Elisa’s eyes widened like you’d announced a Disney parade, and her fork clanked against the table when she dropped it to clap her hands. 

“Can I come?!”

Smoke snorted. “Baby, you can’t invite yourself to people's weddings."

“Why not?”

“…Actually,” Stack interrupted thoughtfully, “she kinda can.”

Elisa beamed triumphantly.

“I want pink cake,” she declared.

Annie laughed. “See? She already planning the reception.”

Smoke shook his head. “This family moves fast as hell.”

The word settled warmly around the table.

Family.

Not heavy this time. Easy. Like it was second nature. 

Annie’s expression softened as she looked toward you. "How's wedding planning going, Y/N?”

You exchanged a quick glance with Stack before answering.

“It’s been really good,” you gushed. “Stressful sometimes.”

“And expensive,” Stack added.

Smoke pointed across the table. “There go the honesty.”

“You paid for doves to be released?” Stack asked.

“Nah,” Smoke replied. “We courthouse people.”

Annie looked at him sharply. “We are not courthouse people. You are courthouse people.”

Smoke grinned into his drink.

Annie rolled her eyes before looking back at you warmly. “Don’t let him fool you. He cried during our first dance.”

Smoke almost choked. “BABY.”

“It’s true!”

Stack immediately burst into laughter.

“Oh nah,” he said. “Big bro emotional?”

Smoke pointed his fork aggressively. “Watch yourself.”

“You cried?” you asked your soon-to-be brother-in-law.

“Daddy a crybaby!” Elisa blurted in between giggles.

Smoke looked deeply betrayed now. “Why everybody attacking me in my own house?”

“Because it’s funny,” Annie teased.

Smoke muttered something under his breath about being “surrounded by enemies,” but Stack noticed the way his brother looked around the table afterward.

At Annie.

At Elisa.

At you.

At him.

His brother was content. Like despite all the pain of the last four days…something beautifully inevitable had started growing anyway.

Elisa tilted her head at you again. “Mommy says babies come after weddings sometimes.”

You and Stack went still for exactly one second too long. Just enough for Smoke and Annie to sense the shift. Your hand instinctively found Stack’s beneath the table.

Smoke’s expression softened immediately. Annie glanced between the two of you carefully, warmth replacing curiosity.

Stack handled it beautifully.

“We’re hoping for that someday,” he said gently.

Elisa nodded seriously like that made perfect sense.

“Well,” she declared confidently before taking another bite of cornbread, “I think I want a cousin.” 

A softer yet more tender silence hit the table this time. Because none of the adults were prepared for how hard that sentence would land. Especially not Stack after everything they’d lost already.

Dinner stretched longer than any of you intended. Not because the conversation was extraordinary but because nobody wanted it to end.

You were hoping for a child soon. You didn’t care if it was a boy or girl; you just wanted a healthy child. 

At some point, plates became empty while nobody noticed. Elisa migrated from her booster seat into Stack’s lap halfway through dessert like she’d known him her whole life instead of less than two hours. Annie disappeared briefly to pack leftovers “because men never feed themselves properly,” while Smoke argued weakly from the sink that he literally owned a grill. 

The house settled around everyone naturally, and Stack kept catching himself drifting. He was soaking in every single interaction. 

Smoke carrying Elisa upside down over one shoulder while she squealed dramatically. Annie threatening both of them with bedtime. Elisa teaching you the steps to the Veggie Dance. The framed family photos lining the hallway. All the little things. The things he should’ve had the chance to experience years ago.

By the time the night started winding down, Elisa was fully asleep against your shoulder on the couch, tiny fist curled into your blouse.

Annie smiled softly from the doorway. “She likes you.”

You looked down at the sleeping child fondly. “I noticed.”

“Usually she terrorizes people first.”

“She did interrogate me.”

“That just means she trusts you.”

Smoke emerged from the kitchen as he was drying his hands on a dish towel. His eyes immediately landed on Elisa sprawled across you, and something in his face softened instantly.

“She knocked out?” he asked quietly.

“Apollo Creed style,” you whispered.

Smoke snorted softly as he walked over carefully and scooped Elisa into his arms with practiced ease. The little girl barely stirred, immediately tucking her face into his neck.

Stack watched the whole thing silently. His chest started to ache again. Smoke glanced at him over Elisa’s sleepy head and immediately understood.

No words needed to be exchanged because he just understood. 

“Imma put her down,” Smoke announced quietly.

Annie nodded. “I’ll be up in a second.”

The house felt quieter after they disappeared upstairs.

Annie started gathering dishes while you followed her automatically toward the kitchen.

“Oh no,” Annie said immediately. “Guests don’t clean.”

“Good thing we family now,” you shot back.

Annie grinned. “Okay, I like you.”

Stack watched you disappear into the kitchen with Annie, your laughter blending together almost instantly.

Then suddenly it was just him. He took advantage of the short window and took some deep breaths. Dinner was great, but he was still overwhelmed with this feeling of impending doom. He was about to meet his father. All his life he was told his father died. He was so angry but mostly terrified. What if his father wasn’t who he imagined? What if his father didn’t like him? Maybe Mom kept him away from Dad for a reason? But that still wasn’t fair to him and Smoke. 

Smoke reappeared a minute later, calmer somehow after putting Elisa to bed. Tired in a good way. The older twin leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely.

“She still sleep?” Stack asked.

“Out cold.”

A quiet beat passed, then Smoke jerked his chin toward the front door. “Walk with me.”

The Mississippi night air wrapped warm around them as they stepped onto the porch.

Crickets buzzed loud in the dark. Somewhere down the street, music drifted faintly through an open window.

Smoke sat down on the top porch step first.

Stack followed. He didn’t realize how close he sat next to his big brother until their shoulders brushed, but Smoke didn’t move, so Stack didn’t either.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward, just heavy. 

Smoke rubbed his hands together once and looked over. “You really love her, huh?”

Stack smiled immediately like he always did whenever you were the subject. Like his body answered before his mouth could.

“Hell yes,” he admitted quietly. “More than anything.”

Smoke nodded slowly like he’d expected that answer. “I could tell.”

Stack glanced over. “How?”

“The way you look at her,” Smoke said simply. “Like she keeps you steady.”

That hit embarrassingly close, so Stack chuckled softly under his breath. “She do.”

Smoke leaned back against the railing behind him.

“You was really out here wild before her?”

Stack groaned loudly. “Oh my God. You really know me, huh?”

Smoke snorted because he had a feeling Stack had his fair share of women. “Nah, nigga. Answer the question.”

“I was not wild.”

“You was what then?” 

“I was…exploring adulthood.”

Smoke looked unconvinced. “That sound like community service dick.”

Stack nearly choked laughing. “Damn, you ain’t gonna even pretend to cut me some slack?” 

“Hell nah.”

Stack scrubbed a hand over his face, grinning despite himself.

“I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t think relationships lasted. Not real ones anyway.”

Smoke’s expression shifted slightly at that.

Stack stared out into the dark neighborhood.

“Mom loved me,” he said quietly. “But it always felt like she was surviving something she never talked about.”

Smoke stayed silent as he listened. 

“So I dated,” Stack continued. “A lot. Nobody serious. Nobody permanent. Then I met Y/N.”

A small smile pulled at his mouth again.

“And your slutting was over?”

“Immediately.”

Smoke huffed softly. “Damn.”

“She’s…” Stack shook his head like words weren’t enough. “She makes my loud-ass life quieter.”

“I didn’t even know life didn’t have to be so goddamn chaotic until she walked in my life, man.” 

That landed because Smoke understood exactly what that meant. He could write poetry about all the ways he loved Annie and still run out of pages. 

“She knows every version of me,” Stack sighed deeply. “The polished one. The arrogant one. The insecure one. All of it.”

Smoke nodded slowly. “That’s your person.”

“Yeah,” Stack whispered. “That’s my person.”

The porch fell quiet again, and then Stack’s voice got softer.

"We've been trying to have a baby.”

Smoke looked over immediately.

Stack swallowed hard. “For almost a year now.”

The night suddenly felt heavier.

“She’s been taking all these fertility medications,” Stack groaned in frustration. “Shots. Hormones. Doctor appointments. The whole thing.”

Smoke’s face tightened slightly. “And still nothing?”

Stack shook his head once. The grief in that movement almost hurt to witness.

“I think…” Stack paused. “I think sometimes she blames herself.”

Smoke frowned immediately. “That ain’t fair.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t let her talk like that, right?”

“Never.”

Smoke nodded once, approving.

Stack looked down at his hands.

“I just want that life with her,” he expressed. “A family. Kids running through the house. Her yelling at me for teaching them nonsense.”

Smoke smirked faintly. “You definitely would teach them nonsense.”

“Absolutely.”

“But you want it bad.”

Stack’s eyes drifted toward the upstairs window where Elisa slept.

“Yeah,” he said honestly. “I really do.”

Smoke was quiet for a long moment after that. Eventually he broke the silence and said, “It’ll happen.”

Stack glanced over.

Smoke shrugged slightly. “Might not happen how or when you planned. But if it’s meant for y’all? It’ll happen.”

Something about the certainty in his tone settled deep into Stack’s chest.

“Thanks.”

Smoke nodded once, and then his expression darkened slightly.

“Aight,” he muttered. “Now we gotta talk about the hard part.”

Stack’s stomach tightened instantly.

Their father.

Smoke leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. “You need to prepare yourself before we confront Daddy.”

Stack’s jaw flexed. “That bad?”

Smoke let out a humorless laugh. “Worse.”

The night air suddenly felt colder.

“He ain’t loud all the time,” Smoke warned carefully. “That’s what make it tricky. He knows how to cut people up calm.”

Stack listened closely.

"He's proud,” Smoke continued. “Real mean when he wanna be and he's damn good at making you feel guilty for questioning him.”

That sounded familiar in ways Stack hated.

Smoke glanced over slowly. “If he thinks he's losing control of a conversation, he gon’ attack.”

“Verbally?”

“Any way he can.”

All Stack could do was let out a nervous laugh as he wiped a hand over his face. 

Smoke’s jaw tightened.

“I ain’t tellin’ you this to scare you,” he assured. “I’m tellin’ you so you don’t walk in there thinkin’ he all soft just cause he older.”

Stack nodded slowly, and after a beat he asked, “You scared?”

Smoke looked out into the dark for a long moment.

“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I just got a bad feeling.”

The honesty surprised both of them.

Smoke exhaled heavily. “Cause if he could lie about this…” He shook his head once. “What else is he capable of?”

Neither of them had an answer for that.