LIV

SMOKE MOORE

- *SPARKS, SMOKE AND SCARES, I

After sneaking away for some alone time at Sammie’s cookout, Annie faces unexpected emotions weeks later when she begins to suspect she might be pregnant.

- SPARKS, SMOKE AND SCARES II

Annie’s negative pregnancy test leaves her uncertain, but worsening symptoms lead Smoke to discover she’s been hiding doctor’s papers. Protective and loving, he confronts her, and together they return for follow-up tests, where the ultrasound finally confirms what they’ve been thinking all along.

- STACKS OF TROUBLE

When Annie has an emotional meltdown after Smoke eats the last cookie, what starts as a silly argument spirals into a full-blown late-night adventure.

- *ANGEL AFTER DARK

On a quiet Halloween night, Annie surprises Smoke at his empty office, turning his long work shift into something far more intimate.

- SICK DAYS

When Amara comes down with a sudden viral illness, her parents, Elijah and Annie Moore, drop everything to care for her through feverish nights, clingy days, and quiet moments of worry.

STACK MOORE

- *ALL ROADS LEAD HERE

As Smoke & Stack’s new club opens its doors, guilt hits Stack hard, making him face the truth: he’s been neglecting the one person who matters most.

- *FITTING MOMENTS

A long day at a dress fitting leaves Rhiannon drained, but Stack’s spontaneous check-in changes everything. Between quiet words and lingering touches, a simple visit becomes something unforgettable.

- *UNINVITED GUEST

When Rhiannon heads off on a girls trip, Stack can’t stand being apart. Flirty texts turn into a surprise visit at her villa, and what starts as playful teasing quickly ignites into something more.

- WHILE YOU WERE SLIPPIN’

When Stack’s hustle starts coming between him and Rhi, she steps out to remind him what he’s risking. One night out turns into a wake-up call and Stack’s ready to do whatever it takes to keep his woman.

- DINNER DATIN’

Stack and Rhiannon’s quiet night out with friends quickly spirals into chaos. Marcus and Naomi’s petty bickering pulls the couple into the drama, and when Marcus crosses the line with inappropriate comments toward Rhi, Stack loses his shit.

- THE LEMONADE ANTHOLOGY

A collection of stories inspired by Beyoncé’s LEMONADE album.

- *TANGLED IN IVY

Stack and Rhiannon are ready to steal the show at their Halloween party — he’s a vampire, she’s Poison Ivy, and the chaos around them is just background noise. When a wardrobe mishap sends Rhiannon upstairs, a private, heated moment turns the night into something much more unforgettable.

- GROWN FOLKS WORDS

When 16 month old Isaac picks up a grown folks word from his daddy, what starts as a harmless laugh turns into a full house crisis. Now Stack has to unteach what he accidentally encouraged.

BOTH BROTHERS

- LATE NIGHT LESSONS

After sneaking out for a late-night snack, the girls face the boys’ frustration, but teasing, kisses, and cuddles turn the night into one of intimacy and laughter.

- SCREAMS & SCHEMES

In the week leading up to Halloween, Rhiannon and Annie orchestrate a series of increasingly terrifying pranks on their partners, Stack and Smoke. But when the boys refuse to be scared, they quietly plot a final, high-stakes reversal.

- COWBOY CARTER ANTHOLOGY

Featuring Smoke Moore x Stack Moore

Summary: Elijah and Elias confront the sudden death of their childhood friend, Isaiah. They revisit childhood spots, recalling memories of laughter, mischief, and innocence lost. Attending Isaiah’s funeral, they witness a community honoring his life with song, stories, and shared grief.

TW: Overdose, Death.

The sun was just creeping over the rooftops of their city. Golden light spilling across the streets and catching the dust on the window sills. Elijah and Elias sat at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee warming their hands but doing little to ease the chill of the news that had arrived last night. A text from Isaiah’s cousin sat on Elijah’s phone, blinking insistently:

He didn’t make it. Call me if y’all can come.

Elias ran a hand over his face, exhaling slow. “Damn… he really gone, huh?”

Elijah’s eyes were fixed on the table, fingers drumming nervously. “Accidental overdose,” he said low. “Ain’t no warning. One minute he laughin’, jokin’… the next… he ain’t.”

Elias shook his head. “Man… we ain’t even been talkin’ regular. Life get in the way, I guess. Work, bills, all that. Thought we’d catch up later. Guess later ain’t comin’.”

Elijah leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “All them little things we missed… sittin’ on his porch, laughin’ at dumb jokes, hearin’ him talk crazy… they gone. Gone for good.”

Elias’ voice cracked a little. “Man… it hit different when it’s someone you grew up with. Someone who knew your whole story… all the dumb, messy parts. He… he knew us.”

Elijah nodded, silent for a beat. “Yeah. He did. And we just… drifted.”

By mid-morning, the brothers were dressed and heading out to Isaiah’s home. The streets of their hometown looked the same — small houses, wide porches, oak trees leaning over the sidewalks — yet everything felt sharper, heavier. They arrived to see neighbors and friends milling outside the house, quiet murmurs filling the air.

Hattie, Isaiah’s mother, stood on the porch, her shoulders hunched beneath the weight of grief. When she saw the twins, her face broke into a shaky smile before it crumbled again. She came forward and wrapped them both in a hug.

“Y’all boys came,” she whispered, holding them tight. “Thank God for that. I don’t know how I’d’ve done this alone.”

Elijah squeezed her shoulder. “Miss Hattie… we’re here. We gon’ hold it up with y’all.”

Elias’ voice trembled. “He was… he was somethin’ special, ma’am. Always had a smile, always made folks laugh.”

Hattie nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I know he did. And he loved y’all too. That’s what matters.”

Elijah and Elias sat in the living room, the faint hum of the ceiling fan above mixing with the quiet sobs of Hattie. The sunlight spilled through the blinds, painting lines across the worn carpet, but nothing could make the room feel lighter.

Hattie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at them, her face tight with grief. “It started with the pain in his leg — old sports injury, y’know. Thought he could handle it with them pills the doctor gave him. But Isaiah… he ain’t never been good at stoppin’ when somethin’ hurt. Kept takin’ more, thinkin’ he could handle it. That’s how it started.”

Elias swallowed hard. “So it was accidental? He didn’t mean—”

“No, baby,” Hattie interrupted softly. “He didn’t mean it. But he was lonely, scared, and frustrated. Work was stressin’ him, bills mountin’, and all that old hurt from growing up… it don’t ever leave you. I kept tellin’ him to call me if he felt overwhelmed. But he thought he could fix it himself.”

Elijah’s jaw tightened. “He thought he could do it alone… like so many of us do.”

Hattie nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Yeah. And one night… one night it all went wrong. He took too many pills, mixed somethin’ he shouldn’t, and by the time I found him… it was too late. Too damn late.”

Elias shook his head slowly. “Man… he was tryin’, wasn’t he? Just tryin’ to keep goin’.”

Hattie reached out and took their hands, clutching them tight. “Y’all knew him. Y’all knew his heart. Remember that. Don’t let this… don’t let him be just a headline or a number. Remember Isaiah — the laughter, the fights, the way he made everybody feel like somethin’ mattered.”

Elias leaned forward first. “Ma’am… uh… Isaiah got… he got a boy, right?” His voice was careful, like touching a fragile thing.

Hattie blinked, and for a moment, it looked like she might collapse. Then she nodded slowly, voice tight. “Yeah… little Jacob. He just turned three last month. Ain’t got a clue yet. Don’t know his daddy’s gone.”

Elijah’s hand went to his forehead. “Three years old… Man. That poor little boy…”

Hattie’s lips trembled. “Monique… his fiancée… she don’t even know how to hold herself up right now. He was tryin’ to be strong for them both. Always wanted to be a good man… a good daddy. But…” Her voice cracked. “…sometimes the weight of it all, it’s just too heavy.”

Elias shook his head. “He loved ’em though. He wasn’t careless.”

Hattie’s eyes filled again, but she smiled faintly through the tears. “Loved ’em more than anything. That boy… he got his daddy’s smile, same stubborn streak too. And Monique… she’s gonna need help holdin’ it together.”

Elijah exhaled slowly. “We gon’ remember him like that. Not just the way he left, but who he was. And we gon’ help… however we can.”

Hattie reached out, gripping both their hands. “Thank y’all. That’s all a mother can ask for.”

The room settled into silence, heavy but full of understanding. The twins sat there, holding the weight of the news, knowing that Hattie’s words — raw, urgent, real — would stay with them forever. The truth of Isaiah’s last weeks and the responsibility they now carried hung in the air like the thick Mississippi heat outside, impossible to ignore.

★・・・・・・★

After a long pause, Elijah stood and stretched, rubbing at his neck. “I think… I think we need to see some of the old spots. For him. For us.”

Elias nodded, pushing back his chair. “Yeah… get them memories outta our heads and into somethin’ real.”

They walked out of the house and headed first to the old basketball court behind the community center. The paint was peeling from the asphalt, nets torn and frayed, but the ghosts of laughter were still thick in the air.

“You remember the time Isaiah shoved us both in the mud?” Elias asked, kicking at a loose rock. “Said we was laughin’ at his shoes. Thought we’d never live it down.”

Elijah chuckled softly, shaking his head. “He never did let us forget it. Said it was a lesson in humility… something about not lettin’ ourselves get too high on our own stuff.”

“Man… he kept us honest,” Elias said quietly. “Even when we didn’t wanna hear it. Even when we was too stubborn to listen.”

Elijah’s eyes softened. “Yeah. He did. That boy… he was somethin’ else.”

After a few quiet minutes there, they wandered down to the creek where they’d spent summers daring each other to jump off logs, skip stones, and dream wild dreams. The water ran cold and clear, moving around rocks worn smooth from years of tiny adventures.

“You remember that summer?” Elijah asked, tossing a stone across the water. “Isaiah dared us to jump off that old log. Said it’d make us brave.”

Elias laughed softly, but it was tinged with sadness. “Yeah… and we fell flat on our faces. Never felt so alive and scared at the same time.”

“But we was kids,” Elijah said, voice low. “Thought we had forever. Thought nothin’ could touch us.”

Elias kicked a rock into the creek. “Guess life don’t care ’bout forever. One second you jokin’, the next… gone. And Isaiah… we didn’t see it comin’. Too busy livin’ in our own heads.”

Elijah exhaled, letting the memories wash over him. “All we got is now. And the memory of what came before. That’s what we carry… what we owe him.”

The twins stood there for a while, quiet, watching the water ripple over the stones. The world was the same, but nothing felt the same. The creek, the court, the mud-slicked summers — all reminders of a childhood that had ended too early for some, and a life that had ended far too soon.

Elijah broke the silence finally. “We owe him… not just the memories, but the way we live. Honor him, honor that boy, Monique… everybody he loved. We don’t let it go.”

Elias nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the water. “Yeah. Ain’t no other choice. We got to do right by him.”

The sunlight bounced off the creek, reflecting in their eyes, warm and unforgiving, reminding them that the world kept moving, even when it took someone you loved too soon. And in that quiet, they felt the weight of the responsibility Hattie had given them — to remember, to honor, and to carry Isaiah forward through every choice they made.

★・・・・・・★

The church sat heavy in the late afternoon heat, old brick walls warm beneath the sun and humming with the quiet energy of the congregation. Cars were lined up down the street, neighbors and friends milling on the sidewalk, some holding hands, some wiping tears, some whispering prayers. The air smelled of lilies, sweat, and the faint perfume of church hats and Sunday clothes.

Inside, the organ hummed a low, comforting note as Elijah and Elias found seats near the back. Folks shuffled past in polished shoes, some children tugging at their parents’ hands, elders leaning on canes, heads bowed. The twins scanned the room, catching glimpses of old friends, neighbors, and strangers who had loved Isaiah in ways they hadn’t even realized.

Hattie sat near the front, her hands clenched over a white handkerchief, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of grief. She looked up when the twins entered, tears already streaking her cheeks, and gave them a faint nod.

The service began with the processional hymn, a soulful rendition of Precious Lord, Take My Hand, the organ and a small choir filling the church with warmth and sorrow. Elijah and Elias listened, the familiar words vibrating through the wooden pews, carrying both comfort and heartbreak.

The preacher stepped to the pulpit, his voice calm but firm. “We gather here today not to dwell on the end, but to celebrate a life lived fully, though far too short. Isaiah was a son, a brother, a friend, a partner and a father. And though he walked through valleys of hardship, he carried a heart full of love.”

One by one, people were invited to the podium to share memories. A childhood friend stepped forward first, voice cracking, recalling how Isaiah had defended him in middle school when the bullies came around. The congregation murmured in agreement, wiping tears and nodding heads.

A neighbor spoke next, describing how Isaiah had helped her fix a leaky roof one summer, hands blistered, face sweaty, but smiling the whole time. She laughed softly through her tears. “That boy… he always saw what needed doin’, and he just did it. No questions asked.”

Elijah whispered to Elias, voice low. “Man… he did good by folks. More than we even knew.”

Elias nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah… he always tried.”

Then the preacher invited a young gospel singer forward. She stood in the aisle, small and trembling, and began His Eye is on the Sparrow, her voice soaring, soft at first, then swelling with power. The congregation joined in, swaying gently, some raising hands, others quietly nodding or clapping along. Elijah felt a lump in his throat, remembering Isaiah’s own laugh, the way he would sing off-key just to make everybody smile.

After the music, Hattie was invited to say a few words. Her hands shook as she lifted the microphone. “Isaiah… my boy… you always tried to do right. You loved your family, your friends… your Monique, your baby boy… more than I ever could. And even when life got hard, you kept goin’. That’s my boy.”

Tears rolled down Elijah’s cheeks. Elias’ hand found his brother’s under the pew. “Ma’am… we gon’ make sure he don’t get lost. Ain’t nobody forgettin’ him,” Elijah whispered.

The preacher returned to the pulpit, inviting anyone who wanted to give a brief remembrance to step up. Stories poured out — Isaiah’s first crush, how he always shared candy at school, how he’d stand up for someone being treated unfairly, how he loved Monique and that boy more than anything. Laughter mingled with tears, the church alive with memory.

Then came the final hymn, I’ll Fly Away, sung slow and deliberate, voices rising in harmony. Elijah and Elias joined softly, letting the words carry them, carrying Isaiah, and carrying the weight of everything Hattie had shared about the last weeks of his life.

When the service ended, the casket was lifted and carried to the hearse, white-gloved hands moving with solemn precision. The twins followed, walking slowly behind, feeling the weight of grief in their chests. Outside, the sun was dipping lower, painting the churchyard in gold and shadow. Folks lingered, offering hugs, wiping tears, swapping whispered stories, keeping Isaiah alive in memory.

Elijah exhaled, voice low as he looked at Elias. “Life don’t wait, man. Don’t give second chances for nothin’.”

They lingered a moment longer, listening to the final notes of the hymn drift across the churchyard, absorbing the sunlight, the murmurs, the weight of memory, and the living legacy Isaiah left behind. Then, side by side, they walked to their car, carrying the lessons, the grief, and the love with them — a sacred reminder that life is fragile, every moment counts, and the people we love shape us long after they’re gone.

★・・・・・・★

A few weeks had passed since the funeral, but the weight of Isaiah’s loss still lingered, subtle but heavy, like the Mississippi humidity in July. Elijah tossed in bed, sweat on his brow, mumbling fragments of words he couldn’t quite catch.

In his dream, he and Isaiah were back at the old creek, the one behind the community center. Water ran cool over their feet, sunlight filtering through the trees in golden streams. Isaiah laughed, that loud, easy laugh, splashing Elijah with his hands.

“Man, you still can’t skip a stone worth a damn,” Isaiah teased, grinning ear to ear.

Elijah tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat. “I… I missed you, man. Ain’t never realized how much…”

Isaiah’s smile softened. “I know. I always knew y’all cared. You did what you could.”

Then the scene shifted. They were at the basketball court, the nets frayed, paint peeling, the echoes of childhood cheers surrounding them. Isaiah bounced a ball between his legs, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Y’all really think adulthood gonna hit different?” he asked, voice teasing but gentle. “Life ain’t waitin’ for nobody. Gotta take your shot when you got it.”

Elijah opened his mouth to reply, but the dream started to dissolve, the creek and court fading like smoke. He reached out, trying to grab Isaiah’s hand, but it slipped through his fingers.

Then he woke up, chest tight, heart racing, the sunlight of early morning spilling across the bedroom. He was drenched in sweat, blanket twisted around him, and for a second, the loss felt as sharp as the day he got the news.

“Baby…” a soft voice whispered. Annie’s hand was on his arm, worry etched in her face. “You good?”

Elijah exhaled slowly, sitting up, running a hand over his face. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… dreamt about him. Isaiah.”

Annie squeezed his arm, eyes soft. “You been carryin’ a lot, Elijah. Ain’t no shame in it. Dreams… they just let it out sometimes.”

He nodded, staring out the window at the quiet street. “Yeah… it felt like he was right there. Like he was telling me… keep goin’. Don’t let it go.”

Annie rested her head against his shoulder. “You’ll carry him with you, always. But you ain’t gotta carry it alone.”

Elijah closed his eyes, letting the calm settle around him. The dream had stirred the grief back up, but it also reminded him that memory, love, and responsibility could guide him forward. Isaiah was gone, yes—but the lessons, the laughter, the life he left behind… that was still here, still real.

And for the first time in weeks, Elijah felt like maybe, just maybe, he could breathe again.

★・・・・・・★

Featuring Stack Moore x Rhiannon Carter x Isaac Moore

Summary: When 16 month old Isaac picks up a grown folks word from his daddy, what starts as a harmless laugh turns into a full house crisis. Now Stack has to unteach what he accidentally encouraged.

The office was too clean for a toddler, and everybody in it knew that.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the corner unit, letting Los Angeles pour in like it had something to prove. Sunlight bounced off polished concrete floors, slid across white walls, and caught on the edges of glass desks that never stayed smudge-free for long. The furniture was intentional. Neutral-toned couches. Matte-black shelving. A long conference table that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread about startups that made too much money too fast.

There was a faint citrus scent in the air, mixed with fresh coffee and something vaguely expensive Stack couldn’t name. The AC hummed quietly, steady and cool, a relief from the heat pressing down outside.

Isaac didn’t care about any of that.

At sixteen months, he had just enough balance to be dangerous and just enough confidence to think he owned the place. Stack set him down on the rug by the couch with a soft thump, watching carefully as Isaac steadied himself, knees bent, arms out like he was negotiating with gravity.

“Aight,” Stack said, voice low and warm. “You stay right there, lil man.”

Isaac stared up at him, big-eyed, considering the request.

Then he turned and took off toward Smoke’s desk.

Smoke glanced down just in time to catch Isaac reaching for a tangled nest of cords. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, sliding his chair back with a scrape. “Nah, nah, not them.”

Isaac squealed, delighted by the sudden attention.

Stack laughed, leaning against the filing cabinet. “You see? He quick. I told you.”

Smoke scooped Isaac up with one arm, settling him on his hip like it was second nature. “Yeah, quick to tear shit up.”

The word slipped out easy. Casual. Unbothered.

Isaac’s head turned slowly.

He stared at Smoke’s mouth, studying it the way babies studied everything new. The shape. The sound. The way the sentence had dipped at the end. Smoke kept talking, unaware.

“Man, these invoices ain’t addin’ up for nothin’. I swear, every time I think—” He stopped short when Stack’s eyebrows jumped.

“What?” Smoke asked.

Stack nodded toward Isaac.

Smoke looked down.

Isaac was watching him like he’d just unlocked something.

“Shi,” Isaac said.

It came out soft, breathy. Incomplete.

Both men froze.

Then Smoke laughed, sharp and sudden. “Did you hear that?”

Stack straightened, disbelief blooming into a grin. “Man, no. He ain’t—”

“Shi,” Isaac repeated, louder this time, pleased now. His mouth stretched around the sound like he was proud of it.

Smoke’s laugh turned into a bark. “Oh, he got ears on him.”

Stack rubbed his hand over his face, already losing the fight. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Smoke shrugged. “Didn’t think he’d clock it like that.”

Isaac twisted in Smoke’s arms, reaching down toward the floor. Smoke set him back down, and Isaac immediately toddled off, wobbling but determined. He knocked into the leg of a chair, bumped his knee, sat down hard.

There was a brief pause. A thoughtful one.

“Shi,” Isaac said, clear as day.

Silence.

Then Stack folded, laughter spilling out of him despite his best effort to clamp it down. Smoke slapped his thigh, wheezing.

“Ain’t no way,” Smoke said. “This baby done learned his first real word in my office.”

Stack crouched down, pointing gently. “Nah, nah, nah. That ain’t a word for you.”

Isaac looked at him, unfazed. Then he smiled.

Because they were laughing again.

And that, Isaac understood.

At sixteen months, he didn’t have language the way grown folks did. He had sounds. Reactions. Patterns. He knew which noises brought smiles, which ones got claps, which ones made Daddy’s eyes crinkle and Uncle Smoke sound like he was about to fall over.

So Isaac experimented.

He picked up a pen from the floor. Dropped it.

“Shi.”

Smoke doubled over. “This lil dude got comedic instinct.”

Stack shook his head, laughter leaking through anyway. “Man, stop encouraging him.”

Isaac toddled across the room, pushed a stack of papers just enough for them to slide crooked.

“Shi.”

Smoke wiped his eyes. “I’m tellin’ you, he contextual.”

Stack tried again, firmer this time. “Isaac. Hey. That ain’t funny.”

Isaac paused. Looked at him. The laughter died down.

For half a second, Stack thought that might be it.

Then Smoke chuckled under his breath.

Isaac’s eyes lit right back up.

“Shi!”

It became a game after that. Not an intentional one, not to the men at least, but Isaac treated it like cause and effect. Noise. Reaction. Noise again. He didn’t understand that the word meant something. He understood that it worked.

By late afternoon, Smoke had said it three more times without thinking. Each one landed like a gift.

“Shi,” Isaac echoed from across the room, clapping once afterward like punctuation.

Stack leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching his son with a mix of pride and dawning dread. “We really messed up.”

Smoke grinned. “Relax. He’ll forget it.”

Right on cue, Isaac tripped over the rug.

“Shi!”

Stack groaned. “He ain’t forgettin’ that.”

It wasn’t until Smoke stepped out to take a call that the humor thinned out. The office felt quieter without the extra laughter feeding the moment. Isaac sat on the floor near Stack’s chair, banging two blocks together.

One slipped from his hand and rolled away.

“Shi,” Isaac muttered.

Stack inhaled slowly.

“Hey,” he said, crouching again, voice softer now. “Nah. You can’t say that, lil man.”

Isaac tilted his head, studying him. Stack held his gaze.

“That’s a grown word,” Stack continued. “That’s for—” He paused, then sighed. “That’s for when you older.”

Isaac blinked.

Stack ran his thumb over Isaac’s chubby knuckles, gentler now. “If your mama hear you say that, she gon’ be hot.”

The name did something.

Isaac’s mouth closed. He glanced instinctively toward the hallway, like Rhiannon might materialize out of thin air, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

Stack huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Isaac looked back at him.

Then, very softly, testing the air;

“Shi.”

Stack laughed despite himself, a short breath he couldn’t catch in time. “Boy, you somethin’ else.”

Isaac grinned, satisfied. Lesson unclear. Reaction achieved.

Stack scooped him up, resting Isaac against his chest, the weight familiar, grounding. He pressed a kiss into Isaac’s hair and shook his head.

“We gon’ have to undo that,” he murmured, more amused than serious.

Isaac babbled happily, fingers gripping Stack’s shirt.

Outside, the LA heat pressed against the windows. Inside the office, the word lingered in the air, harmless for now.

Stack didn’t know it yet, but the real trouble hadn’t even started.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The car smelled like leather, baby wipes, and whatever drive-thru coffee Stack had grabbed on the way out the building.

LA traffic rolled slow and stubborn around him, the sun low enough to glare through the windshield even with the visor down. Stack drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the console, posture relaxed but mind already halfway home. He could picture it clearly. Rhiannon in the kitchen. Music low. That look she gave him when something was off.

Which meant he had to get this right.

In the back seat, Isaac sat strapped into his car seat, legs swinging, humming to himself. His shoes were off. One sock was missing. The other hung halfway off his foot, abandoned mid-journey. A stuffed dinosaur rested beside him, drool-darkened and well-loved.

Stack checked the rearview mirror.

Isaac caught his eye immediately and smiled.

“Hey,” Stack said. “You good back there?”

“Good,” Isaac said proudly. It was one of his newer words, one he liked because it made people nod.

“That’s right,” Stack said. “You good.”

Isaac kicked his feet twice, pleased.

They rode like that for a minute. Just engine noise, music low, the city sliding past in sun-warmed streaks. Stack let his shoulders loosen. These drives were usually calm. Predictable. Just him and his son, a small pocket of quiet before the house filled it up again.

“Where we goin’?” Stack asked casually.

Isaac thought about it. “Home.”

“Yeah,” Stack nodded. “Home. Who at home?”

Isaac’s face lit up instantly. “Mama.”

“That’s right,” Stack said, smiling. “Mama waitin’ on us.”

“Mama,” Isaac repeated, soft and happy.

Stack glanced in the mirror again. This part mattered. He kept his voice easy but firm. “So when we see Mama, we use good words, aight?”

Isaac nodded like he understood every syllable.

“Good words,” Isaac echoed.

“That’s it,” Stack said. “Good words in the house. Say ‘uh-oh.’”

Isaac perked up. “Uh-oh.”

Stack smiled. “Good. That’s a good word. You drop somethin’, you say uh-oh.”

Isaac nodded like he understood the assignment. He babbled something back, mostly nonsense but enthusiastic. The dinosaur slipped from his lap and hit the floor with a dull thump.

There was a pause.

Stack felt it coming before it happened.

“Uh-oh,” Isaac said.

Stack let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Good job,” he said immediately. “That’s the one. That’s what we say.”

Isaac smiled, proud.

Traffic slowed suddenly. Stack tapped the brake, irritation flickering across his face before he smoothed it out. He caught himself before saying anything out loud. He was trying. Really trying.

From the back seat, Isaac leaned forward as far as the straps allowed, peering down at the fallen dinosaur.

Then, quiet but confident—

“Shi.”

Stack stiffened.

He didn’t laugh this time.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes still on the road. “Nah,” he said, calm but firm. “We not sayin’ that.”

Isaac went still.

“That’s a car word,” Stack continued, glancing at the mirror. “That word stay in the car. You hear me?”

Isaac blinked, absorbing this new rule.

“Car,” Isaac said.

“Yeah,” Stack nodded. “Only in the car. Not in the house. Not with Mama.”

Isaac looked thoughtful, like this was important information. He nodded again, slower.

“Mama,” he said.

“That’s right,” Stack said. “Mama don’t like that word.”

Isaac processed that quietly. The dinosaur rolled slightly under the seat. He stared at it.

They rode in silence for a stretch. Long enough for Stack to think maybe, just maybe, it had landed.

Then Isaac looked up at the mirror, eyes bright.

“Car,” he said.

Stack smiled despite himself. “Yeah. Car.”

Isaac grinned wider.

“Shi.”

Stack closed his eyes for half a second.

“Isaac,” he said, not angry but serious now. “I said only in the car, not whenever you feel like it.”

Isaac frowned slightly, confused by the nuance.

Stack softened his tone. “You say uh-oh. That’s a good word.”

“Uh-oh,” he said

Two seconds passed.

Very quietly—

“Shi.”

Stack shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Man. You pushin’ it.”

Isaac giggled, kicking his feet.

They turned onto their street, the sun dipping low, houses glowing warm and familiar. Stack pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. He looked back one more time, pointing gently.

“Listen to me,” he said. “That word do not leave this car. You hear me?”

Isaac stared at him, serious again.

“Car,” he said solemnly.

“That’s right,” Stack nodded. “Car.”

Isaac smiled sweetly.

As Stack opened the door and stepped out, he heard it one last time, whispered like a secret meant just for them.

“Shi.”

Stack laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he went around to get him.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m still in trouble.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The house was already alive when Stack pushed the door open.

Not loud. Just lived-in.

Soft music rolled through the space, something smooth and old-school, the kind Rhiannon played when she cooked. The lights were low but warm, reflecting off clean countertops and hardwood floors that still smelled faintly like lemon cleaner. LA modern, sure, but it felt like home in a way money couldn’t buy.

Isaac lifted his head the second the door clicked shut.

“Mama,” he said, hopeful.

Stack smiled, shifting him higher on his hip. “Yeah, that’s Mama. You know she in here.”

Isaac wiggled like he might jump clean out his arms if Stack didn’t tighten his grip.

“Easy,” Stack laughed quietly. “I got you.”

Rhiannon’s voice floated out from the kitchen before she did. “I hear my baby.”

That was all it took.

Isaac squealed, arms reaching, whole face lighting up like the sun had just walked into the room. “Mama!”

Rhiannon stepped into view, curls pulled up but already escaping. The second she saw Isaac, her tired melted clean off her face.

“There go my boy,” she said warmly.

Stack handed Isaac over, watching how easily Isaac folded into her, cheek pressed against her chest, little hands gripping her shirt like he needed confirmation she was real.

Stack leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Hey.”

She smiled up at him. “Hey, baby.”

“How you doin’?” he asked, low.

“I’m good now,” she said, rocking Isaac gently. “Y’all been out all day?”

“Yeah. Office ran long.”

Isaac pulled back just enough to look at her face, then touched her cheek with careful fingers. “Mama.”

“I’m right here,” she murmured, kissing his forehead. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Stack watched them for a second, chest tight in that good way. He reached out, rubbing Isaac’s back, then slid his hand to Rhiannon’s waist. She leaned into him without thinking, shoulder resting against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You hungry?” she asked Isaac.

“Hun-gy,” Isaac said proudly.

She laughed. “Okay. I got you.”

They moved together into the dining space like muscle memory. Stack kicked his shoes off by the door. Rhiannon strapped Isaac into his high chair while Stack washed his hands at the sink, glancing over every few seconds just to check on him.

Isaac kicked his feet, humming to himself, smacking the tray with both hands.

“Boy excited,” Stack said.

“He always is,” Rhiannon replied. “What y’all do today?”

“Work,” Isaac answered before Stack could.

Rhiannon raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, you was workin’?”

Isaac nodded hard. “Work.”

Stack chuckled. “He think anywhere I go is work.”

Rhiannon set Isaac’s plate down. “You see Uncle Smoke today?”

At the name, Isaac’s face lit up again.

“Smoke!” he said, loud and clear.

Stack paused just a beat, then relaxed when Isaac clapped and laughed instead of saying anything else.

Rhiannon smiled. “He like Smoke, huh?”

“Too much,” Stack said. “They be cuttin’ up.”

Isaac grabbed a piece of food, dropped it. It hit the floor.

Stack stiffened without meaning to.

Isaac frowned, looked down, then said, “Uh-oh.”

Rhiannon crouched slightly, smiling. “That’s okay, baby.”

She picked it up and tossed it, then wiped Isaac’s hands. “You have fun with Uncle Smoke?”

“Fun,” Isaac said, nodding.

They ate slow. Isaac fed himself more than he needed help, even if half of it didn’t make it to his mouth. Rhiannon stayed patient, wiping his face between bites. Stack leaned over, stole food off her plate like he always did.

She smacked his arm lightly. “Stop playin’.”

“You know you don’t want this last piece,” he teased.

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You a mess.”

Isaac watched them closely, eyes moving back and forth, absorbing everything. He pointed at Stack.

“Dada.”

“Yes,” Stack said softly. “That’s me.”

Then Isaac pointed at Rhiannon.

“Mama.”

“I’m right here,” she said, voice gentle.

After dinner, Stack lifted Isaac from the chair, settling him against his chest. Isaac curled right in, thumb finding his mouth, body heavy and warm.

“You sleepy?” Stack murmured.

“Sleepy,” Isaac said quietly.

Rhiannon stepped closer, resting her head briefly against Stack’s shoulder. “I’ll start the bath.”

Stack nodded, swaying slowly with Isaac in his arms. The house felt settled now. Calm. Like the day had finally caught up with them.

Isaac blinked, sighed. “Uh-oh!”

Stack knew better than to think it was over for good. But standing there, his son heavy in his arms, Rhiannon close enough to feel her warmth, the house wrapped around them like a promise, he let the moment stretch.

For tonight, that was enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The bathroom is warm and foggy, steam curling up the mirror like it’s trying to write secrets on the glass. Rhiannon sits on the edge of the tub with her sleeves pushed up, one hand steady on Isaac’s little back while he splashes with both palms like he personally responsible for creating waves.

He’s in that happy, loose baby mood. Hair damp and curling tight at the ends. Eyelashes clumped from water. Cheeks chubby and pink from the heat.

“Easy,” she murmurs when he kicks too hard and sends water flying. “You tryin’ baptize the whole house?”

Out in the hallway, Stack is moving with quiet focus. Bottle warming in a mug of hot water. He tests a drop against his wrist, nods in approval. Pajamas laid out on the dresser, soft little cotton set with moons and stars. He dims the lamp low until the nursery glows amber and calm. White noise humming soft in the corner.

He likes everything settled before Isaac even walks in.

Back in the bathroom, Isaac grabs his plastic cup and concentrates hard, trying to scoop water into it without spilling. His tongue peeks out in focus.

He tilts it too fast.

Water dumps across his belly and onto Rhiannon’s shirt.

She sighs, amused but tired. “Baby.”

He looks down at the mess.

Then up at her.

And very clearly, very thoughtfully, says:

“Shi.”

The word lands clean.

Rhiannon freezes.

Not confused. Not unsure.

She heard him.

“…What did you just say?”

Isaac blinks at her, eyes bright, like he proud he found a new sound.

He splashes again. Misses the cup again.

“Shi.”

Her face shifts.

Annoyance creeps in, slow and real.

“Isaac.”

Her tone changes just enough that he pauses.

She studies him closely now. He didn’t babble it. Didn’t mash syllables together. He used it in context.

That’s what gets her.

She lifts him out of the tub, wrapping him snug in the towel.

“We do not say that,” she says firmly. “That is not for babies.”

He squirms, confused by the seriousness.

She carries him down the hallway, damp curls brushing her cheek.

Stack looks up from the nursery, bottle in hand. “Everything good?”

Rhiannon walks past him without answering at first. She lays Isaac on the changing table and starts drying him off.

Stack watches her expression carefully.

“…What happened?”

She doesn’t look at him yet.

“Your son,” she says evenly, “just said a full curse word. Twice.”

Stack stiffens. “What word?”

Before she can answer, Isaac kicks his feet and supplies it himself.

“Shi!”

Stack’s eyebrows jump.

Rhiannon turns slowly toward him.

“He spilled water. Looked at it. And said that. Correctly.”

Stack rubs his jaw. “Oh.”

“Oh?” she repeats.

Isaac laughs at their voices, thinking this is excellent entertainment.

Rhiannon crosses her arms lightly. “Where he hear that?”

Stack hesitates.

Not long.

But long enough.

Her eyes narrow. “Stack.”

He shakes his head. “Wasn’t me.”

“Then who?”

Stack exhales. “…Smoke.”

Rhiannon’s face goes still.

“At the office,” he continues carefully. “Other day when you dropped him off for a bit. Smoke said it under his breath.”

She stares at him.

“You let our sixteen month old sit in a room where grown men are cussing?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Stack defends quietly. “It slipped. He didn’t even think Isaac was paying attention.”

Isaac, as if summoned by name, beams and repeats:

“Shi!”

Rhiannon closes her eyes briefly.

“That boy sees everything,” she mutters.

Stack nods reluctantly. “Yeah. He do.”

She adjusts Isaac’s diaper with efficient movements, still irritated.

“So now what? He just walking around the house swearing?”

“Nah,” Stack says quickly. He leans closer to Isaac. “Aye. We don’t say that.”

Isaac studies his daddy’s mouth.

“That’s not for you,” Stack continues, firm but calm. “You say uh-oh.”

Rhiannon joins in, softer. “Say uh-oh, baby.”

Isaac tilts his head.

Processes.

“…Uh-oh.”

They both exhale at the same time.

“Good,” Rhiannon says, kissing his cheek.

Then Isaac grins.

Because apparently balance matters to him.

“Shi.”

Stack turns away, hand over his mouth.

Rhiannon points at him sharply. “Do not laugh.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice tight.

She shakes her head, lifting Isaac into her arms.

“I’m calling Smoke tomorrow.”

Stack winces. “Don’t do that.”

“Oh I am.”

Isaac nestles into her shoulder, sleepy now, unaware he just started interoffice policy reform.

Stack looks at his son, then at Rhiannon.

“…We gotta start spelling around him.”

She nods once.

Because apparently the baby has been taking notes at corporate meetings.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Morning light stretches pale and slow across the bedroom, slipping past the curtains and pooling over the hardwood floors. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the baby monitor and the faint rustle of hangers shifting in the walk in wardrobe.

Rhiannon has been up for a while.

She moves in and out of the en suite bathroom, face freshly washed, robe tied tight around her waist. Drawers open. Close. Open again. She is not slamming anything. She does not need to. The message is already clear.

From the monitor on the nightstand, Isaac babbles to himself, tossing soft syllables into the air like confetti.

Stack wakes slowly, reaching across the bed for warmth that is not there.

He squints toward the closet doorway. “You up already?”

No answer.

Water runs briefly in the bathroom. Cabinet closes.

He sits up, watching her pass the doorway again, focused, composed, distant.

He tries again, softer. “Rhi.”

She steps into the bedroom to grab her earrings from the dresser.

He reaches for her wrist gently.

She doesn’t pull away fast.

But she does pull away.

“Don’t.”

He sighs. “You still on that?”

She gives him a look that could slice paper.

“Our son wakin’ up sayin’ a cuss word.”

“He ain’t even say it this mornin’ yet.”

“Yet.”

From the monitor, Isaac lets out a loud, cheerful yell.

Stack rubs his face. “It was Smoke.”

She folds her arms. “I know it was Smoke.”

“I ain’t teach him that.”

“You ain’t stop it either.”

He swings his legs off the bed. “Rhi, he was at the office for ten minutes.”

“And that’s all it took.”

Isaac’s voice crackles through the monitor again. A loud thump. Then a clear, experimental:

“Uh-oh!”

They both freeze.

Rhiannon looks toward the monitor.

Stack nods once. “See? That’s progress.”

A pause.

Then faintly: “…shit.”

Rhiannon closes her eyes slowly.

Stack winces. “Man.”

She walks back toward the closet, shaking her head.

“You think it’s cute.”

“I don’t.”

“You laughed.”

He stands and follows her to the doorway of the wardrobe. “I laughed one time.”

“That’s all he needed.”

Stack leans against the frame. “He sixteen months. He don’t even know what it mean.”

“And that’s exactly why we gotta fix it now.”

He watches her pull a dress from the rack.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I shoulda checked Smoke.”

“You should’ve.”

“I’ma call him.”

“You better.”

“And I’ma tell Isaac we don’t say that no more.”

She turns to face him fully now.

“No laughin’. No smirkin’. No ‘he used it right.’”

“I won’t.”

“You serious?”

“Yes.”

She studies him for a second longer.

“Stack.”

“Yeah.”

“If he say it in public, I’m blamin’ you.”

He huffs a small breath. “That’s fair.”

From the monitor, Isaac bangs against the crib rail and calls out brightly:

“Da-da!”

Stack can’t help the soft smile that creeps up.

Rhiannon notices immediately.

“Don’t.”

“I ain’t even do nothin’.”

“You smilin’.”

“That’s my son.”

She exhales, some of the edge finally easing. “Go get him.”

“I am.”

“And handle that.”

“I got it.”

He steps closer, testing the waters one more time, reaching for her waist.

She lets him for half a second.

Then steps back.

“Fix it first.”

He nods. “Yes ma’am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Stack comes down the stairs with Isaac balanced on his hip, one big hand supporting that little diapered bottom, the other steady at his back. Isaac is wide awake now, curls fluffed out, cheeks still warm from sleep.

He’s talking already.

“Ba-da… da-da… mm!”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Stack mutters, stepping into the kitchen. “You got a lot to say this mornin’.”

He straps Isaac into the high chair, pulling the tray into place.

“Aight. Sit up straight. We civilized.”

Isaac immediately slaps both palms on the tray and laughs.

Stack shakes his head, moving toward the counter. He washes strawberries carefully, slices them into tiny pieces. Halves blueberries. Peels a banana and cuts it small enough so nobody choke and nobody blame him.

He spoons yogurt into the little baby plate, smooths it down with the back of the spoon like presentation matters.

Behind him, Isaac is narrating his own universe.

“Da-da-da… uh… ba!”

Stack glances back over his shoulder. “Oh, now you conversational.”

Isaac kicks his feet hard against the high chair.

Stack leans against the counter, folding his arms like they about to negotiate something serious.

“Listen, bruh,” he says calmly. “We gotta talk.”

Isaac blinks at him. Smiles.

“Yo mama mad at me.”

Isaac grabs at the air.

“I’m serious,” Stack continues, pointing lightly at him. “She ain’t even look at me right this mornin’. Ain’t say nothin’ sweet. You see that?”

Isaac babbles louder. “Ba-ba-da!”

“I know,” Stack nods like Isaac just confirmed it. “You think it funny.”

He carries the plate over and sets it down in front of Isaac.

“You can’t be out here sayin’ words like that. You a baby.”

Isaac immediately dips his whole hand in the yogurt.

Stack winces. “Why you do that?”

Isaac examines his coated fingers like he just discovered paint.

Stack leans in closer, lowering his voice.

“You sixteen months. You still wearin’ diapers. You don’t even know how to put your own shoes on. But you wanna cuss?”

Isaac looks up at him.

Serious face.

Then smears yogurt across the tray.

Stack points at the mess. “See. That right there? That’s why you not ready for big people vocabulary.”

Isaac knocks a blueberry off the plate.

It rolls toward the edge and they both watch it drop.

A soft thud sounds on the floor, Isaac tilts his head.

“…uh-oh.”

Stack nods quickly. “That’s right. That’s what we say.”

He crouches to pick up the blueberry, tossing it in the trash.

“We retired the other word,” he continues, standing back up. “That one done. Over with. Gone.”

Isaac slaps the tray again.

“Uh-oh!” he repeats louder.

Stack points at him approvingly. “Exactly.”

He leans both hands on the tray now, eye level with his son.

“And let me tell you somethin’. You got me in trouble.”

Isaac stares, unbothered. He grabs a strawberry, squeezes it until juice runs down his wrist.

Stack sighs. “You don’t even know what it mean. You just like the sound of it.”

Isaac studies the red smear on his hand.

Stack freezes for a second, watching his mouth carefully.

Isaac opens his lips like he about to test something.

Stack shakes his head slowly.

Isaac blinks.

“…uh-oh.”

Stack exhales, relieved. “Good.”

Stack stands in front of him with a dish towel over his shoulder, studying him like this a strategy session.

“Aight,” he says quietly, leaning in. “We finna practice.”

Isaac blinks up at him, chewing thoughtfully.

“Say sorry.”

Isaac just stares.

Stack taps the tray lightly. “So-rry.”

Isaac’s lips move, testing the shape. “Sah…ree.”

Stack’s eyes light up. “Yeah. That’s it. Sorry.”

Isaac grins, pleased with himself. “Sah-ree.”

“Good. One mo’ time.”

“Sah-ree.”

Stack nods firmly. “Aight. When mama come down here, you gone say that. We showin’ accountability.”

Isaac babbles proudly like he just signed paperwork.

Footsteps start down the stairs.

Stack straightens up quick. “Okay. Showtime.”

Rhiannon appears a moment later, dressed for the day, calm and composed. She pauses at the bottom step, taking in the scene.

Isaac immediately lights up. “Mama!”

She walks over and kisses his forehead. “Hey, baby.”

Stack clears his throat gently and nudges Isaac’s tray.

Isaac looks at his daddy, then back at his mama.

“Sah-ree.”

Rhiannon freezes.

“…What?”

Isaac beams and repeats it louder. “Sah-ree!”

Stack folds his arms, trying to look casual. “We been workin’ on vocabulary.”

Rhiannon looks at Isaac, then at Stack.

“You told him to say that?”

“He practiced.”

Isaac bangs his tray happily. “Sah-ree!”

A smile slowly breaks across Rhiannon’s face despite herself.

“Well,” she says softly, brushing yogurt off Isaac’s chin, “that’s better.”

Isaac grabs a blueberry and promptly drops it over the side.

They all watch it fall. Isaac looks down.

“…uh-oh.”

Stack exhales under his breath.

Rhiannon nods gently. “That’s right.”

She turns to Stack, the last bit of tension finally melted.

“You handled it.”

“Told you I would.”

Before he can say anything else, she steps into him and wraps her arms around his waist. It’s not rushed. It’s warm. She presses a kiss to his cheek, then another quick one to his lips.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Stack’s hands settle at her back, holding her there a second longer than necessary.

Up in the high chair, Isaac watches closely.

He sees it.

Mama soft. Daddy smiling. Arms around each other.

He kicks his feet excitedly.

Isaac bangs his tray happily. “Sah-ree!”

“Sah-ree!” he declares again, like he part of the reconciliation.

Stack laughs softly. “Yeah, you sorry alright.”

Rhiannon leans into him just a little more, resting her head briefly against his chest.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Late afternoon light spills across the living room, warm and honey soft. Toys are scattered everywhere like Isaac personally staged a colorful crime scene. Blocks tipped over. A stuffed giraffe facedown. One tiny sneaker nowhere near its match.

Isaac sits in the middle of it all, babbling to himself while trying to fit the square block into the round hole with full confidence.

On the couch, Rhiannon adjusts the angle of her phone and taps the screen.

The FaceTime connects.

Annie answers almost immediately.

“Hi, Rhi!” Annie smiles. “Where my baby?”

Rhiannon flips the camera toward Isaac. “Say hi.”

Isaac looks up at the screen, confused for a second. Then he grins wide.

“Mama!” he says, even though it’s not her.

Annie laughs. “That ain’t me, sugar.”

Rhiannon shakes her head. “He just be assignin’ titles.”

Isaac crawls closer to the couch, trying to grab the glowing phone.

“Ba-da-da!”

Annie coos at him through the speaker. “You been good today?”

Rhiannon lifts one eyebrow slowly. “Define good.”

Annie’s eyes narrow playfully. “What he did?”

Before Rhiannon can answer, a familiar voice pops up in the background.

“Who that?”

The screen shifts and suddenly Smoke’s face appears beside Annie’s.

Rhiannon leans back into the couch cushions, already ready.

“There he go.”

Smoke squints at the screen. “What’s up?”

Rhiannon tilts the phone slightly so he can see Isaac clearly. “You see your nephew?”

Smoke grins. “My boy. What he got goin’ on?”

Right on cue, Isaac drops a block beside him.

He looks down at it.

“…uh-oh.”

Rhiannon nods once. “Mm-hmm. That part we fixed.”

Smoke blinks. “Fixed?”

She switches the camera back to her face. “Yeah. The other word he was sayin’?”

Smoke goes still.

Annie looks between them. “What other word?”

Rhiannon doesn’t break eye contact with the screen. “The one he learned at y’all office.”

Smoke shifts. “Now hold on.”

Annie gasps lightly. “He said a bad word?”

Rhiannon nods calmly. “Clear as day. Used it right too.”

Smoke rubs the back of his neck. “I ain’t teach him.”

“You said it,” she replies smoothly. “He heard you.”

Isaac starts stacking blocks now, humming to himself.

Annie looks scandalized. “Smoke.”

“What?” he mutters. “It slipped.”

Rhiannon leans forward slightly. “Well it slipped into his vocabulary.”

Smoke sighs. “He still sayin’ it?”

Rhiannon glances at Isaac just as he knocks his own tower down.

Isaac looks at the mess.

“…uh-oh.”

Rhiannon smiles faintly. “No. We handled it.”

Smoke exhales in relief. “Good.”

“But,” she continues sweetly, “if he say it again after visitin’ y’all? I’m sendin’ him back with you.”

Annie laughs loudly. “That’s right.”

Smoke shakes his head. “Man, I said I’m sorry.”

Isaac suddenly toddles over toward the couch and looks up at the phone.

“Sah-ree!” he announces proudly.

The adults go quiet for a beat.

Rhiannon smirks. “We been workin’.”

Annie claps softly. “That’s my smart baby.”

Smoke squints at the screen. “Aight, aight. I hear you. I’ll watch my mouth.”

Rhiannon nods once. “You better.”

Isaac reaches for the phone again, giggling.

Smoke softens. “Hey lil’ man.”

Isaac just babbles back, completely unbothered by the adult accountability session happening over his head.

Rhiannon leans back into the couch, satisfied.

Message delivered.

Policy enforced.

And somewhere in the background, Stack walks past shaking his head, muttering under his breath about family meetings turning into court hearings.

Isaac knocks over another block.

“…uh-oh.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The house feels different at night.

Quieter. Softer. Like it finally exhaled.

Isaac is asleep upstairs, the baby monitor glowing steady on the kitchen counter. No babbling. No blocks crashing. Just the faint, peaceful hum of white noise drifting through the speaker.

Rhiannon stands at the sink rinsing out a cup, hair wrapped, one of Stack’s old tees hanging loose on her frame. The lights are dimmed low, the kitchen washed in a warm golden glow.

The front door opens.

She glances over her shoulder.

Stack steps inside slowly, careful, like he knows he walking into something tender.

In his hands is a massive bouquet of white roses. Full. Fresh. Petals layered thick and soft, stems long and elegant. They almost look too pristine to be real.

She blinks.

“…Hey.”

He walks closer, setting them gently on the island.

“For you.”

She dries her hands slowly on a towel, eyes never leaving the flowers.

“What this for?”

He steps around the island toward her.

“For lettin’ my household get outta order.”

Her lips twitch despite herself. “Oh, so now it’s your household?”

He reaches for her waist gently. “It’s ours. That’s the point.”

She looks up at him then.

He looks serious. Not playful. Not teasing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve shut that down at the office. Should’ve been more mindful. He watch everything I do.”

Her expression softens completely now.

“You did fix it,” she says. “You talked to him.”

“I should’ve protected it before it even started,” he replies.

She studies him for a long second.

Then she steps forward and wraps her arms around him.

Not halfway.

Fully.

He exhales against her shoulder, hands sliding around her back, holding her like he mean it.

The roses sit behind them, fragrant and still.

“I know you ain’t mean no harm,” she murmurs.

He presses his lips to her temple. Slow and lingering.

She tilts her face up to him.

He kisses her then. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just deep and steady, like apology and gratitude wrapped together.

Her fingers curl lightly into his shirt.

The house stays quiet. No interruption. Just the low hum of night settling in around them.

When they pull apart, she rests her forehead against his.

“White roses?” she asks softly.

“Clean slate,” he answers.

She smiles, brushing her thumb along his jaw.

“You dramatic.”

“For you?” he murmurs. “Every time.”

She laughs under her breath and kisses him again, shorter this time but warm.

Upstairs, the monitor stays silent. Isaac sleeps peacefully, unaware that his little experiment with language brought home flowers and grown folks accountability.

Downstairs, Stack lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles gently before pulling her back into his chest.

No tension left.

Just quiet.

Just love.

And a kitchen full of white roses blooming under soft light.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

🥹🥹!! I want you to know I’m so jealous of your name!!!

Featuring Smoke Moore x Stack Moore

Summary: Elijah and Elias visit Clarene, a former Freedom Rider, who shares her struggles and Grandma June’s quiet bravery. They realize how much their generation takes for granted. Moved, they promise to carry these lessons forward.

The rain had come and gone three times already that afternoon, the kind of spring rain Mississippi was famous for; fast, sudden, and moody. The sky kept changing its mind, shifting between bright sun and low, gray clouds. The brothers had the windows cracked anyway, letting in the sticky scent of wet pine and blossom.

Elias tapped the steering wheel, humming along to an old Anthony Hamilton track drifting through the busted speakers.

“Ay, you gon’ tell our momma we took the backroads?” he asked.

Elijah smirked. “Hell no. You know she gon’ fuss. Say we gon’ end up lost in somebody field.”

“We ain’t lost,” Elias lied.

“You always say that right before we get lost.”

They turned down a narrow road lined with tall pines dripping from the recent rain. The asphalt shined like black glass. A mist hovered in the ditches where frogs croaked loud enough to hear over the music.

A few minutes later, the engine sputtered — a little cough at first, then a sharper choke.

“Elijah… you hear that?”

“Don’t ask me if I hear somethin’ when the whole damn car sound like it’s dyin’.”

The car jerked.

Coughed again.

And rolled to a stop right beside an old wooden storefront nearly swallowed by wisteria vines.

Above the sagging porch, a hand-painted sign read:

CLARENE’S GENERAL

Elijah squinted. “Man… you found the only trap house that sell groceries.”

Elias elbowed him. “C’mon. We ain’t got a choice.”

They got out, boots sinking in soft mud. The air smelled like damp bark and honeysuckle. A single rocking chair creaked slowly in the wind, even though nobody sat in it.

They were halfway up the steps when a voice said:

“Don’t step on my porch like you runnin’ from the law. Announce yourselves.”

Both froze.

A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim interior. Then she stepped forward, letting the light touch her face.

Miss Clarene.

Brown-skinned, tall despite a slight stoop. A deep indigo headwrap tied precisely. Eyes sharp as flint behind thick glasses. She leaned on a carved cane shaped like a bird’s wing.

Elijah cleared his throat first. “Uh… ‘scuse us, ma’am. Car broke down out the—”

“Mmhmm.” She eyed them up and down. “Everything break down on this road eventually. Y’all ain’t special.”

Elijah blinked, caught off-guard. “We ain’t tryna trouble you.”

“Good,” she said. “I don’t like trouble. I like respect. Y’all got some?”

They nodded quickly.

Her gaze softened just a little.

“Y’all June Thompson’s grandboys?”

Both brothers stiffened.

Elias stepped forward. “Elias ma’am, and this here is Elijah. You… you know our grandma?”

Miss Clarene hmphed. “Knew her since we was knee-high. June used to sneak peaches off my mama’s tree, swear she ain’t touch none, juice drippin’ off her chin.”

Elijah cracked a smile in spite of himself.

“That sound like her.”

Miss Clarene stepped aside.

“Well? Don’t stand out there lettin’ mosquitoes have y’all. Come on in ‘fore the sky decide to rain again.”

The store was a shrine to black southern life.

Shelves stacked with spices, jars of licorice, old soda bottles. A faded radio played soft gospel through static. The walls were covered with photographs: black kids lined up outside schoolhouses, women stirring pots at church picnics, grainy snapshots of marches and meetings.

A cardboard box near the register held old pamphlets:

“Register to Vote — 1960s.”

“Jail, No Bail.”

“Freedom Riders Mississippi.”

Elias picked one up carefully.

“No way… you were part of this?”

Clarene lowered herself onto a tall stool, cane across her knees.

“I wasn’t part of it, baby. I was the whole damn problem for folks who didn’t want change.”

Elijah frowned. “But Freedom Riders… weren’t they mostly young folks?”

“I was young once,” she said dryly.

“Then I got older.

Then I got tired.

Then I got brave.”

She looked at the photo pinned behind the counter — her, younger, sitting on a bus seat next to a white woman, both staring dead ahead.

“I was thirty-four when I rode that bus into Jackson.”

Silence swelled in the room.

The rain outside began again, softly tapping the tin roof.

“I didn’t plan on bein’ no Freedom Rider,” she began. “I was a laundress. I minded my business.”

She tapped her cane twice.

Clack. Clack.

“But I watched them girls on TV — brave little Blackbirds tryin’ to desegregate schools. Grown men and women hollerin’ in their faces. Spittin’. Throwin’ rocks. And those babies kept walkin’.”

Her voice cracked.

Just once.

“That kind of courage… it shame a person into findin’ their own.”

She looked at the twins.

“So I signed my name. June told me I was out my damn mind. Told me folks round here had long memories — and even longer guns.”

Elias swallowed. “Did they hurt you?”

Clarene chuckled without humor.

“They beat us ‘fore we even stepped off the bus. Threw me on the ground like trash. Locked me in Parchman Prison for weeks. Fed us old bread. Turned off the heat at night. Tried to make us quit.”

She raised her chin.

“But every night… we sang. You ever heard a cellblock full’a grown folks singin’ like they mama’s rockin’ them?”

Elijah shook his head slowly.

“That sound’ll save your life,” she whispered.

Elijah asked quietly, “Grandma never mentioned any of this. Not once.”

“Mmhmm. She wasn’t supposed to.”

Clarene’s expression softened into something like grief.

“She had y’all mama to think ‘bout. Had babies to keep safe. Sheriff used to sit outside my house some nights just to let me know he remembered me.”

Her fingers drummed the cane.

“June loved me. But she loved her family more. Silence was the price.”

★・・・・・・★

The rain had settled into that slow Mississippi rhythm, pattering soft on the tin roof like it had something to say. Clarene sat on her stool with her cane across her lap, eyes looking far off, not lost — just digging back into a time she never talked about unless she had to.

Elijah and Elias sat across from her, elbows on their knees, listening harder than the rain.

Clarene let out a breath that sounded like it’d been waiting forty years to escape.

“Lemme tell y’all somethin’… a Freedom Ride weren’t no lil’ adventure. Weren’t no picture for the papers. It was a death wish with a seat number.”

Elias blinked. “Death wish?”

Clarene nodded. “Mm-hmm. Baby, when you signed up, you signed knowin’ you might not ever come home. Might disappear. Might end up in some ditch nobody bother lookin’ in.”

Elijah leaned in. “So why’d you go?”

She gave him a look that was soft but sharp.

“’Cause somebody had to. Hate don’t move out the way unless you force it. Now that bus ride…” Clarene shook her head. “That somethin’ I feel in my bones to this day. We was packed in — Black, white, old, young. Felt like we was all breathin’ the same heartbeat.”

Elias frowned. “White people too?”

“Lord, yes. Some of ‘em kids younger than y’all. Had families stop talkin’ to ‘em. Had hate mail pourin’ in. Folks forget that part. Everybody who fought with us came from different walks.”

Elijah asked, “You wasn’t scared sittin’ with ‘em? In Mississippi?”

“Oh, I was terrified,” she said with a short laugh. “Felt like sittin’ with a live grenade. But courage ain’t ‘bout not bein’ scared — it’s ‘bout showin’ up anyway.”

She tapped her cane lightly.

“I sat next to this lil’ white girl — Polly. Nervous thing, hands shakin’, whisperin’ prayers like she was tryin’ to keep the Lord awake.”

Elias tilted his head. “What she prayin’ for?”

“For strength. For safety. For us not to die that day.”

Clarene sighed. “She looked at me and said, ‘Miss Clarene, if they drag you, I’m holdin’ on.’

I told her, ‘Baby, you hold on to Jesus. Don’t let these devils touch you on my account.’”

Elijah rubbed his chin. “So y’all knew somethin’ was comin’.”

“Oh yeah. You could feel it. Bus got quiet the closer we got. Fear so thick you could chew it.”

Elias finally asked what had been sitting in his mind: “What happened when y’all got off?”

Clarene stared at her hands before speaking.

“Baby… we ain’t even get off good before hell opened.”

The twins both sat up straight.

“You step onto that pavement, you step into a storm made outta fists, spit, and fire. Police standin’ there watchin’, arms crossed, waitin’. Some smilin’ like they watchin’ a show.”

Elijah’s jaw tightened. “And y’all didn’t fight back?”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“If we swung, we’d be in the ground, not in a jail cell. That’s what they wanted — a reason to murder us right there.”

She rolled her jaw like the memory physically hurt.

“One man swung a signpost. Caught me right here.”

She tapped the scar under her jaw.

Elias flinched. “Damn.”

“Went down on the ground. They kicked me like I wasn’t nothin’ but trash. Polly tried to pull me up — somebody grabbed her by the hair and threw her like a rag doll.”

Elijah’s fists curled. “So the police didn’t do nothin’?”

“Oh they did somethin’,” she said bitterly. “Arrested us. Not the mob. Us.”

Elias swallowed. “What was Parchman like? Folks talk but nobody really talk.”

Clarene’s whole face tightened.

“Parchman… that place wasn’t built for humans. That was a plantation with concrete walls. Mind-breakin’ evil.”

Elijah asked softly, “What they do?”

“Put ten of us in a cell meant for two. Took our mattresses. Turned off the water some nights. Lights on bright like they tryin’ to cook us. Guards beat their batons on the bars askin’, ‘Y’all ready to quit?’ every mornin’.”

Elias muttered, “That’s torture.”

“That’s America,” Clarene corrected.

Elijah leaned forward. “So how you make it through?”

She smiled — small, tired, holy.

“We sang.”

The twins both raised their heads.

“At night, when the lights burned our eyes and the cold cut through that nasty blanket, we’d hum first. Then one of us’d start up a line — ‘Ain’t gon’ let nobody… turn me round…’

And baby, that sound?

It filled that cell up like warm bread.”

She closed her eyes.

“Polly grabbed my hand one night and said, ‘Miss Clarene, you sound like a bird.’

I told her, ‘That’s ‘cause I ain’t never gon’ stop flyin’.’”

“So what happened when they let y’all go?” Elias asked quietly.

“They didn’t let us go. They released us. Big difference. No apology, no explanation. Just opened the gate like we was stray dogs they done got bored with.”

Elijah asked, “You go home after?”

“Home?” She scoffed. “Wasn’t no home left. Lost my job. Folks scared to hire Freedom Riders. Sheriff parked outside my house for months. Mama prayed every night.”

Elias shook his head. “You ever regret it?”

Clarene sat up straighter, shoulders squared.

“Not one damn second. If I had to choose again, I’d climb back on that bus with the same dress and the same fear. ‘Cause freedom ain’t somethin’ you wait for — it somethin’ you claim.”

Her cane tapped the floor like an exclamation.

The rain had slowed, leaving the air thick and sweet with spring jasmine. Clarene leaned back in her stool, cane resting across her lap, eyes softening with memory. The twins sat forward, hanging on every word.

Elijah broke the silence.

“Miss Clarene… how come Grandma June ain’t go with you? Y’all was close, right?”

Clarene huffed a soft laugh. “Close? Baby, me and June was thick as thieves. Grew up runnin’ them same dusty roads, sharin’ the same secrets, cryin’ over the same boy we both ain’t even like like that.”

Her smile faded just a little.

“But June had a daddy who loved her so fierce it looked like fear.”

Elias frowned. “Fear of what?”

Clarene settled deeper into her seat. “Fear of the world takin’ her. Fear of them white folks killin’ her. Fear of losin’ his only daughter.”

She glanced at the window, like the past was standing out there waiting to come in.

“Lord, that man… he guarded June like she was the last flame in a dark house.”

Elijah nodded slowly. “Our grandma always been careful.”

“Careful?” Clarene snorted. “She was careful ’cause that man taught her to be. When we was younger, we’d sneak out to meetings with the local organizers — SNCC boys, church folks, that whole crowd. June’d be fired up, talkin’ ‘bout marchin’, talkin’ ‘bout ridin’ to Jackson with me.”

“What happened?” Elias asked.

“Her daddy,” Clarene said. “That’s what happened.”

Clarene rubbed her thumb against the groove of her cane. “The night before I left for the ride, June come to my house. Knockin’ soft, half-cryin’. Said she wanted to come. Said she couldn’t sit home while the world burnin’.”

Elijah leaned forward. “So why didn’t she?”

“Because her daddy followed her,” Clarene said. “Man showed up two minutes later, still in his work boots, breathin’ hard like he ran from the fields. He looked at me, then looked at June, and said:

‘You walk out that door tomorrow, girl… you ain’t comin’ back to my house no more.’

Elias inhaled sharply. “Damn.”

“Mm-hmm,” Clarene said. “And June loved her daddy. Loved him bad. Didn’t wanna break him.”

Elijah rubbed his jaw. “So she stayed?”

“She stayed. And I ain’t never held it against her. Couldn’t. June always been brave in her own way. She fought right here, in this town — helpin’ folks register to vote, feedin’ families, hidin’ kids from the Klan when they needed hidin’. She ain’t ride that bus, but she fought her battle.”

Clarene pointed her cane lightly toward the twins.

“And y’all grandma? She got her own scars. They just inside instead of out.”

Elias asked, “What about you, Miss Clarene? Where was your daddy in all this?”

Clarene let out a long breath. “Baby… I ain’t never had one.”

Both twins straightened, respectful in their silence.

“It was just me and my mama,” Clarene continued. “Little shotgun house at the edge of town. She worked two jobs — cleanin’ houses and washin’ dishes at night. She used to tell me:

‘Baby, if the world don’t give you wings, you make your own.’”

Elijah smiled softly. “Sound like somethin’ grandma June would say.”

“That’s why we got along,” Clarene said, laughing. “Two girls raised by strong women. Difference was — June had a daddy who held on tight. Too tight. I had a mama who let me fly and just prayed the wind didn’t kill me.”

The room fell quiet again, but this time it was a warm quiet — the kind that wraps around you.

Elijah whispered, “Miss Clarene… Grandma ever regret not goin’?”

Clarene shook her head slow and sure.

“Nah. She knew her lane, baby. And she stayed in it. We was two sides of the same coin — I went out to fight, she stayed home to protect. And both sides was needed.”

Elias looked at the floor. “Just… wild hearin’ it all like this.”

Clarene reached out, tapped her cane against his shoe. “That’s why I’m tellin’ y’all. ‘Cause history ain’t just textbooks. It’s people. Folks who made choices. Folks who survived ‘cause they had to.”

She paused.

“And folks who didn’t.”

★・・・・・・★

The car sat idling on the gravel, engine humming like it was listening to their thoughts. Elijah and Elias climbed out, boots sinking slightly in the soft, damp earth. Clarene was on the porch, cane resting against the railing, head tilted like she had been expecting this moment all along. The late spring sun cut through the mist, streaking the wisteria with gold.

Elijah stepped up first. “Miss Clarene… we—” He stopped, searching for words that felt big enough. “We can’t thank you enough. For… all of it. For tellin’ us. For livin’ it.”

Clarene shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Ain’t no thanks needed, babies. Y’all just listenin’ is more than most. That’s enough for me.”

Elias leaned on the railing beside her, eyes scanning the old photographs and pamphlets that lined the walls inside the store. “We gonna remember it. Every story. Every bit. The Freedom Riders… you. We gon’ remember.”

Clarene’s eyes softened, glinting behind her glasses. “That’s all I ask. Some of y’all think courage only shows up in loud moments. But most of the time, it’s quiet. Done behind doors, in shadows, in the moments nobody sees. Y’all just gotta see it and carry it forward.”

Elijah let out a breath, nodding slowly. “We see it now. And we ain’t just gonna carry it. We gon’ live it. Make it count.”

Clarene chuckled, the sound like gravel mixed with honey. “History ain’t just somethin’ y’all read in books. It’s people, babies. People fightin’, survivein’, lovin’. Y’all got to treat it like it’s alive, like it’s breathin’, like it’ll cut you if you don’t respect it.”

The twins exchanged a glance, quiet and heavy. They knew she was right. Every story she’d told, every memory she’d shared — it wasn’t just history. It was blood, it was fear, it was courage threaded into the very soil of Mississippi.

Elijah stepped closer, offering his hand first. “Thank you, Miss Clarene. For everything. For every story. For lettin’ us in.”

Clarene took it, firm and warm. “Don’t thank me, baby. Y’all keep it alive. That’s the only thanks that matters.”

Elias joined, shaking her hand too. “We gon’ retell it. Make sure folks know. Make sure they know what it looked like, what it felt like, and what it took to get here.”

Clarene smiled, tipping her head. “That’s right. That’s right. And remember this — some of the hardest battles ain’t out in the streets. They’re inside the house, inside your heart. Keep your heart brave.”

The twins lingered a moment longer, looking at the small store, the photographs, the worn floorboards that had held decades of whispered stories. Then Elijah turned back to the car, engine still purring, and said softly, “We’ll be back, Miss Clarene. You ain’t ridin’ alone no more.”

Clarene watched them climb in, the weight of their gratitude, curiosity, and respect resting heavy in the air. She tipped her head one last time as they drove off, the engine rumbling down the narrow back road, carrying stories, history, and the promise that some lessons, hard-won and precious, would not be forgotten.

★・・・・・・★

Featuring Smoke Moore x Stack Moore

Summary: Elijah and Elias visit their Grandma June in Mississippi. June shares stories from 1926, when she learned strength and healing from her mother. She recounts how black families like theirs built America through resilience and labor. Her memories reveal how the country often forgot the people who shaped it.

Summer in Mississippi,

The sun dipped low behind Mississippi pines, leaking amber through the branches. Elijah’s old motor rattled down the county road like it was held together by stubbornness and prayer. The air was thick with humidity, the kind that made your shirt cling to you even when you weren’t doing much.

Elijah drove one-handed, elbow resting on the open window. Sweat rolled down the side of his face, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. Elias had his feet on the dashboard, chewing on sunflower seeds and spitting shells into a cup.

“You nasty as hell,” Elijah muttered.

Elias chuckled. “Man, please. You act like you ain’t done worse. I done drove with you after practice — your whole truck smelt like gym socks baptized in sorrow.”

“That was one time.”

“That was many times.”

Elijah cracked a small smile but kept his eyes on the road. The trees grew taller, older, thicker. Mississippi didn’t change much, it just kept growing where nobody cut it back.

After a moment, Elias shifted in his seat.

“You really think Grandma June sick-sick? Or she just want us to visit?”

Elijah’s jaw worked. “Doc said she had a spell with her heart. But she tough. Ain’t never met nobody stronger.”

“That don’t mean nothin’, though,” Elias said softly.

“It mean enough,” Elijah replied, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

They fell quiet.

A sign appeared:

WELCOME TO LEXINGTON

Population: 1,407

Elias sucked his teeth. “Man… every time we come out here, feel like the air get racist.”

“El—don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. Woods too quiet. Always feel like somethin’ watchin’ you.”

“That’s your imagination.”

“No, that’s trauma passed down from our ancestors.”

Elijah snorted despite himself.

The dirt road to their grandma’s house appeared like a crack in the earth. Elijah turned in, and the truck jostled over roots and dips.

“You remember this road?” Elijah asked.

“Yeah. I also remember the snake we almost ran over last summer, and the wasp nest in her mailbox, so I’m already stressed.”

“You dramatic.”

“I’m alive.”

Feet hit gravel as the house came into view, a leaning blue shotgun house wrapped in kudzu and memories. The porch light flickered like it was winking at them.

Before they even climbed the steps, the screen door squeaked open.

Grandma June stood there with a dish towel thrown over her shoulder, her hair wrapped, her face lit with joy and exhaustion.

“Well, look at God,” she said. “My babies done made it.”

Elijah hugged her carefully, like she was glass.

“You look good, Grandma.”

“Boy, don’t lie to me. I look tired and hot.”

Then she turned to Elias.

“You still talkin’ slick, huh?”

“When necessary.”

She pulled him into an embrace, patting his back twice. “Hush all that and bring them bags inside.”

★・・・・・・★

The table was set with hot cornbread, chicken gumbo, rice, and sweet tea so sugary it could stop a heart.

“Sit down and eat,” Grandma commanded.

They did, after they finished praying.

Elias reached for a second biscuit too quick, and Grandma slapped his hand with a spoon.

“Damn, Grandma!”

“You gon’ eat everything ’fore it even cool down.”

“I’m a growin’ boy!”

“You twenty-one.”

“And growin’.”

“Sideways, maybe.”

Elijah choked on his gumbo trying not to laugh.

Grandma pointed her spoon at him. “And you. You look tired. You workin’ too many hours at that station.”

Elijah shrugged. “Just doin’ what I gotta do.”

“You always ‘doin’ what you gotta do.’ When you gon’ do something for yourself, hm?”

He didn’t have an answer.

She eyed Elias next. “And what job you got now?”

Elias pointed at himself. “Me?”

“No, the other fool named Elias sittin’ at my table.”

“I’m between opportunities.”

“That mean unemployed,” Elijah said, sipping his tea.

“That mean blessin’s comin’ my way,” Elias corrected.

Grandma waved him off like a fly. “You got all that mouth, but your pockets sound like two nickels arguin’.”

Elijah burst out laughing, gumbo almost spilling from his spoon.

“Keep talkin’, Elijah,” Elias muttered. “Keep talkin’, see where it get you.”

★・・・・・・★

The three of them sat out on the porch. Grandma rocked slowly in her chair. The boys leaned on the rail, fireflies drifting lazily around them.

Lightning flickered far off.

“Storm comin’,” Grandma murmured.

“Yes ma’am,” Elijah agreed.

Elias stretched. “I’m fixin’ to go grab a soda from the corner store.”

Elijah frowned. “Right now?”

“It’s literally one minute away.”

“Storm comin’,” Grandma repeated.

“I ain’t made of sugar,” Elias said.

Grandma gave him a long, knowing look. “You watch yourself out there. Folks round here still funny at night.”

“Grandma, it’s not the 1920’s no mo’.”

“And? Racism don’t expire.”

Elijah stood. “I’ll go with you.”

“Nah,” Elias said quickly. “I’ll be quick. Chill. I ain’t twelve.”

Elijah hesitated. “Just keep yo phone on.”

“I got you.”

He jogged off the porch.

Grandma whispered a short prayer under her breath.

Elijah heard it, and his stomach tightened.

★・・・・・・★

Elias walked down the dirt road, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the trees. The cicadas were loud. Too loud. Like the forest was hiding something.

He swallowed.

“Man… this place weird as hell at night.”

Far off, a dog barked. Thunder grumbled.

A pickup truck drove slowly down the opposite end of the road. Older model. Black paint. No lights.

Elias kept walking.

The truck slowed.

Then slowed more.

Then rolled to a near stop.

Elias felt the hair rise on his arms.

“Aight,” he murmured. “Not tryna be on Dateline. Let me move—”

He crossed the street casually.

The truck moved again.

He exhaled in relief.

Until it stopped again, right behind him.

Elias turned slightly, not enough to look scared, but enough to see two men inside. Older, white, faces unreadable through the dim.

“You lost?” the driver called.

“Nah, sir. I’m good.”

“You from ’round here?”

“Visiting my grandma.”

“Hm.”

The truck inched closer. Too close.

Elias took a small step back.

“I’m good, sir. Have a good night.”

He turned to walk away.

The man called again.

“Hey—boy.”

Elias froze.

Lightning flashed white.

That was the last thing he saw clearly.

★・・・・・・★

A shout.

A scuffle of gravel.

A sudden movement in his periphery.

A burst of light.

A deafening POP.

Then another.

POP-POP.

Elias felt something punch him in the side.

Hard.

Hot.

He stumbled into the ditch, hand going to his ribs, warm liquid coating his fingers.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t—

The truck sped off.

Rain started like the sky was falling apart.

Elias tried to yell but only managed a hoarse whisper:

“Elijah…”

★・・・・・・★

Elijah sprinted down the road in the pouring rain, calling his brother’s name.

“Elias! Elias!”

Lightning flashed—

and he spotted him.

Crumbled in the ditch.

Blood spreading.

“Elijah…” Elias breathed.

Elijah fell to his knees, scooping him up, pressing his hand to the wound.

“Who did it?! Who did this to you?!”

“Truck… black pickup… they— they asked me if I was lost…”

Rain mixed with blood, streaking down Elias’s body.

Elijah grabbed his phone, hands shaking.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My brother’s been shot! He’s bleedin’ bad—please send somebody!”

“Location?”

“Old Mill Road—near Johnson’s field—hurry!”

Silence.

Then:

“Sir… we don’t have active units available in that area.”

“What? What you mean you don’t—this is an emergency!”

“It’s been marked a high-risk region after dark. Protocol states—”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT NO DAMN PROTOCOL!”

“I’m sorry, sir. We advise you to transport the victim to a safer—”

Elijah hung up.

The fury in him was hot and bright and animal.

“They ain’t comin’, huh?” Elias whispered.

“No,” Elijah said through clenched teeth. “They ain’t.”

And he lifted him.

And he ran.

★・・・・・・★

Elijah burst through the front door carrying Elias in both arms, slipping on the wet boards of the porch before catching himself. Rain poured off him in sheets. Elias’s blood ran warm down his wrist.

“Grandma! Grandm—!” Elijah’s voice cracked.

But Grandma June was already halfway down the hall.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t freeze.

She didn’t ask questions.

Her face didn’t even change.

She simply said, in a voice steady as a church bell:

“Bring him to the kitchen. Not the couch. Floor in there easier to clean.”

Elijah stared at her, stunned but followed.

The kitchen light was bright and harsh, revealing exactly how bad Elias looked. Grandma motioned toward the long wooden table and Elijah laid his brother on it, mud dripping off both of them.

Grandma snapped on a pair of thin, yellowing gloves from a drawer.

“Get them wet clothes off him,” she ordered.

Elijah hesitated. “Grandma, he’s bleedin’—”

“I said get ‘em off. Don’t argue me.”

Her tone cut through the panic like a knife. Elijah stripped Elias’s shirt away, revealing the gunshot wound—dark, slick, messy.

Grandma didn’t flinch.

She moved like someone who had already accepted the situation ten steps ahead.

She reached under the sink and pulled out a metal box Elijah had never seen before, dented and old, paint flaking off the top. She popped it open with her thumb.

Inside was a full kit:

Clean bandages.

Thread.

Needle.

Two bottles of antiseptic.

A folded cloth stained from years ago.

Elijah blinked. “Grandma… where’d you—”

“Been in this family longer than you been breathin’,” she said.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a folded towel, placing it beneath Elias’s head.

“Elijah, hold him down.”

Her voice didn’t shake.

Not even once.

Elijah stepped closer, still trembling. “He—he got shot on the road. They drove up on him in this truck—”

“I figured,” she said calmly, pouring disinfectant over a wad of cotton.

“No—Grams—they targeted him. They—”

“Elijah.”

Her eyes cut up to him, sharp and unwavering.

“I said hold him down.”

He swallowed and obeyed.

Grandma pressed the soaked cotton to the wound.

Elias screamed and arched off the table, but Elijah held him steady.

“I know, baby,” she murmured, “I know it burn. But we don’t got the luxury of a doctor.”

Elijah felt his throat tighten.

“We called 911. They said— they said they couldn’t come out here.”

Grandma did not react.

Did not pause.

Did not miss a stitch.

“Sure enough.”

Elijah blinked, shocked.

“That’s it? ‘Sure enough’?”

“You wanted surprise?” she said, threading the needle. “You black, you bleedin’, and you in the woods after dark. Ain’t nobody comin’.”

Her tone wasn’t bitter, just factual.

Like this was gravity.

Like this was weather.

Elias gritted his teeth, voice thin. “Grams… you sure you know what you doin’?”

A soft chuckle slipped from her lips.

“Lord, child. I been stitchin’ men back together since before your mama got her first period.”

She leaned down and started sewing with practiced, precise motions.

Elias hissed in pain.

Elijah clenched his shoulder to keep him still.

Grandma hummed a tune under her breath; low, old, something that sounded like a field song passed through five generations. The kind of melody you didn’t learn, you inherited.

The storm outside thrashed against the windows, but inside the only sounds were:

The rain.

The hum.

Elias’s short breaths.

The needle pulling through skin.

When she finished stitching, she cleaned the wound again and wrapped it tight with clean gauze.

Then she peeled off her gloves and pointed to Elijah.

“Lift him.”

Elijah slid an arm behind Elias’s back and raised him slowly until he was propped against the wall. Elias groaned but stayed conscious.

Grandma mixed something in a tin cup, herbal, dark, smelling sharp.

“Drink.”

Elias sniffed it. “This look like poison.”

“It ain’t poison if it keep you alive.”

Elias shot Elijah a weak look. “If I die, tell the world she killed me.”

Grandma tapped him upside the head.

“Hush and drink.”

Elias drank.

★・・・・・・★

When she finished tending to Elias, Grandma washed her hands, cleaned the blood with bleach water, and put every tool back in the metal box.

Then she locked it.

Then she sat at the table beside Elias… and finally exhaled.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Something heavier.

Older.

Elijah stared at her.

“Grams… how you know how to do all that?”

She lifted her eyes to him, slow and tired.

“Because this house done seen this before.”

Elijah swallowed.

“You talkin’ about Uncle Henry?”

Grandma didn’t answer.

She only stood, walked to the front door, and locked it with a solid click.

“Storm gon’ pass soon,” she said. “But sit tight. Both of you.”

Elijah nodded, still shaken, still processing.

Elias drifted into a groggy sleep against Elijah’s shoulder.

Grandma leaned on the counter with both hands, staring out the window. Lightning flashed across her face.

And in that moment she looked like someone who had lived three lives already.

“Elijah,” she said without turning around.

“Yes ma’am?”

“I’ll tell y’all the rest in the morning.”

He hesitated.

“The rest of what?”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes deep and distant.

“The last time this house had to patch up a boy shot on that same road.”

★・・・・・・★

Elijah woke up to the smell of frying butter and something sweet — maybe biscuits, maybe peach preserves. The storm had passed. Sunlight shot through the blinds in clean golden bars.

His neck was stiff.

Elias was still asleep, breathing slow but steady, his bandage clean.

“Morning,” Grandma June said without looking up, stirring something on the stove in her old cast-iron skillet.

Elijah stretched and winced. “Mornin’, Grams.”

“You sleep?” she asked.

“A little.”

“That little enough to keep y’all from actin’ stupid today?” she said, cutting her eyes at him with the smallest hint of threat.

Elijah huffed. “I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ nowhere.”

“Good,” she said, sliding biscuits onto a plate. “I ain’t plannin’ on buryin’ nobody.”

Elias stirred at the table, groaning.

“Damn… feel like somebody hit me with a truck.”

Grandma thumped the back of his head lightly.

“You got shot, fool. Don’t try to make it poetic.”

Elias chuckled weakly. “Grams… your bedside manner is terrible.”

“It kept you alive, didn’t it? Now sit up straight. You gon’ eat like you got some home trainin’.”

She set plates in front of them: biscuits, eggs, thick slices of ham, and peach preserves that looked older than both brothers but tasted like heaven. Elijah and Elias tore into the food instantly.

After a few minutes of quiet chewing, Elijah cleared his throat.

“Grams… last night you said this ain’t the first time you had to do what you did.”

Elias looked up too.

“Yeah… you said you’d tell us today.”

Grandma froze with her fork in midair.

Then she put it down gently and wiped her hands on a cloth.

“Eat,” she said softly. “Let me talk.”

The boys nodded.

She leaned back, eyes drifting toward the window as if the past were standing right outside.

“What happened to Henry?” Elijah asked carefully.

Grandma inhaled — slow, deep, like she had been avoiding that breath for years.

1926, Thompson House

June remembered it clear as the day sunlight touched these fields.

Henry was nineteen. Tall, handsome, reckless in the way boys get when they’re too brave for their own good. Worked the cotton fields with their daddy, came home with dust in his hair, muscles tight from the day, and a grin that could talk trouble into talking back.

He had dreams bigger than the county lines.

Chicago, he said.

St. Louis, sometimes.

Anywhere with electricity in the streets and not just in the sky.

That evening, they ate black-eyed peas and cornbread around the oil lamp. Henry made jokes, teasing June, elbowing her, telling their mama;

“Mama, you know June gon’ run off after me. She ain’t built for no cotton life neither.”

Mama Thompson scoffed.

“That girl ain’t runnin’ nowhere. She stayin’ right here with me.”

But Henry winked at June anyway.

Later that night, against Mama’s warnings, he said he was headin’ to Mr. Wilkes’ store for a bottle of soda pop.

“It’s dark,” Mama said. “You wait till mornin’.”

“Mama,” Henry laughed, “ain’t nobody out there lookin’ for me.”

He stepped into the night, easy like he owned it.

June always remembered the sound of the screen door slapping shut behind him.

She didn’t know it’d be the last time she saw him walk unbroken.

June was sweeping the kitchen when she heard the truck first. Back in ’26, trucks were a luxury — only certain men owned them, and those men weren’t the type Henry should’ve been seen by after dark.

The rumble came slow down the dirt road.

Then stopped.

Then slick laughter—mean, low, white laughter carried across the fields.

June froze.

Then—

POP.

A single rifle crack.

Sharp enough to split the night.

June dropped the broom and ran outside barefoot.

The air smelled like dust and gunpowder.

Henry was staggering toward the house, hands pressed to his side, a dark red patch spreading fast across his shirt.

“JUNE—!” he gasped, voice breaking.

She sprinted. Her feet slapped the dirt hard enough to sting, rocks cutting her soles, but she didn’t feel any of it.

Henry collapsed before she reached him.

She caught his head, dragging him up with strength she didn’t know she had.

“MAMA!” she screamed. “Mama, HELP!”

Mama Thompson burst out the front door in her nightgown, lantern in hand.

“Lord have mercy—Henry, baby!”

Together they dragged him inside. His boots left long red streaks across the porch boards, stains June swears are still there under the paint.

Mama Thompson shoved everything off the kitchen table with one sweep of the arm; flour tin, bowls, sewing scraps, all of it crashing to the ground.

“June, get the basin.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And the needle box.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And the liquor from the top shelf.”

“Yes—yes, mama.”

June’s hands were shaking so bad she almost dropped the bottle, but her mama snatched it from her and poured it straight on Henry’s wound.

Henry screamed so loud the lamp flickered.

June nearly backed away, but her mama’s voice snapped through the panic:

“June. Hold him. Don’t you let go.”

June pressed Henry’s shoulders down while her mama threaded a thick needle using the lantern light.

“Mama—can’t we get the doctor?” June sobbed.

Her mama didn’t look up.

“Doctors don’t ride out here for boys like Henry.”

Then she leaned in close, eyes sharp, breath steady.

“You watch me now. You watch how to keep a man’s insides from fallin’ out his body.”

June watched.

Watched her mother slide the needle through skin and flesh like cloth.

Watched Henry choke on his own blood.

Watched tears fall from her mother’s face onto Henry’s chest but her hands never once shook.

June held Henry down for what felt like hours.

When the last stitch tightened, Mama Thompson slumped back, sweating, chest heaving.

“He gon’ live,” she whispered. “For now.”

June pressed her forehead to Henry’s, crying into his hair.

They kept him alive.

By will, by skill, by love, by desperation.

And June learned every part of it.

★・・・・・・★

She tapped the table lightly.

“That night’s when I learned,” she said softly. “Learned how to stitch a wound. How to clean it. How to keep a bullet from takin’ somebody you love.”

Elias listened with wide eyes, one hand resting gently near his bandage.

“And when I saw you bleedin’ yesterday,” June went on, “I swear it felt like 1926 all over again. Same table. Same smell of blood. Same fear in my chest.”

She touched Elias’s cheek.

“Only difference was… this time I knew exactly what to do. ‘Cause my mama taught me. And her mama taught her. And now…”

she looked at Elijah and Elias with eyes too full of generations,

“…I pray y’all won’t ever need to know it.”

The room went quiet.

Sunlight filtered through like dust from memory.

The past wasn’t far.

It never was.

★・・・・・・★

The storm had passed by morning, but the air still felt swollen, heavy like the clouds had left their grief behind.

Grandma June sat on the porch with Elijah and Elias, the old swing creaking beneath them. Elias was pale but awake, wrapped in a quilt stitched from scraps of old church dresses and flour sacks. Elijah sat on his other side, jaw tight, eyes shadowed from a night without rest.

For a long time, they listened to the birds humming in the trees. The house behind them smelled faintly of coffee and salt pork frying.

Then Grandma June spoke, voice low and smooth as worn river stone.

“Boys… y’all been askin’ what I meant when I said this land remembers. What I meant when I told y’all Henry wasn’t the first, and y’all won’t be the last.”

She stared out toward the fields; endless, green, indifferent.

“Well, let me tell y’all somethin’. Somethin’ my mama told me, and her mama told her. Somethin’ black folks been whisperin’ to each other since the first foot touched the soil of this place.”

“You see these fields?” she said softly. “These cotton rows? These roads? These houses? This whole stretch of Mississippi soil?”

The boys nodded.

“Well… they was built on black backs. On sweat that never stopped fallin’. On hands blistered from sunup to sundown.”

She traced the porch rail with her finger.

“Your great-great-granddaddy, Samuel Thompson, he was born in chains on land not too far from here. Made to pick cotton until his skin cracked like dry earth. They sold his mama when he was nine. Sold his brother at eleven. He ain’t never saw neither of ‘em again.”

Elijah’s throat tightened.

Elias looked down at his hands.

“That man,” June went on, “still found it in himself to grow food, repair houses, build barns, and help strangers. He carved out a little freedom with his bare hands after emancipation. Built a home from wood so soft termites chewed it before he finished the roof.”

She smiled sadly.

“Samuel made a life. But America didn’t ever say thank you.”

June clasped her hands together in her lap.

“You know them old spirituals? The ones the elders still hum in church?”

The boys nodded.

“Well, those were prayers black folks sang when all they had was breath and belief. Prayers that kept ‘em alive. Prayers that pushed this country closer to its own promise even when it didn’t want to keep it.”

She hummed a few lines of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, her voice trembling like an echo through time.

“Black folks prayed America forward even when America told ‘em they didn’t belong in it.”

June’s eyes hardened.

“Your great-uncle Marcus, your granddaddy’s brother, fought in World War I. Came back with medals. Medals they told him to wear only inside the house so the white men in town wouldn’t get upset.”

Elias frowned. “Why?”

“‘Cause the same country he fought for didn’t want him walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like a hero.”

She shook her head.

“Marcus survived the French trenches but died in Mississippi, beaten by a sheriff with a badge he earned fightin’ beside white soldiers.”

Her voice lowered.

“That’s America for black folks. A place you build, a place you pour into… but a place that don’t always claim you back.”

“Mississippi birthed the blues,” June said, pointing toward the red clay road. “And the blues was born from men and women who ain’t had no justice, no rest, no mercy.”

She looked at the boys.

“Y’all ever hear them old records? Son House, Charley Patton, young B.B. King?”

Elijah nodded. “Daddy used to play ‘em.”

“Well, every note is a testimony. A record of what this land did to us, and what we did with the pain. We turned suffering into sound. Into survival. Into art. Into somethin’ so powerful the whole world ended up wantin’ a piece of it.”

She sighed.

“But the world rarely wanted us.”

June rested her hand over Elias’s.

“What happened to you last night, baby… ain’t new. Ain’t fair. Ain’t right. But it ain’t new.”

She turned to Elijah.

“And the rage inside you? I know it. I carried it for years after Henry got shot.”

Elijah looked down, jaw clenched.

“But listen to me careful,” she said. “America been makin’ black boys bury their hurt for centuries. That’s the requiem we livin’ in — a mourning song sung over and over, hopin’ one day we won’t have to sing it no more.”

Her eyes glistened.

“This country don’t stop bein’ yours just because somebody tried to tell you it ain’t.”

The porch went quiet.

Not empty.

Not cold.

Just reverent.

Like the land itself was listening.

June placed Elias’s hand on Elijah’s, then placed hers over both.

“Your ancestors tilled this soil. Built these houses. Fought in these wars. Birthed these stories. Raised these fields. Carved freedom outta stone.”

She looked between them.

“This is your America too. Don’t you let nobody - not a bullet, not a badge, not a lie, take that from you.”

A soft wind moved through the trees.

June’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Sometimes you gotta mourn the country you belong to… so you can make it into the one we deserved.”

★・・・・・・★

Happy New Year y’all. I hope 2026 is filled with health & happiness. To kick things off, here is the first chapter of my Cowboy Carter series. We are now officially in the year of Act III which I’m so excited about 🎸. I hope yall enjoy this fic & be sure to lemme know what you think. I love y’all. ♥️

Featuring Smoke Moore x Annie Moore x Amara Moore

Summary: When Amara comes down with a sudden viral illness, her parents, Elijah and Annie Moore, drop everything to care for her through feverish nights, clingy days, and quiet moments of worry.

The sunrise slipped gently through the soft white curtains of Amara’s nursery, casting a pale golden glow across the room. The space was calm, tidy, still touched by the quiet of early morning. Usually, that stillness never lasted long—on most days, Amara filled it with her tiny voice, babbling to stuffed animals or singing her own little melodies to the sun.

But this morning was different.

Amara lay curled in her bed, cheeks flushed, breathing soft and uneven. She blinked slowly, as though waking up took more effort than she had to spare. Her curls, warm and frizzy from sleep, clung to her forehead where a faint sheen of sweat had gathered.

A small whimper left her throat, the kind that wasn’t loud, but carried weight.

Down the hall, Elijah paused mid-step as soon as he heard it. He knew her sounds; every giggle, every cry, every sleepy hum. This one wasn’t familiar. This one wasn’t right.

He pushed the nursery door open quietly. “Hey, lil’ mama,” he said in a voice that warmed the room more than the sunlight ever could.

Amara lifted her head. Her eyes, normally bright and mischievous, were heavy and glossy. She reached out one hand toward him.

“Dada…”

That was all she could manage.

Elijah’s chest tightened. He crossed the room in seconds, scooping her into his arms with a gentle, practiced ease. The moment she settled against him, she let out a soft, exhausted sigh like holding on took too much energy.

He touched her forehead with the back of his hand and frowned slightly.

“You burnin’ up, baby.”

Amara didn’t answer. She simply tucked her face into the curve of his neck, fingers curling weakly into his shirt like she didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Footsteps padded behind him.

There was Annie, sleep-tousled, wrapped in a soft robe, rubbing her eyes as she stepped into the doorway. When she saw Elijah cradling their daughter, her expression softened instantly with worry and love all at once.

“She warm again?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Elijah murmured. “She real warm.”

Annie crossed the room, brushing her fingers over Amara’s hair. “Aw, baby… you don’t feel good, huh?”

Amara whimpered and grabbed at Elijah tighter.

Annie gave a small sigh and leaned her head briefly against Elijah’s upper arm, an unconscious gesture of leaning into him, letting him support her worries too. Elijah shifted slightly, turning his shoulder toward her, letting her rest there for a moment.

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “We gon’ figure it out,” he whispered to her.

“I know,” she whispered back, slipping her hand into his free one and squeezing. “I just hate seein’ her like this.”

Elijah lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of her knuckles. “Ain’t nobody hatin’ this more than me.”

Annie smiled faintly—tired, but warmed by the affection.

Amara made another pitiful little sound, pulling both their attentions back to her. Elijah rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles.

“She wake up a lot?” he asked.

“Twice,” Annie said, brushing Amara’s curls gently. “Maybe three. She kept reachin’ for me, whinin’… like she couldn’t get comfortable.”

“She eat anything?”

“Barely. Pushed her bottle away every time.”

Elijah exhaled slowly, pressing another kiss into Amara’s curls. “Aight. We just gon’ stay close today. Real close.”

Annie nodded, then leaned in and kissed Elijah lightly; soft, slow, familiar. It wasn’t dramatic, just the kind of love that lived in everyday moments. When she pulled back, Elijah rested his forehead against hers for a second, eyes closed, grounding both of them.

“She gon’ be okay,” Annie murmured.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “We here. That’s what matter.”

Annie went to grab a small sippy cup decorated with little cartoon bears, filling it with cool water from the kitchen. When she came back, Elijah was rocking slowly in the nursery chair, Amara curled against him like she wanted to disappear into his chest.

“Think she’ll try to drink?” Annie asked softly.

“Lemme see.” Elijah lifted the cup to Amara’s lips. “Here, mama. You wanna sip some water? Jus’ a lil’ bit.”

Amara turned her head away, a tiny frown forming. “No…”

“You gotta try,” Annie coaxed gently. “Come on, sweet girl. One lil’ sip.”

“Uh-uh,” Amara murmured, shaking her head weakly.

Elijah sighed softly but didn’t push her. “Aight. We ain’t gon’ force it. She might try later.”

Annie rested her hand on his shoulder from behind, squeezing gently. Elijah reached up and covered her hand with his own, thumb stroking along her skin in quiet reassurance.

They stayed there for a few minutes, Elijah rocking, Annie watching closely, Amara clinging like the world outside Elijah’s arms was too big and too bright.

The sun climbed a little higher, filling the room with warm light. But despite the brightness, everything felt soft, hushed, tender.

Elijah looked down at Amara’s tired face, then up at Annie’s worried eyes. He brought Annie in closer with a tilt of his head, and she leaned against him again, letting their daughter rest between the two people who loved her most.

It was only the start of the day, and already they felt it:

Something was off.

Their baby needed them.

And they weren’t going anywhere.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By late morning, the house had settled into an uneasy stillness. This was usually the hour Amara came alive; her happiest time of day. She’d normally be wandering from toy to toy with bold little footsteps, babbling at the TV, tugging on her parents’ legs for attention, or announcing random observations with proud toddler authority.

But today she lay slumped against Elijah’s chest on the living room couch, legs straddling his lap, arms limp around his neck. Her breath puffed against his shirt in faint, uneven huffs. Every few minutes, she would shift and let out a small whine, like discomfort kept tapping at her from the inside.

The cartoon on the TV flickered with bright colors and cheerful noises, but she didn’t lift her head to watch, something she normally adored.

Annie stood a few feet away, folding a baby blanket and tidying it away. Her movements were restless, her worry not frantic but persistent.

“She ain’t picked up her toys at all,” she murmured quietly. “Ain’t even looked at ’em.”

Elijah rubbed his hand slowly up and down Amara’s back. “She tired, that’s all. Fever wearin’ her down.”

“I know…” Annie sighed. “Jus’ ain’t used to seein’ her so still.”

As if hearing her mother’s voice, Amara lifted her head slightly—just enough to glance over at Annie with half-open eyes.

“Mama…” she whispered.

Annie was at her side immediately. “I’m right here, baby.”

Amara reached a tiny hand toward her, fingers trembling, then rested them weakly against Annie’s arm as if needing confirmation she wasn’t going anywhere. Elijah shifted so Annie could sit beside him, and Amara slid naturally into the space between them, settling as if she belonged pressed between the two people who made her world feel safe.

“She lookin’ for both of us,” Annie whispered, brushing Amara’s hair back.

Elijah kissed the top of Amara’s warm forehead. “She know we here.”

Amara whimpered softly, then pressed her cheek against Annie’s chest, but kept one leg draped over Elijah’s thigh. She didn’t want to choose between them—not today.

“You hungry, sweet girl?” Annie asked gently.

Amara shook her head, eyes already drooping. “No…”

“Wanna try some berries? Jus’ one?” Elijah asked.

“No…” she repeated, voice trembling.

Her lower lip stuck out, wobbling. And then the tiny expression cracked—her face scrunched, and a soft, exhausted cry escaped her. The kind of cry that didn’t ask for anything except closeness.

“Aww, baby…” Annie murmured, rocking her slightly. “It’s okay, Mama right here.”

Elijah’s hand slid to the back of her head, steady and warm. “You okay, lil’ mama. We got you.”

The crying faded almost at once—not because she felt better, but because she felt held.

After a minute, Elijah pointed his chin toward the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. “Maybe we take her outside for a bit? She always get calm out there.”

Annie glanced toward the yard—sunlit, quiet, the small patio warm with morning brightness. “Yeah… that might help her. Fresh air good for her.”

At the mention of outside, Amara opened her eyes a little. She blinked once, twice, then whispered, “’Side…”

It was the most interest she’d shown all morning.

“That’s right, baby,” Annie said softly. “Outside.”

Elijah stood slowly, supporting her head, her back, her legs—holding her the way you hold something precious and fragile. Amara didn’t lift her head; she just sank into him, cheeks flushed, breathing soft.

They stepped into the backyard, where the sunlight greeted them gently, warming their skin but not too harsh. The air was mild, a faint breeze drifting through the trees, rustling leaves in a calming hush.

Elijah sat on the cushioned outdoor loveseat. Annie sat close beside him, their arms touching, their sides pressed together. Amara stayed in Elijah’s lap, head against his chest, one tiny hand reaching toward Annie without even looking.

“I brought her crayons,” Annie said, placing a small pack beside them along with a thick notepad. “Maybe she wanna scribble a little.”

Elijah lifted the pad slowly. “Hey, mama. You wanna draw? Look—Dada hold it for you.”

Amara opened her eyes again, hazy but curious. She reached out weakly and touched one crayon—a pale purple one. She didn’t grip it tightly, but she closed her hand around it for a second.

“Purple,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” Annie praised softly. “Tha’s yo’ favorite one, ain’t it?”

Amara made a small sound of agreement, then dragged the crayon across the page in a wobbly line—slow, faint, not her usual energetic scribbles that filled whole pages. Just one soft stroke.

Then her arm dropped from exhaustion.

Elijah caught her hand gently. “That’s good, baby. You did real good.”

Amara let out a tiny, tired breath. “More…” she whispered—but her hand didn’t lift again, as if the idea and the energy didn’t match.

“We can do more later,” Annie promised, kissing her forehead. “Right now you rest. Mama and Dada right here.”

Amara curled her legs closer, one foot nuzzling against Elijah’s side, the other resting lightly against Annie’s thigh. She nestled deeper into her father’s chest, her tiny fingers finding the hem of Annie’s shirt and clutching it in a loose hold.

The breeze brushed her curls. The sunlight warmed her back. Yet she trembled faintly, her fever still simmering beneath the calm morning.

Elijah wrapped one arm fully around her while the other hand stroked her leg gently. Annie slipped her hand under Amara’s cheek, supporting her head, her thumb brushing small circles into her skin.

The three of them sat there in the quiet backyard—no loud noises, no distractions—just a family holding onto each other.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The clinic waiting room was bright and sterile, filled with soft hums from overhead lights and distant chatter from staff behind the front desk. It wasn’t crowded, but it felt heavy all the same because worry made every place feel heavier.

Elijah sat with Amara in his lap, her head resting on his shoulder, her body warm and limp as ever. Annie sat close beside them, one hand rubbing Amara’s leg through her little cotton pants. The toddler wasn’t crying, just quiet, too quiet for a child known for her bright, easy laughter.

When the nurse finally called them in, Elijah rose slowly, adjusting Amara so her cheek stayed pressed against his chest. She clung weakly to his shirt as they followed the nurse into the examination room.

The doctor, a calm-faced woman with gentle eyes, listened patiently as Annie described the symptoms: fever, clinginess, low appetite, restless nights. She checked Amara’s temperature, heart, lungs, ears, and throat with practiced ease.

Amara whimpered once when the stethoscope touched her chest, and Elijah kissed her temple.

“It’s okay, lil’ mama,” he murmured.

The doctor offered a soft smile.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “I’m not seeing anything alarming. This looks like a viral infection. Very common, especially in little ones her age.”

Annie let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Elijah’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

The doctor continued, “There’s no sign of anything severe—no bacterial infection, no respiratory distress, nothing worrisome. She just needs rest, fluids, and fever management. Her appetite might be off for a couple days. That’s normal.”

Annie nodded, relief softening her expression. “Okay… thank you.”

Elijah kissed the top of Amara’s head, whispering quietly, “Hear that, baby? You gon’ be alright.”

Amara didn’t reply, but she nudged closer to him, seeking reassurance.

The doctor gave them instructions; children’s medication dosages, signs to watch for, tips for hydration and sent them home with a small packet of information and the reminder to come back if her fever spiked or she stopped drinking completely.

By the time they walked through their front door again, Amara had fallen asleep against Elijah’s chest, her warm breath brushing against the base of his neck.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The sun had dipped low outside, filling the house with golden evening light. The kitchen smelled faintly of sautéing vegetables and warm bread, comforting scents that drifted through the quiet space as Elijah and Annie moved around each other like a practiced dance.

Annie chopped soft vegetables into tiny pieces for dinner while Elijah stood at the stove stirring a pot. Every few minutes, they brushed past each other; Annie touching his back as she reached for a spoon, Elijah bumping her hip gently as he grabbed a towel. Their movements were warm, easy, familiar, laced with the kind of affection that didn’t need big declarations.

Amara sat at the table in her toddler chair, not slumped the way she’d been earlier but still visibly tired. Her Barbie dolls were scattered in front of her, two of them carefully tucked under a small napkin she had insisted was their “blanket.”

She nudged one doll forward with low energy. “Mama… Barbie seep,” she murmured.

Annie smiled softly. “She sleepin’, baby? You takin’ care of her?”

Amara nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Mmhm.”

Elijah turned from the stove, grinning. “She a good mama to them dolls.”

“Betta mama than me,” Annie joked lightly.

Elijah smirked and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Ain’t nobody a better mama than you.”

Annie’s face warmed, her shoulders relaxing just a little more.

Dinner came together in soft clinks and gentle motions. Elijah plated small portions for Amara—tiny pieces of soft-cooked veggies, mashed potatoes, a few bites of chicken cut into minuscule squares. Annie placed the plate in front of her daughter and sat beside her.

“Alright, baby,” Annie said in a soft, encouraging tone. “Try a lil’ bit, okay? Just a lil’ bite.”

Amara looked at the food with tired suspicion.

Elijah pulled a chair close on the other side. “You can do it, lil’ mama. Jus’ one bite for Dada.”

Amara picked up her fork with a shaky hand and poked a piece of potato. She lifted it, looked between them both, then took a tiny nibble—barely more than a taste.

Annie clapped her hands softly. “Good job! Look at you.”

Elijah nodded proudly. “Tha’s it. You strong.”

Amara blinked slowly, then took another tiny nibble. That was all she could manage, but the small progress was enough to loosen the knot in both parents’ chests.

After a minute, she dropped the fork and pushed the plate away with a soft whine.

“All done,” she said.

“Aight,” Elijah said gently. “You did good.”

Annie wiped her little mouth, brushing curls from her forehead. “Wanna play with your dolls a lil’ more?”

Amara leaned sideways toward her mother, reaching up with both arms. “Mama… up…”

Annie lifted her, settling Amara into her lap. The toddler rested there quietly, occasionally lifting her Barbie and letting it “sleep” on Annie’s knee.

Elijah watched them with tender eyes as he rinsed dishes at the sink. Annie leaned back into her chair, stroking Amara’s warm back.

“Think she feelin’ a lil’ better,” Annie murmured.

“Yeah,” Elijah said softly, glancing over his shoulder. “Still tired though.”

Amara’s head tilted, eyes half-closed. “Dada…”

Elijah dried his hands and walked over, brushing a finger across her cheek. “I’m right here, mama.”

Amara reached one hand out lazily until her fingers touched his. She didn’t squeeze, just rested there, small and trusting.

They stayed like that for a while—Elijah standing there holding her hand, Annie rocking her gently, the kitchen warm with the comfort of food and quiet affection.

Outside, the sky dimmed into soft twilight.

The evening settled into a soft quiet after dinner, the kind that always seemed to fall over the house when Amara was tired. Annie carried her toward the bathroom, her small limbs draped loosely around her mother’s shoulders. Elijah followed behind, collecting her pajamas, lotion, and the little pink bonnet she slept in.

Amara gave a small whine when Annie set her down, but when she saw the warm bathwater and the floating rubber duck waiting for her, she relaxed. She lifted one hand toward Elijah.

“Dada… duck,” she mumbled.

He scooped her gently into his arms. “Yeah, baby. He right here.”

Annie eased her into the water, making sure the temperature stayed perfect. The bath was quick—not playful tonight—but still gentle and sweet. Elijah kept a steady hand on her back while Annie washed her, slow and careful.

Amara splashed weakly once, then sighed, leaning her cheek against Elijah’s arm.

“Ti’ed,” she whispered.

“I know, lil’ mama,” Annie murmured. “Almost bedtime.”

When she was done, Elijah wrapped her in a fluffy towel and held her close as they walked to her room. Annie laid out her soft cotton pajamas—lavender, with tiny stars on them. Amara lifted her arms to help them change her, slow but cooperative, and when Elijah rubbed lotion onto her arms and legs, she watched him with sleepy eyes.

He chuckled quietly. “What? You tryna see if I’m doin’ it right?”

Amara blinked. “Mhm.”

Annie laughed under her breath. “She got high standards.”

With pajamas on and curls gathered neatly into her bonnet, Amara reached toward her crib—not to sleep yet, but to grab the two teddies waiting there. One was nearly new; the other was worn soft from months of squeezing and dragging it everywhere. She tucked both under her arms and leaned into Annie’s chest.

“Okay, baby,” Annie said, rocking her gently. “Let’s get you settled.”

Elijah dimmed the lights as Annie sat in the old nursery chair by the window. Amara curled into her lap, teddies pressed against her, sucking lightly on her bottom lip the way she always did when she was beyond tired.

Annie picked up a board book from the small shelf beside them—a bedtime story Amara always asked for.

Tonight, the toddler didn’t ask, but the familiar book was comfort enough.

Annie opened it and began reading, her voice warm and soft. The words rolled through the quiet room like a lullaby even though she wasn’t singing, just speaking gently, rhythm steady.

Amara’s eyes fluttered, then blinked open again, then fluttered once more.

Elijah stood at the edge of the crib, arms crossed loosely, watching the two of them with an expression soft enough to melt.

Annie kept reading, even when Amara’s grip on her teddies loosened, even when her breathing drifted into the slow rhythm of sleep.

By the time she finished the last page, Amara was fully gone; heavy, peaceful, warm against her.

Annie rose slowly, careful not to jostle her, and lowered her into the crib. Elijah leaned over, tucking the blanket around her tiny body. He brushed a thumb across her cheek.

“Night, lil’ mama,” he whispered.

Annie slipped her hand into his as they stepped out of the room together, gently closing the door behind them.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Sunlight crept through the curtains early, spilling soft gold across the hallway. Elijah and Annie were still half asleep in bed when they heard it—a faint babbling drifting through the baby monitor.

Not crying.

Not whining.

Just talking.

Annie sat up slowly, eyes widening. “Is she… playin’?”

Elijah grabbed the monitor, turned up the volume, and there it was again: Amara’s tiny voice, warm and animated in a way it hadn’t been for days.

“Bear… sit. No, you sit!”

Then a giggle—small but real.

Elijah exhaled, relief hitting him all at once. “Look at God,” he murmured, smiling.

Annie pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes soft and bright. “She sound better.”

“Sound like her,” Elijah added.

Another babble floated through the monitor. “Dah-dee bear, no fall!”

Elijah laughed quietly into the blanket. “She fussin’ at them teddies already.”

By mid-morning, the house was alive again.

Amara had eaten a few spoonfuls of oatmeal at breakfast, much more than she’d managed in days, and after that, she had toddled around the living room clutching her teddies, babbling as if making up for lost time. The sparkle had returned to her eyes, the bounce to her step. She wasn’t 100% yet, but she was unmistakably Amara again.

Elijah was wiping down the kitchen counter when she appeared in the doorway wearing nothing but her diaper and a determined expression. She pointed toward the glass door leading to the backyard.

“Wimmin’,” she declared.

Annie looked up from folding laundry on the couch. “Swimming? You wanna go swimming, baby?”

Amara nodded so hard her curls shook. “Wim! Wim! Mama, go!”

Elijah laughed, rinsing his hands and walking over. “Well, look at you. Done woke up ready for the water, huh?”

Amara reached up for him. “Dada—swim p’ease.”

He scooped her up, kissing her cheek. “Aight, lil’ mama. We gon’ get you ready.”

Annie stood, hands on her hips, smiling warmly at the sight of her energetic toddler again. “I’ll get her swimsuit.”

In Amara’s room, Annie laid her swimsuit on the changing table—a bright yellow one-piece with ruffles at the shoulders. Amara slapped her tiny hands against it in excitement.

“Yeh-low!” she chirped.

“That’s right,” Annie said with a grin. “Your yellow swimsuit.”

Elijah stood behind her, handing over sunscreen. “You think she gon’ chill long enough for us to put lotion on her?”

Annie raised a brow. “After the week we had? She gon’ sit still for two seconds at least.”

They both laughed.

Surprisingly, Amara did sit still, wiggly, but patient enough, for them to apply sunscreen, put on her swimsuit, and tie her curls into two small puffs. Elijah fastened her little water-safe sandals while she kicked her legs.

“You excited?” he asked.

“Mhm!” She slapped her thighs. “Swim wif Mama! Swim wif Dada!”

Annie glanced at Elijah and smiled. “She back.”

“Thank God,” he murmured, brushing Amara’s arm gently.

The backyard shimmered with afternoon sun. Their modest pool glowed a pale blue, calm and inviting, surrounded by soft green grass. Floaties were already stacked on the side; bright, colorful rings, foam noodles, and a few of Amara’s favorite pool toys.

The moment the door opened, Amara let out a squeal and reached for the water.

“Wimmin’!”

Elijah carried her over while Annie followed with towels under her arm.

“Hold on, baby,” he said, dipping a toe in. “Lemme check the water.”

Amara leaned forward dramatically as if she could dive from his arms. “Dadaaaaaaa—go!”

Annie laughed from behind them. “She tryna swim without us.”

Elijah lowered into the pool first, the water warm from the sun. “Aight, hand her here.”

Annie lifted Amara over the edge and passed her down to him. The toddler clung for a moment, then she saw the water shimmering around her legs and squealed in pure delight.

Annie slipped in beside them as Elijah secured Amara into her small yellow floatie ring.

“Wooo—aahh!” Amara shouted, tapping the water with her palms.

Elijah chuckled. “Girl, you actin’ like you ain’t been sick at all.”

Annie splashed a small wave toward them. “She makin’ up for lost time.”

Once Amara realized she could move around in her floatie, she took full control, kicking her feet and spinning herself in slow circles.

“Round an’ roun’!” she cheered.

Annie swam beside her. “You dizzy yet, Mama?”

“No!” Amara yelled, spinning again.

Elijah came up behind her floatie and gently pushed her forward. “There she go! Look at you flyin’.”

“Dada push me!” she giggled.

He raised a brow. “You want a big push or a lil’ push?”

She held up one small finger. “Lil push.”

He nodded dramatically. “Lil push it is.”

He nudged her forward lightly, just enough to glide her across the water. She threw her head back laughing—a full, belly-deep toddler laugh that made Annie bring her hand to her heart.

“That’s the sound I missed,” Annie whispered.

Elijah glanced at her, softening. “Me too.”

Amara paddled back toward them with her little legs. “Mama! Dada! Catch me!”

Annie pretended to miss. “Oh! She too fast!”

Amara gasped, scandalized. “Mama, no catch?!”

Elijah burst out laughing. “You done offended her now.”

Annie scooped her up quickly, planting kisses on her wet forehead. “I got you, sweetness. Mama always gon’ catch you.”

Amara giggled and hugged her neck. “Maaa-maaa.”

Elijah swam over and wrapped an arm around both of them, his other hand playfully splashing the water near Amara’s toes.

She shrieked happily. “Dada! Stop it! No splish-splash!”

He laughed. “Who told you you could talk so big?”

“Me big girl!” she declared, pointing at herself proudly.

“Oh, excuse me,” Elijah said, raising both hands. “We got a big girl in the pool!”

Annie pressed her forehead to Amara’s. “Big girl who still gon’ nap later.”

Amara frowned. “No nap.”

Elijah whispered to Annie with a grin, “She definitely gon’ nap.”

They played for nearly an hour—floating, splashing, spinning, chasing Amara’s floating toys across the water. Each laugh felt like a small miracle after days of worry.

When Amara finally tired out, she leaned against Elijah’s chest, floatie still around her, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Tired, baby?” he asked quietly.

“Mhm,” she whispered, “but happy.”

Annie swam closer, placing a soft kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “We happy too.”

Elijah wrapped his free arm around Annie’s waist, pulling her close. The three of them floated together in a gentle cluster, warm water rocking them lightly, sun shining overhead, peace settling over the backyard like a blessing.

For the first time in days, everything felt right.

Amara was okay.

The house felt whole again.

And they were together—laughing, loving, steady as ever.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Come pour some liquor on me, honey too,” — Whiskey, Lemon Drops and sin filled kisses.

“Rugged whiskey, cause we surviving off red cup kisses, sweet redemption passing time,” — she offers an escape from his usual fast life.

I actually really really like this idea. I did have something similar in regards to a cookout / BBQ but I was struggling to come up with a plot or storyline — but this has made me think it don’t have to have one.

Of course she will be!! I just wanna preface that every chapter is different and not every character will be in every chapter. I will also try balance out solo smoke fics and solo stack fics so people can read a little bit of everything.