Black Butterfly

It’s a 4 parts story. I’ll upload when I’m done with it (T-T). If you want to be tag tell me. Below is my general taglist.

The monitors washed his office in pale blue light.

Outside — trimmed hedges, wet stone paths, rain still clinging to everything like the night refused to let go. But camera three caught movement — a guard jerked backward and vanished behind the shrubs. Camera five flickered, came back empty. Camera seven went black entirely.

Brew didn’t blink.

He just leaned in, cigar smoke curling upward, eyes locked on the feeds as if he was watching a sporting event he’d already bet on.

On eight, two shapes cut across the courtyard—low, fast, practiced. Smoke and Stack.

Not boys anymore. Not soldiers. Predators.

Camera eleven showed a guard sprinting into frame — rifle half-raised — and then he was snatched out of sight like a trapdoor opened beneath him. The feed pixelated once, twice, died.

One by one, the monitors went black — the perimeter collapsing in squares of darkness.

Brew whispered almost fondly into the quiet:

“…what took y’all niggas so long.”

He rose — slow — crossed to the bar cart near the bookshelf, and poured two fingers of bourbon. Lightning rolled somewhere over the bay. He took a sip — calm — as the last camera blinked out.

Because Brew wasn’t expecting to fight his way out.

He was expecting the cavalry.

six years ago — interrogation room

Fluorescent lights.

Metal table.

Folder as thick as a Bible.

“Brewster Ellis Gaines,” the agent said. “You’re finished.”

RICO.

Gun trafficking.

Tax evasion.

Three separate interstate counts.

Then the last stack.

Human trafficking.

Those pages weren’t charges — they were burial plots.

“Only way out,” the agent said, tapping the top page, “is if you give us bigger.”

Brew didn’t flinch.

“Who you want?”

Just business.

later — months later

Names got fed slowly.

Competitors.

Suppliers.

A few soldiers.

Cutting fat. Tuning the machine.

But not Smoke. Smoke was the blade. The one who made Brew feel bigger just by being close.

For years Brew told himself he was protecting him by not naming him.

But the truth was simpler:

Smoke made Brew feel untouchable.

It started small.

The crew angled toward Smoke in conversations — reading him first.

Waiting on his reaction.

Letting him steer.

One degree at a time — balance sliding his way.

Brew felt it — similar to heat rising in a room.

Then one night Soraya’s voice cracked in his passenger seat:

“He not the same no more. He lookin’ past all this.”

Brew didn’t hear heartbreak.

He heard mutiny.

Because a man looking past this life is a man looking to leave and men might follow him.

But the check-cashing job is what did it.

Smoke didn’t lead well.

He led perfectly.

Every move crisp. Every choice surgical.

Every man in that room looked at him as if they’d already accepted who the real general was.

Brew saw it.

He saw a kingdom beginning to tilt.

After that run, the agent slid a page across the desk — SMOKE MOORE typed at the top.

Brew clicked the pen.

No pause. No pain.

Sign. Initial. Date.

“He ain’t gon’ make me obsolete,” he muttered.

Done.

Present

Back in the office, the glass trembled just slightly against the bar cart as he set it down. Only one thing left to do. He pulled out the second phone — the one hidden from the entire world he ruled.

Scrolled to the contact.

SA — Handler

The estate was blacked out.

Smoke and Stack were coming.

Brew smiled — a small, warped smirk — tapped the name, held the phone to his ear.

“They think they huntin’ me,” he whispered, amused, pressing call.

The line clicked, then a voice: “Brew, talk to me. What’s your situation?”

He didn’t answer. He was watching the monitors go black one by one—each feed blinking out — still certain the government would get to him before his “sons” ever reached the door.

Something hit the floor somewhere deeper in the house — not a footstep, not a door — heavier. Maybe a body. Brew’s gaze flicked toward the blank square where camera six used to be.

He took another sip.

The driveway was empty — bodies already cooling outside — and the house stood wide and silent beneath the last bruised streaks of dusk. The front door was glass inset with wrought iron — gorgeous and ridiculous — like somebody who forgot what kind of business they ran.

Stack reached for the handle without hesitation.

Smoke shook his head once, quiet: “Hold on.”

He tried the knob.

Unlocked.

Of course it was.

Brew never believed anybody could get this close.

Smoke pushed the door open with the back of his knuckles. It swung in easy, smooth hinges, soft hallway light spilling like honey across polished floors.

The foyer was immaculate — marble tile that reflected their shadows, art on the walls, everything staged to look normal to the outside world.

Stack muttered under his breath: “…Unreal.”

Footsteps — faint — coming from deeper in the house.

Smoke motioned once — low — and they moved together down the hallway.

A guard stepped into view halfway down — hand already going for his belt.

He never made it.

Smoke put one round under the jaw — quick, precise — and the body slumped against the wall before gravity could decide where to drop it.

Stack paused, staring just for a second at how fast it all happened.

He stepped over the body.

Second guard came from the dining room — bigger, faster — swung wild when he saw them.

Stack caught him by the collar, slammed him into the edge of the archway, and silenced him with two short shots to the ribs for good measure.

That one hurt Stack more than he’d admit — he knew that face — but he didn’t blink.

Smoke didn’t speak.

They moved on — deeper — past a hallway lit by sconces, past a photo of Brew and Ray smiling with cigars in their hands like two suburban kings.

Another guard sprinted from the den — gun up, curses loud.

Smoke didn’t shoot.

Stack did.

Six inches above the heart.

He dropped.

The house went quiet again.

Smoke pressed a hand to Stack’s shoulder — not reassurance — recognition.

Stack nodded once back.

Their pace never changed.

They reached the office hall — thick door closed halfway down — light flickering from under the threshold.

Smoke drew in a breath that felt akin to steel.

He pointed toward the side corridor — Stack nodded — peeled off to cover.

Smoke stepped to the office door.

He listened.

Inside: Brew’s voice.

and there was another voice — faint, metallic — cutting through.

“Brew? I need a location. Brew—”

Smoke turned the knob and stepped in.

The office smelled of leather and old smoke. Brew was at his desk, phone on speaker, hand hovering over a pistol on a blotter as if the urge to grab it was muscle memory. Security feeds flickered across three monitors: empty driveway, empty foyer, black squares where cameras had died.

For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other—creator and creation, both recognizing what was left between them.

Brew’s chin lifted a fraction. “There you go,” he said softly. “Knew you’d find yo way home, boy.”

Smoke put a round through Brew’s shoulder before the gun hand could close. The chair kicked back, leather squealing; the pistol skittered off the desk and clattered under a cabinet.

Brew hissed, breath hitching, then flattening into a grimace. He tried to rise.

Smoke’s second shot took the knee. Brew collapsed sideways, cheek smacking the edge of the desk before he went down hard, dragging the blotter pad and a pen to the floor with him.

On the phone, the handler’s voice sharpened. “Brew? What’s happening? Do not go dark. I need your—”

Smoke toed the phone farther onto the desk, leaving the line open, and crouched in front of Brew. The older man blinked up at him, pain turning his pupils huge, mouth set in that stubborn line Smoke knew too well.

“You been busy,” Brew rasped.

“Cleaning up yo mess,” Smoke said.“You sent muthafuckas after us.”

Brew gave a breathy laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “That yo big discovery? Thought you’d be quicker.” He rolled to a hip, propping himself against the desk leg. “I told you once boy—ain’t no nigga out here win by playin’ fair.”

Smoke stared at him — and something in his face shifted.

“You taught me to shoot,” Smoke said quietly. “Taught me how to stand. Even taught me how to lie without movin’ my mouth.”

He swallowed once — and for a moment the name Smoke didn’t fit him.

He was Elijah.

The boy with a gun too big in his hand, looking at this same man for approval that never should’ve mattered.

His voice came out smaller than he meant — almost cracked through the years between them:

“Did you ever love me at all?”

Brew blinked — slow — offended by the innocence in the question.

“You still think this was a fuckin’ family?” he rasped. “You still livin’ in that lie?”

He coughed — wiped blood from his lip.

“Boy… I ain’t never loved nobody I couldn’t use first.”

Smoke didn’t move — didn’t even breathe — because that sentence was the final truth he never got as a kid.

On the phone, the handler’s voice cut sharper, urgent now:

“…we have agents in motion. “The Twins” are priority one. Do you copy?”

Smoke’s face froze.

“You gave us up,” he said — not a question — the realization finally naming itself out loud. “You fed them our names.”

Brew’s lips curled— no guilt, just satisfaction. “You started changin’ the temperature in every room you walked into,” Brew rasped. “Niggas stopped waitin’ on my orders and started lookin’ at you. You had the crew.”

He breathed out hard through his nose — almost a scoff.

“I fed yo’ name cause I wasn’t losin’ my empire to a muthafucka who ain’t even realize he had it.”

His eyes glinted wet — not with regret — with pride.

“You were the future. I had to end you before you ended me.”

Smoke’s head tilted just slightly — not confusion… recognition.

“You ain’t never been king,” he said, voice stripped down to bone. “You was just scared first.”

Brew’s jaw ticced — because that was the one thing he couldn’t tolerate — being seen small.

“Watch your mouth, boy—”

Smoke didn’t let him finish. He grabbed Brew by the collar, dragged him upright, and shoved him back into the desk chair. Papers scattered. The phone slid sideways but stayed live.

Smoke moved behind him, yanked Brew’s arms back, and tied them off with a strip of coax cable ripped from the back of a monitor.

“You gon’ listen,” Smoke said low, breath near his ear. “You gon’ feel what you made me feel.”

Brew struggled, breath rasping. “You think this make you clean? You still my product, son.”

“All them years I thought you was iron,” he murmured. “Turns out you was rust. I killed for you, bled for you—’cause I thought you was built for it. But you wasn’t built for shit. You just hid behind niggas who didn’t know better and called it leadership.” Smoke stepped back.

On the credenza sat a cut-crystal ashtray, a polished humidor, and a heavy gold lighter engraved with B.G. Smoke reached over, thumbed the lid. The wheel sparked to life; a clean flame rose steady as a metronome.

Brew watched the lighter, then the man holding it. His mouth twitched. “That it nigga? You gonna finish it now?”

Smoke set the lighter down and opened a desk drawer. Inside: a metal can of lighter fluid for the cigars, tucked beside spare butane. He popped the cap. The scent lifted, chemical and bright, slicing through the room’s old tobacco.

Brew’s eyes tracked the can. “You doin’ all this for a bitch?” he asked, voice going hoarse. “For yo’ mama? You think this make you a man of the house now?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He tipped the can and poured in a patient line—over Brew’s shoulder, across his chest, soaking the shirt, trailing down toward the ruined knee. Fluid darkened fabric, gathered in the grooves of the flooring, glinting like sweat on his skin.

Brew hissed when the cold hit him. “You gonna tell yourself I made you do this too?” He swallowed, coughed again. “Newsflash, son: you didn’t need me to be a monster. You liked the silence after the shot same as I did.”

Smoke leaned in close enough that Brew could see the small white scar near his jaw—the one from a job nobody talked about anymore. “You mistook survival for pleasure,” he said. “That’s the difference between us.”

Brew’s lip curved. “Difference is you thought you was special. Thought you was a son.” He shifted, winced, smiled up at him with something almost tender and absolutely cruel. “You was never my son, nigga! You were my proof.”

Smoke’s jaw registered it — not fury, not shock — something hollower than that. Something from when he was fifteen and still believed men like Brew could love anybody.

Brew saw the flicker — and smiled as though he’d been waiting for it.

“I should thank you for gettin rid of that ho Soraya.” Brew rasped. “I had been missing that pussy of hers for a minute. She came runnin’ back like they all do. Cause she knew who held the leash. You was a play thing — I was the house.”

Smoke didn’t blink.

“And yo’ nurse?” Brew coughed out a laugh that scraped his throat raw. “You stupid as hell nigga if you thought that nurse was a secret from me. I been knowin’ about her way befo’ Soraya tried to weaponize it. I didn’t touch her cause I didn’t need to. You already loved somethin’ — that was control enough.”

Smoke’s nostrils flared — not rage — something smaller, deeper, almost grief.

Brew dragged a breath. “And yo momma?” His voice dropped low, crueler. “Nah. I didn’t touch that bitch neither. Not because of you. Because she ain’t been relevant to this game since the day she pushed y’all niggas outta her stankin ass pussy.”

He slumped deeper into the chair, smile thin and cracked, the kind that hurt to look at — cruel but honest all the same.

“You never protected nothin’ from me,” Brew said. “I let you believe you did.”

On the desk, the phone crackled: “Brew? If you can’t speak, two taps. Two taps, now.”

Smoke picked up the gold lighter. He flicked the wheel once, twice—letting the flame breathe. He drew a cigarette from Brew’s silver case, set it to the fire, and took a long pull. Smoke coiled out and up, thin and blue.

He held the cigarette near Brew’s face, then lifted it away—denying even that small courtesy.

“You taught me to finish what I start,” he said.

Brew’s eyes hardened. “Then finish it, muthafucka.”

Smoke leaned close. “Nah,” he said. “I’m closing the book.”

Smoke touched the lighter’s flame to the wet cloth at Brew’s shoulder. For a half-second nothing happened; then the fire found the fuel and ran—hungry, bright, racing along the line he’d poured. Heat flared, reflected in the glass of the desk. Brew’s breath snapped into a sound between a gasp and a curse.

Brew’s scream tore loose at last, raw and animalistic, ripping through the smoke-thick air as the flames found fresh purchase on his sleeve. The fabric of his shirt—once crisp linen, now a sodden wick—blistered and blackened, peeling away from his skin in curling ribbons that glowed orange at the edges. His shoulder was the epicenter, a blooming rose of fire that devoured the accelerant-soaked cloth and burrowed deeper, charring muscle in a hiss of rendering fat.

Brew’s face contorted, eyes bulging wide and bloodshot, reflecting the inferno in twin mirrors of agony. His mouth gaped, sucking in superheated air that seared his lungs; each breath came out a wet, rattling wheeze.

Smoke watched long enough to make the moment true—long enough for Brew to understand it was him and no one else—then he picked up the blotter off the floor, set the gold lighter on it and placed it on the desk where Brew could see it.

He picked up the phone, tilted it so the speaker faced the room. “You’re late,” he said to the handler, voice calm enough to be mistaken for someone else. Then he placed the phone back on the desk, screen glowing, line still open, and stepped away.

Smoke took one last pull on the cigarette, dropped it into the cut-crystal ashtray, and turned for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and looked back—not at the fire, but at the man inside it.

Brew writhed, instinct fighting pride. The air shimmered with heat, warping the room’s edges; the humidor exploded with a sharp pop, cedar shards scattering like shrapnel as the cigars inside ignited in a brief, fragrant burst. Brew’s cries devolved into gurgling moans, his body arching one final time—a bow drawn taut—before collapsing inward, limbs twitching in the pyre as the fire claimed what was left, reducing a man to a smoldering silhouette amid the ruins of his empire.

“You don’t own me no more,” he said.

He opened the door and slipped out into the hall. Stack was there, waiting in the hush, eyes asking without words.

“Done,” Smoke said.

They moved down the corridor together, unhurried, ghosts leaving a house that hadn’t learned it was a tomb yet. Somewhere behind them, wood popped; glass pinged and fell; the phone kept talking to an empty room.

By the time the sirens found the gate, the sedan was gone and the dusk had fully given itself to night.

The night swallowed them.

Smoke didn’t speak as they moved off Brew’s estate, boots whispering over dry pavement. The air was still — storm long gone, sky washed pale by the first hint of morning on the horizon.

They walked two blocks.

Turned twice.

Never looked back.

The sedan they’d used was parked under an overpass — not their plates, burner vehicle number four. Smoke wiped any prints left behind. Stack emptied the last of the gas can into the seats, over the console, into the carpet.

Smoke flicked the lighter once — tossed it through the open back door.

The sedan caught.

They didn’t wait to watch it burn.

They walked.

Five more blocks.

Then ducked down a side alley — to a rusted access grate no one else remembered existed. Stack lifted it. They climbed down the ladder one by one.

The tunnel below was cool and silent.

They moved along concrete in silence, heads down, until they reached the steel door — unmarked — the one only they knew.

Smoke keyed the code. The lock punched open.

Inside:

concrete walls

ventilation hum

ammo

water

burner phones

one cot

nothing extra.

The duffel bags sat right where they’d left them earlier — zipped up on the metal shelving, untouched since before they walked out that door to kill men they used to call brothers.

Smoke sat on an old shipping crate. He didn’t move for a few seconds — just stared at nothing.

Stack braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned forward, head down.

For a long time — nobody spoke.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“…you good?”

Smoke didn’t look up. He reached for his cigarette pack, tapped one loose, and lit it — ember flaring orange in the dim.

He took one slow drag — exhaled — and his voice came quiet:

“Ask me that when this over.”

Stack nodded once — because yeah.

That was the real answer.

And for the next stretch of seconds, maybe minutes — neither of them breathed loud — both sitting in the dark:

Two men.

Left with their ghosts and the truth they couldn’t unknow anymore.

The sun wasn’t even over the trees yet, and the heat was already rising off the stone like breath.

Black SUVs lined the circular drive, doors open, radios humming with half-formed updates. Crime scene floodlights were still rigged from the night shift, bleaching the courtyard into something clinical — too bright, too clean for what was left.

Special Agent Emelie Ward stepped under the burned archway, latex gloves snapping at her wrist.

Inside was worse.

Brew’s office — or what used to be — was little more than charred framing and half-melted lacquer. The desk had collapsed inward, the floorboards beneath bubbled and split. The air tasted similar lighter fluid and old tobacco turned chemical.

Ward crouched near the center of the room. Fire techs were still sifting, but one item stood untouched in a neat evidence bag:

the gold cigar lighter

engraved

B.G.

She didn’t need confirmation.

“This was him,” she said quietly.

One of the junior agents swallowed. “Brew’s gone?”

Ward didn’t look up. “He burned.”

They shifted — not in grief — but in what-the-hell-now tension.

A tech leaned in from the hall. “Ma’am — something else.”

He pointed to the foyer tile — faint but visible across soot and white chalk dust:

Two boot treads heading out

Side by side

Almost identical

Same model

Same worn heel edge

Ward stared at them for a long beat.

Twin signatures.

Finally she murmured, mostly to herself:

“They made it here.”

Another voice — hesitant — “Ma’am… who?”

Ward’s jaw clicked once as she stood.

“The ghosts Brew never wanted to name.”

She walked back toward the hallway — eyes flaring with something sharp and new — not fear, not even respect.

interest.

“They burned their maker,” she said. “And they walked away.”

The junior agent blinked. “…so we open a manhunt?”

Ward didn’t slow.

“No,” she said. “We open something bigger than that.”

She stepped onto the front steps, sunlight washing her face.

“We open a file with no names.”

And she gave the order as if she was christening a ship:

“Code designation: The Twins.”

The subdivision looked calm — porch lights glowing in repeating rows, trash bins lined up neat at the curb. Perfect. Ordinary. The kind of neighborhood people moved to when they were trying to live long and live soft.

Elias eased his Mercedes-Benz CLE 300 to the curb in front of the pale yellow split-level.

Not the house they grew up in.

The house they bought her.

Elijah stared at it a second.

Same feeling every time — pride and shame sitting in the same seat.

They walked up the drive in silence — not needing to plan what to say, not needing to compare what was in each other’s heads. They could do the talking later.

Elias knocked once and the porch light clicked on before the door opened.

Denise Moore stood there in a soft lounge set — sage green and slippers as though she’d been expecting them. MS slowed her sometimes — but tonight she looked steady on her feet. Her hair wrapped, curls tucked underneath a faded silk scarf. Her light brown skin was warm under the hall light. She was petite, but carried that same confident line in her shoulders Elijah did. Same gleam in the eye Elias had when he found something funny before he even said it.

Forty-four, but she still got mistaken for their older sister sometimes — Black don’t crack wasn’t a punchline with her, it was just fact.

She took them in once — head to toe — and her voice landed low, even:

“…something happened.”

No questions.

Just certainty.

Elijah lowered his gaze. Elias looked at the floor too, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets.

“Ma,” Elijah said quietly.

She stepped back, opened the space for them. “Come in.”

They did.

Inside — that clean, lived-in smell: citrus cleaner, linen spray. A blanket folded across the sofa back. Her slippers by the recliner. The morning news was silent on the TV — she muted it rather than listen to anchors fill dead air with guesses.

Denise motioned them to sit, then didn’t sit herself — she leaned against the arm of the recliner, close enough she could read their faces.

Before sitting, Elias leaned down, kissed her cheek. “You alright, Ma?”

“I’m fine,” she said, but she searched his face as she said it.

Elijah bent to hug her too — softer — and when she felt the brief tremor in his arm, she held on an extra second, as if she knew more than either of them said out loud.

Then they all sat.

Denise settled in her recliner, adjusting the blanket over her lap.

Her eyes stayed on her sons.

“You two ridin’ together this time,” she said. Not a question. A reading. “So whatever y’all into — must be big.”

Neither spoke. Didn’t have an explanation that wouldn’t be a lie.

She nodded once, as if her suspicion was just confirmed.

Denise’s eyes went to Elijah. She really looked at him. Past the posture. Past the practiced stillness. Past the man he’d built to keep himself alive.

She didn’t make him say anything.

“I’m not gon’ pretend I don’t know what y’all do,” she said, soft but calm. “I been prayin’ over both of you since you were born. That ain’t stopped. Ain’t gon’ stop.”

Silence sat between all three of them — warm, heavy with history.

“When y'all ready to talk about whatever happened. I’m here.”

Elijah finally met her eyes.

“Ma,” he said quietly, “remember that girl I told you about?”

Her mouth twitched — a smile trying to sneak in. “Annie. Yes. I remember.”

He nodded. “I want y’all to meet,” he said — and there was no bravado in it, no street persona. Just him. Elijah.

Denise gave a small sly smile — pure Stack energy. “Bout damn time you bring her around. I was startin’ to think she was imaginary.”

Elias huffed a laugh despite himself. “Told you.”

Elijah smiled too, just barely — that small, rare one that almost never came out around anyone but her. “No ma’am, she very much real,” 

Denise nodded, that same sharpness in her eyes. “Then you make sure you stay alive long enough to introduce us.”

Silence sat with them — not awkward — real.

Elias swallowed, blinked fast once.

Elijah didn’t drop her stare.

“I intend to.”

Her response was soft, but it carried more years than the house walls could hold:

“You ain’t gotta impress no man in this world, Elijah. Not one. You hear me?”

Elijah nodded.

She looked between them — Smoke and Stack in front of her — and yet she called them back to who they were first.

“My sons,” she said. “I love you both. Always have. Always will.”

“Love you too,” they said in unison.

Denise laughed once — quiet — shaking her head. “Lord, I been waitin’ for this day.”

Denise pointed at Elijah, playful cutting through the dread. “You bring Annie over here proper and don’t you dare show up empty-handed. I’m tryna get me a daughter-in-law before I turn fifty. And I wouldn’t complain about some grandbabies neither — I want a lil’ somebody callin’ me “Glamma” or “Lovey” or somethin’ cute like that while I still got knees.”

Stack burst out laughing, the sound too loud for the room — relief disguised as clowning.

Denise side-eyed him. “Now if only you would leave them ho’s alone and get you a woman with a real job and a Bible instead of an OnlyFans discount code.”

Stack threw his hands up, stung and amused — betrayed and proud she delivered it that clean.

“Ma—”

She tapped his forehead — a reprimand with love under it. “Don’t ma me. I said what I said.”

Elijah laughed — really laughed — the kind that had weight in it.

They left thirty minutes later — quieter than they entered — but grounded.

The apartment was too quiet.

Not silent — just that muffled hush rooms get after a long night, where the air feels as though it’s listening.

Annie moved through the space with purpose — not frantic — just task after task after task.

She wiped down the counters again.

Put the throw pillows back in their exact places.

Took the sheets off her bed and tossed them into the wash.

Monica didn’t say a word at first — she just helped.

Folded the clean dishtowels.

Loaded the dishwasher.

Kept her hands busy the way women do when the heart has too much in its mouth to speak.

They weren’t pretending things were normal.

They were just refusing to let fear be the only thing in the room.

Annie stood over the dryer, warm sheets in her arms, smoothing one edge with her palm.

Her hair was tied back, face fresh and bare — as if she’d scrubbed everything on purpose.

Monica finally broke the quiet.

“You want these in the linen closet or on the bed?”

Annie blinked, not hearing the question at first.

Then she blinked again and pointed toward the hall.

“Closet.”

Monica started down the hall with the stack.

Annie stayed frozen one second longer — fingers drifting to the chain at her collarbone.

His chain.

The metal was warm from her skin.

She pressed it there as though something could transfer — like his pulse might carry through memory.

Monica came back into the kitchen, leaned her hip against the counter.

“You wanna eat something? I’m makin’ you eat something.”

Annie tried to smile.

Before she could answer — a soft knock rattled the top of the door frame.

They both looked up.

Annie opened the door.

Mrs. Nanlin from across the hall stood there in house shoes and a windbreaker, holding a casserole dish covered in foil.

“Baby,” she said — not prying — just offering. “I made too much last night. Thought you might want some.”

Annie swallowed hard, nodding. “Thank you.”

The woman squeezed her hand once, gentle, then headed back across the hall.

Monica closed the door quietly.

“That’s it,” she said. “We’re eating.”

Annie didn’t argue.

Didn’t try to talk.

Didn’t explain.

She set the casserole on the counter, peeled one corner of foil back just enough to let the steam rise — the smell of roasted chicken and herbs warming the air.

Her voice came soft — more breath than sound.

“Just… until he gets here.”

Monica didn’t push.

She just set two plates on the table — as though the simple act of feeding each other might keep the world from falling apart before the twins got back.

The sedan ran smooth down the early afternoon stretch, the sun low but bright.

No music.

No radio.

Stack leaned back in the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded — muscles loosening in a way that only happened when danger had passed but adrenaline hadn’t fully drained.

Smoke didn’t blink much.

Hands at ten and two.

Focus tunneled.

They weren’t talking about Brew.

They weren’t talking about bodies.

They weren’t talking at all.

Just breathing the same air — the way they used to as boys in the back of the church van after basketball league — quiet, shoulder to shoulder, letting silence say all the things nobody had language for yet.

Elijah drove them into Annie’s neighborhood like he’d already memorized the turns days ago — as though the road itself had been waiting for him to return.

He stopped in front of her building.

For one second — he didn’t move.

Annie was still in the kitchen when the knock came.

Not loud.

Not frantic.

Just two firm knocks — as someone who knew the rhythm of her door.

She walked to it slow, not trusting her heart to guess. She unlocked the deadbolt, turned the handle, and pulled the door open just enough to see—

Elijah.

Alive.

Whole.

Standing in front of her.

Stack just behind him — quiet, his eyes lowered out of respect for this moment.

Annie didn’t speak at first.

Her lips parted once — breath shallow — and she whispered his name — a fact and a prayer fused together:

“Elijah.”

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t explain.

Just held her stare — letting her see all the things he couldn’t say in a hallway.

Then she moved — closing the distance in two steps — arms around him, face pressed to his chest as if she needed to feel the realness of bone beneath skin.

He wrapped both arms around her — slow — not grabbing — holding.

Home.

Monica stayed a few paces back in the living room, frozen in her own relief, not wanting to interrupt something sacred.

Stack finally stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind them.

Monica lifted her eyes to him.

Stack raised his to her at the same moment — like some invisible thread had pulled both their gazes up at the exact same second.

Nothing dramatic happened.

No gasp.

No words.

Just recognition.

Something in her expression softened —  seeing the real man behind the legend for the first time.

Stack didn’t smirk. Didn’t do his usual deflection. His stare held still — calm — but there was heat behind it.

Not lust.

Interest.

Curiosity.

Pull.

Monica looked away first — not out of dismissal — but because the charge between them was too much to stare at head-on.

Stack exhaled slow and looked down at his hands.

And Annie — face still pressed to Elijah’s chest — didn’t catch the moment.

But the room did.

The air did.

Something — unnamed — had just shifted.

Stack checked his phone — the percentage was low — he slid it back into his pocket — it didn’t matter anyway.

Monica glanced out the window, arms folded in front of her now, not defensive — just contained.

Stack spoke first.

“You wanna get some air?”

He said it casual — as though he wasn’t doing anything noble.

Just a question.

Monica nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

She grabbed her jacket from the back of the dining chair — looked to Annie first, silent permission request — Annie gave a small nod.

Monica tied her hair back as she headed for the door.

Stack paused at Elijah’s shoulder.

“You good?”

Not tough. Not teasing. Not in a “big brother” tone. 

Just real.

Elijah met his eyes. “Yeah.”

Stack accepted it — didn’t challenge it — just tapped Elijah once on the arm, quiet solidarity, and stepped out behind Monica.

The door clicked shut — soft — not slammed.

And suddenly the apartment was small again.

Just two people in it now — and one truth between them.

Elijah stayed standing at first — as if sitting down felt too normal too soon.

Annie didn’t move away from him — she just shifted enough to see his face fully, not from a hug — but from eye level.

Nothing in her expression was asking for details.

She wasn’t demanding a breakdown.

Her eyes held one question and one question only:

Are you still you?

Elijah swallowed once — not from fear — but from the weight of returning.

He took her hand — not to comfort her — but because he needed the anchor.

The room didn’t feel dangerous anymore — but it felt fragile. As though the next sentence mattered.

“Annie…” he said quietly, reaching for her hand.

Annie didn’t pull her hand back.

Her fingers threaded with his — quiet — making sure he was still real.

“Elijah…” she said, barely above a whisper.

He closed his eyes for a second — just to reset his breathing — then opened them again.

“I told you I’d come back.”

Her throat moved — that tiny swallow that wasn’t fear — it was relief finally landing.

“I know,” she said. “I just… didn’t know how long I’d have to wait.”

He stepped in closer — not rushing — just letting the space close until there was none left.

“You ain’t never gon’ wait like that again.”

There wasn’t a speech after that.

No big explanation.

No rundown of every name he erased from the world last night.

Just the knowing.

Her forehead came down to his chest first — right over his sternum — and she exhaled there — letting go of a breath she’d been holding for days.

His hand slid up her back — slow — not dragging — just resting there as though ownership wasn’t a chain but a vow.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered.

“You didn’t.”

He tipped her chin up with two fingers — small, gentle, no pressure — she looked up without being asked twice.

Their mouths met without hurry.

No fight.

No question.

No testing the waters.

Just hunger with purpose.

Her hands moved into his shirt, fingers slipping against his skin.

He kissed her again — deeper — as if he needed her mouth to wipe the taste of last night out of his head.

They didn’t stumble.

They didn’t rush.

They just… moved together — step by step — toward the hallway the way they’d done it a thousand times.

He didn’t let her go — not once — not even to breathe.

When they reached the bedroom door, he paused long enough to look at her, to make sure she was right here in this moment with him.

Annie nodded before he even asked.

That was all he needed.

He pressed his forehead to hers — one last soft beat before the hunger took over — and she reached behind her to close the door.

The latch clicked.

They didn’t rush. Didn’t tear at each other. They just… stopped needing words.

Elijah reached for the hem of his shirt first — slow — pulled it over his head as if his body weighed twice what it should. Annie did the same — no performance — no pretty timing — just shedding fabric because it didn’t matter anymore.

They got under the covers that way — skin to skin — chest to chest — her leg tangled through his — anchoring him to the earth. 

Her palm rested flat between his shoulder blades. His forehead was tucked against the curve of her collarbone. The warm part — where neck meets heart.

No heat.

No frenzy.

Just home.

The second his body registered that — safety — warmth — her — the fight left him. His breath changed — deeper, heavy with exhaustion, that primal drop right before sleep claims a man.

Annie didn’t speak. She just held him, one hand curled at the nape of his neck, the other pressed lightly to his spine.

And Elijah Moore — who hadn’t slept in days — slipped under in seconds — his whole weight settled over her as a trust he never gave to anyone else.

Annie stared at the ceiling, eyes warm — protective — one tear sliding down into her hairline, not from fear anymore, but relief. 

She whispered into his hair:

“Rest.”

And he did.

The first thing Annie felt was heat—wet, deliberate heat—sliding through her folds in slow, worshipful strokes. She was still half-dreaming, drifting in that hazy space where fantasy and reality blur, and for a moment she thought it was just another midnight ache for Elijah. Then the tongue circled her clit with perfect pressure, and her hips jerked involuntarily.

Her eyes snapped open.

Early morning light filtered through the curtains, painting gold across the sheets. And there, between her thighs, was Elijah—eyes dark with hunger, mouth working her as though he’d been starving for weeks.

“Eli—” The word cracked in her throat as he sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it, fast and filthy. Her hands flew to her own breasts, squeezing, thumbs rolling over her nipples until they ached. She couldn’t help it—she lifted one to her mouth, tongue swirling over the tight peak, tasting salt and want.

He groaned against her, the vibration shooting straight through her core. Two fingers pushed inside her, curling, stroking that spot that made her see stars. She was dripping, thighs trembling, and still he devoured her — a man possessed—licking, sucking, fucking her with his tongue until her back arched off the bed.

“Elijah—oh god—” Her orgasm hit like a wave breaking, sharp and relentless. She came with a cry, hips grinding against his face, fingers tangled in his hair as he drank her down, licking her through every shudder.

Then he was crawling up her body, heavy and warm, mouth slick with her. He kissed her—deep, messy, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Then his lips dragged down her neck, teeth scraping the frantic pulse at her throat, then lower—slow, deliberate until his mouth hovered over her breast. The nipple was already tight, flushed dark from her own tongue, and he paused just long enough for her to feel the heat of his breath before he took it between his lips. She whimpered, still sensitive, still needy.

He didn’t tease. He sucked hard, pulling the peak deep into the wet heat of his mouth, tongue flattening against it, then flicking in quick, merciless strokes. Annie’s back bowed off the bed, a broken sound spilling from her throat. He hummed against her skin—low, possessive, the vibration sinking straight into her bones.

His hand cupped the other breast, thumb rolling the nipple in tight circles, then pinching just hard enough to make her gasp. He released the first with a wet pop, only to switch sides, latching on again, sucking until her toes curled. His teeth grazed the sensitive tip, a sharp little bite that had her hips jerking, then soothed it with slow, languid licks.

“These are mine,” he growled against her skin, voice rough with need. “Every fuckin’ inch.”

He kneaded her breasts together, pushing them up so he could drag his tongue in a wet stripe between them, then took both nipples into his mouth at once—impossible, greedy, sucking until she was writhing beneath him, hands fisted in his head, begging without words.

“Turn over,” he growled against her skin.

She didn’t hesitate. He flipped her onto her stomach, hands gripping her hips, folding her up until her knees were under her, ass in the air. The head of his dick nudged her entrance—thick, hot, already leaking. One thrust and he was buried to the hilt.

“Fuck—” The word tore from her throat as he set a brutal pace, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every stroke. She pushed back, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking every inch as though she was made for it.

His palm cracked across her ass—sharp, sudden, the sting blooming hot and perfect. She cried out, clenching around him, and he did it again, harder, watching the flesh jiggle under his hand. Another slap, then another, each one timed with a deep thrust that drove the air from her lungs.

“Take it,” he growled, voice ragged, fingers digging into the mark he’d left. “Take every fuckin’ inch, baby.”

His hand slid up her spine, fingers threading through her hair, tugging just enough to arch her back. “I love you,” he rasped, voice raw. “Love you so fuckin’ much.”

“I love you,” she gasped, clenching around him. “Love you—”

“Told you I was coming back,” he said, driving deeper, harder. “Back to you. Back to my pussy.”

“Yes, baby,” she moaned, fingers clawing the sheets. “You did. You did.”

He fucked her as if he was proving it—claiming her, loving her, releasing every ounce of tension in deep, punishing strokes. His rhythm never faltered, even as the first hot pulse of his release spilled inside her. He groaned her name against the back of her neck, hips snapping forward, driving through the slick heat of his own cum.

“Annie—baby—fuck—”

She clenched around him, milking every drop, and he kept going—harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin louder now, messier. Each thrust pushed his cum out around him, dripping down her thighs, marking her in the filthiest, sweetest way. Her second orgasm crashed over her mid-stroke, body locking tight, a broken cry tearing from her throat as she came again, trembling, spent, and utterly his.

Only then did he slow, grinding deep, letting the last shudder roll through them both before he stilled, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped around her as though he’d never let go.

He eased out of her slowly, the wet drag making them both shiver. The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sheets twisted beneath them. Elijah’s hands, still trembling from the force of his release, slid gently over the handprints blooming across her ass light, reverent touches now, soothing the sting he’d just given her.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, voice low and rough, but softer now. He pressed a kiss to the small of her back, then another to the curve where her spine dipped, before rolling off the bed.

Annie collapsed onto her stomach, cheek against the pillow, limbs heavy and boneless. She heard the faucet run in the bathroom, the soft clink of glass, then his footsteps returning. He knelt beside her, warm washcloth in hand, and wiped her clean between her thighs, over her swollen folds, gentle circles that made her sigh. He tossed it aside, then stretched out behind her, pulling her into the cradle of his body.

His chest to her back, one arm sliding under her breasts, the other draping over her hip. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, lips brushing the damp skin there.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, thumb stroking slow arcs over her ribs.

She nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “More than okay.”

“You okay?” she asked.

He took a breath — not heavy — just chosen.

“I will be.”

She didn’t push further. Didn’t ask for details or names. Yet.

“Elijah…”

“Yes.”

“You really done…for real?”

No hesitation. “Yes.”

Annie’s throat moved. “Good.”

Silence again — but this one wasn’t brittle. It was soft. Safe, even.

She shifted a little closer, cheek near his shoulder.

“Annie?” he murmured against her neck.

“Mm?”

“I want you to meet my mama.”

Annie turned toward him, surprise flickering first… then a soft, shy smile slowly took shape. She’d been waiting to hear those words for as long as she’d known about his mother.

“I’d love to,” she said quietly.

Elijah closed his eyes — not from exhaustion — but from peace.

He opened his eyes, reached down, tugged the comforter up over them both, cocooning them in warmth. His fingers found hers, lacing them together over her stomach. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice thick with sleep and love. “Always got you.”

She turned her head just enough to catch his mouth in a lazy, lingering kiss. “I know,” she breathed against his lips. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” he said, and held her tighter, until the only sound was their breathing, slow and steady, tangled together in the quiet aftermath.

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Dr. Rowe’s voice broke through the quiet, patient and steady, a subtle invitation instead of a command.

Stack smirked, tilting his head. “Stack. Everyone calls me Stack. Trust me, you don’t want to sound like my dad.”

Her lips quivered in the faintest smile, but her gaze stayed steady. “All right, Stack. How’s your week been?”

“Busy,” he said, letting his fingers drum a restless rhythm against the armrest. “Club’s slammed. Smoke’s out with Annie tonight, so I’m running the floor solo. Women in my life don’t complain.”

Dr. Rowe tilted her head, notepad balanced loosely in her lap. “You’re deflecting. I asked how you feel.”

Stack’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. Feel? Dangerous word. He shifted his weight, settling deeper into the leather chair like it could hold the answer for him.

“I feel fine,” he said lightly, as though the word could slide past her ears unnoticed. “People leave. Things happen. I take care of my people. That’s feeling enough.”

Her gaze held him. Calm. Unyielding. “You’ve built a life around taking care of others, but rarely yourself. That doesn’t erase the question.”

He gave a small scoff, but his jaw flexed.

“Okay,” she continued evenly, “last time we spoke about your father blaming you for your mother’s death. Do you still believe him?”

Stack’s eyes flickered toward the window, his smirk gone. The muscles in his jaw worked tight, his voice low. “Man been dead for nearly ten years, Doc. Ain’t much point in still believin’ or not believin’ him.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Her tone was calm, steady, with no room to slip away.

He exhaled through his nose, a slow, sharp breath. “…Some days I think maybe he was right. Other days, I know he was just drunk and needed somebody to bleed on.”

“And which day is today?”

Stack’s lips curved into that half-smirk again, but this time it sat crooked, unsteady. “Today I don’t give a damn.”

Dr. Rowe studied him, her silence deliberate. She wrote something down, then looked back at him. “You care more than you admit. That wound. Your father’s words bleeds into the way you see yourself, Stack. Especially when it comes to love.”

“Love?” He laughed once, a sharp sound, dismissive. He leaned back, stretching an arm across the chair like he owned the room. “I’m good on that subject. Don’t need it. Don’t trust it.”

Her brow arched slightly. “Then why bring up Annie last session?” she asked softly. “You told me she was ‘good for your brother.’ That she steadied him. Your voice softened when you said it.”

His smirk faltered for a split second, so quick most wouldn’t catch it—but she did. He shifted, looking at the ceiling like it might rescue him. “…Annie was… different. She always had this way of makin’ Smoke walk lighter, like the weight of the world didn’t crush him so much when she was around. She was his calm before the storm.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

Stack’s throat worked. His fingers stilled against the armrest. “…Happy for him.”

Her gaze sharpened, though her voice stayed gentle. “Only happy?”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. His shoulders rose and fell, breath slower now, heavier.

Finally, he spoke, his tone flat, like the words had teeth. “When we were kids, I… liked Annie. Nothin’ serious, just a crush. But I knew better. She only had eyes for Smoke. She always would. And that was fine. He deserved her.” He paused, voice dropping, softer now, almost boyish. “Sometimes I just wondered… if anyone could ever look at me like that.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unpolished.

Dr. Rowe leaned forward, her pen forgotten, her voice almost a whisper. “And what if they could?”

Stack let out a bark of laughter, but it rang hollow, bouncing off the quiet office walls. “Then I’d probably run the other way. Ain’t no point lettin’ somebody close enough to tear you apart.”

Her eyes stayed on him, calm as ever. “Not every storm has to destroy, Stack. Some storms bring rain—life, growth. Maybe one day, you’ll stop running and let someone see you.”

He shook his head, looking away, jaw tight. The smirk slipped back on, but it was weaker this time, more armor than truth. “…Maybe.”

Dr. Rowe didn’t look away. “Maybe,” she echoed softly. “But I hear something else in your words, Stack. It isn’t just about Annie. It’s about your brother.”

Stack leaned back, arms spread wide, his grin sliding into place like a cigarette between his lips. “Smoke? He’s my ace. Always has been. He’s the one folks notice when we walk in a room. Me? I’m the good-lookin’ shadow standin’ next to him. Works out fine—he draws the fire, I enjoy the show.”

His tone was slick, playful, but his knee bounced a restless rhythm.

“You admire him,” Dr. Rowe said steadily.

Stack chuckled, the sound low and vulgar. “Admire? That’s what you say about a man’s suit or a woman’s ass, Doc. I don’t admire him. He’s my brother. Some days he’s the reason I breathe. Other days, I could strangle him with my bare hands. That sound like admiration to you?”

“Sounds like love,” she answered, calm as ever.

The smirk slipped, just for a second, before he replaced it with a wider grin. “Love. That four-letter scam that makes men write bad raps about and women cry in their wine. Not my scene. I deal in other things—whiskey, music, a good fight, maybe a softer body now and then if the night’s right. All that? Real. Love? Fairytales.”

“Humor again,” Dr. Rowe observed softly. “Deflection. You turn pain into a punchline.”

Stack pressed his hand over his heart dramatically, leaning forward with a crooked grin. “Well damn, Doc, you caught me. You should come by the club sometime. I do stand-up right before the girls hit the stage.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. “You do the same thing there, don’t you? At the club. You keep it loud, fast, vulgar—so no one notices the quiet. The stillness. The place where you’re not smiling.”

Stack’s grin stiffened. He shifted in his seat, rubbing a thumb against the armrest. “…Ain’t nobody comin’ to my club for quiet, Doc. They want the music loud, drinks strong, and somebody to make ‘em forget their sad little lives for a night. I just provide the service.”

Her gaze didn’t move. “And when do you forget yours?”

That question hit like a jab to the ribs. He leaned back, looking at the ceiling, lips pulling into that signature half-smile. “I don’t forget. I drink. I fight. I fuck. Same result, less thinking.”

She let the vulgarity pass without flinching. “And after?”

Stack’s smile faltered. His voice came quieter, flat. “…After, it’s just me. No crowd. No women. Just me.”

“Lonely,” she supplied.

He barked a laugh, but it rang hollow. “Lonely’s cheaper than therapy.”

“You’re here,” she reminded him gently.

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp but uncertain, before darting back to the window. “…Court ordered. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Dr. Rowe didn’t rise to the bait. Her voice softened. “You’ve built your armor well—charm, jokes, that crooked smile everyone falls for. But armor isn’t the same as skin. One protects. The other feels.”

For once, he didn’t smirk. He stayed quiet, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming slower and slower against the chair.

Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, “…If I let it feel, it might not stop.”

Dr. Rowe leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but piercing. “And maybe that’s where you start healing, Stack. Not with the smile, not with the jokes. But with the part of you that’s still bleeding.”

He swallowed hard, forcing the grin back onto his face, though it didn’t quite fit this time. “…You really know how to kill a man’s mood, Doc.”

She smiled faintly, unfazed. “I’m not here to kill your mood. I’m here to help you find the man behind it.”

Stack laughed again, but his eyes betrayed him. They were heavy, tired, carrying more truth than he’d ever say out loud.

Behind the wall. The same office. A different room.

DANNI SESSION

Danni crossed one leg over the other on the chair, arms folded tight across her chest. Her dark curls were piled into a messy bun that was already starting to slip, and she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. But her sharp brown eyes told a different story—she was paying attention, even if she pretended not to.

“So, Danni,” Dr. Greene said, her voice calm, steady, the kind of tone that felt like it could wait forever. “How are you feeling this week?”

“Like I need a margarita,” Danni shot back without missing a beat, her tone dry as ever.

Dr. Greene’s lips curved slightly. “That’s an honest answer. But what’s under it?”

Danni sighed loud enough to fill the space, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Fine. I feel… tired. Tired of people thinking I’m supposed to settle for less than I deserve. Tired of wasting time on men who swear they love me but can’t stay faithful for more than a weekend.”

“You mean Devante,” Dr. Greene said gently.

Danni’s jaw tightened, her arms pressing firmer against her ribs. “…Yeah. Him.”

“Two weeks since the breakup.”

“I was finished the moment I saw him with her. In our bed.” Her voice cracked on the word our, but she smoothed it over with a scoff. “But he keeps calling, keeps showing up in my head like a bad commercial I can’t mute. I blocked every number he had, and somehow he still finds ways to reach out. He’s like gum on the bottom of your shoe. You think you scraped it all off, but nope—still there. Still sticking.”

Dr. Greene tilted her head. “Do you miss him?”

Danni let out a sharp laugh. “Miss him? No. I miss the idea of him. The promise of what I thought we had. The version of him I made up in my head, not the liar who couldn’t even keep it together in our own apartment.”

Dr. Greene nodded slowly. “That’s an important distinction. The version of him you wanted versus the version you had.”

Danni tapped her nails against the armrest, her tone clipped. “Story of my life, really. Expectation versus reality. And reality always wins.”

Dr. Greene leaned forward slightly, eyes intent. “What do you think it is you keep going back to in men like him?”

Danni tilted her head, smirk curling. “Mm, I don’t know. Bad decisions? A hobby?” Her voice was cool, but the tightness in her shoulders betrayed her.

“You hide behind humor,” Dr. Greene observed. “But under the sarcasm, I hear a woman afraid she’ll never be chosen properly. Truly.”

The words hung heavy. Danni’s eyes flicked away, her smirk faltering. “When I was younger… my best friend Keisha—well, ex-best friend now—she had this way of making me feel small. Like if I liked someone, it was laughable. Like I’d never be anybody’s type. And I believed her for a long time.”

Her voice cracked, just once.

Dr. Greene’s tone softened. “And now?”

Danni straightened in the chair, biting her lip before forcing the smirk back into place. “Now I know I’m beautiful. Smart. Funny. I know I deserve someone who actually sees me. But some nights…” She trailed off, the words heavier now. “Some nights I wonder if Keisha was right. If I’ll always be the girl nobody picks first.”

“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Greene asked carefully.

Danni shook her head, slow. “Not all the time. But it sneaks in. Like a splinter you thought you pulled out but it’s still buried deep. Every time I catch my reflection, I know I’m not that insecure girl anymore. But when somebody walks away or cheats? Feels like proof she was right all along.”

Dr. Greene leaned forward. “And what if the problem isn’t you, Danni? What if you’ve simply been choosing men who confirm an old lie you haven’t let go of yet?”

Danni blinked, caught off guard. “…So you’re saying I’m sabotaging myself?”

“I’m saying maybe you’ve been chasing the wrong kind of attention because deep down, you don’t believe you’re worthy of the right kind.”

The words lodged deep in her chest, heavier than she wanted to admit. She forced a crooked smile, that armor sliding back into place. “So what? You think Prince Charming’s out there somewhere, ready to come sweep me off my feet? I call bullshit.”

Dr. Greene smiled softly. “Not Prince Charming. Someone real. Someone who sees all of you—the sarcasm, the humor, the brilliance, and the hurt. And chooses you anyway.”

Danni gave a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Sounds like a unicorn.”

“Not a unicorn,” Dr. Greene countered gently. “A man. A man who exists in the same world you do. What if someone already sees you, Danni—and you just don’t see him yet?”

Danni’s brows arched, sarcasm snapping back into place like armor. “Then he better speak up quick. ’Cause I don’t chase ghosts.”

The clock on the wall chimed softly, ending the session. Danni stood, adjusting her purse strap with a huff, rolling her eyes at herself.

Therapy always left her rawer than she wanted to admit, peeling back layers she spent years perfecting. But walking out into the hallway, she couldn’t shake the weight of Dr. Greene’s words. Not Prince Charming. Someone real.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Mrs. Magnolia Diner

The bell above the door sang its familiar jingle as another set of customers strolled in, but Danni barely looked up. She was halfway through refilling a table’s teas, mind moving faster than her hands.

Across the counter, Candi slid into her section with a grin, blonde braids stuck under her visor, order pad already in hand. “Girl, I swear, if you scrub that counter any harder, you gonna buff it down to the wood.”

Danni gave her a look, rag paused mid-swipe. “I like my reflection shining back at me. Makes up for what’s missing in my life.”

“Oh, don’t start.” Candi leaned an elbow against the counter, voice dropping. “You still thinking about that Memphis boy?”

Danni’s jaw flexed, but she kept her smile practiced for the customers. “Not thinking. More like… dodging. Blocking. Pretending he don’t exist.”

“Uh-huh. Two weeks of blocking numbers and ducking calls ain’t pretending. That’s work.”

Danni shot her a side-eye as she slid a plate of catfish across to a waiting table. “Well, it’s the only workout I’m committed to right now.”

Candi chuckled, but her gaze softened. “You did the right thing. Throwing him out? Best move you ever made. Man didn’t deserve you, Danni.”

For a moment, Danni’s mask slipped. She busied herself rearranging straws in the dispenser, but her voice dropped low. “Don’t mean it don’t hurt like hell, Candi. Thought I had forever lined up, and he went and handed it to somebody else.”

Candi reached across the counter and squeezed her wrist. “Yeah, but now you got freedom lined up. Don’t waste it hiding in this diner. Maybe try go back into nursing.”

Before Danni could reply, the bell over the door rang again, and they both straightened. A couple of regulars waved, pulling them back into motion.

The hours blurred into the rhythm of plates, orders, and laughter. Still, every now and then, Candi found Danni’s eye and tossed her a look that said: You need a night out. A real one.

By late afternoon, when the rush slowed, Candi slid into the booth across from Danni during their break, sipping a Dr. Pepper.

“So,” she said, tapping her straw against the cup, “Cypress tonight. My cousin Pearline’s is singing. I’m going, no question. And you’re coming with me.”

Danni groaned, leaning back against the booth. “Candi—”

“No excuses,” Candi cut her off. “Don’t even start. I know your Netflix queue isn’t that important.”

Danni smirked, swirling the ice in her tea. “You ever think maybe I like my little bubble? No drama, no mess, just me?”

“Uh-huh. Except drama keeps finding you whether you leave the house or not. Might as well have good music and tequila when it shows up.”

That earned a laugh out of Danni, a real one that loosened something in her chest. She shook her head. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

Candi’s grin widened. “I’m the best kind of menace. The kind that gets you out that house and back in the game.”

Danni didn’t promise, but the thought lingered as she tied her apron tighter and headed back to the floor. Maybe she would go. Just for Pearline. Just for the music.

And maybe… just to feel like her world wasn’t stuck on pause.

The lull after the lunch rush hung in the air, the kind of quiet where the hum of the overhead lights felt louder than it should. Danni wiped down her section, moving on instinct, her mind still chewing over Candi’s insistence about Cypress Lounge.

Candi leaned against the counter, sipping her soda with a smirk. “You know, you act like the universe don’t hear you—but then it pulls stunts like this.”

Danni frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Candi tilted her chin toward the door. “Speaking of the devil.”

The bell jingled, and in walked Elias “Stack” Moore. Black Ray-Bans covered his eyes, but that grin—crooked, knowing, dangerous—was visible from across the room. He carried himself like he owned the space without even trying, broad shoulders rolling loose beneath his dark Henley. Heads turned, but he seemed oblivious, tugging the sunglasses down just enough to scan the room.

Danni’s rag stilled on the counter. Her throat went dry, but she masked it with a scoff. “Oh, hell.”

“Uh-huh,” Candi drawled, eyes dancing between them. “Hell looks real good in shades.”

Danni rolled her eyes, but heat prickled the back of her neck as Stack slid into a booth, one arm stretching across the back like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t see her right away. He was too busy flashing that easy smile at the waitress passing him a menu.

Candi nudged Danni with her elbow. “Well, don’t just stand there. Somebody’s gotta serve him.”

“I’d rather serve a rattlesnake,” Danni muttered, grabbing her notepad anyway.

Still, when she finally moved toward him, her steps slowed, her sarcasm ready like armor. She knew Stack’s type. She’d known it since high school. Trouble wrapped in charm. Smiles sharp enough to cut. And yet, her chest tightened in the same frustrating way it always had.

Stack leaned back in the booth, one arm stretched lazily across the top, sunglasses pushed up on his head now. He looked like sin dressed in denim and confidence. Casual, comfortable, and far too aware of the effect he had when he smirked at whoever dared cross his path.

Danni walked over with her notepad in hand, her face schooled into something cool and unimpressed. Inside, her pulse ticked up, but she’d be damned if he’d see it.

“Well, look who wandered in,” she drawled, stopping at his table. “It’s just you? Damn. Where big Daddy Smoke at?”

Stack’s grin slipped clean off. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing. “Stop callin’ my brother that. And for the record? My brother’s taken. So go find yourself somebody else to throw your ass at.”

Danni barked a laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Jealous much? Relax, Stack. Let your brother get some love too. You can’t hog all the pussy in Delta.”

Candi, wiping down the counter nearby, nearly choked on her gum. “Lord have mercy…” she muttered, eyes sparkling like she was front row at a show.

“Also don’t worry your pretty little head about what I call your brother at night,” Danni teased, smirk tugging at her lips.

Stack leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and cutting. “You’ve got a fuckin’ mouth on you, don’t you?”

Danni cocked her head, letting her smirk bloom. “I sure fuckin’ do.” She leaned in just enough to mock him with her tone, pen poised over her pad. “Now, what can I get your, fuckin’ ass?”

Stack sat back, jaw ticking, his grin gone. He looked her over slowly, from the tilt of her chin to the sway of her stance, before taking off his sunglasses. “Don’t know how the hell Mrs.Magnolia keeps you around. Where is she, anyway? ’Cause I definitely need her to fire your ass.”

Danni barked out a laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Go ahead, Stack. March back there and tell Magnolia her best damn waitress needs to be fired. See how far that gets you.”

His grin came back then, slow and dark. “Smart mouth, sharp tongue, zero respect. You’re damn lucky you’re easy on the eyes, or you’d have been outta here years ago.”

Danni leaned closer, resting one hand on the table, her smile pure venom. “Aw. Did you just admit you think I’m cute? Careful, Stack. Might slip and sound like a decent nigga.”

The heat between them thickened, the kind that made the air hum.

Stack dropped his sunglasses on the table, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You keep pushing me, Danni, and one of these days, you’re not gonna like what happens.”

Her heart stuttered, but her smirk never faltered. She tilted her head, lips glossed and glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Oh, baby, I don’t like you already. Nothing new there.”

For a second, they just stared—hatred, challenge, and something hotter smoldering beneath it.

For a beat, the air between them vibrated, sharp as a live wire. Stack’s crooked grin crawled back across his face, slow and deliberate, like the words rolled right off him and landed somewhere he didn’t mind. He sat back again, eyes glittering with something between irritation and intrigue.

“Coffee and apple pie.” he said finally, dragging the word out. “Coffee. Hot. Strong. Like me.”

Danni scribbled without looking up. “Mm-hm. More like burnt and bitter.”

Candi snorted loud enough for the nearest booth to turn their heads, and Danni spun on her heel before Stack could fire back, curls bouncing as she walked away.

Stack watched her go, that grin refusing to fade now. He wasn’t used to being needled like this. Most people giggled, bent, folded. Not Danni. She pushed back, sharp as glass. And damn if it didn’t make him want to lean in closer just to see how deep she could cut.

Danni slid a plate of apple pie and the mug of coffee onto the table a little too hard, close enough that it sloshed. “Here. Hot, black, bitter. Just like you.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I know I’m funny,” she said, smirk tugging at her lips. Danni straightened, chin tilted high. “Enjoy your coffee. Try not to choke on your ego.”

Stack watched Danni’s back as she walked away, curls bouncing with every step like they were mocking him. His jaw ticked, crooked grin gone now, replaced with the kind of scowl he usually saved for men who didn’t pay their tabs.

Couldn’t stand her.

Didn’t know what her damn problem was.

Danni met him blow for blow, every word out of her mouth dipped in vinegar, and still she strutted off like she’d won something.

“Woman thinks she bulletproof,” he muttered, stabbing his fork into the pie like it had done him wrong. “She ain’t.”

He took another bite, bitterness sitting on his tongue heavier than the coffee. He set the fork down, shaking his head. Whatever. He had bigger things to think about than some mouthy waitress who clearly woke up mad at the world.

His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Evening creeping closer. The lounge would be filling up soon—tables packed, glasses clinking, music spilling through the doors. And this time, he’d be running it solo.

Smoke was out with Annie, dressed to the nines, chasing something that looked too damn close to happiness. Stack could still see him adjusting his tie in the mirror before heading out, leaving Stack to hold the line.

He leaned back in the booth, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, tonight’s on me.”

He didn’t mind the weight—he was good at it. Running the floor, keeping the wolves in line, making sure every deal behind closed doors stayed neat, quiet. That was his lane. That was where he thrived. But still… sometimes it gnawed at him. Smoke had Annie. He had that soft place to land. Stack had a crooked grin and a long night ahead of him.

His gaze drifted back to the counter where Danni stood, laughing at something Candi said. For reasons he didn’t care to name, the sound grated on him.

He pushed his coffee aside, sliding out of the booth. Enough wasting time here. The lounge was waiting, and unlike Danni, it didn’t talk back.

His gaze drifted back to the counter where Danni stood, laughing at something Candi said. Her head tilted back, curls slipping from her bun, mouth wide with a real laugh she hadn’t shown him once.

And for reasons he didn’t care to name, the sound grated on him. Irritated him more than it should.

She could laugh easy with everybody else, but with him? Nothing but fucking sass.

Stack finished his coffee and his pie and decided it was time to go.

Stack scooted out the booth, the legs scraping the tile. He tugged his sunglasses off the table, slipping them back on as he stalked toward the counter. Each step felt deliberate, a slow roll of his shoulders, his boots hitting the floor like punctuation marks.

Candi noticed first, her grin slipping into a wary smirk. “Oh, Lord. Here we go.”

Danni turned, smirk fading into something cool and sharp when her eyes landed on him. “You done terrorizing that pie, or you want me to fetch you another victim?”

Stack slapped a couple of bills down on the counter, the sound sharp against the laminate. “Pie was cold. Coffee worse. Service?” His eyes rolled dramatically. “Don’t even get me started.”

Danni arched a brow, folding her arms. “Funny, ‘cause that plate looks empty to me. Guess your mouth didn’t mind too much.”

Stack leaned in just enough for only her to hear, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I chow things down all the time that ain’t worth keepin’.”

Her lips curved into a venomous smile. “Good for you.”

For a beat, neither moved—his grin sharp, her glare sharper. The tension pulled tight enough to snap.

Finally, Stack pushed back, straightening to his full height. He slid his change off the counter and tucked it into his pocket, not bothering with a tip. “Keep the attitude. You’re already overpaid.”

He pivoted toward the door, swagger casually.The bell jingled as the door swung shut behind Stack, and the low hum of the diner returned. Danni let out a scoff, tossing the rag onto the counter with more force than necessary.

“Cheap motherfucker,” she muttered, watching through the window as his car eased out of the lot.

Candi burst out laughing, nearly spilling the rest of her Dr. Pepper. “Girl, you came at him the whole time he was sittin’ in here. Man couldn’t even order pie without you tryna cut him.”

Danni’s eyes narrowed, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. “Whose side you on?”

“Neither,” Candi said, holding up her hands like she was innocent. “I’m just sayin’—Stack seemed pretty cool. Definitely a player, but a cool one.”

Danni rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Girl, you just wanna fuck him.”

Candi choked on her soda, laughing so loud a couple of regulars glanced over. “Maybe in the past,” she admitted, fanning herself with her order pad. “But I got me a new boo thang now, thank you very much.” She leaned closer, eyes dancing. “Anyway… question is...are you comin’ to the lounge tonight?”

Danni groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “ Here we go again…”

But Candi just grinned, tapping her straw against the cup like a drumroll, waiting for the answer.

Candi leaned forward, grin never slipping. “Don’t act brand new. I already told you tequila’s on me.”

Danni snorted, reaching for the coffee pot like she needed something to do with her hands. “You think tequila’s gonna fix my life?”

“Maybe not,” Candi shot back, “but it’ll sure make you forget about Memphis nigga for a couple hours. And after the way you was jawin’ at Stack just now? I think you need it.”

Danni froze, side-eye sharp as a blade. “You tryna say he got under my skin? ‘Cause he didn’t.”

“Mhm.” Candi sipped her soda slow, eyes sparkling with mischief. “That why you still talkin’ about him when he long gone?”

Danni rolled her eyes, lips twitching despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Candi said sweetly, leaning back in the booth. “So what’s it gonna be, girl? You comin’ or not?”

Danni thought about it, her gaze drifting to the window where Stack’s car had disappeared minutes ago. Her chest still hummed with leftover irritation that felt suspiciously close to adrenaline. She shook her head, muttering, “Ain’t no reason for me to go to that lounge.”

Candi smirked, pouncing. “Except to see Pearline sing. And maybe to prove to yourself you can walk in there, have a good time, and not let no man—past or present—mess with your head.”

Danni sighed, tying her apron tighter like it could anchor her. “I’ll think about it.”

Candi clapped her hands once, triumphant. “That’s a yes. Don’t worry! I’ll pick your outfit. Something that makes Stack choke on more than just his coffee next time.”

Danni’s mouth fell open before she burst out laughing, swatting at Candi’s arm. “Girl, you are outta pocket.”

“Maybe,” Candi said, eyes glinting. “But I ain’t wrong.”

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

The Cypress Lounge pulsed with energy, the air thick with the scent of liquor and perfume, laughter curling around the steady hum of the bassline.

Stack barely had time to breathe. He moved from the bar to the back hallway to the stage and back again, every step measured, every word clipped but smooth. He broke up two arguments, kept the bartenders from drowning in orders, and made sure the floor stayed moving. With Smoke gone, everything fell on him, and he handled it like a man holding court.

Which meant he didn’t notice when Danni and Candi slipped in through the doors.

The two women wove through the crowd, sliding into a booth near the stage. The lights painted everything amber and red, the tables packed shoulder to shoulder, the chatter rising and falling like waves.

“Mm-hm,” Candi said, fanning herself with the cocktail menu. “See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. Good music, good drinks, fine men everywhere.”

Danni smirked, scanning the room. “Yeah, and ninety percent of those fine men already got a woman on their arm.”

“Don’t matter.” Candi winked, grabbing Danni’s hand. “Tonight, we ain’t chasing nothin’. We just vibin’.”

Danni laughed, shaking her head as a waitress dropped off two cocktails. She sipped hers slow, letting the tart bite of tequila roll across her tongue. For the first time in weeks, her chest felt a little lighter.

A familiar squeal cut through the crowd, and Candi’s head whipped around. “Pearline!”

Her cousin was heading toward the stage, sequins glittering under the dim lights. She carried herself like she owned the mic before she even touched it.

“Cuz!” Pearline leaned over the edge of the booth, hugging Candi tight, then flashing Danni a wide smile. “You made it! Both of y’all did. Lord, I was hopin’.”

“Girl, you better sing the roof down tonight,” Candi said, eyes glowing with pride.

“You know I will.” Pearline grinned, brushing her curls back as the band began tuning. “Glad y’all came. Sit tight, first set’s about to start.”

She gave Danni a warm nod before striding toward the stage.

Candi clapped her hands like an excited child. “See? Worth it already.”

Danni sipped her drink, her lips curving despite herself. The room was alive, the air thrumming, and for once, she wasn’t thinking about Devante. She wasn’t thinking about heartbreak. Not even about that crooked smile she’d faced earlier in the diner.

The room buzzed as Pearline’s band settled into their groove, the first notes spilling warm and sultry into the air. Danni and Candi clinked glasses, laughing as the lights dimmed and Pearline leaned into the mic with a smile that could stop traffic.

The crowd leaned in, drawn to her voice, but across the room, someone else’s gaze was fixed on Danni.

Francisco.

He sat at a corner table with a few men from town, nursing a whiskey he hadn’t paid for yet. His eyes narrowed as he watched her laugh, head tilted back, curls spilling over her shoulders. It had been months since he’d seen her, but nothing about the sight softened the sour twist in his chest.

He slid his phone out of his pocket under the table, thumbs moving quick.

She’s here. Cypress Lounge. 146 River Lake Street. Come through.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he hit send, the message winging its way straight to Devante’s phone. Francisco knew damn well Devante had been trying to get in touch. Calls, messages, even showing up at her aunt house in Jackson. And now? Devante was back in town, restless and reckless.

Francisco leaned back in his chair, tucking the phone away. He didn’t wave, didn’t approach, didn’t let Danni know he was even there. He just watched her sip her drink, laugh with her friend, and glow under the dim lights. Unaware that a storm was already rolling her way.

On the stage, Pearline hit her first high note, the crowd erupting with cheers. Danni clapped, smiling for real this time, free for once.

Pearline’s voice filled the lounge like honey over gravel, smooth and powerful, sliding right into the bones of the crowd. Applause rippled, whistles cutting through the music, but Danni just sat back in the booth, a slow smile tugging at her lips.

“See?” Candi shouted over the music, eyes sparkling. “Didn’t I tell you she was gon’ kill it?”

Danni lifted her glass in a toast, cheeks warming with tequila and good company. “All right, I admit it. You were right.”

Candi gasped, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically. “Say it again. Louder.”

“Don’t push it,” Danni shot back, but she laughed, the sound loosening her chest. The music, light, and a sisterhood that made her forget everything.

She leaned back, letting the sound wash over her, eyes closing for a beat as Pearline’s voice soared.

Across the table, Candi grinned wide. “This is it, girl. This is freedom. Ain’t no Memphis nigga here. Ain’t no drama here. Just us.”

Danni nodded, sipping slow. She wanted to believe it. For a few minutes, she almost did. The bass throbbed under her skin, Pearline’s voice wrapped her in velvet, and the energy of the room carried her higher than she’d felt in months.

What she didn’t see—what she didn’t know—was Francisco’s eyes still locked on her from across the lounge, his smirk curdling with each laugh she let loose. His phone was already back in his pocket, the text long sent.

But for now, Danni lived in the moment, clapping and cheering as Pearline hit another run that had half the room on their feet. She leaned into Candi, shoulder bumping hers. “You happy now?”

Candi raised her glass high, grinning. “Ecstatic. And if you don’t dance before the night’s over, I’ll drag you to that floor myself.”

Danni rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. For once, she felt like herself again. Sharp, alive, and untouchable.

Things were running smooth tonight, smoother than he expected with Smoke out. The floor stayed busy but steady, bartenders moving fast, servers hustling, music flowing just right. Stack leaned against the end of the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass, scanning the room with the easy patience of a man who knew chaos always waited two steps behind a good night.

He spotted one of the younger bartenders hustling past with an empty tray. Stack caught his arm with a nod toward the door. “Go tell Cornbread to keep that line outside tight. I don’t want nobody cuttin’, and I damn sure don’t want no fights spillin’ into my street. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” the kid said, already moving.

Stack watched him push through the crowd, then turned back to survey the room. Cypress wasn’t just a lounge, it was a machine. A living, breathing beast. And tonight, every gear was grinding just right under his hand.

He downed the last swallow of his drink and set the glass aside, his crooked grin sliding into place as he strolled across the floor. Customers called his name, women leaned in, men slapped his back like old friends. Stack gave them all what they wanted—a flash of teeth, a quick joke, a warning glance when needed.

Business as usual.

But under it all, he felt that itch he always did when Smoke wasn’t around. That weight of holding it all down by himself. He was good at it. Hell, nobody did it better, but there was a difference between good and easy.

Stack stopped near the stage, eyes sweeping over the crowd one more time. Pearline’s voice soared, riding the band’s groove, pulling cheers from every corner of the room. The energy was high, electric, and he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. Nights like this reminded him why they built Cypress.

He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension in his back, and nodded to himself. “Yeah. We good. Real good.”

Stack shifted through the crowd until he ended up in front of the stage, one hand resting on the rail as Pearline’s voice soared through the mic. The band was locked in tight, the bass thrumming steady, the sax sliding like smoke through the room. The crowd was eating it up, hands clapping, heads nodding, bodies swaying with every note.

From this spot, Stack could see everything. The front row of dancers pressed close to the stage, the bartenders hustling at the far end of the room, the line of booths along the wall. He scanned like a hawk, every detail clocked and filed away.

That’s when he saw her.

Danni.

She was bathed in the stage lights spilling across the room, curls shining, smile loose and easy as she leaned into Candi. She clapped for Pearline, swayed in her seat, her laughter cutting through the hum like a damn spotlight.

Stack’s jaw worked. He didn’t move, didn’t take a step her way. But his eyes stayed fixed. Watching. Analyzing.

This wasn’t the sharp-tongued waitress at Magnolia’s, snapping at him with vinegar on her tongue. This was a woman out in her element confident, beautiful, soaking in the night like it was hers.

And it pissed him off more than he could explain.

She could shine for everybody else, but for him? Nothing but smoke and daggers.

Stack dragged his eyes back to the stage, clapping once for Pearline as if he’d been focused on her the whole time. He wasn’t about to give Danni the satisfaction of thinking she’d gotten under his skin.

He adjusted his stance, squared his shoulders, and let the music pull the crowd tighter. The lounge was his to control, his to protect.

And if that meant keeping one sharp-tongued waitress at arm’s length, even if she was sitting there looking like sin in the spotlight, so be it.

Pearline held the last note like velvet wrapped in steel, the crowd erupting into whistles and applause as she smiled into the mic.

“Thank y’all, Delta,” she said, waving toward the tables. “It’s been a blessing. Goodnight.”

The band eased off, and the DJ slid in with a quick shout-out before spinning the next track. A hard beat dropped, followed by a familiar hook that rattled the speakers.

“Shake your tambourine, go and get yourself a whistle…”

Candi squealed, nearly spilling her drink. “Ohhh, this my song!”

Before Danni could protest, Candi was already tugging her arm. “Come on, girl, get up. Don’t you dare sit through Eve. Not in this place, not tonight.”

Danni laughed, shaking her head as she set her glass down. “Lord, you gon’ have me out here lookin’ crazy.”

“You already look good, so shut up and move.”

Candi pulled until Danni slid out of the booth, her sneakers squeaking against the floor as she let herself be dragged toward the dance floor. The crowd shifted, bodies pressing in, the beat thumping in their bones.

Candi was already moving, hips swaying, braids swinging under the neon lights. She grabbed Danni’s hands, forcing her into the rhythm, laughing when Danni finally gave in.

And she did.

The tequila loosened her limbs, the bass pulled her forward, and the laughter that spilled out of her chest felt freer than it had in weeks. She swayed with Candi, mouthed the words, let her body catch the beat.

Candi leaned close, shouting over the music. “See? I told you! Tequila, music, and a little Eve will fix anything!”

Danni threw her head back, laughing, the lights flashing across her face. For a moment, nothing else existed.” You definitely were right about tonight.”

Stack worked the bar like he’d done it a hundred times before—hands moving fast, bottles flipping, drinks sliding across the counter without spilling a drop. The orders came hard and heavy after Pearline’s set, but he thrived in the chaos. This was his kingdom, and behind the bar he was untouchable.

At least, until the beat switched.

The DJ dropped Eve’s “Tambourine” and the crowd roared like the roof might lift off. Stack glanced toward the dance floor out of habit, eyes skimming the movement—making sure nobody was gettin’ too wild, no drunk fool causing trouble.

That’s when he saw her again, but dancing this time.

Stack froze mid-pour, liquor sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass before he snapped back and set it down. His jaw clenched.

The crowd swallowed her, but his eyes stayed locked, tracing every turn of her shoulders, every curve of her movement. It burned him, how easy she looked, how alive she was without even trying.

One of the barbacks bumped his arm. “Boss, you good?”

Stack’s grin snapped back in place, sharp and thin. “Yeah. Keep pourin’. Don’t let the line back up.”

Even as he grabbed another bottle, his eyes cut back across the room, narrowing when he caught sight of Danni again. She was trouble, plain and simple. Trouble with a smile. Trouble with hips. Trouble he had no business watching.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.