Jada Wilson wasn’t the type of girl who liked to lose. 

It wasn’t because she was mean, and it wasn’t because she thought she was better than everybody else. She liked working hard and seeing results. If she studied for a test, she expected a good grade. If she auditioned for something, she expected the spot. If she walked into a room, she expected to leave an impression. Most of the time life made sense to her because effort and reward usually moved together. Teachers remembered her because she participated. Boys noticed her because she was pretty. People gravitated towards her because she was funny. None of that felt complicated. 

It felt earned.

That was probably why Anissa “Annie” Landry irritated her so much.

She didn’t dislike her at first. At first Annie was barely a blip on her radar. Nothing more than another smart girl in her Honors Biology. They sat near each other, partnered on projects occasionally, and shared enough classes that familiarity came naturally. Jada liked her then. Everybody liked Annie. The problem was Annie seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on people. Teachers, classmates, and even complete strangers trusted her, confided in her, and listened when she spoke. Annie never seemed to chase attention, yet attention found her anyway.

By October, most of the freshman class already knew whose names lived at the top of the grade rankings. Annie. Jada. Malcolm. Sometimes another student slipped into the conversation, but those three stayed there consistently enough that everybody noticed. Jada noticed because she cared. Annie only seemed to notice only when somebody pointed it out.

Jada could admit that she paid more attention to Annie than Annie ever paid to her. Annie shrugged off good grades like they were nothing to celebrate, like success was something that simply found her whether she reached for it or not. She didn’t treat life like a competition. In fact, Jada found it frustratingly difficult to tell whether Annie ever competed for anything at all. Every conversation she had with Annie left her feeling like she was in a race by herself. Annie never bragged, gloated or rubbed anything in anybody’s face. If she had, Jada might’ve found it easier to straight up dislike her. Instead, Annie never seemed to fight for attention, yet attention found her anyway. That made everything worse.

And then there was Elijah “Smoke” Moore. 

She had World History with him and Stack, and found herself gravitating toward him. It wasn’t just because he was fine. All the girls thought he was fine as hell. Stack too. The difference was that after a while, his looks stopped being the thing she noticed first. He was quiet without being shy, smart without showing off, and funny whenever he actually felt like talking. She mentioned him in conversation casually enough that nobody thought much of it, including Annie. Looking back, she wasn’t even sure when curiosity became attraction. She started looking for him in crowded hallways and listening for his laugh across cafeterias. Which would’ve been embarrassing if it hadn’t happened to half the girls at school. It was the fact that he didn’t react to her the way other boys did. Most boys either flirted immediately or spent so much time trying not to stare that it became awkward. Smoke did neither. There was a quiet confidence about him. A steadiness that felt older than seventeen. The kind of confidence that never needed announcing.

He talked to her like everybody else. He remembered things she told him. Laughed at her jokes. Held entire conversations without once making her feel like he was trying to impress her or fuck her. At first she found it refreshing. Then she found it confusing.

The more time she spent around him, the more she paid attention to him. She noticed that the “quiet reputation” people gave him wasn’t entirely true. Smoke wasn’t shy. He just didn’t waste words. So when he did speak, people listened. There was a steadiness to him she didn’t find in other boys their age. 

Mike was sweet. 

Isoo was funny. 

Stack was…Stack. Impossible to ignore. 

But Smoke was something different. Being around him felt easy, and she wanted more of it. More of him.

By the middle of freshman year she started doing things she’d never admit to out loud. Lingering after class. Choosing seats closer to him when she could. Finding reasons to continue conversations that should’ve ended five minutes earlier. The frustrating part was that Smoke never treated her like a girl he was trying to avoid. He talked to her. Laughed with her. Sat beside her in class when the seating chart put them together. If he’d been rude, she probably would’ve gotten over her crush on him. 

Instead, he was kind. 

And kindness left far more room for imagination than rejection ever could.

If somebody had watched them from a distance, they probably would’ve assumed he liked her. Hell…she almost convinced herself of the same thing.

But she never expected Annie to factor into the equation.

One afternoon after school, a crowd of students lingered outside waiting for rides while the Mississippi heat rose from the pavement in visible waves. Stack was in the middle of a story and Smoke stood nearby having his own conversation with Mike. Jada walked over and joined them, enjoying the small satisfaction of making Smoke laugh at something she said. 

Then something happened. Something that anybody else would’ve overlooked. It should’ve been forgettable. Instead it became one of those memories that stayed rent free in her mind for years. 

Stack yelled something from across the parking lot and Smoke turned. Jada expected him to look at his brother. Instead his attention drifted somewhere over her shoulder. The movement was subtle enough that most people would’ve missed it, but she didn’t. She followed his line of sight and when it landed, her heart dropped. Annie stood near the curb with Pearline and a few other girls, her backpack hanging from one shoulder laughing at something one of them said. Smoke was looking right at her. Annie wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t loudly trying to get anyone’s attention. In fact, she looked completely unaware that Smoke was even looking hee way at all. 

Jada glanced back toward him and felt something in her chest tighten unexpectedly. His expression hadn’t changed much. There was no grin. No obvious reaction or giveaway that would’ve made the answer easy. What she saw instead was interest. Pure interest. The kind that settled naturally and comfortably, like he’d found exactly what he was looking for without meaning to. When Jada looked back, Annie looked up. Her and Smoke’s eyes met for barely a second before surprise crossed her face in that honest, unguarded way people managed when they weren’t expecting to be seen. Smoke looked away first and the moment disappeared so quickly that nobody else seemed to notice it had happened. The conversation picked right back up. Everything went back to normal as though a five-second interaction in a parking lot hadn’t just rearranged something inside her.

And Jada couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just seen. 

The truth landed harder than she wanted it to. Smoke liked Annie. And not in the casual way boys claimed to like half the girls at school. It wasn’t in the temporary way crushes came and went every few weeks. He liked her. Liked her.

The part Jada couldn’t understand wasn’t that Smoke liked somebody. It was that the somebody was Annie. Annie wasn’t louder than anybody else. She wasn’t chasing him. Half the time she seemed completely unaware of him. And yet, out of all the girls walking those hallways every day, his attention found her.

Why Annie? 

The question stayed with Jada long after that afternoon ended. Not because she thought Annie wasn’t pretty, smart, or worth liking. Annie was all of those things. What bothered her was that she couldn’t figure out what Annie had that made Smoke look at her differently. 

The more she watched them over the following months, the more that question followed her around, and the harder it became to pretend she didn’t already know the answer. Once she noticed it, she started seeing it everywhere—in the way Smoke listened when Annie talked, in the way his attention settled on her naturally no matter who else was around, and in the quiet consistency of his choices. There were no grand gestures, no public declarations, nothing dramatic enough to become gossip. What existed between them was built from a hundred small moments most people would’ve overlooked and a hundred more that Jada couldn’t stop noticing.

At some point she started testing it. Nothing obvious or anything she couldn’t explain away afterward. A comment here. A joke there. Sitting a little closer than necessary. One time at a party she picked up Smoke’s cup and took a sip while she was talking, mostly because she could. Smoke didn’t notice. Annie didn’t react the way she envisioned. The conversations kept moving. At first she thought she’d proven nothing. Later she realized she’d proven exactly what she’d been afraid of. Neither of them acted like there was anything to compete for because they belonged to each other already.

That was the part Jada hated most.

Whatever existed between them had been there long before either one of them said it out loud.

Life eventually moved on the way life always did. High school ended. Annie left for North Carolina during their senior year and, for a while, it felt like she took part of the town with her. It wasn’t because people sat around talking about her every day, but because certain stories suddenly stopped being told. People changed. 

Smoke most of all.

Jada noticed that too.

The version of Smoke everybody knew after Annie left wasn’t an angry one. If anything, he became quieter. More closed off. He still laughed when something was funny, showed up when people called, and still worked, helped, and handled business the way he always had. But something about him felt absent, as though a door had closed somewhere inside and nobody knew how to open it again.

But life carried Jada away too, before she had much time to dwell on it. College came next. An engagement. Then a marriage. Neither lasted the way she’d hoped. By the time she moved back home and started building a career in real estate, she was older, smarter, and considerably less interested in fairy tales.

Then she ran into Smoke again.

One of his construction crews had been working on a property she was helping list and for a second she thought she hadn’t recognized him. Then he looked up and gave her a half smile and just like that, she was sixteen again. The attraction came back embarrassingly fast. Older now. More controlled.

But still there.

The difference was that adulthood gave her advantages she hadn’t possessed in high school. She didn’t have to sit around wondering whether a boy liked her. She could simply ask him to dinner. So she did. One dinner turned into another. Then another. At some point the conversation drifted toward old classmates the way it always did when people got older.

“Whatever happened to Annie?” Jada asked.

The reaction was immediate. Something closed. Smoke took a drink and looked away. “She live in North Carolina.”

Jada laughed. “I thought y’all would’ve been married with twenty kids by now.”

Smoke didn’t laugh. The silence that followed answered more than words ever could. A few minutes later he changed the subject entirely.

Jada never brought Annie up again. Later that same night she asked if he was seeing anybody.

“No.”

“You lookin’?”

“No.”

The answer should’ve discouraged her. Instead she smiled. “Well, lucky for you, neither am I.”

The arrangement that followed worked because neither of them pretended it was anything else. They spent time together. Ate dinner once in awhile. Called sometimes. Shared her bed often enough. Smoke was kind to her. Respectful. But from the beginning he made one thing clear. 

He didn’t want a relationship. 

He told her more than once that she deserved somebody capable of giving her what she wanted. More than once he told her that if she found that person, she shouldn’t let him stand in the way of it. 

Jada heard every word. 

The problem was…she kept hoping. 

Not because Smoke encouraged it, but because she thought time might. She thought consistency might. She thought enough good days stacked together could eventually become something neither of them planned. Maybe that was foolish. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, she had started believing they still had time.

Then Mary called the day of the cookout.

Jada had been at the showing she was covering for a colleague. The conversation started normal enough, which should have been her first warning sign. Mary was never normal when she had gossip. By the time she finally got to the point, Jada wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Bitch, Annie’s back!”

Suddenly all those years she hadn’t spent thinking about high school came rushing back at once. The words settled somewhere unexpected. Surprising. The surprise lasted exactly three seconds before Mary delivered the second piece.

“The cookout at Pearline’s aunt house… it’s a party for Annie coming back home.”

That was the moment everything else disappeared. The noise of the clients asking about square footage faded into the background. The showing stopped mattering. Even Mary’s voice asking her what she was going to do became distant as another thought slid immediately into place. 

For the first time since hearing Annie’s name, she wasn’t thinking about high school anymore.

She was thinking about Smoke. 

He had been acting strange. Distracted. Quieter than usual. Looking at his phone more than normal. Now she understood exactly why he hadn’t seemed like himself. Some old shit came back up…. I ain’t figured out what to do with it yet. The pieces connected so quickly that Jada almost laughed.

Annie.

By the time she pulled into Aunt Cheryl’s yard, she already knew who she was looking for. The problem was she hadn’t expected to find them standing together.

And she for damn sure hadn’t expected to find them holding hands.

Smoke was holding Annie’s hand. 

On its own, that didn’t mean anything. 

People touched, hugged, and got caught up in conversations and forgot who was watching. 

What unsettled her was everything wrapped around the gesture. 

The look that had passed between them before Smoke finally let go. The way neither of them seemed aware of anybody else until she spoke. The strange sense that she’d walked into the middle of something already in progress.

For a moment nobody said anything. 

The sounds of the cookout continued around them as though nothing unusual had happened. Children ran through the yard screaming over water guns. Two men at the dominoes table accused each other of cheating. Mrs. Cheryl was threatening bodily harm if they didn’t quit acting stupid. The music changed somewhere behind her. Life continued moving. 

Yet standing there, looking between Smoke and Annie, Jada couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d interrupted a conversation neither of them had wanted to end.

The hand didn’t bother her nearly as much as Smoke’s face had. Over the past year she’d seen him tired, irritated, amused, distracted, and halfway asleep after a fourteen-hour workday. She’d seen him fresh off job sites and fresh out of the shower. She’d seen him after bad days and worse weeks. What she’d just seen standing across from Annie felt different.

There had been a lightness to him she couldn’t remember seeing, as though some invisible weight had disappeared without warning. Now the distracted silences, the moments he’d stared at his phone and seemed somewhere else entirely, made perfect sense.

What unsettled her more was how he looked at her. The surprise on his face had disappeared quickly enough.

The irritation hadn’t.

It was subtle. Most people would’ve missed it. Smoke wasn’t expressive enough for dramatic reactions. But Jada had spent too much time learning his moods not to recognize one when she saw it.

Every time she spoke, his attention drifted back toward Annie. When Annie looked away, his eyes followed her. And when he did look at Jada? 

The expression wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t guilty either. It looked closer to frustration. Like she’d walked into the middle of something he wasn’t finished with yet.

The realization settled heavily in her chest. She recognized that look too.

From high school.

Back when she’d stand beside him talking and catch him looking over her shoulder at Annie. When she’d convince herself she imagined it. 

Back when she still thought being patient would eventually change the outcome.

Still, Jada smiled. She had spent too many years learning how to smile through discomfort to stop now. 

“Annie.” Her voice came out warm and easy, exactly the way it was supposed to. “It’s been a long time.”

Annie smiled back automatically, but there was a delay to it that immediately caught Jada’s attention. She looked like somebody still trying to catch up to a conversation everyone else had already started. “Yeah. It has.”

“When did you get in town?”

“Thursday.”

“No kidding.” Jada adjusted the strap of her purse and glanced briefly toward Smoke before looking back at Annie. “Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.”

The sentence left her mouth easily enough, but she knew exactly why she’d said it.

She wanted to see. 

So Jada watched Annie carefully. The confusion arrived first, then recognition. Then something else. 

Jada recognized that look because she’d worn versions of it herself before. The moment when information rearranged itself into understanding. If she was being completely honest, some small, selfish part of her wanted Annie to understand. Wanted her to know she wasn’t just another person at the cookout. That Smoke existed in her life too.

Maybe that made her petty or even insecure. Maybe it made her exactly the same girl she’d been in high school. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny the small flicker of satisfaction when she saw it finally click for Annie.

Whatever Annie had expected when she came back to Mississippi, this wasn’t it. Jada watched her expectations crumble behind her eyes and Jada immediately felt guilty for her own smugness that followed. It wasn’t Annie’s confusion she enjoyed. It was the confirmation that she wasn’t invisible. For years she’d been the girl standing on the outside of whatever existed between Annie and Smoke. Now, for the first time, Annie was being forced to acknowledge that Jada occupied space in his life too.

Across the yard, movement caught her eye. Mary had finally wandered close enough to be useful and dangerous at the same time. The woman was carrying a red cup and looking entirely too pleased with herself. One glance toward Stack confirmed he had already figured out exactly who was responsible for this shit. Pearline looked ready to strangle somebody. Probably Mary. Maybe Stack. Maybe Jada. Possibly all three.

Jada almost laughed.

Almost.

Because standing there between Smoke and Annie, she had the uncomfortable feeling that this situation was about to become everybody’s problem.

“No kidding.” Jada adjusted the strap of her purse and glanced briefly toward Smoke before looking back at Annie. “Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.”

Annie wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The statement felt simple enough on the surface, but something about it snagged in her chest.

Jada laughed softly and shook her head.

“Then again, he ain’t really been himself lately.”

The comment was delivered so casually Annie almost missed it.

Almost.

Annie looked toward Elijah before she meant to. His attention was already on her.

Not Jada.

Her.

The conversations around them hadn’t stopped, but something in his posture had changed. His shoulders were tighter now. His expression quieter. Like he was listening to a conversation he couldn’t quite hear but already knew he wasn’t going to like the ending of.

Annie tried to focus on what Jada was saying to her. She really did. Jada was standing right there asking normal questions in a normal voice, smiling the same way she always had, and nothing about the interaction should have felt strange. 

People moved on. People dated. People built lives. Eight years had passed since Annie left Mississippi. She knew all of that. She understood it so completely that she almost became angry at herself for struggling with something that should have been obvious.

Still, her attention kept snagging on small things she couldn’t seem to ignore. The ease in Jada’s posture. The familiarity in her voice. And now that one sentence kept replaying itself in Annie’s head.

He ain’t really been himself lately.

It wasn’t what Jada had said. It was how she’d said it. Like she knew what normal looked like. Like she’d been close enough to notice the difference.

But Elijah wasn’t looking at Jada at all. Every time Annie glanced up, his eyes found her again. Concern. Like he could see something growing and didn’t know how to stop it.

Annie couldn’t process that at the moment. She couldn’t stop noticing that nobody around them seemed surprised Jada was standing there. Not Stack and definitely not Pearline. The realization arrived gradually, settling into place one piece at a time.

Jada wasn’t visiting Elijah’s world. She was already a part of it.

“Mississippi must seem different now,” Jada said with a small laugh.

Annie looked at her. “What?”

Jada smiled. “I said Mississippi must seem different now.”

“Oh.” Annie forced a smile. “Yeah.”

The conversation continued around her, but Annie found herself looking past Jada and toward Pearline. The glance was brief. It didn’t need to be longer. Something flickered across Pearline’s face the moment their eyes met, and Annie felt her stomach drop before her mind fully caught up.

Suddenly the entire day looked different.

Pearline sitting on the edge of the bed while Annie changed clothes for the hundredth time. Her listening to her talk about Elijah. Her watching her spend an entire afternoon slipping back into old memories she should have known better than to trust.

None of those moments had felt unusual at the time. Standing here now, they rearranged themselves into something else entirely.

Pearline looked away first.

And that hurt more than anything Jada had said.

Annie smiled automatically when somebody laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard. The expression felt strange on her face. Around her the cookout continued without interruption. Auntie Max was waving a paper plate around while telling a story loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear. Everything looked exactly the same as it had fifteen minutes ago, yet everything felt completely different now.

She looked toward Elijah before she could stop herself and immediately regretted it.

He was still looking at her. 

He wasn’t really talking anymore. Stack had said something. Mary laughed. Jada answered somebody’s question. Elijah hadn’t reacted to any of it. His attention remained fixed on Annie, his expression growing more troubled the longer she stood there pretending everything was fine.

Concern sat plainly across his face now, and the sight irritated her more than it should have. Concern meant he knew something was wrong. Concern meant he could see it happening. Concern meant he was watching her fall apart in real time.

That was the final straw.

Because Annie could handle disappointment. She could handle awkwardness. She could even handle finding out Elijah had moved on. 

What she couldn’t handle was standing here feeling exposed. 

Feeling foolish. 

Feeling like the only person who hadn’t known what was happening. 

The humiliation crept in quietly, attaching itself to every memory she’d made since getting off the plane. Every conversation. Every question. Every moment she’d allowed herself to hope for something she had never said aloud. By the time she finally spoke, her voice sounded perfectly normal.

“Excuse me.”

Nobody would have noticed anything wrong. Nobody except Elijah and Pearline.

Annie saw it immediately when Elijah straightened and took a small step forward. The movement was instinctive, the kind people made when they sensed trouble coming. For a second it looked like he might say something. Explain something. Stop her. Annie didn’t give him the chance.

“Y’all enjoy yourselves.”

The smile never left her face as she turned toward the house. She heard Pearline call her name before she reached the steps, but she kept walking anyway. The screen door opened and closed behind her, muting the sounds of the cookout almost instantly. Only then did she allow herself to stop pretending she was fine.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, muting the noise from the backyard without silencing it completely. Music still drifted faintly through the floorboards. Every few minutes a burst of laughter floated up from downstairs, followed by the low hum of conversation and the occasional shout from Aunt Cheryl whenever somebody touched food they weren’t supposed to touch. The sounds were familiar enough to be comforting. Instead they made Annie feel trapped. The cookout was still happening. Everybody was still down there. 

The world hadn’t stopped just because hers suddenly felt off balance.

She crossed the room and dragged her suitcase onto the bed. The zipper caught halfway open and she jerked it harder than necessary, dislodging the contents inside. A shirt disappeared into one corner. A pair of jeans landed on top of it. One sandal followed before she stopped and stared at the mess she’d created. Nothing about it resembled packing. The blue sundress she’d rejected earlier that morning still hung over the chair near the window. Seeing it there brought back the memory of standing in front of Pearline’s mirror for nearly an hour while her friend laughed and told her she looked fine. At the time she’d told herself she was nervous about coming home. Looking at the dress now, she realized that hadn’t been entirely true. 

Nobody spent forty-five minutes deciding what to wear to a family cookout unless some part of them cared who might be there.

The thought followed her to the dresser. The bottle of tequila sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, half-forgotten beside a hairbrush and a tube of lip gloss. For a second she just stared at it. Then she twisted the cap off and took a long swallow straight from the bottle.

The liquor burned all the way down, sharp enough to make her wince. She stood there waiting for it to do something useful. Numb her. Distract her. Slow her thoughts down. Instead the burn faded almost immediately and left everything else untouched.

Jada’s face remained exactly where Annie had left it.

So did the sound of her voice.

Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.

That was the problem. 

Jada had said them the way people said ordinary things, the way people spoke when they weren’t thinking twice about what they were revealing. There had been familiarity in the statement. History. Conversations Annie hadn’t been a part of. Enough conversations that her return to Mississippi had become information Jada expected to have. Annie took another drink and walked toward the window before she could think too hard about it.

The backyard stretched beyond the trees in patches of movement and color. She couldn’t make out individual faces from here, only clusters of people gathered around tables and lawn chairs while smoke drifted lazily upward from the grill. Somewhere down there Elijah was probably sitting beside Jada.

The thought arrived uninvited and irritated her immediately.

Smoke could date whoever he wanted. He wasn’t married. He wasn’t obligated to explain himself to her. Eight years was a long time. Long enough for people to build entirely different lives.

She knew that.

She believed that.

The problem was that knowing something and feeling it turned out to be two very different things.

Every time she tried to reason her way through it, her mind circled back to the same uncomfortable place. Not that Elijah had moved on, it was that she’d spent the entire day realizing she never had.

She took another shot. The tequila burned less this time, or maybe she was just getting used to it.

What she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about was Jada.

It was because it was Jada.

The same girl who always seemed to be measuring herself against Annie back in high school. The same girl who smiled while making comments that left Annie wondering whether she’d imagined the insult. The same girl who spent years trying to figure out why Smoke paid attention to Annie and not her.

Annie closed her eyes. Immediately she hated herself for thinking it. It wasn’t fair. Elijah didn’t know any of that.

Not really.

He knew Jada the same way everybody knew Jada. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. He hadn’t been standing beside Annie during those hallway conversations. He hadn’t seen the looks. He hadn’t felt the subtle edge hiding beneath the smiles.

Still, the thought lingered.

Did he know?

Annie stared back out the window.

Didn’t he know how she felt about Jada? Didn’t he know she’d never really trusted her? Didn’t he know enough about Annie to know that this, out of everything, would fucking hurt?

The questions sounded ridiculous the second they formed, because what exactly was Elijah supposed to do with information like that?

Avoid a woman for eight years because his high school girlfriend didn’t like her?

The idea was absurd. Annie knew it was absurd. Yet somehow that didn’t stop it from hurting. 

The truth was she hadn’t spent the day grieving what Elijah had with Jada. She’d spent the day imagining what might still exist between her and Elijah. That was the part she couldn’t forgive herself for. 

Not the jealousy.

The hope.

That truth settled over her slowly as she sat on the edge of the bed. The photographs. Geneva talking about Elijah carrying her inside when she fell asleep on his shoulder. The way everybody at the table had spoken about them like they were inevitable. The way Elijah had looked at her after learning she never wanted to leave. 

The warmth of his hand around hers. 

None of those moments would’ve mattered if some part of her hadn’t been carrying hope onto that plane from North Carolina. She hated admitting that, even to herself. Hope felt childish at twenty-five. Hope felt irresponsible after eight years. Yet the evidence sat all around the room. The dress she’d changed out of three times. The suitcase she’d never fully unpacked. The mixtape buried somewhere among her things. She hadn’t come to Mississippi looking for closure. 

She’d come looking for possibility, and now she felt stupid for pretending otherwise.

Another swallow of tequila disappeared before she realized she’d picked up the bottle again. The burn barely registering anymore. What did register was the growing discomfort that had nothing to do with Jada and everything to do with Pearline. 

The longer Annie sat there, the more the last two days began rearranging themselves. Pearline encouraging her to come. Pearline listening to every story about Elijah. Sitting on the edge of the bed that morning while Annie changed clothes. Watching her spend an entire afternoon slipping back into old memories she should’ve known better than to trust. 

None of those moments had felt strange when they happened. Looking back now, they felt different. Heavier. Like pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was assembling.

Annie stared at the bedroom door and tightened her grip on the bottle. She didn’t know exactly how long she’d been sitting there, but she knew Pearline well enough to know what would come next. 

Pearline hated conflict. Hated disappointing people even more. There was no chance she was leaving Annie up here alone. Sooner or later those footsteps would come down the hallway. Sooner rather than later the door would open. The thought should’ve prepared her. 

Instead it made the hurt settle deeper. 

Because for the first time since walking into the house, Annie stopped thinking about Jada standing beside Elijah and started thinking about her best friend downstairs, the one person who had known exactly how much hope Annie had carried back to Mississippi and said nothing at all.

Pearline didn’t knock.

The door opened slowly before Annie could tell her not to come in, and the look on her face was so familiar Annie almost hated her for it. Concern. Caution. The expression Pearline wore whenever she thought somebody was about to make a bad decision.

Unfortunately for both of them, Annie had already made several.

Neither of them spoke at first. Pearline’s eyes moved from the open suitcase to the tequila bottle resting beside Annie’s leg before finally settling on Annie herself. Annie knew exactly what she saw. Red eyes. A half-packed suitcase. Clothes scattered across the bed. One sandal near the bathroom door and the other somehow buried beneath a blouse sleeve hanging halfway out of the luggage. The packing wasn’t real. Annie knew it. Pearline probably knew it too. She’d managed to put three shirts into the suitcase and somehow remove four. Every few minutes she found herself folding the same piece of clothing she’d already folded before throwing it into a different corner of the room.

“How much of that you done drank?”

Annie glanced down at the bottle. “Enough.”

Pearline sighed and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

The sound made something tighten in Annie’s chest.

“You ain’t finna leave.”

Annie laughed under her breath and reached for another shirt. “The hell I’m not.”

“You drunk.”

“I’m buzzed.”

“Annie.”

“I’m grown.”

Pearline rubbed a hand across her forehead.

The movement irritated Annie so bad. The careful voice irritated her. The patience irritated her. The concern irritated her. All of it felt like somebody trying to calm her down before she’d even been allowed to be upset. 

She shoved another armful of clothes into the suitcase and immediately regretted it when the zipper refused to cooperate. The tequila bottle found its way back into her hand before she even realized she’d reached for it.

Pearline watched her struggle with the suitcase for another minute before speaking again.

“I was gonna tell you.”

Annie stopped. She couldn’t help it. The words settled somewhere deep enough to hurt.

Slowly she looked up. “No you wasn’t.”

“I was.”

“When?”

Pearline opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Annie laughed. The sound wasn’t pleasant. “Exactly.”

“I didn’t know how.”

The answer hit Annie harder because it sounded honest. Honest and useless at the same time. She looked away before Pearline could see it landed. 

Outside Annie could hear laughter. She hated them for laughing. 

“You could’ve started with the truth.”

“I didn’t know what the truth was.”

Annie took another swallow from the bottle. The burn was gone. “What truth?”

Pearline hesitated. “Them.”

The word sat between Annie and Pearline.

“I thought they was just fuckin’.”

Pearline shifted from foot to foot. “It didn’t look serious.”

Didn’t. Past tense. Annie heard it. Her stomach dropped.

“What changed?”

Pearline froze.

The hesitation told Annie almost everything.

“What changed, Pearline?”

For a second it looked like Pearline might refuse to answer. Then she sighed. “I saw them Thursday.”

Annie frowned. 

Thursday.

The word rolled around in her head before settling into place. The restaurant. That strange feeling she’d had all night. The uncomfortable certainty that somebody familiar was nearby. The way she’d caught herself looking around for no reason she could explain.

Pearline acting strange afterward. Starting a sentence and never finishing it. Looking at her like she wanted to say something before changing her mind.

The pieces connected so quickly Annie almost felt sick. “He was there.”

Pearline didn’t answer.

“He was there with her.”

Still nothing. The silence told her everything she needed to know.

Annie stared at the bottle in her hand before taking another drink. The tequila was more than half gone now. At some point she’d stopped counting. Her face felt warm. Her thoughts felt loud. Every emotion she’d spent the last eight years carefully suppressing seemed determined to show up all at once.

“You saw them and still said nothin’.”

“I wanted to.”

Annie laughed.

The sound came out sharp enough to make Pearline flinch.

“No you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t, ’cause if you did, you would’ve.”

“I really did, Annie.”

Annie shook her head and looked away.

Outside, the yard erupted into laughter after. The sound drifted through the screen window and landed in the room like an insult.

She took another swallow from the bottle.

“Fuck, Pearline, I could’ve handled him messin’ with ANYBODY else.”

Pearline’s face changed immediately.

“Annie—”

“No. I’m serious.” She laughed again and wiped at her eyes. “I could’ve handled some random girl.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Some girl from Jackson. Memphis. Atlanta. Hell, California.”

Pearline stayed quiet.

“But Jada?” Annie shook her head. “Jada of all people?”

The room fell silent, because Pearline knew. Maybe not every detail.

But more than enough.

Enough to remember the little imsults disguised as jokes. The competition Annie never agreed to participate in. The way Jada always seemed to know exactly where she stood with Elijah. Enough to understand why hearing her name hit differently.

“You should’ve told me from jump.” Annie looked down at the bottle in her hand. “You should’ve told me the second you saw them.”

Pearline sighed. “She ain’t hate you, Annie.”

“Don’t do that shit.” The warning came fast. “Please don’t sit up here and act like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”

Pearline looked away.

Exactly.

“That’s what I thought.” Annie laughed and immediately wished she hadn’t, because now she sounded bitter.

Maybe she was.

“I know it sound stupid.” Her voice cracked. “I know he don’t owe me shit.” Another laugh. Smaller this time. “And I know he got every right to move on.” She stared toward the window. “But for some reason hearin’ it’s Jada make me sick to my fuckin’ stomach.”

The confession hung between them. Raw. Embarrassing.

Honest.

“And that’s why I’m mad at you.”

Pearline frowned.

“Cause you knew that.” Annie looked back at her. “You knew exactly how that was gonna hit me.”

Annie sank onto the edge of the bed and looked down at the shirt in her hands. At some point she’d stopped packing and started moving things around just to keep her hands busy. The same shirt had gone into the suitcase three separate times and somehow kept ending up back on the bed. The tequila wasn’t helping anymore. It had moved past the point of making her feel better and settled into that dangerous place where every thought felt louder than it should.

“You know what the crazy part is?”

Pearline looked up. “What?”

Annie laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I still would’ve came.”

For a minute neither of them said anything.

Annie picked up the shirt and started folding it. Then unfolded it. “I would’ve still got on the plane.”

The words surprised her because she hadn’t realized they were true until she’d said them out loud. She would’ve come for Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Lewis. For Geneva and Auntie Max. For Pearline. For Stack. For the cookout. For every piece of home she’d spent years pretending she didn’t miss. And somewhere in that list sat Elijah too. Not that she expected anything from him. Or because she thought eight years could disappear in a weekend. But because he mattered whether she wanted him to or not.

Pearline watched her carefully.

Annie laughed again and wiped at her face. “That’s the part that got me.” She looked down at the bottle. “You should’ve told me anyway.”

Pearline lowered her eyes. “I thought if y’all talked—”

“There you go.” The words came out tired more than angry. Annie shook her head. “That’s the part you keep missin’.”

Pearline started to talk, then stopped.

Annie looked toward the window where the sounds of the cookout drifted in through the screen. “You keep tellin’ me what you thought.”

Her voice cracked. “What about me? What about what I wanted?”

Pearline’s face tightened immediately.

Annie hated herself a little for saying it. The regret didn’t make it less true. “You knew.” The words came quieter now. Which somehow made them worse. “You knew and watched me get off that plane.”

Silence.

“You knew and watched me talk about him.”

Pearline looked away.

“You knew and sat on this bed while I changed clothes fifty fucking times.”

The tears finally came. Hot. Embarrassing. Impossible to stop.

“And you still brought me here.”

Pearline looked devastated now.

Good.

A terrible thought. An ugly thought. One Annie hated the second it crossed her mind. But it was there anyway. 

“You watched me hope.”

The room seemed to shrink around them as Annie’s words settled into the space between them. Outside, somebody shouted something followed by laughter. The sound drifted through the screen window and disappeared into silence neither woman seemed willing to break.

Pearline stared at her. Then something in her expression changed.

Exhaustion.

“You think I wanted this?”

Annie looked away.

“You keep talkin’ like I sat around plottin’ on how to hurt you.”

“I ain’t say that.”

“You don’t gotta say it.” Pearline wiped at her face with the heel of her hand before crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “For two fuckin’ days I’ve been watchin’ this happen knowin’ eventually you was gonna look at me exactly like this.”

Annie didn’t answer because she was looking at her exactly like that.

“You think it was easy watchin’ you get off that plane smilin’?” Pearline laughed once, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You think I didn’t know why you was really nervous?”

“Pearline—”

“No. Let me finish.” The words came out sharper than anything she’d said all evening. “You wasn’t nervous about no cookout and you know it.”

Annie looked down at the shirt twisted in her hands.

“You talked about him the whole ride from the airport.” Pearline’s voice softened again. “You talked about him while you unpacked.” 

Another breath. “You talked about him when we went to breakfast.” Another. “You talked about him every time his name came up like you was tryin’ real hard to convince yourself it didn’t matter.”

The tears Annie had been fighting rose all over again.

Pearline shook her head. “And every time I thought about tellin’ you, I’d look at your face and think maybe I was wrong. Maybe Smoke and Jada wasn’t serious. Maybe they would’ve ended whatever they had goin’ on by now. Maybe y’all could finally sit down and talk.”

Annie swallowed hard. The words should’ve made her feel better. Instead they somehow made everything worse. For the first time since the argument started, she could see exactly how Pearline had convinced herself to stay quiet. Not that she thought she knew best, but she wanted the same impossible thing Annie wanted.

“I was hopin’ too, Annie.”

Annie closed her eyes.

The confession hit differently than everything else Pearline had said. Anger she knew how to carry. Embarrassment too. But this felt heavier. It forced her to acknowledge something she’d been trying very hard not to look at. Pearline hadn’t been trying to hurt her. Pearline had been hoping right alongside her, building entire possibilities out of half-finished conversations and old memories that she wanted so badly for them to be true.

Pearline looked down at her hands. “Remember when I told you I left my charger at Stack’s apartment?”

Annie frowned. The question felt random enough to pull her briefly out of her own misery. “Yeah.”

“I ain’t leave no damn charger.”

Annie stared at her while her facial expression said DUH.

Pearline laughed once and shook her head. “I went back and straight up asked him.”

The room grew quiet.

“I wanted to know if what I saw was real.”

Annie’s stomach tightened.

Pearline rubbed her palms against her jeans. “I asked Stack straight up.”

“What’d he say?”

“That Smoke and Jada wasn’t together.”

The answer came immediate. Like she’d replayed the conversation a hundred times already.

“He said they wasn’t serious. Said they wasn’t in no relationship.”

Despite herself, Annie almost laughed.

Pearline kept going. “I asked him twice.” The confession sounded pathetic now. “I kept askin’ different ways hopin’ he’d tell me somethin’ else.”

Annie looked away.

“Cause if he would’ve told me they was serious…” Pearline swallowed. “If he would’ve told me Smoke was in love with that girl or plannin’ a future wit’ her or somethin’ like that, I’d have told you right then.”

The words settled heavily between them.

“Shit, Annie, I would’ve told you before we even got to Cheryl’s house.” Pearline’s voice cracked slightly. “That’s why I didn’t know what to do.”

Annie stared at the floor because that sounded exactly like something Pearline would do—convince herself this was reasonable. It sounded exactly like something done with love that still managed to hurt anyway.

“You still didn’t let me choose.” 

The words came out quiet. 

Pearline’s shoulders dropped. For a second she looked as tired as Annie felt. Her mouth opened slightly before closing again. Whatever explanation she’d been holding onto all evening seemed to collapse beneath the weight of those six words.

Annie reached for another pile of clothes and shoved them into the suitcase harder than necessary. The zipper caught again. Frustrated, she yanked at it. Something beneath the clothes came loose, and a plastic case slid free, tumbling across the comforter before bouncing onto the floor near her feet.

Both women looked down.

The mixtape.

Not the mixtape Elijah made her all those years ago. Not the one she’d refused to listen to all those years ago, but somehow carried with her through college, breakups, apartments, and every version of herself she’d become after leaving Mississippi.

This was a new one.

The one she’d spent weeks putting together before coming home. The one hidden beneath folded shirts because she hadn’t been brave enough to admit why she’d packed it in the first place.

For a long moment neither woman moved. Then Annie bent down and picked it up. 

Pearline’s eyes followed the plastic case before lifting back to Annie’s face.

Something flickered there. Understanding. Somehow Annie hated that most of all, because now Pearline knew. 

Not that she still loved Elijah.

But how much.

The truth settled quietly between them. Annie wrapped her fingers around the mixtape, tucked it beneath her arm, grabbed the suitcase, and forced the zipper closed.

“Annie—”

“Fuck all y’all.”

Pearline took a step forward. “Annie.”

“No.” She wiped angrily at her face. “I came down here lookin’ stupid as fuck.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Her voice cracked hard enough to make her wince. “I did.”

The tears started again. Hot. Humiliating. Impossible to stop.

“And I blame you for lettin’ me.”

Pearline flinched.

Annie hated herself for saying it. Hated herself even more for not taking it back.

Then she grabbed the suitcase handle and headed for the door before Pearline could stop her.

Smoke kept his eyes on the house long after Annie disappeared inside.

Around him the cookout continued without interruption. Some old head at the dominoes table accused a young nigga of cheating. Again. Tired of hearing Aunt Cheryl fussing, Uncle Lewis stepped in and threatened to throw both of them out of the yard if they didn’t shut the fuck up. Children ran through the grass screaming while music drifted lazily from the speakers near the patio. 

The normalcy of it all felt strange considering how quickly the afternoon had changed. Ten minutes ago he’d been standing beside Annie listening to her laugh. Now she was inside the house and Pearline had gone after her wearing the same expression people wore when they already knew trouble was waiting on the other side of a door.

He replayed the last few minutes in his head whether he wanted to or not. Annie’s hand in his. Jada’s voice. The way Annie’s guard went up the moment she understood Jada wasn’t standing there as an old classmate. The look she’d given Pearline afterward stayed with him most. There had been hurt in it. Confusion too. But beneath both sat recognition, like she’d suddenly understood something nobody had bothered to explain to her.

Smoke didn’t know every piece of what had just happened, but he recognized the result. Annie thought he and Jada were together. Not casually seeing each other. Together-together. The certainty settled heavily in his chest because it explained the expression he’d seen on her face before she walked away.

What unsettled him wasn’t that she’d misunderstood the situation.

It was that seeing him with another woman had hurt her at all.

Somebody shoved a plastic cup into his hand.

Stack.

“The good shit,” his brother said before dropping back into his chair.

Smoke glanced down at the bourbon. Aunt Cheryl only brought it out for family and special occasions. Under different circumstances he probably would’ve appreciated it. Instead he took a swallow and tasted almost none of it.

A few minutes later he found himself reaching for a cigarette.

The lighter clicked.

Smoke took a slow drag and watched the front porch through a haze of smoke that did absolutely nothing to settle his nerves.

Beside him, Jada smoothed a hand over her blouse and adjusted her position in the chair.

“Thought you had a showing today.”

The question made her blink. “I did.”

“You said you wasn’t comin’.”

“I changed my mind.”

Smoke nodded once, but his attention had already drifted back toward the house. The answer sat wrong with him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. She hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Some part of him couldn’t stop wondering whether things would’ve unfolded differently if he’d known she was coming. The thought irritated him. Jada hadn’t done anything wrong by showing up to a public cookout. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon had veered off course the moment she stepped into it.

“You mad I’m here?”

That pulled his attention back to her.

“No.”

The answer came easily because it was mostly true. He wasn’t mad she came. He just couldn’t understand why she hadn’t mentioned it. Over the last year they’d fallen into routines. Nothing serious. Nothing that required explanations. Still, telling somebody you were showing up somewhere after saying you weren’t seemed like information worth sharing.

Jada studied him for a moment. “You ain’t really looked at me since I walked over here.”

The words were light. Teasing. At least they tried to be.

Smoke glanced at her. “What?”

“You keep starin’ at that house.”

His jaw tightened around the cigarette. The expression vanished almost immediately, but not before Jada caught it.

He knew she did. Over the last year she’d gotten good at reading him.  Unfortunately, Annie had always been better.

Before Jada could say anything else, Mary wandered over carrying a red cup and entirely too much satisfaction. Stack noticed her at the exact same time.

“There she go.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord.”

“Nah.” Stack pointed directly at her. “Nah. Bring yo’ ass over here.”

Smoke looked between them. Mary suddenly became very interested in her drink. That alone made him suspicious.

“You ain’t change your mind.”

Jada’s eyes flickered. “Elijah—”

“You was already comin’.” The words landed quietly. “You could’ve told me.”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

Something tightened in his chest. He turned his attention to Mary. “What you do?”

“I ain’t do shit.”

“That’s a muthafuckin’ lie.” Stack exclaimed.

“It ain’t.”

Stack laughed. “Jada just magically decided to show up after tellin’ my brother she wasn’t?”

Jada’s head turned. Mary looked away. Smoke’s eyes narrowed. The silence lasted a little too long.

“Mary.”

“I was just talkin’.”

“There it is.” Stack threw his hands up. “There it is right there. That’s the shit I be talkin’ about. You stay runnin’ yo’ fuckin’ mouth.”

Mary looked offended. “How was I supposed to know she’d actually come?”

Stack stared at her. Then at Jada. Then back at Mary. “You serious?”

The pieces settled into place one by one. Smoke looked at Jada. Then Mary. Then back toward the house.

Something tightened in his chest.

Pearline still hadn’t come back outside. The front door remained closed. The upstairs windows remained dark. From where he sat, the entire house looked still. Meanwhile his mind kept returning to Annie’s face. Not the smile she’d forced before excusing herself. The look right before it. The moment she’d looked from Jada to him and then toward Pearline. The hurt in her eyes had been so quick most people probably would’ve missed it.

He hadn’t.

That was the problem. He hadn’t missed any of it. Not the confusion, the disappointment, or the moment it all clicked.

The feeling settled heavy in his stomach because he knew exactly what she’d seen. Maybe not every detail. Maybe not the history. But enough. Enough to think he and Jada were something they weren’t. Enough to believe she’d shown up in Mississippi only to discover he’d moved on.

The thought bothered him more than it should have.

Life kept moving around him, but Smoke couldn’t. Every few seconds his eyes found the house again. The cigarette burned down between his fingers. The bourbon now gone.

Stack watched him do it. Then he sighed. “You need to go talk to her.”

“Pearline with her.”

“For now.”

Smoke leaned back in his chair. “What that supposed to mean?”

“It mean Annie upstairs cussin’ Pearline the fuck out right now.”

Despite everything, a small smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.

Stack pointed toward the house. “You know I’m right.”

Unfortunately, he was.

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

Smoke rubbed a hand across his jaw and looked back toward the front door. The longer Annie stayed inside, the worse the feeling became. Something closer to dread. Annie had spent eight years running from difficult conversations. He knew because he’d spent eight years wishing she’d stayed for one.

Then the front door opened.

Every thought in his head disappeared at once.

Annie stepped onto the porch with a suitcase in one hand and a plastic case tucked beneath her arm.

Before he realized what he was doing, Smoke crushed the cigarette beneath his sneaker, set the cup on the nearest table, and started walking.

“Annie.”

Smoke was calling her name halfway across the yard before he realized people were starting to watch. At first it was only a few people. Aunt Cheryl paused beside the grill with the tongs still in her hand. Geneva lowered her cup. Maxine turned away from whatever story she had been telling. Then more heads began to turn because Annie was not exactly subtle carrying a suitcase through the middle of a family cookout, and neither was the look on her face. Even from thirty feet away he could see she had been crying, and the sight settled heavy in his chest before he could prepare himself for it. Pearline had barely made it back onto the porch behind her, wiping at her own face, and Stack was already moving toward her with concern written plainly across his. Whatever had happened upstairs had gone bad enough to leave both women in tears.

Smoke was not surprised. The moment Annie had looked at Jada, then at him, then at Pearline, he had known something was coming. What surprised him was how quickly everything had unraveled. Less than an hour ago she had been laughing beside him beneath the shade tree. Less than thirty minutes ago he had been standing there holding her hand without thinking about it. Now she was heading toward the driveway with a suitcase like she planned on disappearing before sunset, and the familiarity of that made something old and bitter twist inside him. Annie leaving before a conversation could catch her was not new. He knew that move. He had lived with the damage of it for eight years.

“Annie.”

She didn’t stop. The suitcase rolled awkwardly through the grass as she continued toward the driveway, and whether she genuinely hadn’t heard him or was pretending not to hear him didn’t matter. Smoke knew her too well to believe either would be enough to stop him.

“Anissa!”

That stopped her.

When she finally turned around, the look on her face hit him hard. The tears were obvious. The anger was not. That lived deeper, somewhere behind the red eyes and tight jaw, tangled up with something older and far more familiar. It was the same hurt he had caught a glimpse of before she disappeared into the house, only now it wasn’t masked anymore. The music still played behind them. Somebody laughed near the dominoes table before realizing nobody else was laughing. Children ran through the yard with a water guns bigger than them. Life kept trying to continue around them, but Smoke could feel the whole cookout slowly holding its breath.

“Can we talk?”

The laugh that left Annie wasn’t loud, which made it worse. Loud would have been easier. Loud would have given him something obvious to answer. Instead, she sounded tired, like someone who had finally run out of ways to be disappointed.

“Oh, now you wanna talk?”

The words landed uncomfortably because he knew exactly what she meant. Not the sentence itself. The accusation underneath it. When she finally called him after eight years. Eight years of missed conversations and assumptions. Eight years of silence neither one of them had been able to outrun. 

Smoke opened his mouth, but Annie was already shaking her head.

“No. Don’t do that.”

His brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Act like this ain’t exactly what you wanted.”

Confusion flashed across his face before frustration followed close behind it. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Annie stared at him as though she couldn’t decide whether he was lying or genuinely that oblivious. Then she laughed again, wiped angrily at her face, and pulled something from beneath her arm and threw it at him. The plastic case struck his chest hard enough that instinct took over before thought could. Smoke caught it automatically and looked down. For a moment, he didn’t understand what he was holding. Then his eyes moved over the case, the handwriting, the familiar shape of something he had once given her in another lifetime, and it dawned on him slowly.

Annie pointed toward it before he could speak.

“I made that for you.”

Smoke looked down at the plastic case.

The words came out sharper than she probably intended, not because she was trying to hurt him, but because she was already hurting and had nowhere else to put it.

“I spent two damn weeks makin’ that.” Annie laughed. The sound was ugly. “Ain’t that some shit?”

She wiped angrily at her face. “I’m twenty-five years old makin’ a mixtape.” Annie shook her head. “I brought it all the way from North Carolina.”

Her voice dropped. “I brought it because some stupid part of me thought…” The sentence died there.

Annie laughed again. “Never mind.”

Around them the cookout had grown noticeably quieter. Smoke was aware enough that Aunt Cheryl was no longer pretending to focus on the grill. Geneva had stopped mid-conversation and Maxine stood beside her with her mouth pressed into a tight line. He was aware enough that Mary suddenly looked like she regretted every decision she had made that afternoon, and Jada had gone completely still in her chair. Annie didn’t seem to notice any of them, or maybe she did and simply couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Go ’head,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the backyard. “Maybe you and your girlfriend can listen to it together.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened immediately. “Jada ain’t my girlfriend.”

The look Annie gave him was so full of disbelief it almost would’ve been funny under different circumstances. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t.”

He took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

The hurt in her face deepened, and Smoke knew before she even spoke that whatever came next had been sitting inside her for years.

“Oh, now we don’t wanna do that?”

The memory hit him before he could stop it. The conversation. The frustration. The moment he had shut something down instead of opening it, thinking silence would keep them from making things worse. Annie saw the recognition cross his face and nodded once, her eyes shining with a kind of hurt that made his stomach tighten.

“What happened to ‘we ain’t doin’ that, huh?’”

This time there was no laughter in her voice. No sarcasm either. Just eight years of hurt finally finding somewhere to go. Around them, the cookout kept trying and failing to pretend nothing was happening. Aunt Cheryl had completely abandoned the grill now. Geneva stood beside her with one hand pressed against her chest. Across the yard, Stack had reached Pearline and was asking questions she clearly was not answering. Even the dominoes game had stopped, the players still seated around the table with untouched tiles between them.

Annie wiped angrily at her face again and shook her head. The tequila had blurred the edges of her embarrassment enough to make honesty feel easier than silence, but Smoke could see the cost of it. She looked exposed. Furious about it. Hurt because of it. Still, she stood there with the suitcase in one hand and the rest of the cookout watching while years of silence crowded up behind her.

“You know what pisses me off the most?”

Smoke didn’t answer. The question felt rhetorical.

“Everybody knew but me.”

The words hung there longer than Annie intended. Once they left her mouth she couldn’t take them back. It felt like saying them out loud made the humiliation feel real in a way it hadn’t five minutes ago. She looked past Smoke toward the crowd gathered behind him. Pearline stood beside Stack with red eyes and a guilty expression. Aunt Cheryl had completely abandoned the grill. Geneva looked like she was debating whether to intervene or pray. 

Everybody.

Everybody had apparently known except the one person standing in the middle of it.

“Pearline knew. Stack knew. Mary’s ass obviously knew.”

“Why I gotta be in this?” Mary called from somewhere behind Smoke.

“Cause yo’ ass always in everythin’.”

The response came from so many directions at once that a brief burst of laughter rippled through the yard before disappearing just as quickly. Annie wasn’t laughing. The knot in her chest had only grown tighter. Every time she replayed the afternoon in her head she found something new to be embarrassed about. Every conversation. Every look. Every moment she’d spent thinking she was simply reconnecting with old friends while apparently everybody else was aware of something she wasn’t.

“I spent all day lookin’ stupid.”

“You wasn’t lookin’ stupid.”

The answer came immediate. Too immediate. Annie laughed and pointed at him. “There you go.”

Smoke frowned. “There I go what?”

“That thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“When I tell you somethin’ and you decide it ain’t true just ‘cause you don’t like hearin’ it.”

His jaw tightened. “Annie—”

“No.” Her voice cracked hard enough that she hated it. “You asked to talk. So let’s talk.”

The yard went quiet again. Annie looked at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “You know what makes this shit worse?”

Smoke waited.

Annie laughed without humor and glanced toward Jada. “Her.”

Jada visibly stiffened.

“Annie—”

“No. Cause ain’t nobody finna sit here and act confused.”

The alcohol had long since stopped making her feel better. Now it was just making honesty easier.

“Outta everybody, Elijah?” Her eyes landed on Jada again. “Her?”

Smoke frowned. “What that supposed to mean?”

Annie laughed. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.” She wiped at her face. “You ain’t even know.”

The words weren’t really directed at him anymore. “You never paid attention to none of that.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed deeper.

Annie shook her head. Her laugh sounded tired. “Why would you?”

The alcohol was doing most of the talking now. Not enough to make her incoherent. Just enough to lower every wall she’d spent years building.

“You don’t know what it felt like bein’ around her.”

Jada stiffened slightly.

Annie noticed. But kept going anyway. “Maybe she didn’t do nothin’. Maybe it was all in my head.” The words sounded doubtful even to her. “But every time she walked into a room, I felt it.”

She looked back at Smoke. “And now I come back home and find out you’re with her?”

The question hung between them.

For a while Annie wanted it to be about Jada. Wanted to be able to point at one woman and blame her for the way her chest hurt. But the longer she stood there, the harder it became to pretend Jada was the real problem.

Jada had simply been the thing that cracked everything open.

The hurt and the truth sat somewhere deeper than that.

The real truth was that seeing Elijah with anybody would’ve hurt. Him being happy and moving on with anybody else would’ve hurt. Seeing him living a life that no longer had room for her would’ve hurt.

Nobody spoke or moved. Everyone seemed to understand at the same time that Annie and Smoke were no longer talking about Jada, or the cookout, or the mixtape in his hand. They had moved backward without warning. Back into the years nobody in that yard had been able to touch for them.

Annie laughed again and shook her head. “You know what North Carolina was like?”

The question caught him off guard. For the first time since she had walked out of the house, uncertainty crossed his face because the answer was no. He didn’t know. Not really. He knew where she had lived. He knew the city she moved to. He knew she had graduated. He knew random pieces gathered over the years through social media, mutual friends, and accidental conversations he pretended not to care about. But he didn’t know what it had been like. Not the real version.

Annie looked away briefly before looking back at him. “I hated it.”

Smoke felt something in his chest twist because that was not what he had expected her to say.

“I hated every fuckin’ minute of it.” Her voice shook now, but she did not look away again. “I didn’t know nobody. I didn’t have Pearline, Aunt Cheryl, Stack. I didn’t have…”

She stopped long enough to swallow, and when she looked directly at him, the rest of the yard seemed to fade around them.

“I didn’t have you.”

Smoke wasn’t prepared for that. He had spent eight years telling himself she had moved forward because that was the only way to make sense of the silence. Annie in North Carolina had become a version of her he could survive imagining. Busy. Happy. Adjusting. Growing into a life that no longer had space for him. But standing in front of him now with tears on her face and a suitcase in her hand, she was telling him something completely different, and the new version did not fit into any of the places he had built for the old one.

For a moment Annie saw it.

Really saw it.

The years she had spent imagining Elijah untouched by her absence suddenly felt less certain. She could see the hurt sitting on him now. Not fresh hurt. Old hurt. The kind people carried so long they stopped noticing the weight of it.

And yet none of it changed what came next. Because understanding that he suffered wasn’t the same thing as knowing he had.

Annie laughed and immediately seemed to hate the sound of it.

Smoke blinked.

“So what, Elijah?”

The use of his name landed exactly the way she intended it to. A warning.

“You think I was supposed to know that?” she asked, pointing at him. “You think I knew what the hell you was feelin’?”

His jaw tightened. “You ain’t ask.”

“Neither did you.”

Stack looked away. Pearline closed her eyes. Smoke felt the hit land exactly where she meant for it to, and the worst part was that she wasn’t wrong. 

Annie wiped at her face again and shook her head, her voice breaking around the edges as the anger started turning into something less controlled.

“You keep standin’ here talkin’ like I wasn’t alone. You think I wasn’t drivin’ around a city I ain’t know? You think I wasn’t callin’ Pearline cryin’? You think I wasn’t sittin’ in my mama’s house every holiday wishin’ I was home?”

Smoke’s expression switched before he could stop it, and Annie saw it. Good, her face seemed to say. Let him hear it.

“You keep talkin’ like I chose all this.” The tears were coming faster now, and she stopped trying to hide them. “I was seventeen. I was seventeen, Elijah. I was a kid. I was scared!”

Smoke closed his eyes briefly, and Annie saw that too. Saw the way his face tightened. Saw something flicker across it before disappearing again. For the first time since this started, she understood that he was not angry because he did not care. He was angry because he did. Maybe because he always had. The answer should have made her feel better. Instead, it seemed to make her furious because if that was true, then eight years suddenly felt even more unnecessary.

“You know what I kept waitin’ on?” she asked.

Smoke didn’t answer.

“I kept waitin’ on you.”

Even Mary looked stunned by that. Annie looked away as soon as the words came out, embarrassment crawling up her throat too late to stop anything now. “I kept thinkin’ maybe one day you’d show up. Maybe one day you’d come get me.”

Smoke stared at her, and the disbelief moved across his face before he could hide it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she had waited. He couldn’t believe what she had been waiting for. Annie saw it. Saw exactly what he was thinking. Something passed between them then, heavy and terrible, and for the first time since she got off the plane, Annie looked like she was realizing neither of them had been waiting for the same thing. Neither of them had been telling themselves the same story.

Smoke stood there for several seconds without speaking. He could still hear the cookout somewhere around them. A baby started crying near the patio before someone scooped them up and carried them away. Music drifted from the speakers like it belonged to another yard entirely. Aunt Cheryl probably still standing beside that grill, food getting colder by the minute, but none of it felt real anymore. The only thing that felt real was Annie standing in front of him talking about waiting as though he had simply let her go without trying.

“You waited on me?”

The question came out quieter than he intended.

Annie laughed bitterly. “Yeah.”

Smoke looked away, dragging a hand across his jaw while the hurt he had been holding onto all afternoon changed into something sharper and older. Nothing about this conversation was unfolding the way he had imagined. Not once. Not in eight years. Not today. Not now.

“Annie…” His voice cracked slightly, not enough for most people to notice, but enough for Stack to notice. Enough for Pearline. Enough for Smoke himself. “You think I wasn’t tryin’?”

The confusion on Annie’s face stopped him cold. For a second neither of them moved, and then Smoke realized she genuinely didn’t know. She had never looked more honest or more confused, and the sight twisted painfully in his chest.

“You think I just let you go?”

Annie opened her mouth, then closed it.

“I called you every fuckin’ day.”

The words left him before he could stop them. Annie blinked once, then again, and the color seemed to drain from her face in real time.

“What?”

Smoke laughed, but the sound came out broken. “I called you every day.”

The memory came back all at once. His room. The phone. The ringing. The waiting. The voicemail. Again and again and again until the sound became part of the shape of those months. “I called so much my mama started askin’ if I was goin’ to pay the phone bill.”

The crowd around them seemed to understand at the same time that they were no longer listening to an argument. They were watching two people discover that they had lived through entirely different versions of the same heartbreak.

Smoke couldn’t stop now. Not after eight years. Not after hearing Annie say she had waited. “I wrote you.”

Annie stared at him. “What?”

“I wrote you.” His jaw tightened because the word sounded ridiculous now. Ancient and pathetic and still true. “Letters. Birthday cards. Christmas cards. I sent every fuckin’ thing I could think of.”

Annie looked like she had forgotten how to breathe. Smoke noticed. He simply could not stop anyway.

“You think I was sittin’ around muthafuckin Mississippi havin’ the time of my fuckin’ life?” His voice rose for the first time, not much, but enough. “You think I wasn’t lookin’ and waitin’ for you?”

Fresh tears started slipping down Annie’s face, confused now more than angry. Smoke saw them and kept going because the truth had finally cracked open, and if he stopped now, he was not sure he would ever say it again.

“Then one day you stopped answerin’.” His voice dropped again, the sentence wounded in a way anger could not cover. “You stopped callin’ back.”

Annie shook her head slowly like she could not understand what he was saying. “I never—”

“Yeah.” Smoke laughed again, rougher this time. “That’s what I thought too.”

For the first time all afternoon, fear appeared in Annie’s eyes. Not fear of him, but fear of the possibility that something had happened neither of them knew about, because suddenly neither version of the story made sense. Smoke could see her realizing it at the same time he was.

“I never got them.” Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. “I never got those letters.”

Smoke stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “Yeah, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You had to.”

“Elijah, I didn’t.”

The certainty in her voice chipped away at some of his anger. Not enough to erase it, but enough to confuse it. Annie wiped at her face, looking younger somehow. “My mama would’ve gave ’em to me.”

Smoke looked away because maybe she was right. Maybe she wasn’t. But the problem was that the possibility didn’t change what those years had felt like from his side.

“I called,” he said, quieter now.

“I know.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You don’t.”

At first she answered. He remembered that part too clearly. The strange phone calls where neither one of them knew how to speak naturally anymore but tried anyway. The pauses. The awkward laughs. The ache that settled in his chest every time they hung up. Annie remembered too; he saw it in the way her eyes closed briefly, the way guilt moved across her face before she could hide it.

“You answered,” he said. “Then you got busy. Then you started callin’ back less.”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

“One day I realized I was the only one still callin’.”

Annie flinched. The movement was small, but Smoke saw it, and some wounded part of him was glad she did. He still remembered exactly what that had felt like.

“I wasn’t doin’ it on purpose,” she said.

The defense sounded weak the second it left her mouth. Not because it was not true, but because the truth of it did not undo the damage. Smoke nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Annie frowned. “You know?”

“Yeah.” He looked at her for a long moment, and the anger she seemed to expect was not there anymore. “I know. You was seventeen. You was scared. You was in a new place. You was tryin’ to figure shit out.”

For a second she could not breathe because he was not describing her now. He was describing the girl she had been. The girl he had somehow understood all along. Then his eyes met hers again, and the hurt surfaced in him fully.

“And I knew every one of them reasons,” he said. “But they ain’t stop the shit from hurtin’.”

Everyone remained where they were. The whole yard seemed to understand that this was no longer an argument. This was grief. Eight years of it standing in the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s backyard.

“I kept makin’ excuses for you,” Smoke said, and the confession seemed to surprise even him. Annie’s face crumpled immediately, but he kept going. “I told myself you was busy. I told myself school was hard. I told myself you’d call tomorrow. And then eventually I had to stop tellin’ myself that shit.”

Annie had no answer for that. For the first time since she walked out of the house, she seemed unable to find one. The tequila was not helping her anymore. Whatever warm numbness she had been chasing upstairs had disappeared completely, leaving every emotion exposed and every memory sharper than before. She hated that everyone was watching and seeing her crying. Hated that Elijah was standing in front of her looking just as miserable as she felt. Most of all, she hated that some part of her believed him, because believing him changed things. Not everything, but enough.

“You could’ve came.”

The words left her before she could stop them. Smoke blinked, and Annie immediately looked away because the sentence sounded childish now. Stupid. Still, it was true. It had always been true.

“You could’ve came and got me,” she said, the hurt returning instantly, seventeen-year-old hurt and twenty-five-year-old hurt all tangled together. “You knew where I was.”

Smoke stared at her until the confusion on his face slowly gave way to recognition. Now he understood what she had been waiting for, and somehow that broke his heart worse than anything else she had said.

“You wanted me to come get you?”

Annie laughed through her tears, the sound cracking halfway out. “I don’t know. I just…” She shook her head, struggling to organize a truth that had probably never made sense outside her own chest. “I thought if you loved me bad enough, you’d come.”

The confession settled over them with the weight of something painfully young. Childish. Seventeen. The impossible expectation people place on love when they are too young to understand that love still requires words. The belief that if something is real enough, the other person will somehow know exactly what to do.

Smoke dragged a hand across his face, looking exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour or the heat. “Annie,” he said, barely above a murmur. “I was seventeen too.”

The words hit her harder than anything else he had said. In every version of the story she had told herself, Elijah had always seemed older somehow. Stronger. More certain. More capable of handling things. But he was right—he had been seventeen too. Just as lost. Just as scared. Just as heartbroken.

“You keep talkin’ like I knew what to do.” Smoke laughed once, no humor in it, and a few people actually smiled despite themselves because it sounded like him. Real. Unfiltered. “I didn’t know shit. I didn’t know how to fix shit.” His eyes found hers again. 

“I didn’t know how to make you stay.”

The tears Annie had finally gotten under control started again because none of this was supposed to happen. She was supposed to come home, see old friends, survive one awkward conversation with Elijah, and go back to North Carolina pretending she had finally moved on. Instead she was standing in the middle of a backyard realizing neither one of them ever really had.

For one impossible moment, it felt like they were seventeen again. Not because anything had been repaired, but because they were staring at each other with the same unfinished ache they had carried out of high school and into adulthood, and neither one of them seemed to know what to do with it now that it had finally been named. 

Then Smoke broke eye contact, and Annie watched something change in his face. The softness that had been there moments earlier slowly disappeared beneath something older and far more dangerous. The understanding faded next, followed by the grief that had kept his anger tempered throughout most of the conversation. What remained was not rage. It was exhaustion. The kind that settled deep inside a person after carrying the same hurt for so long it stopped feeling separate from them.

Smoke looked at her for a long moment before finally shaking his head.

“You keep talkin’ like I left you.”

The words were not loud, and that made them worse. Annie froze because for the first time all afternoon, she was not sure what her response was supposed to be. Smoke laughed once under his breath and looked away, but nothing was funny. After everything they had just said, he still couldn’t believe they were standing here having this conversation.

“You keep tellin’ this story like I walked away.”

Annie opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Smoke looked back at her. His eyes were red now too, though she was not sure when that had happened. “You talk about North Carolina. You talk about missin’ me. You talk about waitin’.” He shook his head, his voice steady in a way that made every word harder to hear. “But every version of this story end the same.”

Annie tightened her grip around the suitcase handle.

“You leave.”

Smoke didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even sound angry. If anything, the absence of anger made the words harder to hear. They landed between them with the weight of something he had repeated to himself so many times it no longer felt like an opinion. To him it was simply fact. Annie left. Everything else had happened afterward.

“You leave,” he said again. “You stop answerin’. You stop callin’.”

Annie shook her head immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”

Smoke laughed, and the sound broke halfway through. “See?” His eyes closed briefly. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Tears gathered again, blurring Annie’s vision. “I was seventeen.”

“SO WAS I!!!!!”

The response came so quickly it startled both of them. Years of hurt sat between them, heavier than anything either one had said before. Smoke dragged a hand across his face and looked away toward the house, toward the trees, toward anywhere but her. When he spoke again, his voice sounded rougher.

“Do you know what the fucked up part is?”

Nobody moved. Nobody interrupted. Stack stood beside Pearline with one hand hovering near her back. Aunt Cheryl had lowered her eyes. Mary had finally stopped fidgeting. Jada sat very still, watching a man she knew in one way grieve a girl he had clearly known in another.

Smoke looked back at Annie, and whatever she saw in his face made her stomach drop.

“All these years…” His voice cracked once before he caught it. “…I thought you knew.”

Annie stared at him.

Smoke laughed again, but this time there was nothing left in it to protect him. “I thought you knew how much I fuckin’ love you.”

The tears hit Annie instantly. Hot. Merciless. Impossible to stop. Smoke nodded slowly, like he had known this was going to hurt them both before he ever said it.

“And somehow…” He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving hers. “…you still look at me like I’m the one who left.”

The silence that followed didn’t t feel empty. It felt full of every year they had spent telling themselves stories that only held up because the other person had not been there to challenge them. Nobody spoke. 

Annie stared at Smoke, and Smoke stared back, and for the first time since she came home, she realized she had absolutely no idea what happens next.

End Note: I promise we are almost done....cause I can't take it. But let me know what you think in the comments, please! I love every one of your thoughts. 💜

Tag List:      

"Elijah!" She scolds. "I told you you can't be smokin' when they get here." Annie lectures Smoke, much to his dismay.

"Annie, y'know I'on smoke much in the house nor around Y/N." Smoke points out.

"Yeah, but I'on want my mama to be like I'm lettin' anyone smoke 'round our child." Annie defends, referring to her mother. Smoke flubs his lips.

"Do they really have to be here?" Smoke asked. "Y'know how they get when it comes to things." He recalls.

"I know but I've been plannin' Y/N's birthday for weeks, so they ain't gon' be able to change a thing." Annie announced proudly. Smoke chuckled at his wife's confidence.

"Today's gon' be a good day today for Y/N." Smoke states as he places a gentle kiss on Annie's forehead. You babble something to grab Smoke's attention.

"What, you want a kiss too?" Smoke asked before placing one on the apple of your cheek. You giggle in satisfaction as you grab Smoke's beard. Smoke chuckled blissfully at the sounds of his daughter's happiness. Annie couldn't help but be in awe.

"Why can't you stay lil' forever?" Smoke coo's at you. "That way you ain't gon' never leave my arms."

"Smoke, she's gon' grow up into a beautiful woman 'n it happens day by day." Annie points out.

"I know but I'm makin' the most of it every day, hour, minute, 'n second." Smoke acknowledged as he lifted you up. "Papa's lil' girl."

"I love papa." You thought to yourself as you placed your hands on Smoke's cheeks.

Once everything was set, Annie heard a knock on the door.

"Ah, that's them." She muttered out as she took two strides to the door to open it up.

On the other side of the door were two elderly folks: One short and plump woman with glasses and her hair done in a silver bun and one tall man, who has his face stolen by Annie, with short hair that was grey on the sides and a thick grey beard.

"Antonia! Bonjou!" The elderly woman greets as she engulfs Annie into a big hug.

"Bonjou papa and maman." Annie greets back in Creole. Smoke was sitting on the recliner with you in his lap. You looked up at the two elderly folks walking in, who locked eyes with you immediately.

"Granmé's baby!" The elderly woman squeals as she rushes over to you and picks you up out of Smoke's lap. She placed kisses all over your chubby face before getting a good look at you.

"Ohhh, you's just so cute I could just eat you up." Your granme commented. She then examines your hair. "Antonia, when was the last time you did this girl's hair?"

Confused, Annie replied,

"Just an hour ago." Annie replied, dumbfounded.

"Well, her scalp looks a lil' dry." Your granme critiques. "Use more grease in her hair."

Smoke watched as Annie frowned before getting up from the recliner.

"They startin' up already." He thought to himself while cleaning his pipe. "Just keep calm for Y/N 'n Annie, Elijah." He mentally tells himself.

When both of the parents walked in, Smoke cleared his throat before greeting them.

"Afternoon Antionette, Beauregard." He greets in a polite tone.

"Hey, it's sir to you boy." Beauregard lectures like he was a drill sergeant. "Thought you's a solider 'n soldiers always refer to the elderly as sir or ma'am."

Smoke's lip curled but he quickly fixed his face.

"'N y'know you ain't s'pposed to be smokin' around the baby." Antionette lectures while taking the pipe out of Smoke's hand.

"I wasn't even smokin'." Smoke defends.

"Still, don't be havin' no pipe around my grandbaby." Antionette tells Smoke, voice condescending.

Smoke grumbles but then his mood shifts when he sees you reaching out to him. Before Smoke could grab you out of Antionette's arms, she immediately turned away and walked into the kitchen with you in your arms still, making Smoke miss his chance to hold his babygirl.

"Hey, I wanna be with papa!" You thought to yourself as you reached out for Smoke. Due to you being an infant, you couldn't voice your request to your grandmother.

"Antonia, what food did you make for the party?" Antoinette asks Annie.

"Our usual dishes maman." Annie replied.

"Did you make it how me 'n grandmama made it?" Antionette asked as she examined one of the dishes.

"Yes ma I did." Annie replied.

Antionette takes a bite before turning towards Annie to give her critique.

"Well, the food's a lil' dry but it'll do." She commented.

"I spent the whole day yesterday cookin'." Annie pointed out. "Plus I still had to take care of Y/N as well so, o'course I'll have to be away from the kitchen for a spell." She reasoned.

"When I had you, I was able to cook with one arm while you were sleeping in my other arm." Antoinette recalls with a hand on her hip.

"Why you ain't have 'im watch her?" Beauregard jumped in while pointing at Smoke.

"He was workin' the other nigh' papa." Annie replied.

Beauregard scoffs.

"At that filthy ol' sawmill turned juke joint?" Antoinette asked. "That ain't a real workplace." She points out.

"Well where can you work when you've been nuthin' but a criminal for most of your life?" Beauregard wonders.

This angered Smoke as he balled up his fists but then did a deep exhale to release the anger that was building inside of him. Smoke didn't want to lash out in front of you.

"This is gon' be a long ass day." Smoke thought to himself.

When more guests started to come, Annie noticed her mother eyeballing everyone else.

"Where's lil' Y/N at?" Cornbread asked, excited to see your face. "I wanna see my lil' niece."

When Cornbread tries to reach out to pick you up, Antoinette pulls you away like Cornbread was trying to hurt you.

"Uh uh! You go wash your hands." Antoinette tells Cornbread like he was a grubby little child.

Cornbread frowns and makes another attempt, only for Antoinette to smack his hand. Cornbread snatched his hands back.

"I'on know you well enough for you to pick up my grandbaby." Antoinette tells Cornbread. Cornbread was dumbfounded.

"I'm one of her uncles." He points out.

"And? That don't mean nuthin', go wash your hands before you pick up my grandbaby." Antionette tells Cornbread.

Accepting defeat, Cornbread walked off to go wash his hands.

"But my hands are clean, I shower befo' I got here." Cornbread muttered out.

Therese was sitting on the couch, holding Cornbread Junior, right next to Mary. She sneered at Antoinette.

"I know this woman did not put her hands on Cornelius." She muttered to Mary.

"Righ', she treatin' him like he has diseases or sumthin'." Mary agreed. "I ain't wanna say anythin' 'cause that's Annie's mama but earlier, she tried to block me from comin' in 'n Annie had to tell her that I'm family too." She recalled.

"Mama or not, she bet' not touch Cornelius again." Therese grumbled as she continued to rock Junior.

Annie sighed, completely frustrated at her mother's behavior. She then looks over at her father to see him talking to the twins.

"So, y'all still work at that ol' juke joint huh?" He asks Stack. "What an interestin' example you're settin' for Y/N." Beauregard commented sarcastically.

"Only example we settin' is that as long as it pays, it's a job." Stack defends. "My brotha told me what you said befo' we got here." He tells Beauregard.

Beauregard shrugs his shoulders.

"What? Workin' at a juke joint or one that's made from an old sawmill ain't a real job." Beauregard states like it was a fact.

"Better than pickin' cotton in a hot ass sun." Stack rebuts.

"Y'all young men...y'all leave the Delta for a few years 'n y'all come back like y'all some classy folks." Beauregard insults.

"Least we here 'n we providin' for our families." Stack defends.

"Nah, he is." Beauregard rebuts while pointing at Smoke. "You just married to some white girl."

Stack sucked in his teeth as a smirk cracked on his face. Annie knew that smirk meant that he was gonna fight so she quickly hurried over to the twins and pulled them into the kitchen.

"Annie, I swear I'm 'bout to lose my shit 'f that nigga talks down to me one more time." Smoke growled out. "I'on care 'f he's your daddy at this point."

"Sayin' that we ain't settin' a good example for Y/N 'n shit." Stack adds in.

Annie sighs.

"I knew I shouldn't have told 'em about the party." Annie thought to herself before she spoke. "It's almost time for cake anyway, so once we get that out the way 'n open gifts, they'll be gone." She tells Smoke.

Smoke nods, acknowledging Annie's words.

Annie gathers everyone around for the cake. You were in Antoinette's arms when Annie set the cake down.

"Oh, I remember this." You thought to yourself. "Last time papa blew out the candle with me." You recalled.

You then reached out for Smoke so you two can do the candle blowing but Antoinette kept you in her arms.

"Hey, lemme be with papa." You thought as you began to squirm, trying to free yourself from your grandmother's grip.

Everyone began to sing Happy Birthday while you were still reaching out for Smoke. Smoke noticed you but held off, assuming that Antoinette will hand you to him after the song. However, he was completely wrong.

"C'mon baby, let's blow the candles out together." Antoinette tells you.

You began to whine.

"Antoinette, she wants to do it with her d-"

Before Annie could get the sentence out, it was too late.

Antoinette blew out the candles, thinking that she was doing it for you, then Beauregard clapped along with everyone else. Your lip trembled, upset that the moment wasn't with your dear ol' papa, then you began to cry. Smoke felt heartbroken and thought,

"I knew I should've taken her out her arms sooner."

Antoinette thought you were just being fussy, so she tried to soothe you, but to no avail.

"Mama, she wanted to blow the candle with Elijah." Annie calmly pointed out.

"Oh, well, I didn't know." Antoinette simply stated as if that statement will undo what she did. "'Sides, she has to learn that everyone will want a turn to help blow out her candles."

"Don't say it like she's incapable of doin' that in the future." Smoke tells Antoinette, a vein popping out of his forehead. "In this moment here, she wanted to do it with me since we did it last year."

"Well, some things aren't gon' be the same." Antoinette rebuts. "It ain't that big of a deal." She dismissed.

"Clearly it is to her." Annie pointed out, referring to you who was still crying.

"Well, we can relight the candle 'n y'all can have your moment." Antoinette offered.

But it wouldn't make a difference since the moment was already gone.

"It ain't gon' be the same for her." Smoke argued back.

"Well, don't get mad at me." Antoinette argues back. "I ain't know that was y'all thing since we didn't come to the 1st one last year."

"'N this is why." Stack thought to himself.

Beauregard jumps in to defend his wife.

"Righ', so I'd advise you to lower that voice when you speakin' to her." Beauregard warns.

This was when Smoke was at his breaking point.

"Y'know what? Let's take this outside then." Smoke challenged.

Annie, Antoinette, and Stack's eyes grew wide.

"Oh shit..." Stack muttered out.

Smoke and Beauregard walked out of the house and there was just complete silence. Antoinette looks at Annie for her aid.

"You really gon' let your husband figh' your father?" She asked Annie.

"Damn straight." Stack answered.

"I wasn't talkin' to you." Antoinette scolds Stack.

"But I answered for her." Stack replied back.

Antoinette finally sets you down as she hurries outside to try to diffuse the situation. Finally free from your grandmother's hold, you waddled outside behind Annie and Stack to see your papa and grandfather going toe-to-toe with each other.

"Wow, what a scene." You thought to yourself, somewhat used to the violence that Smoke always brings.

You began to waddle around a bit before stopping to see your grandparents' truck, which looked similar to Smoke's blue truck.

"Papa's truck..." You thought to yourself as you began to waddle to the back and climbed into the truck, thinking it was Smoke's truck. You sat there happily since this was yours and Smoke's favorite spot to be in whenever the weather was nice, so you sat here and waited for Smoke thinking that you'll be able to spend time with him after the fight.

However...trouble came afoot.

"Y'see that truck righ' there?" One robber whispered to his sidekick.

"Yeah, it's a nice one too." The sidekick agreed.

The leader looked over the truck to see if Smoke and the others were still distracted then nods to his sidekick.

"Move! Go!" The leader whispered to his sidekick as they both left the bushes and ran towards the truck. The leader picked the lock and opened the truck door then began to hotwire the electric circuits to get it to work. You heard the truck starting up, which surprised you as you looked to see Smoke and the others still by the porch, yelling and fighting.

"Hey, who's drivin' the truck?" You thought to yourself.

When the engine started up, this caught Stack's attention as he turned around to see the truck pulling off.

"Hey!" He yelled out as he ran after the truck.

Annie gasped once she caught a glimpse of you in the back of the truck as the truck continued to drive off.

"MY BABY!!!!" Annie shrieked out.

Smoke let's Beauregard go.

"Was that..." He begins, unsure if it was his truck that got stolen.

"That was my truck!" Beauregard yelled out.

Smoke sighs in relief that it wasn't his truck, however, everyone else began to come outside to see what was going on.

"The hell's goin on?" Bo asked.

"We heard Annie scream." Grace adds in.

"Smoke, what happened?" Sammie asked.

"Some bastards boosted my truck!" Beauregard yelled out.

"'N Y/N was in the back of it!" Annie screamed out.

Everyone gasped, but Smoke's eyes grew wide.

"Y-Y/N was in the back?" He stammered out.

"I ain't stuttered boy!" Annie yelled back, heart racing rapidly.

Smoke saw red!

He stormed back in the house along with Annie who was equally blinded with red fury.

"W-what's gon' happen?" Sammie stammered out.

"Smoke's 'bout to bring the fire." Stack replied.

The two robbers laughed as they continued to drive the truck into town while you were in the back, completely scared.

"I want my papa!" You thought to yourself. "I want my mama!"

You began to cry and scream in fear, which got into the ears of the leader as he looked into the rearview mirror to see you. He hit the brakes quick.

"Hey, what 'chu doi-"

"There's a baby in the back!" The leader yells as he quickly gets out of the truck and runs to the back. You looked at the leader with tears in your eyes.

"W-who is this man? Where's mama 'n papa!?" You thought as you continued to cry.

"Where the hell did a baby come from?" The sidekick asked.

"I'on know!" The leader yelled back.

"Should we return it to the parents?" The sidekick asked.

"No stupid 'cause they gon' get the truck back as well!" The leader reasoned.

"But takin' the baby with us is kidnappin'!" The sidekick yelled back.

All the yelling was making you completely distressed, which angered the leader.

"Shut up! Stop cryin'!" He yells at you.

This makes you begin to scream at the top of your lungs then the leader covers your mouth.

"Someone help!" You thought to yourself as you squirmed.

This began to attract people as everyone began to pop their heads out from the shops.

"The hell y'all lookin' at!?" The leader yelled out. "Can't a man discipline his child!?" He lies.

Your screams grew muffled against his hand.

"'F you don't shut up I wi-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the leader hears a gun cock and whirled around to see Smoke holding his pistol.

"Put...her...down." Smoke growled out.

The leader didn't want to accept defeat as he backs away with you still in his arms.

"You ain't gon' do nuthin'." He teases Smoke. "One wrong shoot 'n you'll end up hurtin' this lil' girl." The leader points out.

The sidekick chuckles as he pulls out a gun and aims it at Smoke to protect his leader.

Smoke felt his heart drumming against his ribcage as you looked at him with tears in your eyes, pleading for help. If Smoke did try to shoot the leader then he might hit you in the process and get shot as well by the sidekick.

"Fuck..." Smoke grunted out.

However, the leader watched as Smoke's eyes grew wide like he had seen a ghost. The leader thought that Smoke was afraid of him.

"What? Ya scared now nigga?" He chuckled out. "Scared that you'll shoot ya babygirl?" He taunts Smoke.

"Don't make...any movements at all..." Smoke warns the two robbers.

"Or what?" The sidekick asked.

However, the sound of a shotgun cocking was the answer to the sidekick's question.

The two robbers turned around to see Annie--eyes black as coal-- welding a double barrel shotgun. She had a perfect aim at both of their heads if they even so much as laid a scratch on you or Smoke.

The leader's confidence depleted as he stared into the eyes of a scorned mother whose child was in danger. All of a sudden, there was the sound of another gun cocking as the two robbers turned to the side to see Stack aiming a pistol at them as well along with Cornbread cracking his knuckles ready for a brawl.

They were outnumbered 4 to 2!

"Drop the girl 'n leave the truck...befo' your brains end up paintin' that truck red." Stack threatened.

"Y-you really think I'm scared of some guns?" The leader's voice cracked. The sidekick felt like he was gonna piss himself.

"Oh...I never saw Uncle Stack this mad along with Uncle Cornbread." You thought to yourself since this was the very first time to see your two happy and goofy uncles looking dead serious.

Annie's voice roaring out enough to scare the two robbers into complying.

"HURRY UP 'N GIVE ME BACK MY DAUGHTER!"

The robbers admit defeat as they quickly set you down and run off. Not before Stack shot them both in the legs, causing them to fall over.

"Gah damn what 'chu do that for!?" The leader yelled out.

"This nigga thought we was gon' let 'im walk out in one piece?" Stack scoffed.

Smoke ran up to you and picked you up.

"Are you okay!? Did they hurt you!?" Smoke asked while checking your body for any injuries. Once it was confirmed that you were okay, Smoke dropped to his knees and hugged you tight. You felt Smoke trembling then you heard him sobbing.

"Papa's here baby, papa's here." He sobbed out.

Annie kneels down to Smoke then presses a kiss on the top of your head. Smoke then lifts his head up to Stack and Cornbread.

"Stack, drive the truck back to the house." He instructs his younger twin before getting up.

"What were you thinkin'!?"

"She could've gotten hurt!"

"Or gone for good!"

"This shouldn't have happened 'f you hadn't picked a fight!"

"SA ESE!" Annie yelled out, silencing her parents.

The house went silent and all everyone could hear was Annie's heavy breathing.

"Both of you, out." Annie tells her parents while pointing at the door.

"Beg ya pardon young lady?" Beauregard asks.

"You heard what she said." Smoke chimed in. "Both of y'all get the hell out our house."

"Antonia! We're your parents! You can't kick us out!" Antoinette tells Annie.

"Who acts like y'all were the ones who invented parentin'!" Annie fires back. "This was s'pposed to be a nice day to celebrate Y/N turnin' 2 but y'all just had to critique everythin' like y'all were the ones who planned this party for weeks!" She lashes out. "None of this would've happened 'f y'all just accept that every parent is different!"

Once Annie was done, her parents were silent.

"Now, I ain't the type to tell ya twice but 'f you don't leave voluntarily, I'll have Uncle Cornbread escort you out." Smoke warns the parents as Cornbread stands up.

"Y'know he's the tosser at our juke joint so he has no problem gettin' physical." Stack adds in.

Admitting defeat, Antoinette and Beauregard left the house without another complaint.

Once they were gone, the atmosphere grew still and silent.

"'F any of y'all got any gifts for Y/N, just leave 'em on the table." Annie sighs out.

Everyone left the house one by one after leaving your gifts on the table and once the house was empty, it was just Annie, Stack, and Smoke.

"Ohhh, I probably shouldn't have yelled at 'em." Annie groaned out.

"Hell nah, they deserved that shit." Stack assures Annie. "They actin' like they know Y/N more than you do."

Annie sighs.

"I'm just...I just want what's best for Y/N 'n today was s'pposed to be a happy birthday for her 'n she almost got kidnapped." Annie explained.

Smoke presses his forehead against hers in a loving manner.

"I'll say this...God is good, God is good." Smoke muttered. "I'm glad they didn't get too far."

"You did a nice job protectin' her too." Stack adds in. "This is my first time ever seein' you hold a gun."

"Smoke taught me how to shoot." Annie explained. "Didn't think I was gon' ever hold a gun in my life but after today..." She adds in.

Smoke grabs Annie's hand and squeezes it before getting up to check on you. He walked upstairs to the nursery room to see you fast asleep in your crib--tuckered out from the crying and screaming.

The sounds of his footsteps creaking against the floorboard woke you up as you turned your head and see Smoke.

"Papa..." You rasped out reaching out to him. Smoke scoops you up into his bulky arms.

"Happy birthday Y/N..." Smoke begins. "Always remember that me 'n ya mama loves you so much."

Tag list (so far):

The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots. 

It was late. 

The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover. 

Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.

Something was on Aunt Della’s mind. 

Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.

Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.” 

There it was. 

Annie looked up.

Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.

Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why. 

“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.

Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm. 

“You like him?” 

Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.

“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.

Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.

Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded. 

“Yes you do,” she answered back. 

Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking. 

But she was so young. Barely 18. 

She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.

It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son. 

She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.

The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.

Elijah and Elias.

She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry. 

She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece. 

She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.” 

A moment passed. Then two. 

Aware. 

That’s how Annie felt when he was around.

Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound. 

Loose.

Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things. 

But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.

Seen.

She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.

She tried a different angle.  “He good to you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard. 

“Respectful?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He pressure you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”

Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”

Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“You intact?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.

“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off. 

It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too. 

“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.

Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious. 

Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.

Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”

Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.

“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”

Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?” 

“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.

“The truth do just fine.”

Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles. 

“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.

“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.

“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.

Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?” 

“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”

“So you remember what they look like?”

“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”

Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood. 

She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?” 

The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.

Annie blinked. “Ma’am?” 

“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?” 

Annie blinked twice this time.

All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen. 

Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once. 

Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way. 

She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home. 

But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.

She kept getting four when she added two and two together.

But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.

“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.” 

Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently. 

Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”

The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”

Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”

The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip. 

The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it. 

“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.

“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.” 

Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.” 

The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”

Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm. 

“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.

“Goodnight, Annie.” 

Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.

The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon. 

Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.

The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say. 

Two questions came to mind. 

What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her? 

What made her change her mind?

It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment. 

Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note. 

Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids. 

She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night. 

Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin. 

Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.

That was hers. 

Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.

The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination. 

She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.

The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation. 

An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.

Then he was gone. 

All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside.  No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.

She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.

The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day. 

“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.

The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.” 

“I been sleep this whole time?”

“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…” 

“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back. 

Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.

One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.

Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.

“So you gon’ tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”

Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.

“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.

Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip. 

“What about her?”

Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”

The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation. 

“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.

“About?”

Smoke didn’t reply.

Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”

Smoke shot him a look. 

Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?” 

It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times. 

“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady. 

Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”

“That’s right.” 

“This ‘bout my girl?”

“It is.”

Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.

“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.” 

“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms. 

Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.

“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.

“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”

Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”

“Not yet.”

“You need to.”

“I will. Wanted to ask you first.” 

She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”

“I don’t do half.”

Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”

“She did.”

“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”

“I won’t,” Smoke replied. 

Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room. 

Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper. 

Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.

“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“How much?” 

“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.” 

Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”

“I am,” he said with finality. 

Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.

“Still seein’ other women?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Ain’t what I heard.”

Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.

“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.” 

Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”

“It ain’t?”

“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.” 

“Then why they still talkin’?”

Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.” 

Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.

Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.

Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously. 

“That’s on me,” Smoke said, jaw tight. “But I’ma handle it.” 

“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?” 

“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.” 

“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.” 

Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Della started. 

“Miss Della—” he started. 

She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.” 

Della sighed. “Alright.” 

Smoke’s face relaxed. 

“There’s rules.”

“Okay.” 

“Handle that business, first.” 

“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.

Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?” 

He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted. 

She didn’t flinch. “That it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him. 

“You ain’t gotta worry about that.” 

“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”

“Can I leave this for her?”

Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.

“What is it?”

His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”

“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.

Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”

“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet. 

Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat. 

Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields. 

Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt. 

Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.

Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.

Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.

Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied. 

Memphis appeared thirty minutes later. 

The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise. 

There was a lightness here. 

But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.

“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.

“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. 

“Whatever it is.” 

Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”

Smoke waited.

He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”

Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”

Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”

Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly. 

“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.” 

“Who, Annie?”

Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”  

“Nigga.”

Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by. 

“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…” 

“Aight….” Smoke mumbled. 

“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street. 

“You know she good for you, right?” 

Smoke’s eyes cut over. 

Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.

“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.” 

Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.” 

Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”

Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.

They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper. 

Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”

Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”

“Nervous?”

Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”

The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.

“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.

The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.

“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up. 

“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her. 

“You ‘bout to find out.”

The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”

Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze. 

Then the daylight. 

Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers. 

Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.

More shelves.

Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things. 

Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish. 

“This where we gon’ start.”

Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”

“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.” 

She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.” 

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.” 

Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her. 

She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing. 

Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said. 

“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”

She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”

Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.

Aunt Della gave her a look.

“Not sage,” Annie winced.

Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”

Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.

“You askin’ or tellin’?” 

“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.

Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”

Annie smiled despite herself. 

“What’s it for?”

“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.” 

Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the  jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.”  She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.” 

She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”

They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.

“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You was.” 

Annie huffed softly, frustrated. 

“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”

Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.

“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted. 

Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands. 

“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.” 

Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.

The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind. 

There was no wind down here.

Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs. 

Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly. 

“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.

“Not today.”

“Really?”

“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.” 

She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?” 

Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”

Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand. 

Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”

“A promise?”

“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”

Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left. 

Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”

le 31 octobre 1919

Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there. 

Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her. 

“Name it.”

Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.

She smelled first. 

Looked second. 

And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.

It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.

It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger. 

An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business. 

“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”

Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.

His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.

His hand shook suddenly on the second. 

He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.

Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm. 

He exhaled with relief. 

It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.

He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.

Annie.

He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on. 

Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.

He had to think about something safer.

Like lips or eyes.

But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?

Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.

He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.

“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—

“You good?” 

The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side. 

It was Stack. 

“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”

”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.” 

Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs. 

One Week Later…

It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.

Especially people’s relatives from up north.

There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south. 

And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing. 

That ‘Northern’ polish. 

Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun. 

Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.

She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.

Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.

Especially about the women they dealt with.

Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered. 

“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”

“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”

Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.

Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?

“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.

She looked up. 

“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket. 

“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.  

Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”

She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside. 

The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food. 

Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.

Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.

Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open. 

Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him. 

Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.

The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.

“Afternoon,” she said softly.

“Afternoon.”

“You hungry?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them. 

Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”

“Long.”

“That it?”

“Mostly.”

Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.

“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.

“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.

“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.” 

“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question. 

She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie. 

“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”

Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly. 

“Better now.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers. 

Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut. 

“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.

Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache. 

He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head. 

“You leavin’?”

Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.” 

He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.

“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.

“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.

He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”

Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment. 

Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money. 

“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!” 

“Got it,” Felicia huffed. 

The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks. 

She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out. 

—

Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away. 

Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.

When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.

Stack leaned back on the couch, black-and-orange pajama pants slung low on his hips, matching tee tight across his chest that read “BOO’D UP” in dripping ghost letters. Raven had picked them out, and she was grinning in hers, a cropped sleep top with matching shorts that read “His Boo” on the ass. Her twists were up in a bun, gold hoops glinting, and her gloss was poppin’.

Smoke walked in from the kitchen, thick hands cradling two drinks that looked like spiked potions, smoky, lime-green with a floating gummy eyeball in each. He was already frowning, deep voice annoyed.

“Man, I look ridiculous,” he muttered, passing one glass to Annie.

“You look like a bad muthafucka, that’s what you look like,” she smirked, adjusting his wide collar. The leather vest was tight across his chest, bellbottoms hugging his hips too right. Smoke had the fro wig, the sideburns, the shades, and the attitude and he looked good.

“I told you,” Annie said, sauntering away, hips rolling in her skintight jumpsuit. Pam Grier fantasy activated, “Black Dynamite and Foxy Brown was the only correct answer. Don’t play with me.”

Stack let out a low whistle, “Shit. I shoulda dressed up too.”

“You did,” Raven cut in, snatching a popcorn ball off the tray she made, “You dressed like a man who gon’ be begging for mercy tomorrow night when I start my scene.”

Smoke raised a brow, “Scene?”

Raven grinned, “Ghostface and the final girl. I got the mask and the voice changer. I bought a bloody nightgown and a prop knife. I’mma scream all cute while he chokes me out.”

Stack grinned wide, licking caramel off his fingers, “Best holiday of the year.”

Annie laughed from the dining room table, where she’d been reshuffling the Uno deck, “Y’all nasty.”

“You ain’t?” Raven teased, tossing her a look.

“Oh, I’m nasty,” Annie purred, “I just like to act like I’m not.”

Smoke puffed up a laugh, sliding beside her at the table, “Ain’t nothin’ quiet about you when the kids gone.”

That earned him a sharp little glare and a hidden smile. Annie dealt cards while Raven and Stack curled up on the couch with their drinks and a bowl of her sweet-and-spicy popcorn mix.

Smoke and Stack were at the back door, Smoke lighting up a pre-roll, passing it smooth between his fingers. They leaned on the porch rail, looking out at the quiet night. Stack’s chain caught the porch light.

“You really lettin’ her tie you up tomorrow?” Smoke asked.

Stack chuckled, “Hell yeah. She done bought four costumes for me. All I gotta do is show up and swing dick.”

Smoke exhaled a cloud, grinned, “Sounds like you.”

“You doin’ anything wild?”

Smoke scratched his jaw, “She talkin’ ‘bout some catsuit and whips.”

“Annie?” Stack blinked.

“She already bought the suit.”

“Damn.”

Raven was cleaning up plates while Annie leaned against the counter with her drink. The kids were upstairs, finally sleeping, the house cozy and humming with mischief.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Annie whispered with a grin, “he act like he ain’t into roleplay. But I bought that latex catsuit…and I’m bringin’ that whip out too. He gon’ get into character, or I’mma make him.”

Raven burst out laughing, nearly dropping a glass, “Not the whip! You gon’ Foxy Brown him for real.”

“He need it. He shy, but let me tell you…” Annie leaned in, eyes sly, “That man is nasty when he let go. Like… movie theater seat nasty.”

Raven covered her mouth, wheezing, “Girl, stop—”

“No, you stop,” Annie shot back, “You the one talkin’ about choke me, Ghostface Daddy in front my drink.”

They cackled loud together, giggling like teenagers, hips swaying as the next track rolled in—“So Anxious” by Ginuwine.

Raven wiggled her brows, “So when your mama pick the kids up…”

“I’m wearin’ the catsuit under my clothes,” Annie said, “He won’t know ‘til I lock the door behind her and pounce.”

Raven clinked her glass against hers, “To nasty mamas.”

“To nasty mamas.”

Raven was on her third shot of that cinnamon whiskey, eyes glazed with mischief as she dug under the bed and yanked out the black-and-purple tote labeled in her own glittery handwriting:

SPOOKY SEX! DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU TRYNA FUCK.

The moment it hit the bed with a thump, Stack looked up from where he was rolling up and grinned, already knowing what time it was.

“You tryna start some shit,” he said, voice low, lazy, hot.

Raven plopped on the mattress beside him, giggling, her legs draped over his thighs, “I mean…it’s Halloween Eve. Don’t you wanna see what we collected over the years?”

“Collected like what? Pokéballs?”

“Nah. Costumes.” Raven rolled her eyes as she pulled the lid off with a dramatic pop! and began tugging out tangled satin, straps, and leather.

Inside were:

• A pair of grease-stained coveralls

• A glittery ring girl crop top

• A ski mask and black gloves

• A small camcorder prop

• Red velvet

• Black lace

• A pair of furry ears

And enough memories to fuck up the sheets all over again She held up the first one, his old coveralls, still smelling faintly of weed, cologne, and sex.

“Oh my god…” she laughed, waving them in his face, “The mechanic scene.”

Stack groaned, leaning back on his elbows, gold grill flashing, “The hood pop?”

“Yes, the hood pop,” she giggled, “You was in character for real.”

“Shit, I had to be. You had them daisy dukes on, talkin’ bout ‘my engine won’t start’ like that wasn’t your pussy beggin’ for me.”

Raven shrieked with laughter and tossed a throw pillow at him, “Liar.”

Stack caught it, yanked her close, and kissed her neck slow, “You remember how wet you was? Bending over the hood, them lil panties showin’? Mmm. Let’s play it back.”

Flashback I: Hood Pop—Halloween ‘20

Her car wasn’t broken.

But she made damn sure to roll into the garage slow—heels clicking when she stepped out like trouble on purpose.

Tiny shorts hugged her ass like they were sewn on. Brown skin glowing under the streetlamp, thighs all supple and thick, tank top clinging to her tits like a second skin. Gold hoops swayed when she leaned into the open hood, fake steam from a water bottle misting off the radiator. She licked her lollipop slow and sticky, watching him under her lashes.

Stack was bent over another car, grease-slick and shirtless in his coveralls. Dark curls damp with sweat. Chain shining over a chest glistening with heat. A smear of grease crossed his cheek like war paint. That gold in his mouth flashed when he noticed her.

She sucked the red candy with an obscene pop and called out,

“Hey baby…you work on foreigns?”

Stack didn’t rush. Just wiped his hands slow with a rag, his eyes crawling over her like he was checking for a leak.

“You try poppin’ the hood?” he asked, voice rich and slow like honey poured over skin.

“Popped it. Didn’t help. Think my engine’s just…runnin’ hot.”

She leaned forward, arching deep, the round of her ass swallowing the shorts. The garage light caught the sheen of her thighs.

“Maybe you can check me out.”

Stack tossed the rag.

“Shit,” he muttered, stepping behind her, looking down at the curve of that ass bent over the hood, “You come in here dressed like that and think I’m finna check your engine? Girl, I’m about to fuckin’ taste it.”

And then he dropped to his knees behind her. No questions. No hesitation.

He dragged those daisy dukes and then her panties down with two fingers—slow enough for the elastic to kiss her thighs on the way down, fast enough to bare her before she could say a word. Her pussy was already glistening, lips fat and soaked, that scent rising up hot and sweet like syrup in summer.

Stack’s palms gripped her thighs and spread her.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, breath hitting her slit, “Got this pretty lil’ cooch out for me like a gift. Bent over like you know I was gon’ eat it.”

And he did.

Open-mouthed, greedy. He tongue-fucked her with a moan so deep it vibrated against her clit. He licked long and wide like he was cleaning a plate, then drilled in, swirling, twisting, sucking her clit ‘til she cried out.

“Ffffuck…Stack—yeah—”

He popped up real slow, thumb brushing across the messy shine between her legs, “That engine purrin’ now, ain’t it?” he grinned, licking her slick from his mouth, “You was overheat’n, baby. I’m your coolant.”

Then he dove back in.

Slurping. Wet. Loud. Messy. He buried his face between her cheeks, spreading them open so he could tongue-fuck her deeper from behind. His nose pressed against her ass, tongue licking from slit to clit in filthy little laps. His beard was soaked. His mouth didn’t stop.

She was moaning so loud it echoed off the garage walls. Her thighs shook. Her hips bucked. That lollipop hit the floor. Stack groaned into her, then reached between her legs and slid two fingers inside, curling just right. She gasped, toes curling in those slutty heels. Her pussy clamped around his fingers, her cream coating his tongue.

“You makin’ a mess all over my face,” he growled, voice muffled by her pussy, “That shit mine now. You hear me?”

She nodded dumbly, face against the hood, drooling.

“You better come for me, nasty lil’ thing.”

And she did. Legs trembling, moans cracked and stuttering, her pussy gushed and pulsed around his mouth. Stack didn’t stop—licked through it, sucked through it, until she was twitching and whimpering, her body limp over the metal.

When he stood, his lips were glistening. His dick? Rock hard, printing through his coveralls like it wanted to bust free. He wiped his chin, breathing heavy. When she straightened up, slow and sultry, her tank clung to her chest, nipples hard and visible through the fabric. Her shorts and panties were still bunched around one ankle, heels still strapped tight, legs slick with her own cream.

“So…” he said, tapping the wrench against his palm, “labor cost’s gonna be steep. How you plannin’ to pay me, miss pretty thang with the busted engine?”

She looked back at him, dazed and glowy, ass still out.

“I ain’t got no cash.”

She tilted her head, blinked real sweet. Then pulled her tank top down—all the way—until her tits spilled free. Heavy and warm, dark brown nipples hard as diamonds. Gold hoops swinging when she smiled. She dropped to a squat right there on the garage floor, the heels making her arch deeper. Hands behind her back like a good slut. Her eyes locked on his.

“I got one way to pay.”

“Oh yeah?” Stack stepped in front of her, dick out and dripping. Long, thick, that soft curve to the left. Veins pulsing. The head already glazed from how turned on he was. She licked her lips, eyes on it like it was dessert, “Then open that mouth. No hands. All throat.”

She slid to her knees like it was a damn prayer. Throat ready. Panties hanging from her ankle. The hood still popped. And that garage? Hot with the sound of spit, moans, and Stack whispering,

“That’s my good girl…make that payment worth every fuckin’ cent.”

She leaned in and kissed the tip of his dick gentle at first. Then opened wide and sucked him in with no hesitation.

Lips tight. Cheeks hollowed.

Slurrrrp.

He groaned so low and nasty it echoed through the whole garage. “Fuuuck…”

She didn’t hold back. Worked that dick like a seasoned pro—like some Ebony porn goddess straight off the nastiest tape. Head bobbing fast, then slow, then fast again. Wet. Sloppy. Filthy. Saliva strung from her lips to his shaft. Her gold hoops swung in rhythm with each bounce. Her eyes? Never left his. Stack watched her—one hand on her head, the other behind his back, breathing heavy through gritted teeth.

“Look at you,” he praised, “all that mouth put to real use. Make it wet, baby…Yesssir…”

She gagged and moaned, spit flying, tongue swirling around the base when she pulled off, then swallowed him back down in one motion. That throat opened like it knew his shape.

“Don’t use your hands,” Stack warned, grabbing the back of her head and feeding her dick inch by inch, “Take that shit just like that. Yeah. Look at me when I fuck your throat.”

And she did, eyes glossy, wide, obedient. Nose pressed to his pelvis. Titties bouncing with every thrust. Her chin soaked.

“Good fuckin’ girl…damn, this how you pay a mechanic?” he growled, twisting her curls in his fist, “You suck like you tryna get a tune-up every week.”

She hummed on his shaft, spit bubbling down her chin.

Throat working.

Heels planted.

That pretty pussy still dripping.

“Fuuuck, I’m close,” Stack muttered, hips jerking forward, “You want it? Huh? You want me to nut in that throat, baby? Huh?”

She moaned and nodded, lips locked around the base.

“Take…this…fuckin’ tip.”

And he exploded.

Hot, thick, heavy shots. Down her throat. She never pulled back—just took it, moaning while he pumped, riding his orgasm like a nasty little demon. When he finally let go of her head, she pulled off slow with a lewd pop, tongue out, catching the last drip. Stack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked down at her, still squatting, tits out, mouth glistening, eyes shining.

“You just got yourself free labor for life.”

She smirked and licked her lips.

“Good. ‘Cause I break down easy.”

Present Day:

The tote labeled SPOOKY SEX: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU TRYNA FUCK sat wide open on the bed now, its tangled guts spilling out like secrets. Costumes, wigs, gloves, straps, ropes. The scent of old weed, cinnamon lube, and body spray still clung to some of the fabric, haunting like a ghost.

Raven tugged out his dirty-ass mechanic coveralls, laughing hard as she held them up by the shoulders, “Why this still got a condom wrapper in the pocket?”

Stack blinked, then barked out a laugh, “Ain’t no way.”

She shook the coveralls out and out fell not one, but two condom wrappers, a gold one still half sealed, “You triflin’. Could have thrown this shit away.”

“Shit, I was gone off Casamigos and your ass was playin’ the damsel. ‘My car broke down, mister mechanic!’” He deepened his voice into a dramatic Southern drawl, “I need help.”

Raven doubled over, throwing herself back on the bed with the coveralls on her lap, “You had the rag in your back pocket! You wiped your hands like you’d been under the hood!”

“I was under somethin’, alright,” he said, licking his lips, “That lil coochie was purrin’ louder than the truck.”

“Stack!” she squealed, smacking his leg, “You are not okay.”

They cackled like fools, high and warm off shots and memory. Raven sat up, still holding the old outfit.

“And that wasn’t even the wildest one,” she said, tossing the coveralls aside and digging deeper into the tote.

Her hand landed on the shiny boxing robe next—silk still smooth, hood inside-out from the last time they wore it. She pulled it out slow, eyes twinkling. “Oh this one…”

Stack raised a brow, already smiling, “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” she echoed, eyes wide. “You mean: don’t remind you that this was right after you and Smoke got yourselves locked up at the club?”

Stack sat up straighter, pointing at her with a mock-threat in his voice, “Shut up.”

“Nooo, let’s talk about it,” Raven said through a giggle, “You and your brother got into that fight because ol’ boy bumped you and Smoke stepped in—”

“That nigga was disrespectful for that shit. Then he started accusing me of pushing up on his girl.”

“ And then y’all both in jail, lookin’ stupid. Whole night ruined.”

He side-eyed her, “And you was the first one screaming ‘Free my baby!’ on your story.”

She bit her lip, grinning, “I was. And when you got home? We ran that scene like it was real HBO. You was the hothead boxer and I was the fine-ass ring girl tryna calm you down.”

Stack shook his head but couldn’t stop smiling, “I was tryna get you pregnant that night. Lil’ ass was looking damn good.”

“I was!”

They both collapsed in laughter again, the robe stretched between them. On the screen, MJ’s ghost spun in slow motion, and in the golden candlelight, Stack’s face softened. He reached out, brushing a braid behind Raven’s ear.

“You remember the music that night?” he asked.

She nodded. “Trillville.”

“‘Some Cut.’ You was twerkin’ on me slow like you was listenin’ to the lyrics.”

“I was.”

Flashback II: The Knockout—Halloween’ 21

He’d just gone ten rounds and came out on top.

Sweat dripping down his chest, gloves ripped off, knuckles bruised but still flexing. Stack leaned against the locker room bench, breathing hard through his nose, mouthpiece spit into a towel.

But all he was looking at—all—was her.

His girl, thick and gleaming, leaning in the doorway with a silk robe barely tied, heels still strapped on. Underneath? Nothing but glitter-dusted skin and confidence. She had his name stitched across the ass of her robe in gold thread: MOORE.

“You see me out there?” he asked, voice low, jaw clenched.

“I saw you,” she smiled slow, sliding the robe down her shoulders, breasts falling free, nipples pierced and hard.

“You win for me?” she teased, licking gloss off her lip.

Stack’s eyes dragged down her body, pulse still pounding from the match. He stepped forward, peeled the waistband of his trunks down. His dick slapped against his stomach, heavy and ready, still pulsing from adrenaline.

“Don’t talk. Come claim your prize.”

She obeyed.

Got down on her knees in front of him like it was instinct. Nails dragging over his thighs, tongue out before her lips even touched. His dick was still salty with sweat, fat and flushed, veins raised, the head already leaking.

She spat first—ptuh—right on the tip. Rubbed it in with her tongue like she was seasoning a steak.

“Mmm,” she moaned, swirling it slow, eyes locked on his, “Tastes like victory, baby…”

Stack groaned, low and lethal, “Get that fuckin’ mouth around it then.”

She did.

All of it.

Lips slick. Cheeks caving in. Jaw relaxing until she had him stuffed in deep. Her throat hugged him, drool pouring down her chin as her head bobbed. Her silver hoops bounced with every bounce, her tits swinging heavy as she moved faster.

Slurp. Gag. Slurp. Moan.

“Fuck, girl,” Stack muttered, one glove still on, the other hand tangled in her curls, “You take dick like a champ. That’s my ring girl, huh?”

She moaned around him, twisting her tongue. Pulled off for a second just to say, “I’m your fuckin’ belt. You don’t win unless you finish in me.”

He grabbed her and spun her around like a goddamn rag doll. Pushed her up on the bench, bent over, face pressed to the wood. Ripped the tie from her robe, wrapped it around her throat, used it like reins.

“You wanna be a prize?” he growled in her ear, “Then hold the fuck still.”

And he sank into her from behind.

No warning. No mercy. Just raw, sweaty dick sliding into soaked, hot pussy.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound echoed off the locker room walls, mingling with her cries and the thud of his hips. He was still glistening with sweat, and now she was too—skin slick, thighs jiggling, heels scraping tile as she took every punishing stroke.

“Who this pussy belong to?”

“You, Stack!” she screamed, walls milking him, body clapping back with each thrust.

“That’s fuckin’ right. Say it louder.”

“YOU, STACK!”

He pulled the robe tighter around her neck, just enough for her breath to hitch, not enough to hurt. Just enough to let her feel owned.

“That’s my nasty bitch. Showin’ up in heels with no panties. Bent over in my locker room, takin’ dick like she need it.”

He reached around and rubbed her clit while still fucking her deep. Her moans turned into strangled cries, thighs shaking hard. She came so violently her knees gave out. Stack caught her, held her while he kept fucking.

She was still folded over the bench. Legs open. Back arched. His cum dripped down the inside of her thighs, slick and glistening under the locker room light. But Stack wasn’t finished.

Not by a long shot.

That fight had his blood hot. His knuckles twitching. His mind blacked out with hunger—not for trophies, not for belts, but for her.

“Keep that ass up,” he growled, smacking it once, twice, making the meat jiggle.

She moaned, face buried in her arms, robe strap still tied around her throat like a leash, her heels scraping the floor from how hard he was hitting it. Stack stepped back, gripped the base of his dick, rubbed it against her lips, then slammed back inside so hard she jolted forward.

“AHHH—fuck!”

“Nah, take it,” he snapped, grabbing her waist, dragging her back onto him with both hands like she was his personal fucktoy, “You wanted a champ? Now you got one.”

And he went to work.

Deep.

Relentless.

Unforgiving.

Heavy backshots.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Her cheeks clapped loud, shaking with every brutal stroke. Her body jerked forward with the force of it. He held nothing back—digging in her, like he was trying to punch her soul out through her pussy.

“Stack—baby—I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled through clenched teeth, sweat dripping off his jaw onto her back, “You better take this dick, mama. You better fuckin’ take it.”

He was deep. Deeper than ever. Bottoming out with every pump. His hips locked in, heavy balls slapping against her soaked pussy as she cried and moaned beneath him. Her hands reached back to grab at him, but he caught her wrists and pinned them behind her back.

“Nuh uh,” he hissed, “Ain’t no break. You wanna fuck a fighter? You gon’ feel what I fight with.”

He started stroking faster.

Harder.

Rougher.

The sound was disgusting—wet, clapping, filthy. Her thighs were trembling. Her eyes rolled back. She was babbling nonsense, breath hitching on every thrust.

“Yours! I’m yours! I’m fuckin’ yours!”

“I know,” he spat, “This pussy been mine.”

He lifted one of her legs onto the bench, angled up, and hit her from the side, one foot planted, the other propped so he could watch it all.

Watch that fat ass bounce.

Watch his dick disappear inside her slick, spasming heat.

Watch her throat catch when he rammed deep.

“You feel that spot?” he whispered dark, dragging out slow just to slam it back in.

She screamed, nails clawing the bench, “YESSS—RIGHT THERE!”

And he didn’t let up.

That ferocious rhythm returned—hard, deep, punishing strokes. His abs clenched, his jaw tight, and sweat soaking his chest as he beat it in like he was trying to break her open.

“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he growled, voice low and raspy in her ear, “You feel me in your stomach, huh?”

She nodded frantically, tears at the corners of her eyes from how good it felt. He licked up her spine, one hand gripping her throat, the other palming her clit and rubbing circles fast.

“Come on. Cream on this dick again.”

And just like that, she broke.

Screamed. Clenched. Squirted all down his thighs, pussy milking him like it didn’t want to let go. Her body shuddered as she came hard—trembling, sweating, moaning his name.

He fucked her through it. Kept going.

And when he came again, it was violent. Thick, hot, deep, filling her until it dripped down her thighs.

He roared against her back, hips jerking deep as he flooded her again, holding himself buried while she twitched beneath him, drunk off pleasure.

They stayed like that for a minute—locked, panting, soaked.

He pulled out slow, slapped her ass, and leaned over her sweaty back.

Then Stack leaned down, lips at her ear, and whispered with a smirk, “Next time, I’m fuckin’ you in the ring.”

Present Day:

Raven reached back into the tote and pulled out a black ski mask, folded at the top like it’d been waiting patiently for its next job. The moment she held it up, her face changed. The grin got slow, thoughtful, lips parting just slightly as she dragged her thumb across the worn knit.

“Ohhh,” she said, voice low and sultry. “This one…”

Stack looked up from rolling the blunt, already smirking, “You remember.”

She nodded, almost dazed, “Do I? Had my ass so turned on I almost came when you reached for that Glock.”

Stack chuckled, leaning back on one hand, “Told you to keep the lights off. Said don’t scream unless you meant it.”

“I did scream,” she said, smiling wide, “You scared the hell outta me. All black. Mask on. Gloves. Just walked right into the bedroom and grabbed me up like you was really about to take somethin’.”

Stack licked his lips. “And I did take it, what you talkin’ bout?”

Raven crawled closer on the bed, still holding the mask in her hands like a relic, “You should wear it more often…”

Stack tilted his head, intrigued, “Yeah, mamas?”

She nodded slowly, looking up at him through her lashes, “You should put it on. Restrain me next time. Keep me still while you fuck me like you tryna punish me. Like a stranger. Like somebody who wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Stack’s jaw flexed.

“You liked that mask a little too much,” he said.

“You loved that mask,” she whispered, slipping it over her wrist like a tease, “You were different in it. Rougher. Meaner. You didn’t even kiss me til after.”

He reached out, slow, and took the ski mask from her hands, folding it once before tossing it gently beside the restraints, “Don’t make me put that shit on tonight, girl.”

Raven leaned close, “Only if you make me beg again.”

Stack just grinned, lazy, dangerous, starved, “That ain’t hard.”

Flashback III: Masked Robbery—Halloween’ 19

She wasn’t expecting company.

Not in her silk robe. Not with no panties on. Not with her vibrator still warm on the nightstand slicked with cream.

But that’s when the door creaked. And the power cut.

And she heard boots—slow, deliberate—on the hardwood floor. Her breath caught. Eyes wide. She barely had time to reach for her phone when the bedroom door burst open and there he was:

Tall. Masked. Gloved hands. All muscle. Dark hoodie. Loose slacks. Grill glinting. Ski mask. Dick print curved to the left. He stepped in slow. Shut the door behind him.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said, voice low and thick with danger, “But I am here to take what’s mine.”

She scrambled back on the bed, robe falling open—tits out, thighs parting out of fear or something nastier.

“You—what do you want?” she asked, playing her part just right.

He tilted his head.

“You.”

And he moved fast.

Climbed on the bed.

Covered her mouth with his glove.

Pinned her wrists.

She gasped under him, heart racing, nipples hard as fuck. But it wasn’t fear burning between her thighs. It was want. It was need—hot and pulsing, wet between her folds, dripping into the sheets.

“You gon’ scream?” he asked, voice muffled under that mask.

She shook her head no.

“You scared?” he asked, his voice deep and muffled behind the knit fabric.

She shook her head yes slowly. Eyes blown wide. Legs already falling open. Her voice just a whisper.

But her legs spread wider. He growled low in his throat like an animal catching scent.

“Liar. That’s what I thought. Don’t piss me off.”

He let go of her mouth but didn’t waste time. Ripped the robe off her shoulders. Bent her legs up. Pressed his covered hand between her thighs and felt the wet.

“Already drippin’? Damn, you really that scared or that nasty?”

She whimpered.

He chuckled, “Don’t matter. I’ma take it either way.”

He slid down her body, never breaking eye contact. Gloves dragging over her waist, then gripping her thighs firm, forcing them wide. His breath hit her pussy before his mouth did, hot and heavy through the slits of the mask. And then he lifted the mask over his mouth and buried his face right in it. Slick. Long. Rough. Wet. He licked her pussy like he was starving. Like he hadn’t had a meal in weeks. No mercy, no pause—just deep, dragging strokes from clit to hole. The mask scraped her thighs just enough to drive her crazy. The tongue? Unreal.

“Oh—fuck—eat that shit up—”

Her hips bucked. He slapped her thigh.

“Stay still.”

Then he doubled down.

Open-mouthed, sucking.

Tongue twisting.

Nose buried.

Mask drenched.

She could feel the moisture soaking through the ski knit. Hear the wet slurps, his moans vibrating against her clit. He licked in circles, slow at first, then faster. Tongue-fucked her hole and sucked her clit like he was pulling her soul out through it.

“Oh my god, Stack—Mr. Robber—please—”

He groaned into her like a beast and shoved two gloved fingers inside her while still sucking, the leather grinding against her walls while his tongue wrecked her clit.

Her whole body convulsed.

Thighs shook. Back arched. Pussy gushed right in his mouth. She came screaming—raw and hoarse, soaking his mask so thoroughly it clung to his face now like a second skin. He didn’t stop. Kept licking. Kept feeding like a savage.

When he finally pulled away, he was panting. The lower half of the mask glistened with slick. His tongue peeked through, licking her juices from his lips.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, “This pussy so good, I should’ve just stolen it and left.”

She was twitching. Face flushed. Legs open.

He stood up slow.

Chest heaving under the black hoodie, the front of his ski mask still soaked from devouring her pussy like a savage. She lay there, legs open, robe pushed aside, thighs still twitching, lips parted and wet.

Her eyes followed his every move.

Then he reached for the hem of his hoodie.

Pulled it up.

Just enough to expose the hard ridges of his abs—

and the cold glint of steel tucked into his waistband.

A Glock.

She gasped. Pussy fluttered.

He watched her face, smirk tugging beneath the mask as he palmed it.

Heavy. Loaded. Real.

And then, calm as anything, he set it down on the nightstand with a soft clack.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered darkly, eyes sharp through the holes in the mask, “I ain’t gonna shoot you.”

He looked down.

“‘Less you wanna suck on the barrel.”

Then he reached into that waistband again—

And this time, what came out was even bigger.

That dick flopped out thick and ready. She gasped. Long, thick, and swinging. Dark and veiny, heavy at the base, already leaking. He wrapped a gloved hand around it, stroked once, and the head twitched—angry and wet.

“Now,” he rasped, stepping between her legs, mask still on, dick in hand, “Imma show you what I really came to take. See this?” he grunted, stroking it in front of her face, tip wet and throbbin’, “This what you really scared of? Big dick?”

She reached for it, but he grabbed her wrist. “Nah. You don’t get to touch me. I’m takin’ my fuckin’ pussy.”

He bent her legs open. Slapped her thigh like a fuckin’ threat. Spit on her pussy. Rubbed it in with his thumb.

Then—no warning—he shoved it in.

Deep.

All of it.

One stroke.

She squealed.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, hand over her mouth again, “You gon’ wake the neighbors.”

And he started fucking.

Deep.

Mean.

Unforgiving.

Robber with nothing to lose strokes.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The bed shook. Her tits bounced. Her pussy clung to him so tight he moaned low behind that ski mask.

“You let a stranger in and gave up this wet ass pussy like it’s nothin’? You a nasty lil’ bitch, huh?”

She nodded, mouth open, drooling under his hand.

He pulled it away just to hear her.

“Say it.”

“I’m a nasty bitch,” she sobbed, legs trembling, “F-fuck—don’t stop—”

“Oh I’m not stoppin’ till I steal every moan out this fuckin’ pussy.”

He flipped her over fast—face down, ass up.

And then?

Backshots like punishment.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

He gripped her hips so tight his gloves squeaked.

Bent low.

Started talking filthy in her ear.

“You knew I was comin’, didn’t you? Left that back door unlocked. Knew somebody was gon’ come fuck you raw like you needed.”

She screamed into the sheets.

He grabbed her by the throat and drove in deeper.

“Told you I was takin’ what’s mine.”

She was cumming so hard her legs gave out. Stack didn’t let up. Held her limp body and kept pounding. When she gained control of her body again, she straddled him slow, knees spread wide across his thick thighs, the mattress dipping under their weight. Her back arched, robe gone, heels still strapped, her dark skin glowing under the lamp light.

That ski mask?

Still on.

And so was the look he gave her—mouth showing through the slit, lips glistening with her cum, hands behind his head like he was daring her to lose control.

“You know how to work that big ass or you just sittin’ on it for decoration?”

She smirked and reached between her legs, guiding his thick, spit-slick dick between her folds. He was so fucking hard, it made her gasp just to sit the tip at her entrance.

“I’m about to make this dick disappear,” she breathed, and then she sank down slow.

All of it.

Thick. Stretching her wide. Opening her up inch by fucking inch until her pussy swallowed every drop of him. The moan that tore from her throat was sinful.

Stack’s head tilted back, low growl rumbling from under the mask. “Yeahhhh…ride that shit. Just like that.”

She started to move—hips rolling, ass bouncing. That slick clap of her body slapping against his thighs filled the room. Her hands gripped his knees for leverage as she arched her back and rode him nasty.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

That ass was talking.

Stack’s hands left the pillow behind his head and grabbed her waist, then slid down to her cheeks—gripping, spreading her open as she rode. His voice came low, gritty, commanding:

“Don’t fuckin’ run. Take it. Ride this dick like you tryna pay your rent.”

She moaned louder, threw her head back,“Oh my—Stack—”

“Nah,” he snapped, slapping her ass so hard it made her jump, “Don’t look away. Turn your fuckin’ head.”

She twisted, looked over her shoulder, and saw him watching her through the holes of that ski mask—eyes dark, locked in.

“Now bounce it fast. Let me hear it clap.”

She obeyed.

Started slamming down on him—hard and sloppy. That wet sound got obscene, like they was fuckin’ in a rainstorm. Her cheeks jiggled. Her pussy clung. And Stack?

Talked her through every second of it.

“Yeah…you ridin’ it now, huh? This what you wanted? That dick buried deep while you show me how nasty you really are?”

She choked out a moan, body trembling.

“Uh huh. I feel that pussy squeezin’. You tryna milk me already?”

He pulled her down by the waist, ground up into her, dick hitting her spot so good her legs gave out and she collapsed forward, hands flat on the bed, ass still up, still bouncing. He leaned up behind her, still inside, ski mask brushing her shoulder, mouth at her ear.

“Keep fuckin’ ridin’ me, bitch. You came to play? You gon’ stay ‘til I nut.”

Her back arched harder. Her thighs trembled. Stack’s gloved hand slipped between her legs and found her clit.

Rubbed fast.

She screamed.

“Oh you cummin’? Cum all over this dick then. Make a mess. I dare you.”

Her pussy exploded—cream coating him, thighs shaking, mouth wide open in a silent cry. She convulsed around his dick while he held her there, grinning behind the soaked mask.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he groaned, “Now don’t stop. I ain’t finished.”

He grabbed her hips, thrust up from under her—hard, brutal strokes from below, slamming into her g-spot while she sobbed.

She tried to pull forward—he yanked her back.

“Uh uh. Ride it out, baby. That’s what you wanted, right?”

When he came, it was deep—he grabbed her by the waist, pulled her down flush, and held her there while his dick pulsed inside her. Her name never left his lips—just curses, grunts, breathless groans.

He filled her up and let her stay there—trembling, twitching, leaking.

Ski mask soaked. Glock still on the nightstand.

And her?

Stretched. Stuffed.

Stolen.

Then pulled out. Slapped her ass.

“Next time,” he said, zipping up, “I’m bringin’ a bag to take your toys too.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the shadows—

…leaving her wrecked, dripping, and wanting more.

Present Day:

The blunt had burned out, but the vibe was still hot. The room smelled like cinnamon, weed smoke, and nostalgia. Raven was halfway lying on her stomach, scrolling through old videos, when Stack reached into the tote again with a grin spreading like sin. Out came the Jason Voorhees mask — cracked slightly on the side. Stack slipped it on without a word.

“Stack…” Raven warned, giggling.

He didn’t answer. Just stood up shirtless, slow as hell, pajama pants hanging low, belt undone. The beat dropped.

“You ain’t gotta hold back… ’cause I know you like it rough…”

Raven shrieked with laughter as Stack started wining his hips slow in time with the bass, arms low, rolling his torso like a demon in heat, mask on — full stripper horror villain mode.

“You are so fucking stupid!” she cried, grabbing her phone to record, "I'm using this for collateral!”

Stack kept going, dragging a hand down his chest, then behind his head like he was auditioning for a jailhouse talent show, “They just gon’ know I got that stroke.”

“Boy—”

He popped his hips once. Twice. Real nasty. Jason with rhythm. The mask made it worse. Or better. Raven couldn’t stop laughing.

“You do realize this is how you ended up in that fake-ass porno, right?” she said between breaths.

Stack paused, mask tilted slightly, “Which one?”

“You know which one.” Raven rolled onto her back, phone still aimed, “The audition tape.”

He peeled the mask halfway off, lips exposed, mouth curled into a cocky grin, “Ohhh. The Tape.”

“That was the night you told me to sit on it and say thank you. Like it was my job.”

Stack licked his lips, “Did you quit?”

“Hell nah. I asked for a raise.”

They both laughed, but the sound slowed down…turned sticky. Hot.

Raven bit her lip, finger still hovering over the record button, “We should make a new one.”

Stack raised a brow, “Yeah?”

She nodded, licking her lips, “Maybe get a tripod. Use real lighting. I can wear the black mesh. You can keep the mask on.”

Stack leaned closer, voice low and knowing, “We filming again or inviting someone to watch this time?”

Raven stared at him, heart thudding, “…Or both.”

He let that sit for a second, “You tryna bring another chick in?”

“Maybe,” she said, voice light but real, “If she fine. If she down. Could be fun.”

Stack’s smile spread wider than sin, “You nasty, Rae.”

“And you love it.”

He took the Jason mask fully off, dropped it back in the tote, and slid onto the bed beside her, body heat like a warning. “Send that video to my phone.

“Which one?”

He kissed her bare shoulder, “All of ‘em.”

Flashback: Porn Star & Camerawoman—Halloween’ 23

“You sure the lighting’s good?”

She adjusted the ring light with a smirk, bent over just enough for her ass to steal the frame.

“Baby,” she said, tapping the lens, “I know how to film you. I’m a professional.”

Stack sat on the edge of the motel bed, A bottle of oil on the nightstand. Condoms tossed to the side, unopened. This scene was going raw. He wore nothing but gray sweatpants, dick print insane, chain on, skin gleaming under that gold light.

“You want me nasty or seductive?” he asked, already pulling his dick out, stroking it slow.

“Give me nasty. Just stroke it. Oil on it. Moan a little.”

“Oh I can do more than that.”

He did as told—stroking it for the camera while she filmed, getting every angle, licking her lips behind the lens.

“You likin’ what you see, Miss Director?”

She kept filming, but her breathing betrayed her. Her thighs pressed together. He caught it.

“Nah… you gettin’ wet back there?”

“Shut up and stroke.”

Stack paused.

Then stood up. Dick out. Glistening.

He walked straight to the camera, still stroking, and said, “Your turn.”

“What?”

“Get on the bed.”

She blinked.

“I said—get your pretty lil’ ass on the fuckin’ bed. You directin’ me with soaked panties? Nah. Flip the script, baby. Tonight you the movie.”

She hesitated. Bit her lip. Then smiled.

And obeyed.

She peeled her panties off slow, leaving her top on but tits out—perky, brown-nippled, already hard. Climbed on the bed and looked up at him through thick lashes. Stack adjusted the tripod, made sure the frame was just right. Hit record.

She’s stretched across the sheets, knees bent and open, cape of sweat cooling over her collarbones. Stack stands at the foot of the bed, camera in hand, dick hard, flashing that slick, hungry grin.

“Alright,” he says, adjusting the zoom with one hand while palming his dick with the other, “We shootin’ this one close-up.”

She smirks, voice already breathy, “You still recording?”

He lifts the camera a little, red light blinking.

“Go ahead and show the people why your shit got five stars.”

She licks her fingers slow—two on the right, one on the left.

Then dips her hand between her thighs.

“Mmm…”

She slides the right hand low, fingers spreading her lips open for the lens—pussy glistening, pink and creamy, The left-hand fingers start rubbing light circles around her clit.

Stack groans.

“There you go. Just like that. Keep that shit spread for me, baby. Let the camera see all that pretty wet.”

She breathes faster, rubbing her clit with practiced ease, other hand holding her lips wide so the folds glisten like a wet peach. Her nipples harden. Her hips twitch.

“Keep them legs open,” he growls behind the camera, voice gravel and lust, “I said open. Don’t fuckin’ run from yourself now.”

She bites her bottom lip. Speeds up.

Wet sounds fill the room. Squishy, slick, filthy. The camera catches it all—the way her clit jumps under her fingers, the shine of her slick gliding down toward the sheets.

“You hear that?” she whispers, breath hitching, “That’s for you.”

Stack’s breath hitches. He strokes himself once, twice.

“Fuckin’ hell…you makin’ yourself nut on camera like a good lil’ freak?”

“Yes…”

“Say it. Say what you doin’.”

“I’m stroking this pussy for you…I’m playing with my clit like you told me to…”

“And?”

“…I’m about to cum.”

He steps in closer, camera damn near between her legs.

“Look dead in the lens. Don’t blink.”

She does—eyes locked—while her body trembles. Her slick gushes harder. She gasps, mouth open, back arching, fingers flying over that swollen, sensitive clit.

“Fffuck—Stack—”

“Cum.”

She screams.

Pussy pulsing. Cream spilling. Legs shaking. Her whole body writhes, her hands not stopping, spreading herself wider as the creamy orgasm leaks out in long, slow gushes down her ass and into the sheets.

Stack groans behind the camera.

“God damn, girl… look what you did.”

She’s trembling, lips parted, flushed and twitching, still spreading her pussy like a fuckin’ pornstar—oozing and ruined.

Stack steps forward, camera in one hand, other hand on his dick.

“This scene’s goin’ in my favorites.”

Then climbed on the bed behind her.

“Arch your back. I wanna see that ass sit up like you proud of it.”

She did.

He grabbed his dick and dragged the head through her folds. That camera caught all of it.

Wet. Shiny. Pretty.

He slapped her ass, “Smile for your fans, baby.”

Then he slid in from behind.

Deep.

She gasped, back arching deeper as he filled her to the root.

Stack groaned low, “Oh yeah…they gon’ love this.”

He started slow—grinding, deep strokes while rubbing her clit with one hand and holding the camera remote in the other.

“Look at you,” he muttered, rolling his hips, “was talkin’ all that director shit and now you creamin’ for the lens.”

She moaned, body jerking with every stroke.

“Now ride me,” he growled, “Reverse cowgirl. Put on a show.”

She climbed on top of him again, straddled him backwards, sat on his dick like it belonged to her. Started grinding slow, then bouncing—titties bouncing, ass clapping, that camera capturing every frame.

Stack grabbed the camera, held it low at an angle that caught her cheeks slapping down on him, “Keep movin’. You wanna go viral, right?”

She whimpered.

“Faster. Fuck this dick like you need a paycheck.”

She rode harder, loud and filthy, throwing her ass back on him while Stack filmed with one hand and gripped her throat with the other.

“You feel that? That’s what a real star does. She performs.”

He handed her the camera.

“Now film yourself while I nut in you.”

And he snapped his hips up hard, fast, deep—

“Stack—fuck—fuckkkk—”

“That’s it, baby. Put it on tape. I want a close up of that pussy leaking.”

She held the camera with shaky hands while he fucked her raw until her body gave out, squirting all over him, and he nutted deep, pulling her down onto him as he growled into her back.

They stayed still—panting, sweaty, twitching.

He leaned up. Whispered in her ear.

“Cut.”

Present Day:

Raven curled into Stack’s side now, head resting on his bare shoulder, fingers tracing the ink on his chest. The tote was half-emptied across the bed. Wigs, gloves, straps, and the faintest scent of old lube clung to the air. Stack was scrolling through his phone, watching one of the older videos she’d just sent him, eyes half-lidded, smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Raven yawned against his skin, “You remember the last one we did?”

Stack didn’t answer right away, just glanced toward the floor where something soft and red was sticking out beneath the tote.

He reached down, pulled it up: the crimson velvet cloak.

The hood slipped loose.

Raven smiled like a secret. “Ohhh yeah. Red Riding Hood.”

Stack laid it over her lap. “That one got real feral.”

“You chased me like a damn animal,” she laughed.

“You ran,” he said, voice dropping, “Had them little feet skippin’, cloak flying, ass peeking out that lil’ dress.”

“I screamed!” she reminded him, covering her mouth, “You said, ‘Better run, lil Red,’ and I actually ran!”

“You made it to the bed, though.” He looked at her sideways, eyes dark, “Didn’t stop me from catchin’ you.”

She shivered at the memory, pulling the cloak up over her legs, “You kept it on the whole time.”

“Damn right I did,” he muttered, “Had your hemmed up, hood fallin’ over your head while I fucked the howl outta you.”

Raven sucked in a breath, toes curling under the blanket, “I was so loud. I couldn’t even talk after.”

“You ain’t need to,” Stack said, low and satisfied, “Pussy was sayin’ everything.”

They both went quiet for a second, the kind of silence that ain’t empty—just charged. The kind that tastes like round two.

Raven ran her fingers across the velvet, “I wanna do it again.”

Stack took it from her lap and pulled the hood up over her head, slow. He leaned in until his lips touched her ear.

“What big eyes you got, lil Red…”

Raven swallowed.

“All the better to watch you ride with,” she whispered back.

Flashback: What Big Teeth You Have—Halloween 24’

She shouldn’t have wandered this far.

Not with that short little red skirt clinging to her ass like a secret. Not with those fuck-me heels sinking into moss. Not with the moon on her thighs and no panties on beneath. Not when she knew the wolf was watching. The trees were thick, shadows long and creeping. The only sound was the hush of wind through the leaves and the distant pulse of her own breath—until she heard it.

A twig snap.

A low exhale.

Then—a growl.

And just like that, the forest split open.

He came out of the dark like something summoned: Stack, shirtless, muscles rippling under moonlight, chest slick and rising slow. A black wolf mask covered his face—angular, snarling, sleek and beastly—eyes glinting through the holes like low-burning coals.

His mouth didn’t open. His body did the talking.

She spun to run—he let her.

Just long enough to make it fun.

Red cape flared behind her as she bolted, heart thundering, heels catching on root and leaf. She only made it ten paces before a heavy force crashed into her back. He tackled her to the ground with a growl that rumbled through her bones.

She hit the moss with a whimper, wrists pinned, body trembling.

“Where you think you goin’, Red?”

His voice was all gravel and danger, the mask making it darker.

“P-please…”

“Didn’t I warn you about strayin’ from the path?”

She twisted under him, but he dragged her back by the waist, lifting her effortlessly and shoving her against a tree trunk so her cape snagged behind her, stretched like blood-red wings.

He leaned in, dragging the snout of the mask down the side of her neck.

“Lil’ Red,” he purred, “What big thighs you got…”

Her breath caught. Her legs shook.

She was already panting by the time he cornered her.

Back against a tree. Eyes wide. Lip trembling.

That little red hood was still draped over her curls, and her chest was rising fast beneath the laced-up corset. The sight made his dick throb.

Stack didn’t say a word at first.

He just tilted his head, wolf mask sharp in the moonlight, and dragged a gloved thumb over her bottom lip. She shivered.

He crowded her, “You wore this tight lil’ cape, them heels, no drawers… ‘Cause you wanted the big bad wolf to find you.”

She bit her lip.

He unzipped with one rough tug, his dick springing free—dark, thick, heavy with need.

“On your knees, Red.”

She dropped like her legs gave out.

The forest air was cool, but her mouth was warm when she wrapped it around the head. He groaned low behind the mask.

“That’s it, baby…” he cooed, “Suck it just like that. Open wide for the wolf.” He pushed deeper. Her lips stretched. Drool started to leak already, “Good lil’ slut in the woods…” He cradled the back of her head, guiding the motion. Slow thrusts into her throat, hips rolling. She gagged once—he pulled back, laughing dark, “Yeahhh… sound pretty when you choke. Don’t hold back now.”

Then his hands dropped down.

Big, rough, greedy palms slid under the red corset and yanked it down, freeing her tits. He groaned when they bounced out, already slick with sweat and heavy from her breath.

“Goddamn…Look at these titties. My lil’ Red been hidin’ all this from me?”

She moaned with his dick in her mouth as he palmed both tits, thumbs circling her nipples, squeezing tight while her head bobbed on his dick. He pinched hard, made her gasp—then shoved himself back in, lips dragging along her tongue.

He started whispering down at her, “You out here suckin’ dick in the woods like a whore. Bet you dreamed about this, huh? Bein’ hunted… caught… made to suck dick like a good lil’ Red…keep suckin’ it. Just like that. Don’t stop ‘til your jaw lock.”

His hips moved faster now. Wet sounds filled the forest. Slurp. Gag. Gag. Moan. She looked up, tears in her eyes, spit running down her chin, tits out, skirt hiked, cape pooled around her. His dick bulged against her throat with every thrust.

“Messy lil’ thing,” he grunted, “Shit—gon’ bust in that mouth if you keep—”

She moaned loud, took him deep.

He snarled.

“Fuck!”

He grabbed the back of her head with both hands and held her in place, fucking her mouth in short, brutal pumps. His thighs tensed. His voice dropped to a low growl behind the mask.

“Swallow it.”

She whimpered around him.

“Nah—look at me while you do it.”

She tilted her eyes up.

That’s when he spilled—grinding his cock down her throat, growling like an animal, thick spurts flooding her mouth while her lips stayed wrapped around the base.

He pulled out slow, dick glossy with her spit.

“Open,” he ordered.

She opened wide, tongue out, some of the mess still on it.

“Good girl…” He leaned in. Mask nose against hers. Still panting, “Still a full moon, Lil’ Red. I ain’t finish wit’ you yet.”

Then he grabbed her, yanked her up into the air—and the real fucking began.

He flipped her.

Palmed the back of her neck and bent her over. Hands braced against bark, skirt shoved up, bare pussy exposed to the night air, glistening, waiting.

He unzipped. Freed himself. Thick, heavy, already leaking.

“Walkin’ ‘round with no drawers on…” A slap landed across her ass. Sharp, “You knew what you was doin’.”

Another. Then another.

“You wanted the wolf to catch you.”

“Please…” she whimpered. “Need it…”

“You gon’ get it.”

He mounted her like a beast—slid inside with a filthy groan that cut into her spine. The stretch knocked the air from her lungs. His hips slapped her ass with a violence that didn’t belong to men.

Only monsters.

“Fuck—fuck—”

She reached back. He gripped her wrist, pinned it to her back, and fucked her deeper.

“Thought you was fast, huh? Thought I wouldn’t sniff out this sweet little cunt?”

She cried out as he pounded into her, every thrust pushing her flat against the tree. Her tits bounced, sweat rolling, bark scraping her belly. Her body was caught between pain and pleasure, the slap of flesh loud in the night.

“Say it,” he growled through the mask, “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours!” she sobbed, “Wolf—it’s yours! I’m yours!”

“Damn right.”

He pulled out.

She gasped—but only for a second before he spun her around and lifted her clean off the ground. Her thighs wrapped around his waist as he dropped to his knees in the soft dirt.

She was impaled.

One hard thrust—she moaned so loud her throat hurt.

Then he fucked her like the moon told him to.

Like the trees were watching.

Like he was feral.

His mask pressed against her cheek, teeth bared and gleaming as he fucked her in deep, upward strokes that made her whole body bounce.

“That’s it…fuckin’ ride this knot, girl…let this beast fuck you.”

“Nnggh—oh my god—”

She clung to his shoulders, legs spread wide, dress bunched, cape tangled in the roots as he gripped her hips and bounced her—raw, relentless.

“Gon’ fuck this pussy till you howl, baby.”

Her head fell back. Her body shook. And then she screamed, legs locking, cunt clenching around him as she came hard, soaking them both.

“Yeahhh…let that lil’ pussy milk me,” he hissed, “Cream all over this dick.”

He rammed in harder. Deeper. Growling.

Then he came—loud, feral, brutal.

Nut surged deep inside her, his whole body jerking, voice caught in his throat as his hips snapped again and again until he was empty. He collapsed forward, still inside her, body trembling with release.

They stayed like that—tangled, filthy, sweating in the dirt while her cape fluttered like a flag of surrender.

He nuzzled the mask into her neck. Laughed low.

“Big bad wolf fucked you dumb, huh?”

She could barely nod.

He tilted her chin up. Voice a whisper behind the fangs.

“Next time, Red…stay on the path.”

Present Day:

Raven was dozing on Stack’s chest, the glow from the TV flickering soft across their faces, casting shadows from the half-empty tote at the edge of the bed.

Stack’s phone buzzed once, low on the mattress.

Then again.

Then Raven’s.

Stack sighed, “That better not be Smoke talkin’ about a liquor run at midnight.”

Raven rolled over, reaching for her phone lazily, “It’s from the group.”

She opened the message—and burst out cackling.

“Oh my God—”

Stack sat up slightly. “What?”

Raven turned her phone to show him the photo Annie just dropped in the shared thread.

There was Smoke, dead asleep, knocked the hell out on their living room couch. The Black Dynamite wig was halfway off his head, tilted crooked like it had fought a hard battle and lost. His hand still loosely held the remote.

And just above it all, Annie’s caption read:

Annie: Put this man to sleep. He couldn’t handle Foxy Brown. 🤷🏽‍♀️

Stack let out a full-body laugh, slapping the blanket. “Noooo—”

“Look at his face!!” Raven howled, “He look like he just got exorcised!”

Stack grabbed his phone and typed fast.

Stack: You done beat the dashiki off my brother 😭

Raven snorted, face buried in the pillow.

Annie replied immediately.

Annie: And I’ll do it again. 😌 Foxy got hands AND hips.

Another buzz.

This time from Smoke himself.

Smoke: I’m up. Barely. Y’all childish.

Raven was crying with laughter now, “She folded him.”

“Man, he gon’ be limping at Trunk or Treat tomorrow,” Stack muttered, wiping tears.

Raven exhaled, still grinning, snuggling close again, “Best Halloween ever.”