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It didn’t start at the Oscars.

It started in the quiet.

In the kind of spaces people don’t clap for, don’t document, don’t replay in highlight reels. The kind of moments that don’t need validation to matter.

Late nights stretched into early mornings, scripts forgotten on coffee tables while conversation drifted into something softer, something more honest. The kind of honesty that didn’t need an audience, the kind that settled into the body instead of just passing through it, leaving something behind every time.

Justice had gotten used to his presence before she ever let herself name what it was becoming. It crept up on her, not loud, not dramatic, just steady.

Ryan wasn’t loud with it. He wasn’t flashy. But he was consistent in a way that felt dangerous.

The way he showed up.

The way he listened to what she said actually mattered, like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to speak.

The way his attention stayed on her even when the room tried to pull it elsewhere, like everything else faded just enough when she was around.

And then there was the way he touched her.

Never rushed. Never careless. Always intentional, like he understood that touch meant something, that it said things words didn’t have to.

His hand at the small of her back when they moved through a room, grounding without being heavy. His fingers brushing hers when he handed her something instead of just passing it, the contact was brief but felt. The way his palm would rest just long enough to be noticed, then pull away like he was giving her space to feel it after he was gone.

Like he knew anticipation could be just as loud as action if you let it sit long enough.

That first night after dinner changed something. Not just because of what happened, but because of how it happened.

The kiss in his car wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t impulsive. It was overdue, built up in every glance, every almost-touch, every moment they chose not to cross the line before that night.

Slow at first. Measured. Like they were both making sure it was real.

Then deepening in a way that made it clear they had both been thinking about it longer than they admitted out loud. His hand at her jaw, steady and grounding. Her fingers gripping his shirt like she needed something to hold onto. Breath shifting between them like something alive, something that had finally been permitted to exist.

And when they made it back to her place, it wasn’t about rushing into anything new. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t reckless. It was intentional.

It was two grown people finally letting something that had been building… happen without pretending they didn’t feel it.

After that, things didn’t spiral. They didn’t get complicated in the way people expect when lines get crossed.

They got deeper.

More grounded. More real.

They took their time. Still saw each other. Still showed up. Still kept their rhythm.

Dinner turned into conversation. The conversation turned quiet. Quiet turned into comfort. And comfort turned into something that didn’t need to be rushed to feel real.

But there was a difference now. A weight to it.

Because once you know how someone feels against you, inside you, how they sound when they stop holding themselves back, how they say your name when it’s low and meant only for you…

You don’t forget that.

You carry it.

In the way your body reacts when they walk into a room.

In the way your breath shifts when they get too close.

In the way your thoughts start to drift at the worst possible time, pulling you back to moments you said you wouldn’t replay.

Ryan stayed disciplined.

He had to.

In public, he was still Ryan Coogler. Focused. Professional. Grounded in a way that made people trust him without question. The man who shook hands, held conversations, and carried himself with intention and control.

“Justice,” he’d say, voice even, respectful, measured like nothing underneath it ever slipped.

And if you didn’t know better, you’d believe that was all there was.

But she knew better.

Because behind closed doors, that same voice changed. It dropped lower, slower, warmer, closer.

“Peaches.”

And the way he said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t something he threw around.

It was deliberate.

Personal.

Something that settled low in her chest and stayed there, heavy and warm. Something that made her body answer before she could think about it, heat pooling low and immediate, before she could decide how she wanted to respond.

He wasn’t different.

He was just… less restrained.

And that difference mattered.

They didn’t lose control again after that night. Not like that.

They could’ve.

There were moments.

Plenty of them.

Times where his hand didn’t just linger, but wandered slowly along her thigh, testing how far he could go before she stopped him… and noticing when she didn’t.

Times where her breath caught, and neither of them pretended it didn’t.

Times where one more second, one more touch, would’ve tipped everything over again.

But they didn’t.

They kept it contained.

Shared glances that said too much.

Subtle touches that meant more than they should.

Private moments that didn’t cross the line but stayed right on top of it, balanced there like they both understood exactly how far they could go before it became something else.

Like they both knew that once it tipped too far again, there wouldn’t be anything stopping it.

And maybe that was the point.

Maybe they liked the tension.

Maybe they liked knowing exactly what they could do to each other… and choosing not to.

Choosing control.

Choosing pace.

Choosing each other without rushing what that meant.

But that kind of restraint doesn’t disappear.

It doesn’t fade.

It waits.

Builds.

Sits heavy under the surface, quiet but constant, until something finally permits it to come back up.

Tonight just happened to be that kind of night.

Because success looks different when someone is watching you, who knows you outside of it. Not the titles. Not the awards. Not the expectations.

Just you.

And desire hits different when it’s tied to pride, to admiration, to the quiet way someone has been choosing you long before the spotlight ever did.

They had already crossed the line once. They knew what was on the other side of it.

They just hadn’t let themselves fall into it again.

Not yet.

But tonight?

That control was already starting to feel thinner than it had before.

The room is too bright, too polished, too full of people pretending not to be watching each other while watching everything. The Oscars have a way of making even the real moments feel staged, as if the air itself has been rehearsed.

Ryan sits still in his seat, shoulders relaxed, hands resting together like he’s anywhere but here, ike this isn’t the biggest night of his career so far, like his name isn’t about to be called in a room full of people who measure success in gold and legacy. But his jaw is tight. Subtle. Controlled. The kind of tension you only notice if you’re looking for it.

Justice is.

She sits a few rows behind him, dressed in something that doesn’t beg for attention but holds it anyway, the fabric moving with her instead of against her. Her posture is calm, composed, but her fingers rest lightly against her thigh, pressing just enough to ground herself, nails grazing fabric in slow, absent patterns. Because she feels it too, not the pressure of the room, not the weight of the moment, but him. The way he’s holding himself together. The way he always does. The quiet discipline in it.

The presenter steps onto the stage. Names are read. Clips play. Applause rises and falls like waves that don’t quite reach the shore, swelling and breaking without ever fully settling. Justice’s gaze doesn’t leave him, not once. Even when the screen lights up. Even when the room shifts. She watches the way his shoulders stay level, the way his breathing stays even, the way his fingers tighten just slightly before relaxing again.

And then—

“Ryan Coogler.”

The room erupts. It’s loud. Immediate. Earned. The kind of sound that fills your chest whether you want it to or not.

Ryan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he expected it and didn’t at the same time. He stands, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease, the movement smooth and automatic, something he’s done a hundred times before in rooms that didn’t matter as this one does. Hands reach for him immediately, claps on his back, firm handshakes, voices in his ear. He nods, accepts it, and moves through it without letting it settle too deeply.

But when he turns, his eyes find her. Not the cameras. Not the stage. Her. And for a second, everything else fades like it was never loud to begin with.

Justice doesn’t move right away. She just looks at him, proud, soft, grounded in a way that cuts through all of it, like she’s been waiting for this moment and already knew it would happen. Like, none of this surprises her. Her lips part slightly, breath catching in a way no one else would notice, her chest rising just a little deeper than before.

He sees it. Holds it. Let it settle somewhere under his ribs. Then he turns and walks toward the stage, each step measured, each movement intentional, the weight of the room following him without changing how he carries himself.

The speech is exactly what people expect from him, grounded, intentional, grateful without being performative. He thanks the people who matter, speaks about the work, keeps it honest, keeps it him. His voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t rush, doesn’t stretch for effect. But there’s something underneath it, something quieter, something that doesn’t belong to the room.

Because even while he’s standing there, holding the weight of that moment in his hands, he’s thinking about her, the way she looked at him just now, the way her eyes stayed on him like none of this surprised her, like she already knew who he was before the room decided to recognize it. And it slips further than it should, past the room and the lights, to the memory of her voice breaking on his name, soft and unguarded, the way her lips found his neck and stayed there, warm and certain, the way her body moved with him instead of away from him when they stopped pretending.

He steadies himself, but it’s there now, under the surface, the feel of her beneath him, the way she held on, the way she met him without hesitation, the way she let him take his time with her until time didn’t matter at all. Then he’s thinking about the way she always looks at him when he’s not trying, when he’s just himself, unguarded and unperformed. The way she knows him outside of all this, outside the titles, outside the expectations, outside the version of him the world applauds. The way she sees the man before the moment and after it.

And that matters more than the statue in his hand.

And it shows. Not in what he says, but in how he breathes when he finishes, in the way his shoulders drop just slightly as the applause rises again, like something in him has settled instead of inflated.

When he steps off the stage, it’s louder than before, people reaching for him, hands, voices, congratulations layered on top of each other, names being called, energy pulling at him from every direction. But he moves through it steadily, composed, receiving it without getting lost in it, because he already knows where he’s going.

And when he finally gets close enough again, when the space between them disappears, and the noise fades just enough, he looks at her—really looks at her, not quick, not passing, but deliberate, taking her in like the room isn’t still loud around them. And this time, there’s no distance.

“You see that?” Ryan says, voice low, controlled, but edged with something warmer underneath, something that didn’t exist before he walked on that stage.

Justice smiles, slow and sure, eyes steady on his. “I been saw it,” she says, calm and certain, like she’s not impressed by the moment as much as she is by him in it.

His mouth tightens just slightly, not quite a smile, not quite restraint. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the word sitting heavier than it should.

He doesn’t touch her. Not here. Not with cameras still flashing somewhere in the room, not with people still watching. But the way he looks at her makes it clear he’s thinking about it—already. And the way his eyes linger, just a second longer than appropriate, says something else too.

That restraint is already starting to slip, and the way he’s looking at her makes it clear he’s thinking about having his hands on her again, about how she sounds when she lets go for him, and it’s not going to last all night.

The after party is louder, looser, less polished in a way that feels more honest, even if it’s still curated down to the smallest detail. The lights are dimmed just enough to flatter, casting everything in a warm glow that softens edges and sharpens silhouettes. Music hums low but constant, bass threading through conversations and laughter, glasses clinking in uneven rhythm as people lean closer than they did in the theater, voices dropping, composure slipping by slow, intentional degrees.

Ryan moves through it as he belongs here, because he does. The space bends around him without him asking it to. People step in, reach out, pull his attention in short bursts.

“Congratulations.”

“Proud of you, man.”

“Big moment.”

He nods, receives it, and answers with that same grounded energy that carried him on stage. Professional. Measured. Present. His smile comes when it needs to. His tone stays even. His posture never breaks.

But he’s distracted, not visibly, not enough for anyone else to call it out, not enough to disrupt the version of him the room expects. Still, it’s there. Because the second she walks in, everything else becomes background noise.

The red catches first, deep and rich, not loud but intentional, the kind of red that sits against her skin like it belongs there, like it was chosen with purpose. The dress fits her like it was made to be taken off slowly.

Backless.

The line of her spine is exposed, her brown skin smooth and glowing under the soft lighting, warm and rich in a way that catches and holds the light instead of reflecting it away. The dip of the fabric sits low enough to make it impossible not to follow the curve down with your eyes, the natural tone of her skin deepening where shadows settle along her back. Thin lace traces the edges, delicate but deliberate, soft against her skin in a way that makes you think about what it would feel like under your hands, under your mouth, how it would contrast against the warmth of her. It doesn’t try too hard. It doesn’t need to.

It clings where it should, shaping her waist, hugging her hips just enough to suggest without giving everything away. Then it loosens, falling along her legs in a way that moves when she moves, the fabric shifting with each step like it’s alive on her. It’s the kind of dress that makes you look once, then again, then longer than you meant to.

Ryan stills mid-conversation for just a second, but it’s enough. His eyes lock on her, and this time there’s no real restraint in it, not the kind he’s been holding onto all night. He hears the person in front of him, responds automatically, but his attention is gone.

On her.

The way her hair frames her face, soft and full, catching light at the edges. The way her shoulders sit relaxed, like she’s not trying to be seen but knows she will be anyway. The way the dress opens her back up like an invitation, he shouldn’t be reading in a room like this—but is. The way she moves is like she’s comfortable in her own skin, like she always is.

He moves before he thinks too hard about it, crossing the room with purpose, cutting through conversation and bodies without breaking stride. People reach for him again, try to pull him into something else, but he keeps it brief, keeps it moving, until he’s right in front of her.

Up close, it’s worse.

Better.

More dangerous.

The details hit harder, the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of her, soft and familiar, something that sits low and stays there, the way the lace edges the open back of her dress, close enough to touch.

“You look good, Justice,” Ryan says.

His voice is even, controlled, professional, the same tone he’s used all night. But his eyes don’t match it. They drag, slow and unapologetic, taking their time as they move from her face down the line of her neck, pausing where her pulse sits, then lower to the open curve of her back, tracing it without touching, memorizing it like he plans to come back to it later. Then back up again.

She notices. Of course she does.

“Thank you,” Justice says, calm and measured, her voice steady even as her breath shifts just slightly under his attention.

He steps closer, not enough to draw attention, just enough. Close enough that the space between them feels intentional. His hand settles at the small of her back, bare skin, warm, immediate. His palm fits there like it belongs, fingers spreading just slightly, his thumb pressing once, slow, like he’s confirming what he’s feeling is real and not something he imagined from across the room.

She inhales, sharp and quick, then steadies, shoulders relaxing back into his touch instead of away from it.

They stand angled away from the room, not hidden but not fully seen either, a pocket of space in the middle of everything carved out by proximity and intention, where the noise dulls just enough for something else to take over.

His head dips closer to hers, his mouth near her ear, close enough that she can feel his breath before he speaks.

“You really walked in here like that after I just won?” Ryan murmurs.

Low. Private. Different.

Her lips part slightly.

“Like what?” Justice says.

He doesn’t pull back. His voice drops further, rougher now, the edge of restraint wearing thin.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he says.

His hand shifts slightly lower on her back, not enough to cross a line but enough to make the intention clear, still controlled but not innocent.

“You got this whole room in red,” he continues, voice steady but heavier now, “and I’m supposed to stand here and act like I’m not thinking about putting my mouth on you?”

The bluntness lands, heavy and immediate, cutting through everything else.

Her breath catches before she can stop it, her body reacting faster than her composure can catch up. Her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand, condensation slick against her skin.

“You in public,” she says, quieter now, but not pulling away.

He huffs a low breath near her ear, something close to a laugh but not quite.

“Exactly,” Ryan replies. “That’s why I’m only saying it.”

His thumb drags once along her spine, slow and deliberate, a measured line of heat that starts at the base of her back and moves upward, subtle enough that no one else notices, strong enough that she feels it everywhere.

“And it’s taking everything in me not to do more than that,” he adds.

She shifts closer, barely, but enough, enough that her body lines up with his just a little more, enough that he feels the difference immediately, enough that he knows exactly what that movement means.

The room keeps moving around them, people laughing, music steady, voices overlapping, but right here everything’s already changing. The space between them is thinner, the air is heavier, and this time neither of them is pretending they don’t know exactly where it’s headed.

They don’t separate.

They should.

There are too many people, too many eyes, too much movement around them for this to be anything more than a moment that passes, something quick, something forgettable. But it doesn’t pass. It settles. It deepens.

His hand stays at her back, not shifting away, not loosening. If anything, it grows more certain, fingers spreading just slightly like he’s gotten used to the feel of her there and has no intention of letting it go yet. The warmth of her skin under his palm is steady, grounding, and it makes it harder to remember why he’s supposed to keep his distance in a room like this. His hand dips just slightly lower without permission, the movement small but intentional, hovering at the edge of where it shouldn’t go, like he’s testing himself. His fingers flex once, like he’s fighting the urge to grab her ass, to feel more of her than he should in a room full of people, and the restraint in that moment feels heavier than if he’d just done it.

Justice doesn’t step back.

That’s what changes it. Not the touch. Not the words.

Her choice to stay right where she is.

Her body angled into his instead of away, her breath still not fully steady, her chest rising just a little deeper now, her eyes lifting to meet his like she’s already decided something she hasn’t said out loud, like she’s not waiting for permission.

Ryan exhales slowly through his nose, gaze dropping to her mouth for just a second too long before pulling back up to her eyes. It lingers there, in that space between what he’s thinking and what he’s willing to say out loud.

“You doing that on purpose?” Ryan says.

His voice is quieter now, less public, more him.

Justice tilts her head slightly, studying him like she’s taking her time with the answer.

“Doing what?” she asks.

But there’s a softness in it now, a knowing, something that says she’s not confused at all.

His thumb moves again, slower this time, tracing a small line along her spine before settling lower at the base of her back. The movement is unhurried, intentional, like he’s testing how far he can go without breaking the version of himself he’s been holding onto all night.

“This,” Ryan says. “Standing this close like you not feeling what I’m doing.”

She inhales, slower now, letting it out through parted lips, her body giving her away before her words do.

“I feel it,” Justice says.

Honest. No performance. No hesitation.

That does something to him. You can see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his shoulders square just slightly, like he’s holding himself in place instead of moving the way he wants to, like restraint is becoming a choice he’s actively losing interest in.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

The word lands more heavily now.

His hand slides just a fraction lower, still controlled, still careful, but not pretending anymore. The movement is small enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but it pulls a quiet reaction out of her anyway, her body tightening before easing back into him, her hips pressing closer, her body almost fully against his now like she’s done pretending she needs space.

She feels it instantly, that low, heavy pull settling deep in her, warmth spreading in a way that makes her breathless this time. One of her hands comes up to his chest, fingers pressing into the fabric like she needs something to hold onto, while the other drifts lower, slower, stopping at his waist, hooking lightly at his belt.

Not crossing the line.

But right there.

Close enough to say exactly what she’s thinking without saying it out loud, close enough that he feels it and doesn’t move her hand away.

“You keep looking at me like that,” Ryan says, voice low near her ear again, his breath brushing warm against her skin, “I’m not staying in this room much longer.”

Her fingers curl lightly against his chest, pressing just enough to feel him there, not pushing him away, not quite pulling him closer, just holding him like she’s deciding how far she wants to go with this right now—and already leaning toward yes.

“You got a whole room waiting on you,” she says.

He lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and something more impatient.

“They’ll be aight,” Ryan says.

Simple. Certain. Like, none of that matters right now.

His forehead dips closer, not touching hers, but close enough that their space is shared now, breath mixing between them, the air thinner, heavier.

“You the only thing in here that got my attention right now,” he adds.

Justice studies him for a second longer than she should, eyes moving over his face like she’s checking something, confirming something, like she needs to see if he means it the way it sounds.

Then her hand slides up slightly, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, gripping just enough to wrinkle it.

Not subtle. Not accidental.

A choice.

Ryan’s hand tightens at her back in response, just once, his control thinning in real time, his body answering hers without hesitation.

“You tryna be good tonight?” he asks.

Her eyes stay on his, steady, certain.

Then she shakes her head just slightly.

“No,” Justice says.

Soft. Clear. No hesitation behind it.

Something shifts in his expression, something darker, more focused, his mouth pulling into a slow, knowing smirk like he’s finally done pretending he’s not about to give her exactly what she’s asking for. It’s there in his eyes, clear and unapologetic, like he’s already picturing where he’s about to take her, how quick he can get her somewhere quiet, somewhere private, somewhere he can bend her over without interruption and finally stop holding back.

Like he’s ready for whatever she’s on, and ready to take it further.

His hand presses more firmly into her back, pulling her just a little closer, enough that there’s no space left between them now, enough that the intention is clear even if no one else is paying attention, enough that she can feel exactly what she’s doing to him without him saying it out loud.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her.

Then, quieter—

“Come on.”

It’s not a question.

His hand slides from her back to take her hand, firm but not rough, guiding instead of dragging, his grip steady like he already knows she’s going to follow.

And this time, she goes without hesitation.

No pause. No second thought.

The room keeps moving behind them, loud and unaware, people laughing, music steady, conversations overlapping, but they’re already stepping out of it, already leaving behind the version of themselves that belonged to everyone else.

And neither of them looks back.

One second they’re part of the room, part of the noise, part of the movement—and the next, they’re not. It happens so clean it almost looks intentional, like a scene change nobody clocks until it’s already done.

His hand stays wrapped around hers, firm, certain, guiding her through the crowd like he’s done being patient, like he’s done pretending this night belongs to anybody else. People try to catch him on the way out, a hand on his shoulder, a voice calling his name, but he keeps it brief, nodding, half-smiling, not stopping long enough for anything to stick.

He’s already gone.

And she feels it immediately.

In the way his grip tightens just slightly when someone steps too close.

In the way his fingers flex around hers like he needs to feel her there.

In the way he doesn’t look back.

In the way his pace doesn’t slow, not even once.

Justice follows without hesitation, her hand fitting into his like it’s supposed to be there, her heels steady against the floor as she keeps up with him, her eyes locked on him instead of the room they’re leaving behind.

Ryan Coogler the professional fades with every step.

And what’s left is just Ryan.

Focused.

Hungry.

Locked in on her.

The doors push open and the night air hits them, cooler, quieter, the sound of the party dulling the second it’s behind them. The noise fades into something distant, irrelevant. For a moment, it’s just the two of them on the sidewalk, city lights stretching out around them, the hum of traffic in the distance, the world continuing like nothing just shifted.

But something did.

He doesn’t stop walking.

His hand is still in hers as he leads her forward, toward the line of black cars waiting along the curb, his stride steady, purposeful, like he already knows exactly where this is going and how fast he wants to get there.

His other hand comes up to his tie.

Loosening it.

Slow at first.

Then pulling it free just enough to breathe.

Then more.

Justice watches it happen, her pace matching his, a slow smile pulling at her mouth, something amused and knowing in the way her eyes follow every movement. Because she sees it—the unraveling.

The control slipping in pieces.

The discipline loosening thread by thread.

The version of him he shows the world falling away the further they get from the building.

He glances back at her once.

And that look?

It’s not subtle.

It’s not careful.

It’s not professional.

It’s hungry.

“You got me fucked up walking in there like that,” Ryan mutters under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

His voice is rougher now.

Lower.

Less filtered.

She lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh, her head tilting just slightly.

“Do I?” Justice says.

But she already knows the answer.

He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to collect himself and failing.

“Hell Yeah,” he says, low. 

His fingers move from his tie to his shirt, tugging at the top button, popping it open, then another, like he needs the space, like the fabric suddenly feels too tight against his skin, like the version of himself he had on inside is suffocating him now.

He exhales.

Sharp.

Controlled.

And then, quieter, more direct—

“Can’t wait to get back inside you.”

The words land heavy.

Sitting between them, thick and undeniable.

Justice’s steps falter for half a second before she catches herself, heat rushing through her fast and deep, her body reacting before she can control it. Her smile doesn’t drop—it deepens.

“Ryan,” she murmurs, a warning that doesn’t sound like one, her tone softer but not stopping him.

He glances back again, slower this time, taking her in like he’s got time now—even though everything about him says he doesn’t. His eyes drag over her, down her body, then back up again, like he’s reminding himself what he’s about to have his hands on.

“You started this,” he says.

There’s a smirk there now.

Low.

Certain.

Confident in a way that says he’s already decided how this ends.

She raises a brow slightly, her gaze dragging over him the same way his did to her earlier, taking in the loosened tie, the open collar, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s walking like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

“And you about to finish it?” she asks.

Soft.

Teasing.

But not innocent.

He huffs a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “In every way you thinking.”

His grip on her hand tightens again, not rough, but firm enough to say he’s not letting her drift anywhere else.

The suv is right there now.

Black.

Waiting.

Driver nowhere in sight.

The door almost feels like a line.

Like once they cross it, there’s no going back to restraint.

He opens the back door without breaking stride, the motion smooth, practiced, but the look he gives her right after isn’t.

It’s the same look.

Heavy.

Direct.

Unapologetic.

Like he’s already picturing exactly what he’s about to do to her the second that door closes.

“Get in,” he says.

Not harsh.

Not loud.

But final.

Justice steps forward without hesitation, sliding into the back seat, the fabric of her dress shifting against her skin, the deep red catching the dim light one more time before she disappears inside, her body already angled like she knows exactly what’s about to happen next.

Ryan follows right behind her, closing the distance just as fast as he closed the space between them inside, the door shutting with a solid, quiet finality.

And just like that—

The outside world disappears.

The noise.

The people.

The expectations.

All of it gone.

And whatever restraint he had left? Is left outside on the curb.

The door shuts.

And everything changes.

The inside of the SUV is dim, wrapped in black on black, leather seats facing each other, wide and low like they were built for more than just sitting. The divider is up, sealing them off completely, thick and solid, cutting off any chance of interruption. The tint on the windows is so dark the outside world might as well not exist. No headlights bleeding in. No movement from the street. No reminder that anything else is happening beyond this space.

Just quiet. Just them. The air feels different in here. Closer. Heavier.

Like the moment they stepped inside, everything they were holding back got left outside with the noise of the party.

Ryan doesn’t move right away. He sits there for a second, shoulders rising and falling once, slow and controlled, like he’s collecting himself even now, even after everything that just happened outside. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to hold onto discipline.

It doesn’t last. Then he looks at her. Really looks. Not quick. Not distracted. Slow. Deliberate.

Taking his time in a way that feels more intimate than touch.

His eyes move over her like he’s memorizing her all over again, like he hasn’t seen her like this before—even though he has. The red of her dress against her brown skin looks deeper in this lighting, richer, her skin holding the low glow in a way that makes it look warm to the touch. His gaze lingers at the curve of her shoulders, the rise of her chest, the way her breathing hasn’t settled yet. Her lips are still slightly parted. Still catching up. Still reacting to him. And he sees all of it.

“You know what you got me thinking about?” Ryan says quietly, his eyes dropping to her mouth before dragging back up, voice lower, heavier. “Got me sitting here thinking about the way you’re pussy felt that first time… how it felt like home. How I ain’t been right since. Like I’m off whenever you not with me… and I’m supposed to keep it together? I need it everyday Peach.”

Justice exhales slowly, her chest rising under his gaze, her eyes holding his without hesitation, without softening what’s already there between them.

Their lips meet soft. Measured. The kind of kiss that starts like they’re still pretending they have time, like they’re still choosing patience, like this could stay controlled if they really wanted it to.

It can’t. His hand comes up to her jaw first, fingers warm against her skin, steady, grounding, his thumb brushing lightly along her cheek before sliding down to her neck, resting there just long enough to feel her pulse jump under his touch. It jumps fast. He notices. She breathes into it. Into him. The kiss deepens. Not rushed. But no longer careful.

His mouth presses firmer against hers, lips parting, breath breaking between them as the rhythm changes without either of them saying anything. It’s subtle at first, then undeniable. Her grip tightens. Pulls him closer. And that’s where it shifts. That’s where control starts slipping for real. Ryan’s hand slides from her neck down to her waist, slower now, deliberate, fingers spreading, gripping just enough to feel her there, to anchor her, to pull her closer until there’s no space left between them to pretend with.

He exhales against her mouth. Low. Unsteady. Then he moves. Not asking. Not hesitating.

The motion is fluid, seamless. Ryan’s hands grip her waist, the muscles in his arms tensing as he lifts her. There’s no awkward fumbling, no moment of uncertainty. He moves her like he’s done it a thousand times in his head, pulling her up and over until her knees sink into the leather on either side of his thighs. Her dress, already high on her legs, bunches further as she settles, the soft red fabric pooling around them. The first point of contact is electric. It’s not a question. It’s not an accident.

Her clothed pussy presses directly against the hard ridge of his dick straining against his trousers. The fabric of his pants is thin enough that she feels the heat of him, the solid, unyielding shape of his arousal, through the lace of her panties and the thin material of her dress.

A sharp, audible gasp tears from Justice’s throat, her back arching slightly at the sudden, overwhelming pressure. It’s a jolt, a circuit completing, and her body responds before her mind can catch up. Her hips rock forward, a slow, involuntary grind, seeking more of that friction, more of that perfect, agonizing pressure against her clit.

“Fuck,” Ryan groans against her mouth, the sound deep and guttural, vibrating through her. His head falls back for a second, hitting the soft leather of the seat with a soft thud, his eyes squeezing shut. His grip on her waist tightens, fingers digging into her skin, holding her in place as she moves again. “You feel that, Peach? Feel what you do to me?”

She can’t answer. Words are gone, stolen by the sensation. All she can do is nod, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as she does it again. This time it’s not involuntary. It’s deliberate. A slow, circular roll of her hips that drags her pussy against his dick, sending a wave of wet heat through her. The friction is exquisite, a teasing promise of what’s to come. She can feel how wet she’s getting, can feel the dampness soaking through the lace of her panties, making the glide against the fabric of his pants smoother, slicker.

His hands move from her waist, sliding down to grip her ass, encouraging the movement. He pulls her down harder, grinding his own hips up to meet her, and the shift in angle hits so deep it pulls a sharp, blinding rush through her. The thick head of his dick presses right against her entrance, separated by two layers of fabric, and it’s almost enough to make her cum right there.

“Ryan,” she whimpers, his name a broken sound against his neck. Her hands are gripping the back of his braids, holding on for dear life as she finds a rhythm. It’s not fast, not yet. It’s a slow, torturous grind, a deep, primal dance in the dim light of the SUV. Each roll of her hips builds the tension higher, the friction building a fire low in her belly.

He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her. One of his hands leaves her ass, sliding up her back, under the fabric of her dress, his palm hot against her bare skin. He pulls her even closer, his mouth finding hers again in a messy, desperate kiss.

Their teeth clash, tongues tangling, breathing mixing in the heated space between them. He swallows her moans as she grinds against him, the movement becoming more frantic, more needy. The leather of the seat creaks softly under them, the only sound besides their ragged breaths and the wet slide of their mouths.

“Yeah, just like that,” he mutters, his voice a low growl against her lips. “Take what you need, baby. Ride my shit right here.”

His words are gasoline on a fire. Her movements become sharper, more focused, chasing the release that’s building inside her. The pressure is relentless, perfect, and she can feel him getting even harder under her, can feel the heat rising in his body too. They’re moving together, lost in it, sealed in their own private world where nothing else matters but the feeling of their bodies, the heat, and the desperate, undeniable need to have every piece of each other.

The frantic energy between them shifts, a gear changing from desperate to deliberate. Ryan’s hands, which had been gripping her ass with a possessive force, slow their roll. He breaks the kiss, his breathing heavy, his forehead resting against hers for a moment.

“Wait,” he murmurs, the word a low command. “Lay back, Peach.”

His hands guide her, strong and sure, helping her maneuver in the confined space. She moves with him, trusting the direction as he shifts, turning her so her back presses against the long leather seat. He follows her over, his body hovering, one hand braced on the seat back beside her head, the other still on her hip. He looks down at her, his eyes dark, the city lights outside catching in them for a second before his gaze drops, tracing the lines of her body.

His mouth trails along her neck, slower than she expects, like he’s taking his time on purpose. He starts at her pulse point, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that makes her shiver. He lingers there, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin before moving down, a path of heat along her collarbone

Her breath breaks as his hands move with more certainty, learning what makes her respond. One hand stays on her hip, a grounding weight, while the other slides up her side, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the fabric of her dress. She arches into the touch, a silent plea for more.

He doesn’t rush. He worships. His mouth continues its journey, down the valley between her breasts, his hands gathering the red fabric of her dress, slowly pulling it up. The air hits her exposed skin, cool against the heat blooming there. He pushes the dress past her hips, revealing the delicate black lace of her panties. He pauses, his eyes fixed on the sight, his breathing getting a little rougher.

“You feel how long I’ve been holding back?” he murmurs against her stomach, his lips brushing her skin. He’s not asking her. He’s telling her, reminding her of the control he’s exercising.

Her fingers tighten, pulling him closer instead of slowing him down. One hand slides into his hair again, the other grips his shoulder, her nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.

His attention is singular now. He hooks his fingers into the sides of her panties, the lace flimsy against his calloused skin. He pulls them down, slowly, inch by inch, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it reveals her. He lifts her legs one at a time to pull the panties off completely, discarding them onto the floor of the SUV without a second thought.

And then he settles between her thighs.

He doesn’t dive in. He looks. His gaze is intense, possessive, like he’s studying a masterpiece he owns. He spreads her legs wider, his hands gripping her thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble. He’s not talking to her. He’s talking to her pussy. “Been thinking about this all night. All week. This pretty little thing right here.”

He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a shock. A slow, deliberate swipe from her entrance to her clit. It’s not a tease. It’s a statement. He groans against her, the sound vibrating through her core, a deep, appreciative noise of a man who’s been starving and just found his feast.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by her flesh. “Taste so fucking good. My favorite meal.”

He eats her like he’s making love to her with his mouth. There’s no rush, no frantic energy. It’s a slow, methodical, torturous pleasure. He uses the flat of his tongue to lap at her, broad strokes that cover every inch of her. He explores her folds, tasting her, learning her all over again. He finds her clit and circles it, slowly, softly, just enough to make her hips jerk, to make a whimper catch in her throat.

“Missed this taste,” he says, his lips brushing against her. “Knew I’d be back for it. This pussy always knows how to welcome me home, don’t it?”

He doesn’t use his fingers. He doesn’t need to. His mouth is his instrument, and he’s a master. He alternates between long, slow licks and focused, gentle sucks on her clit. He builds her up, higher and higher, a coil of tension tightening in her belly. Her hands are in his hair, her hips moving against his face, grinding, seeking more of that perfect, devastating pleasure.

“That’s it, baby. Ride my face,” he encourages, his voice a low growl. “Take it. It’s yours. All fucking yours.”

The praise, the dirty talk, the relentless, skilled movements of his tongue—it’s all too much. The coil inside her snaps. A cry tears from her lips as her orgasm crashes through her, sharp and overwhelming. Her thighs clamp around his head, her body arching off the seat as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. And then it happens. A gush of wetness, a release so intense it steals her breath. She squirts, soaking his face, and he doesn’t pull away.

He groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction that’s swallowed by her flesh. He presses his face deeper, his tongue flattening against her to catch every drop. “There it is,” he growls, his voice muffled, thick with her essence. “That’s what I was waiting for. Give it to me, baby. All of it.”

He doesn’t just let it happen; he demands more. His tongue becomes more insistent, a firm, broad pressure against her pulsing clit as she shakes. “Fuck yeah, just like that,” he praises, his words vibrating through her overstimulated core. “Don’t hold back. I want to taste all of you. This is my reward. This is my fucking pussy gifting me what I earned.”

Her body is trembling, the aftershocks making her jerk against his mouth, but he holds her steady, his hands gripping her thighs, keeping her spread open for him. He laps at her, slow and deliberate now, cleaning her with his tongue, savoring the taste.

“Taste so fucking sweet when you cum for me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “Like heaven. My own personal fountain. You hear that? That’s the sound of a pussy that’s happy to see me. That’s the sound of my pussy, showing out for her man.”

He places one last, soft kiss right on her clit, a gentle, almost reverent touch that makes her whimper. He pulls back just enough to look at her, his face shining, his lips swollen and glistening. His eyes are dark, feral, filled with a primal pride that makes her stomach clench all over again.

“Look at this mess you made,” he says, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, but his eyes never leave hers. “Marked my territory. Now every time you sit in the backseat of a car, you’re gonna remember how I had you shaking, how I made this pretty little pussy cry for me. That’s my juice, Peach. All mine.”

He doesn’t give her a moment to recover. He’s on his knees, grabbing her hips and flipping her over with effortless strength.

“On your knees,” he commands, his voice rough, thick with need.

She complies, her hands bracing against the leather seat, her ass in the air. He’s behind her in an instant, one knee planted on the seat, the other foot on the floor of the SUV for leverage. The sound of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, is the only warning she gets before the blunt, hot head of his dick is nudging against her entrance.

He pushes in, slow at first, letting her feel every thick inch of him stretching her, filling her completely. They both groan at the sensation, the perfect, familiar fit.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he grunts, his hands gripping her hips. “Missed this tight little pussy.”

He starts to move, and the pace is immediately deep, powerful. He’s not holding back anymore. Each stroke is long, deliberate, hitting that spot deep inside her that makes her vision blur. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the quiet SUV, a lewd, rhythmic beat.

“This my pussy, Justice?” he growls, his voice raw as he drives into her. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“It’s yours!” she cries out, pushing back to meet his thrusts. “It’s your pussy, Ryan!”

“Damn right,” he snarls, his rhythm picking up, becoming more forceful. “You better not ever think about giving my shit away. I’ll lose my fucking mind, you hear me? This pussy is mine. I’ll kill somebody over this pussy.”

The filthy, possessive words only turn her on more, making her wetter, making her take him deeper. She can feel another orgasm building, this one different, more intense. Just as she’s about to tip over the edge, he pulls out.

She whimpers at the loss, but he’s already flipping her over again, onto her back. He’s between her legs in a second, hooking them over his arms, spreading her wide. He slides back into her in one smooth, deep stroke.

He looks down at her, his face a mask of intense concentration and raw desire. And then he starts to move.

This isn’t the deep, steady rhythm from before. This is a pile drive. He fucks her hard, fast, relentless. The SUV is rocking with the force of his thrusts, the leather creaking in protest. He’s pounding into her, his hips snapping, his dick hitting her cervix with every powerful stroke.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a harsh pant. “Tell me it’s mine.”

“It’s yours!” she screams, her hands gripping his arms, her nails digging in. “Oh god, it’s yours! I’ll never give it away!”

“Who’s the king of this pussy?” he grunts, his rhythm never faltering, his body a machine built for her pleasure.

“You!” she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. “You’re the king! You’re the king of my pussy!”

That’s it. That’s the trigger.

Her calling him his king sends him into a frenzy. A raw, guttural sound tears from his throat, and he fucks her harder than ever, a blur of motion and raw power. He’s chasing his own release now, his control completely shattered. He slams into her one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and his whole body tenses.

“Fuck!” he moans, the sound deep and broken as he buries his face in her neck. He cums hard, a hot, thick flood inside her, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

The feeling of him pulsing inside her, his deep moan in her ear, is what sends her over the edge. Her orgasm rips through her, even more intense than the first. Her body convulses, her pussy clamping down around him, milking him for every last drop as she screams his name.

They collapse together, a tangled, sweaty, breathless mess

The city moves outside like nothing happened. Lights streak past the tinted windows in soft blurs of gold and white, stretching and bending with the motion of the car, distant and muted, like it all belongs to a different world than the one they’re in. The hum of traffic is barely there, softened by the glass, by the distance, by the way everything outside feels irrelevant now.

Inside the SUV, everything is slower, quieter, heavier in a different way. Breath still uneven, but settling into something softer, something shared.

Ryan leans back against the leather, his body finally giving into the weight of the moment, one arm draped behind her, the other resting along her thigh. His hand moves in slow, absent circles, thumb brushing her skin like it’s second nature, like he’s not even thinking about it, like he just needs to feel her there to stay grounded.

Justice is tucked into him, her head resting against his shoulder, her body still warm, still loose, still carrying the aftershocks of everything that just passed between them. Her breathing is slower now, deeper, her chest rising and falling against him in a rhythm that’s starting to match his.

Her fingers trace along his chest lazily, following the open line of his shirt, brushing against his skin, then back again. It’s soft, unhurried, exploratory in a way that isn’t about heat anymore, but about staying close.

Neither of them rushes to speak. They don’t need to. The silence isn’t empty. It’s full—full of everything they just did, full of everything they didn’t have to say out loud, full of the understanding settling between them in a way that feels natural instead of new.

He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, his chin brushing the top of her head, his breath warm against her hair. His arm tightens around her just a little, a subtle pull that keeps her closer without making it a thing.

“You good?” Ryan asks.

His voice is lower now, not rough, not demanding, just checking, just making sure.

She smiles against him before she answers, the expression small but real, her eyes still half-lidded, her body relaxed in a way it wasn’t earlier, in a way that says she’s not holding anything back anymore.

“Yeah,” Justice says softly.

And she means it.

A pause settles between them, easy, unforced, stretching without pressure, without expectation—the kind that only comes when nothing feels uncertain anymore.

His hand slides a little higher along her thigh, slow and unhurried, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against her skin, like he’s memorizing the feel of her even though he already knows it.

“Worth the wait?” he murmurs.

There’s something quieter in that question. Not doubt. Not insecurity. Just truth looking for confirmation, just him asking her to meet him in it.

She lifts her head slightly, turning just enough to look at him—really look.

At the loosened tie still hanging around his neck. At the open collar of his shirt. At the way his skin still carries a sheen of heat. At the way his eyes are softer now, but still locked on her like she’s the only thing that matters in the space they’re in.

“You already know,” she says.

Her voice is steady, certain, no teasing in it this time, no deflection. Just fact. Just truth.

He holds her gaze for a second longer after she says it, something settling deeper in his expression, something quieter but just as real as everything that came before.

Then he exhales, a slow release of something heavier than breath, his hand sliding from her thigh to her back, pulling her closer into him, tucking her in like he’s not done with her yet.

Like he’s not planning to be.

Like this isn’t just a moment.

Outside, the city keeps moving, lights passing, time going forward, everything continuing like normal.

Inside, they stay right where they are, held in something slower, something heavier, something chosen.

And neither of them is thinking about leaving anytime soon.

Annie woke to an empty bed and knew something was wrong before she ever opened her eyes. Smoke’s side was cold, the sheets untouched, his was gone as if it had never been there at all. His clothes were missing from the chair. The bathroom was too clean. No note. No message. Nothing to explain why the man who had held her the night before.

It took her two days to accept what her body already knew—that he wasn’t coming back.

Still, she cooked enough food for two. Set out his plate without thinking. Paused every time the door creaked or footsteps passed outside, hoping—stupidly—that he’d walk back in and say there had been a mistake.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Hope curdled into grief, and grief hardened into anger.

Annie stopped waiting.

She buried herself in books, in long nights and longer mornings, in the kind of discipline that didn’t allow space for missing someone who chose to leave.

8 years later, she stood in the doorway of her own medical practice, keys in hand, breath steady, feeling something dangerously close to freedom. New. Hers.

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

Smoke had never been good at letting go.

Annie stood frozen in the doorway, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as they traced the rough edges of the envelope. The weight of it felt wrong in her hands—too light for what it carried, too heavy for her heart. The postmark was smudged, but she didn’t need to see it clearly. The way the ink slanted in her name, the faint scent of gunpowder and cedar clinging to the paper—she knew. 

Elijah. 

No, not Elijah. Not anymore. That man had burned away years ago, leaving only Smoke in his wake. 

Her pulse roared in her ears as she turned the envelope over, her nail catching on the wax seal—black, stamped with the rough outline of a wolf. His mark. His promise. 8 years of silence, and now this? Her first instinct was to toss it into the fireplace, watch the edges curl into ash. Her second was sharper—to shove it back into the mailbox unopened, let the postman return it to whatever hole Smoke had crawled out of. 

But her hands betrayed her. The letter split open with a whisper, the sound too loud in the quiet of her empty house. 

The words hit like a blade between the ribs.  

Annie,  

I won’t insult you by pretending this fixes anything.  

That alone made her throat tighten. Because he wasn’t pretending. There was no groveling, no poetic regret—just the brutal honesty that had always been his sharpest weapon.  

I know what it looks like, 8 years, and now I write. I left. That part is mine to carry.  

Her fingers clenched. Damn him. Damn him for not dressing it up, for not giving her the satisfaction of hating some flowery apology.  

But don’t mistake my absence for forgetting you.  

A sound escaped her—half laugh, half sob. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. Men like Smoke didn’t forget; they bided their time.  

I know you rebuilt your life. I’ve known for a while.  

Her stomach twisted. How? How much had he seen? The late nights at the clinic, the way she’d stopped jumping at shadows?  

I’m not writing to pull you backward. I’m writing because I intend to move forward, and you were always part of that future.  

The audacity choked her. Future? After he’d vanished into the night without a word?  

I’m going to make this right. Not with words. With action.  

The paper trembled in her grip. That was the worst part—she believed him. Smoke didn’t make promises; he gave warnings.  

You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to forgive me. But understand this. I never stopped being your husband.  

A shiver ripped down her spine. There it was. Not a plea. A claim.  

You deserved better than how I left. I intend to prove I’ve become better than the man who did.  

—Smoke  

The signature was the final blow—not Elijah, not even an initial. Just the name he’d earned in blood and fire.  

Annie didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until her lungs burned.

This wasn’t a letter.  

It was a threat.  

A beautifully crafted, perfectly poised threat wrapped in honesty instead of anger. Because Smoke had never needed to yell. He’d always been scariest when he spoke softly, when he let the w8 of his silence do the talking.  

And now?  

Now he sounded sharper. Like a blade honed over years of waiting. Like a man who’d learned patience the hard way.  

Annie pressed a hand to her mouth.  

That—that—terrified her more than any explosion of rage ever could.  

The messages started small at first—just a few missed calls logged in her phone’s notifications like breadcrumbs she refused to follow. Then they grew bolder, slipping into her inbox with subject lines that tasted like old apologies wrapped in new paper. By the third week, the emails stopped being polite and started being gifts—things shipped to her clinic in sleek black boxes that smelled like money and guilt. A sapphire bracelet that probably cost more than her monthly rent. A leather-bound journal with her initials embossed in gold. Bottles of that stupidly expensive French perfume she'd once joked about liking, back when they shared the same air.

She ignored every single offering, tossing them into the donation bin outside the women’s shelter without opening them past the first glimpse. Let some struggling mother pawn that jewelry. Let a college student enjoy the perfume. None of it belonged to her. Not anymore.

Life moved forward in predictable rhythms. Mornings began with scalding coffee and patient charts. Afternoons blurred into consultations, her stethoscope pressed against fragile skin while she asked about symptoms and pretended not to notice the way older men always tried to turn physicals into conversations about their glory days. Nights ended with takeout containers and medical journals, her couch permanently dented from the w8 of her exhaustion.

Today had followed the same script until the very end. Mrs. Henderson—her 82-year-old regular with the chronic back pain and the sharp tongue—had lingered after her appointment like she always did. “You hear about that Moore boy?” the old woman had said, peeling the wrapper off her lollipop with deliberate slowness. “Never thought I’d see the day. A Black man thinking he can sit in the White House.” Annie’s fingers had stiffened around the prescription pad, but her voice stayed professional as she explained the dosage instructions for the new muscle relaxants. She’d learned to let certain words slide off her shoulders years ago.

The clinic emptied. The last receptionist left with a half-hearted wave. Alone in the sudden silence, Annie finally let herself exhale. That’s when the itch started—that relentless pull beneath her ribs that always led her somewhere stupid. She fought it for exactly seven minutes before caving, her phone unlocked and her thumbs typing his name before she could think better of it.

The news articles loaded instantly. There he was—Elijah Moore in a custom navy suit, standing on some stage with his twin flanking him like a living fortress. Stack hadn’t changed at all; same cold eyes, same smirk that promised violence wrapped in charm. But Smoke… God, Smoke looked different. The boy she remembered had been lean, all hungry angles and restless energy. The man staring back from her screen had filled out in ways that shouldn’t have mattered. His shoulders strained against the fabric of his jacket. His jawline had hardened into something unbreakable. Even through pixels, she could feel the way he commanded the room without raising his voice.

And he looked good. Really good. The kind of good that made her teeth hurt from clenching them.

Annie hated her body’s betrayal—how her pulse jumped before her brain could remind her why that was a terrible idea. She knew better than anyone what lay beneath that polished exterior. The late-night meetings in back rooms where decisions were made with silences instead of votes. The way Elijah could dismantle a man’s life with nothing but a phone call and a smile. He’d always played the long game, weaving himself into systems until the systems depended on him.

So why the absolute fuck was he running for president?

The realization hit her like a sucker punch because Elijah didn’t believe in half measures. If he was stepping into the light after all these years, it meant he’d already ensured the shadows would follow.

Annie tried to get through the rest of the week like normal. Tried to forget about Elijah.

It didn’t work.

His face was everywhere—billboards, posters, screens she hadn’t even realized she looked at. Black Twitter was loud, relentless, buzzing with opinions, arguments, pride, fear. Locals couldn’t stop talking about him. Patients mentioned his name in passing like it was just another headline, another possibility.

All Annie wanted was a quiet life.

And Smoke was fucking that up.

Still, she took some comfort in one thing—her name wasn’t attached to any of it. Not yet. She watched the news carefully, bracing for it, half-expecting a reporter to pop up at her door asking about her husband.

She’d be damned if that happened.

She’d spent too long rebuilding herself to be dragged back into his shadow without a fight.

But Annie supposed God had other plans.

She pulled into her driveway and immediately clocked the familiar figure on her front porch. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“I know that ain’t who I think it is,” she muttered.

She got out of the car and walked up the steps slowly, eyes never leaving him. Sammie stood there like he belonged—hands in his pockets, easy grin already forming. Practically, her son once upon a time. She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since everything fell apart.

“Hey, Ma,” Sammie said, opening his arms.

Her resolve cracked before she could stop it. Annie stepped into the hug, holding him tight, breathing him in like a piece of a life she used to have.

Still—something felt off.

She pulled back, studying him. “You just poppin’ up now? No call. No text. Nothin’.”

Sammie shrugged like it was nothing, smile never wavering. “I been travelin’. Had some time. Figured I’d stop by, see how you doin’.”

Annie hummed softly, not convinced. She invited him in anyway. Old habits died hard.

She moved around the kitchen like muscle memory took over, pulling out food, setting a plate, doing the same things she used to do when the house was fuller. Sammie sat at the counter, watching her like he always had—quiet, respectful, familiar.

“So,” she said finally, not looking at him. “How you been doin’?”

“Good,” Sammie answered too quick. Then corrected himself. “I mean—good enough.”

Annie glanced over her shoulder. Caught the way his jaw tightened. Sammie had never been a good liar. Tried to be. Never succeeded.

“You still runnin’ with your cousins?” she asked casually, testing.

He shook his head. “Nah. We all doin’ our own thing now.”

That was lie number two.

She set his plate in front of him and sat across the table. Watched him eat. Watched the way his eyes kept drifting—not to the food, but to the windows. The door. The corners of the room.

“You stayin’ long?” she asked.

Sammie shrugged. “Couple days. Maybe more. Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how things go.”

That made her pause.

Annie leaned back in her chair, arms crossing slowly. “You always been this vague?”

Sammie smiled, soft and practiced. “You always been this suspicious?”

She huffed. “Boy, I helped raise you. Don’t play with me.”

For a second, something real flickered across his face—guilt, maybe. Or worry. It was gone just as fast.

“I just wanted to check on you, Ma,” he said. “Make sure you straight.”

Annie held his gaze.

She believed he cared. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Sammie had never just checked in a day in his life.

And whatever reason brought him to her porch—it had Smoke written all over it.

Annie started noticing the small things first.

The way the same car seemed to show up twice on her drive home. How footsteps lingered a little too long behind her at the grocery store. How someone always seemed to be just close enough to notice—but never close enough to confront.

Then there was Sammie.

He was always around. If he wasn’t “visiting an old friend,” he was hanging around her clinic, sitting in the waiting area like he belonged there. Patients liked him. Staff didn’t question it. He fit too easily into her life.

Too easily.

At home, things started changing. The broken door hinge she’d been meaning to fix for months was suddenly solid. The porch light worked again. Her trash bins were rolled in before she remembered they’d been taken out.

And her fridge.

Groceries appeared without explanation. Not cheap ones, either. The kind she bought when she wasn’t counting.

That was when the feeling in her chest turned sharp.

The election was right around the corner. Smoke’s face was everywhere. His name carried w8 now—hope to some, threat to others.

And Annie didn’t know what to expect.

All she knew was this:

her quiet life was shrinking.

Annie stopped him in the kitchen before he could disappear again, the way he’d been doing ever since he showed up on her porch with that easy smile and too many answers that didn’t quite line up.

“Why you really here, Sammie?”

He paused. Just a fraction of a second, but Annie caught it. Long enough to tell her this wasn’t a visit. His shoulders relaxed after, his voice smoothing out like he could talk his way past it. “I told you, Ma. I’m just visitin’.”

She folded her arms slowly, studying him. “Try again.”

The room filled with silence. Not awkward—heavy. Sammie’s jaw tightened as he looked away, like he was weighing what he could give her without crossing a line he’d already decided not to step over.

“Then explain why I feel like I’m bein’ followed,” Annie said. “Everywhere I go.”

That changed everything.

Sammie’s head snapped up, all warmth gone from his face. His eyes sharpened, scanning her like she was already in danger. “Who followin’ you, Ma?” The question came out low and hard, stripped of humor, stripped of comfort.

Annie blinked. She had never seen him like this. “I don’t know,” she said carefully. “Cars. People standin’ too close. I can’t pin it down.”

He stared at her, unmoving, like he was already mapping the threat. “Who,” he asked again, slower this time, demanding an answer she didn’t have.

“I don’t know,” she repeated.

He swore under his breath and stepped closer, hands firm but gentle on her shoulders. “You stay inside tonight. And tomorrow—you don’t go to work.”

Annie stiffened. “Sammie, I’m a grown woman.”

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and final. “And right now, that don’t matter. Promise me.”

She searched his face. The worry there wasn’t fake. It wasn’t forced. It was raw, and it scared her more than his orders did. Annie nodded. “Okay.”

That was enough.

Sammie stepped back, already pulling his phone from his pocket, fingers moving fast as he turned away. Annie watched him pace, heard the line connect.

“Who you callin’?” she asked.

Sammie stopped. Turned. Met her eyes without blinking.

“Yo husband.”

The vote counting started that night, and Annie went to bed with her chest heavy, like something unfinished was pressing down on her lungs. She tried not to think about Elijah, about what his face would look like if the numbers leaned his way, about what that would mean for her. Sleep came late and restless.

She woke to silence.

Sammie was gone. In his place was a note on the counter, written quick and blunt, telling her he’d be back and ordering her to stay inside until then. Annie stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight.

Did she listen?

No. She did not.

She got ready like it was any other morning. Showered. Dressed. Packed her bag with practiced ease. If anything, moving helped keep the noise in her head at bay. She knew she probably wouldn’t see many patients that day—everyone would be glued to the vote count—but she didn’t care. She just couldn’t sit in that house waiting.

The clinic was quiet when she arrived. Too quiet. Annie threw herself into organizing her medicine cabinet, lining bottles up, double-checking labels, giving her hands something to do while her thoughts refused to settle. She checked her emails, avoided the news sites she knew would pull her under, avoided the notifications lighting up her phone.

Still, her heart wouldn’t let her forget.

Something was shifting. She could feel it.

And no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, the world was moving closer to Elijah Moore.

The television in the waiting room had been left on low, just noise filling the space. Annie barely noticed it until the room’s rhythm shifted—the anchors straightening, the crowd noise rising, the camera cutting away from speculation to certainty.

She looked up.

The screen showed the stage, packed tight with bodies and light, the energy sharp and electric. Annie stood without realizing she was moving, her chest tightening as recognition settled in.

Elijah Moore stepped forward.

Smoke.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t lift his hands. Didn’t acknowledge the noise like it meant anything to him. He stood still, solid, letting the room bend around him instead of the other way around. The suit sat heavy on his shoulders, tailored to a body built for more than politics. Everything about him read controlled. Final.

Annie’s pulse thudded in her ears.

He began his speech the way any winner would—measured thanks, careful acknowledgments, practiced restraint. His voice carried evenly through the speakers, calm enough to settle a room full of strangers.

Then he slowed.

Just a fraction. Enough that Annie felt it before she understood it.

“Tonight ain’t just about winnin’,” he said.

Her breath caught.

“It’s about what you do after you lose,” Smoke continued. “About how you carry what broke you—and still decide to build somethin’ better than what you were.”

The words settled heavy in Annie’s chest.

To everyone else, it sounded like resolve. Growth. Redemption.

But she heard the truth underneath it.

He wasn’t talking to the country.

He was talking to her.

Smoke didn’t linger there. He moved on like the moment hadn’t happened, like he hadn’t just reached through a screen and put his hand on an old wound he knew by heart.

Annie turned the television off.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

Elijah was President of the United States.

And he had just reminded her—without saying her name—that he still knew exactly how to speak to her.

Then a knock came hard enough to rattle the glass at the front of the clinic, snapping Annie out of her thoughts. She looked up from the waiting room television and frowned, an uneasy feeling settling in her chest as she moved closer to the door.

When she saw the man standing outside—dressed entirely in black, face calm in a way that didn’t belong—her stomach dropped. She didn’t recognize him, and something about that alone felt dangerous. She stayed where she was, hands clenched, grateful she’d locked the door.

The knock came again, heavier this time, his fist striking the glass with intent. “Clinic’s closed,” Annie called out, her voice steadier than she felt.

The man didn’t answer. He knocked again, harder, and the glass shuddered. Panic crept up her spine as she backed away, Sammie’s warning echoing loud in her head. She turned and moved toward the back hallway, eyes scanning counters and shelves for anything she could grab—metal trays, tools, anything solid. The pounding grew violent, glass cracking under the force, until it stopped so suddenly the silence rang.

Her breath caught. She slowed, heart hammering, and peeked around the corner.

The front door was wide open.

“Oh God,” she whispered, regret crashing into her all at once. She should have stayed home.

She sensed him before she saw him. Annie spun just as the man lunged. She blocked his first strike with her forearm and shoved him back hard, pain shooting through her arm as he slammed into the medical shelves behind him. Bottles and herbs crashed to the floor in a chaotic mess. She didn’t think—she ran. Fear pushed her forward, but hands clamped around her ankle and yanked her down. She hit the floor hard, air knocked from her lungs as she tried to crawl away, nails scraping tile. His grip tightened.

In one swift motion, he flipped her onto her back and stood over her, shadow swallowing her whole. He pulled a gun from his jacket, and Annie froze. Her mind went eerily quiet as she stared up at it. “Please,” she breathed, not even sure who she was pleading with. She thought of her daughter, of holding her again, of the ache that never truly left her chest.

The gunshot came from somewhere else.

The man jerked, eyes wide in shock, and collapsed beside her with a heavy thud.

Annie screamed.

“Annie!” Sammie’s voice cut through the chaos as he burst through the door. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands already moving, checking her arms, her legs, her face. “Ma, look at me. You hurt? You bleedin’ anywhere?” His voice shook despite how fast and focused his hands were.

“I—I think I’m okay,” she managed, her body trembling uncontrollably. “Sammie… what—”

“I told you to stay inside,” he snapped, fear bleeding through the anger as he pulled her upright. “I told you not to come here.” His hands hovered like he didn’t trust the ground beneath her.

Before Annie could respond, black cars screeched to a stop outside. Doors opened in sharp succession, and men in tailored suits poured into the clinic with practiced efficiency. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t hesitate. Annie recognized them immediately—Secret Service. Radios crackled as they scanned the room, stepping around broken shelves and the body on the floor like it was routine.

“What the hell is this?” Annie whispered, her voice barely there. She looked up at Sammie, her chest tightening. “Why are they here?”

Sammie stood slowly, eyes flicking to the men before settling back on her. Something in his expression shifted—resignation, maybe, like a truth he’d been holding finally outweighed the cost of keeping it. “Annie,” he said quietly, “I shoulda told you sooner. I was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to like this.”

“Told me what?” she demanded, her voice sharp despite the fear curling in her stomach. “Why I’m bein’ followed? Why you been watchin’ me like this?”

His jaw tightened. “Because someone came for you,” he said plainly. “And that means it’s real now.”

Her heart skipped. “Who?” she asked, though some part of her already knew.

Sammie met her eyes, steady and serious. “This ain’t just about the election,” he said. “And it damn sure ain’t random. Smoke sent me here, Annie. He’s been protectin’ you this whole time.”

The truth hit her like a blow to the chest. The letters. The gifts. The watching eyes. None of it had been a coincidence. She shook her head slowly, disbelief and anger tangling together. “He doesn’t get to do this,” she whispered. “Not after leavin’ me like that.”

Sammie didn’t argue. He just said softly, “I know, Ma. But he wasn’t gon’ let nobody else touch you.”

Standing there in the wreckage of her quiet life, surrounded by men who answered to the highest office in the country, Annie realized one terrifying truth.  He had already moved his pieces. And whether she liked it or not, she was standing right at the center of the board.

Annie sat rigid in the back of the black car, her hands folded tight in her lap as the road stretched out ahead of them. A Secret Service agent drove in silence, eyes forward, while Sammie sat across from her, his posture stiff. She could tell he was still mad she hadn’t listened, but underneath that was something heavier. Her body hadn’t stopped shaking since the clinic, the fear settling deep now that the danger had passed.

It didn’t take long for her to realize they weren’t heading home. The streets thinned out, the turns unfamiliar, the city slowly disappearing behind them. Annie leaned forward, her voice tight. “Where we goin’?”

Sammie didn’t look at her right away. “Outta town,” he said.

Her stomach dropped. “Outta town?” She stared at him. “Sammie, why the hell are we leavin’ town?”

He finally met her eyes. “We headin’ to D.C.”

Annie let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Washington?” She shook her head. “Why?”

Sammie held her gaze, his voice steady but low. “Because, Annie… you the First Lady.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. She went quiet, staring at him as if he’d spoken another language. The hum of the car filled the space between them, her chest tight as her mind struggled to catch up. She looked away, swallowing hard, trying to ground herself in something real.

After a moment, Sammie continued, his tone turning all business. “We ain’t goin’ straight there. There’s a private warehouse first. From there, you’ll board a jet. Secure. No stops.”

Annie shook her head immediately. “No. You can’t do this.” Her voice rose, panic slipping through. “This my life. I got a clinic, patients, responsibilities—”

Sammie leaned forward, cutting her off gently but firmly. “Ma, I know this too much. I know it is. But you don’t got a choice right now.” His jaw tightened. “This not how shit was supposed to turn out.”

She stared at him, searching his face. Something else was there, something he wasn’t saying. “What happened?” she asked quietly. “You ain’t tellin’ me somethin’.”

He hesitated, then exhaled. “When Smoke finds out what happened,” Sammie said, his voice dropping, “he gon’ have somebody’s head.”

Annie turned to him sharply, disbelief flashing across her face. “No,” she said. “Smoke protective, yeah—but he ain’t never been like that. Not like you makin’ it sound.”

Sammie didn’t look away. He held her eyes, expression hard, certain. “The Smoke that left 8 years ago,” he said slowly, “ain’t the same Smoke now. He is way different.”

The words settled heavily in her chest. Annie leaned back against the seat, her heart pounding, trying to reconcile the man she loved with the one Sammie was describing. 

They arrived at the warehouse just as the sky began to darken, the building rising out of the empty stretch of land like something deliberately hidden. The first thing Annie noticed was the security. Guards lined the perimeter in quiet formation, earpieces in, eyes alert, every movement controlled. Black SUVs sat idling nearby, engines humming low. Nothing about this place felt temporary. It felt planned.

Her door opened, and Sammie stepped out first. He held the door for her, watching her closely as if he expected her legs to give out at any moment. Annie hesitated, one hand gripping the edge of the seat before she finally stepped onto the pavement. The air felt heavier out here, colder somehow, and the reality of what was happening pressed down on her chest.

She followed Sammie across the concrete toward the jet, her gaze lifting only when she noticed a woman waiting near the stairs. The woman stood tall in a sharp black suit paired with heels that clicked softly against the ground, her posture effortless, her presence commanding without being loud. She looked like someone who belonged in rooms Annie had never imagined entering.

“Hello, Mrs. Moore,” the woman said smoothly, offering a professional smile. “I’m Tina. Your Chief of Staff.”

Annie blinked. Mrs. Moore. The title felt foreign on her skin.

Tina turned without waiting for a response, already walking toward the jet, Sammie and Annie falling into step behind her. As they moved, Tina spoke with practiced ease, as if reading from a plan long set in motion. She explained how Annie would be brought to the White House discreetly, how she’d meet the rest of her staff, how she’d be dressed appropriately for the public appearance that would follow.

“You’ll walk alongside Mr. Moore,” Tina continued, her tone calm and efficient. “You’ll be introduced, and you’ll be announced as First Lady.”

Annie’s steps slowed slightly.

Tina glanced back at her then, eyes sharp, taking in Annie’s tight expression and the worry she wasn’t hiding very well. “And don’t worry,” she added, voice smoothing out. “You won’t be required to say anything tonight. All you need to do is stand there and look pretty.”

The words landed wrong.

Annie didn’t respond. She just nodded once, her throat tight, the jet looming closer with every step. By the time they boarded, her head was spinning, the noise of it all pressing in until she could barely think.

She sat down slowly, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing.

A few minutes later, Sammie appeared with a tray of food, setting it gently in front of her. “You need to eat,” he said quietly, his tone softer now.

Annie looked up at him, eyes tired, still trying to understand how her quiet life had vanished in the span of a single night. She didn’t touch the food right away.

Everything was moving too fast.

Sammie lingered near her seat, watching her a little too closely. Annie could feel it even without looking up, the way he hovered like he was waiting for her to break. She still hadn’t touched the food, her hands resting uselessly in her lap as the engines hummed quietly around them.

“Ma,” Sammie said softly, lowering his voice, “maybe you’ll feel better if you talk to Smoke.”

The words made her stiffen instantly. Annie shook her head before he could say anything else. “No,” she said, firm and final. “That ain’t happenin’.”

Sammie frowned. “Annie—”

“I said no,” she cut in, finally looking at him. Her eyes were sharp now, the fear edged with anger. “I ain’t ready to hear his voice. Not after all this. Not after he left and thought letters and gifts could fix it.”

Sammie studied her for a moment, like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it. “He's been askin’,” he admitted quietly. “Wants to know you're okay.”

She scoffed under her breath. “He shoulda thought about that 8 years ago.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Sammie stepped back, giving her space, though worry still lined his face. Annie leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes for just a moment, trying to steady her breathing.

She wasn’t ready.

And whatever man had become, she refused to meet him like this—trapped, shaken, and dragged into a life she hadn’t chosen.

Four hours later, the jet finally touched down. Annie stirred in her seat and glanced out the small window, her chest tightening when she saw the scene waiting below. Guards were already positioned on the tarmac, spread out in quiet formation, their presence heavy and unmistakable. It didn’t feel like an arrival—it felt like a lockdown.

Sammie leaned closer, following her gaze. “Smoke orders,” he said simply, motioning toward the guards as if that explained everything.

Annie swallowed hard.

She stood when they told her to, her legs stiff as she followed Sammie down the steps. The moment her feet hit the ground, the guards moved in, surrounding her with practiced precision. The space around her closed fast, their bodies creating a wall as Sammie and Tina fell in step just behind her. Annie felt suddenly small inside the circle, her heart beating too loud in her ears.

They guided her across the tarmac toward a waiting limo, its dark windows reflecting nothing back at her. Tina stayed close at her side, one hand hovering near Annie’s elbow like she might need steadying, while Sammie scanned everything around them, alert and tense. Annie climbed into the back seat between them, her hands twisting together in her lap as the door shut with a heavy thud.

As the limo pulled away, Annie leaned back against the seat, breath shallow, nerves buzzing beneath her skin. Whatever waited for her next, she could feel it closing in. And the closer they got, the more certain she became of one thing—Smoke was nearer than she wanted him to be.

They arrived without spectacle, but everything about the place spoke of money and command. The limo passed through iron gates that opened before it ever fully stopped, the drive long and immaculate, lined with soft lighting and perfectly trimmed hedges. Annie barely registered when the car finally came to a halt. By the time the door opened, she already felt like she’d crossed into a world that didn’t belong to her.

Inside, the air was cool and faintly perfumed, the floors polished to a mirror shine. Annie was guided through wide corridors until a set of doors opened and she stepped into a room so large it almost swallowed her whole. Plush carpets muted every sound. Crystal light fixtures hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over silk curtains and gold-trimmed furniture. It was excessive without being loud, luxury built to reassure and intimidate all at once.

She barely had time to take it in before she realized she wasn’t alone.

Women stood around the room in neat formation, all dressed in tailored maid uniforms, hands folded, posture perfect. They turned toward her as one. Tina stood at the center, composed as ever, her presence anchoring the room.

Annie’s breath caught.

Tina turned to her then, her expression professional but expectant. She lifted her hand slightly and made a small, deliberate gesture. At once, the women bowed just enough to show respect without submission, their voices soft but unified. “Honored to serve you, Mrs. Moore.”

The title sent a chill down Annie’s spine.

Tina clasped her hands together once, the sharp sound cutting through the room. “All right,” she said smoothly, already in control. “Let’s get to work.”

The maids moved immediately, their efficiency practiced, closing in with quiet precision as Annie stood there, heart racing, realizing this wasn’t just about comfort or care.

This was preparation

Before the women closed in around her, Annie turned instinctively toward the doorway. Sammie stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, watching everything with a careful eye. When their gazes met, he gave her a small nod—steady, reassuring, the same one he used to give her when things felt out of control. It didn’t fix anything, but it kept her from unraveling.

That was all the time she had.

Two of the maids stepped forward, their touch gentle but firm as they guided her away. Annie let herself be led through another set of doors and into a private changing room tucked behind the main suite. The space was just as lavish—soft lighting, velvet seating, mirrors framed in gold—but it felt more intimate, like the calm before something irreversible.

As the door closed behind her, Annie exhaled shakily, her reflection staring back at her from every angle. The life she knew felt farther away than ever, and whatever came next would shape how the world saw her.

When Annie stepped out, the room seemed to still.

Tina turned first, her usual composure slipping just enough for awe to flash across her face. For a moment, she said nothing, simply taking Annie in like she was looking at something carefully crafted and finally complete.

Sammie broke the silence. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

Annie smiled at him, small but real, the kind of smile that came from gratitude more than confidence. But it didn’t last. Tina’s expression shifted back to business as she glanced at her watch.

“It’s time,” Tina said.

The words hollowed her out.

This is fucked up, Annie thought, her pulse thudding hard in her ears.

Sammie held his arm out to her without a word. Annie hesitated only a second before taking it, her fingers curling into the familiar strength there. Together, they followed Tina down the corridor, the soft click of heels echoing as they moved closer to whatever waited on the other side.

Then she heard it.

Chanting.

Loud. Rhythmic. A mass of voices swelling together, calling out for the President—and for her. The sound rolled through the walls, alive and hungry, and Annie’s steps slowed as her chest tightened.

They stopped in front of the doors.

Tina turned to face her, calm and precise. “Mr. Moore is standing on the other side,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Hell naw, Annie thought.

But it wasn’t like she had a choice.

Annie looked at Sammie, searching his face one last time, then turned back to Tina. She lifted her chin, her voice steady even if she wasn’t.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

The raps were steady, three evenly spaced out beats that pulled Annie’s attention away from the magazine she held, over to her door. 

It could only be a few people — bothering her in the middle of a Sunday and since this one was knocking like he had some sense, she already knew who stood in the hall. 

Annie’s stomach dipped, the way it would’ve if she was on a roller coaster, even as a sharp “mmm” left her mouth, completely of its own volition, low and laced with attitude. 

She closed her magazine slow, rising from the soft chair she’d been curled up in, nude painted toes landing on the fluffy carpet in her living room. 

Annie was dressed for the lazy day it was — grey sweats wrapping around her waist and stomach like a hug, zipped up cropped jacket giving a peek of her gold belly piercing if she shifted just right. Loose week and a half old curls piled up on the top of her head, staying in place only because of the scarf she used to keep ‘em there. 

She crossed the room steadily, hips moving like she was already being watched. Shoulders pushed back like she was heading into battle. 

A battle of wills maybe. 

Annie swung the door open, full lips parting to speak before she’d even fully set eyes on him. 

“Can I help you?” Her voice was dry, tone screaming she couldn’t be bothered. Smoke on the other hand, was taking her in like he wanted to be. 

The two had been neighbors for about 6 months now, his unit right across from her’s, and Smoke had seen it all. Annie leaving for work dressed in pencil skirts that fit like she’d had to fight to get ‘em on. Her stepping out in summer dresses that made him sweat worse than any heat the Delta brought. Wearing denim that hugged her like sin one day and then laid out by the pool the next, draped in lil ass swimsuits and looking like his own personal slice of heaven. Still outta all that, he prolly’ preferred this best. When she was dressed soft like comfort. At ease and sweet. Even as them brown orbs eyed him sharp. 

Even when she was fronting, like he ain’t make her melt.   

“From looking at that head, I can already guess what you want. The answers no.” 

Smoke took his time dragging his stare from the gold the glinted in her belly button, up to her face. Took his time answering too. 

When he did, his voice was low, even, teasing in a way everybody didn’t get to hear. “That’s how you answer the door for yo’ neighbors?”

“Only the ones that get on my nerves.” Her voice was sweet like sugar. Hot like spice.  

“Mmm,” the sound that left Smoke’s mouth had Annie shifting. Crossing one leg in front of the other, real casual. “You know this me you talking too right? Not the other ones?” 

“Oh, I know. You worse than all them.” 

And in a way, he was. 

Stack was…. like an irritating brother at most. He stayed in the unit above hers. And he never failed to visit the third floor so he could knock on her door — always needing to ‘borrow’ a random ingredient like sugar or salt, inviting himself to dinner whenever she cooked something good, ‘keeping her company’ when he was bored and Smoke refused to be bothered, which generally consisted of him taking up space on her couch and talking over her shows. So, irritating. And nothing Annie wasn’t used to at this point. 

Therese…. her best friend who she loved like blood, just had a slight issue with boundaries. She was on the right of Annie. Still, tell this day, used the key Annie had given for emergencies to barge in whenever she wanted. Resee wasn’t gone learn, till’ she saw something she ain’t wonna see. 

Cornbread…was sweet actually. Stayed on the fourth floor in the unit next to Stack’s and he definitely had more sense than the younger Moore, but damn could he talk. Especially lately, dropping by more than usual, using Annie as an excuse to be near her best friend. 

Smoke wasn’t like any of them. Didn’t annoy her, or barge in unannounced, or talk her to death. Only thing Smoke did was watch her close like he was reading her soul, get her flustered like she wasn’t a grown ass woman, and make her ache, heavy and unrelenting, right in that spot between her legs. 

She was a little flustered even now, with him standing there in the hall. His own pair of grey sweats riding low on his hips, white wife beater hugging his thick chest and leaving them defined arms on display. Gold chain sitting perfect against his collar bone, in a way that made her wonna grab it and tug him closer. 

Annie uncrossed and then recrossed her legs as Smoke responded, “Guess that mean you ain’t miss me while I was gone then?” 

Cause he had been. Gone, that is, for a couple weeks. Was always coming and going actually. Doing what? Annie didn’t know. 

“You was gone?” She let her head drop to the left a little. Poked her lips out like she was thinking. “I ain’t even notice.” 

“Mmm,” there went that sound again. Deep, knowing, wrapping ‘round her like a song. “Well I was. Thought about you, while I was gone too.” 

Thump. 

Smoke was always saying stuff like that to her. Like he meant it. Like he knew it made her heart jump in her chest. Annie shook her head, changing the subject, deflecting. 

“You was thinking bout these maybe,” she brought her hands up, wiggling her fingers, nails painted the same color as her toes. “And unfortunately for you, they out of commission today.” 

Annie wasn’t low. Smoke had been studying her since he’d moved in. Learning her. What it meant when she crossed her legs like that, how her voice got fake casual when she was nervous, the way she pulled away whenever he said something that made her breath stutter. She was still fighting it. That connection they had between ‘em. And Smoke was real patient. So he let her.

“You gon’ do me like that?” Smoke blinked them dark eyes at her, allowing the change in subject, hand going up to his head. “I stay loyal. Don’t let nobody else in my head. You gone leave me looking down bad?”

Thump. 

He was so dramatic. Them thick brows furrowing in a way that made Annie want to smooth them out herself. And he didn’t look down bad. He actually looked…cute with his lil fro. And that’s probably exactly why he wanted it dealt with. Annie fought the way her lips started to quirk up. 

“You say you staying loyal, like you doing me a favor. You can start going to an actual stylist whenever you please Smoke.” 

“You the only one that do it right.” 

Annie shook her head, “So who was braiding yo hair before I met you boy?” 

“A mufucka who wasn’t doing it right.” His jaw was set, gaze unflinching, stubborn. 

Fine.

Annie crossed her arms under her chest. Flashing the little gold moon that dangled from her belly button. Pushing her cleavage up higher than it already sat. 

“You know I only do hair Wednesday and Thursday.” 

“Charge me double.” 

“I was relaxing Smoke.”

“Triple ‘den.” 

Girl you know you want him back between yo legs. Even if it is just cause you braiding his hair. 

Annie’s doe eyes narrowed. 

“You probably ain’t even washed it.” 

Smoke looked unashamed, “I ‘ont get it clean like you.” 

Somebody passing by would think Annie’s hands were made of gold, the way Smoke talked about ‘em. 

Shit if you asked Smoke, they was. 

Annie let out a sigh. Like she was exasperated. With him, herself, the stutter in her chest and the steady pulse between her legs. 

“Ima do it today, cause I’m feeling nice. Next time you gone make an appointment like everybody else. You ain’t special boy.” 

Smoke felt special. Bent over Annie’s sink, her hands buried in his hair, body leaned forward and surrounding him with her scent — cocoa butter, vanilla, something else that was just Annie. It wasn’t really a comfortable position, and still, his shoulders dropped all the same. Tension he carried daily leaking out his body, soon as she touched him.

Annie was on his second wash. Fingers working on his scalp gentle but thorough, Jhené Aiko playing low in the background, heart mostly beating at a steady pace now.

This she could deal with. This was muscle memory. Smoke had been in her rotation of ‘clients’ for a while now, ever since he found out she did a few people’s hair on the side, and Annie knew how to work his curls. Knew the shampoo that was best for his hair, knew which places on his scalp were tender, knew how he liked it when she scratched right in that spot at the back of his head. 

“Damn girl,” Smoke grunted low, lashes fluttering as her nails raked over the back of his scalp. Applying just enough pressure to be felt, but not so much that it hurt. “Missed this.” 

“You act like you ain’t never got yo hair washed before.”  

“Told you, ain’t never got it done like this — swear yo hands magic.” 

Annie was smiling — cheeks lifting, lips curving soft. Eyes rolling in the process of all that. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere Smoke.” 

“Ain’t tryna go nowhere. I’m already where I wonna be.”

Thump.

Annie let the words hang between them for a beat. Like she was waiting for a follow up comment that’d ease the tension. Waiting on a laugh that wouldn’t come. Cause Smoke wasn’t playing. Never was. 

And she knew that, to a certain extent. Still — 

“For somebody that’s so quiet, you talk real slick.” She maneuvered her way around what he’d just said, and then, “I’m bout to rinse. Better keep them sweet words to yo self so you don’t drown.” 

“If it’s by yo hand, I’ll go happily.” 

That got a laugh out of her, a loud bright sound that had Smoke craving to hear more.

“You…are just as crazy as yo damn brother.” 

Annie didn’t know the half. 

Smoke’s hair was washed, conditioned, and now blow dried. He sat on the floor, Annie’s thighs caging him in on either side, his shoulders still relaxed as she combed through his hair. 

“You need water or anything before I start braiding?” 

“Nah,” Smoke shook his head. “I’m good.” 

Annie’s living room was bright. Homey. A mix of browns, yellows, and creams making up her color scheme. Big fluffy chairs were on either side of her couch, a large throw blanket tossed over one of them. She had a couple pieces of art on the wall — black women painted in each frame, and fresh sun flowers sitting in a vase on her coffee table. 

There was a candle burning, like always, and she’d paused her music in favor of turning on the TV mounted to her wall. Courtesy of no one other than Smoke. 

Annie’s home was her comfort. Her private space to just be, and Smoke ain’t take it for granted. Being allowed to exist in it. 

“Thanks for lookin’ out. Lettin’ me encroach on yo Sunday relaxation.” 

“Mhm,” Annie ran her hand through his hair again. Cause she could. “You wasn’t gon’ leave me alone tell I said yes.” 

“Least you know.” 

Annie laughed again, tugged playful on his hair just to hear him grunt. Just to make his jaw flex.

“So, how you want it this time?” 

“Howeva’. I trust you.” 

It’s what he said whenever she did his hair, but she always double checked anyways. 

I trust you. 

Annie never took advantage of that. Made sure she kept his styles simple, but fly, how he liked. She took pride in her work. She also wanted to make sure he kept coming back to her, even when she complained about it. 

“Okay, I think I got something that’d look good on you.” 

As if there was anything that wouldn’t. 

She started parting, ‘Girlfriends’ playing low on the TV, her breaths sinking up with Smoke. 

“What you been doing while I was gone?” 

Annie snorted, “The same thing I’m always doing while you gone. Working, runnin’ errands, tryna get Cornbread and Therese together.” Annie sat back, eyed her part, nodded her head in satisfaction. “I did go out the other night though. That was a lil change in routine.” 

“Out?” Smoke’s head tilted, just for Annie to bring it back where she wanted it. “Wit’ who.” 

It didn’t even sound like a question. 

“Friends,” Annie answered casually, focused more on his hair than his tone, and Smoke’s eyes un-narrowed at her response. 

“So that’s why you ain’t miss me, huh? You was too busy going out? Being grown?” 

Annie huffed out a breath, “Ain’t miss you, cause you not mines to miss.” 

“Could be.” 

Thump. 

“I’m tryna hear my show Smoke. You’re interrupting.”  

“I’m interrupting? Or you jus’ don’t know what to say?”

Annie went from braiding to pulling, yanking light at his hair until his head was pulled back against her stomach. She leaned up so they were eye to eye. 

“Smoke,” both her brows were raised, “I will send yo ass back across the hall with one braid in yo head.” 

“Hmm,” a smile teased at his lips. “Ight, Annie. I’ll be quiet.” 

She could fight it all she wanted, they was gone happen. Eventually. 

For as much as she claimed not to be a professional braider, Annie moved quick. Working through his thick hair, taming the strands and getting him right. They fell into a silence that didn’t need words, the fruity scent of her candle weaving around them, Smoke’s chest rising and falling easy, always untouched from the stress of the outside world whenever he was between her thighs. 

Annie’s eyes were moving, darting from the TV, to his braids, to the side of his face. 

His brows were relaxed, soft looking lips parted as he breathed steadily, them long lashes he was blessed with moving in time with his slow blinks. 

Thump. 

Smoke looked good like this, care free. And if she slowed down on her braiding a little, just to keep him that way a bit longer, well, that wasn’t nobody’s business but hers. 

“So tell me the real, you like it? Be honest, Smoke.” 

Annie had just finished with the moose, peeling the durag she’d used to tie his braids down off slow, and passing him her hand held mirror after. 

Smoke didn’t need to check it. Annie’s work was never not perfect. But he looked anyway. His braids were neat, scalp clean and shining, eyes low like he was high. Off her prolly. 

“You know I like it,” he passed the mirror back. “Thanks for takin’ care of me Annie. Forreal.” 

Thump. 

He hadn’t even said anything crazy that time and her heart was doing the most.

“Yeah yeah, money talks bullshit walks,” Her voice was teasing, giving no clue to what was going on in her chest. She slid her hand over his braids one last time. “You said I could charge triple right?” 

Smoke smirked. Took the hint and stood up, sturdy frame unfolding slow until he was looking down at her, where she still sat on the couch. 

“You can charge whateva you want.” Shit he’d give her the entire knot in his pocket. “What’s my damage?” 

“Just give me yo’ usual 150 boy,” Annie waved him off, standing up. She didn’t really need to charge extra. 

Didn’t mean Smoke wasn’t gone give her extra regardless. 

He pulled a thick wad of bills out his pocket, green notes folded together, waiting to be spent. And he couldn’t think of a better way to spend ‘em. 

Annie didn’t blink at the amount of cash he held. Had seen it before. And it was one of the reasons she hesitated to take Smoke serious. Cause who knew what he did to make money like that. 

Smoke looked down, counted off 550 in his head, and held the bills out to her with two fingers when he was done. 

Annie’s brow raised, “I don’t need all that.” 

“What that gotta do with me wanting to give it?” 

Thump. 

“You do know…money doesn’t  impress me right?” 

Smoke laughed, low and deep. Stepped in a little closer. “This,” he held the bills up, “is me thankin’ you for gettin’ a nigga right whenever I come back into town. For makin’ sure I ain’t never out here lookin’ crazy. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with tryna impress you Annie.” He heard the way her breath stuttered when he stepped in. So, he stepped in some more. “You stop being stubborn and let me take you to dinner, you’ll see what me tryna impress you look like.” 

It was probably the fifth time he’d asked her out since he’d moved in. And every time he asked, her stomach fluttered and her pulse spiked. Even as she turned him down. 

Annie’s eyes remained locked with his, head tilted up and shaking even as she took the bills he still held out. Voice light, but curious, when she spoke next, “You already know my answer is no Smoke. Why you keep asking?” 

“Cause one day yo answer gone be yes.”

Smoke knew what she was feeling in her chest every time he was near. Cause he felt it too. And a feeling like that? Couldn’t be ran from forever.

Thump. 

There was no doubt in his voice. No question. He sounded so sure, that Annie briefly considered he was right. Considered that one day she would fold. Regardless of the large amounts of money that had no explanation, and the random disappearing acts, and the entire mystery that was Smoke Moore in general. 

She wouldn’t be folding today though. 

Annie slid the bills she’d just taken into her bra. Watched the way his eyes followed her movement, before they dragged back up to hers. 

“Are you done intruding on my Sunday, sir?” Her head was cocked, eyes squinted playfully, voice sweet as honey. Always changing the subject. Always dodging.

Smoke shook his head. Lips turning up, like he knew something she didn’t. “Yeah, I’ll let you get back to relaxing.” 

And tomorrow he’d be right back at her door.

‘Cause Annie was stubborn. But Smoke was relentless. At least when he wanted something. And 6 months ago, Annie had become that something he wanted. And he wasn’t letting up, ‘till he got her. 

👀 If you made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed 😬 I had a little more fun than usual writing for him this go round lol. I love Smoke and Annie downnn.

Side Note - I was originally gone write this as a Stack X Annie drabble, soooo if y’all would be interested in seeing a similar scenario with the other brother lemme know.

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