MerryMaryFebruary

Clouds streaked the early morning sky, creeping over the sun that peeked over the horizon. The spring air was fragrant with goldenrod and honeydew, and when the sun glared, water could be seen glistening atop blades of grass.

The pair had fallen asleep in Smoke's bed after staying up all night watching movies. They'd gone back and forth, each picking something that was significant to them, inching closer with each laugh or gasp of shock. Annie had wound up in his arms during a scary movie, and he had ended up with his head tucked into her neck while watching a romcom. It was a simple date, but it was special.

Smoke's arms surrounded Annie as she slept. He held her tight, felt for every shift of her breath and tightened his hold when she tried to move. He craved her closeness, and for the past few months—as their relationship flourished—he began to feel the absence of something that needed to be filled.

The earliest he could remember The Feeling was three months ago.

That night, he'd taken her out to some concert she'd been begging to go to, and as he watched her, the emotion budded. Her eyes were bright as she looked toward the stage. And the lights illuminated her face in a way that showed off her excitement perfectly. In that moment, his mind dipped off into thoughts that were far from chaste. He decided then that he'd do anything to make her happy enough to make that face again, to have his reaction to it be just that strong.

The Feeling persisted for weeks after that, blooming when she decided to try on a few options for a party she was going to. She couldn't decide what was best, and he was the only person available to give their opinion. Each outfit got skimpier and skimpier, and as he sat on her bed, watching her twirl for him, a pillow found its way into his lap.

He wasn't naive about his feelings, but Smoke had never actually done anything like that before. In 23 years, he'd done nothing sexual with another person; But with Annie, he was finally ready to go that far. He loved the person she was: her personality, her body, her laugh when he said something stupid about how they were both too damn nervous to give this a try when they were back in high school together. He loved her, and he could no longer resist The Feeling.

His body curled into hers, hands smoothing out his shirt that covered her back. She was beautiful like this—prettiest in the mornin'—he was known to say. Smelling the side of her neck, he jumped when she shuffled.

“Why you lookin' at me like that,” she groaned, stretching her over-exhausted body into his. Her fingers sought him out, pulling his body closer so she could bury her face in him to escape the light.

“‘Cause you sexy in the mornin’,” he drawled. His cadence was slow, the words slurring because he was both tired and turned on. Annie immediately picked up on his state.

“You betta' stop talkin' to me like that,” she chuckled, clutching onto him tighter. One eye peeked out to take a look at him, and her face flushed with heat from the intensity of his gaze. “Ion know if you ready for all this sexiness.” It came out as a joke based on conversations they'd been having for months about The Feeling and how she'd take care of him when he was ready. Recently, he'd been growing bolder. He complimented her body more—how he loved her thighs and her ass and how her titties sat just right. He allowed The Feeling to linger longer, pressing his needy body up against hers for momentary relief. They’d both been wanting it to the point where it took over their thoughts.

“I'm ready for it,” Smoke groaned, arousal strong. “I can handle all of it.”

Immediately following his declaration, his fingers began dragging along her thighs—because he knew just how to get her in a heady mood. His movements were slow and deliberate, and Annie rewarded him with soft moans before her lips met his. Plush lips against plush lips, their bodies fell into a rhythm of give and take.

They took their time, went carefully because it was still too early in the morning to do anything else. Dew still covered the edges of flowers outside, a crispness in the air that aided the moment.

Annie allowed her fingers to explore the man before her. They outlined the plains of his chest. They dipped over the curves of his abs. And when she came to the edge of his boxers, hers fingers toyed with the material, lips leaving his in time to feel the addicting tremble of his breath.

“You trust me,” she whispered into the quiet air, slow and steady. She held onto him, desperately needing the closeness because something about this was making her feel raw. He responded with a shudder, words broken with need.

“Ye-yes,” he breathed, “I'll always trust you.”

Annie, marveling at his honesty and clarity, almost allowed a moan to escape her lips. There was something about the way he'd been vulnerable about being a virgin, something about the way he trusted her to control this moment. He gave her a feeling that restored something in her, like this was her first time all over again, and in a few years, she might actually consider this It.

She rewarded the man was a kiss to the edge of his jaw, and when her hand found its way into his boxers, that same way-too-addictive shuddering breath landed on her cheek. She dragged her fingers down the length of his dick, capturing his arousal on the tip of a finger.

“I ain’t never,” Smoke choked out, groaning at the view of Annie sucking that finger into her mouth. “I ain’t ever been this turned on before.” And instead of responding with words, the woman simply hummed in acknowledgment before shifting her position on the bed. She pressed the man’s back into the mattress and settled atop his thighs. Unceremoniously, Smoke’s shirt that covered her upper body was pulled over her head, leaving her in nothing but a pair of panties, darkened where they sat against her. “Damn,” he commented, reaching out for her.

His face found comfort between her breasts with practiced ease, and Annie laughed as he held himself there and breathed in her scent.

“You always end up there,” she laughed heartily. And it was true. Whenever he’d had a hard day or a good day or a boring day, all he wanted was to lay up in her chest for comfort. Warm breath ghosted her skin.

“It’s my favorite spot,” he grumbled against her, hands somehow on her thighs again, pulling her into him.

Flushing, Annie reached down and dragged his chin up. She looked into his eyes, and when he melted at the sight of her, she dove in. When their lips met this time, it wasn’t soft and slow and careful; It was sharp and fast and greedy. Smoke’s hands found her hips, and his thumbs wedged found themselves in the groove where hip and thigh met. With ease, motion was made and pace was set. Her clothed pussy grinded against his dick, dragging up the length of him and forcing both of their bodies to shudder.

Smoke had never felt this good in his life. He’d never felt so consumed by something, and he never wanted to feel anything other than this. His palms found her ass next, taking up as much flesh as he could and keeping her hips in that tempting roll. He wanted her, craved her, but when he flipped their position and was leaned over her heaving body, he had no idea how to move forward.

“Baby,” Annie whispered, noticing the way his eyes darted away in a mix of shame and fear. He didn’t look at her straight on, and when her hand came up to his cheek, he jumped in shock. “Elijah,” she whispered to gain his full attention. “I told you I’d take care of you. I got you, and if you wanna stop, we can—”

“I don’t want to,” he nearly shouted, frightened that the very thing he wanted, craved, was beginning to slip from his grasp. Annie’s eyebrows were raised and a goofy smirk tilted her lips. “I-I don’t wanna stop,” he tried again, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby,” she breathed pulling him down on top of her. Naturally, her mouth found the edge of his jaw because she couldn’t get enough of that tremble when she did something that felt too good for him to contain it. “Take these off,” she whispered in his ear. Her hands pulled at his boxers—the only thing on his body—and when he moved in a rush to obey her, she removed her own panties.

Kneeling between her open legs, Smoke groaned when he saw her arousal, glistening up at him. His mouth watered. His tip flushed. She was the most beautiful sight, and he made sure she knew that. The man whispered about her beauty into her left ear, how he was addicted to her, how he’d love her the length of his life, how he felt so safe and taken care of. He made sure she knew what she did to him and just how much he needed her in his life.

When the tip of his dick nudged itself between her folds, they both needed a second to collect themselves. Their conjoined warmth and wetness was almost too much to bear, and when Smoke began moving his hips to drag himself across her clit and back down to her entrance, they both wept.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, breath growing heavier. “How you feel so good?” The words were slurred, disbelief dripping off of each syllable, and although he asked the question rhetorically, he was beginning to think maybe he did need some explanation.

“You ain’t even got the tip in yet,” Annie laughed from her chest. She threw her head back when Smoke rubbed her clit back and forth. She was wet enough that she could hear it, and with the way Smoke was looking between her legs, she could only imagine the sight he was being met with. “Make sure you go in at an angle,” she instructed, placing a pillow beneath her lower back. They both needed this to be easy and enjoyable. The longer they waited, the more their arousal clawed through them and the more they grew worried about fucking this up.

What surprised Smoke first was how he slipped inside with such ease, but what surprised him most was how he could feel every shudder, ever shift, every vibration from the inside. With nearly half of his length tucked away inside of her, Annie pulled Smoke down so that their chests were flush, so that their breaths mingled.

“Can I move,” he questioned, voice breaking as he contemplated how long he’d be able to last once she gave him the go ahead. The feeling of her surrounding him was glorious, and the normally unflappable man felt anything but calm.

“Yeah,” she permitted, eyes dazed and dripping with emotion. Annie’s jaw cranked open as she eyed the man above her. They were both perfectly ruined for each other, so gone over the feeling of their bodies becoming one.

His hips moved timidly as he got a feel for the situation. And successfully delivering the man confidence, he stroked her walls in a slow rhythm when her hands landed on his ass in encouragement. Each thrust made them quake. Each drag made them moan. Each breath passed from one to another had them ready to break apart no matter how early in was in their pursuit.

“You doin’ so good, ‘Lijah,” Annie cooed, kissing his temple. His hips sped up, and hers rose to chase him every time he dragged out to the tip.

Breathing shakily, Smoke watched as the sun fell over Annie’s face. It floated through the windows, lighting up her eyes the same way the lights did at that concert—when he first got The Feeling. He decided in that moment, as her brown eyes revealed every fleck of honey in them, that the sun rose just for this. For her.

“You perfect,” he breathed, addicted, and butterflies flooded her body.

Neither of them wanted to tap out just yet. Neither of them wanted to let go. But when Smoke would pull out to the tip, Annie would pulse around him in a way he couldn’t resist. And when he’d bottom out again, a glorious pressure would form in the base of her stomach.

They continued to meet each other in the middle, arms holding on tight, bodies ready to give up the good fight.

And when they came, it was done simultaneously. They couldn’t do anything but surrender together, to each other.

Breaths hot.

Bodies trembling.

Morning dew fading away.

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word count: ~2,200

a/n: i'm still accepting requests! i have one more that i really want to get to, but i'm looking for anything interesting. smut, fluff, angst, whatever you got for me!

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Annie laughed. The sound came out sharp.

“You wanna know why?”

Smoke’s jaw tightened.

“Why I look at you like that.” Her grip tightened around the suitcase handle. “Because the last time I saw you, you acted like you couldn’t wait for me to get the fuck outta Mississippi.”

A murmur moved through the yard.

Smoke’s head jerked back slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.” The tears were coming faster now. “I came to yo’ house so excited to see you.”

She pointed at him. “I was nervous as fuck.” She stepped closer. “But you ain’t even want me there.”

The memory hit her all over again. Standing in that house. Sitting at the kitchen table. Trying to make conversation with him when he felt a million miles away despite being right in front of her.

“You barely talked to me.”

Smoke stared at her. “Annie—”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “You stood most of the time.”

Another step.

“You looked miserable.”

Another.

“You was more interested in whoever called your phone, than talkin’ to me.”

Something flashed across Smoke’s face. 

Memory.

Finally.

“Then I told you I was leavin’.” Her voice dropped. “And all you could say was ‘aight.’”

The yard went silent, because now they weren’t talking about the years after. They were talking about the last day. The last face-to-face meeting.

Annie laughed bitterly. “I said I’d call you.” Her eyes burned. “You ain’t even act like you cared if I did.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t even halfway down them porch steps before you closed the fuckin’ door.”

Smoke just stared at her. 

Then he laughed. 

The sound wasn’t amused. It wasn’t even angry. It sounded exhausted. Like somebody reaching the end of their rope.

“You really believe that delusional shit, huh?”

Annie froze.

Smoke shook his head.

“I sent you letters.”

His voice rose.

“I sent you birthday cards.”

Another step.

“I sent you Christmas cards.”

The hurt was gone now. This was frustration.

Years of it.

“Any fuckin’ thing I could think of to get you to talk to me.”

Smoke pointed at the mixtape still clutched in his hand.

“That mixtape was the last fuckin’ straw.”

Annie’s face faltered.

Smoke kept going. “I put everything I couldn’t say in that muthafucka.” His chest rose sharply. “I told you I loved you in that shit.” 

The words cracked. “Without sayin’ the words.”

Another step.

“And you still gave my ass nothin’.”

Annie stared at him. Confused. Hurt.

Smoke laughed again. Broken this time.

“No call.”

Another breath.

“No letter.”

Another.

“No card.”

His eyes burned. “Nothing.”

The silence stretched tight between them.

Then his face hardened. “And when I finally did talk to yo’ ass?”

Annie felt her stomach drop.

Smoke nodded once. Slow. Deliberate. “You got some nigga laughin’ in the background.”

The entire yard went still. Someone gasped. 

Annie blinked.

“What are you—?”

“You heard me.”

His jaw clenched.

“I called.”

Another breath.

“And some nigga in the background laughin’ while I’m listenin’ feelin’ stupid as fuck.”

Recognition flickered across Annie’s face.

Finally.

Because he’d been carrying that one for years.

“How the fuck you think that felt, huh?”

Annie opened her mouth. “Elijah…”

Smoke shook his head. 

Then finally answered the question she’d been asking this entire time. The one underneath everything else. The one about why he hadn’t begged.

Why he hadn’t chased. 

Why he hadn’t stopped her.

His voice dropped. Dangerously quiet.

“You wanted me to tell you to stay?”

Annie’s eyes filled with tears instantly.

Smoke nodded.

“You wanted me to tell you not to go?”

The hurt surfaced one final time. 

Raw. 

Unprotected.

“How was I to fight for you when I already thought you was gone?”

The words landed between them with enough force to steal the air from her lungs. 

For the first time since she stepped back into Mississippi, Annie realized something she had never considered.

The last time she saw Elijah Moore, he wasn’t sitting across that kitchen thinking she was leaving.

He was sitting there thinking she had already left.

Jada couldn’t remember the last time she felt this invisible.

The strange part was that neither of them had forgotten she was there.

Annie had looked directly at her. Smoke had answered questions about her. Her name had been spoken more than once since this conversation started.

Yet standing here now, she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was watching something that had started years before she arrived and would continue long after she left.

Around them, the cookout had faded into background noise. Not literally. Mrs. Jones still stood beside the grill. The dominoes game remained abandoned. Children still tore through the yard with water guns while somebody’s uncle argued about football loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear.

But none of it seemed to matter to the two people standing in the middle of the yard.

They had stopped talking about her several minutes ago.

Maybe they had never really been talking about her at all.

The thought settled uneasily in her chest.

She had spent the last year believing she understood what existed between her and Smoke. He hadn’t promised her anything. If anything, he had been frustratingly honest from the beginning. He wasn’t looking for a relationship. He wasn’t making promises. More than once he had told her she deserved somebody capable of giving her more than he could.

At the time, she thought he was protecting himself.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

Now she stood here listening to Annie talk about North Carolina and loneliness and missing Smoke, and for the first time Jada found herself wondering if she had misunderstood the entire situation from the beginning.

Because whatever this was, it didn’t feel unfinished.

It felt… interrupted.

To make it worse she heard him say—

“I thought you knew how much I fuckin’ love you.”

She felt the sentence before she fully understood it.

Her mind tried to correct what he had said. Tried to bend the words into something easier to survive. Loved. Had loved. Used to love. Any version that belonged safely in the past, where old heartbreaks and high school memories were supposed to stay. But Smoke hadn’t said it that way. He stood in the middle of Mrs. Jones’ yard with his voice cracked open, eyes fixed on Annie like nobody else existed, and said he loved her in the present tense.

Love.

It wasn’t nostalgia, regret or some unfinished thing he had outgrown, but never properly buried. Love. The kind of word Jada had spent the last year trying not to ask for because she already knew better. The kind of word Smoke had never offered her, not even accidentally, not even in one of their after-midnight moments when sometimes people said more than they meant to. He had been kind to her. Honest with her. Careful in his own way. But he had never been open. 

Not like this. 

Not exposed in front of half the town with his pride bleeding out at Annie’s feet.

The pieces came together slowly at first, then all at once. Every dinner made sense. The silence after Annie’s name came up. Every conversation he ended before it could become something more. 

Every moment she had mistaken for progress suddenly looked different.

She had spent a year telling herself Smoke was guarded, emotionally unavailable, too damaged by whatever had happened back then to let anybody all the way in. Standing here now, watching him look at Annie like the last eight years had never been able to touch the deepest part of him, Jada understood the truth with a humiliation so quiet it almost felt private.

He hadn’t been unavailable.

He was just unavailable to her.

She looked at Annie then, really looked at her. Tears were coming down her face so freely now that she didn’t seem aware of them anymore. The suitcase was still in her hand, though her grip had gone slack around the handle. She looked wrecked. Angry. Drunk enough to say too much and sober enough to feel every bit of it. Jada wanted to hate her for standing there holding the one thing Jada had spent years hoping for. But the anger wouldn’t hold the way it used to. Not now. Not while Annie looked like she had been bleeding from the same wound all along.

Then she looked at Smoke.

He wasn’t watching the crowd. Not Stack, Pearline, Mary or the dominoes table that had gone still behind him. 

He wasn’t even watching her.

The thought settled strangely in her chest because, despite everything, she knew things about Smoke. She knew how he took his coffee. Knew what kind of music he listened to when he thought nobody was paying attention. 

But standing here now, she found herself seeing how much of him had always remained just out of reach.

She knew his real name.

She had just used it not even an hour prior.

But standing here now, she realized there was a difference between knowing a name and belonging to it.

To most people he was Smoke. Even when they called him Elijah, it sounded like a substitute. A government name. Something official.

Annie said it differently.

Elijah when she was angry. Elijah when she was crying. Elijah when she wanted him to understand exactly how much he had hurt her.

And every single time she said it, his attention sharpened.

Friends had called him Elijah before. His family certainly had. But Jada couldn’t remember ever hearing another person say it and have him answer it so completely.

The realization settled quietly.

The name didn’t belong to Annie.

But somehow, the version of him that answered to it always had.

He was looking at Annie the same way he had looked past Jada in that parking lot freshman year. The same way he had looked every time Jada convinced herself she was imagining it, because the alternative meant admitting there had never really been a contest.

That was the part that finally settled.

There had never been a contest.

She had spent years wondering what Annie had that she didn’t. Beauty, softness, ease, some invisible thing people seemed to recognize before she could name it. She had treated the question like something she could solve if she studied it long enough. As though understanding Annie would somehow teach her how to be chosen over her. But standing there with Smoke’s confession still hanging in the humid air, she realized the question had always been wrong.

It was never about what Annie had.

It was Annie.

It had always been Annie.

Standing in Mrs. Jones’s backyard, listening to Smoke confess a love he never stopped carrying, she finally understood.

It was Annie then.

It was still Annie now.

Stack should have felt surprised.

Instead, he felt like somebody had finally handed him the missing pages of a story he’d been trying to understand for years.

Around him, nobody was pretending to mind their business anymore.

Aunt Cheryl had abandoned the grill entirely. The tongs she’d been carrying were long gone now, forgotten somewhere behind her. Uncle Lewis stood beside her with his arms folded across his chest, his expression unreadable beneath the evening light. Geneva and Max had drifted closer too. Even the dominoes game had dissolved. The men still sat around the table, but nobody was touching the tiles. The entire yard seemed suspended between one moment and the next, waiting to see what would happen.

He barely noticed any of it.

His attention remained fixed on Annie and Smoke.

For the first time since Annie came home, Smoke and Annie were finally talking. Really talking. Not the careful conversations they’d been having for the last two days or the polite versions of themselves they showed everybody else. 

This was the ugly shit. The buried shit. Shit both of them should’ve said years ago, but never did.

Then Smoke said it.

“When I finally talked to yo’ ass, I heard some nigga in the background laughin’.”

The words settled over the yard.

He felt something click into place. He didn’t know exactly what Smoke was talking about, but suddenly he understood something he hadn’t understood in years.

Back then, he’d known something happened. He just never knew what.

After Annie moved to North Carolina, Smoke had still talked about her at first. Not constantly. That wasn’t his style. But enough. Enough that he knew she stayed on his mind. Then one day it seemed like somebody flipped a switch.

Smoke stopped bringing her up. He wasn’t checking the mailbox on the regular. And he stopped looking at the phone every time it rang.

The change hadn’t happened at once. It was slow enough that most wouldn’t have noticed it. 

But he did.

They were sitting on the back patio steps one evening when he’d finally gotten tired of pretending not to know something was wrong.

“What happened wit’ Annie?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He’d kept staring out into the yard like he hadn’t heard the question.

“Nothin’.”

“C’mon bruh.”

A long silence followed.

Then Smoke finally spoke. “Me and Annie done.”

Stack remembered waiting for more. An explanation. A reason.

Anything.

None came.

Smoke stood, flicked his cigarette into the dirt, and walked inside.

That had been the end of it.

Every time Stack tried bringing Annie up afterward, the conversation died before it started. Smoke changed the subject. Left the room. Found something else to do. Looking back, Stack realized he hadn’t been protecting a secret.

He’d been protecting a wound.

Standing in Aunt Cheryl’s backyard now, listening to eight years of misunderstandings unravel in real time, he finally knew what he’d been looking at back then.

Smoke hadn’t stopped talking because he stopped caring. He stopped talking because something convinced him Annie was already gone.

The knowledge of this sat heavy. He watched the two of them. Shit, the whole reason he’d pushed Annie to come over that last time she was in town was because he’d been hoping they would talk. 

He remembered practically forcing the issue. Telling her to stop being scary and come through. Watching her walk into the house carrying that overnight bag. Watching Smoke look up when she stepped through the door. Then leaving because he’d thought privacy was all they needed.

Now he wanted to go back in time and knock both of them upside the fucking head.

Apparently they’d spent the entire visit doing exactly what they were doing before now—avoiding conversations that mattered.

Annie thought Smoke had sent her a goodbye.

Smoke thought Annie had moved on.

Neither one of them said any of it.

Stack looked towards Pearline.

She stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, her face still carrying traces of the argument she’d had upstairs. If there was anybody in the yard having a worse day than Annie and Smoke, it was probably her.

Between Annie cussing her out and Mary standing twenty feet away pretending she hadn’t started half this bullshit, Pearline was already hanging on by a thread. Add in the fact that Mary had slept with Stack while she and Stack were still trying to figure out whatever the hell they were becoming, and Pearline looked one inconvenience away from committing a felony.

Despite everything else going on, they both seemed to arrive at the same conclusion at exactly the same time.

These two had spent eight years makin’ themselves miserable when all they had to do was open their muthafuckin’ mouths and talk.

Annie stared at him.

For several seconds, she couldn’t make herself respond. Not because she had nothing to say, but because too many things arrived at once and crowded her throat before any one of them could become words. The heat in her face sharpened into something closer to embarrassment, then anger, then disbelief. She could see him standing there at eighteen with the phone pressed to his ear, hearing some boy laugh somewhere behind her and deciding the worst possible thing because hurt people were good at doing that. 

She could see it. That was the problem. She could finally see it, and seeing it didn’t make her less angry.

“That was probably somebody from class,” she said, her voice rough from crying. “I don’t know, Elijah. I had people around me.”

Smoke laughed once, and the sound cut through what little softness had tried to form between them. “Of course you did.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck that supposed to mean?”

“It mean exactly what it sound like.” 

His grip tightened around the mixtape without him seeming to realize it. 

“I been standin’ here listenin’ to you tell me what you thought, what you felt, what you needed, like I was supposed to know all that from three states away when half the time I couldn’t even get you on the fuckin’ phone. I tried everything I could think of just to get you to talk to me. And you still gave me your ass to kiss.”

The words hit hard enough to make someone in the crowd inhale sharply. 

Annie felt the force of them too, but pride rose before hurt could fully show. It crawled up her spine and locked her shoulders in place, the same stubbornness that had carried her through years of pretending she hadn’t spent half her life missing him. 

Across the yard, Pearline’s face tightened like she already knew Annie was about to say something she would regret. 

Maybe she did. Maybe everyone did. Maybe that’s why she started moving towards Annie.

Smoke kept going, his voice lower now but no less dangerous. “So yeah, when I finally heard yo’ voice and some nigga was in the background laughin’ like he had a reason to be comfortable around you, I was done. By the time you came to my house, I already thought you was gone. Hell yeah I was distant. Hell yeah I didn’t know what to say. What the fuck you expect me to do, Annie? Sit there and beg you to stay after you had spent months showin’ me you ain’t wanna be kept?”

Annie flinched before she could stop herself.

The reaction crossed Smoke’s face quickly. Satisfaction didn’t follow it. If anything, he looked worse for having said it. 

Tired. 

Angry. 

Hurt enough to keep swinging because stopping would mean feeling the full weight of what he had just admitted in front of everybody.

“That’s what you thought?” Annie asked.

“What else was I supposed to think?”

“You could’ve asked me.”

Smoke’s laugh was sharp. “Oh, you would’ve answered this time?”

The words landed exactly where he aimed them. 

Annie’s mouth parted, but nothing came out at first. 

Around them, the yard seemed to draw even closer. Aunt Cheryl had moved off to the side of them, Uncle Lewis beside her with a hand hovering near her elbow like he was not sure whether to hold her back or follow her in. Geneva and Aunt Max stood just behind them, their faces set with the kind of concern that understood this was no longer simply messy. 

This was two people cutting each other because bleeding alone had stopped feeling fair.

Annie swallowed hard, but her pride would not let her lower her voice. “Sorry,” she said, the word brittle enough to break. “I forgot who I was talkin’ to.”

Smoke’s eyes darkened. “What that mean?”

She laughed, and it came out uglier than she intended. “Mr. Talkative. My fault. I forgot I was supposed to read your mind and listen to a mixtape wit’ no note, no explanation, no call, no nothin’, and somehow understand everything you were too fuckin’ scared to say out loud.”

Stack’s hand came up toward his face, not quite covering his eyes but close enough. Pearline closed hers. Mary, who had been chewing on the inside of her cheek so hard she looked like she might draw blood, went completely still. Even Jada seemed to wince, though whether it was for Annie or Smoke, nobody could tell.

Smoke stared at Annie like she had reached over and put her hand directly on an old bruise.

“You wanna talk about that day at my house?” he asked.

Annie lifted her chin. “I been talkin’ about it.”

“Nah.” Smoke shook his head once, slow and controlled. “You been talkin’ about what you decided it was. You walked in there already thinkin’ I had moved on, and everything I did after that, you made it fit.”

Her eyes flashed. “And you didn’t?”

The question stopped him for a moment, just long enough for Annie to see that it landed. She stepped closer before she could think better of it, the suitcase forgotten at her side, the tequila still moving through her blood in warm, reckless waves.

“You stood there lookin’ at your phone,” she said. “That’s what you were doin’ while I was sittin’ there feelin’ stupid. So since we talkin’ about assumptions, what was I supposed to think? You thought I moved on, you did too?”

Smoke’s jaw clenched. “That wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t, what, Smoke?” she cut in.

The name landed wrong.

Everybody felt it.

Smoke’s face changed immediately, the anger tightening into something sharper because she knew exactly what she had done. She always called him Elijah, and today dragging his real name out of him with every accusation and every confession, and now she had put Smoke between them like a door slamming shut.

Annie saw the reaction and kept going anyway.

“That your phone wasn’t blowin’ up? That you wasn’t waitin’ on somebody else to call? What, you was fuckin’ Jada back then too? Couldn’t wait to call her pick-me ass once I left?”

Mary choked on whatever was in her cup. It came out half cough, half strangled laugh, and Aunt Max shot her a look sharp enough to cut. Jada’s face went completely still, all the earlier humiliation hardening into something colder as she looked from Annie to Smoke and back again. She didn’t smirk. She didn’t defend herself. She only shook her head once, small and tired, like even she knew this had stopped being about her a long time ago and somehow Annie had dragged her back into it anyway.

Smoke’s voice dropped. “That was my boss.”

Annie blinked.

Smoke took a step closer. “That phone you keep talkin’ about? That was my boss tellin’ me what job site to be at the next mornin’.”

For one humiliating instant, Annie felt the ground quake under her. She saw the kitchen again. Smoke glancing at the phone. Her stomach twisting. Her mind building a whole story out of one look because she had been scared enough to believe almost anything by then. The obviousness of it should have made her quiet. 

Instead, pride rushed in to save her from the shame.

“Sure, Smoke.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

“The way you looked at that phone wasn’t no damn job site look.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that nigga was just a classmate?” Smoke fired back, his voice rising again. “Not with the way he was laughin’. Not with that little ‘oh, Annie’ shit in the background like he knew somethin’ I didn’t.”

Recognition flashed across her face before she could hide it.

Smoke caught it.

“Yeah,” he said, the word rough. “I remember that part too.”

Annie’s stomach tightened because now she remembered it clearly enough to hate how messy memory could be. A study group. Somebody joking around. A boy from class who had been harmless and annoying and nowhere near important enough to have shaped eight years of pain. She couldn’t even remember his name. Could barely remember his face. 

Yet here Elijah stood, holding onto his laugh like evidence.

“Again…you could’ve asked,” she said through clenched teeth.

Smoke’s laugh came fast and mean. “Again… you would’ve answered?”

The yard flinched with her.

Annie took a step toward him, anger burning through the embarrassment now. “Maybe if you learned how to open your fuckin’ mouth instead of sittin’ around actin’ like silence make you deep, we wouldn’t be here.”

Stack moved before anyone else did. Not fully between them yet, but closer. Pearline reached for Annie at the same time, her hand closing around her arm just above the elbow.

“Annie,” Pearline warned softly.

Annie snatched her arm back without looking at her. “No, don’t Annie me. Everybody wanna talk now, right? Everybody got all this shit to say now.”

Smoke stepped forward too, and Stack’s hand landed flat against his chest.

“Back up,” Stack muttered.

Smoke didn’t look at him. “Move.”

“Nah, back up bruh.”

Aunt Cheryl finally stepped into the center of it, and though her voice was not loud, it carried across the yard with enough force to cut through the shouting. 

“ENOUGH.”

Nobody moved at first.

She looked at Annie, then at Smoke, and the disappointment in her face somehow made both of them look younger. “Y’all are bein’ real damn silly right now, and I know both of y’all got more sense than this.”

Annie’s chest rose and fell too quickly. “I’m leaving.”

“Baby, don’t walk outta here like this,” Aunt Cheryl said.

“I said I’m leaving.”

“You hear me talkin’ to you?”

Annie looked away because if she looked at Aunt Cheryl too long, she might break in a way anger could not hide. “I can’t be here.”

Smoke laughed under his breath, and the sound made something in her snap before he even spoke.

“Go on then.”

The yard went still.

Stack’s head turned sharply toward his brother. “Smoke.”

Smoke ignored him, his eyes locked on Annie. “Run away like you always do. That’s what you good at anyway.”

The words hit harder than anything else he had said, maybe because this one was not about old phone calls or letters or a mixtape or some boy laughing in the background. This one was about her. About the pattern he believed he knew. 

About the thing she feared might be true.

Annie moved before she thought.

Pearline caught her around the waist just as Stack caught Smoke by the shoulders.

“Let me go,” Annie snapped.

“No,” Pearline said, voice shaking now. “No, you not doin’ this.”

Smoke tried to shrug Stack off. “Get off me.”

“Bruh, chill the fuck out,” Stack said, tightening his grip. “Both of y’all look stupid.”

The whole yard had shifted into motion now. Aunt Cheryl was yelling for everybody to back up. Uncle Lewis stepped between two cousins trying to get closer. Geneva had one hand pressed to her mouth while Aunt Max kept saying Annie’s name like repetition might bring her back to herself. 

Cornbread stood near the edge of the yard with Therise tucked behind him, his eyes moving between Smoke and anyone who looked like they might be foolish enough to step in wrong. Bo hovered near the dominoes table, uncertain whether to help or stay out of grown folks’ business. Mike and Isoo stood a little farther away with Grace beside them, all three looking like they had accidentally wandered into the part of a family gathering nobody was supposed to see.

Then Annie saw Isoo.

It happened fast enough that nobody could stop it and slow enough that everybody understood what she was doing.

Her eyes found him across the yard, and the expression on her face changed. It wasn’t soft or calm. Her expression changed into something petty, wounded, and desperate to regain control of a situation that had stripped her bare in front of all the people she knew.

“Isoo.”

Smoke went still in Stack’s arms.

Pearline’s grip tightened around Annie immediately. “Annie, don’t.”

Isoo looked caught off guard at first. Then he straightened, his gaze flicking from Annie to Smoke and back again. “Uhh, yeah?”

Annie wiped her face with the back of her hand, still breathing too hard. “Will you get me outta here? I don’t wanna be here no more.”

A low sound moved through the yard.

Smoke’s entire body moved forward, but Stack shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble a half step.

“Don’t,” Stack said.

Smoke’s eyes never left Annie. “You serious?”

Annie looked directly at him when she answered. “Yeah.”

Pearline turned her slightly, trying to make Annie look at her instead. “Please don’t do this. Not like this.”

Aunt Cheryl stepped closer. “Annie, baby, you makin’ a mistake.”

“I already made plenty today.”

“Then don’t make another one,” Geneva said, her voice gentle but firm.

Annie heard them. She did. Somewhere underneath the hurt and the tequila and the humiliation, she heard every warning being offered to her. But hearing was not the same as stopping. Not when Smoke was still looking at her like he had been right about her all along. 

Not when the word run was still sitting in the air between them.

Isoo took a cautious step forward.

Mike immediately caught his arm. “Bro, don’t do it.”

Isoo looked at him. “She don’t wanna be here, Mike.”

“I said don’t do it.”

“She asked me for a ride.”

Mike’s expression tightened because everybody knew it was more than that. Annie knew it too. So did Isoo. So did Smoke. The entire yard could see it, which only made it worse.

Smoke shoved Stack’s hands off him hard enough this time that Stack had to step in front of him fully. “Annie, you don’t gotta leave. I’ll go.”

The words should have softened something.

They did.

For a second.

Then Isoo spoke.

“She said she don’t wanna be here, Smoke. Let her go.”

Smoke turned his head slowly.

The yard seemed to feel the change before anybody moved. Stack’s hand went back to Smoke’s chest. Mike stepped in front of Isoo. Aunt Cheryl said Smoke’s name in a voice that should have stopped him.

It did not.

Isoo stepped around Mike and lifted his chin just enough to make the whole thing worse. “You done said enough to her.”

Smoke moved so fast Stack barely managed to get a hand on him.

It slowed the first step.

It didn’t stop the second.

The punch landed with a sick, clean sound that cut through the entire yard. Isoo stumbled backward into Mike, one hand flying to his mouth as Grace screamed and Cornbread cursed loud enough to shake the trees. 

Everything exploded at once. 

Stack grabbed Smoke from behind, dragging him back with both arms locked around his chest. Mike shoved Isoo behind him while Bo and Cornbread rushed forward. Aunt Cheryl’s voice rose above everybody else, furious and heartbroken all at once, but Annie barely heard it.

Annie stood frozen with Pearline’s arms still around her.

Because a minute ago she had wanted to leave.

A minute ago she had wanted to hurt him.

A minute ago she had wanted to prove she could walk away first.

Now Elijah stood several feet away, breathing hard, eyes still locked on hers while half the yard tried to keep him from doing something worse, and Annie realized with a sick, sinking feeling that the thing between them had not broken open.

It had finally broken all the way loose.

Stack didn’t stop walking until they were well past the edge of the cookout.

The music still carried through the trees, muffled now by distance. Every so often laughter drifted across the yard, strange and out of place after everything that had just happened. The farther they moved from the crowd, the easier it became to pretend the entire scene had happened somewhere else.

Smoke knew better.

His jaw still ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. His knuckles hurt too. Every few steps he flexed his hand without realizing it, the sting settling deeper each time.

Neither brother spoke.

Not at first.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It rarely was. Most people expected twins to talk constantly. Stack and Smoke had never needed to. Half the time they communicated through looks, shrugs, or the simple understanding that came from spending an entire lifetime beside somebody.

They stopped beneath the old pecan tree near the edge of the property.

The same tree they’d hidden behind as kids whenever Aunt Cheryl started handing out chores.

Smoke leaned against the trunk of the tree and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

The movement felt automatic. Familiar. Something to do with his hands while his head tried and failed to catch up with everything that had happened over the last hour. His fingers found the pack easily enough, but when he reached for the lighter, the tremor hit immediately. Not enough for most people to notice. Enough for Stack.

The wheel clicked beneath his thumb.

Nothing.

Smoke frowned and tried again. This time a flame appeared before sputtering out. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath as frustration tightened his jaw. Before he could try a third time, the lighter disappeared from his hand altogether.

He looked up.

Stack stood there holding it.

Neither brother acknowledged what had just happened. They didn’t need to. Stack flicked the wheel once and a steady flame appeared immediately. Smoke leaned forward, lit the cigarette, and took a long drag. The burn settled harshly in his lungs, but it gave him something to focus on besides the image of Annie standing in the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s yard with tears on her face, fire in her eyes, and a suitcase in her hand.

For a while neither of them spoke. The sounds of the cookout drifted through the trees in pieces. Somebody shouted something that earned a chorus of responses. Music floated lazily through the humid evening air. Life was already trying to move on from the scene they had left behind.

Smoke wasn’t.

His attention kept drifting toward the house. The porch. The front yard. The windows upstairs. Anywhere Annie might appear.

Stack followed his brother’s gaze and immediately understood what he was looking for.

Or rather who.

It sat heavily on his chest. Even after the argument, after the screaming. And even after the punch. Smoke was still checking to see if Annie had left.

Again.

Stack rubbed a hand across his jaw and sighed.

“You know what’s crazy?”

Smoke already hated where this was going.

“No.”

“You punched the wrong nigga.”

The cigarette paused halfway to Smoke’s mouth. He turned slowly toward his brother, prepared to tell him exactly where he could go with that opinion, but the words never came. Stack wasn’t smiling. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement on his face.

That was how Smoke knew he was serious.

“Isoo ain’t why you mad.”

Smoke looked away.

Unfortunately, that only proved the point.

Stack watched him before his attention drifted downward. The mixtape was still in Smoke’s hand.

That stopped him.

Because of what it represented. Because somehow, through the argument, the walk across the yard, and the fight, Smoke had never put the damn CD down.

“You still got it.”

Smoke frowned.

“What?”

Stack nodded toward the plastic case.

“You ain’t even notice, did you?”

For the first time Smoke followed his gaze. His eyes settled on the familiar handwriting stretched across the cover, and something tightened in his chest so suddenly it almost annoyed him.

Annie’s handwriting.

Uneven.

Familiar.

The same handwriting he’d spent years pretending didn’t matter anymore.

Two weeks.

She’d spent two weeks making it. Two weeks choosing songs and recording tracks and carrying around thoughts she apparently never intended to say out loud. Then she’d brought it all the way from North Carolina just to throw it at his head in the middle of a family cookout.

The memory should’ve irritated him. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Stack caught it immediately.

“There he is.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Nah.” A laugh escaped Stack before he could stop it. “That girl been stressin’ yo’ ass out since freshman year.”

The comment should’ve been easy to ignore. Instead it pulled a memory loose.

Not a fight or an argument.

Something worse.

A Saturday afternoon at Mary’s house nearly ten years ago.

The backyard had been packed with teenagers pretending they were older than they actually were. Music blasted from a speaker somebody’s cousin swore cost more than his first car. Folding chairs circled coolers full of drinks nobody was supposed to have. Half the boys spent the afternoon trying to look cool while half the girls pretended not to notice them trying.

Annie had been sitting on the hood of somebody’s car laughing so hard she nearly slid off the edge.

Stack remembered that part clearly.

The sunlight catching the gold in her earrings. Her hair pulled back. The way she laughed with her whole body when something genuinely caught her off guard.

Isoo stood nearby, running his mouth the way Isoo always did.

Talking.

Joking.

Trying to make everybody laugh.

For a while nobody paid much attention. Then Annie hopped down from the hood and wandered off toward the house with Pearline and a few other girls.

The conversation turned naturally after that.

At least until Isoo looked in the direction she’d disappeared and shook his head.

“Maaaannn, Annie get any thicker and somebody gon’ have to do somethin’ about it.”

A few of the boys laughed. Stack remembered laughing too.

At first.

Isoo grinned. “Y’all laughin’, but I’m serious.”

More laughter.

Mike threw a chip at him. “Shut yo’ dumb ass up.”

Isoo caught it and kept talking anyway. “Landry act all shy and innocent, bet it won’t take much to get in them pants.”

The laughter died just enough for the guys to start looking at each other. Enough for Mike to stop smiling and for Stack to notice Smoke. Because Smoke had gone completely still. Not the usual version everybody knew. 

This was different.

The kind of stillness that felt dangerous.

Isoo either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“What?” he laughed. “Y’all know I’m right.”

Nobody answered.

Stack remembered watching Smoke set his drink down.

Slowly. 

Carefully.

The way people did when they were trying very hard not to break something.

Or someone.

“Aight.”

The single word cut through the conversation.

Isoo looked over. “What?”

Smoke’s face gave away nothing. “Aight.”

The backyard had gone completely silent by then. Even the music seemed farther away.

Isoo laughed nervously. “What?”

Smoke took one step forward. “Don’t do that.”

The smile faded from Isoo’s face. “Do what?”

“Talk about Annie.”

The answer came calm. Too calm.

Stack remembered exchanging a look with Mike. Both of them already knew where this was headed.

Isoo tried to laugh again. It didn’t sound nearly as confident this time. “Man, I ain’t say nothin’.”

Smoke took another step. “Then keep it that way.”

Nobody spoke. The tension sat thick enough to touch. Then Mike stepped between them before either one of them could do something stupid.

“Everybody chill.”

Smoke didn’t take his eyes off Isoo. Isoo didn’t take his eyes off Smoke. Eventually somebody changed the subject. Somebody turned the music up. 

The moment passed.

At least on the surface.

Later that night Stack finally asked about it. “You really don’t like Isoo?”

Smoke hadn’t even looked up from whatever he was pretending to focus on. “I tolerate him.”

Stack remembered laughing. “What the hell that mean?”

“It mean I tolerate him.”

That had been the end of the conversation.

At least until now.

Standing beneath the pecan tree nearly ten years later, the memory came back so clearly Stack almost laughed.

Almost.

Because looking at Smoke now, looking at the bruised knuckles, the cigarette hanging from his mouth, and the mixtape still clutched in his hand, Stack finally understood something he probably should’ve understood a long time ago.

Smoke never got over anything when it came to Annie. Not the comments. Not the misunderstandings. Not the silence. And definitely not her.

The memory hit Stack hard enough that he started laughing all over again.

Smoke shot him a glare. “What?”

“You serious?”

“What the fuck so funny?”

Stack shook his head. “Man.”

“What?”

“Nigga, you almost fought Isoo over Annie before she was even yo’ girl.”

Smoke frowned. “That ain’t what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

“It ain’t.”

Stack laughed. “Nigga, you been holdin’ a grudge against that man for almost ten years.”

Smoke dragged on the cigarette and looked away.

Which was answer enough.

Stack laughed one final time before the amusement faded from his face. Something more serious settled into its place as his eyes looked back towards the house. Somewhere behind them Aunt Cheryl was probably still fussing. Pearline was probably trying to keep Annie from doing something she’d regret. Mary was probably regretting every decision that led her to this afternoon.

Eventually Stack sighed. “You know what really got you tho?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack kept going anyway. “She was leavin’.”

The words hit home.

Smoke’s shoulders tightened.

Stack noticed.

“That’s what this really about.”

The cigarette burned quietly between Smoke’s fingers as he stared toward the trees.

“You thought she was stayin’.”

Silence.

“And then she grabbed that suitcase.”

The image came back instantly. Annie walking across the yard. Suitcase in one hand. Mixtape tucked beneath her arm.

Leaving.

Again.

The feeling that followed made Smoke’s stomach turn.

Stack saw the exact moment it happened. Saw the way his brother looked away. Saw the way his jaw tightened.

“You ain’t punch Isoo because Annie asked him to get her outta there.”

His voice came quieter now.

More careful.

“You punched him because she grabbed that suitcase again and the first person she reached for wasn’t you.”

The truth settled heavy between them.

Smoke stared out toward the trees and, for once, had absolutely nothing to say. Because his brother was right.

And they both knew it.

After a while Stack nodded toward the mixtape still resting in Smoke’s hand.

“You gon’ listen to it?”

Smoke looked down.

The handwriting seemed heavier now somehow. Not because it had changed, but because he finally understood what it cost her to make it. The physical proof that Annie had loved him enough to create something. Loved him enough to carry it across state lines. Loved him enough to spend eight years holding onto pieces of him she should’ve left behind a long time ago.

“I don’t know.”

Stack snorted. “That’s a lie.”

Smoke glanced up.

Stack shook his head. “You been listenin’ to Annie for damn near ten years.”

The words lingered beneath the pecan tree long after neither brother said anything else. Smoke looked down at the mixtape again and, for the first time all day, allowed himself to consider the possibility that everything he thought he knew about the last eight years might’ve been wrong.

The yard didn’t go quiet after Stack dragged Smoke away, but something in it changed. The music still played from the speakers near the patio, and the children eventually started running again once the adults stopped looking like somebody might get knocked into the grass next. A few people returned to their plates because food was food, even when the family business had just embarrassed everybody in a twenty-foot radius. 

But nobody really went back to normal. 

The dominoes table remained half-abandoned. Aunt Cheryl’s grill smoked unattended. Uncle Lewis stood near the center of the yard with his hands on his hips, looking at everybody like he was daring one more person to act a fool. The whole cookout felt bruised.

Annie stood in the middle of it with Pearline’s hand still wrapped around her arm and realized, slowly and then with a sickening drop in her stomach, that she had done exactly what she swore she hated. 

She had made everybody watch her hurt. 

She had dragged Pearline into it. Jada into it.

And now Isoo. 

Elijah was dragged into the worst, ugliest parts of herself and then stood there shocked when he bled too. 

The anger that had carried her across the yard and into the argument had started to burn out, leaving behind humiliation, tequila, and the awful clarity of consequences. Across from her, Isoo stood with Mike beside him, rubbing his jaw while pretending the punch had not landed as hard as everybody heard it land.

Annie swallowed around the knot in her throat and pulled herself out of Pearline’s hold. For a moment Pearline tightened her fingers like she thought Annie might do something else, but Annie only shook her head and stepped toward Isoo. The movement made several people pause, including Mike, who immediately stepped halfway in front of his cousin like he didn’t trust this day to stop being stupid on its own. Annie could not blame him. She barely trusted herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and the words felt too small for the amount of damage sitting around them.

Isoo blinked at her like he had not expected to be included in her regret. “For what?”

Annie almost laughed, but the sound would have come out wrong, so she looked down instead. “For pullin’ you into this. For askin’ you to take me away from here when I knew exactly what I was doin’.” Her voice thinned slightly on the last part because saying it out loud made it real in a way thinking it had not. “You ain’t deserve to get hit because I was tryin’ to make him mad.”

Mike made a sound under his breath that sounded suspiciously like agreement, but Isoo lifted a hand before he could start. There was still irritation in his face, and there should’ve been, but there was also enough understanding to make Annie feel worse. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, rubbing his jaw again. “You kinda did put me in the middle of the shit.”

“I know.” Annie nodded, blinking back tears she was tired of shedding in public. “And I’m sorry.”

Isoo looked past her toward the side of the house where Stack had taken Smoke, then back at her. “You good?”

That almost broke her. It wasn’t because she was good, it was because Isoo asking after taking a punch from the man she had actually been trying to hurt made her feel about two inches tall. “No,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “But that still wasn’t fair to you.”

Behind her, Aunt Cheryl gave a low hum that said she approved of the apology but not nearly enough to be finished with Annie. 

That sound alone made Annie’s shoulders drop. She knew what was coming before she turned around. Aunt Cheryl had moved closer, Aunt Max and Geneva with her, and Pearline stood slightly behind them with her arms crossed tight against her chest and dried tears still on her face. The four of them together looked less like comfort and more like judgment with earrings on.

Before Aunt Cheryl could speak, movement near the driveway caught Annie’s attention. Jada was standing beside her car with her keys in one hand and her purse tucked beneath her arm. 

For a minute she simply stood there, looking towards Annie with an expression Annie couldn’t fully read. Not smug, angry or defeated exactly. Just tired in a way that made Annie’s own anger toward her feel suddenly old and useless. 

Their eyes met across the yard, and neither woman said anything. There was too much history and not enough relationship for words to do anything helpful. Jada gave the smallest nod, not a forgiveness or friendship nod, but a nod of acknowledgment. She then opened her car door and left without turning the moment into anything bigger than it needed to be.

Mary, unfortunately, was not nearly as graceful.

“I just wanna say—”

The collective groan that rose around the yard cut her off quickly.

Pearline laughed. The sound held no amusement whatsoever.

“No.”

Mary blinked. “No?”

“No.” The exhaustion in Pearline’s voice somehow made the word sharper.

For one stunned moment she simply stared at Mary. The woman had spent the entire afternoon looking uncomfortable, defensive, confused, and mildly offended depending on who happened to be talking to her. Right now she looked all four at once.

Mary folded her arms. “I was just tryna help.”

That made Pearline laugh again.

This time several people looked over.

“Help who?”

“Annie.”

“By doin’ what?” Pearline asked. “Having Jada show up so you could embarrass Annie?”

Mary opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shrugged. “How was I supposed to know she didn’t know about Jada?”

Pearline stared at her for a long moment. The anger she’d been carrying around shifted into something else. 

Disbelief maybe.

Because that answer would’ve meant a lot more if Mary hadn’t spent years inserting herself into situations that had absolutely nothing to do with her.

“Funny.”

Mary frowned. “What’s funny?”

“You suddenly worried about other people’s feelings besides your own.”

A few people nearby winced.

Mary’s expression hardened immediately. “Oh, here we go.”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” Pearline folded her arms across her chest. “You knew Stack and I was tryin’ to work on our shit.”

The tension in the yard changed, because now they weren’t talking about Annie and Smoke anymore. Now they were talking about something else.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Pearline—”

“No.”

The answer came quick.

Firm.

“You knew.”

Mary looked away briefly.

Pearline shook her head. “I knew Stack had a reputation. Shit, the whole county knew Stack had a reputation.”

That earned a snort from somewhere behind her.

Probably Cornbread.

She ignored it. “I knew what I was signin’ up for. I knew me and him wasn’t together.” Her eyes settled on Mary. “But you knew too.”

Mary’s jaw tightened.

The silence stretched just long enough for everybody to understand what Pearline was really saying. Mary didn’t owe her loyalty nor did she steal anything.

But Mary knew and still did it anyway.

Movement near the side of the house pulled several heads around.

Stack had reappeared.

He walked back into the yard from the direction he’d taken Smoke, hands shoved into his pockets and irritation written plainly across his face. One look at the group gathered around Mary and Pearline told him exactly where the conversation had gone while he was gone.

Unfortunately for him, when Pearline saw him, her eyes narrowed.

“Here come Satan himself.”

Stack sighed immediately. “Maaaannn.”

Mary looked relieved to see him. Pearline looked anything but. 

Stack stopped a few feet away. “What happened now?”

Pearline pointed at Mary. Then pointed at him. Then pointed back at Mary. The gesture somehow communicated an entire argument without requiring a single additional word.

Stack understood every bit of it.

Unfortunately.

Mary looked toward Stack as though he might somehow rescue her from the argument. “Tell her.”

The request earned a sharp laugh from Pearline. “Tell me what?”

Mary threw her hands into the air, visibly frustrated by the fact that nobody seemed interested in helping her case. “That y’all wasn’t even together when Stack and I hooked up.”

From where Annie stood, she watched something flicker across Pearline’s face. It didn’t look like anger. Not exactly. More like exhaustion. The kind that came from having the same conversation too many times with somebody determined not to understand it.

The problem had never been whether Mary and Stack were technically together. 

Everybody knew they weren’t.

That wasn’t the point.

Apparently Stack had finally reached the same conclusion.

“She know that.”

Mary frowned immediately. “Then why she actin’ like—”

“Because that ain’t what she mad about.”

The interruption landed hard enough to stop her.

Annie watched Mary blink. Then stare. Then look at Stack like he’d suddenly switched sides in the middle of the game.

Stack sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. The gesture reminded Annie of Elijah. Not because they looked alike. It was the way both brothers seemed to reach for their necks whenever they were about to say something they didn’t particularly want to say.

“The point ain’t whether me and her was together.”

Mary folded her arms. “Then what is it?”

Stack looked directly at her. “The point is you knew me and Pearline was tryna figure somethin’ out.”

The yard seemed to settle around the statement. Enough for Annie to see Mary’s expression change, and to see Pearline stop looking angry and start looking hurt. Enough for everybody listening to understand exactly what Stack meant.

Mary opened her mouth as if she intended to argue. Nothing came out.

Stack nodded once. “And so did I,” he added quietly. “And I still did it anyway.”

That seemed to surprise everybody.

Including Pearline.

The admission lingered in the air longer than Annie expected. For most of the afternoon people had been defending themselves. Explaining themselves. Finding ways to make their mistakes belong to somebody else. Stack’s words carried none of that. No excuses or an attempt to soften the edges.

He owned it.

Annie watched Pearline look away first. Whatever answer she had been expecting from him clearly wasn’t that one.

Stack’s attention followed her immediately. “Pea.”

Pearline’s eyes found him almost against her will. “What?”

The answer came sharp enough to draw a few smiles from the people standing nearby.

Stack accepted it without complaint. “You right.” His jaw tightened briefly before he continued. “We wasn’t together.”

Pearline rolled her eyes so hard Annie almost laughed. “Stack.”

“Let me finish.”

Pearline crossed her arms. The look she gave him suggested she was considering several forms of violence.

Still, she stayed quiet.

Stack took a slow breath. “We wasn’t together,” he repeated. “But I knew how you felt.”

Something changed in Pearline’s face. Small. Quick. Easy to miss if Annie hadn’t been watching.

The crowd seemed to fade away. For one brief moment it looked like only the two of them existed.

“And if I’m bein’ honest,” Stack continued, “I knew how I felt too.”

The confession seemed to make him uncomfortable almost immediately.

Good. Annie thought he deserved it.

Stack shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced toward the ground before looking back at Pearline. “I should’ve never did it.”

The words came rougher now. 

Real.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

The entire yard seemed to pause, because Stack rarely apologized. Not without being forced.

Pearline stared at him for so long Annie started wondering if she intended to leave him hanging.

Then she shook her head. “You really practiced that and still sounded stupid.”

The laugh that escaped Aunt Max came out so suddenly she nearly choked on her drink.

A few other people joined in.

Even Stack smiled. 

Briefly.

“Probably.”

“Definitely.”

That earned another round of laughter. Some of the tension that had been suffocating the yard all afternoon finally loosened. Not completely. There were still too many wounds walking around for that. But enough for people to breathe again.

Annie smiled despite herself.

Pearline was making a joke out of it because that was easier than standing in the middle of a cookout and admitting she’d been waiting to hear those words for months.

But Annie knew what she was really saying.

I heard you.

I’m still mad.

But I heard you.

Aunt Max pointed immediately. “Good. We done here.”

Several heads turned toward her.

She pointed directly at Pearline next. “And stop cussin’.”

Pearline stared at her. “I only said one bad word.”

“That was enough.”

A few people laughed.

Including Pearline.

Finally.

Aunt Cheryl, who had spent most of the exchange watching everybody with the patience of a woman entirely too old for the foolishness surrounding her, pushed herself away from the grill and dusted her hands together.

“Alright.”

The single word cut through every conversation happening nearby.

People stopped talking.

Aunt Cheryl pointed directly at Mary. “Mary, go on home.”

Mary blinked and pointed at herself. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Aunt Cheryl’s expression never changed. “Take your pale ass home before you “accidentally” ruin somebody else’s relationship.”

The yard erupted. Even Uncle Lewis laughed.

Mary looked genuinely offended. “Everybody actin’ like I’m the reason all this happened.”

The gasp that left Pearline’s mouth was so dramatic Annie actually turned toward her.

“Oh, this bitch—”

“PEA.”

“I know!”

Pearline threw her hands into the air.

“I know!”

Unfortunately, Mary kept talking. “Like I got magical powers or somethin’.”

Annie saw Pearline start forward before she fully committed to it. She also saw Stack recognize the danger immediately.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not.”

“Pearline.”

“I’m not!”

She absolutely was.

As soon as she took another step, Stack wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her backward.

Pearline’s protest echoed across the yard. “LET ME GO.”

“No.”

“Just one.”

“No.”

“Stack.”

“No.”

The entire exchange happened so fast Annie barely had time to process it. Pearline twisted in his grip and pointed toward Mary, who had stopped beside her car to watch the chaos she’d created.

“PLEASE LET ME FIGHT HER.”

The request sent half the yard into laughter. Aunt Max bent over so suddenly Annie worried she might actually fall.

Mary looked offended. “Fight me for what?”

Pearline pointed harder. “THAT.”

Stack dropped his forehead against Pearline’s shoulder because he was laughing too hard to stay upright.

“Just one punch,” Pearline begged. “One slap. Somethin’.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Pea.”

She groaned loudly. “This is why women be choosin’ violence.”

Aunt Cheryl closed her eyes. “Lord.”

Before Pearline could argue again, Geneva spoke up from behind them.

“Go on.”

The yard went quiet.

Pearline blinked. “…What?”

Geneva pointed toward Mary’s car. “My auntie said go.”

Everyone watched Geneva, waiting to see what she would do next. Even Stack lifted his head.

Geneva folded her arms. “Everybody else wanna be mature about this shit, coddling this ho. But I’m ‘bout to slap this bitch if she don’t get the fuck on.”

The entire yard erupted.

Aunt Max nearly folded in half laughing.

Mary looked horrified and glanced around the yard as though searching for a single ally.

Nobody volunteered.

Not one person.

“Whatever, I’m outta here.” She exclaimed as she turned on her heels and left.

“Drive safe, ho,” Geneva called.

The laughter got louder.

Even Annie found herself smiling despite everything.

By the time Mary finally climbed into her car and drove away, the yard felt lighter than it had all afternoon. 

Aunt Cheryl stared off into the yard a little while longer before looking back at Annie. “Now you. Come inside.”

Annie wanted to argue. Wanted to say she was grown, that she didn’t need to be summoned like a child, that she had already been embarrassed enough for one afternoon. But Aunt Cheryl’s tone left no room for any of that. And more than anything, Annie was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of crying. Tired of standing in the yard while everybody looked at her like they had watched her come apart and were now trying to decide how much of her could be put back together before dinner.

The kitchen felt cooler than the yard, but not any easier to breathe in. Annie sat at Aunt Cheryl’s table with a glass of water she had not asked for and couldn’t make herself drink. Pearline sat across from her, still quiet in that dangerous way that meant the hurt hadn’t gone anywhere. Geneva leaned against the counter with her arms folded, soft-eyed but not soft enough to let Annie hide. Aunt Max stood near the stove, shaking her head every few seconds like she was replaying the whole scene and finding new foolishness each time. Aunt Cheryl remained standing at the head of the table, which somehow made Annie feel even more like she had been called into the principal’s office.

For a while nobody said anything. That was worse than yelling. Annie stared into the water and watched the surface tremble slightly every time her fingers brushed the glass. The tequila had left her with a warm, dull ache behind her eyes, but the buzz was fading fast enough to be cruel. Without it, every choice she had made in the last hour stood in front of her with perfect clarity.

Aunt Cheryl finally sighed. “Baby, I love you. I do. But you acted a damn fool out there.”

Annie closed her eyes.

“And before you start,” Aunt Max added, pointing at her, “yes, Smoke acted a fool too. We ain’t takin’ sides and he ain’t sittin’ at this table right now. You are.”

That made Geneva glance down, but she didn’t disagree.

Annie wiped at her cheek, even though there were no fresh tears there yet. “I know.”

“No,” Pearline said quietly. “I don’t think you do.”

Annie looked at her and the guilt from upstairs came back so quickly it nearly stole her breath. Pearline’s face was still tender from everything Annie had thrown at her. Not physically, but emotionally. The words had landed. Annie could see that now. She had wanted Pearline to hurt because she had been hurting, and that thought sat inside her like something rotten.

“I’m sorry,” Annie said.

Pearline looked away, pressing her lips together. “I know you are.”

“I shouldn’t have said all that to you.”

“Nah, you shouldn’t have.” Pearline’s voice remained even, which somehow made it worse. “And I shouldn’t have kept what I knew from you. Both can be true.”

Annie nodded, but Pearline was not finished.

“You hurt me, Annie. I get why you was mad. I do. But you looked at me like I brought you down here to humiliate you on purpose.” Pearline’s voice cracked slightly, and she swallowed before continuing. “I was wrong. I should’ve told you from the minute I saw him with Jada. But I wasn’t tryin’ to make you look stupid. I was tryin’ to protect some little piece of hope because I knew you still had it, and I knew he did too.”

The kitchen went quiet again.

Annie stared at her hands.

Geneva moved from the counter and sat beside her, close enough that her knee brushed Annie’s. “That’s the part you keep missin’. You keep talkin’ like you was the only one everybody could see hurtin’. But we saw him too.”

Annie’s throat tightened.

Geneva’s voice softened. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

Annie shook her head, and this time the tears came with no fight left behind them. “No.”

Aunt Max huffed, not unkindly. “Chile, that boy loved you so loud for somebody who barely opened his mouth.”

Despite herself, Pearline let out a broken little laugh. Geneva smiled sadly. 

Aunt Cheryl didn’t smile at all.

“He loved you,” Aunt Cheryl said. “And from what I just saw out there, he still do. But love ain’t worth much if all y’all do is use it to hurt each other.”

That one landed deep.

Annie covered her mouth with one hand, trying to hold something in that was already breaking loose. She had spent eight years telling herself Elijah hadn’t loved her enough to come after her, only to find out he had been reaching in every way he knew how. Letters. Calls. Cards. A mixtape. All these pieces she had not seen or had not understood, scattered behind them like evidence from a life neither of them had been able to explain. 

And even after learning all of that, even after hearing him say love in the present tense, she had still found a way to pick up the sharpest thing near her and swing.

Aunt Cheryl pulled out the chair across from Annie and sat down at last. That scared Annie more than when she had been standing. “You spent eight years waitin’ on that boy to come get you,” she said, her voice quieter now. “That’s what you told him out there. You waited for him to show up, say the right thing, fight for you the right way, know what you needed without you ever havin’ to say it plain.”

Annie could not look away from her.

“But what if it’s your turn now?” Aunt Cheryl asked. “What if the thing you been waitin’ on him to do is the thing you gotta do for him?”

The words moved through Annie slowly, then all at once.

Her chair scraped against the floor before she fully realized she had stood. Pearline looked up, and something like relief crossed her face. Geneva’s hand fell away from Annie’s arm as though she had known this was coming. Aunt Max stepped aside before Annie even reached the doorway.

“Go,” Pearline said.

Annie did.

She moved through the living room with her heart pounding so hard it made her chest hurt. The sounds of the cookout rushed back the moment she opened the front door, humid evening air wrapping around her as she stepped onto the porch. A few people looked over. Someone called her name. She didn’t stop. She took the steps too fast, nearly stumbled at the bottom, caught herself, and kept going across the yard, past the folding tables, past the abandoned plates, past Mike and Isoo sitting near the cooler.

She ran because walking felt impossible.

The driveway seemed longer than it had earlier. The road beyond it stretched under the fading Mississippi sun, quiet except for the distant hum of cicadas and the sound of her own breathing. Annie reached the edge of the gravel and looked both ways, searching for his truck, for taillights, for dust lifting off the road, for any sign that she had not waited too long this time.

There was nothing.

No truck.

No Elijah.

Only the empty road stretching ahead of her, wide and indifferent.

Annie stood there breathing hard, one hand pressed to her chest as the truth settled over her with a cruelty she had earned. 

For eight years she had waited for Elijah to come after her. For eight years she had told herself that if he loved her enough, he would find a way to show up.

Now she had finally gone after him.

And he was already gone.

End Note: I wanted to get this out to y'all as soon as possible, because the next chapter is going to take me some time. It will be HEAVY Smoke, possibly all Smoke. So I have to get my mind right to get into his mind as he listens to Annie's mixtape. 💿🥹 But let me know what you think about this chapter.

Tag List:

The train came to a stop with a sharp, metallic squeal. The Pullman porters stepped off first, men in tailored black uniforms and matching hats, setting up steps and opening cargo latches on the sides of the train cars. Cicadas buzzed, their screeching lullaby heard all the way from the trees that loomed over the tracks at the isolated train stop, just an hour outside of the busy Y & M.V. depot in Clarksdale. There were no musicians or folks hanging around here, just a small clapboard-sided building with a segregated ticket window, a single employee, and a dilapidated outhouse. 

The conductor stepped off the train to relieve himself. The comptroller made himself comfortable in the crew cabin while the station master strolled out of the ticket office, whistling and swinging his pocket watch in one hand. Watching. Waiting.  

One of the porters, a 19-year-old kid from Clarksdale slipped out from the back of the freight car and spotted Stack whose truck sat idling by a small loading dock just beyond the tracks that was hidden well by the tall blades of pale green prairie grass fluttering in the autumn breeze. 

Stack stood at the back of his truck like sin dressed in silk. He wore a sharp suit, a cream colored silk shirt underneath with a double chain hanging from his neck. Satin pocket square. Double holster secured just above his waist. He held a lighter in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. His cologne was strong— something clean with a hint of clove, the spice lingering in the air around him. 

He stood by closely while crates were loaded into the back of his truck one by one, the dry wood creaking underneath the weight of what was inside. Black newspapers—Chicago Defender, Voice of the Negro, Indianapolis Freeman, New York Amsterdam News—publications that the sheriff didn't like distributed around Clarksdale because they told the truth. Bottles of liquor—rum, whiskey, gin—all packed tight and padded up tighter so they wouldn’t clink together on the backroads, and some ammunition and military-grade firearms from up north. All packed under and between pounds of heavy textiles. 

Another porter was helping passengers off the forward cabins when he caught a glimpse of Stack and his coworker in the distance. He was younger than other porters, a bit more wide-eyed and curious. He strolled to the back, dust kicking off his boots. He leaned on the edge of the freight car flipping a coin between his fingers.

“Need somethin’?” Stack asked, lighting his cigarette. He raised a brow, taking a deep pull and letting the smoke blow towards him. 

The second porter shook his head, “No.” 

“Well, you can help then,” Stack shot back, holding up a crisp one dollar bill between his index and middle finger. 

The second porter went to grab it but he pulled his hand back, taking another drag of his cigarette. “You know what this mean, right?” he asked, holding the bill up again.

“No, sir.”

“It means you ain’t hear nothin’ and you ain’t see nothin’ — understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You heard of the SmokeStack twins?”

“Yes, sir,” the second porter said again.

“I’m Stack.” 

He put his hand on his hip to pull his suit jacket back, revealing the pistol sitting in its holster. The gesture made the kid straighten up where he stood. Stack looked him over thoroughly. He was sweating, no doubt caused by the heat and his stiff uniform and not nervousness. Stack’s gaze drifted over to the other porter who reassured him with a nod. He slowly lowered his hand, allowing the kid to take the bill from his hand.

Stack looked around while the crates were loaded. The station master lingered on the platform a moment, his gaze drifting over to Stack’s truck. He met his eyes, holding him there for just a moment. Stack didn’t flinch, in fact he flashed him a smile. A wide one at that. All golds, gums, and Southern charm. The station master turned on his heel back to his office just as the conductor walked back to the engine room none the wiser. 

Stack’s smile dropped instantly once he turned around.  “Y’all almost done?”

“This the last one.”

“Good,” he said, holding out a two dollar bill. “Got a tight schedule today. Got places to be.” He pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. 

When the porters were done loading, they covered the back of his truck with a loose tarp and tied the ropes down tight. Stack straightened his suit jacket out and slinked into his car before peeling out of the train station and making the short journey back to Clarksdale.

First stop was the houses by the swamp. The ones with leaning porches and rotting clapboard siding that he had to walk on foot down muddy dirt paths to reach. Then the shacks on the plantations and the churches there. After that, he moved into the town. He stopped by the Chow’s, the cash store, the jukes, the barbershop, the drug store, the undertaker, the library, the Colored Knights of Pythias lodge and the gentleman’s supper club. The last stop was Luella’s Dressing Room to drop off the textiles. 

By the time he left town and headed home he only had his and Miss Della’s crates left, but the stack of money in his coat pocket had quadrupled in size. When he got back to the house, all that was left was Miss Della’s crate and a few others for the folks who would have to come find him themselves—the farmers, the planters, and folks from the smaller, surrounding counties.

Smoke’s truck was gone when Stack pulled up to the house, the modest cottage was quiet when he stepped inside. The spice of the smothered neckbones from lunch earlier still stuck to the walls. The meal that Smoke took the time to cook earlier that day when he just so happened to drop by the house and find little Miss Annie sitting at their table. 

Hmm. 

After lighting some incense and propping open a few windows, he walked out through the back of the house to the still that was partially hidden by the tree line. He checked the coil, stoked the fire, made sure the lid was set, and walked back into the house. He poured himself a drink, pulled out his ledger from the bookshelf and his stacks of cash and did what he did best. He started counting.

The front windows of Miss Della’s caught what little remained of the fading sun. A small glimmer of light reflected off the thick glass windows, piercing through the windshield of Smoke’s truck, cutting right through the passenger seat cushion. He put the car in reverse, watching the same sliver of light cut through the space he left behind as he backed out of the narrow alleyway, before thinning out completely. 

It wasn’t just the kiss that sat on his mind. 

It was the breath before. 

The hesitation. 

The way her lips lingered on his skin for a moment longer. The softness against his stubble. 

The single bead of sweat that trickled down between her cleavage. 

The crinkle in her bottom lip when she pulled it between her teeth. 

The way her eyes flicked up at him.

The way she climbed the porch stairs with that slow, hypnotizing swing of her hips that she probably didn’t even realize she was doing. He licked his bottom lip and shook his head trying to shake the thought of it. He couldn’t. 

Night spread across the sky as Smoke drove the short distance to his home in the Mississippi countryside. The sound of swamp frogs and the rotting, earthy, iron-tang of the Sunflower River reached in through his open windows like overgrowth claiming something abandoned.

When he reached his house, he cut the engine, the headlights of his truck blinking off with a cooling tick. The surrounding land went dark. Not the same type of darkness that cloaked the town with its street lights and candles in the window to soften the edges of night. The light from their porch lantern was nearly swallowed by the depth of pitch blackness that laid claim to the woods after the sun set. 

He kept the windows down. Reaching behind his ear, he brought the cigarette to his mouth. The lighter flickered to life. Open flame dancing in the darkness. He let the ember burn bright before he tapped the excess off on the outside of his truck door. He took a deep inhale of the tobacco blend Bo got him, then exhaled through his nose. He let his head fall back into the headrest and closed his eyes. 

When Smoke stepped through the door, Stack was still up. He found him at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled, two fingers of something brown on the table next to him. A red leather-bound ledger was spread open beside a candle burning low while he counted a stack of bills, writing numbers down in between. 

“Station?” Smoke asked, toeing his boots off at the door. 

Stack counted each bill meticulously, wetting his thumb in between. “Clean,” he replied quickly.

“Stops?”

He stopped to write down a number in the ledger, “Smooth.” 

Smoke crossed the room, sinking into the couch. “Who brought it in?” 

“Same kid. Jones.”

Smoke nodded once. “Anyone watchin’?” 

“Another kid looked curious,” Stack replied, nodding toward the bookshelf where stacks of crates draped in thick cloth sat on the floor. “Ain’t look stupid though.”

“Curious turn into brave real quick, when a white man start askin’ questions.”

Stack kissed his teeth, “Already handled it.” He finished his count, shuffled the money together neatly, and wrapped them in a rubber band. Then he stood, moving towards the back of the house to their stash. “Ain’t no problem.” 

Smoke crossed the room to the backshelf and grabbed the newspaper on top. He flipped through the pages as he walked back to the couch, relaxing back with a sigh. 

Stack walked back in the room, swiping the glass of whiskey from the kitchen table and sitting across from Smoke in a straight back chair. 

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, brown liquid catching the dim light in the room, a sly smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

He was ready to give his brother shit.

About Annie. 

About whatever happened while she was there. 

The remark was right on the tip of his tongue.

Then something made him pause, the glass of whiskey in his hand stopping mid-air. 

Silence sat between them for a moment. Silence that made Stack’s eyes narrow.

He looked at his brother. Really looked at him, his eyes sweeping over him thoroughly like he was checking for injuries after a fight. 

That’s when he noticed his jaw.

It wasn’t clenched. 

And his shoulders.

They weren’t wound up tight with tension like they always were.

Even the permanent crease that usually sat above his brow was softened.

He looked…relaxed. 

“You good?” He asked. His voice wasn’t soft, but the usual sarcasm it held wasn’t there.

“I’m straight,” he replied. He flipped the newspaper to the next page.

Stack raised an eyebrow. There was another beat of silence. This one was loud.

Smoke finally looked up, locking eyes with his twin. 

A second passed. Then two. Then he looked back down at the paper, and flipped to the next page. 

Stack’s smirk didn’t just return— it widened slowly like sunrise. It was a long, mischievous thing, one that showed off the gold on the side of his mouth.

He stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor, taking the rest of the whiskey to the head, and letting the liquid trickle smoothly down his throat until he could feel the burn everywhere like a fire lit deep in his chest. 

Annie stood in the doorway as the warmth of the house wrapped around her. It was a cozy space. Candles and oil lamps burned openly, their light tracing the shadows of the lodgers sitting in the front room. She took her boots off at the door, immediately dropping her basket and purse.

Her lips still tingled from where she kissed him. The taste of his skin lingered on her lips longer than the time it took to do it. She didn’t even mean to. It just happened— her body reacting before her mind could reel it back in.

The smell of molasses and whiskey brought her back into the room where the low hum of conversation hung in the air, the aroma of cornbread sitting heavy, and underneath it all, something slow-cooked and personal. She walked towards the warmth emanating—in both smell and feeling—from the kitchen.

“And I told him straight up,” she heard a man say, his voice drifting easily through the air like a Sunday morning. He leaned back into his chair casually, the wood groaning under his weight. “Faith ain’t always loud. Sometimes it sit quiet, waitin’ on folks to catch up.” 

Aunt Della hummed softly from across the table, hands laced around a cup of something.  Deep violet in color with a ruby red undertone, the drink shimmered in the kitchen, the hint of gold from its honey infusion catching the dim light. 

The man leaned back where he sat, his head tilted towards the front door. His eyes shifted sharply at her entry, landing on Annie like he’d sensed the exact moment she’d stepped through the door. 

“Evenin’, baby,” Aunt Della said, looking up. “Wash up. Supper ‘bout done.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“This here’s Reverend Carter. Reverend Carter, this here’s my great-niece. Annie.” 

He tipped his hat. He wore a thin silver band with a figurehead on his middle finger that he rubbed slowly with his thumb. “Call me Carter.” 

“Nice to meet you, Carter.” 

Something sparked there. Not romance. Not attraction. Not really.

Familiarity. A deep one. The kind that made her gut twist. 

Annie walked over to the wash basin and dipped her hands. She grabbed the bar of lye soap to create a small lather, moving the suds over her knuckles and under her fingernails. She felt the warm familiar tail of Felix wrapping around her ankle, his purring a calming vibration against her ankle. 

Supper was a warm mix of familiar and new faces, and light conversation. Every so often, Aunt Della’s eyes landed on Annie. 

“How was your day, baby?” 

Annie nodded between bites. “It was good. Lots of roots to sort through.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, passing the cornbread down the table. 

“Heard a car pull off when you came in.” 

“Yeah, Smoke dropped me off,” she replied quickly, forking collard greens into her mouth. She felt her aunt’s eyes on her. “He was just bein’ nice.” 

“Mmmhmm,” Aunt Della replied sharply, but she couldn’t hide the grin that pulled at the corner of her lips. 

Neither could Annie. 

Supper ended quietly and while some of the lodgers played cards in the front room, Annie made her way to the bathtub to wash up quickly before bed. 

Freshly bathed, hair oiled, and belly full, she said her good nights to Aunt Della and made her way to the staircase. It was a rugged, narrow thing, with steps that creaked loudly no matter how light you were on your feet. She shut the door to her bedroom and plopped on the bed. She quickly drifted off into a satisfied sleep, looking forward to what the next day would bring. 

Sunday morning. 

It arrived like it was dressed in white. 

Not the actual color white—but the respectability of it all, polished to a shine and worn proudly, like spiritual armor. Complete with neatly pressed linen, fancy shoes, and gloves folded in careful hands, this part of the morning held its own ritual.

Annie stood in front of the mirror in Aunt Della’s room while she pinned the last stubborn piece of her hat in place. It was a honey-colored straw-woven hat with faded blue grosgrain ribbon circling the crown that tied into a soft bow on the right side. A singular silk flower was stitched near the ribbon, small enough to feel sweet. The brim of the hat curved gently at the edges, casting a soft shadow over her eyes. Her hair underneath it was pinned carefully in a low bun at the nape of her neck with two loose curls on each side to frame her face. 

“Hold still.”

“I am,” Annie replied, although she was clearly fidgeting.

“No you ain’t,” Aunt Della said, playfully smacking the side of her arm.

Annie huffed softly through her nose but clasped her hands in front of her while Aunt Della stepped back to inspect her work.

“Just beautiful,” she breathed.

Annie wore a pale lavender Sunday dress with a lace collar, the cotton light enough for the Mississippi heat that still lingered at the edges of early October. It was clean and proper, the hem falling modestly just below her knees. Her ileke beads were pressed into the skin of her collarbone, tucked delicately under the dress. Her stockings stretched around her skin, her white gloves folded and resting beside her Bible on the bed. It was a modest one— small and leather bound. The cover was worn down to the hide that peeked through at the edges with little strings from the binding sticking out at the spine. The pages were almost see-through from time and use, with little notes scribbled in the margins like a glimpse back in time. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, a gift she gave Annie before she passed away.

“Wait,” Aunt Della said, stepping forward again to fuss with the collar of her dress once more. She exhaled, then nodded. “Okay. There. You look just darlin’.”

“Thank you,” Annie said, looking at herself fully in the mirror. 

Aunt Della turned, smoothing the front of her own cream-colored dress, her church hat already perched high and proud like it had seniority over everybody in town.

“You got your letter?”

“Oh!” Annie exclaimed, already retreating to her room. “Thank you. Can’t forget that.”

“Mhmm. Get it, and I’ll meet you on the porch.” 

Outside the town was already moving.

Rickety wagons, the occasional Model-T, and a sea of people moved along the streets. Church folk spilled onto the sidewalks in twos and threes, women balancing hats and children, men in suspenders and polished shoes, all of them heading in the same direction like a pilgrimage. The air held the smell of wet grass, pressed hair, and somebody’s breakfast frying three doors down. 

The building sat at the edge of Fourth Street like a symbol— a mark of authority, tradition, and refuge for the Black community. First Baptist Missionary Church rose from the soil like something determined to be seen and impossible to miss. Dark red brick looked brighter against the morning light, wide front steps worn smooth by generations of Sunday shoes, and tall windows thrown open to let in the heat and the Holy Ghost. A giant steeple with a brass bell sat on the top like a punctuation mark, towering over the modest faded wood and clapboard businesses surrounding it.

Ushers in matching suits flung the doors open. 

Voices, laughter, and the sound of a tambourine rattling somewhere in the back spilled outside, the low hum rising like the heat. 

Aunt Della walked beside Annie with the ease of somebody who had been making this walk for most of her life. Annie kept pace, eyes forward even while she felt others burning holes through her. She held a pan of bread pudding she’d made the night before firmly in her grasp. It was snug in a glass pan, wrapped in a kitchen towel embroidered with daisies. 

Women stood beneath shade trees, letting their conversations bend just slightly as they passed. 

A pause too long. 

A glance held a second past politeness. 

One older woman leaned toward another, saying something behind the fan pressed to her mouth. 

Annie kept her face forward. 

This wasn’t New Orleans. 

New Orleans was loud, fast, easily distracted. People there noticed, then quickly moved on. 

Clarksdale noticed. 

And it remembered.

“Smile,” Aunt Della murmured behind clenched teeth, without looking at her. 

Annie forced a smile. It wasn’t wide, her mouth parted just enough that Aunt Della’s jaw unclenched.

At the church steps, greetings came easy. 

Aunt Della answered what she wanted and ignored what she didn’t, moving with a grace that commanded respect above all. 

Annie stood beside her, shaking hands that came out to greet hers, nodding politely as she let herself be looked over like produce at a market. 

Eyes scanned her over, some genuine, some judgemental, all quietly judging the young woman in front of them. 

Was she pretty enough? 

Proper enough? 

Was she a perfect puzzle piece or a square trying to fit into a circle?

“Come on now, let’s get inside,” Aunt Della said, leading her from the steps. 

The back room of the church felt like a different world than the sanctuary. The sanctuary was all pressed linen and polished shoes. But this room was a space where women could laugh loudly and speak freely without too much judgment. The area was small, crowded, and smelled like perfume, powder, and wood polish. 

Annie stepped in carefully with the pan of bread pudding balanced in both hands, the dish still warm through the towel wrapped around it. 

“Set it there, baby,” Aunt Della said, as she moved near the long prep table arranging serving spoons like she was preparing for battle instead of Sunday service. “And if Miss Bernice asks, no, you did not use rum.”

“But I did,” Annie chimed in. 

“Then lie.” 

That earned a quiet laugh from somewhere close. Annie turned to her right. There, three young women stood near the side table, church gloves and hats firmly in place. 

One leaned against the wall. She was pretty and looked sharp. Her dark green dress was pressed neat, her eyes bright with the kind of trouble that wore makeup. 

“Well,” she said. “Is this her?” 

Annie blinked. “I’m sorry?”

The girl folded her arms. “Everybody been talkin’ about Miss Della’s Louisiana niece like you descended from heaven in stockings.”

One of the other girls sighed loudly, “Gigi.” 

“What?”

Annie fought back a smile. “It’s me,” she said, setting the dish down where her aunt instructed her. “In the flesh.” 

Gigi grinned. “Oh, I like you already.” 

Beside her stood another girl, softer in the face but no less present, adjusting the cuff of one of her white lace gloves with the careful precision of somebody raised to know exactly how women were expected to be seen. Her wedding band caught the light when she reached for a serving spoon.

“I’m Pearline,” she said warmly. “Ignore her. She think bein’ loud is her birthright.” 

“I ain’t loud, I just don’t mumble like some quiet little church mouse,” Gigi fired back. “I’m Georgia—Gigi—and that there’s Nellie.” 

She paused. “She real quiet,” she whispered loudly. “Like a little church mouse.”

“I heard that,” Nellie shot back.

“That was the point, dumplin’.” 

Nellie stood closest to the long table, fixing church fans into a neat stack like the fate of the congregation relied on symmetry. “Very nice to meet you, Annie.” 

“Nice to meet you too.”

“So,” Gigi said, stalking towards Annie with a mischievous grin. “Tell us all about New Orleans.”

The sanctuary held heat differently. It trickled down from the corners of the vaulted ceiling, stretching across the congregation like morning dew. The air inside was thick with the scent of wood polish and old hymnals. Sweat and perfume. Talcum powder and fresh flowers near the pulpit trying their best to mask it all. Sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows in long jewel-toned slants, catching dust in the air like holy hands.

Aunt Della moved them towards the middle pews, where women with strong perfume and tight lipped smiles greeted her with warmth only reserved for a woman like her. Annie followed behind, her eyes moving about the room subtly. Once to the left, then the right, then the back. She didn’t know why she expected him to be there. Maybe because church felt like the kind of place a town would require of a man like him. Maybe because after yesterday, some foolish part of her thought she might see him anywhere now. But Smoke wasn’t there, and neither was Stack. The absence sat with her longer than it should have, louder than his presence would have been.

She lowered herself into the pew, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Her Bible rested in her lap, her purse settling to her side.

Aunt Della opened her fan with a practiced snap. “You alright?” she asked, fanning herself.

Annie blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Della gave her a look that said she didn’t fully believe that, but Sunday morning wasn’t the place for an interrogation. 

At the front of the church, Carter stood near the pulpit speaking quietly with Deacon Lewis—the standing pastor. He wore a dark suit, pressed sharp, that same signet ring catching the light that poured in the windows whenever he lifted his hand. Even from across the sanctuary, something about him felt too familiar, and the unease from the night before crept through her like a tangible thing, making her frown where she sat. 

The organist struck a chord. 

Deacon Lewis raised his hands from where he stood at the pulpit, the room rising with them. The organ sounded again, the sound rising slow at first, then all at once. Voices layered over it, some young, some old, some skeptical, some certain. Aunt Della sang beside Annie in a clear alto that sounded older than the room itself, pitch perfect but haunting, like something ancient, and passed down came out without her trying. 

Annie stood perfectly still with her hymnal open in her hands, though her eyes barely touched the page. Her voice joined where it needed to, soft and practiced, but her attention kept drifting. To the strange feeling sitting just beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat. It felt both new and like a memory she hadn’t asked for.

The hymn ended in a rustle of old pages and the sound of bodies settling. Fans opened again like angel wings. A baby cried once and was swiftly carried outside. 

The deacon began the first prayer…

…and just kept on going. 

He prayed long and loud enough to make up for every sin committed in Clarksdale that week. 

Heads bowed and amens sounded when the prayer finally came to an end, shoes shifted across loose floorboards trying to shake out sleeping limbs from standing in one place too long. 

Deacon Lewis used his handkerchief to dab his sweat pooling on his brow, the droplets beading in the creases of his forehead. “Please be seated.”

Linen and cotton whispered against the old wood pews that creaked under the weight of generations. Fans clacked open, their methodical flutter echoing against the walls of the sanctuary. 

Deacon Lewis’s voice was like fire and brimstone, melodic and daunting all at once. 

“I’ve been hearin’ about a young preacher man,” he started. 

A soft Mhmm! Came from the crowd. 

“Heard he brought out great crowds, white and Colored, SAINTS AND SINNERS, men and women, all stations of life, the merchant prince and sons of toil, for one of the greatest old time fire and Holy Ghost revivals ever witnessed in this country.” 

“Amen!”

“Well, I found him. Brought him to the good town of Clarksdale…to lead the most MIGHTY spiritual awakening this town will ever see.”

More shouts from the crowd, a few stomps and tambourine jingles. 

“Can I get an amen?”

“AMEN!”

“Please rise, for the esteemed reverend. Give him a hand.”

The congregation erupted. Stomps, shouts, and hands flew up as Reverend Carter stepped forward with unhurried ease. He set his Bible down on the pulpit and let the room settle around him first, like his silence had its own authority.

“Now tell ‘em who you are,” Deacon Lewis said, his voice booming from the side. “Where you from.”

Carter paused. “Good mornin’, church.” 

“Good mornin’ Reverend!” A wave of greetings met him in response. 

“My name is Reverend Dr. Thelonius Carter. Born and raised in Houston, Texas.” 

Another wave of Hey Reverend Carter’s and grunts of acknowledgement filled the air.

“Got ordained at the First Missionary Baptist Church in Handsboro,” he continued. 

Aunt Della’s fan slowed once. 

Then resumed.

At the pulpit, Carter opened his Bible, then smoothed the crease gently with his palm. 

“Now, I been told y’all feed a preacher real well in this town,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. He rolled each side twice, slowly before he continued. “So, if this sermon run a little long, just know I’m workin’ for my supper.” 

Laughter moved through the room. Aunt Della smiled. So did Annie.

He rested one hand against the pulpit. “But this mornin’, I wanna talk about paths. Purpose.”

The congregation stilled. 

Carter continued, voice smooth as river water. “Now, everybody in here like to talk about blessings. Everybody like to testify about what the Lord brought ‘em to. But folk get mighty quiet when it come time to speak on what He brought ‘em…through.” 

He paused dramatically.

A few congregation members hummed in agreement. A sharp “that’s right” came from a church mother sitting on the stage next to Deacon Lewis.

“See, purpose ain’t always some…dramatic declaration.” He waved his hands around for emphasis. 

“It ain’t always thunder and lightnin’.”

“Talk to ‘em!” Someone shouted from deep in the pews. 

Sometimes it’s like a regular ol’ Tuesday mornin’, like a path you done walked a hundred times.”

“Until one day, it ain’t the same path no ‘mo.” 

“Until that path…become a crossroads.”

Annie’s gloved fingers tightened around the Bible in her lap. 

He held a finger to his lips, his eyes darting around the congregation. “Sometimes the Lord place a thing in your path,” Carter kept preaching. “And your spirit know it before your mind catch up.”

He grabbed the edge of the pulpit with both hands. “But we stubborn creatures, ain’t we?”

Sounds of agreement came from the crowd.

“We like proof. Permission. We like to pretend we ain’t heard what was already said.”

More scattered laughter flowed through the room, softer this time. 

Annie’s eyes stayed in place. Forward. Not scanning the room. Fixed. On the pulpit. On Carter. On how he pulled the crowd in like he was bewitching them. How he used eye contact like a weapon. On how he knew exactly when to whisper and when to shout. 

Carter smiled faintly, turning to a page in his Bible. 

“Book of Jeremiah. Chapter six, verse sixteen.” 

Pages turned instantly. The shuffle of delicate paper fluttering against leather and the sound of clearing throats and quiet coughs made its way through the church. Carter stood, patiently waiting for the sound to settle.

“Thus saith the Lord— say it with me.” 

The congregation joined in. 

“Thus saith the Lord, stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein.” 

He stopped, waited for the congregation voices to die out. Then continued, emphasising each word individually, his voice booming over the sound of the crowd. “And ye shall find rest for your souls.”

His finger tapped once against the page as a round of grunts, hums, and amens filled the air. 

Carter looked up, holding up a hand. The congregation went quiet.  

“Oh, I ain’t done,” he teased, a slight smirk on his face. 

“Folk hear that and think it mean safe. Easy.” 

His eyes flicked around the room. “It don’t,” he said flatly. 

“Verse sixteen goes on to say,” he started. “But they said, we will not walk therein.” 

“The right path will ask somethin’ of you. Might cost you comfort. Might cost you pride. Might cost the version of you, you most committed to protectin’.” 

A soft murmur moved through the church.

Carter leaned forward slightly on the pulpit. “And some of y’all,” he said, voice dropping lower. Gentler somehow. “Some of y’all already know exactly what path I’m talkin’ about.” 

Silence fell over the crowd. Not an empty silence, but one that felt full. Knowing. One that felt less like preaching and more like being told something you didn’t want to admit. He let the silence sit. Let a smile spread on his face. Easy. Disarming. 

“But I’m just a guest in this here church, and Miss Della already threatened me if I kept y’all too long, so I’ma leave the rest between y’all and the Lord.” 

The room finally broke. Laughter, a sound that felt like relief at the moment, echoed through the rafters. Carter stood at the pulpit, smile flashing across the sea of people like a man who’d done nothing at all.

Aunt Della leaned over just enough to murmur behind her fan, “That man dangerous.”

Annie’s nose wrinkled. “How come?” 

Aunt Della’s fan snapped once, the crack echoing in the laughter that had begun to settle into an earned silence. “Cuz he ain’t preachin’. He prophesyin’.”  

They stood for the final hymn. This one much shorter and softer than the first, like an exhale instead of a held breath. It let the sermon settle into the congregation. Let folks turn Reverend Carter’s words over in their heads quietly while they sang, so they could decide which parts would stay with them and which parts they planned to leave in the sanctuary. 

Annie stood beside Aunt Della, voice light, eyes fixed on the hymnal, her fingers toying with the edge of her glove until the seam pressed into her thumb. 

The hymn ended. Benediction followed. Hands lifted. Heads bowed. And just like that, holiness settled into a regular old Sunday afternoon.

The sanctuary came alive in a rush. Children were letting out pent-up energy by weaving through pews. Women adjusted the pins that kept their hats secure. Men rolled their shoulders loose under their shirts like salvation itself weighed heavy on them. 

Aunt Della was pulled into conversation before the final amen had fully landed. A small crowd of women formed around her, laughing as they traded gossip back and forth. Annie smiled politely and took a step back to relieve herself from the haze of heavy perfume and pettiness. Her eyes moved around the sanctuary. Towards the sides, the front, the back room. 

No Smoke. Not that she expected him now. Service was over. 

Still.

The absence still sat there anyway. 

“Lookin’ for somebody?” The voice came smooth beside her. 

Annie started to turn quickly, then slowed herself down. Carter stood there, hat in one hand, the other extended politely toward one of the church mothers getting up from her pew. 

“No,” Annie said too fast. 

One corner of his mouth moved. It wasn’t a smile, just a flicker of amusement. Or satisfaction. “Mm.” He let the silence sit between them just long enough for her to hear herself in it. Then he rescued her from it himself. “You sing pretty.”

Annie blinked, tilting her head. “You couldn’t even hear me.” 

“I heard you. Loud and clear.”

Annie let out the smallest laugh despite herself. 

“My aunt say you talk too much,” Annie blurted out. She folded her arms across her chest.

Carter’s eyebrows lifted. “Your aunt is a wise woman. I been tryna tell people that all day.” 

“She also say you dangerous,” she added, immediately wishing she’d kept that remark to herself.

That made him smile fully, intrigued now. The silver teeth on the bottom row of his mouth gleamed in the light. “Did she now?”

He adjusted his hat beneath his arm and leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping lower, but somehow gentler. “What you think?” 

“I think,” Annie said carefully. “You ask a lot of questions for somebody who already know the answers.” 

Carter looked down at his hand, pressing his thumb once to the face of his ring, then he looked up at Annie again. 

Aunt Della’s voice cut across the room. “Annie!”

She turned on her heel. “Excuse me.”

She crossed the room towards her aunt in a few long strides, feeling his gaze leave her slower than it should have. Aunt Della was gathering her gloves in one hand, her fan in the other. She was engaging in conversation with a woman in a butter yellow dress with a ruffled lace collar. “You got that letter?”

Annie half-jumped, reaching in her purse for the envelope. “Oh! Yes.”

“Miss Loretta works for the postal service. Her husband owns the Blackbird Cafe.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Loretta,” Annie said, eyes warm. She shook her hand before handing Loretta the letter and a coin for the postage. “Can you tell Mr. Hightower that I’d like to accept the position at the cafe? I can start tomorrow.”

Loretta received her warmly, letting her land linger on hers for a moment. “I’ll let him know. And I’ll make sure your letter gets back home.” 

“Thank you,” Annie said emphatically. 

Aunt Della took Annie, looping their arms through each other as she guided them to the church’s backyard.

Outside, the sun climbed higher. Brighter. More unforgiving. It pressed heat into the town’s Sunday best where it lingered, creeping into the seams of collars and where made sweat slick underneath stockings. Men loosened their ties like Jesus was no longer watching now that church had let out, and children ran wild in their Sunday shoes, shamelessly staining the polished toes with grass and Mississippi mud. 

The backyard of the church was set up with tables neatly covered with lace tablecloths that had been passed down and mended neatly throughout the years. Dishes covered the tables— fried chicken and fish hot off the grease under dish towels, deviled eggs dusted with paprika, macaroni and cheese and collard greens steeping in deep bowls. Sweet tea and iced water sat sweating in glass pitchers. Annie’s bread pudding—a rich combination of dark brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and the heavy sweetness of whiskey and rum-soaked raisins—sat at the end of the table, keeping the other desserts company. 

Annie stood behind the food table with a serving utensil and an anxious smile. Her gloves had come off, her Bible tucked away in her purse. The only thing left from the sermon was a full belly and sore cheeks. Her new acquaintances stood along her, Gigi, Nellie and Pearline spread out behind the long table of food, the line in front of the serving tables stretching nearly halfway across the church yard. 

Gigi slid another piece of fried catfish onto a plate while Pearline scooped greens beside it. 

“You keep givin’ Brother Jenkins portions like that, we gon’ run out befo’ the deacons eat,” Gigi murmured under her breath. 

Brother Jenkins, hard of hearing and entirely too closely hovering over the food, grinned despite not hearing a word Gigi said. 

“What was that?”

Gigi smiled sweetly. “I said enjoy your meal.” 

Nellie snorted so loudly, sweet tea always flew up her nose. “You gon’ burn in hell,” she mouthed. 

Gigi passed another plate down the table calmly. “Prolly. ‘Least I won’t be hungry.” 

Annie bit back a laugh as she reached for another serving spoon. The rhythm of the line settled into something easy. Scoop. Pass. Smile. Repeat. There were the occasional outliers. Church women with their judgment and heavy perfume. Children begging for an extra slice of cake. Men flirting horribly. Annie, Gigi, Nellie, and Pearline worked around all of it. 

Enter Claudine Thompson. She was a viper of a woman, with a daring smile that never actually meant that she meant well. She wore a frilly peach colored dress, a powder blue Sunday hat, and matching powder blue gloves. She stepped in front of Annie, who offered her a slice of her bread pudding. 

“You settlin’ in fast, ain’t you?” She asked, voice dipped with poison as Annie put a generous helping on her plate. The women around her laughed softly. Not cruel enough to challenge, but not kind enough to ignore. 

“I’m tryin’.” 

Claudine nodded slowly, eyes traveling over her hat, her gloves, the way she stood. “We noticed,” she hummed. 

Annie tilted her chin a little higher. “Well,” she said, voice even. “I’d probably be worse off if I wasn’t.” 

Claudine lips moved into a thin line, a rather reluctant smile. She looked Annie up and down again. “Cute,” she said with a slight dip of one of her shoulders. 

Before Annie could decide whether that was a praise or a warning, Aunt Della appeared at her elbow like she was summoned. “Be gone, Claudine. She don’t need no supervision. Especially not from you.” 

The silence that followed was brief. Then Claudine laughed like it had all been friendly banter. “Lord, Delilah,” she said, waving her hand. “Can’t say nothin’ round you.”

“And yet,” Aunt Della replied. “You keep tryin’,” she said with a head tilt and a sharp look.

The women laughed again. Claudine’s eyes snapped sharply to them before turning on her heel and stomping away. 

“Never think you need to explain yourself to a woman like that,” Aunt Della said as she helped herself to a generous serving of macaroni and cheese. “They don’t be askin’ cuz they want answers. They tryna check your temperature.” 

Annie exhaled through her nose. “I noticed.”

“Good,” she replied firmly. “Means you learnin’.” 

“Or maybe it just means church women are miserable and need hobbies,” Gigi said from a little ways down the table.

“Georgia.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Aunt Della shot her a look before leaving to sit with the deacon. “Behave.”

“Always.”

Gigi leaned against the table while Annie cut another square of bread pudding. “So Louisiana,” she started. “Y’all really got people walkin’ around speakin’ French down there?”

Annie nodded once. “And Creole.” 

“Say somethin’.” 

Annie laughed softly. “Why?” 

“Because church almost killed me from boredom and this heat ‘bout to finish the job.”

“Georgia Mathers,” Pearline gasped dramatically.

“What? Reverend Carter fine self already saved my soul this mornin’. I can say what I want ‘til Wednesday.” 

Annie shook her head, smiling to herself before saying something low and quick in Creole. 

“Well damn,” Gigi said. 

Pearline sighed softly, scooping another healthy serving of greens on a plate. “That sounded pretty.”

Gigi pointed at Annie with a pair of tongs. “If I learn another language, I’m only usin’ it to insult people.” 

“You already insult them in English,” Nellie muttered.

“That’s because the Lord made me honest.”

“And loud,” Pearline added.

The four of them dissolved into laughter again.

Another older church mothers drifted past the table slowly enough to make her presence known. “Well,” she said pleasantly, while Nellie poured her a glass of sweet tea. “Y’all certainly lively today.”

Gigi smiled instantly, the kind of smile that matched Sister Claudine’s a bit earlier. “Yes ma’am,” she replied sweetly. “We still young enough to enjoy life.”

Annie and Nellie gasped underneath their breath. The church mother’s lips tightened almost invisibly before she moved along the line. 

“You gon’ say the wrong thing to the right person one day,” Pearline said, letting out a breath through her nose.

“One day the right person gon’ ask the wrong question.”

Annie looked between the two of them quietly. 

“What?”

“You don’t get nervous talkin’ to church mothers like that?”

Gigi shrugged. “They already decided who I am to them. Might as well enjoy myself.”

The line in front of the serving tables had dwindled down now that most people were settling into the slow part of the afternoon. Behind the table the girls had switched positions, Annie refilling a glass of sweet tea, while Pearline cut a square of bread pudding with practiced care. Nellie was in charge of the fried chicken and fish which were almost gone, and Gigi dished out the sides. 

Nellie leaned forward suddenly, her eyes narrowing toward the far side of the church yard. 

“Oh Lord,” she muttered under her breath.

Gigi squinted, following her gaze. “What?”

Nellie nodded subtly towards a man standing near the pecan tree laughing with two deacons and a church mother, “Leroy.” 

“He over there sweatin’ right through that tired ass gray suit.” 

Annie and Pearline looked up, following their gaze. The man was handsome. Deep brown skin gleaming beneath the afternoon heat. His collar loosened just enough to show the thick line of his throat. His suit fit well across his shoulders. A little too well. And every time he laughed, a silver tooth flashed near the back of his mouth. 

“He do got a nice laugh,” Pearline said softly.

“And a wife,” Gigi corrected. 

“That don’t mean I can’t look,” Nellie chimed in. “Lord gave me eyes for a reason.” 

Annie raised a brow. 

“He also gave you discretion,” Pearline muttered while stacking clean plates. “And respectability.”

Nellie rolled her eyes. Gigi did, too. Annie laughed quietly to herself. 

“Oh, don’t act innocent, Louisiana. I know you got your eye on somebody already.”

“I never said I didn’t.” 

“Alright then. Who?”

“Never said I did either.”

“Well what’s your type?”

Annie shrugged. “Ain’t got one. I like what I like.”

“Hypothetically….”

“Here we go,” Nellie said, scratching her head.

“Hypothetically. Lookswise. Do you find any of these men attractive?” 

Annie blinked. “Sure.” She could already tell where this was going.

“So pick one.”

“Pick what?”

“A man.”

Pearline groaned. “We really ‘bout to play this game,” she muttered.

Annie huffed. “You want me to pick a random man? For what?” 

“Just a man you think is cute.”

Annie sucked her teeth.

“Ok hear me out. I’ll go first.” A group of young men passed nearby carrying folding chairs back towards the church building, Gigi’s eyes locked on one of them. He was tall. Dark brown skin. Slim waist beneath his suspenders, white shirt clinging damply to his back from sweat. It outlined the clean movement of muscle beneath it every time he lifted another chair onto his shoulders. “Mhmm,” she hummed approvingly. “That one right there.”

“You don’t even know him,” Nellie sighed. 

“I know enough.”

“What enough?”

“Look at how he carry weight.” 

“Well, if we bein’ honest,” Pearline said, pointing discreetly towards the far tables where an older man stood near the barbecue pit speaking with Reverend Carter. He was thick in the chest and shoulders, suspenders pulled low against his stomach. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, his face carrying deep smile lines that deepened when he spoke. He looked solid. Steady. “That’s my husband.”

“See now Pearline,” Gigi said, her face twisting up like she just ate a lemon. “Every time you point him out I get sad.”

Pearline rolled her eyes. “Why?” 

“‘Cause he look like he read the almanac before bed every night.”

Nellie and Annie burst into laughter so suddenly they made heads turn towards them. Annie covered her mouth quickly. 

“He’s a nice man,” Pearline said, a little bit wounded. 

“I’m sure he is,” Gigi replied. “I ain’t say he wasn’t.” 

“He got nice hands,” Nellie said. “Big ones.”

“And big feet too,” Gigi added with a grin.

Pearline sighed and rolled her eyes again. “He take care of me.”

“I bet he do,” Gigi said, giggling under her breath and nudging Annie gently with her elbow. She laughed too.

“Your turn, Louisiana.” 

Annie shook her head, trying to hide the smile tugging at her mouth as she glanced out across the way. Men stood in clusters throughout the church yard. In their dark slacks and rolled sleeves, leaning easy against trees smoking cigarettes, or arguing over baseball stats loud enough for the whole congregation to hear. Her eyes drifted until they landed on a man sitting near the edge of the folding tables. 

He looked tall from where she could see him. His suspenders stretched across a white shirt that had gone soft with wear. His sleeves were rolled neatly up to his elbows, revealing long forearms darkened by the sun. He sat tipped back in his chair, balancing dangerously on its back two legs while he listened to somebody talk, one hand lazily rubbing across his broad chest. His eyes glimpsed towards Annie and she looked away quickly, but not before Gigi caught who she was looking at. 

“Ohh, she like the quiet ones.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.” 

Pearline leaned to the side to look. “Mmm,” she hummed. “He is handsome, though.” 

“That’s Isaiah,” Nellie said, barely looking up. “Works for the railroad.” 

“Look at lil’ Nellie knowin’ every man’s occupation like she work for the census.” 

“What can I say? I like men with jobs.”

“And I like men who fine enough to ruin my life,” Gigi shot back. “Just a little.”

Annie barked out a laugh. “That’s how women end up cryin’ on porches.” 

“Or men end up gettin’ a root put on them.” 

Nellie snorted into her glass of lemonade. Annie shook her head smiling. “You always this dramatic?” 

Gigi leaned in towards her. “Only in public.” 

Annie found herself laughing harder than she had since she’d been in Mississippi.

After the buzz from the church, her newfound acquaintances, and Sunday dinner wore off, Annie found herself just looking for a peaceful place to sit. She padded to the porch, equipped with a few sheets of paper and her foraging basket.

Her shoulders sank when she got there. Men were out there slapping dominos, drinking, playing the harmonica. The sounds of late summer floated down the steps and onto the street that was alive with the after-church crowd. 

Way too crowded. She needed quiet. 

She sighed, rounding the front porch until she found a spot. She found one under the big magnolia tree whose branches scratched her bedroom window when the wind blew at night. 

She spread out her blanket in the grass. From her basket she took her roots, flowers and herbs and spread them out, organizing them by types. Then she went to the backyard and pumped a small bucket of water for cleaning. She started with the roots. Trimming and peeling back bits and pieces that weren’t useful. Running a damp cloth over them to clean, then laying them out carefully. 

Smoke stood on the porch of Miss Della’s boarding house with a crate full of her things and heat on his neck. He stepped into the front room, letting the screen door slap behind him. In the crate were copies of the Black publications sent down from up north and a small box that he promised Della him and Stack would pick up from Memphis.  The slap of the screen door caught Della’s eye and she nodded towards the lean-to in the back. He followed her outside. Once the door was closed, she lifted up the entrance hidden in the floorboards and guided him down the stairs. 

The space was expansive. Cooler than the surface. Della lit a series of oil lamps as she made her way through the underground space that was the length of the entire house. The walls and floors were lined with stone and mortar to keep the damp out, the floors smoother in the middle from constant wear. 

Shelves lined the walls from top to bottom, loaded with peaches, plums, oranges soaked in sugar and rum. Vanilla beans in moonshine. Nuts dipped in chocolate. Delicacies— pickled savory treats, candied sweet ones. Preserves and jams. Jars dusted with time stacked on top of each other. A thick, deep-purple syrup dripped from honeycombs into molds. Infused with a special blend of rum, it would harden into crystallized candy sticks and small square hard candies, or melt effortlessly into a smooth liqueur to stir into drinks. Small bottles with oils and dried flowers stood throughout the space too, along with some root vegetables and dried herbs. Cases of liquor, shelves of wine with bottles so old they’re covered in dust and cobwebs. 

Smoke put the crate in the corner by one of the rooms in the back. He took out the newspaper bundles and brought them to Della who instructed him to bring them upstairs with him. She looked over them for a second before patting him on the shoulder and looking him in his eyes. 

“Thank you for watching out for my girl yesterday.”

Smoke’s breath hitched a bit, enough for Della to notice. She gave him a little grin, “Mhmm. She ‘round here somewhere if you wanna say hi. Try some of her bread pudding. It’s in the kitchen,” she said as she moved around him and disappeared up the stairs. 

Back upstairs, Smoke enjoyed a serving of bread pudding topped with sticky rum sauce while he looked out on the porch for Annie. She wasn’t there. He finished his dessert, putting the dish in the wash basin before washing his hands and rounding the back to finish his search. He stepped out to the backyard and circled around to the side where a little patch of grass fanned into a grassy alleyway. The area was small but plush, the sun hitting it just right. A wire fence separated the boarding house and the house next to it. A magnolia tree stood in the middle, tall and proud, its branches hanging low like a veil over Annie’s head. She sat underneath it on a patchwork quilt, its colors vibrant, stitched with heat and history.

Annie was sitting with a quiet focus, tracing the edges of a plant on a piece of paper. She wrote the name at the bottom with a little detail about it on the side. She wore a sleeveless lace patterned dress— long, to her ankles—with a tan work apron overtop. A pair of brown ankle boots, scuffed at the toes, laced up her feet. A large floppy mesh hat crowned her head of coils, keeping the heat and sweat away. Her ileke beads sat tucked underneath the neckline of her dress, completing the look. Smoke approached her slowly, the grass flattened beneath his boots as he walked closer. He watched the side of her mouth curve up like she already knew he was there. 

“Can’t sneak up on me today.”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to.”

“Smoke.”

“Annie.”

She dusted the dirt off her hands as he held out his hand to help her stand up. He looked put together. Effortless. Dark trousers and a faded shirt with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. The sunlight caught the gold-brown of his skin in soft flashes between the shadows of the magnolia tree. 

“You hidin’?” he said finally, his eyes briefly drifting towards the quilt. 

Annie huffed out a quiet laugh, “Maybe.” 

He nodded once. He understood that completely. 

“Didn’t see you at church today,” she said, crossing her arms under her chest.

“Little busy.” 

“You too busy for the Lord?” She asked teasingly.

“Nah,” he said, stretching his arms. “He too busy for me.” 

“He ain’t never too busy for his…children.” 

“I ain’t on that list.” 

“Nah, I think you right at the top. Next to Peter and Paul,” she said, turning around to drop her blade down on the quilt. 

“Definitely ain’t no saint,” he said to the side. 

“That don’t make you a sinner, Smoke.”

A silent beat passed between them. A breeze blew by, making the windchimes on the front porch let out a low jingle. 

“That happen a lot?”

Smoke narrowed his eyes, “You got a lot of questions.” 

“And you answer almost none of ‘em.” 

A low hum, almost a laugh, left his chest. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“Can’t threaten me with a good time.” 

Smoke looked down at Annie, his gaze dropping to her lips briefly, then back up to her eyes.

“Me and Stack went to my uncle’s church.”

And they did. Macedonia Missionary Baptist, their uncle Jedidiah’s church right on the edge of the Sunflower plantation. It was a small rickety building, white-washed with high wooden ceilings and low pews. They sat in the back row, in their whitest whites like they always did. After service, they helped distribute the allotment of wine their uncle got from the county every month for communion. Since prohibition started, he’d sell some off on the side for extra money to offset the quota that he wouldn’t fulfill, even with all the little ones he and his wife, Ruthie, had.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “So your uncle’s a preacher?” 

“That’s what he say, anyway.”

“Are y’all—,” Annie started to ask before noticing his jaw clench suddenly, “— nevermind.” 

She tilted her head at him. “Why don’t you come to one of the services in town?” 

“Habit.”

“Makes sense.” 

He paused. Took a breath, his eyes drifting to the quilt again then back up. “I used to go to the services in town. Before my uncle became a pastor,” he started.

Annie watched him carefully. “When’d he become a pastor?”

“Few years back. ‘Fore the war.”

“Oh,” she said, letting the sound of her voice fade into silence while he continued.

“We went every Sunday before then. Stack liked the singin’. I liked the quiet after.” 

The confession surprised her. Not because it was ground-breaking, but because he gave one. At all. “What changed?” 

Smoke got quiet like he was searching for the right words, his gaze shifting towards the road beyond the fence. “People.” 

Annie swallowed hard. People. Something about the way he said it made her chest ache unexpectedly. He pivoted quickly, like he could feel it too.

“Annie?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s all this?” 

“Drawings,” Annie said, sitting back down on the quilt, drawings spread out evenly across the fabric. Smoke cleared his throat, then lowered himself down beside her with the same quiet heaviness that accompanied everything about him. 

The sun was dipping low, throwing a veil of gold over the landscape. The sound of a guitar floated over from Fourth Street. Folks were sitting on their porches, enjoying the slight drop in temperature.

“I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?” 

Annie pulled a knee to her chest, absentmindedly tracing her fingertip along one of the quilt seams. “Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”

“So you remember what they look like?”

“Kinda. So I remember what they for,” her voice drifted off as a loud buzzing sound got closer. 

A hummingbird. 

Its sharp beak poked at the gardenias clustered by the fence, their petals still closed. It floated from one flower to the next, searching for sugary nectar it could feed on.Annie’s hand touched a vial of water that sat on the quilt next to her legs. She picked it up, pointing the tip at her outstretched finger. 

“Watch this.”

A hummingbird hovered overhead, the flapping of its wings a dull buzz. It floated to her finger that she held up, its long beak piercing through the cap of the vial. Smoke flinched a little at the rapid movement of its wings, but quickly recovered. 

“How you get them to come to you?”

Annie shrugged her shoulders slightly. “They like the sound of my voice.” 

Smoke’s gaze went from the bird perched on her finger up to Annie. Her grin, her delicate finger, the way her chest moved with her breathing. The way the setting sun smiled on her skin. Smoke watched her as she watched pieces of sunlight flicker across the yard through the leaves. 

A breeze moved through the magnolia branches overhead carrying the faint floral scent down with it that mixed with the smell of freshly laundered cotton from the sheets hanging in the backyard, swaying gently in the breeze. 

Annie smelled sweet—like sugary vanilla, cinnamon, and rum from baking. Her sweetness wrapped around his senses, pulling him in like the song of a siren. He used to hear tales about them during the war. With their eyes and the sweet, sultry sound of their voices that were known to lure soldiers into a watery grave. 

Smoke didn’t believe in any of that shit. 

Not in ghosts, not in magic, and definitely not in no tall tales. But he couldn’t help but feel time slow down around her. At this very moment, right next to him, she looked—

“Smoke?” 

His vision snapped back into focus. He cleared his throat, swallowing the words he really wanted to say. “Hmm?” 

“You okay? Look like you were somewhere else for a second,” she remarked. 

Smoke comes back to himself. “Just thinkin’ bout that bread pudding you made.”

Lie.

“You had some?”

“Mhmm. Earlier. Your aunt gave me some.”

“You liked it?”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders, “It was aight.”

“Ugh!” Annie tutted, smacking Smoke’s shoulder playfully. “That’s how I know you a damn lie.”

“I thought you not supposed to be cussin’ on a Sunday.” 

“Not when you out here…insulting my cookin’.” 

“I was just playin’,” Smoke teased, his lips flattened to suppress the grin that was quickly spreading across his face.

The evening heat wrapped around them, creeping slowly up their necks. Smoke picked at a loose thread near the edge of the quilt while Annie studied him quietly. The roughness of his hands resting against the quilt. The slight tremor in his right palm. The heaviness he carried in his shoulders even when he wasn’t moving. The stillness. The tension underneath the stillness. For the first time, she realized how much of him always seemed braced for something. At this very moment, spread out on a quilt under a magnolia tree. 

The thought sat strangely in her chest. “You look like you always ready for somethin’,” she said softly before she could stop herself.

Smoke looked at her, immediately focusing on her face in a way that made Annie almost regret what she said. He didn’t look angry. Didn’t look defensive. The expression flashed behind his eyes before disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived.

Vulnerable?

Not quite.

Not in a dramatic way. But just enough to realize she was watching him. Had been watching him. And for Smoke? That landed hard. Because he hadn’t realized she was paying attention. Not like that. For a long moment neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Smoke looked away first, gaze dropping towards the quilt between them then back to her. 

“That so?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Annie nodded once, “Like you never really…let yourself settle.” “Or be settled,” she said, voice just above a whisper. 

The magnolia branches stirred overhead again, their shadows moving slowly across the grass beneath them. 

Smoke spoke again. This time, his voice carried something new and unknown in it. “Most people don’t notice.” 

“Most people don’t sit still long enough to notice a lot of things.” 

Smoke paused for a beat. This time it stretched longer. The cicadas screamed louder for a moment, filling the silence neither of them seemed interested in breaking. Annie looked towards the back of the house when she sensed movement. She relaxed when she saw somebody moving past one of the kitchen windows. Then—

“And you do?” Smoke asked finally.

Annie turned to face him. She shrugged softly, “Somebody got to.”

A faint smile pulled briefly at the corner of his mouth. 

The sun dipped deeper into the horizon. The sky darkened further. It was a smooth shade of black with a twinge of gold from the warmth spilling out of the neighborhood windows that caught against Smoke’s face. He leaned back on one arm, gazing up towards the sky. His hand drifted next to where hers was on the quilt. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of him on her skin. 

“What you got goin’ on this week?” His tone was almost hesitant, like he shouldn’t be asking this kind of question, but decided to do it anyway.

“I start at the cafe in town tomorrow.”

“Blackbird?”

“Yep.”

Smoke nodded in approval. “What time?”

“Nine.” She took a breath. “Why? You comin’ by tomorrow?” 

Her eyes widened. The question slipped out before she could catch herself. Again.

Smoke watched her for a second, “Maybe.” 

The kitchen window above where they were sitting slid up suddenly. 

“Annie!”

Aunt Della’s voice. 

Both of them looked up. “You left these dishes sittin’ on my counter like they pay rent!” 

Smoke’s mouth twitched. Annie groaned softly under her breath, her head dropping back dramatically, “She soooo…” she groaned, already reaching to pack her things.

“She family. I gotta go anyway,” Smoke said. Like something came over him, his hand rose to find the small of her back, his hand moving up and down gently. 

The sudden burst of fragrance from the night-blooming jasmine that laced through the fence like roots and moonflowers that hung like little white bells wafted towards them as the crickets began their rhythmic chirping and the cicadas changed rhythm. 

Annie stopped what she was doing. The warmth of Smoke’s hand on her back made her turn towards him slowly, her face close enough to his that she could feel his breath on her collarbone and smell the scent of tobacco and spice that clung to his shirt. They locked eyes. Smoke held hers a second, not long enough to call it anything but long enough to feel it anyway. He licked his lips, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. His warm, wet lips lingered softly against her skin, sending shivers down her spine and warmth beneath her ribs. The silence after that stretched in a way that made it feel loud. Louder than the crickets. Louder than the heartbeat that thumped violently in her chest. 

Smoke shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Annie said quickly. 

Their faces were still close. He leaned in again and this time brushed his lips against hers. Just enough for Annie to feel the pressure of his mouth. Annie’s lips followed his, giving back that pressure so he knew she was feeling the same way. Their lips separated slowly, pulling away with a soft, wet smack. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” she said. Voice warm but with a hint of something else behind it. 

He stood up, grabbing her things for her while she folded up her quilt.

“Goodnight, Annie,” he said, walking towards the front of the house where his truck sat parked on the street. The side gate creaked open as he walked through it. 

“Goodnight,” she sighed softly as he disappeared from her view. 

Aunt Della’s voice cut through the romantic haze bubble that had her staring dreamily at the street. 

“Annie, get yo ass in here!”

The small, rusty shop bell above Blackbird Café didn’t really jingle. It clanked with an exasperated, dull thud like it was already over the day. It was Monday morning, the small space slightly busy with diners sipping coffee and tea and enjoying steaming breakfasts of scrambled eggs, fried meat, and fluffy biscuits. The first thing that Annie noticed was the sound. The scrape of chairs against old wood floors, the hiss of grease hitting hot cast iron, the sound of a knife moving against a cutting board in a familiar, practiced rhythm. It smelled like coffee grounds, hot grease, bleach, and lemon cleaner soaked deep into the walls over the years. Something lived-in, almost ancestral. 

Annie made her way past the hostess stand to the back room. Mr. Hightower stood near the kitchen doorway, broad-shouldered and already sweating through his collar despite the early hour. His suspenders stretched over a white button-up rolled at the sleeves, a freshly laundered apron in his hands, his expression serious in a way that older men often wore when they were actually amused. 

“Go change, washroom’s in the back. Then I’ll show you around.”

“Okay.”

Annie padded to the washroom. She wrapped the uniform apron around her waist and stared at herself in the mirror. Her forehead was still shiny from oil Aunt Della had anointed her with that morning. She wiped a small crumb from the curve of her mouth from the tea biscuit she had earlier, slathering vaseline balm on her lips before making her way to the kitchen for Mr. Hightower. 

The kitchen was hotter than the rest of the building by at least ten degrees. Two women worked the stove already, moving around each other like it was a song and dance they’d been doing all their lives. One of them glanced up briefly at Annie before returning to the skillet.

“That’s Loretta,” he said, putting his hands on the cook’s shoulders. “She’s head chef. Loretta, this Annie.” 

“Heyyy, Miss Annie,” Loretta said amusingly, tossing a skillet of onions and peppers together. 

“Nice to meet you, Loretta.”

“And this,” he said, moving to the woman thinly slicing tomatoes, “this Sheila. Sheila – Annie.” 

“Nice to meet you, Sheila.” 

“Mm,” Mr. Hightower remarked. “Try not to scare her off before the lunch rush.”

“Aint you Della’s girl?” Loretta asked.

“Mhmm, niece.”

Sheila snorted. “She from New Orleans, she’ll be aight.”

Mr. Hightower pointed as he talked, moving quickly like he expected people to keep up. “Coffee station here. Tea there. Carry plates confidently, even if you scared. Folks tip better when you check on them often.” He pointed out towards the swinging doors that led from the kitchen to the dining area, “And don’t let them blues men flirt you into forgettin’ things.”

“Blues men?” Annie repeated.

“Musicians,” Sheila corrected. That earned a laugh from Loretta. 

The dining area looked different once people started to fill in. By noon, smoke curled thickly near the ceiling fans, dominoes slapped against tabletops near the windows where men argued over cards, and the low sound of a guitar rolled through the room, soft as heat from the jukebox near the wall. 

Annie moved carefully through the cafe at first. Coffee pot full of freshly brewed chicory coffee in one hand, plates balanced in the other. She listened more than she spoke and watched how the room moved before taking action, observing closely which customers wanted conversation, which wanted speed, and which wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.  The work settled into her body quicker than she expected. There was a rhythm to it here, a sort of dance. Not a graceful one, but something practiced and practical. Not only with the customers, but between the other servers as well. 

“Behind you!”

“Door!”

Annie learned those phrases quickly, at one point narrowly avoiding a clash with another server when she didn’t register the meaning quickly enough. By the second hour, she stopped hesitating before moving through crowded tables. By the third, she’d identified who were regulars and who were just passers-by. 

“You catch on quick.”

Annie looked up from wiping down a booth. One of the younger waitresses, a girl named Felicia, stood beside her with a tray against her hip and a smile on her face.

“I got six brothers. I’m used to chaos,” Annie answered. 

Felicia barked out a laugh, “Oh, you definitely gon’ fit in here.”

Over by the stage, a guitarist plucked a few lazy notes while setting up for the later crowd. The sound rolled through the cafe, settling low and heavy in the air. Outside, Fourth Street buzzed beneath the muggy Delta heat. Inside, Blackbird Cafe dishes clattered, voices did too, and the sound of the blues drifted slowly through cigarette smoke. 

By three, the cafe had settled into its late afternoon lull. Annie wiped down the counter one last time before untying her apron. Mr. Hightower glanced up from his ledger near the till. “See you tomorrow, Annie.”

Annie folded the apron over her arm. “Tomorrow.” She smiled to herself, satisfied, as she headed towards the back door. Just as she reached it, Mr. Hightower’s booming voice made her pause. 

“Annie?” he asked, peeking around the corner. 

“Yes sir.”

“You did good today.”

Annie smiled faintly, “Thank you.” 

The sky began its slow shift into gold. The evening air wrapped around her warm and damp, carrying the smell of riverwater, fried food, and dust. Annie adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder and started down the sidewalk. 

A feeling started to hit her all at once. 

Exhaustion. 

She tried to wind her mind down, but her body was still acting like she was at the cafe. Moving quickly around corners and slower around blind spots, her mind counting things automatically. 

But beneath all the tiredness in her limbs sat something else, too. 

Pride. 

She made her way down Fourth Street, past men leaning in doorways, women talking on shaded porches, and children chasing each other barefoot through red dirt near the edge of the road. One man tipped his hat as she passed by. A man right next to him catcalled something ridiculous enough to earn a laugh. She walked past both of them without breaking stride.

She turned off Fourth and onto Issaquena. 

The sign hung just ahead. 

Luella’s. 

It was a worn, weathered sign that hung over the sidewalk from a wrought iron bracket and chains that swayed gently in the breeze. Pastel paint peeled slightly at the edges of the rectangular wooden plaque with carefully painted gold lettering in the center. A gold frame was tacked on sometime later to make the sign look more polished. Warm light glowed through the front windows, and inside were bolts of fabric, sequined accessories, and hanging garments of every color imaginable swaying faintly in the breeze that flowed through the window like they were alive. 

The floorboards creaked under the weight of Annie’s feet as she stepped through the door and walked down the stairs leading into Luella’s Dressing Room, bringing with her a whirlwind of humid Mississippi air. 

There were a few customers lingering, some by the spools of ribbon, some in the front where bolts of fabric were lined on shelves and piled on top of the large wooden workspace in the center of the shop. Curtains hanging in front of the store windows kept the sun from dulling their vivid coloring, along with bulbs hung from the ceiling that created a cozy, buzzing atmosphere. Glass displays with accessories—gloves, purses, stockings, shoes— lined the walls that were decorated with fashion plates and fading photographs as Annie made her way to the back of the shop. 

The heels of her Mary Jane pumps clicked against the wooden floors as she crossed the room to where Luella was looking at a dress posed on a mannequin, her glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She wore a chatelaine around her waist with small measuring tools hanging from the hooks, and stood with a tape measure slung over her shoulders, her expression perking up as soon as she heard the groan of the floorboards coming her way. 

“Annie,” she said, instantly wrapping her hands around Annie’s middle. 

“Miss Luella,” Annie replied warmly. “I’m here to get my measurements taken.” 

“Gimme a second, baby. Lemme finish up pinnin’ this dress.” 

The back room was fitted with two dressing stalls, a three-way floor-to-ceiling mirror, and a few velvet chairs and a settee for guests. Annie made herself comfortable on one of the chairs, taking a peppermint twist from the jar on the table next to it. 

After a few minutes, she was ushered through a narrow corridor leading to a private alcove flanked with damask velvet drapes, a small platform, and a set of mirrors. The smell of rose scented perfume hung heavily in the air, a pair of Dressmakers’ mannequin sat off to the side, displaying sequined fabric held up by pins. 

Luella gave her a robe, a washcloth and towel, then pointed her to the washroom where a basin full of warm, soapy water was waiting for her. When the door finally shut behind her she sighed. She stripped naked then lathered and dragged the soapy washcloth across her body, scrubbing away the smell of grease and exhaustion from the day. Once she was done, she shrugged the robe on, the feel of satin cool against her skin. 

She stepped out of the washroom freshly oiled with the scent of lavender on her skin and stood on the platform while Luella’s assistant, a quiet, young girl, took her measuring tape while Luella took the measurements down. 

“Hips 46.”

“Good child-birthing hips,” Luella remarked.

“Bust 44,” her assistant continued.

“And they just gon’ get bigger once you start poppin’ out babies.”

“What kind of neckline you want, sugar?” 

“Somethin’ I can tuck my beads into,” Annie replied. 

“Gon’ need a little bit extra to hold these up,” she teased.

Annie laughed quietly and looked at herself in the mirror as she felt the measuring tape tighten around her ribs. The breeze from the small fan by the curtains hit her exposed skin, the sudden chill giving her goosebumps.

“Waist 33.” 

“We usin’ that fabric you picked out last time?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Luella moved in front of Annie with a finger on her cheek in contemplation. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She tapped her cheek with her finger. Once, twice. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Annie looked at her assistant through the mirror who shrugged. Luella disappeared into the store, then returned excitedly with a bolt of a lush dark green velvet fabric.

“I was thinkin’ a straight drop waist, hem just below the hips. Plunging neckline. Maybe some scalloped detailing to frame it. Have them titties sittin’ up high. Decorate it with some silver fringe at the bottom. Like one of them flapper dresses. What you think?” 

“I don’t have the—”

“Don’t worry ‘bout the money. Your auntie said you can get whatever you want. Plus I been dyin’ to get someone in here so I can practice sewin’ a push-up bra.” 

“Push-up bra?”

“Mhmm—supposed to push ‘em in and up,” Luella said with a sly look, gesturing with her hands.

“So, you in?”

Annie nodded once, “I’m in.”

Luella clapped her hands, “I’ll even gift you a necklace and a coin purse to wear with it.” 

“A…necklace?” she asked, her hand instinctively going to her beads. 

“You can’t wear this ol’ thing,” she said, her face softening when she saw Annie slowly trace a bead with her fingertips. 

“It’s just for a night,” she said softly. 

“Okay,” Annie replied with a smile. 

“You should wear your hair down. Finger waves. I can sew a decal in the middle here a few inches above the hem. Mhmm, let the fringe hang from the bottom….” 

Luella’s voice began to fade away as Annie stood in front of the mirror. Her assistant continued taking measurements and writing things down while they circled around her, narrating her entire look for the harvest party. A twinge of nervous energy fluttered in Annie’s belly. Her gaze dropped to her stomach, the few rolls on her upper torso and pudge that sat underneath her belly button. She pulled at it through the robe, sucking in her stomach a bit and smoothing a hand down her torso before just letting it be. 

She’d always been taught to love her body, and she did. But this was Clarksdale, a small town with a lot more small people than she was used to, and she towered over a lot more men here than at home. 

What would a dress made for a short, skinny woman even look like on a tall woman like her? 

What would people say? 

Would they laugh? 

Would they sneer? 

Luella’s gentle hand rubbing her arm soothingly pulled her out of her thoughts. She had pulled a fashion plate from the wall of her shop and brought it over for Annie to look at. 

“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asked, handing Annie the sketch of the dress inspiration.

Annie looked over it carefully, then traced the edges with her fingertips. “Don’t you think I’m too…tall to be wearin’ stuff like that?”

Luella looked at Annie like she knew what she really meant to ask. “Don’t worry, sugar,” Luella whispered with a wink. She rubbed her arms from behind. “You gon’ be the prettiest one in the buildin’.”

Annie smiled, standing just a little bit taller. 

A thick wax candle burned unevenly in the dark. Tiny dancing shadows flickered against the thin walls of the bedroom, the soft light catching the glimmer of oil on Annie’s arms still warm from her bath. 

She sat at her desk. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration while her pencil moved across the page. 

She drew a curve. 

Then another one.

She angled the pencil to flatten the tip. 

Shaded. 

Used the pads of her fingers to soften that. 

The line blurred—not right. 

She scoffed under her breath, erased, and tried again, this time squaring off at the base where the hand felt broader than she expected. 

Her eyes fluttered shut. 

A shape appeared. Then another one, right on top to give it dimension. 

Shade. Mark. Smudge. Erase—until the sides of her hands were stained with graphite. 

She paused at the knuckles, pressing the tip of her pencil down just a little harder, roughing them in before softening the edges with her finger. 

For a moment she felt like she was back at home. Watching her grandmother in the apothecary, sketching the detail of her skirt on any scrap of paper she could find. 

She set her pencil down, letting it roll to the edge of the table as she looked down at her half-finished product. 

Still—something in it didn’t quite feel right. 

She pressed her thumb lightly over one of the lines, then stopped. Folded it up. Tucked it in the drawer of her desk. Closed the drawer carefully. 

A few moments passed. A few shallow breaths. 

She listened to the sounds of the boarding house. Heavy snores. An occasional throat clearing. The house cat purring gently just outside her bedroom door—legs tucked, eyelids heavy, ears always alert. 

Outside, the chickens were settled in their coop. A chain-link fence rattled somewhere down the road, where a fox lingered behind it, watching them restlessly. 

Annie opened the drawer again, this time to pull out a clean sheet of paper. She grabbed her pencil from the edge, dated the letter, then began to write. 

Mama, she started. 

Skipped a line. 

Paused. 

I made it to Clarksdale, she continued. It’s—

She paused again, tapping the pencil on her cheek. 

Tap.

Tap. 

Tap.

Thunder rumbled outside, slow and dangerous, like a rolling boil. Her gaze followed the sudden sound. Lightning followed, finding the shadows that clung to the corners of her room. She turned back to her letter. 

…different. Skipped another line.

The Delta got demons.

She could already hear what her mama would say. “What she mean by that?” She imagined them all there—mama, daddy, grandma, brothers— standing around her while she sat reading it to them. Arms crossed, eyebrows raised, faces scrunched up.

At this point she didn’t even know what she really meant. Smaller, obviously—but they knew that. She knew that. They knew that she knew that. 

Clarksdale was less spooky than New Orleans, but somehow more haunted. Life here hummed along while something else lingered quietly in the shadows.

Outside, storm clouds hung high and heavy, waiting for their moment to break open. Rainfall started slowly, just a light pitter-patter at first, then more steadily, drumming the streets, the land, the roofs.

Annie’s pencil hovered over the paper. 

I got a job in town to save for my shop, she wrote. On the colored side, so don’t go worrying. 

I ain’t looked at any places. But if Aunt Della can have something of her own, so can I. 

She blinked twice, hesitating. Then—

Send grandma, daddy, and my siblings all my love. I hope y’all can come see me soon. 

Love, 

Annie

P.S. Ain’t found good fried catfish yet. 

Annie’s gaze lingered on the letter for a moment. She folded it neatly, pressing a gentle kiss in the center like an invisible seal. The chair scraped against the floorboards as she stood, thunder crashing just as she blew out the candle. Her room was blanketed in near darkness until the flash of lightning lit up the shadows again. She tiptoed to her bed. The creak of the iron frame was silenced by the sounds of the storm as she sat down in the middle, bringing her knees to her chest. She looked outside, her mouth twisting into a sleepy, satisfied smile. The wind whistled through the cracks of the siding, carrying raindrops along with it, smearing them across the windows in long streaks. She cracked it, leaving it slightly open with a small block of wood, before laying down and tucking herself under the covers.

Outside blurred into sheets of rain. Inside, the room blurred into a sheet of darkness as Annie’s eyelids started to feel like lead. 

All of a sudden she was in the kitchen, the house held under its familiar morning hush.

A fire crackled faintly in the stove, smoldering low just like it was left. 

She set the kettle on top, reaching for her special blend in the cupboard. Her fingertips brushed the shelves, gliding over jars, vials, canisters, mismatched mugs with chipped rims, and something soft tucked in between, until they landed on an empty spot— the one where her favorite mug usually lived. 

She turned. Her eyes searched the room– the table, the shelves, the door, the wash basin next to it— until they landed on it. Her face relaxed slightly, perking up again when the kettle let out a deafening whistle. 

Annie grabbed the mug from the wash basin, the lingering warmth on the handle making her pause—just for a second. She relaxed again as she took a slow sip, testing the heat on her tongue. 

Somewhere in another room, in a house that never settles, a floorboard creaked.

Water trickled. Then ran smoothly. 

The floorboard creaks got heavier. Closer. 

A shadow darkened the threshold. Her eyes followed it. Then—

Rain hammered the tin roof of the boarding house as night dragged on. 

A silver stream of moonlight sliced sharply through the darkness in Annie’s room. She was staring at the ceiling—jolted awake by a loud boom of thunder that shaken her out of her sleep. The storm had thinned out to a familiar, early fall rain.

She listened to the echo of crickets through the window. They chirped low, mimicking her heartbeat— a rapid, arrhythmic flutter. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breathing.

Didn’t work. 

Annie scoffed, sitting up to lower her window some, careful not to close it completely. 

The outside noise had faded— crickets, rain, animals. Gone. Mostly. Annie tucked herself in again, her eyes slowly beginning to close. 

In a few minutes they were back open. 

Because it wasn’t the night that was too loud. 

A gentle wind slipped through the crack of the window, bringing with it the earthy smell of rain— but the breeze did little to cool the heat that crept through her body. 

Her hand moved along the curve of her, stopping at her right ear where her fingertips grazed the side. It was hot to the touch, like his breath, his voice, his words were right there.  

Her breath hitched when she realized the turn her mind had taken, her hand snapping to her side as that heat—froze. 

Chill. 

Sharp and sudden, a shiver slid down her spine before disappearing just as fast. 

She rolled to her side suddenly, pulling the covers tighter, squeezing her eyes harder— pleading. 

The rain tapered off, now reduced to an audible drip from the edge of the roof by her bedroom. Slow. Methodical. Taunting. 

Her eyes didn’t snap open this time. She didn’t get flustered. She just laid on her side facing the window, watching the sky like she knew what to expect. 

Because she did. 

And dawn was approaching.

It arrived as it always did, a gentle, pale wash of color that slowly softened the edges of darkness. 

Annie’s body moved ahead of her mind, her legs sweeping over the edge of the bed as she stood to her feet. She was tracing the outline of her ileke beads with her fingertips when she realized— it was Saturday.  

Which meant today would be easy. 

Breakfast chewed slow, coffee sipped slower. Everything a little lazier, a little less urgent. She could get out of the house, take a walk by the river, follow it to the place Chayton showed her—a spot he said the grass was tall and honeysuckle grew sweeter. 

After washing up, she slipped on a dress made for sunlight—a green wrap dress—and practically floated toward the staircase until she heard movement downstairs. She tiptoed down the stairs, turning the corner slowly to find Aunt Della in the kitchen, rolling biscuit dough, her movements deliberate, unrushed.  

“Where you think you goin’?” She asked without looking up. 

Annie set her bag beside the woven basket on the table by the door. “Out to the woods.” 

“This early?” 

“Mhmm.”

“Where?”

“That place Chayton took us to the other day.”

“Hmm. Well, stay off the roads. Stay to the side and don’t be out there daydreamin’. Keep your ears open.” 

Aunt Della clapped her hands free of flour, then pulled something from her pocket. She approached Annie, grabbing her hand and putting it firmly in her palm. Annie looked down at it. It was a switchblade, small, foldable, with a bone handle and a sharp, serrated blade. Her thumb grazed the inscription carved into the handle— Seven Sisters. 

“Keep this on you,” Aunt Della said firmly. “Always.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Annie said, slipping on her work apron, then slipping the knife into her apron pocket.

“Come here,” Aunt Della insisted, grabbing her arm. “Have some tea first ‘fore you go.” 

Annie slid into a stool in the kitchen as Aunt Della poured boiling water over a pack of herbs. The smell rose quickly. Jasmine, sassafras and mint. She stirred a spoonful of honey in, the spoon clinking against the insides of the ceramic cup. 

“I wrote a letter,” Annie said as Aunt Della slid the cup towards her on the table. “To mama.”

“Mmm?” 

“Was hopin’ you knew how to get it to her.” 

Annie sipped from her cup, letting the tingle of warmth wash over her. A familiar feeling found her ankle. The gentle brush of the house cat’s coat. 

“Tsk tsk tsk,” she tutted. “Coucou, Felix,” she lulled. The cat purred, the sound a deep rumble against her skin. He contorted his slender body against her like a long wave, then sat at her feet, his tail stroking her leg every other breath.

Aunt Della took a sip of her own tea before placing the cup down in its saucer. “Bring it with you,” she said. “To church.”

“Don’t let me forget,” she said quietly, staring at her aunt with pleading eyes. 

She reached over to touch Annie’s hand where it rested on the table. The warmth from the tea cup lingered like a pulse between them. “I won’t, baby,” she said softly, reassuring. 

“We leave for church a little after first bell. Just before the night clears.” 

Annie took another sip of her tea. “When’s that reverend due to come in?” 

“Before supper.” 

“And he’s preachin’ tomorrow?”

“Mhmm. Got a big followin’,” she said, stirring her tea with her finger. “They say he’s one of the most successful soul winners in the country,” she added, emphasizing every word sarcastically. 

“Hmm,” Annie hummed, putting her teacup down. She stood, dodging Felix still curled up at her feet, and took it to the wash basin.   

“I’ll be back before supper,” she said while rinsing her cup. “Probably little after lunch.”

“Be careful, Annie,” Aunt Della insisted, as she slipped into her boots and grabbed her things by the door. 

The screen door shut firmly behind her, the porch steps still damp from morning dew and last night’s storm. Annie walked down them carefully, dodging puddles and pools of mud in the front yard. 

The road painted a picture of the night it had suffered through— wet, soft and dark. Annie walked with purpose when she stepped onto the packed dirt, keeping to the sides of the road, partially hidden by shrubs. One arm was hooked through the handle of her basket, the other found its place in her pocket firmly palming her switchblade. 

She looked at her surroundings— fall was approaching Clarksdale.

Leaves of all shades, burnt amber to pale green, lay along the packed dirt road like an offering. Cicadas still screeched from their treetop lairs while Spanish moss swayed elegantly in the early morning breeze. Little bits of milkweed seed blew gently through the air, leaving small blossoms in her coils like little white stars. She left behind a trail of jasmine and river water, like a midnight garden blooming in the crisp morning air behind her.

Annie was just to the riverbend when she felt a chilling stillness that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The same feeling from her first day in town when they passed the white section, that tightness around her throat. It made her stop suddenly in her tracks. 

Then she heard it, the sound of an exhaust pipe sputtering and wheels crunching up the road.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath.  

The road sloped downwards into the woods surrounding both sides. She ducked off into the brush, boots sliding over the slick mud at the top of the bend. 

The brakes let off a lingering squeal as the wheels slowed, then stopped completely. 

A door opened, a rusty creak of a sound that echoed in the silence of the morning. It shut carefully, with a quiet click.

Her heart kicked against her ribs. 

She stepped over a fallen log to find cover behind a large oak tree, the fallen leaves rustling underneath her careful steps. 

It was silent for a beat, her heartbeat hammering in her ears as a mix of anticipation and dread took over. 

“Annie?”

Annie squeezed her eyes shut when she heard the familiar voice. Relief washed over her like a cooling balm on a burn. But she didn’t move. Not yet.

“Annie,” the voice said, louder, more firm. 

She peeked out from behind the tree slowly. Just her head. 

Smoke stood at the top of the bank, peering down into the trees. He wore only trousers and suspenders, a simple undershirt clinging tightly to his muscles in his broad chest. 

“What you out here for?” 

Annie’s mind went blank for a second. Smoke raised a brow in response. 

“Work,” she said finally. “Just doin’ work.”

He tilted his head, his hands flexing at his sides. “What kinda work?”

“Foraging.”

“Right here?”

“No,” she said, nodding towards the road, “a lil’ further up.”

He sighed. “Annie–”

Annie stepped out from behind the tree, slowly. Her voice echoed off the trees. “I’m fine, Smoke. Really.”

Smoke scanned the treeline before he spoke, jaw tight. “These roads ain’t safe to be walkin’ alone.”

A pause.

“I’ll take you.”

She gasped under her breath. “You ain’t gotta—”

“I said,” he interrupted. “I’ll take you.” 

Annie exhaled slowly. Something in his gaze took the fight out of her.

He held out his hand to her to help her up the bank, looking down at her face that was tilted up at him. Her eyes were lighter here. Bigger, somehow. A warm chocolate brown with a flicker of gold in the irises where the sun touched them.

Annie looked down at Smoke’s hand, then back up to his face. Up close, his features softened. Or maybe it was just the way the sun hit them. 

Either way, she held her hand out, accepting his help as she stepped out of the brush. 

The wind whispered delicately around them, Annie’s skirt blowing slightly in the gentle breeze, exposing the swell of her thigh. Smoke’s jaw tightened at the movement, his eyes dropping to where the fabric lifted. His hand hesitated for a moment, before smoothing the side of her skirt down. 

“Thank you,” Annie said softly. 

Smoke held her gaze for a moment before rounding the front of the truck to the driver’s side door. 

The drive was quiet except for the light tap of Smoke’s thumb against the steering wheel. Annie rested her right arm out the window as the landscape moved past her in flashes of muted orange, green and brown. The land was dead, or at least that’s what the color of it told her, the once green shrubs and brush shedding like snakeskin, baring itself for winter to swallow it whole.

“So what you lookin’ for?” Smoke asked, cutting through the near silence. 

“Some herbs. Roots and such,” she replied plainly.

“So you–” he said, then hesitated. He swallowed, then continued. “You like your aunt? Do all that hoodoo stuff?” 

Annie smiled, just faintly. “Yeah,” she said, looking over. “That stuff.” 

“You believe in all that?” he asked, eyes fixed on the road.

“Believe in what?” 

He paused before he spoke. “Magic.”

Annie smoothed her hands down her skirt, setting them on her lap gently. She looked out the window. “I believe in people. What’s passed down from ‘em,” she answered. Paused. Then, “What you believe in?”

Smoke’s head turned to the side, tilting. “Money. Respect.”

Annie hummed in acknowledgement, turning her head back towards the window.

“What exactly you need?” Smoke probed. 

“Stuff you can find in the dirt. Plants. Herbs.”

A quiet sigh escaped from Smoke, making Annie turn her head again. She arched her brow. A silent prodding.

“I know that. What kind?” 

Annie looked at Smoke skeptically. “Why?”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders slowly, “Just wanna know.” 

Annie faced forward. Exhaled. Took her time with her answer. “Comfrey. Honeysuckle. Mugwort. Stuff like that.”

“I know a place,” he said, looking over briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “If that’s okay with you.” 

Silence settled for a beat before Annie realized Smoke wasn’t driving in the direction she pointed him towards. She looked over her shoulder then back to Smoke, then back over her shoulder again. Her face twisted, but not with panic— curiosity. “This ain’t where…Smoke…where we goin’?” 

“I told you, I know a place,” he said simply. 

Annie sat forward in the seat—skeptical—her eyes tracing the side of Smoke’s face. “Where is it, Smoke? Where you takin’ me?” 

“There’s a spot,” he said, clearing his throat. “In the woods. It’s safe. Nobody goes out there but us.” 

“Us?”

“Me and Stack,” he clarified. “That okay with you?” he said a bit louder, looking over to meet Annie’s gaze once more. 

Annie’s hand tightened in her lap. “If it’s not?”

“I turn around, take you to your spot.” 

Annie considered for a moment, then nodded. 

“Okay.”

—

Smoke pulled up to a stretch of land, split in two by a rough dirt path. 

The ancient oak and sweetgum trees were tall surrounding it, bent over almost as if they were in reverence.

Smoke ushered Annie out of his truck, holding her steady by the waist so she wouldn’t fall victim to the uneven earth that made up the path. 

Leaves brushed the walkway, crunching underneath their boots as they made their way further into the forest. Smoke walked just ahead of Annie— sure in his steps, leading the way, looking behind him every so often to make sure she was still there. 

Annie’s eyes darted from the oak trees, to the blanket of fallen leaves beneath it, to the tiny animals that scurried in the thicket. 

The cicadas screeched above them, dulling the trickle of the creek just ahead of them— but Annie still felt the current. 

“Right here,” Annie said, stopping in her tracks, kneeling— her bare knees burrowing in the rich dirt where she landed. 

She brushed away the few leaves that laid over the spot, hands hovering over the earth. 

Then she dug. 

Smoke stopped when he didn’t feel her behind him. He turned around to find her completely absorbed in the ground.

Annie planted her hands in the dirt, soil instantly collecting under her fingernails. Her fingertips wrapped around a plant rooted deeply underneath the surface. 

She paused before pulling it towards her, pressing her other hand into the soil to steady herself. 

She stopped. 

Pulled the switchblade from her apron pocket, and made a clean cut at the root. 

Then she whispered something under her breath— not loud, just audible enough for Smoke to hear it. Her eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the plants, the soil, her own instinct. 

Smoke kept his eyes on Annie as the cicadas went quiet. 

The rustle of leaves faded. 

The silence of the woods lingered before it started to feel deafening. 

He took a step towards her before crouching down. Not interrupting, just giving into a sudden urgency that seemed to overtake his instinct. 

He balanced himself, his palm pressing into the soil next where Annie’s hand was firmly planted. 

A moment of silence—almost like he knew better than to interrupt—passed between them. 

“You good?” he whispered suddenly. 

Annie looked up towards Smoke, her hand pressing deeper in the soil. 

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice almost a whisper. She finished pulling the root, brushing dirt from her hands. “I’m good.” 

Smoke didn’t move right away. Neither did Annie. 

His hand flexed once in the soil, his thumb pressing into the dirt like he needed the touch. 

“Okay,” he replied, standing when pressure built in his ears that had his eyes scanning the woods. He cleared his throat, flexing his hands as he took a step back. 

“I’m right here,” he said, pointing to the outline of a house a ways down the dirt path.

Annie nodded again, turning back to her work as the sound of Smoke’s footsteps disappeared down the trail.

Time felt like it stood still.

It was afternoon now, the rays of sun that peeked through the trees the only indication of the day passing. 

Annie worked slowly, reverently—pulling, dusting and stacking in her basket until she felt like she collected enough. 

She sat on her knees, exhausted, wiping a small bead of sweat from her temple. 

Then she pulled out her paper and pencil.

She smoothed the paper as much as she could as it curved over her legs. It found the dips and grooves in her skin and the wrinkles in the fabric of her dress.

The tip of the pencil hovered for a moment before touching down. She drew a line, light at first. Then another, curving off it without closing. She paused, glancing at the ground, then back to the page. 

The roots pushed through the dirt the way they wanted, twisting under the surface before breaking through. She followed that with her pencil, letting the line bend where it needed to. It dragged slightly where the soil had been packed down. She smudged that part with her thumb. 

Light cut across the page unevenly— patches of it catching, others falling into shadow. She tilted the paper just slightly, filling in those parts with softer strokes. 

The lines didn’t come together cleanly. They spread, overlapped, smudged, and shaded, fading into one another until something like a moment took shape on the page.  

She looked at it for a minute longer, then slid the pencil back into her apron pocket. She folded the paper up until it was just a small square, and tucked that into her purse. 

Then she was back in the dirt.

Pressing soil back into place, covering what had been disturbed, working her hands until the ground looked just as she’d found it. 

—

Annie was gathering her things when she heard him in the distance. She perked up, her head craning over her shoulder. 

Her eyes narrowed as the bright afternoon sun blinded her from the sight walking up the path in the distance, but she could hear boots crunching against the bed of fallen leaves.

Smoke.

She raised a hand to block out the sun, her eyes sweeping up his frame until they landed on his. 

“Got lunch if you want some.”

She nodded once, moving to push herself up to her feet in one swift motion. Smoke caught her mid-motion on the arm, helping her stand all the way up. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her hands against her apron to shake off the dirt.  

Smoke turned, motioning his head for Annie to follow him. They walked side by side, the occasional birdcall or soft snap of twigs beneath their feet the only sounds between them. The house came into full view through the trees, a modest, well-preserved shotgun on cinderblocks. 

They stopped at a wash basin outside where she scrubbed her hands clean before moving to the porch. It was wide, slightly sagging, with sun-scorched floorboards that lifted on one side. Annie stepped through the door slowly, her eyes moving without hurry. 

The smell hit her first. The savory aroma of meat. Something smothered, simmered low and cooked slow. And spice. Enough to make your nose tingle, but not enough to make you sneeze.

The inside of the house was warm, but not in temperature. It was cozy—a neat space maintained with care. 

The space was deep, one long room sectioned off into separate areas. Two cots at the front behind a divider, and two heavy, metal trunks with rusted latches stood at the foot of each bed. The living area was just beyond that, decorated with bookshelves along the walls and a brown striped fabric couch in the center covered in plastic. By the back door was the kitchen— a wood-burning stove, table and chairs, and wooden shelving along the walls. 

Everything had its place, but not in a way that felt stiff. Stacks of clean dishes in the kitchen, neatly folded blankets on the couch, a slew of medals arranged carefully on a bookshelf, set apart from the other items in a way that made Annie pause. 

Smoke saw her glancing at them, but said nothing. The silverware clinked where he began to set them on the table.

“What are these?” Annie asked, pointing. She took a step towards them, careful not to touch. They were held inside a velvet box, displayed on a bed of faded cream-colored satin.

Smoke shrugged. “Shit from the war,” he muttered, moving past her to pull out glasses and plates like the question didn’t need much more than that.

Annie narrowed her eyes, leaning in just enough to read. Her lips moved faintly over the inscription.

 “République Française,” she read. She paused, looking across the room where Smoke was setting the table. “Why is it French?” 

Smoke exhaled sharply, setting a plate down harder than he meant to. “That’s who we fought with.”  

Annie’s brows pulled together. “What you mean?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. “We fought…with the French army.”

“Why?”

That made Smoke pause.

“Jim Crow.” 

Annie didn’t say anything back. She had heard the stories. Knew them intimately. One of her own brothers was packed up and shipped out of Hoboken. Six months later, they sent word he was accidentally shot. Didn’t say how or why a man in the engineering battalion was subject to gunfire. 

They wouldn’t even send his body back. Said they wouldn’t pack it on a ship with the bodies of white men. 

All on account of Jim Crow. 

She slowly turned back to the medals. Green and red striped fabric affixed with brass stars sat at the top, at the bottom was the medal, its color a dull bronze. A round, raised figurehead sat in the center, intersected by two overlapping swords and four triangular spokes alternating between them. 

It looked delicate. It looked dangerous. It looked like something earned with blood, bone, and brutality.

“You speak it?” Smoke threw over his shoulder. 

Annie took her time to answer. She was still looking over the medals, drawn in by the detail. “Huh?” 

“French.”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, still looking at the medals. “I do.”

A beat passed. Annie’s eyes moved to the row of bound notebooks on the shelf next to the medals. Threadbare bindings, some canvas, some leather— all neatly aligned. On their spines were neat handwriting. Precise, thin, cursive, written in a deep, onyx ink. 

“Where you learn that?”

His voice came suddenly. Deeper. Closer. Right there next to her ear, just like in Chow’s.

Annie’s eyes fluttered shut, then snapped back open. She sighed, then twisted her neck over her shoulder to look Smoke in the eye.  

“You sho’ do live up to your nickname,” she drawled, squinting.

Smoke tilted his head. He had a twinkle in his eye and half a smirk on his lips. “What you mean by that?”

“You have a habit of sneakin’ up on people.”

He tilted his head to the other side, huffing a quiet laugh under his breath. “Ain’t sneakin’ if you payin’ attention, Miss Annie,” he teased.

“Who said I wasn’t payin’ attention,” she fired back, her Louisiana lilt wrapping around more than just her words. 

Smoke’s eyes flicked down slowly, following the curve of her face before landing on the pulse in her throat. It was steady. Too steady. His eyes flicked back up. 

Annie turned, fully facing him and crossing her arms lazily under her chest in one smooth move. “Back in Louisiana,” she answered, holding his gaze. “Everybody there know some kind of French.” 

Smoke answered with a grunt. Annie answered back with a hum, then moved around him to the kitchen. She sat at the table, easing herself into a chair that faced where he was still standing. Smoke let her go. He didn’t follow her—but his eyes did, body twisting slightly, hands flexing once at his sides. 

“You learn any?” She asked, leaning forward a little. “From the war?” 

Smoke turned until he was facing her where she was sitting across the room. Slowly. Not like he wanted to make a show out of it, just like her voice pulled him there. He walked back into the kitchen where cups and plates were stacked haphazardly on a row of shelves. He grabbed two glass mason jars, looking them over for a second before turning towards the table with them. “Little bit.” 

Annie tilted her head, something playful in it. “Like what?”

Smoke set the glasses down, one in front of Annie, the other directly across the table. “Hi. Bye.”

Annie smiled. “That it?”

“Mhm.”

She leaned back slightly in her chair, looking at him like she didn’t believe that for a second. “What else?”

Smoke paused for a second. Then shook his head. “Nah, nothin’.” 

Annie’s smile curved into something sly. “Tell me.” 

“Nah.” Smoke shook his head again. “Nothin’ a lady need to hear.”

She let out a soft laugh, fingers curling on the table. “Smoke, I got brothers,” she sassed. “Ain’t much I ain’t heard.” 

“That don’t mean—” He paused abruptly, cursing under his breath. Whatever was starting to curve up on his face flattened into a straight line.

He could hear it in the distance, the rumble at the edge of the dirt road that led the path to their home. The tread of tires crunching over leaves and fallen branches. The roar of an engine. The sudden cutoff. Then bootsteps. Familiar, unhurried, confident— like a walking permanent smirk. 

Smoke didn’t look up. 

The screen door reared back and slammed shut just as fast. In with it came the sweltering Mississippi heat like an unwelcome guest—and Stack. He stepped through the threshold casually like he owned the room, jacket hanging loose on his shoulders.  

“Smell somethin’ decent for once. Thought I was comin’ to the wrong hou—” 

He paused, standing in the doorway. His eyes moved quickly out of habit— from Annie’s hands resting lightly in her lap, to Smoke leaning over the table, then back to Annie.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin. 

Smoke looked up then, meeting his brother’s eyes. Something quick and quiet passed between them, making Stack’s brow rise a fraction. Just barely. Stack looked at Annie, her eyes darting between the two of them curiously. 

“Hey, Annie,” Stack said warmly.

Annie’s mouth curved, just a little. “Hey, Stack,” she replied just as warmly.

“Thought you was goin’ out,” Stack remarked to his brother as he moved further into the room. 

Smoke reached for the pitcher of tea, pouring it into glasses like nothing in the air had shifted. “Change of plans.”

Stack pulled out a chair and sat, leaning back like he was settling in to watch something play out. He nodded towards Annie. “You settlin’ in alright?”

“Yeah,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea. “Still learnin’ my way around.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Ain’t too much to it. You’ll get used to it just fine.” 

Annie nodded, considering. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stack’s eyes swept the room again. Table set. Two glasses. Two plates. Smoke at the counter, reaching for a third. Annie at the table. “Y’all ate?” Stack asked, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. 

“‘Bout to,” Smoke replied. 

“Good,” he answered with a grin. “Came home at the right time, then.” 

Smoke uncovered the heavy pot on the stove. The savory scent of smothered neckbones filled the air— even more fragrant now. The aroma mingled with the sharp scent of bay leaf from the rice on the burner next to it. 

Smoke set Annie’s plate down in front of her, then set Stack’s plate down on the table and slid it to him, before setting his own down.

They ate their meal quietly, just the clinking of plates, occasional clearing of a throat, and hum of satisfaction that came with a good meal. 

Annie took slow bites, her eyes flicking between Smoke and Stack every so often, before drifting over to parts of the room she could see without turning her head. 

Smoke took slow, deliberate bites of his food— eyes much more steady, finding Annie where she sat across from him, then over to Stack where he was looking between the two of them with a glint of something in his eyes. 

Stack took a healthy bite of rice and meat, then set his fork down. He grabbed the mug in front of him, took a large audible gulp of tea, then set it on the table a little harder than necessary. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and cleared his throat dramatically, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. 

Smoke didn’t react. Annie paused for half a second before returning right back to her food.

“So what y’all been doin’ all day?” He asked.

Annie looked across the table mid-bite at Smoke, who spoke up first.

“Miss Della asked me to give Annie a ride,” he said, looking at her while he spoke. “So she could do some work.” 

Stack’s eyes lingered on his brother before looking over at Annie, then back over to Smoke. “That right?” 

Smoke turned his head, looking Stack dead in the eyes. “That’s right.” 

Stack leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why she ain’t ask me? I was already in town.” 

Smoke shrugged casually, his eyes still locked on his brother’s. “Gotta ask her.” 

They shared a look— whatever passed between them this time made Stack stand down. He leaned back in his chair, still smirking, eyes still sharp. “What work you doin’, Annie?”

“She tryna eat, Stack,” Smoke said firmly. “Her basket by the door since you so curious.” 

Stack put his hands up in a playful surrender. “My bad. Shit.” 

Annie’s legs swung under the table as she reached for her tea. She took a sip. Set the cup down, then cleared her throat. “This a nice place y’all got.” 

Stack rubbed the rim of his glass with his fingertips and looked up. 

Smoke rose from the table, taking his plate and Annie’s with him. “Thank you.” 

Annie stood up. She walked around the room slowly, eyes focusing on everything and nothing at all. “It’s just y’all two?” She asked, fingertips grazing a stack of quilts folded neatly, piled high on the couch. 

“Yeah,” Smoke answered quickly. “Just us.”

Annie processed that answer, then proceeded—hesitantly, for some reason. “Y’all got family here?” 

Stack’s jaw tightened. “Uncle. Aunt. Cousins.” 

Annie could feel the tension with her back turned. She didn’t push. 

“What ‘bout you?” Stack asked. “Miss Della the only family you got in Mississippi?”

“Mhmm,” Annie responded. “She the only one who left Louisiana.”

“Nobody else left?” Smoke asked.

“Nah,” she replied with a shake of her head.

“Why not?” Stack asked. 

“My family been there since we crossed…you know. We got land there. History. Guess they don’t want it fallin’ in the wrong hands.” 

“Makes sense,” Stack replied. 

Stack was still sitting at the table. Smoke was standing by the wash basin, arms crossed. They were both looking at her.

“I should get back,” she sighed, turning around. “Aunt Della’s probably wonderin’ where I am.” 

Smoke nodded, pushing himself off the counter. He crossed the room and grabbed his hat, keys, and Annie’s basket by the door, holding it open for her. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Annie said quietly. She stopped towards the door and paused. “Nice to see you again, Stack.”  

“Good seein’ you, Annie,” Stack said as she slipped out the door. His golds flashed. Smoke looked back at him once before stepping out behind Annie, giving Stack a look that made him grin a little wider just as the door shut behind them. 

—

The air outside felt like an exhale. The rays of sunset bled through the trees, splaying a single streak of gold across Annie’s shoulder where her top had shifted slightly. She walked just ahead of Smoke to his truck. She took a second to look back at him, just to find him already looking at her. She smiled a little, almost instinctively, before turning forward again. 

“Thank you, again,” she said as they reached the truck, her back flush to the passenger door. “For today.”

Smoke said nothing. He tilted his head down at her. Took a step closer. Then his gaze dropped. His hands rose, hovering over her shoulders. They hesitated for a second. Then they lowered, fingers hooking underneath the straps of her dress. He pulled it over her shoulders where it had slipped from them. Patted them gently, like his touch would make the fabric stay in place. Only then did he look back up at her— just before reaching behind her to slowly open the passenger side door. 

Annie didn’t exhale again until he rounded the front. 

The truck roared to life underneath them, bouncing over grooves and holes that the storm had made slick. The transition from countryside to town was quick, but that didn’t make it any less quiet. The sound of cicadas was traded with wagon wheels and commotion on the street. In one place it was just the land that watched, but the closer they got to Fourth, the more it felt like the town had eyes too. 

Annie hung gently out of the passenger side window, watching the scenery go by. Old equipment lay discarded in vines and weeds until the countryside gave way to wooden buildings and wire fences. Livestock turned into faces that stared back intently. She waved at some people she recognized out of instinct. Some she remembered from Chow’s, others from Luella’s and everywhere in between. They paused for a moment, whispering to one another. Their wave finally came, but it was a second too late. The feeling it carried with it was a little too stiff. Annie noticed it all—the hesitance, the whispers. 

She didn’t react all at once. 

First it was her arm. It moved from the window down to her lap. 

Then her head. It went from looking out the window to looking down. 

Then her shoulders slumped. Just slightly. 

Smoke looked over to the passenger side. To Annie’s hands gripping the hem of her apron, fingers fiddling with a loose string at the edge. She wasn’t looking out the window anymore. Smile was gone. Her head was down, her lips moving slightly, but no words were coming out. She almost looked smaller like this. Not dramatically, just enough for him to notice. 

But that wasn’t even what really bothered him. 

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Aye,” he said. “Don’t pay ‘em no mind.” 

Annie kept her eyes on the loose string, her fingers flicking it around. 

“You hear me?” Smoke asked as they came to a stop. He cut the engine, leaving them with only the sound of their own thoughts. 

Annie straightened up a little. “I’m good,” she replied. 

Smoke raised a brow, one hand on the wheel. “Good. Cuz we still gotta schedule our lesson.”

“Lesson?”

He tilted his head down, looking at Annie under his lashes. “Our French lesson.”

Annie chuckled, crossing her arms gently. “French lesson?” 

She blinked slowly, her long, thick lashes framing them delicately. “I thought I was too much of a lady for you to tell me what you learned over there, what changed?” 

Smoke gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Instead of me teachin’ you, I reckon you can teach me.”

“Teach you?” she asked incredulously. “What makes you so interested in French all of a sudden?” She continued, eyes wide.  

He looked over to the boarding house, then back over to Annie. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping a fraction. “I like the way you say it.” 

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “I said two words, Smoke.” 

“And I like the way you say it,” he said slower. 

Annie blinked, slowly, hands still crossed over her chest. “Hmm.”

He paused for a moment, eyes searching hers. 

“You sure you good?” He asked again.

Her breath caught. “Yeah,” she replied earnestly. “I’m okay.” 

“People ‘round here always got somethin’ to say about me, my brother. Especially people who ain’t even had a conversation with me. Don’t let that bother you none.” 

Annie felt her heart beat a little faster. His words, the care they carried with them, settling into her skin. Her eyes sparkled, that edge from a few moments earlier— softened a smidge. 

She hesitated first, then leaned over, planting a quick, innocent kiss on his cheek. 

“Bonne nuit,” she said gently. 

Smoke’s breath hitched. 

He heard the creak and thud of his truck door opening, then closing.

Watched Annie as she made her way up the steps of the boarding house.

Waited for her to disappear behind the door. 

Only then did he exhale.

Dividers: @/chrisssiren @/strangergraphics

Taglist: @milkywayzard @bananajoeclone @myheartsaysyes @nika324 @brownsugarcoffy @soufcakmistress @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @dealore @thedutifulone @lilbitt @kkbeauty86 @nyifly22 @brownskincheyenne @atpeaceinthestars @explodesallovertheplace @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @sweetarchivistsiege @zunibugsiren @blue4everrsworld @xeebop @hdfen2474 @girlmath101 @sintizc @chromexbarbie @theogbadbitch @shereeluvssinners @anniensmoke3 @og-goddesstrill @thebumblebeesworld @merrymaryfebruary @partylikemajima @numb1smokeanniestan @shamansha @nicanotnika

they had been on the run for six weeks. six weeks since they had to leave behind the home they built from the ground up. the roots and connections made in a city annie was beginning to love. all over a spur of the moment decision smoke made to save his brother. stack had gotten caught up. it was supposed to be a standard run. in and out. he had been meeting with the same business partner for months now. he didn’t pick up on the signs of the man being a fed.

but smoke did. elijah hardly ever missed a detail, he even paid attention to the smalls one. which was exactly how he ended up in this mess. it started off small: cars making the exact same turns, at the exact same time. then it picked up. money coming up missing, people who didn’t usually look twice suddenly asking too many questions. elijah took note of it all. knew when to be in place when the raid happened. played as his brother during questioning. they were twins after all. he could mirror mannerisms without a second thought.

and when he came to aneika’s door telling her he had to dip out for a while. she packed a bag and emptied her safe without another word. she knew it was dumb but smoke was all she knew. and if he was going, she was riding too.

he told her the plan: they would only be moving for a few weeks. laying low while also not being sitting ducks. cash payments only, they couldn’t afford to be tracked. not when the feds were on their tails and the devil was knocking at their door. and no matter what, he would never leave her behind. not then and not now.

annie played the plan back in her head. smoke was a man of his word. so if he said something annie had no choice but to trust it.

annie was so locked into her thoughts that she almost missed the passenger side door cracking open. almost. the intensity of the situation had her on high alert. her head snapped up quickly. smoke slid in stealthily while throwing two duffles bags into the backseat before the door even closed. she pulled off from the bank without another word.

they both chose to ignore the faint sound of sirens as they pulled off of the 2nd block from the bank. they had put enough distance between themselves for smoke to finally lift the ski mask from his face. sweat sliding down his temple. half from the cali heat and half from the adrenaline.

the car cruised into a smooth motion as they blended into the ongoing traffic. smoke peeped it off rip. a car unmarked just like theirs making the same turns, at the same speed. he felt a tingle go down his spine.

“speed up a lil bit ma” he tapped her thigh to gain her focus. she floored the pedal. weaving in and out of cars on the busy street. elijah stayed calm to not scare her as a heavy feeling creeped into his stomach.

aneika knew what the look on his face meant. someone was catching up to them. she shifted her mind off of him and back onto the packed highway, only a few more miles until the interstate. they could make it. she had been training for moments like this one since the day she met smoke and became a permanent part of his world.

her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears. she could hear it over the sound of hot tires gliding over worn down roads. smoke felt the unease as if it were his own body creating the sensation. he lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck soothingly.

“whatever happens it’s me and you baby” he said emotion weighing down his words. annie blinked back tears. for some reason his words sounded like a goodbye. the exit for the interstate glowed like a small sun in front of the couple’s eyes.

she moved lanes smoothly. the exit she took was deserted, a sweet reprieve from the fast paced city they just left behind. elijah let out a deep sigh. everything felt too good to be true.

as they neared the end of the street, aneika blinked rapidly. lined up in front of them were swat cars stretching from end to end in a pool of flashing lights. then she heard it. the whooshing noise of helicopters circling above the roof of the car.

the car came to a halt in the middle of the empty road. smoke gripped her hand tightly and pulled her in for a breath taking kiss. every memory they shared together played on a loop in their heads.

“STEP OUT OF THE VECHICLE” was just background to smoke and annie.

sneaking into each other’s dorm rooms to share cold chinese food.

“FINAL WARNING” the chief sounded off again.

wedding vows whispered quietly before they faced the noise.

“FIRE” was the last thing the couple heard before rounds let off.

they had been on the run for six weeks. six weeks since they had to leave behind the home they built from the ground up. the roots and connections made in a city annie was beginning to love. all over a spur of the moment decision smoke made to save his brother. stack had gotten caught up. it was supposed to be a standard run. in and out. he had been meeting with the same business partner for months now. he didn’t pick up on the signs of the man being a fed.

but smoke did. elijah hardly ever missed a detail, he even paid attention to the smalls one. which was exactly how he ended up in this mess. it started off small: cars making the exact same turns, at the exact same time. then it picked up. money coming up missing, people who didn’t usually look twice suddenly asking too many questions. elijah took note of it all. knew when to be in place when the raid happened. played as his brother during questioning. they were twins after all. he could mirror mannerisms without a second thought.

and when he came to aneika’s door telling her he had to dip out for a while. she packed a bag and emptied her safe without another word. she knew it was dumb but smoke was all she knew. and if he was going, she was riding too.

he told her the plan: they would only be moving for a few weeks. laying low while also not being sitting ducks. cash payments only, they couldn’t afford to be tracked. not when the feds were on their tails and the devil was knocking at their door. and no matter what, he would never leave her behind. not then and not now.

annie played the plan back in her head. smoke was a man of his word. so if he said something annie had no choice but to trust it.

annie was so locked into her thoughts that she almost missed the passenger side door cracking open. almost. the intensity of the situation had her on high alert. her head snapped up quickly. smoke slid in stealthily while throwing two duffles bags into the backseat before the door even closed. she pulled off from the bank without another word.

they both chose to ignore the faint sound of sirens as they pulled off of the 2nd block from the bank. they had put enough distance between themselves for smoke to finally lift the ski mask from his face. sweat sliding down his temple. half from the cali heat and half from the adrenaline.

the car cruised into a smooth motion as they blended into the ongoing traffic. smoke peeped it off rip. a car unmarked just like theirs making the same turns, at the same speed. he felt a tingle go down his spine.

“speed up a lil bit ma” he tapped her thigh to gain her focus. she floored the pedal. weaving in and out of cars on the busy street. elijah stayed calm to not scare her as a heavy feeling creeped into his stomach.

aneika knew what the look on his face meant. someone was catching up to them. she shifted her mind off of him and back onto the packed highway, only a few more miles until the interstate. they could make it. she had been training for moments like this one since the day she met smoke and became a permanent part of his world.

her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears. she could hear it over the sound of hot tires gliding over worn down roads. smoke felt the unease as if it were his own body creating the sensation. he lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck soothingly.

“whatever happens it’s me and you baby” he said emotion weighing down his words. annie blinked back tears. for some reason his words sounded like a goodbye. the exit for the interstate glowed like a small sun in front of the couple’s eyes.

she moved lanes smoothly. the exit she took was deserted, a sweet reprieve from the fast paced city they just left behind. elijah let out a deep sigh. everything felt too good to be true.

as they neared the end of the street, aneika blinked rapidly. lined up in front of them were swat cars stretching from end to end in a pool of flashing lights. then she heard it. the whooshing noise of helicopters circling above the roof of the car.

the car came to a halt in the middle of the empty road. smoke gripped her hand tightly and pulled her in for a breath taking kiss. every memory they shared together played on a loop in their heads.

“STEP OUT OF THE VECHICLE” was just background to smoke and annie.

sneaking into each other’s dorm rooms to share cold chinese food.

“FINAL WARNING” the chief sounded off again.

wedding vows whispered quietly before they faced the noise.

“FIRE” was the last thing the couple heard before rounds let off.

they had been on the run for six weeks. six weeks since they had to leave behind the home they built from the ground up. the roots and connections made in a city annie was beginning to love. all over a spur of the moment decision smoke made to save his brother. stack had gotten caught up. it was supposed to be a standard run. in and out. he had been meeting with the same business partner for months now. he didn’t pick up on the signs of the man being a fed.

but smoke did. elijah hardly ever missed a detail, he even paid attention to the smalls one. which was exactly how he ended up in this mess. it started off small: cars making the exact same turns, at the exact same time. then it picked up. money coming up missing, people who didn’t usually look twice suddenly asking too many questions. elijah took note of it all. knew when to be in place when the raid happened. played as his brother during questioning. they were twins after all. he could mirror mannerisms without a second thought.

and when he came to aneika’s door telling her he had to dip out for a while. she packed a bag and emptied her safe without another word. she knew it was dumb but smoke was all she knew. and if he was going, she was riding too.

he told her the plan: they would only be moving for a few weeks. laying low while also not being sitting ducks. cash payments only, they couldn’t afford to be tracked. not when the feds were on their tails and the devil was knocking at their door. and no matter what, he would never leave her behind. not then and not now.

annie played the plan back in her head. smoke was a man of his word. so if he said something annie had no choice but to trust it.

annie was so locked into her thoughts that she almost missed the passenger side door cracking open. almost. the intensity of the situation had her on high alert. her head snapped up quickly. smoke slid in stealthily while throwing two duffles bags into the backseat before the door even closed. she pulled off from the bank without another word.

they both chose to ignore the faint sound of sirens as they pulled off of the 2nd block from the bank. they had put enough distance between themselves for smoke to finally lift the ski mask from his face. sweat sliding down his temple. half from the cali heat and half from the adrenaline.

the car cruised into a smooth motion as they blended into the ongoing traffic. smoke peeped it off rip. a car unmarked just like theirs making the same turns, at the same speed. he felt a tingle go down his spine.

“speed up a lil bit ma” he tapped her thigh to gain her focus. she floored the pedal. weaving in and out of cars on the busy street. elijah stayed calm to not scare her as a heavy feeling creeped into his stomach.

aneika knew what the look on his face meant. someone was catching up to them. she shifted her mind off of him and back onto the packed highway, only a few more miles until the interstate. they could make it. she had been training for moments like this one since the day she met smoke and became a permanent part of his world.

her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears. she could hear it over the sound of hot tires gliding over worn down roads. smoke felt the unease as if it were his own body creating the sensation. he lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck soothingly.

“whatever happens it’s me and you baby” he said emotion weighing down his words. annie blinked back tears. for some reason his words sounded like a goodbye. the exit for the interstate glowed like a small sun in front of the couple’s eyes.

she moved lanes smoothly. the exit she took was deserted, a sweet reprieve from the fast paced city they just left behind. elijah let out a deep sigh. everything felt too good to be true.

as they neared the end of the street, aneika blinked rapidly. lined up in front of them were swat cars stretching from end to end in a pool of flashing lights. then she heard it. the whooshing noise of helicopters circling above the roof of the car.

the car came to a halt in the middle of the empty road. smoke gripped her hand tightly and pulled her in for a breath taking kiss. every memory they shared together played on a loop in their heads.

“STEP OUT OF THE VECHICLE” was just background to smoke and annie.

sneaking into each other’s dorm rooms to share cold chinese food.

“FINAL WARNING” the chief sounded off again.

wedding vows whispered quietly before they faced the noise.

“FIRE” was the last thing the couple heard before rounds let off.