After the stillness of Saturday morningâthe kind that hummed with soft laughter and the rhythm of ordinary peaceâAnnie and Yara made their way back to your apartment. The air had that crisp edge, the kind that tugged at your sleeves and hinted that fall was no longer whispering but arriving full-throated.
Inside, the apartment was quiet. Light poured in through the blinds, striping the floor in gold and gray. You were in the bathroom with Yara, brushing her hair into something manageable, humming a tune she liked from one of her little shows. In the other room, Annie moved through your space the way only someone familiar couldâquietly, but with purpose.
By the time you stepped out, wrapped in the soft steam of the bathroom, Annie was standing in your tiny galley kitchen, her brow furrowed, hands on her hips. She wasnât diggingâbut she had looked. And you already knew what she found. Or rather, what she didnât.
âNyx,â she said, voice low and flat. âWhere is your food, girl?â
You froze. The towel you were using to dry Yaraâs face sagged in your hands. âFuck,â you whispered under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else.
Of course she had gone through your cabinets. Annie was nosy with a purposeâa woman who believed that care sometimes looked like confrontation.
âI havenât had the time,â you said, brushing past her toward the little coat closet. âOr the money,â you added more quietly, tugging out your worn puffer and Yaraâs tiny purple coat. âWIC takes care of Yaraâs stuff. But me?â You shrugged. âItâs just been tight.â
Annie didnât respond at first. She just stood there, lips pressed together, sighing the way a mother does when she wants to cuss and hug you at the same time. She wasnât one to get in anyoneâs business, usually. But something about you and Yara had cracked her open. Maybe it was the way you carried everything like it wasnât heavy. Like nobody had to know.
âWell,â she said after a beat, grabbing her own jacket off the back of the couch. âIâm takinâ yâall to the store. You need food in this house. For you. Not just her.â
Before you could argue, she was halfway out the door, her voice echoing off the stairwell. âIâll be in the car waitinâ.â
You exhaledâslow and tiredâand knelt to zip up Yaraâs coat. She smiled up at you with her little pigtails sticking out like antennae. âWe going to the store, Mama?â
âYeah, baby. We are.â
After bundling yourselves up against the bite of October air, you locked up behind you and made your way down the cracked concrete stairs. Annie's car was already rumbling in the lot, heat fogging up the back window. You slid Yara into her car seat, adjusting the straps and kissing her on the forehead, then climbed into the front. The warmth of the heated seat touched your legs and back, and you let out a quiet sigh you hadnât realized youâd been holding.
Annie didnât say anything right away. She just pulled off, her hand steady on the wheel, the radio playing some old-school R&B low in the background. You looked out the window, watching the leaves spin across the pavement like they were trying to dance their way out of dying.
It wasn't much, you thought, but it was something. A warm car. A ride to the store. A friend who didnât let you drown in silence.
And for now, that had to be enough.
Bo Chowâs sat like it had always been thereâweathered brick, faded green awning, and the hand-painted sign that had started peeling three falls ago. A bell above the door jingled every time someone walked in, and everyone in the neighborhood had walked through that door at some point or another. Kids came in for quarter candies and soda, grandmothers came for collard greens and sweet potatoes, and tired women like you came because Bo let you slide when the math didnât quite math.
Annie parked out front and cut the engine. The three of you stepped out into the wind, which was starting to carry more bite than breeze, and made your way toward the door. Yara skipped ahead, her little boots tapping on the concrete like raindrops. You tugged her hood up and caught her hand.
Inside, Bo Chowâs smelled like dried beans, smoked meat, and old wood. The kind of smell that made you feel held, somehow. It wasnât a big placeâjust a few narrow aisles, shelves packed high with cans and spices and bags of rice that came in bulk. There was always music playing, something slow and jazzy or gospel depending on Boâs mood. Today it was some Sam Cooke humming low through the speakers.
Bo himself was behind the register, perched on his stool with a mug of something too strong for morning and a toothpick shifting from one side of his mouth to the other. He was a tall man, aging in a handsome way, with skin like white chocolate and eyes that had seen too much and softened because of it.
âWell, look who it is,â he said, nodding at Annie first. âQueen Annie. And Miss Nyx. And lilâ mama too.â
âHey, Bo,â Annie said, already headed toward the produce.
âHey Bo,â you echoed, picking Yara up and setting her in the old, squeaky cart he kept by the door. One of the wheels wobbled when it turned, but it still rolled just fine.
He watched you for a second longer than you liked. Not in a rude way. More like he was checking if you were alright. You gave him a small nod like Iâm fine, please donât ask, and he respected that. Just tipped his chin back and went back to reading his paper.
You followed Annie down the first aisle, watching her toss onions, bell peppers, and a bag of yellow rice into the cart like she was on a mission. âGo on,â she said, nudging you. âGet what you need. Donât be shy now.â
âAnnieâŚâ you started, voice low.
âI said get what you need,â she cut in, not unkindly. âI got it.â
You looked down at the cart. The old guilt crept up your throat like a vine. You hated this part. Needing help. Being the one someone had to buy groceries for. But then you looked at Yara, sitting in the seat of the cart swinging her legs and humming to herself. She didnât know about pride. All she knew was full bellies and warmth at night.
You grabbed a couple cansâblack beans, corn, diced tomatoes. A box of cornbread mix. Pasta. Peanut butter. A jar of honey. You skipped the cereal aisle, even though Yara loved those little rainbow Oâs, because the name brand kind was too high and the off-brand tasted like cardboard. But when Annie saw you hesitate, she reached over and grabbed it herself, tossing it in the cart without saying a word.
Yara pointed at a pack of apple juice boxes. âCan I get those, Mama?â
You opened your mouth to say no, but Annie was already reaching for them. âOf course, baby. Auntie Annie gotchu.â
She flashed Yara a wink and you felt your chest get tightânot from shame, but something else. Gratitude, maybe. That complicated, heavy kind. The kind that reminds you people see you. That youâre not invisible. Not entirely alone.
At the front of the store, Bo had bagged everything up before you even reached the counter. He knew Annie was paying. Didnât ask no questions. Didnât make a scene.
As he rang things up, he gave Yara a paper bag of lemon drops from the glass jar he kept by the counter. âFor being good,â he said, his voice gravel-smooth.
âThank you, Mr. Bo,â she chirped.
When the total popped up, Annie slid her card through like it was nothing. You stood there with your arms crossed, the air between you thick with everything you didnât know how to say.
Outside, you loaded the bags into the backseat and buckled Yara in again. Annie was quiet, letting you move at your own pace. Once you both slid into your seats, she looked over and said, âNext week, weâre cooking. At your place. You bring the kid, Iâll bring the meat.â
You smiled a little despite yourself. âYou always bringing the meat.â
She laughed. âGirl, shut up.â
The drive back was quiet. Peaceful. Leaves swirling across the road like dancers with nowhere to be. And when you looked in the rearview mirror, Yara was already dozing off, a lemon drop clutched in her fist, her little face relaxed and soft.
You turned your face back toward the window, whispering something like a thank you, not sure who it was for. Annie. Bo. God. Whoever had seen you in the dark and lit a candle anyway.
That evening settled in with a chill, the kind that crept under doors and made you grateful for warm socks and secondhand blankets. The groceries were put away, Yara had eaten a little dinner and knocked out on the floor in front of the TV, and you were just wiping down the kitchen counter when there was a knock at the door.
Three quick raps, then one soft tap.
âWho is that?â you asked, drying your hands.
Annie smirked, already heading over. âFavor time,â she said over her shoulder. âI told you theyâd come through.â
When she opened the door, two men stepped insideâone loud and grinning, the other quieter, slower to enter, eyes scanning the room like he was reading the energy before speaking.
Stacks was first, tall and confident, hoodie half-zipped and a laugh already on his lips. âDamn, it smell good in here. Yâall cooked already?â
âNo,â you said, arms crossed.
âShe mean thank you for cominâ to help fix her broke-ass oven,â Annie corrected, giving you a look.
Stacks chuckled, unfazed. âAight, no love lost. Just happy to be in your space and see your face again.â oh what a slick bitch.
âHey,â you said, nodding slightly. âThanks for coming.â
âMm,â was all Smoke said, voice low, but his head dipped a little in acknowledgment.
Stacks clapped his hands. âAight, let me see what kinda drama this stove got.â
The two of them moved into the kitchen, and you watched as they worked together with the easy rhythm of men whoâd done this sort of thing before. Smoke didnât talk much. He crouched near the oven, flashlight in hand, inspecting the igniter and the gas line like he could hear what was wrong. Stacks, meanwhile, kept up a running commentary.
âYo, why this oven humminâ like itâs scared of the dark?â he joked, then called back, âYou ever light this thing and it poofs at you? That gas build-upâll have you eyebrow-less!â
You snorted, trying not to smile. âYeah, thatâs why I barely use it.â
Annie had her feet up on the ottoman, scrolling her phone. âI ordered food. Wings and fries. I know Nyx ainât feeding yâall nothinâ but judgment and bottled water.â
âDamn,â you said, laughing for real now.
Stacks grinned. âThatâs alright. Judgment crispy too if you season it right.â
You liked his energyâeasy, fast-talking, light. But your eyes kept drifting back to Smoke. The way he workedâfocused, efficient, like he didnât waste movement or words. He didnât smile, but he wasnât unfriendly either. Just⌠observant. The type of man who noticed more than he said.
When the food arrived, you all sat around the low coffee table, dipping fries into ranch and passing around napkins. Yara was back asleep on the couch with a chicken bone still in her hand, half eaten. Everyone talked. Wellâthey talked. Smoke just listened, offering the occasional one-syllable answer or slow nod.
After a while, Stacks stood up, dusting salt off his hands. âAlright, I gotta head out. Baby mama gonâ kill me if Iâm late again picking Junior up from practice.â
Annie followed him to the door, giving him a quick hug. âTell her I said stop tryna run your life.â
Stacks laughed. âMan, you know she's been tryinâ that since 2018.â
And just like that, they were goneâAnnie with her keys and her big-sister energy, Stacks still cracking jokes down the hallway. Which left you and Smoke, alone now except for the sound of the TV still playing and the soft rustle of wind outside the window.
He was back in the kitchen, putting his tools away in a neat, quiet rhythm. You leaned in the doorway, watching him.
âSo⌠is it dead?â you asked.
He looked up, shook his head once. âNah. Just neglected. Igniter was loose. The gas line was dirty. Cleaned it up. Shouldnât give you trouble, but⌠if it does, Iâll come back.â
âThank you,â you said, a little more softly this time.
Smoke didnât respond right away. He stood up, slung his duffel over one shoulder, and looked at you for a beat too long to be casual.
You hesitated. âJust me and my daughter.â
He nodded like he already knew. Like heâd seen it in the way your kitchen was organized, the tiny pink shoes by the door, the silence you moved through even in a full room.
âYou need anything,â he said, voice low and firm. âYou can call. You got a number?â
You shook your head, a little unsure. âNo. I meanâno, I donât have yours.â
He pulled out his phone. âGive me yours. Iâll text you.â
You recited it, still leaning in the doorway, still trying to read this man who had barely spoken ten full words all night. When your phone buzzed, the message was simple.
You looked up. âYou donât say much, huh?â
He cracked the ghost of a smile, barely there. âI donât got to.â
That hung between you like a breath you werenât sure how to exhale.
âYou seem like the type that listens more than talks,â you said.
Smoke nodded again. âPeople say a lot when they think nobodyâs listening.â
And somehow, that hit you deep. Like heâd been listening to more than just your oven. Like he saw the tired in your shoulders. The way you smiled out of habit. The way you made space for everyone but yourself.
âYou alright?â he asked quietly, looking at youânot in a nosy way, but a genuine one. Like the answer mattered.
You swallowed. âIâm making it.â
That was all you could offer tonight.
And he seemed to understand. Didnât push. Just gave you that same quiet nod.
âIâll check in later,â he said simply.
Then he left, closing the door behind him like heâd never been there at all.
But his presence lingeredâin the air, in your phone, in the small, unexpected warmth blooming in your chest.
The sun rose slowly, filtered through cloudy skies, and caught in the smudged corners of your bedroom window. You hadnât slept much. Not in a bad wayâjust the kind of restlessness that comes after a conversation that shifts something in you.
You kept thinking about Smokeâs words.
"You donât always gotta be strong, Nyx.""Use it if you need."
They echoed in the quiet spaces of your mind like hymns you hadnât heard in years.
Yara stirred beside you around 7:30, a little croaky from sleep. âMama⌠is today the day with the girls?â
You smiled, brushing a curl from her face. âYep. We got church, then we gonâ do Mommy and daughter Reset after. You remember what that means?â
She nodded, still blinking herself awake. âSelf-care.â
You rose from the bed slowly, letting your joints stretch and your thoughts settle. The air was cold, but it felt like a new kind of coldâlike the kind that reminds you youâre alive.
You wore your softest black turtleneck dress, the one that hugged without suffocating, with a long thrifted coat you loved but couldnât wear oftenâtoo warm most days. Yara wore her maroon dress with the little gold stars and cream tights that had a hole at the toe you hoped no one would notice. You wrapped her hair in two neat puff balls, the way she liked, and kissed her cheek before heading out.
Annie pulled up in her cousinâs old van, already bumping gospel from the speakers. âLetâs go praise the Lord, baby!â
You laughed, sliding into the front seat. âYou got a new church outfit every Sunday, I swear.â
Annie winked. âGod appreciates variety.â
The church was small, worn down in some places, beautiful in others. Old wooden pews. The smell of lemon oil and perfume and hope. Sister Val preached that morningâher voice raw and rising, cracking at the edges when she spoke about restoration.
âThere is glory in still standing,â she shouted, arms raised. âEven when you had every reason to fall apart!â
The organ swelled behind her, and the whole room stood clapping. You felt that in your chest. Yara clapped too, even though she didnât really understand. And beside you, Annie shouted âAmen!â so loud you jumped.
When service let out, you felt lighter. Not fixed, not healed. But lighter.
Annie declared the rest of the afternoon was strictly for Reset. You and Yara stopped by a small cafĂŠ for tea and sweet bread, then walked through the downtown strip with the other women from church. There was no agenda. Just small joys. Browsing Black-owned shops. Talking skincare. Sharing hair tips. Smelling candles you couldnât afford but pretending you could. Laughing too loud. Letting your shoulders drop.
Yara stayed close to you but made friends easily, sharing her lemon drop stash with another little girl and trading dance moves. You watched her and felt something like pride but deeper. Like awe.
Later, at the nail shop, Annie paid for both you and Yara to get your nails done.
âI said donât argue,â she warned, handing her card over.
Yara picked pink with sparkles. You went with a clean, simple nude. As the polish dried, you closed your eyes and let your body be still. Let someone take care of you for a change.
Back at home, the calm hit all at once. Yara was knocked out again, curled in the same position she always foundâarms above her head, mouth slightly open. You tucked her in, kissed her temple, and sat on the edge of the bed for a while.
Absolutely â here's the Sunday continuation with that change: Nyx is the one who texts Smoke first, which subtly shifts the emotional power dynamic in a way that makes sense for her growth. She's not chasing; she's reaching outâsomething rare for her, and a sign sheâs letting herself need. The moment still carries quiet vulnerability, without breaking Nyxâs naturally guarded nature.
The apartment was calm in a way that almost felt unfamiliar. Yara was knocked out in your bed again, cheeks sticky from the cake pop Annie had snuck her on the ride home. Youâd changed into your oldest T-shirt, and lit the candle Annie bought you from the little shop with the affirmations on the label.
Peace lives here, the sticker read. You werenât sure if that was true yetâbut it was starting to feel possible.
You stood in the kitchen sipping lukewarm tea, staring out the window into the dark. The oven didnât hum. The fridge was full. You werenât in crisis. And still, your mind drifted to Smoke.
The silence he'd carried into your apartment had stayed behindâlike the kind of silence that made you feel less alone. You thought about how he looked at you without needing to fix you. How he listened without reaching for answers. How he said: âYou donât always gotta be strong, Nyx.â
You reached for your phone.
Nyx: Hey. Just wanted to say thank you again. Not just for the ovenâbut for listening last night.
You stared at the message for a beat, wondering if youâd overstepped, come off too soft, too open. You werenât used to thisâreaching out first. Letting your need show.
Smoke: You ainât gotta thank me.
You needed space to talk. I had it.
Thatâs all.
You smiled a little, sitting down at the edge of your bed. There was something about the way he answeredâdirect, calm, without any expectations. Like he wasnât trying to be anything but present.
Nyx: It meant a lot.
You remind me what quiet can feel like when itâs good.
This time, the reply came quicker.
Smoke: Same.
You feel like peace too.
You sat with that. Not rushing to respond. Letting it fill the air like the scent of the candle, sweet and grounding.
The lights in the apartment were low now, casting shadows on the walls in soft ripples. The kind of shadows that made everything feel still and reverent.
Yara slept soundly in your bed, her curls splayed out like sunrays against your pillow, her little chest rising and falling in rhythm. You sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, a warm towel folded beneath you, candle still flickering gently in the corner.
You didnât do this every night.
You didnât always feel brave enough.
But something about todayâthe church, the reset, the quiet kindness in Smokeâs eyesâunlocked a stillness in you. And with it, the buzz you sometimes felt deep in your hands returned. Not anxiety. Not nerves. A hum. A knowing. The familiar pressure in your palms, like something waiting to be let out.
You turned your hands over slowly, watching the way your fingers seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight. Your breath slowed. You didnât force it. You just let it come.
You whispered a soft prayerânot the kind from church, but the one you made up yourself.
âShow me what I need to see.
Let me rest.
Keep her safe.â
Your eyes drifted shut, and then it cameâlike fog rising from your skin.
A vision, but not quite. More like a feeling-image. Thatâs what you called them.
You saw Yara standing barefoot in a garden. Her feet were dirty, her dress too big, but her face was glowing. Laughing. Talking to someone you couldnât see. You couldnât hear the words eitherâjust the warmth of them. The safety in them.
Thenâjust as suddenlyâit was gone.
You opened your eyes and let your hands fall to your lap, fingers tingling, the candle flickering harder now like it had caught its breath too.
She was going to be okay.
You didnât know how, or when, or what was coming next. But that was the message tonight. And for once, it felt like enough.
You whispered, âThank you,â to whatever spirit had visited, and climbed into bed beside your daughter, letting her warmth press into your side.
The buzz in your palms faded.
The alarm didnât wake you. Yara did.
âMamaaaa,â she whined from the edge of the bed, already in full pout, tiny fists balled against her sides. âI donât wanna go to Grandmaâs house.â
You groaned, squinting at the clock. 7:12.
You sat up fast, nearly knocking over the candle on your nightstand. âWhy didnât the alarm go off?â you muttered, already moving, already tired.
Yara crossed her arms dramatically. âI donât want to go. She make me do stuff I donât like!â
You were in the kitchen, fumbling with the toaster and shoving two slices of bread in before turning around. âLike what, Yara?â
âShe make me take naps and clean my toys right away, and she said I canât wear lip gloss like you!â
You stared at her for a second. âGirl, those are regular things.â
âI donât like them!â she wailed.
You pulled her coat from the hook. âI donât like being late, but here we are. Letâs go.â
âNoooo,â she slumped onto the floor like sheâd been shot, pouting hard enough to bring tears to the edges of her eyes. âI wanna stay with you!â
You stopped then, exhaled slowly, rubbed your face. You were tired. You were broke. You had a shift at the center today you couldnât be late for. And yetâyour daughterâs resistance wasnât coming from nowhere.
âI know you donât want to go,â you said, crouching down. âBut I have to work, baby. Just for a little bit. And Grandma loves you. Even if sheâs strict.â
Yara sniffled. âCan you pick me up early?â
You swallowed hard. âI promise.â
Somehow, that worked. She stood up, let you zip her coat. You both moved in a dance of tirednessâher dragging her little pink backpack, you checking your phone for missed texts from your manager. The city was colder than yesterday. You hated sending her out in it.
By the time you got to your momâs placeâa small beige house with wind chimes on the porch and three locks on the doorâyou were already behind.
Your mother opened the door with a scarf around her head and her same old judgmental frown. âYou late.â
âMorning to you too.â
Yara clung to your leg as you handed her over. âIâm gonna be early today,â you said before your mother could ask.
âMmhm,â she muttered, reaching for Yaraâs hand.
You leaned down and kissed your daughterâs cheek. âBe good. I love you.â
Yara didnât smile. Just nodded. And walked inside without another word.
You stood on the porch for a second, your hands in your coat pockets, staring out at the street.
The wind picked up. Cold against your skin. But your palms tingled again.
And somehow, even in the chaos, even in the guilt, even in the tiredâ
âyou felt watched over.
The lunch rush at the restaurant had died down, leaving behind the low hum of the dishwasher and the smell of grease that clung to your clothes like another layer of skin. Your apron was stained with barbecue sauce and sweat. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt worse.
Annie was leaning against the counter, tying up silverware rolls with the precision of someone whoâd done it too many times and had no intention of stopping. Her hair was tied up high and messy, but her eyeliner was still sharp.
âYou look like you need a nap and a man,â she said without looking up.
You wiped a smear of honey mustard off your wrist. âI need a raise and a miracle.â
She chuckled. âWell Iâm fresh outta miracles, and i cant giving nobody a raise. But I did tell Smoke and Stacks to swing by after their running around.. I figured you wouldnât mind.â
You paused mid-roll. âAnnieâŚâ
She looked up now, all casual mischief. âWhat? You need people. We all do. And theyâre good folks.â
You gave her a look but didnât argue. Mostly because your stomach did a small flip at the mention of Smoke.
And sure enough, an hour later â just as you were thinking about clocking out and sneaking out the back to avoid them â the bell above the front door jingled.
Stacks came in first, loud and smiling like he owned the place.
âWhere the queens at?â he called, holding the door open for Smoke, who followed in quiet and low-shouldered, like he was trying not to take up too much space.
Annie waved a silverware roll like a flag. âBack here, handsome!â
Stacks headed toward her, already mid-conversation about something loud and messy and probably unnecessary. But your eyes went to Smoke, who was looking around the restaurant like he was seeing it in color for the first time.
Just nodded at you when your eyes met.
The front was slowing down again. Annie had taken over the register, laughing hard at something Stacks said. You were in the back wiping down prep counters when Smoke came through the swinging kitchen doors, his hands in his jacket pockets, head tilted.
âYou always this quiet back here?â he asked.
You looked up from the rag in your hand, surprised to see him alone. âUsually quieter.â
He walked further in, taking a slow glance around. âItâs peaceful.â
âItâs loud during rush. Too many tickets, too little help. But now?â You shrugged. âNow itâs almost meditative.â
Smoke leaned back against the metal table across from you, arms crossed. âI like it. You seem⌠lighter today.â
You raised an eyebrow. âYou sure about that?â
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching up just slightly. âNot less tired. But lighter.â
You didnât speak right away. Just kept cleaning the same spot on the counter a little slower.
âYour daughter okay this morning?â he asked.
The way he asked made you pause. Not nosy. Just⌠aware.
You nodded. âYeah. Rough start. She didnât wanna go to my mamaâs. But she was alright when I left.â
âKids always know. When something donât feel good.â
âYeah.â You let out a breath. âMy mama⌠she loves her. But sheâs strict. Old school strict.â
Smoke didnât offer advice. Didnât judge. He just leaned in a little, quiet again.
That silence made space. Not the awkward kind â the good kind.
And in that little kitchen, with your apron dirty and your soul tired and your heart still soreâ
But maybe for the first time in a safe way.
Stacks poked his head in a minute later, grinning like he knew exactly what kind of moment he was interrupting.
âYou lovebirds done whispering in here?â he asked.
You rolled your eyes. Smoke just smirked.
âCome on, Nyx,â Annie called from the front. âWe got dishes to dodge and food to eat. I'm making wings!â
You tossed your rag in the sink, glanced one more time at Smoke.
âBack to it,â you said, voice soft.
He nodded again, stepping aside to let you pass.
But even as you left the kitchen, you could feel his presence like something warm still resting on your shoulders.
