#black reader fic

The sound of your name being called sparks a sharp current that travels down your spine. You spin on your heels to watch Annie wave you closer towards her position at the east wing of the stage and without thinking, you rush on over.

“Conference meeting in five.” She takes your microphone and hands it over to one of the crew members without sparing them a glance. It’s natural for you to quickly pull out your in-ears and hand them over, too. “You okay like this?” She motions to your outfit — wide legged sweatpants in powder pink, long sleeved leotard nearly the same shade, and Ugg boots. “Because I don’t think we have time to change. This is still kind of last minute.”

You give a soft smile that doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, “ ‘m okay, Annie.”

Your fingers don’t match your words, always the tell tale in revealing your never still, always bubbling anxiety. You twist at the rings that cover nearly each one, continuously ‘round and ‘round, rub and squeeze at your knuckles — all a rhythm to somehow keep your thoughts in one order. Every tiny movement is an anchor as the abhorrent conference meeting you’ve all but known about since last week approaches.

”I know it’s not ideal but the guy is more busy than I expected. I thought the two of you could maybe have a one on one some time last month to become better acquainted but, no hope. You’ll probably meet him at the stadium’s conference meeting in a few days.”

That’s all the warning Annie had given you and for six days, you were left on edge, dreading it, anticipating it, itching for it. You’ve heard his name more times than you’ve heard your own these past couple of months, seen his face in passing on billboards, press photos, and on a walking stranger’s t shirt. One glance around the conference room and the thought is rapid — there’s no hiding from him here.

It’s smaller than you expected. Fluorescents are harsh against the pale walls and dark wood of the large, oval shaped table that twelve, cushioned rolling chairs surround, though only two remain empty. The surface of the table is scattered in paper, diagrams of the stage, laptops, coffee cups, and walkie talkies. About ten others are peppered here and there, leaned against the wall while taking a phone call, shooting a text, or even hovering over the table to point at a paper and discuss something with another. Seeing the familiar faces of the rest of your team calms your racing heart.

You say your gentle hellos and go to take a seat beside your security lead, Reiner. His presence is stabilizing, a familiar tether in the midst of this somewhat controlled chaos. The empty seat beside you feels daunting in a way. You know who it’s for, you know that the meeting between you both is inevitable yet you can’t stop bouncing your leg underneath the table. “He’s late,” Reiner leans over and murmurs close to your ear.

“Oh,” your eyes grow wide and instinctually, you reach for the thin chain you wear that dangles the first initial of your name. “Am I—“

“You are. But there’s a hell of a difference between five minutes and ten.”

Your eyes travel across nearly each face within the room. Most appear unbothered by it, Annie rolls her eyes, the stage manager rubs at the wrinkles in his forehead . . more so out of stress about whatever a production coordinator is quietly mumbling to him than the fact that the tour’s headliner is eleven minutes late to the meeting. You try to focus on what you can, the diagrams and messily scribbled versions of the setlist mostly, however can’t stop your eyes from continuously darting towards the double doors where you hear approaching footsteps.

One of them quickly opens without a knock and you catch eye of a man, about six feet tall, blue eyed, wearing a suit pressed without a wrinkle or line in sight first. He steps in to hold the door open for him, Connie Springer, who’s followed by two more people that you don’t really recognize. He walks with an easy confidence, dressed in a pair of dark washed jeans, stitched with a subtle, swirling pattern all over them and matching hoodless jacket with a clean, white tee underneath. He wears glinting gold jewelry — handful of chains, some rings, and a blue faced watch that all wink hello underneath the artificial, white lighting of the room and your eyes catch on the new design that’s dyed almost all over his token buzzed and bleached head — cheetah print.

The room somehow feels smaller. Your tongue moves against the roof of your mouth, or at least tries to, nonetheless, it’s gone completely dry. He’s there . . he’s here, in all of his disgustingly handsome, six foot four glory and you can barely even move.

You watch him smile faintly at everyone. His manager’s apologizing for their tardiness yet you can barely hear him over the monotonous, loud thuds of your heart. your chest feels tight. instincts scream at you to look away, and you do, however your eyes can’t stop slowly traveling back up to him. He takes his time working throughout the room, shakes a few hands, quietly introduces himself to most of your team until he’s finally a couple steps away from you. Closer, you notice that his eyes are hazel — you see his face almost everywhere but, the intensity of them in person is something else entirely. Every movement he makes feels natural though measured, every glance is purposeful and lands with a quiet command that makes spines straighten.

His attention settles on you.

“Connie, this is—“

“—I know who she is.”

Your acrylic nails dig so far deep into the meat of your palms, you’re sure that they’re a hair away from bursting an artery.

His voice is calm. Brooklyn is woven through his words and you catch the faint inflections in the way he pronounces each one. The chair beside you is pulled back and angled slightly sideways to give himself more breathing room when he settles into his seat. His cologne hits a second later — dark and smooth, like leather, and smoked vanilla — a kind of scent that envelops a person’s senses in only the sweetest way possible. His eyes are scanning the table again, assessing everything and everyone as he leans back, loosely interlocks his fingers on top of his abdomen, and gets comfortable. Then his gaze is back on you, composed yet inquisitive. The air feels heavy.

Your lips are parting in readiness of an introduction.

Not less than a second later, Connie’s tour manager claps her hands and he parts his attention towards her. “Let’s get started!”

The meeting moves quick — transitions, security checkpoints, stage positionings and timing are discussed. Efficient. Straightforward. Both Connie and you listen quietly. You, with your hands politely folded in your lap, Connie, with his head lowered, posture slouched, and ease written into nearly every line of him. When all is said and done, chairs roll against the floors as people break off into smaller clusters, already mid sentence in discussing lighting cues and load times. Your pr agent and choreographer, Anthony, stand, give you goodbyes and assurance that they’re only a phone call away and Reiner lets you know that he’ll be standing outside the door.

The room eventually only leaves you, Annie, the two people connie entered the room with, him, and his manager. The silence feels different. only slightly less tensed, less crowded.

“You good?”

He’s talking to you.

The volume of his voice is somehow even lower than when he first walked in. You don’t strain your ears to listen but it does force you to look at him and give your attention. His focus is settled entirely on you now. He no longer scans the room but you, in his own particular way without even having to break his eyes from your own.

“ ‘m fine.”

His chin dips the slightest bit lower then they squint a bit, not in suspicion but evaluation. “Fine . .” he weighs the word on his own tongue. “. . You been on stages this size before?”

“A few.” You don’t have to hesitate on your answer because it’s the truth. Therefore, again, you say, “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”

The corner of his mouth pulls upward — deliberate and slow. You can’t help glancing down a few times at it, at his teeth. Not veneers, you’d guess that he maybe wore braces in his teen hood because they’re flawless. Barely a gap nor a single chip, and a pearly white. You watch his eyes flick down then back up, it’s quick but not crude . . he’s assessing you like, you assume, he does almost everything else in his life. “Good, good,” a careful nod. “Just makin’ sure my opener ain’t gon’ pass out underneath those lights.”

Something in your tummy flips. His words hang between you both, weighty. My opener. You straighten your posture, squeeze your hands tighter together, “. . You worried about me or your show?”

A pause. You feel Annie shift where she stands a couple feet behind you. Connie’s manager pretends to check his phone.

Your question forces him to suddenly lean forward, forearms on knees which brings him a little closer to you though not entirely within your bubble. The color of his eyes lean more towards the grayish scale of hazel — a ring of dark storm clouds with specks of mahogany and sage caught near the iris. They don't just look at you, they render you almost completely immobile. “Mm, difference?” He gives a small shrug and faint purse of his lips.

There.

A test.

You fight to hold his gaze, and the thing is, you successfully do. And although your eyes are on his, you still think he hears the faintest warble in your voice when you respond with, “I don’t need babysitting.”

Quietly, he studies you for a long second, eyes searching yours for something, then nods once. “Good. I don’t like carryin’ people.”

His words should feel insulting, maybe even dismissive yet they don’t. Instead, they feel like a request. When he stands, you do, too. He’s adjusting the clip of his watch and the expensive cologne you had a whiff of melts into the air around you both. “Can’t wait to see what you do with that thirty, ma.”

He takes the air you breathe when he exits out of the room with his team flanked behind him. Your chest rises and falls in a tremble as you remain silently staring at the now closed door, listening to Annie scoff, “A prick, isn’t he?”

You immediately shake your head, never tearing your eyes away from the knob. The anticipation of it twisting again bubbles beneath your skin. Maybe he left something? Maybe he simply wants to have a longer conversation. “No, no,” your voice is quiet, faraway. “. . He seems nice.”

ׅ ❤︎

The hours leading up to a show have always put a strain on your nervous system.

You told Connie the truth about that — that you’ve performed on stages this size before because you have. Clips of your VMA performance last year still goes viral once a month but, you suppose you lied a little too. You’ve never performed for more than forty thousand people in a stadium, and this one houses sixty.

“Mmm,” you pace back and forth in your dressing room, head bowed and eyes closed as your knuckles massage the bridge of your nose. You hear the murmurings of about fifty thousand conversations outside your door as everyone settles into their seats and the thumping bass of Connie’s artist approved pre show playlist — not too loud, but just enough to keep the room on edge. Ten minutes before a performance, you always request your dressing room to yourself. Ring lights dimmed, door locked, and room quiet, you inhale deep breaths as you slowly walk back and forth, wall to wall, to keep your nerves from jittering too much.

The flowing, dramatic sleeves of your stage fit kisses your skin as you move. Chains suspended along your abdomen, dangling from your custom designed top shimmer beneath the low lighting. You think your heart beats louder than the bass out there.

Suddenly, you stop.

You turn to look at your reflection within a full length mirror, at the glowing undertone of your warm, brown skin that illuminates beneath a thin veil of body oil. An abstract bloom of pigment, slightly lighter than your skin tone, stretches across the full planes of your cheeks and settles over the bridge of your nose. It's not neat, not aesthetic as one would say, but it's you. Took you nearly eight years to stop trying to erase it. Eight years of pressing full coveraged powders into your skin and carefully layering blush over it to better conceal. You blurred yourself into something flat. Dull. Now at age twenty three, you let it breathe most times underneath sheer foundations.

Leaning closer into the bulb framed mirror lets your eyes catch onto the tiny, heart shaped rhinestones that dot the outer corner of your eyes. Gloss gleams across the plushness of your lips and a forty five inched, kinky curly sew in flows down to your knees — one side slick and tucked behind your ear to expose one of your in ear’s with its milky, opalescent surface shifting from a delicate lavender to icy blue like moonlight caught behind glass.

You look pretty.

You feel like someone who’s deserving of being here right now.

A shaky breath puffs out your cheeks then you’re smoothing your hands down your stomach. Your heart still gallops but it’s different now . . you can bear it. “You’re okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “You’ll be perfect.”

Outside your dressing room door, you hear the volume of the playlist lowering and a slower more swelling baseline. One of your first cues.

Then, a knock at your door. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you’re on in five!”

“Okay!”

You straighten your back prior to leaning and grabbing your microphone from off of the vanity. It’s chrome base is cool against your fingers — solid and grounding even, with the body coated in a fine veil of white, crystal shimmer that scatters light similar to a pocketful of stars each time you tilt it. It’s not loud, it sparkles. Purposeful. Custom made exactly how you wanted it. It’s weight is balanced perfectly with the grip sized to your small palm. You even made sure the finish was glossed to its touch to keep the crystals from scraping against your rings.

A microphone has always felt right in your hand, albeit your hairbrush, mop stick, or television remote, the feeling’s never changed. Holding it now feels less like picking something up and more like being returned something that’s always belonged to you.

Therefore, after one last breath, you’re turning, unlocking your door, and quickly pulling it open to let Annie, Reiner, and more of the tech coordinators shuffle you into the back seat of a golf cart to drive you towards the stage.

In the far left wing of the stadium’s custom towering, smiley faced designed stage — his distorted, neon lit trademark — Connie stands. He shouldn’t be here, he knows that. Never has he watched sets from the wings. If his name is on it, he’s either performing or already in an Escalade on the way back to his hotel. Standing still while another commands the room has never felt right to him. Intrusive, even.

But when told that you’re up . . . he had to leave his dressing room from his pre-set work out to come see this. To see you.

As the beat of your opening song swells deeper and deeper, low, dreamy, and patient, he folds his arms, shifts his weight, and clears his throat. He hears the crowd getting louder. The ground of the stage is beginning to sheathe with a thin fog. He tells himself it’s out of simple curiosity. Industry respect, too. Then the spotlights shift from white to a pearlescent pink . .

You walk out and Connie’s brain quiets for what feels like the first time in over a decade.

He’s known about you for a while.

Longer than what most people would suspect maybe. You started off posting covers on Soundcloud seven years ago when you were sixteen. You were anonymous then. Tagging each one underneath the name ‘solstice.’ Connie didn’t hear about you until you were nineteen, but come that first play of your first hit single on the radio about a year and a half ago, he knew.

Your voice alone is flawless, but it wasn’t just that that garnered his attention. You seem to carry a certain type of magnetism that sticks to a person — hovers over them through the shittiest boom box speakers or high end headphones. The way even the smallest notes you produced invoked something in him let Connie know that he needed to protect it, hold it close, make sure the world didn’t swallow it before he got his turn.

That’s why he wasted no time making you the opener of his first stadium tour without even knowing what you looked like.

Barefoot, iridescent make up, highlight high on your cheeks, and brown skin glowing beneath the long, fluidic, liquid white draping of your stage costume, Connie finds himself standing with his fist nearly covering his mouth. His index and thumb loosely curl around his lips as he watches, eyes focused on you flowing through sweetly seductive choreography with his eyebrows lowered.

Your music has always sat between sensual and melancholic. There’s something almost casual in the way you move. There’s not a lot of force or power. You aren’t trying to be sexy, you just are.

Connie takes the chance at looking up at one, out of six, large, led screens above your head. The camera catches at your eyes — though brown, they’ve still managed to darken beneath the lighting. They’re beautiful . . you’re dangerous. He notices how the crowd screams your lyrics back to you, desperate to be heard. Strangers in the front row grabbing onto each other’s arms out of excitement when you glide closer to the edge of the stage, bodies jittering almost frantically. Applause grows more thunderous the more you stay up there.

He exhales a slow breath through his nose . . . quietly nods.

Yeah.

You’re a star.

Not the fragile kind or one that burns out underneath too much pressure. No, you’re here to stay. Right before those lights dim and your last note fades into a reverb, instinctively, you’re turning your head towards the left wing in search of Annie, Anthony, something or someone solid. Nevertheless, your eyes are drawn to where the halo of your spotlight dissolves into shadow — and there he stands just before it, arms folded, as if he'd been rooted there all night.

Was he?

Did he stand there during the entire thirty of your set? For a split second . . you look at him.

He returns your stare with his own and your pulse skips.

There’s a slow, deliberate shift of his jaw and just as briskly, you force your eyes to snap away.

The lights fade back into a warm gold and breathlessly, you’re giving your shy and sweet thanks into your microphone. You don’t look left again. You don’t think that you can. Instead, you bow, turn, and follow your twelve background dancers that usher you behind one of the led towers backstage where he’d been standing.

Subconsciously, you find your eyes darting from here to there as you try to search for him. He’s gone. Your microphone and in ears are taken, then a cold water bottle and towel are shoved in your hands. Where did he go? Faint shreds of disappointment manage to work their way into your previous sphere of proudness. He was here, you know he was . . but he isn’t anymore.

It’s a little upsetting and you aren’t sure as to why. You’ve never needed anyone’s approval before, although Connie’s attention . . his praise, you saw it glowing beneath the storm of his eyes, felt nice. Better than anything you’ve felt before. If you’re honest with yourself, it somehow even felt better than words could describe. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek and preparing to shuffle off towards your dressing room when you hear—

"Good set, ma.”

Low and close.

He’s behind you. You turn but he’s already quickly walking past while adjusting his in ears. Your nose catches onto the notes of his cologne again — this one’s more fresh . . clean. You tip your chin higher to look up at him, but his expression gives you nothing back. It's calm and composed, as a stylist adjusts the swaying, white gold, cuban link chain on top of his chest while another blots his forehead free of any excess oil or sweat before the shine even forms. He doesn't break eye contact you for a second through it all. "You held the silence good,” he continues softer, eyes half lidded when he stares down into your own. Not lazy, not tired . . . focused. “Most people rush it.”

And that’s all. Before you can give a timid thanks or even question him of his time spent watching you, he’s moving towards a ramp downstairs that will lead him below one of the stages where a platform waits to rise him up on within the center of the warped, neon lit face. The skin at the back of your neck prickles with goosebumps. There’s that feeling again . . . of pure, unadulterated elation at the confirmation of him watching. Of him subtly letting you know that he did. You want to scream. You want to turn on your heels, head back to your dressing room, and let the rest of the night blissfully pass. But, you can’t. The soles of your still bare feet remain planted against the smooth flooring beneath you as the entire stadium suddenly goes black.

Everyone knows what that means. The crowd erupts into almost animalistic screams.

There’s a spark of light when a single bass note drops — deep and heavy.

That’s all there is for a a few seconds, silence broken by roars of excitement. Energy pulses throughout the stadium as a square shaped platform rises from beneath the stage, right in the center of the smiley face’s warbled grin. It’s as though come the second his silhouette becomes recognizable, the yells surge louder. You nibble upon the skin of your bottom lip when the platform locks into place with a heavy, metallic thud. Behind him on the screen is glitching surveillance style footage . . . black and white, grainy, and distorted. Staticy lines like old cctv footage snag across the shouting faces of fans packed tight standing within the ‘face’ of the smiley — the pit, as they reach up towards him.

He doesn’t rush.

A camera watches him lift his head and you stare, nearly breathless, as he turns and takes a few slow steps to his right with his chin up to assess people in the high rised seats. He lifts his mic up to his mouth, “Mhmm.”

The beat of his first song of the night plunges.

You feel it in your ribs . . his hunger, his control of it. He moves along the circular edge of the stage now, black timberlands heavy against the floor that glows beneath each step he takes. A black muscle tank beneath a tactical vest clings almost hungrily to the wide, beefy span of his abdomen, dampening with sweat when five minutes hit twenty. The cuban link around his neck catches at every strobe of light and the camera soaks in the glints of dazzling rainbows shining against honeyed skin. Dark tattoos, only a few colored at the wide slope of his biceps and forearms, shift and flex without them even meaning to.

Everything he does is meticulous.

Eyes of grayish hazel scan the pit slowly as he keeps the head of his mic pressed against his lips. They assess . . sometimes selects a person who’s rapping along to each bar for a fierce challenge. Every one of them always ends up exploding, screaming his name, scrambling at the barriers. He never gives a full smile, only ever a knowing smirk or bites one down over his bottom lip.

You swallow.

It’s the restraint, you find. Connie doesn’t chase their screams, he has command over them. For a moment, he appears less like a performer and more like something carved out of the stage itself — industrial, illuminating, untouchable. What begins to settle in your chest, it’s not only commendation . . it’s some wariness, too. He stood here in this very spot and watched you like this. Calculated, quiet, soaking you in the same way you are soaking him in.

Suddenly, the memory of his slow, deliberate jaw shift feels different now. You realize you’ve been watching him this entire time with your arms hugged around yourself, fingers restlessly rubbing at the hip of your flowing skirt.

You inhale a deep breath.

It’s hard to pinpoint what these exact feelings are, but they make you hyper aware. Of everything . . . your posture, your voice, the blood pumping through your veins. Because if he performs like this . . . you’re aware that touring with him won’t just be background noise. You had expectations of you politely opening each concert and slipping off backstage with that much more exposure than the night before. A win-win. However, this isn’t going to be that.

This is going to be pressure, late nights, shared green rooms, and close proximity.

Another inhale — this one shakier. You know yourself well enough to understand one thing: getting too close to Connie holds a lot of risk and won’t have you walking away from him unchanged. This tour . . and the undeniably charged current that flows between the two of you is either going to make you into something bigger than you’ve ever been . . or split you completely in half.

ׅ ❤︎

The official tour announcement drops two days later.

An eight second teaser video of the two of you in your own respective studio sessions — flashes of your frames in a booth, fingers on the sound panel, voices quiet and layered beneath each other’s is posted onto both of your respective’s Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok’s and is viral within ten minutes. Clips of both of your performances circulate, edits pair your songs together, ship you together, you make sure to limit your screen time to a measly two hours a day come stumbling across an account dedicated to only posting said edits.

You don’t need them getting in your head.

Rehearsals are immediate — everyday, between nine am and two pm. The stadium is empty during these hours. No exhilarated screams or constellation of phone flashes shining at you. Just you and your evocative echo. The first one you share with Connie, you keep your distance. It’s easy to.

You make sure to get there about an hour early with Annie, Reiner, Anthony, and your vocal coach and start scales before the light bulbs even warm. Your voice stretched smoothly up into the rafters while stage crews began setting up for another night of spectacle that by the time Connie walks onto the stage — perpetually dressed in oversized sweats, fitted cap, and zip up hoodie thrown over it as if he rolled out of bed and accidentally became famous — you’re already grounded. Already somewhere steady. Somewhere mentally where his intimidation slides off you clean.

It’s always professional.

He stands a few feet away during your run through, fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he lifts his chin to watch the monitors. Or pretending to. You never look at him long enough to confirm. When passing each other’s crossing marks, it’s a brief orbit of two bodies aware of gravity but scarily mindful of refusing collision. That first show in Los Angeles was hot. Three nights at one stadium means there’s no time to romanticize it, though. Night two is sharper . . cleaner. You know what to expect, what to perfect. You begin to familiarize yourself with the stage underneath your feet which culminates into night three being all about control.

You let yourself sit in a note for a split second longer, take in the applause that crests louder and louder.

Connie had watched your set silently from the wings on all three nights — never smiling, never frowning . . just observing. With his arms folded, shoulders swole, and eyes seemingly stuck on the line of your body and contours of your face. Between these nights, you learn the rhythm of ice baths, vocal steams, and quick debriefs with Annie and the rest of your team in dim, busy hallways. Connie becomes only someone you see in passing.

During the wee hours of the morning, you’d sometimes spot him standing within the middle of a parking lot your two tour buses would claim overnight with a hand shoved down the front of his sweats to keep it warm while the other held a chubby blunt between his fingers. Underneath the rising sun the plush, pink pillows of his lips would pull a long hit from it and smoke’d curl out lazily from them whenever he exhaled. He never paces, never strolls. Merely just . . stands there, staring out at the horizon as though he were waiting for something. He’s an early bird — you learn that. By the time you and your team, as well as his, drag yourselves out towards catering tents or food trucks for breakfast, he’s already showered, new hoodie, cap pulled low over his bleached head.

Coincidentally, sometimes you find the both of you next to each other in line while waiting to grab some food. There’s never any real conversation. You give a soft though tight lipped smile, he always nods subtly back in return. When you pass each other in narrow backstage corridors, it’s a simple glance. brief. Quickly analyzing. Never invasive or rude, solely . . aware.

In between the two days from Los Angeles to San Francisco with no shows planned, Annie mentions a campaign shoot. “Full visual rollout. You and Connie,” she says while pencilling schedules into her calendar on the digital screen of her iPad. “Warehouse downtown.” You don’t ask why it can’t be separate because you know the answer. The morning before San Francisco night one, your black Escalade pulls up to a stretch of industrial buildings that appear abandoned on first glance. Loading docks are rusted at the hinges and bricks darkened with age are covered in moss.

Having been glammed up in your hotel suite, the brittle crunch of gravel beneath the thin high heels you wear makes you feel slightly out of place. Each one of your steps are careful and slow as Annie and Reiner follow closely behind you around a production truck where cables weave out through its opened doors. While walking by, you glance up within its interior, noting the lighting rigs and coiled cords stacked like metal intestines. Inside the warehouse, the dull scents of dust and electricity waft about. Nervously, you rub your lips together as your eyes naturally roll up to scan the almost scarily high ceilings.

Within the center of the room is a lone, steel chair. Around it, long translucent panels drape from the iron beams up above and flow to the floor. They're all sheer and gauzy, some a light cream, others pearly white, suspended at fluctuating angles to create depth. A gentle breeze caused from hidden fans keep them all in light motion, never flat. Some of the bones of the industrial building remain exposed, brick and iron, a sharp edge in the softness. A warm glow from the late morning sun filters in through the skylight. It all feels like something perfectly crossed between mechanical and empyreal.

You swallow, eyes locked on the chair. Senselessly, it intimidates you. Or maybe, it's the air around it that does. One chair that is somehow designed to hold two figures. One floating, one grounded.

You’d been told that the aesthetic for the shoot was 'soft brutalism' — quoted directly from Annie. "Soft lighting in a steel warehouse. Flowing but still." Now, while standing before the entire set design, you can’t help butterflies from swarming your gut at how intimate this all feels.

You take another look around the room — this time, you really look. Just beyond the sweep of fabric, standing near a dome camera tucked off to the side is Connie. He's in a wine red button down, material not glossy or silk, but a high quality cotton that holds structure at his arms though drapes down to stop just barely after his knuckles. Black tailored trousers fall straight down his long legs and right over a pair of wheat colored timbs pulled straight out of a box.

Soft but still . . . sharp. He looks less like a performer today and more like a figure pulled straight from an editorial spread of Harper's Bazaar.

“We’re going to need some touch ups,” Annie’s mumbling while swiveling her head on her shoulders, likely looking for the make up team. “You can head on over there, babe. Just give me a minute.”

You falter but force your legs to begin to carry you closer to that chair. He isn't looking at you . . . not yet at least. His focus is on watching a staff member adjust one of those hanging panels as he stands back, not saying a word.

Suddenly, one of the layers billows out due to a particular harsh wind of a fan which blurs Connie's outline into nothing but a tall, indistinctive blob for a second. When it settles back into place, he's looking directly at you — not scanning the room, not past you, but at you. The beat of your heart begins to thud that much quicker. You pretend not to notice as the director cuts through your path to begin a brisk but polite introduction. "Hey, great, perfect timing," he smiles while offering a hand. "We're keeping this really minimal. Lots of negative space. We want the focus to just be on you both."

Even while offering a gentle smile and affirming nods, you still feel it. His stare. It pierces through you and renders you keenly aware of your own body. Of the way your shoulders sit, the rise and fall of your chest, warmth gathering underneath your skin. Suddenly, every movement you make simply feels exposed. You wonder if you're holding your hands weird, if his attention has found the birthmark that extends across your nose to your cheeks. One glance back towards him and it's confirmed . . . he isn't looking away.

"Alright, I need you and Connie center."

Warm light catches on his button down, deepening the color as he begins to walk fully onto the set. He's wearing two gold chains, thin and delicate, that glint flashes of amber when he moves. On his index finger sits a chunky ring, a warm shine against the olive undertone of his skin. He doesn't rush his steps. Each is measured — timberlands thudding upon the concrete with every one of them. You inhale a breath through your nose as the hum of the warehouse fades into a barely there buzz when he stops a few feet in front of you.

Not close enough to really touch but close enough to where you feel a subtle shift in the air. Upon gathering enough courage, you finally look directly up into his eyes. "First one's simple," the director's saying though you don't really catch the tail-end of it because you notice Connie's eyes drifting.

Slowly. Deliberately. Not crude or in a rush.

From your eyes, to the bridge of your nose . . . lingering for a bit at the marble of your birthmark. Then lower, tracing the line of your jaw, hollow of your collarbones, then they slip down to the bodice of your dress. You're sure he sees the way the muscles beneath the skin of your abdomen tense because, due to the style of it, half of it is exposed.

"I want you standing. Connie, sit."

His attention is snatched away and without a beat missed, he lowers down onto the steel chair without much hassle and leans back against it as you fall into place beside him, letting the director instruct you on what to do with your arms and hands. "Perfect," the director soon mumbles before he's quickly walking away to grab his camera. You watch how Connie's legs naturally fall open, grounded and unbothered. His left hand rests upon his upper thigh, leaving his elbow jutted outward which creates a strong line throughout his frame. To top it off, his head angles just slightly downwards as he fixes a gaze of almost impassiveness towards the lens.

You, at his right side, are more graceful. Your body curves where his straightens — hand upon the back of the chair he sits in. The subtle angle of your stature creates a long, cultivated sweep from your shoulder down to your hip. The contrast between you both is immediate . . it's electrifying.

"Hold it."

No eye contact between you is exchanged but the space where your bodies part feels impossibly deliberate — like a line drawn in chalk neither of you are allowed to step over. From the outside looking in, the pose reads as cool and unperturbed. From the inside, it feels like a line of pressure being stretched taut between two fixed points. You blow out a quiet breath, the sound softer than you expected it to be, after what feels like a dozen shots are captured and you both are able to move again.

Quickly, both of your own separate make up artists rush in. As yours go to dab on a fresher coat of gloss, one adjusts Connie's sleeves and blots at his forehead. His gaze is shifting again, towards you. He barely reacts to the bodies buzzing around you both, barely even blinks. Your make up artists tilts your chin up a higher fraction with her pinkie, "Look up for me." You do, and in doing so, you feign close interest at the skylight up above, admiring the wispy specks of clouds extended over a sky of blue like stretched cotton.

Seconds tick off into long minutes, eventually twenty. Within those twenty minutes, you and Connie are instructed into four more different poses. Between each one, you look over by the monitors where Annie stands. Her eyes jerk back and forth among several computer screens and she sometimes nod at whatever a tech crew tells her. Although stone faced, you've known Annie long enough to recognize that she's ecstatic. The pictures must be coming out better than you think. She can hardly keep still — pacing slightly from left to right, stopping only to listen closer to whatever someone's telling her or point at a screen with a remark.

"Lets close up the space a little," the director says while silently apprising someone to remove the chair from the shot. "Connie, hand at ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱'s waist. Not grabbing, just a light touch."

Your stomach curls into knots immediately.

Carefully, you step into position beside him. You turn lightly towards him when asked and feel the swaying pleats of your asymmetrical, floor length gown brush against his trousers as you do.

"Ready?"

With a manicured finger, you brush a curl from your high, bun updo out of your vision behind your ear before nodding.

His hand finds your waist — not too sudden but surely not hesitant neither. It's a firm, steady placement against your bare back where the curve of your dress remains open which leaves his warm, shockingly soft palm against your own skin. His hand nearly spans from one side of your hip to the other which causes you to become acutely aware of how little space now exists between both of your bodies.

Unfortunately, your body reacts before you can train your brain to ignore it.

Your shoulders tighten, breath catches. The easy pose you were holding quickly hardens.

"Cut," the director softly says. "Loosen up your top half."

With a quick mumble of an apology, you straighten your posture and give a nod. One more time. Again. Connie's hand is at your waist this time. His thumb settles closer to your hip where, subconsciously, he rubs a small circle onto. You try to breathe, nevertheless, you fail. Your spine stiffens. "Relax, babe," Annie's voice cuts through some murmur as the director gives a quick suck to his teeth.

Another nod. You feel Connie's hand shift, not tighter, just more decisive. It reads almost as if he were making sure to ground you in place to steady you up against him. From your peripheral, you watch his face lean in slightly closer against your ear. "Tranquila," he utters, low and quiet. Your hair lifts on its ends at the back of your neck. "I got you."

The words aren't flirtatious. They're said as if it was a simple fact.

Swallowing, you struggle with letting your shoulders fall to trust the stable press of his hand.

The director hums, "Alright, lets do it."

You manage only two shutters of the lens capturing you both before your hip awkwardly juts out wrong. Embarrassment begins to flood through almost every inch of your body. You feel stupid, you feel stupid. You’re wasting time. Why cant you get it together? Closing your eyes, you press your index fingers lightly against your inner eye corners, "I'm sorry," you whisper quickly. "Sorry, everyone."

There's a soft exhale near your ear — sounds almost like a puff of amusement however, it's not mocking. ". . You nervous?"

Opening your eyes, you only manage to glance quickly up into Connie's before shaking your head. "No."

A second passes. Connie soon then sniffs, "Yeah, aight."

When he tries again, when you decide to finally allow his touch to simply settle, your body, bizarrely, molds instead of braces within it. You soften into something natural. You feel his fingers flex at your hip when you do. You take it as a muted form of his approval.

"Threee she is. There we go, you two."

The camera shutters.

Once, twice, thrice.

"Beautiful. Cut. That's a wrap everyone."

The word wrap nestles a weird feeling in your chest. You feel Connie's fingers part from the skin of your waist. One second they're there, the next, they're gone. Though it'd maybe only been a few minutes of his touch being there, the absence of it registers immediately. It feels wrong, almost. You swallow while watching crew members flood in around you both to begin unclipping fabric from the rafters that fall onto the floor in soft waves. Dome cameras go dark, one by one, as your stylist walks over with a comfortable, shin length robe to help you shrug on. The belt is tied with quick fingers as your eyes shift. Connie's already gone. He's on the far side of the warehouse, tossing a hoodie over his red button up, shielding gold beneath the fabric.

You don't want to look. you refuse to.

But, you do anyway.

He's looking at you again, eyes focused while pulling his hood over his freshly bleached head. The dark fabric frames his face, making him appear all the more forbiddingly handsome. The world around you blurs . . . almost as if someone has smeared their thumb across wet paint as noises fade into deadened mumbles — someone laughs over by the monitors while wrapping a long cord around their palm, your stylist says something to you that you can't quite catch.

Neither of you wave. Neither of you even nod.

The rolling door behind Connie opens, leaving golden sunlight to spill into the warehouse. He looks away, turns, steps outside of it, and not a second later does the door slam back shut . . leaving the world around you to sharpen again. Sound rushes back into your ears as someone drops something with a small curse. Your stylist gives a small nudge to your side, eyebrows shooting up her forehead in slight concern, "Hey, you okay?"

Innately, you nod, even if your mind feels elsewhere. "Yeah."

Something has shifted on its axis, that, you know. You tell yourself that it's just work . . that it will always be just work. But, whatever that's been newly strung between you and Connie feels too taut to blatantly ignore.

ׅ ❤︎

San Francisco is much colder than LA.

Fog rolls low over the city in thick clouds, the air is sharp and tinged with notes of salt. Shows are back to back. Thursday, Friday, then Saturday. Annie has informed you that between these seventy two hours are scheduled soundchecks, team meetings, and magazine interviews. All enough to keep your mind busy . . off of him, until she catches you the night after the first concert, in the lobby of the hotel before the both of you are going to part ways for the night. "Look, I know it's kind of sudden but, the label would like a teaser clip of some studio footage to post by tomorrow," her eyes flitter down to where an Apple watch wraps snuggly around her wrist. "Connie already said he's free—"

Your eyes widen and your voice rises an octave from the nervousness beginning to bubble within the pit of your stomach at only the mention of his name, "—Wait, wait. Right now? Are you serious, Annie?—"

"—I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But, you two are supposed to have this single released in three weeks time. We have to squeeze it in somewhere—"

"—The night after a show? I want a bubble bath."

She's grabbing you by the hips to spin you back in the direction of which you came which would be the hotel's rotating doors. "Bubble bath after this session, okay? Just an hour and a half max. You can do that for me, right?"

You want to tell her no. You want to dig your heels into the buffed marble of the lobby's floor and refuse to move a single inch, but you don't. Annie's the best. The label you signed to two years ago upon first gaining mainstream traction is a small one — Harborlight House.

It'd been Annie that you had clicked with the most out of the dozens of other managers who entered your dms with offers and promises that made your brain spin and stomach queazy. Annie has shown you genuine protection from the start. She flew out on her own dime after you accepted her meeting request and sat with you at a duck pond with her Ipad and pencil in hand instead of a contract thicker than your head. She asked you about what you wanted to accomplish, didn't flinch when you told her such, what success meant to you, what you didn't want to lose.

You signed with Harborlight House only about a month later.

Not because of the numbers, but for her. She'd been the one to push back when a bigger imprint wanted to rush your EP. She'd also been the one that made sure your masters stayed yours and yours alone.

Therefore, you try to do what she asks of you. Because Annie would never purposely lead you into harm's way. Prime example, after listening to you heave a big, bratty sigh, she puts you in the back of an escalade right beside Reiner and tells him, "You don't leave her side for a single second. Wherever she goes, you go, too."

As the car weaves through downtown traffic, your reflection stares at you through tinted glass — gloss still fresh, new lash set fluffy, stage costume set long gone and instead replaced by a white I Am Gia set printed with pink polka dots. You look okay. You don't completely feel okay, though.

Connie already said he's free.

Annie's words surprise you. You start to twist and pull at your fingers, reminding yourself that this is work. Only work. And it will always be.

The studio Connie's label rented is tucked within a more quieter part of the city — completed with industrial brick, dark, caged windows, and only three floors. You and Reiner have to enter up a narrow staircase that smells like warm dust and coffee to make it up to the second floor where you already hear the thumping bass of a smooth tempo track nearly twelve feet from from the door it's coming from at the end of the hall that's only cracked slightly ajar.

The closer you walk towards it, the slower your steps become.

You've performed in front of thousands and walked red carpets. You've had interviewers try to corner you about your love life, other celeb drama, and politics all in one and yet . . . that nervousness doesn't compare to how you currently feel. You hear Reiner mumble from behind you, "You good?"

" 'm good."

You push open the door.

Warmth hits you first.

Inside, the fairly large room is pleasantly lit with tall, standing lamps, as well as a few Himalayan salt ones that have been deliberately placed around the perimeter of it. The glow reflects against the smooth, exposed brick of the walls. A huge vocal booth sits at the far end of the room, topped with two, wide spanned monitors that display layered tracks in neon lines and glass slabs seals it off from a control panel that spans from almost one side of the room to the other, completed with mixing boards, sliders, and illuminating buttons that brighten then slowly dim as if they'd been breathing.

A dark, leather couch has been pushed against one wall and a low table stands in front of it, covered in cables, water bottles, a laptop, and chinese take out containers.

Connie sits in a rolling chair . . dressed in a pair of oversized, black track pants and a mustard yellow hoodie with the word supreme printed on the back. He had his head bowed and elbows on his knees with his hands interlocked between his legs as he listens closely to the track playing. Though, when you enter the room, he lifts it to look up at you.

He fixes his eyes on you and doesn't look away as the other two producers, both men — one with long locs and another with wavy, blond hair turn to face you. "Aye, right on time," the one with locs gives a smile. "We've been gettin' ready for you."

"Hi," a manicured hand is held up for an apprehensive wave as you step further inside. There's no visible reaction from Connie, no grin or smirk or faux reaction of surprise. Akin to yesterday morning at the photoshoot, he simply just watches you.

As Reiner settles in to stand beside the door against a wall, routinely inspecting with just his eyes and minimal words, you set your bag down upon a couch cushion when Connie eventually speaks, "You made it."

"Yeah," you pretend to dust lint off of your thighs so you don't have to look at him. "Uhm, there was just some traffic."

"Mm," is all he gives. You suspect that he knows that you're lying. You're grateful he doesn't continue to push though. When he stands up from the chair, measured and unhurried, instinctively you straighten your spine. You watch him cross the room in two, long strides to stand diagonally from you, almost near the couch as well. "You good?" That familiar question makes you feel like you're going crazy.

Loosely, you cross your arms over your chest in efforts to somewhat regulate your heart rate, "I'm fine. Why?"

His eyes, greyish and dark, quickly study the features of your face. It takes him only half a second. He hums softly again, " 'm jus' askin'."

You hear the track loop back into the beginning as your lips part . . . though, you say nothing. ". . Uhm," quickly, you turn away and walk towards the booth. The more space, the better. "Should we start?"

The blond haired producer nods. "Lets begin with the hook."

ׅ ❤︎

An hour passes by quickly. You record the hook perfectly after four takes and half of your verse. You'd been told, through the glass panel by one of the producers, that Connie has completed his. He now only has to finish the bridge, but everyone's decided that it can happen another day.

Throughout your time in the booth, Connie sits on the couch behind the two men, leaned comfortably back into the cushions with his fists shoved in his hoodie's pockets. You try not to focus too much on him, nonetheless, he makes it difficult. During the repeated takes of the hook, you couldn't help but notice the minuscule reactions he gave when disliking or approving of something. When you cut a word shorter than he'd like, you supposed, you could see it in the faintest shift of his lips. Never a full frown but just a slight tighten at the corner of them, as though he tasted something not quite right.

When you drifted off into a melodic run, his leg bounced. Once. Approval.

He never says anything. He barely moves, never interrupts. Just listens . . . intently.

You tell yourself to simply focus on you. But, he makes it hard.

"Again," one of the producers says through the speakers of your chunky, over ear headphones. "More air on the front line this time."

You nod. Your voice is smaller when you utter, "Okay," into the microphone after clearing your throat.

With his instructions, you try the harmony once more.

Something in the air shifts. You feel it. It doesn't sound . . . right. On the next run, you gather in a deeper breath to open up your diaphragm. Then arrives a long silence after it. Through the glass, you watch the blond nod his head. The dreadhead leans closer into the board to fiddle with a slider switch. Behind them . . . Connie still lounges, back against the cushion, hands in his pockets, albeit, his jaw has tightened. Not noticeably, but, just barely. You swallow.

"More bigger."

"Smaller run."

"Make it tighter."

By the fifth take, Connie stands. Midway through a note, you quiet and take a step back as though you were preparing for him to storm into the booth and snatch the microphone away from your lips. You're thankful one of the producers has his finger still on the button so that you're able to hear what's going on when his mouth opens. "Nah, nah, nah," Connie's shaking his head and walking closer to the mixing board.

One of them chuckles, "It's alright, man. We're just molding it."

"Mold it without makin' her disappear."

Another silence lugs on, tensed and prickling. ". . It's just direction."

Connie's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, once. He looks up over at you without lifting his head, ". . . You like how that sound, ma?"

You're hesitant. Truth be told, you don't. You've managed to perfect the art of your sound and their direction is wiping it away, note by note. ". . 's fine."

"It ain't fine," he snatches one of his hands out of his pocket to rub at the soft, dark hairs that dust his chin. "Sing it how you did the first time."

You shift, "U-uhm—"

"—Connie, man, this isn't your session—"

His attention doesn't part from yours when he roughly clips, "—Do it."

It's firm and leaves no room for another word. So, you do. It's sweet . . soft though warmly textured . . akin to velvet dragging across the warmth of one's skin. The room quiets after the track suddenly pauses. Connie gives a small nod, jaw shifting. "That." It's quiet. No need for overdone praise. He says it like he knew you had it in you the entire time. Looking down at the producers, his voice is low and edged with something raw when he states, "Now mix it."

You watch as he turns to grab his water bottle and then walks out of the door.

It shuts behind him with a soft click. No slam or any dramatics. He's just . . gone. For a second, no one moves. Eyes shift, but bodies don't. The room feels simultaneously bigger yet tighter now that he's no longer here. The dreadhead clears his throat and fiddles with another slider, as if nothing even happened. "Alright," he mumbles, hoping to lighten the mood. "That take was great."

You remain standing in the booth, blood feeling as though its too hot for your body.

He never raised his voice, he never looked away from you. He told you to do it and you did . . . and it felt . . . so good. You listen to the producers replay the same melodies you just gave. No further direction is given. Eventually, after being waved out of the booth, you walk out noting that the air outside of it feels denser than what it once was. His warmth still resides within the cushions of the couch when you replace his spot. You tell yourself that the quiet ache that throbs in your chest is just relief, nothing more.

A lie.

Your personal phone soon pings from within the confines of your bag with a new message. Sighing, you grab it to fish through tubes of lip gloss, travel sized perfumes, and a lone pair of clean panties to find it buried at the bottom. Annie is expected . . but, instead, it's from an unknown number.

Your heart drops into your ass. No name or contact photo attached, only two simple words.

You stare at it for longer than you'd like to admit. He has your number. How does he have—

Your lips part with the sudden realization of three weeks of touring, rehearsals, and interviews. Of course, he'd been able to get it when he wanted to. But he's using it . . . and now. Another ping.

Your breath catches before you can try to regulate it. The hair on your body stands straight as your head snaps up, thinking that he may be inside the room. You can try to ignore it, pretend that you're busy, but, for some reason, doing that doesn't feel right. He's not asking, not begging, however, he's waiting. Looking at the producers, you watch them softly talk to one another about equilibrium adjustments, barely paying any attention to you, so you stand.

"Uhm, 'm . . g-gonna step out for a minute."

"Alright, no worries."

You watch Reiner's gaze sharpen on you as you move closer to the door. " 's okay," you mutter with a soft hand to his forearm. "I'll be back in a few. You have my location still."

There's some hesitance but he eventually nods, so, slowly, you walk out and down the hall you previously came from. It's just work, you repeat to yourself. Just work. It's only work. Even so, your hands can't stop trembling. You expected him to be outside, as he said, but when you open the door to the stairwell, he's standing halfway down them, arms folded and back leaned against the wall. When he hears the door, he looks up. His face is unreadable. There's no anger or annoyance . . . but something you can't quite pinpoint.

With your hand on the banister, you let the door close behind you with a final slam, leaving you both enclosed within the narrow spine of a room of steps. Silence is loud. The soles of your Uggs press down onto specs of dust and tiny, barely there pebbles as you slowly descend down until you're two steps above him . . close enough to see the small shards of warm green that swim within the grey and brown of his eyes. "You got my number," is what you eventually say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. Is he upset with you?

"Mhm." No apology or explanation given. "You scared of that room?"

No bullshitting around.

Automatically, you shake your head.

"Then why you ain't say nothin'."

He's not asking a question, he's wanting an answer. You look away from him and bend your finger back and forth on the wood of the banister. ". . I didn't wanna make it harder."

He's tilting his head. Not in a puppy-ish way but in a way that feels surgical — as though he's adjusting himself to get a better look at you. "For who."

You're quiet. You keep your eyes on your finger, feeling the pad of it curve into the natural indents of the wood. "For the session."

"Mm, nah, that ain't what I asked."

Your lips roll tightly into your mouth as you suddenly snatch your arms up to fold them across your chest. A sharp exhale through your nose, "For them, I guess."

He's wearing a beanie underneath his hood tonight. His eyebrows are slightly thick. They lift up on his forehead in a bogus manner of incredulity. "For them."

The words drift between you both as if he were tasting the weight of them on his own tongue. ". . And you?" he soon asks.

You tense. You hate that — when he keeps pulling focus back on you. ". . 's nothin' I can't handle."

Connie nods, slowly. "Mm." Then takes one step higher up towards you. It leaves you both nearly eye to eye for the first time. Something in the air shifts. You keep your focus on him to keep him from noticing your breaths quivering now. "You ain't answer me in there," he says with a soft squint of his eyes.

"I did."

"You said it was fine."

You don't respond because the two of you know that wasn't the question. The hum of the city fills the silence this time around — a few car honks as some whizz by and a faint helicopter.

"You scared of that room?" his first question is repeated.

You shake your head slower this time. ". . . No."

When you lower your chin, he's inclining his neck slightly lower too to find your eyes once more, "Then why you ain't say nothing."

"Connie—" You stop yourself then lift them up towards the ceiling as if the words you want to say are written there. In the end, when you can't find them, you release another sharp breath and meet his eye contact. He's waiting . . patiently. "I didn't wanna make it harder."

He studies you for a longer second. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, "You let them fold you. You let them niggas cut you down smaller every time they asked. Even when you knew you wasn't fuckin' wit' it."

You shift on your feet. "You noticed?"

There's no hesitation when he answers, "Yeah."

"That's weird."

He shrugs, eyes part from yours for the first time though not out of nervousness. It's to make a point when he says, "You in a room. I'm aware." Then they're back on you, steady and unblinking. There's no flirtation . . . for the second time within forty eight hours, he says something that makes your heart skip as if he were citing a traffic rule.

You stare at him this time, trying to read him the way he obviously can read you but, you find it difficult. His face gives little away. It makes you feel exposed, like you're underneath a spotlight. Therefore, you part your glossed covered lips to softly question, "You think I can't handle this stuff?" It isn't defensive . . your voice is quiet. It reads closer to vulnerability. You ask it as if you really want to know.

"I think you can."

"Then what?"

He licks his lips. For a moment, they glisten with his saliva — thick, pink, and smooth with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache right above them. God. "I think you don't like friction, ma."

" 'm not scared of friction."

"Hazme caso, not callin' you scared," He inhales through his nose as his gaze drifts up at the stairs behind you for a brief moment. "When shit rubs you wrong . . you swallow it."

You make a move to deny, "That's not—"

"—It is."

It's firm, but oddly not as harsh as it would've sounded coming from someone else. Looking away again, you can't help the pout that's starting to push at your lips, no matter how hard you try to reel it back in. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me, Connie." More lies beneath your tone than just pettishness. There's a hint of a plea. Why are you looking so hard? Don't name it.

"I'm not." A pause. "I'm jus' watchin'."

The word settles heavily over the conversation. ". . . You think you got me figured out after only three weeks of knowing me?"

"No."

The answer throws a curveball. You expected him to say yes — be cocky about it, because somehow, deep down, you have a feeling that if he doesn't already, he will soon. "I jus' don't like watchin' you bend like that."

Stubbornly, you grumble out, "Wasn't bending."

His honesty unsettles you in almost the sweetest of ways. You're aware of how close the two of you now, only a step separating your bodies. He smells like smoky vanilla again . . . The same scent he wore when you both were introduced to each other, only tonight, tinges of marijuana burn at the edges of it. It clings to the edges of his hoodie and to his fingers when he lifts his hand to adjust his beanie lower over his forehead. "You was. You ain't gotta make shit easy for nobody, especially not in a room where they supposed to be workin' for you."

Your gaze grows sharp, "You would've just argued with them all night, then?"

"Yeah."

"And make it awkward."

"So?"

He doesn't look angry. If anything, he appears resolved. You can't understand him. You don't think you have enough energy in you tonight to even try. ". . Why do you care so much?" The words tumble from your lips before you can try to stop them.

For the first time tonight, his expression shifts prior to him wanting it to. His jaw works once then twice as if he were grinding down the words between his teeth to decide how honest he wants to be. Eventually, he replies, "I don't like seein' you dull yourself."

Unable to help it, you deflect, "You think I'm dull?"

He huffs a quiet breath, nearly amused. His voice is a tinge rougher when he drags his thumb up to his closed eye to rub slowly at the inner corner, "Man, you like twistin' shit, hm."

" 'm not—"

"—You know that ain't what I said."

You watch him lift his hand. He rests it upon the banister, gripping at it, directly next to your hip. He isn't touching you, but he might as well be. "Next time," his voice is gentle and he makes sure to wait until you meet his eye again before continuing. "Don't say it's fine if it ain't."

You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek, working it back and forth while studying him through your lashes, ". . You always this invested in other people's studio sessions?"

The ghost of a smirk pulls at his lips. It softens him in way you've never seen before. "Nah, ma."

Just yours, goes unsaid.

ׅ ❤︎

Week four on the road doesn't arrive loudly, it simply settles.

Somewhere after you and connie's late night conversation on the stairwell in San Francisco — after vanilla scented air scorched with weed and Brooklyn accented mutters — the dynamic of you two shift without either of you naming it. It isn't softer, but . . heavier, and somehow steadier, too. You're in Seattle next for two nights. The first is loud, big. He continues to watch your performances from the wings, arms folded and his head angled down as if he were examining you like architecture. "You owned that shit," he mumbles when you and your dancers shuffle past as the crowd screams for an encore. You pant and smile, with your lungs burning and sweat cooling against your spine, and try not to let yourself grow too shy in front of him because his approval has slowly been becoming something you've been chasing.

You hate that you are, however, can't reel yourself in close enough to stop doing it.

He'll utter things like, "Don't fold." "You know what to do." Close to your temple before shows when everyone's hurrying you to the stage and the stage manager is counting down from thirty — always low, always only meant for you, and you listen. You adjust the way you shine within the spotlight because of him, hold a note longer because you know that he's listening for when you could possibly retreat. His attention is your anchor and accelerator . . what keeps you steady yet lights a match beneath your ribs.

It's after Seattle and Phoenix, in Vegas, when both of your managers tell the two of you that it's crunch time.

The single scheduled to be released next week featuring you both is only eighty percent done. After the show, when everyone's packing up, crowds are bustling towards the exits in efforts to be the first ones out and the projector screen is rolling credits of the stage crews' names in glitching, vhs style — Connie's typical aesthetic — you're carrying a large, puffy tote on your shoulder, dressed in a pair of flared leggings and thin, tight camisole. You walk beside Annie and Anthony, a few of your dancers and Reiner behind you as all of your footsteps tap against cemented stairs to head for the underground parking garage where eight, glossy black Escalades wait — some for your team, others for Connie's.

There's a lot of mutter . . . some laughs, some hugs shared as you all part ways for the night.

Your arms are wrapped tight around the hips of one of your closest dancers as you smooch a big kiss to her cheek, "Get some rest, okay?" you tell her. "Take a bubble bath and add some epsom salt in there, seriously!"

"But it's Vegas — you don't wanna come out with us for a little bit?"

Before you can answer, there's a voice behind you cutting through, "Nah. She gotta work tonight."

It isn't loud. It never has to be. Connie's voice carries differently after a show — lower and more gruff after commanding a stadium of fifty thousand people with that same Brooklyn edge that makes everything sound finalized. The small circle around you instantly shifts as he emerges from the same hall you all came from with his own team.

He's wearing an all black fit . . . fitted tee, baggy jeans, and 'black cat' jordan fours with an opened, oversized jacket covering his tatted arms. His bleached head has been re-dyed tonight with jagged, electric blue lightning bolts cutting through the fade all over. The diamonds within the chains he wears glisten underneath the fluorescents in quick glints.

At the sight of him, you grip the shoulder strap of your tote tighter.

Anthony claps his hands once. "Aye, and that's our cue. Don't be up all night. My crew, let's roll."

A few more hugs are exchanged, promises to text, and some laughter as car doors open then close. You say your goodbyes to Annie last, telling her that you'll keep her updated and see her in the morning, bright and early. It's when most of your teams are already in the cars, leaving you, Connie, Reiner, and two of Connie's own personal guards standing beside the rumbling trucks when you turn to face him with your arms folded. ". . . Not even a drink?"

His slitted eyebrow twitches, "You was thinkin' about goin' for real."

You look away, pouting only slightly. "Only for like, an hour."

You feel it before you see it — his gaze drops. You've taken off all of your make up so you're sure that your birthmark is a little more blatant than usual. His eyes trace the irregular shape of it, akin to an uneven splatter of pale color thrown carelessly over the bridge of your nose, not confusedly or even in curiosity. His eyes map over it it like he's trying to memorize it, before he drags his stare back into yours again. "You tired?"

". . Yeah."

"You wired?"

"Mhm."

"Now imagine you off a drink or two on top of this."

You bristle, unable to help huffing when he opens a back door to one of the trucks. "I was gonna ride by m'self—" He's shaking his head, not even looking at you when he braces a hand against the roof so you won't hit your head and says, "—You ridin' wit' me. C'mon." There's no room for banter or a negotiation. It's already been decided. You pause and look around the emptying parking garage. Reiner leans against a wall, simply watching, while Connie's guards stand beside their own truck.

You try to sound annoyed when you utter, "Seriously?" But your tone betrays you. Comes out a little more meek than wanted.

He's slightly smirking now. "Seriously."

You sigh as you climb in and settle in the seat behind the driver's. Reiner takes the passenger and connie slides in behind it then slams the door shut beside him. It's almost deafeningly quiet inside the car after he does, silence only broken by a sports broadcasting channel that hums along through the speakers with commentators droning on about stats and positions. Vegas nights are warm this time of year. You slide down your window a bit when he does as the truck starts to move, letting the air waft across your bare collarbones. "Are you always so . . . bossy?"

Connie sits with his legs spread and arm thrown over the back of the seat you sit in. He doesn't falter when he replies, "What you think?"

Turns out, he's staying in an airbnb, nestled near the outskirts and rolling hills of Vegas that dulls the busy city noise within its openness. Houses are spaced far enough to feel completely private, gated and secluded with the lights of the strip only a faint gleam in the distance. When the SUV rolls to a smooth stop at the bottom of a wide, arched staircase that leads to a large pivot door made of steel and glass, elegant and sharp, Connie's already pushing his door open and stepping out as if he's been here a million times before — no pause or glance around, just smooth certainty. While he rounds the backside of the car, you take notice of the headlights of another escalade where you assume his security occupy, pulling in behind you all.

"I'll take my post outside the front door right here," Reiner says from over his shoulder with the tilt of his chin to motion to it. "You need something, you call me."

Nodding, you softly retort an "Okay."

Before you can even reach for your door handle, it's opened by Connie. He stands there, warm, bronzy skin painted almost ethereal beneath the silver moonlight. The subtle diamonds in his ear sparkle as he turns his head to motion something to his security before leaning in slightly closer to offer you his palm. "C'mon, ma."

His hand completely dwarfs yours as you lean into his help to jump from the high risen truck. It's warm . . somehow strong . . grounding. "Studio's in the basement," he utters while leading you up the staircase. He doesn't let it go. "Fucked around with it earlier before rehearsals. Shit's nice." You find yourself glancing between the side of his face, to the faint tension settled in the hard line of his jaw and the tiny spider inked right beneath the corner of his left eye, and his hand that still engulfs yours the entire walk up. Your pulse sounds louder within the quiet of the night.

You don't say anything about it. He holds it like it's second nature — to have you tethered to him, that is. It feels like second nature. Your stride adjusts to his longer ones without much hassle and your fingers fit delicately into his palm. You try to swallow your disappointment when he eventually has to let it go though to key in a code to unlock the door and push it open.

Inside is nice. Abstract decor with black marble floors glisten bright enough under recessed lighting to reflect your face back up at you when you look down at it, completed with high ceilings which stretch into clean architectural designs. Somewhere deeper inside, the kitchen you think, gleams soft, ambient lighting that makes you feel warm.

You let Connie lead you down a wide staircase that spirals out into the lower half of the house as both your footsteps echo. He moves like he’s already memorized the layout of the entire home — as if this were just another temporary kingdom he’s occupying for the night. You pass a home theater, two laned bowling alley, and lounge before a glass door opens into the home’s studio. It’s all very indulgent and excessive . . very Vegas. The lighting within the studio is lower, warmer which makes it feel all the more intimate. Connie seems to already have his laptop in here with the track settled over the monitors and ready to go. Everything’s positioned exactly how he wants it, like he knew you’d been walking in here tonight.

“You wanna start?” he asks with a casual shrug off of his jacket. Ink coils across his skin — down his arms, a few on his hands, curling up his neck — mostly black, only a couple red . . one near his forearm, the other on his bicep as if it were intentionally tucked away.

You swallow and shake your head come his question. His eyebrows lift slowly, not in offense but slight curiosity. He seems to wait for a beat, expecting you to change your mind however when you don’t, he doesn’t press or tease you about it, he pivots. “Aight, mama,” he mutters while grabbing the set of headphones off of the mixing board. “I’ll lay mine first.”

Your tote falls onto the empty center table as he pushes the booth’s door open with his shoulder to step inside. Quickly, you realize this will be your first time seeing him record. You've experienced seeing him perform, you've seen him rehearse, but never record. Electricity hums beneath your veins.

He looks unworldly, standing within the center of it with his chin lowered as he scrolls through his phone to presumedly memorize his lyrics. You’re staring — letting your eyes drag across the broad span of his shoulders and biceps, down to the taper of his hips. He’s . . . handsome, but the word falls flat honestly. There’s a reason why his face goes viral every other day, clips of him performing, mid interview, smiling, staring, frowning. He’s conventionally attractive of course, but it’s almost something unreal about him. Up close? It’s something else entirely. He’s a rare case, you think. Like he was carved with precise intention . . by someone who made sure to take their time.

It’s stillness before he starts. He doesn’t pace or fidget, doesn’t rehearse out loud or even mumble to himself. He just stands there, reads it once, twice, maybe three times to lock it in then he powers his phone off, shoves it back into his pocket then looks over at you. No gesture needed, you seem to understand his stare without him having to say a word. You hit a button on the mixing board to let the track smoothly play in.

There’s a strong bass line. The melody floats in a few seconds after, light and almost playful. It’s fun but there’s weight to it. You think the producer did well with encapsulating you and connie’s vibes within it.

You watch his lips part.

Fuck.

His voice slides in smooth, almost lazy, like he’s talking his shit to a homeboy on the sidewalks of Brooklyn instead of recording something that’ll be streamed worldwide. But, it works. His tone carries on the beat instead of chasing it. Your nails dig into the meat of your palms as you stand there behind the chair in front of the mixing board, entirely transfixed.

And an hour and a half passes like that.

With Connie buried in the booth and you curled up within a large, padded spinning chair in front of the sound panel, consistently replaying the track when he wants. You both fall into a rhythm. He's tweaks a word here, switches up his flow there. He ends up recording the bridge three times, trying to decide which one sounds better and it's as you're sitting with a piece of a spicy crab sushi roll held between chopsticks, nearly halfway up to your mouth, courtesy drop off by Connie's security, and listening to him record another line when he cuts himself off mid-bar.

The beat is still playing when he heaves a tired sigh from his nose and pulls off his headphones.

"Fuck, man."

Your eyes are wide and you're midchew when scrambling up to stop the music. The room drops into a silence so thick that it makes it hard for you to swallow. He's irritated. He's not dramatic with it, nonetheless, it's obvious. Maybe only to you. "Somethin's off," he utters. You watch him pull open the booth door and quickly brush out of it as if it's offended him personally. He brushes his hand over his scalp before taking the other chair beside you. "Anda. Go. Do your part."

You cover your mouth to swallow. "Right now?"

"Yeah," his tone is sharp when he replies. He doesn't seem impatient with you, moreso this song and himself. "I wanna hear it with you on there."

Hesitating, you soon give a small nod prior to settling your chopsticks down on a napkin then standing. You smooth out the wrinkles in your flared leggings and tug at your camisole when noticing that it's ridden up above your navel piercing before stepping inside the booth. You feel his stare as you settle the headphones over the dark curls of your flip over sew in, making sure that they aren't pressing down too hard on them or your ears. The mic still sits at his height, so you have to reach up with nimble fingers to adjust it down to your own.

When you inhale a big breath to steady yourself, you catch the familiar traces of his cologne dancing within the enclosed space of the booth. It makes something in your tummy flip. “ ‘m ready.”

You watch him press play. You’re required to only layer some harmonies beneath the bridge he’s working on. Your first ones are clean, supporting, and gentle. Air beneath his gravel. When doing a second layer, you part your mouth open just the tiniest bit wider to fill in some opened space.

Connie leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, and folds his arms over his chest while watching.

He’s never been able to indulge in staring at you. Not properly. When he watches your performances, he’s mostly just listening. In the rare moments he lets his eyes drift, it's always quite professional — keeping an eye out for a wardrobe malfunction or if one of your dancers is too close within your center light. When he passes by you in the halls, while on the way to your hotels or tour buses, it's never enough time to get a real, good look at you.

That doesn't mean he hasn't tried. The photoshoot you both did was half an exception, as well as that first, shared studio session, but this time . . there's no one else in the room. No stylists, sound engineers, or managers. Just you both. so he lets himself look.

You keep your lashes done — full and fluffy with wisps in between that soften your stare. They dust across your cheeks as you keep your eyes closed to really hone in on a note. Your curls spill down your back akin to a halo, resting only an inch away from the curve of your waist. The camisole you wear is thin enough to reveal the intricate lacing of your white bra underneath. Lower, his eyes fall down to the fullness of your hips, thickness of your thighs. God, you really are something.

He knows what you entail.

Letting himself give into you brings a lot of eyes, headlines, and even more questions. He hates all that shit. He's always been about his music, just his music. Sure, yeah, he's entertained the usual, stereotypical distraction people of his profession commonly go for. The occasional instagram model flown out for a weekend here, a single mom he met at an after party who understood discretion there — no strings, no complications, just something to release his stress when the days blur together and the cameras, the fans, the pressure, and the numbers all become too much.

You're like gravity, though. since the start of this tour, Connie's been finding himself thinking about you, on flights, the backseat after a show, in the shower . . . more than he's thought about another person in a long, long time.

Swallowing once, he rubs a hand down his jaw as if he's trying to physically reset himself. He's never been the type to try to fight it though. He'll hold off on whatever his heart, mind, or soul tells him for a while, stall it, test it, tell himself to just wait a bit, but never will he run from it. Because the way he sees it — anything that pulls at him like this deserves to be closely examined, not avoided. When the music settles and you're opening your eyes while pulling off the headphones, eyes wide and plump lips parted, obviously searching for his approval, something in his blood rushes into static. He thinks he may like you . . . a lot.

"Did you like it?" is the first thing you ask when out of the booth.

"Adored it. Shit was perfect." His eyes are focused on the sound waves of the track as he replays it with his own.

You can't help but notice how his jaw moves when listening to himself, though. It grinds slowly, back and forth, revealing his dissatisfaction with it. You step a little bit closer to him. ". . What's wrong?" You hum. "With yours, I mean. What do you hear?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He lets you listen for yourself.

Your harmonies opened up something you didn't hear before. "You're dragging the word at the end on the sixth bar," you soon say. "Sounds really good but a little crowded. If you clip it, the melodies can fill up the space instead."

He stares at you for a beat longer than usual, then he rewinds, plays it again, and envisions your input.

". . Damn."

You watch him bite down on a slow, pretty smile. "That's perfect, mama."

"Really?" Your shoulders lift to your ears as you brighten up with a wide grin. You watch him nod and stand, already making his way for the booth.

"You got plans in the morning?"

"Just . . rehearsals, I think."

He's shaking his head with his hand on the booth's door. "Cancel it. I wanna run this again after you sleep on it. Fresh ears matter." A second passes. He licks his lips. "I want you to have breakfast with me, too."

There it is. An opening.

Your eyes go a little wide and you shift on your feet, looking up into the same stormy, hazel eyes that never seem to blink first. ". . . O-oh. Okay."

Something unreadable flickers across his face — something that appears crossed between contentment and contemplation. "I'll pick you up around ten."

ׅ ❤︎

Connie rides with you, his driver, and Reiner again back to your hotel at three in the morning. Vegas' lights still twinkle bright and people walk the strip, dressed in mini skirts and half button ups with drinks in their hands and laughter on their lips. He doesn't appear as tired as you as he sits beside you, arm thrown over the back of your headrest again. His eyes remain sharp, staring out of the tinted windows at the bustling city. It makes you wonder how many long nights he's pulled like this. How many hours has he stayed up before his body has collapsed from exhaustion. He doesn't seem to mind walking you up to your suite. He stands beside you on the entire elevator ride up, quiet and intense, as always.

"Uhm," you stop in front of the double doors with a keycard in hand and turn to face him. He forgot his jacket. He's still donned in his all black fit, electric blue swimming through warm blond upon his head. "So . ."

"I'll send the track over to the labels around six," he says, not giving the awkwardness time to grow. ". . . I want you to sleep. Cut your phone off."

He says it like an instruction . . . as if your rest has already been accounted for in a plan that you don't know of. Your head tilts, eyes grow softer than usual. Connie's jaw flexes. "You're not gonna sleep, too?"

He shrugs, "I will." When he reads the uncertainty radiating off of you, a slight smirk pulls at his lips. "No te preocupes. I been doin' this for a long time."

You give a sigh, "You should, Connie." His statement doesn't answer for your concerns but you don't think he cares, therefore, you turn to swipe your keycard and push open the door a crack when the machine flashes green. There's something suspended in the air between you two. Not awkward, not particularly dramatic. Just . . . loaded.

"Ten," is the last thing he says. "Get some sleep, for real."

"You'll be able to tell if I don't?" It's a small tease. A little push back against him but you notice his eyes squint. Not in annoyance but assessment.

"Yeah."

"Mm, how?"

He takes one step closer and your pulse skips. The small smile you wore gently fades. "I'll hear it," he replies, voice low. "In your voice."

He doesn't grin when he says it. It's matter of fact, spoken like it's obvious. You try to search his face for exaggeration but there isn't any. You swallow, "Okay." Ten. You keep that little, three lettered word in mind as you finally give him a little wave before stepping inside your room.

Connie watches your door slowly close. He makes sure he hears the latch click into place before he turns and strides back down the hall without looking back. His mind feels like a live wire — buzzing, sparking, and refusing to power off.

Ten.

ׅ ❤︎

Annie's suspicious when you call her at nine am. "Why . . . are you calling me before rehearsals?" she asks. You hear the doubt in her tone and it makes you feel like you're five all over again with your parents asking you if you put glitter all over your pomeranian.

Your cheeks burn as you toe at your suitcase that sits, flopped open in the middle of your hotel room's living area, dressed in only a robe with your bonnet on. " 'm having breakfast . . with Connie . . ."

"Breakfast," she repeats, tone dry. "With Connie . . ."

". . . Mhm . . ."

"What the hell happened in that studio last night, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱? Let me do damage control while I can—"

Your eyes are squeezing closed and your body tenses as you squeak out, "—Nothing! I swear, I swear! Oh my god, Annie!"

"You do not cancel rehearsals over a casual breakfast, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."

Without thinking, you blurt, "But it's not casual!"

The minute the words leave your mouth, you melt onto the floor on your knees beside your suitcase and drop your forehead into your palm. Stupid. You are so stupid.

Annie's quiet . . . in a way that shows that she's slowly processing. "Ah," she soon mutters. "So, it's not casual."

"That's . . n-not what I meant, Annie."

"Then what did you mean."

You groan, "Nothing happened last night. We worked on the song, it was nice. We just, talked a little bit, finished, he dropped me off at the hotel, walked me to my door then left."

"Is he picking you up?"

While fiddling with the tie of your robe, you softly shrug as if she can see you, "I think his security is."

"You're letting his security pick you up."

"He told me it's just to go upstairs to the restaurant. It's private."

She echos a, "Oh, it's private."

"Annie."

You hear her breathe out a sharp sigh. You can already see her in the same position as you. Dressed to the nines in an all black, perfectly tailored pantsuit. Make up already done, blond bob perfectly straightened with her forehead in her palm. You're her proudest achievement and biggest headache sometimes.

". . . You like him," she soon says.

Her words make you still.

. . . Do you?

You haven't really . . thought about it like that. ". . I dunno."

"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, please don't lie to me."

You're pouting now, "He jus' . . makes me nervous."

"That is not the same thing and you know it."

A silence stretches on. You keep your mouth shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing at this point. You hear Annie inhale a breath this time. "Okay, you get two hours. Rehearsals aren't canceled, they're postponed. I'll let Anthony and the dancers know. No disappearing, no leaving anywhere without security. Say you understand."

"I understand," a weight feels like it's been removed off of your chest. ". . I think he just wants to talk."

"Men like that don't ever just want to talk."

She makes you swear that you won't do anything career altering before you've had some type of caffeine in your system and after you hang up, you're left to stare at your reflection within the dark tv screen across the room while a big, slow smile subconsciously spreads across your lips and you're left to squeal into a throw pillow as you kick your feet.

ׅ ❤︎

The outfit you choose to wear is something crossed between soft glam and streetwear. A baby blue micro skirt works as your statement piece and an oversized, fleecy, grey hoodie with a sky blue, air brushed background softens it all up. A pair of white, Isabel Marant sneakers maintains that edge you're going for and after doing your own make up and accessorizing with a bag and cute, silver jewelry, you feel ready to go.

Connie's security are two men of very few words. One of them knocks on the door, asks if you're ready, then the both of them keep you sandwiched between them, one in front, one behind, at all times the entire walk to the car. Your stomach is fluttering with butterflies the entire ride over to the restaurant. you wonder which he chose, if he's already ordering, what he'll order.

"Upstairs," the hostess tells you with a nod when you arrive.

More security is waiting at the top of the stairs when a red velvet rope is unhooked to allow you entry. They mutter soft, respectful "Good morning"s before parting to let you walk further in. You already see him, with his back against a wall, seated in a chair with dark sunglasses rested on the table beside a clean, empty plate.

You find the restaurant to be quite beautiful. Exposed brick makes it feel homely while large, tall windows maintain a quiet feel of luxury. Connie's standing when you close the distance between you both. He's wearing a tailored, burgundy quarter zip over black pants and new, wheat timbs. The blue in his hair has been washed out, leaving it only blond. He looks . . . yummy.

"G'mornin'," you softly smile, letting him pull out your chair so that you're able to take a seat.

"Mornin', ma." you watch him take his. He flicks his fingers towards himself a few times then says, "So . . . lemme hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Your voice. I wanna hear it."

You can't help it. A soft, squeaking giggle bursts out of you before you can help it. "Connie, 'm literally talking right now."

He shakes his head once, "Mm-mm. That was a laugh."

Slyly, you roll your eyes, "What am i supposed to say?"

"Anything."

Your fingers fidget with the binded leather of the menu as you try to find a word, ". . . Hi."

"That all you got?"

"You're weird."

He smirks. It makes you blush. "There it is." Just by that, he can tell you slept. You find yourself to be a little scared to ask how, so you don't. But you wonder.

Thankfully, a waiter approaches to fill your glasses with water and ask for orders before a silence stretches on for too long. You listen to Connie's deep, raspy voice reply, "Mangú con los tres golpes. Eggs fried hard, please," and almost as if it were an afterthought he adds, "And a black coffee."

Connie watches the waiter nod, jot it all down, then turn his head towards you. "Uhm, do you have chocolate chip waffles?. . Seriously? Okay, yay, that please? With a side of breakfast potatoes and . . . a peach lemonade."

When told that your orders will be out shortly, then being left alone, Connie reaches for his glass of water. "Chocolate chips?"

He watches your spine straighten. You feel judged. "Yes."

"In the morning."

"Mhm."

After a sip of his water, he sets it back down on its coaster like he has all the time in the world. "That's bold."

"It's breakfast." You're starting to pout. It's cute.

"You always order what you actually want?"

Your head tilts. "What do you mean?"

"Most people order what they think sound grown," he leans back, folds his arms over his chest then lightly shrugs. "Egg whites, dry toast, green juice. Shit like that."

"I order what I like," you respond with another head tilt. He's sure you don't know how cute you look when you do them. ". . So what's mangú?"

He lifts his eyebrows, "¿No lo sabes?" It slips out of him, calm yet measured. It isn't like you haven't heard him speak spanish before . . however, all of those other times were usually instances of him saying something quickly, as though he simply couldn't help it. And, in other cases, while performing. This time feels different. Maybe it's because this time feels slightly more intentional and his question is directed at you.

You've been around enough spanish speakers though to somewhat translate what he asks. Shyly, you shake your head.

He studies you for a second longer then unfolds his arms. "It's basically jus' mashed, green plantains," he says. His voice is lower now, less guarded. "Some people use butter . . some oil. Red onions. Los tres golpes means three hits. Eggs, fried cheese, salami, that's all."

Your tummy growls. A slow smile spreads across his lips as your face burns hot. "That sounds really yummy."

"It is."

"Is it like, a special occasion thing?"

He shakes his head, leaned a little bit more towards you. You've realized you're doing it, too. "Nah, that's regular. That's home."

Home. You imagine a younger Connie, walking the streets of Brooklyn with headphones over his ears and a backpack hanging off of his shoulder. You can see him sitting somewhere loud yet warm with a plate of that in front of him. Your voice is gentle when you ask, "Do you miss it?"

He seems to think about your question. You appreciate that — he never answers anything without reflecting for a second. It's refreshing. "Sometimes."

"Mm," you find that now that you've gotten the both of you in this space right here, you can finally also ask, "Is Connie your real name?"

His eyes are more brown than grey or green today. They're dark and assessing as they search yours as if to decide how much of him you get today. "Why?"

You slightly lift a shoulder then let it drop, "It sounds like it could be, but also like . . it's not."

"It ain't." He's still staring. You hold it for the longest you ever have with him. "It's Constance."

You blink. The room feels quieter now. The both of you are speaking quietly and you aren't sure of when that happened. "Constance?"

He nods. Once. "Yeah."

He watches you study him, like you're trying to fit it on him. ". . . That's pretty."

The sudden compliment makes the both of you still. You, from shock of having said it out loud, Connie, because no one's ever really said that to him without some irony attached to it. His jaw shifts. You watch him slowly lean back while exhaling through his nose, "You real comfortable right now," he says with no real bite.

Another head tilt. You smile real big until your eyes form crescents, "Am I?"

He tries hard not to, but he ends up smirking anyway. His blink is slow when he hums, "Mhm."

Both of your plates arrive not too long after. Yours is set down in front of you first — waffles stacked high with pockets of chocolate melted within the batter and powdered sugar dusted over top with your breakfast potatoes settled on their own separate plate. Cheese still melts over top of them with bacon and chives sprinkled all over.

Connie's is next. His plate is heavy enough to fall onto the table with a thunk. Steam spirals from the mound of mangú, whipped smooth between two fried hard eggs. Salami glimmers with crisped edges and thick, golden slices of queso frito sit along the side of them. His savory versus your sweet.

"You lookin' at mine like you regret somethin'," he mumbles.

"Leave me alone."

Connie watches you carefully pour syrup all over your waffles, gather your knife and fork, then begin to cut them. Come your first bite, you're melting with a happy sigh out through your nose yet your eyes can't help drifting to his plate.

He cuts into his eggs, mixes the golden yolk with the pale mangú with slow, practiced movements then bites.

For a moment, you both are quiet.

". . Can I try?"

Connie's not surprised. He doesn't tease, doesn't mock. "Hm." He pushes his plate a little bit closer to yours with no hesitation. He eyes how your fork moves. You do the same thing he does — plantain with egg, mix them, then you push it past your lips.

Rich warmth coats every inch of your tastebuds. "Oh." With a hand over your mouth to cover it as you chew, your eyebrows furrow in. "Oh my gosh."

Connie doesn't know how to take it, "You like it?"

You're nodding, "It tastes like a dream."

He can't help exhaling a soft laugh. "Fuck. A dream?"

"Mhm . . like . . like something someone makes when they love you." When it's all swallowed down, you're spearing a piece of waffle on your fork then holding it towards him. "Your turn."

For a moment, he simply looks at it then back at you. He never says anything. You expected him to take the fork and slide the piece onto his plate, however it's surprising when he only lowers his head and takes the bite directly from it. Your breath catches. You watch the way his jaw moves, how syrup glistens upon his lips, how he watches you as he chews.

Eventually, he mutters, "It's sweet."

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy. You're still reeling.

"Yeah."

He swallows as you try to regain your ground. ". . . You really don't like sugar?"

"Not unless I need it."

You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Underneath the table, your foot unwittingly nudges against his, but what's weird is . . . he doesn't move it away. He keeps it there as if he wants you to do it again. The air surrounding the table sparks with electricity — this doesn't feel like just breakfast anymore and you have an inkling that you both know that whatever is unfolding between you isn't just harmless curiosity, but also mutual and deliberate. It's impossible to now pretend that neither of you feel it.

ׅ ❤︎

A week passes by quickly.

And after Vegas is Houston. The city known for its widely diverse culinary and culture brings lots of interviews which means you end up staying for a week. Monday is full of radio interviews. You hop from station to station to promote the new single featuring Connie that's already been hitting ten million streams per day after last friday's release. You answer questions about the tour ("I don't think i've ever had this much fun in my life"), how life is on the road ("It's . . a lot. but, I love it"), and how it's been sharing the stage with someone as big as Connie Springer. Your answer to that one consistently remains the same — "He's someone that I truly do admire. His work ethic is one of a kind and he's taught me a lot. I really do appreciate him for making me apart of something as special as this."

Tuesday becomes your one and only day where no one asks anything of you — no press runs, shoots, or recordings. Just . . . quiet. You sleep it away as though you've been drugged, phone completely powered off, curtains drawn over your hotel room's large windows, and do not disturb sign hung from your doorknob. Your parents call near the night and while facetiming on your Macbook, you watch the two of them make dinner while babbling about the sights you've been seeing, your favorite tour nights so far, and filling them in on your next stops to go.

You leave certain details out . . . ones including stormy, hazel eyes and an aura so brooding that it makes anyone near him want to choke on their own tongue.

Wednesday marks nothing but rehearsals. Anthony has you practicing new choreography with sharper footwork and faster transitions.

He makes you drill the same section over and over again until your lungs feel like they're on fire and sweat trickles down into crevices of your body that you didn't even know was possible. You lose yourself in it though, happily, might you add, because ever since breakfast in Vegas, you've been avoiding him.

You make sure your rehearsal slots are no longer matched up. If his team blocks out the stage from one to three, you suddenly prefer mornings. If a double booked studio session occurs, you're feeding Annie some excuse about how your voice needs rest.

The first day feels like coincidence.

By the second, it's deliberate.

By the third, it's routine.

It all becomes a quiet and careful choreography of its own — enter here, exit there, arrive after he leaves, leave after he arrives. Because truth be told, after that breakfast, after the foot nudge underneath the table, you two talked for three more hours.

The both of you got so lost in conversation, in each other, that by the time one of you realized, both of your teams had been blowing your phones up, wondering what the hell was going on. It was during these conversations that he asked about your life, what made you upload those first couple songs on Soundcloud all those years ago, why you kept going even when nobody was listening yet.

You told him things you don't usually say out loud.

About recording covers underneath the covers in your childhood bedroom because you've always been so painfully shy. About saving money from house cleaning jobs to afford a decent microphone. About how the first time one of your songs cracked twenty thousand plays, you stayed up all night refreshing it just to make sure the numbers weren't a glitch. You even told him how sometimes, it still feels a little bit strange listening to tens of thousands of people screaming your lyrics back to you nearly every night.

And he listened.

Intensely — with his body leaned in close to yours, hands interlocked between his knees underneath the table, dark gaze steady as he sometimes asked a question that proved he was truly listening.

You learned more about him too.

About the songs his mother used to play around the house when he was a boy, all the fights he got into until he hit the age of fifteen, and how he first got signed when he turned twenty. ever so often did spanish slip into his sentences, fast and natural, and nearly every time did you have to timidly pause him to translate.

He'd halt mid sentence, blink once like he forgot you didn't speak it, then do so softly.

Something about the way he spoke — half spanish, half english — voice calm and low like it was the most natural rhythm in the world, kept your attention completely hooked on him even when you tried to force yourself to look away.

At one point in time, while reaching for your glass of lemonade, your hand bumped his. His arm'd been outstretched, hand lazing on the table. He didn't flinch away, same thing with his foot. And for some reason, you decided to let your finger keep put too, and for almost an hour, you both spoke like that — pinkies only sometimes grazing each other's as if you'd been star-crossed lovers at some point in time, destined for each other in some other life.

Your heartbeat had started to pick up a strange pattern. Not fast enough to panic, though not slow enough to be calm neither. You were hyperaware of his hand, his leg brushing against yours every now and again, the way his gaze lingered on your birthmark, how he barely smirked when you laughed.

When you finally walked away from that breakfast, phone buzzing with a dozen missed calls and a weak feeling in your knees, what was once contentment slowly darkened into dread. Because up until that morning, Connie had been just a collaborator. A collaborator that made you nervous sometimes, sure, but after . . . he just . . wasn't that anymore.

Which is exactly why you've been dodging him for so many days now.

You're exhausted by Thursday, sure, but exhaustion helps. It keeps your mind busy and off of him. you told yourself distance will get your mind back right too. No contact, no touching, no words, you'll be fine.

But, then Thursday night happens. You're lying in your hotel bed with an episode of severance playing on the television screen and popping peanut m&ms into your mouth one by one, all of them sorted by color. The reds, greens, oranges, then brown. You save the blues for last because they look prettier.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes. It's a text from Annie.

She sends you a link and right below that is her text — a simple '?'

Instantly, you click on it without reading the preview. The page loads for a while before a tweet is suddenly covering the breadth of your phone screen. It's short . . . blunt. It makes your heart drop as you stare at it for two seconds longer. His fans are in speculation mode. lots of 'who????' 'album bout to go crazy' and 'pls go live's. It's as you’re scrolling through the other thousands of them when another pops up on his feed.

Neither tweet has a name to it but his tone reads sharp to anyone with working sight.

Your stomach feels like it's in a knot. Everything is pointing to them being about you, even when you try to talk yourself out of it that they're not. you quickly lock your phone, shove it underneath your pillow, and breathe out a shaky exhale while trying to focus back on the show. You don't reply to Annie. You don't make a subtweet back. Tomorrow's rehearsals start early in preparation for the show. deep down, you're now aware your little dance around Connie isn't going to last that much longer.

ׅ ❤︎

When morning comes, a nauseating feeling of unease sits within the pit of your gut akin to a dumbbell dropped into wet cement.

At three am, you went ahead and scrolled through Connie's twitter account to assess if he does that often — subtweets. And he doesn't. His feed is clean . . an occasional fan retweet praising his music . . or one from his label promoting a single or album. Sometimes he shares a link to a song he seems to have on repeat (about a year ago, one of them was yours, you tried not to freak out too much about it) or to a cause he donates to. Never does he post anything in reference to what's going on in his personal life which makes his last two more impactful.

He's past the point of patience, you realize. He's noticed your little game and he doesn't like it.

You keep moving anyway.

You rehearse like usual with Anthony and your dancers. Muscle memory takes over while your brain floats on an entirely different realm. Annie works in a wardrobe fitting. You focus on yourself, even while realizing Connie's team starting to pour in one by one, you disregard them. Hours past like that until four o clock ticks off into five — three hours before the show. The stadium starts to empty out, slowly as everyone parts for their routine before it does.

You're grabbing your insulated water bottle and phone from off of the stage floor and zipping up your defined jacket over its matching sports bra you wear while walking through the wings, on your way towards an exit ramp.

Your body is tired, but, in a rare, satisfying way. You're prepared for tonight. Until . .

"Yo."

You completely freeze. You smell him before you see him. Blunt smoke and vanilla. Tentatively, you turn on the heels of your Chanel sneakers to see him standing near the bottom of the stage stairs, leaning against them like he's been there for a while. It's darker down there. He's dressed in a red hoodie with its hood thrown over his head, baggy black jeans, and distressed sneakers with a blunt pinched between his fingers. Its ember glows within the low light he’s enshrouded in.

Smoke lazily curls from the end of it as he motions with his chin, "C'mere."

His eyes, glossy and red, watch you closely. Your own seem to tremble as you go to shake your head.

You hesitate, ". . . I'm good—"

His voice cuts through the nearly empty stadium, calm but edged, "—Stop fuckin' playin' wit' me, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱." His words seem to echo, even though he smoothly pushes them out and your chest tightens.

Slowly, reluctantly, you walk down the stairs to meet him at the bottom. The smell of weed is more potent now. Nonetheless, you still think it mixes well with his cologne. Up close, only three steps away from each other, tension is rolling off of him in waves. It makes a knot of stress form within the base of your neck, almost immediately.

Smoke leaves his mouth in a slow stream as he carefully studies your face, "Look at me."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, wavering, before blinking up to stare at him from beneath your lashes.

"How long you gon' do this."

Your throat tightens, "Do what?"

His tone is dry when he replies, "You been duckin' and dodgin’ me all week . . . and now you gon' stand here and act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."

"I haven't been doing anything—"

"—Lie better."

His bluntness hits you with the force of a slap.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Look away. Then sigh. "Connie—"

"—Don't," his voice cuts through as his eyes barely squint. "Don't do that soft shit."

"I've just been busy."

You watch him blink slow, deeply inhale, run a hand down his jaw, then slowly blow it out. "You think I'm stupid?. . ." When you remain quiet, he continues. "Nah, I'm for real. Tell me."

Your heart is starting to beat faster when you respond, "No."

"Then why you actin' like I am?"

" 'm not actin' like anything . . I jus' . . . needed space."

He'd been going to take another hit from his blunt however when you finish your sentence, his hand pauses halfway up towards his mouth and he quietly repeats the word in disbelief, "Space . ." Slowly, he begins to nod. While looking away, he takes the hit, holds it in for a second, then lazily lets the smoke pour from his mouth once more. His eyes are back on you when he resumes speaking, "You've always had space."

"That space was different."

"¿Cómo diferente?"

Your head tilts. His eyes are lazy, almost bored when he slowly bites out,

"How . . . was it . . . different."

Your throat feels tight. You don't know why you have a sudden urge to cry. He’s never been so curt with you. "It's . . . a lot."

"Mm."

"This," you find yourself gesturing between the both of you. "You. You're a lot, Connie."

His gaze suddenly grows sharp, "You scared?"

The question catches you completely off guard. You wouldn't particularly use that word. Rubbing your glossy lips together, you pause, ". . . You're intense."

It shocks you when he suddenly huffs out a short laugh. "Intense."

"It's scary . . you're like," you take in a deep breath and rub your fingers over your eyebrows. "You're getting in my head. I dunno know what to do."

" 's been a week, a whole week of you treatin' me like I'm some fuckin' random," his eyebrows furrow in deep when he asks, "You think I'm takin' you somewhere you don't wanna go?"

You're aware of how immature you may seem now. Spoiled, ungrateful, childish, because from what you’ve heard, Connie hand picked you out of the thousands of other alt-r&b and indie pop artists out there to open his first stadium tour, not anyone else. You're almost shrinking back when you mewl, "That's not what I—"

"—You think I want a version of you that ain't real? Playin’ these stupid ass games? You think I'm playin' with you?"

"What? No." You shake your head quickly as his questions hit you with the force of a thunderclap.

'"Then what?"

"I don't . . 'm not . ." you clamp your mouth shut and look down at your feet. " 've never felt like this before. It's scary."

The confession hangs between you both for a moment. You're terrified of looking back up at his face in fear of what you might find — confusion, disgust, or even amusement. Your voice grows even quieter, borderline a whimper when you say, "You make me feel steady . . it's weird."

His stare is penetrating. You fight to ignore it as you continue with the main thing that’s been plaguing your brain all day.

". . . Then you called me irritating."

For the first time tonight, Connie's mouth twitches with a smirk. He doesn't try to hide it when you eventually look up at him. He simply brings his blunt to his lips again while murmuring, "You saw that, hm?"

"Everybody saw it."

"Good."

Silence takes room again. Connie runs his eyes across you. From the new, tiny ginger boho braids that hang from your scalp down to your knees, your pretty face full of dejection, tits sitting up sweet and full in your bra, to the shoes at your feet. ". . You done runnin'?" he blows the smoke out. " 'Cause i don't chase for long. Tell me you'on want this and I'll back off."

Something in you grows absolutely petrified, because you know he's telling the truth. He will back off and you don’t know if you can handle not having the part of connie that obviously isn’t shown to majority of the world. Some other part of you, more smaller, delights in it. Because, "I do, but if you leave . . ." you rub at your eyebrows again, feeling something in you absolutely shatter. it’s as if a small pin has been shot into glass and something in your chest collapses as your voice grows soft again when you whimper out a watery, "Fuck." You hate this feeling. This is why you've been avoiding him for so long.

Connie doesn't make a move to comfort you. Not yet. "You think I'm somebody that's temporary?"

You don't answer. You remain rubbing at your forehead with your head down, pressing at it as if you can somehow work out your anxiety, and that's when Connie finally moves. He drops his blunt, crushes it beneath his shoe, then pulls you in by the waist to force your head up. Oh. You're pretty when you cry. All watery eyed, pouty lipped, and weak.

"Hm." He wipes your tears away with his thumb, watching you sniffle. "Don't ice me out like that again. Ion play that shit."

There's no yelling. No threat. Just a dark, bolded lined boundary.

You believe him. Completely. Your breathing is shaky when you softly murmur, ". . Okay," with your voice softer than what it's been in what feels like years. Connie takes heed, instantly. Something dark yet sweetly warm settles beneath his eyes. His hand slides a little bit higher up your side, steadying you when you sniffle again. "Look at you, ma," he utters. He watches your eyebrows faintly knit as his thumb catches on the wetness smeared under your bottom lashes. "Whole week you been runnin'," his opposite hand finds a soft grip at the hem of your leggings. "And now you right here."

Before you can let yourself think for long . . .

You stand on your tip toes, curl your arms around the back of his neck, and tug him down to your lips.

For a split second, he doesn't move. Your stomach drops instantly. You think that maybe the move was too much, too fast but then . . his hand at your cheek, slides down to your throat, and suddenly, he's kissing you back. It isn't soft nor hesitant. It's deep . . and possessive. Entirely consuming.

The force of it, pushes you back a step as you gasp, feeling his lips in pursuance of yours.

His mouth moves against yours as though he's been holding it back for days. You quickly lose yourself — hiccuping between the slick sounds of your lips meeting then separating. Your fingers clutch at his hood as your head spins, feeling the web of his hand force your chin up higher in order for his tongue to slowly swathe against the roof of your mouth.

He tastes like weed . . . and dark roast coffee. It's dizzying.

"C-con . . nie."

"Mmm." He pulls away . . slowly, as if he's trying to commit your taste to memory before he does. Your vision feels blurred. You blink once, then twice, before it focuses again. But then he's back and your eyes are fluttering closed once more. His lips are soft and full, tapping at your own for slow pecks as though he's unable to get enough. The press of his body is solid, broad, and warm and you feel it — the quiet demand that you don't pull away. So, you don't. You give in, letting him guide, letting him claim the space he's always wanted you in.

Between warm breaths he murmurs, "You mine now?"

You're in a daze when you mewl back "Mhm," while nodding.

"You gon' let me treat you right?" His voice is gruff though he's almost teasing with something darker lying underneath.

You nod again, "Yeah . ." The admission feels a lot like surrender. He hums low and the sound seems to vibrate through your entire body, settling in your chest and pooling warm within your tummy. Giving into him softens the tension you've been holding onto for weeks. There's no need for anymore words. The confirmation of this not being casual nor fleeting makes everything feels heavy . . and real. You're sleepy, you realize. Your mind hasn't gone this quiet in a long time so you let your arms fall around his abdomen, lean closer into him, and press the side of your face against his stomach.

"See." He holds his hand at your back. "That wasn't so hard."

You're still sniffling and slightly pouting when you whisper back, "It was terrifying."

"I could tell."

". . . What happens now?"

You feel him lean his back against the railing and widen his stance to somehow bring you into him even closer, "You stop actin' like i'm temporary."

Your heartbeat skips. "And you . ." you hum and pause for a second, ". . stop tweeting mean stuff about me."

A chuckle is exhaled through his nose. ". . I ain't mean nothin' by that shit."

"Still mean."

In all fairness, you were irritating him but Connie decides to let you win this one. His hand, the one at your waist, softly squeezes it as a silent give in. He'll chill . . as long as you don't pull away like that ever again.

ׅ ❤︎

Life goes on mostly the same after that.

Or at least, from the outside it does. That same night, you perform with something new buzzing beneath your skin. The stage lights are blinding, the crowd's loud as ever, and you can feel him, still . . . his stare. He watches from the wings, as always, eyes focused, arms folded over his chest and hand cupped over his mouth. You catch his gaze a few times — it almost trips you up but you gather yourself quickly before a camera even notices.

Everything's the same, but . . . different.

When you're off stage, he's there . . most times now, parting from you with a subtle kiss to your temple that a nearby onlooker can almost miss before his set. It makes you giddy all the while. You watch him perform too. Eyes wide and transfixed on the large screens that track his every move and expression.

When shows are over, he's the first one there at the door of your dressing room, leaning against the wall with that same quiet patience he always carries as he waits alongside Reiner for you to gather your belongings. Then he's tossing an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side and directing you out into the private parking garage to help you climb into an escalade with him in tow.

Both of your teams notice . . . no one says anything.

You guess part of the reason why is because Connie's always been a private guy. Not a single soul has ever approached him with a direct question about his personal life, aside from a rare, bold blogger. You like it. Too many questions would mess up you guys' pace, you think. Because truth is — he's never spent a single night with you. Each show it's the same routine, he drives with you to your hotel with his thumb drawing idle circles into the back of your hand as the cities whizz by through tinted windows. Walks you through the lobby, to the elevator where the both of you stand quietly, letting the machine carry you up to the suite. He always swipes your keycard for you when you make it to your door, pushes it open, steps inside and is only in there for about two minutes time.

Within those two minutes, he never really says much because after a low "C'mere" he's always kissing you . . . slow at first, like he's reminding himself to take it easy, then all devouring. His height and weight usually ends up boxing you within a corner, without him seeming to try because one step forward for him is two steps back for you, leaving you surrounded with just him. Hotel hallways have cameras — and Connie knows what you two look like when this happens . . . the soft sounds that can't help slipping out of your mouth when it goes on for too long, your tongues swirling against one another's.

The shit he does to you would have you both front page on every blog site within ten minutes of him leaving to his own room. So, he always pulls away first. "Shower. Phone off. Sleep," he consistently murmurs after he steps back towards the door. It always sounds like something he forces himself to say. Like it physically costs him something to stop.

Sometimes you smile to yourself when he leaves. Sometimes you pout.

Because Connie's never been the one to linger nor does he stand around talking. He gives you, only you, those two minutes and you begin to cherish them.

It's in Miami, a couple weeks after Houston, when the masks slip.

There's an album release party one of your industry friends, Mikasa, throws. Connie happens to also know her. It's on the rooftop of a sky high building. You socialize as needed, sticking with Annie and Kennedy, one of your dancers who's been growing into a close friend. Your dress is tiny, fitted, and red . . entirely backless which shows off the pretty dip of your spine and plush butt sitting up high within it. You feel pretty.

You catch Connie's eye occasionally. He nurses a glass of something dark with two ice cubes in it. whenever he takes a sip, his eyes are searching over the slope of it through the dozens of people For yours. You can't help teasing a bit . . you let your gaze linger on his before you're looking away to refocus on something someone's saying. When someone has to shuffle by to squeeze past you, you smooth your hands down the sides of your dress afterward — pressing out invisible wrinkles, palms tracing your waist slow, to an onlooker, absentmindedly all while knowing your back is in his direct line of sight. Connie's never been one to not be composed, though, even given your little games. Not until the night grows dim. He keeps an eye on you for nearly the entirety, glancing at you giggle, chat with friends, have a shot.

Then suddenly, you're gone.

Everyone's winding down — taking seats on the lounge couches as the music grows softer and alcohol settles into bloodstreams. You'd been standing near the railing with Kennedy, he saw, but now Kennedy's alone and Annie's taking a phone call in the corner. Connie's jaw ticks. What the fuck? Never the type to announce his departure, he simply eases off from a conversation about streaming numbers and touring logistics to head inside the building.

Briskly, his eyes sweep the hall as he walks. Elevator, unmoving. Women taking pictures of themselves in a mirrored panel. He inhales a sharper breath than his last while easing to the restrooms. He takes his chance with the women's by carefully nudging it open just enough to look inside . . . and there you are – sitting on the marble counter with your head bowed, shoulders slumped, and phone held loosely in your hand as a ten second clip constantly replays.

"Aye . ." Connie's moving before he can stop himself.

Your head snaps up.

You've been crying. Your make up isn't completely fucked but the dark shadow that'd been thinly buffed beneath your glossy eyes is smudged now. He goes still when he's standing in front of you, "What happened."

For a moment, you don't answer. Though his face doesn't show it, Connie's stumped. You'd just been laughing and enjoying yourself. He’s at a lost.

Eventually, after swallowing the knot in your throat, you nudge your phone into his hands. A tiktok video is paused on the face of some music critic — white guy, glasses, and scrawny. When connie presses play, he hears it, "She's pretty, don't get me wrong. Dreamy. A gorgeous girl. Music's," his lip twists while his shoulder lifts. "nice. But can she carry a stadium tour alone? I don't think so."

The video sits with two million views and three hundred thousand likes.

Something hard settles beneath Connie's stare. He listens to you sniff as he powers your phone off and places it face down on the counter beside your thigh. " 's so stupid, I know," you hiccup.

The bathroom is quiet aside from your breathing.

" 's . . . it's trending everywhere." You've never been the type to care about stuff like this. However, you can't help but notice that something feels different about it this time around. "It k-keeps popping up on my feeds like it's . . the funniest thing anyone's ever said."

You look away, letting his words bounce around your skull, "Pretty," you bite out weakly. ". . dreamy. I . . . d-dunno if 'm built for this, Connie."

For a moment, Connie takes you in.

Really takes you in. A girl in a red dress, teary eyed, and hurt over a fucking loser making videos in his friend's attic. "Wipe your face, ma," he says it but he's already doing it himself. Grabs you by the chin and dabs your tears away with careful presses of his thumbs. "Why the fuck you lettin' somebody like that get into yo' ear about what you can and can't carry?"

You look away, sad and huffy. ". . Because people listen to him."

"People listen to all types of shit, that don't hold no weight." He doesn't like this . . this feeling of knowing that he can't shut the whole thing down for you. He's unable to reach into the internet and bury the words into a black hole before they get to you. It makes him feel incompetent. Eventually, he sighs through his nose.

"You sold out three nights in LA . . two in Seattle . . two in Houston . . Chicago broke the fuckin' ticket site for a minute. Every crowd knows every lyric you wrote." Your lashes flutter as you look down at his chest where a pair of platinum dogtags hang on a chain. ". . . Pretty," he ultimately sucks his teeth then gives a small squeeze to your thigh. "Yeah . . you are. But that ain't why people show up."

"Mmm." His words feel good.

Slowly, as if shy, you drop your head onto his shoulder. Immediately, Connie's hand is at the back of your neck, grounding you back calm. His voice is quieter when he says, "You don't ever break down in front of the internet. Fuck that shit. You break down here." A kiss to your temple and you mewl. "You cry. I fix it."

His words invoke you to breathe out a small giggle, “. . You make it sound easy.”

His thumb drags slow strokes up and down your nape, inattentively but steady, similar to the way a person would pet a small, shaken kitten until it calms. “It can be.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His hand slowly lowers until it’s settled within the arch of your spine. His touch against your bare skin makes your nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. He presses into it to get you to open up your legs the slightest bit wider so that he can stand closer between them. “You need to forget that internet shit. And remember you got me watchin’ you.”

When your head lifts to look up at him, you take in his expression. It remains the same — always focused, stare always intense, but you watch his gaze drop to your lips for a split second before it flicks back up to your own. “You think I ain’t seen that lil shit you was pullin’ out there?”

“. . Huh?” your lips part as you feign innocence, “What stuff?”

“Mhm. Okay.”

Connie’d let his attention slip. Usually he’s better at keeping an eye peeled out on his surroundings, but you’ve got him in a trance. The bathroom door is suddenly pushed open by a woman, clearly not prepared to see a buff, six foot four man tatted and dark eyed talking to a girl seated on the counter. On instinct, she jumps where she stands which makes you jolt within Connie’s arms. He doesn’t apologize for the scare. “C’mon.” With an arm around your waist, he pulls you down until your heels hit the floor. He’s aware that your relationship has now been the slightest bit compromised but when the two of you are back at the party with your phone powered off in his pocket as he watches you giggle at something Kennedy says from across a crowd of people’s heads, he doesn’t have it in him to truly give a fuck.

ׅ ❤︎

Leg one of Connie's stadium tour ends in New York — as expected.

Madison Square Garden is booked for three nights, an entire weekend, and his famous, smiley faced emblem is displayed at the peak of the Empire State Building and beams out across the skyline as if the city itself is welcoming him home as soon as you all touch down. You recognize the change in Connie immediately. Somehow, he becomes even more quiet, retreats more inward, like a coil pulled into itself.

It's not nerves. Connie's nothing if not scarily calm at all times of the day but there resides something . . heavier about him. You see it when he first climbs the steps to the stage of night one's rehearsals. His hands rest idly at his sides, shoulders relaxed as his eyes dart across the entire span of the stadium, seemingly trying to catalogue each seat into his brain. When it's your turn to practice, he's not too far away, slowly pacing while watching how you execute each note, each step, each everything. As much as his presence has became something almost grounding to you, you think you'll always be just the slightest bit intimidated by him.

You say so when it's just the two of you standing there, on the little taped X's of your marks while the stage crew continues to bustle around the coliseum . . . "You're makin' me nervous."

His face doesn't change much — eyebrows only lift up a bit as he takes your words in. "How?"

"I dunno." Truthfully, you don't. ". . I think . .” Connie watches you look down at your feet which you shuffle from left to right on as your lips twist while you try to find the right words. Everything you do is somehow becoming more and more precious to him, he can’t help but wait patiently as you soon sigh. “I jus' . . wanna be good for you . . . for your city."

For the first time in a while, Connie smiles. It works its way across his lips slow, revealing nearly all of his perfect teeth. It's rare enough that it makes something in you grow tight and warm when you see it. “For my city, huh?” It’s there for a while before it melts off again — always serious, always intense. “You’on gotta worry about that. You always perfect." As your stomach flutters with new butterflies, you go to respond before you're cut off.

"Connie! Run it again from the first drop?"

He doesn't immediately look away from you. He remains staring at your face, examining your current expression before nodding towards the tech crew. "Yeah, let's do it."

A squeeze at your waist, then he's turning you towards the wings, "Go," he mumbles. "I ordered you some lunch. Eat."

You pout, not wanting to part so soon. This past week has been relentless. Both of your schedules have been jam packed, the only times you have been seeing him is during rehearsals, the show, and when he walks you up to your hotel suites. "But 'm not—"

Shaking his head, he's already pushing in his in-ears while clicking his tongue once, "—Didn't ask. I said go eat, ma." There's no edge in his tone but there's no room for arguing either.

He appreciates it when you simply give a nod after a few seconds. He reads it off of you — the restlessness, the nerves. You keep fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and chewing on the inside of your cheek. You need fuel and a nap. So you go.

ׅ ❤︎

The rest of the afternoon is a blur.

A plate of soul food from a spot Connie's frequented since he was a child is delivered to your dressing room, then vocal warm ups, followed by a short nap curled on the couch while the muffled sound of his setlist echoing throughout the stadium lulls you in and out of sleep. It's all well needed after one of your glam girls wakes you up about an hour and a half later with a gentle shake to your hip, "Hey, babe. Sorry. We gotta start gettin' you ready." You feel better than you have in days.

With a big stretch and yawn, you climb off of the couch and immediately into the chair in front of your vanity whose surface is already swimming with cosmetics and hair utensils. "What are we thinkin' for hair today?" She asks while gently fluffing it.

Softly, you blink at her through the mirror then go to touch your forty inch bundles that have been sewed in and dyed a pretty burgundy. "Mm, deep crimps today, please." You want to be at your absolute prettiest, reason obvious.

And as light foundation is buffed into your skin, shadow is pat on your eyelids, and your hair is crimped, you wonder about Connie. You think about the first time you performed at a big show in your hometown, remembering that minutes before you went on stage, you had felt like you wanted to cry. And for the strangest reason too — it'd just been different.

Being in your city surrounded by faces that've possibly gone to the same schools or grocery stores as you, that knew pieces of you felt both strengthening and nerve wracking. Connie's presence lingers within the back of your mind similar to a thick fog. You picture him in his own dressing room, head in his arms, as he tries to ground himself before going on, because even if he doesn't show it, you know that he's nervous.

A strange mix of fear and excitement swirls around you, nevertheless. He's been able to make the most ordinary of things feel electrified and you both are performing at Madison Square Garden. You can hear the buzz, the screams, you feel the anticipation. You know that he's going to kill it and you just hope that he doesn't feel the same pressure that you do.

But once those lights go up and the music swells, everything feels like it's been put in a matrix.

You don't remember seeing Connie at the wings, you barely even remember holding your mic up to your mouth, however, once you're off stage, you're immediately squeezed within a group hug so big that your lungs nearly collapse. "You did so good!" "Oh my fucking God!"

Connie's performance is nearly a streak in the haze, too. You guess it's because of all the adrenaline. Your focus is pinned on just a few things.

Him.

In a black varsity jacket made of wool with cream leather sleeves with his emblem stitched on the back in chenile. The stage lights kept catching on the open faced, diamond grillz that framed the bottom row of his teeth each time he smirked at the crowd and you distantly remember that same moment when he slowly peeled off his jacket, dropped it in the face of the pit, and listened to the crowd scream until nearly all of them were blue in the face.

He'd been slow . . controlled . . intense.

Songs blended together, screams became white noise, lights, fog, sweat, bone rattling bass, then suddenly . . it's all over. There'd been no dramatic goodbye from Connie once it all ended. He had only stood there with beads of sweat dripping down his temples to the swirling ink tatted across his neck. The applause sounded like crash of waves against shore.

With his hands pressed together, he bowed at the waist, mouthing his thank yous.

And just like that, he's lowered beneath the stage and Madison Square Garden night one is completed.

ׅ ❤︎

You're dressed in a pair of fold over micro shorts, a fitted crew neck that's been cut into a crop top with a pair of kitchen shears, slouchy socks, and nike cortezs when Connie finally sees you again for what feels like the first time in hours.

He doesn't shout your name or say anything — you simply open your dressing room door while checking your phone for the time, look up, and he's leaning against the wall as if he'd been there for a while.

"O-Oh."

His jacket is gone now. He wears just a white, distressed tee that stretches over the span of his broad shoulders, a diamond chain, black cargos, and a pair of clean air forces. "C'mere," when said by him, you have a front row peek at the diamonds that also still glisten within his mouth. You let him pull you closer, however, are unable to help trying to peek over his shoulder for the rest of his teem. "Aren't you gonna celebrate with them?"

"Niggas poured champagne all over me," he mumbles with a small kiss to your forehead. "They got their celebration. Ima get mine too."

Giggling, you lean in closer to get a whiff. Yeah. He smells like it. "Did they give you a sip at least?"

"Fuck no."

Connie watches you laugh. Your cheeks go fat at the apples and you smile so big, your eyes get squinty. He smirks. ". . Hm." You watch his reach up towards his neck. You think he's simply going to adjust the chain he wears, albeit, he's taking it completely off to then drape over your own neck. It's heavier than it looks. You immediately look down at the pendent of where platinum dog tags reflect back at you with engravings of his initials, C.S.

". . . Connie—"

"–Leave it. C'mon."

His voice is quiet and firm in a way that makes you clamp your lips shut and let him intertwine his fingers within the spaces of yours to lead you towards the exit ramp for the garage. Your face feels ten degrees warmer than usual as you go to touch the chain, still warm from his own skin. "W-Why are you lettin' me wear it?"

He keeps his eyes forward when he responds, "I'm lettin' you keep it. 's yours now, mama."

Cool, New York air hits your skin as soon as he pushes the door open. And for a moment, everything feels mostly normal until you hear them, until you see them . . . camera flashes.

"Connie! Connie, over here!" "꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, say hi!" "Look this way!"

You freeze. Connie's security, who you hadn't even known been tailing you both, are quick to step in front of you and him, acting as a barricade against the small cluster of paparazzi that have managed to slip through the blockade separating the garage from the buzzing street. Your first instinct is to step away, turn, and go back to where which you came, however Connie's hand is at your waist, gently pushing you into the opened door of a sprinter as he uses his opposite arm to keep the flashes from completely blinding you as you step up and inside.

You barely have time to even blink before the door slams when you, him, and both his security are in your seats and the SUV is instantly pulling off.

For a second, the only thing heard are your uneven breaths. You think about Annie, your parents, your career. "O-Oh my god."

"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."

Your hands are shaking when you press them to your temples and lower your forehead to your knees, "They got p-pictures, oh my God." The words come out thin and strained as if someone had been physically squeezing them from your chest.

Connie's palm is firm against the back of your neck. Heavy. Stabilizing. It makes your shoulders relax only the tiniest bit as your phone is already begins to buzz where it's held between the hemline of your shorts up against your skin. You can already see the headlines, the comments, the threats, the new intrusion into something that had only existed between you and Connie up until five minutes ago.

"You good," Connie's muttering. His voice is low . . measured. "You gotta breathe, ma."

You whimper, "T-This is bad, Connie."

"It ain't."

You lift your head and your fingers are immediately grabbing your phone. Notifications are already beginning to stack.

"Yo, give me that."

The device keeps vibrating. Two hundred jumps to eight hundred, then a thousand, then fifteen hundred. You don't want it. You don't want to see what they're already saying. With shaking fingers you push it into Connie's awaiting hand, watching him slip his own out from his pocket. He shuts yours off, completely, barely glances at his before doing the same, then shoves them back in. "Mami, you gotta calm down. Seriously."

You're suddenly aware of the city lights zipping by in long ribbons of red, gold, and white, and your anxiety only flares higher. "Where are we going?"

He's pulling at you . . dragging you actually, by the thigh, like he's already decided you need this, until you're seated sideways upon his lap. "Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out." His voice stays calm — almost bored, even. Like the situation happening outside of the car is the least of his worries.

Your breathing slows underneath his touch. Just barely. You don't have it in you to ask another question, so you don't. You let your body fall sideways until your face is tucked against his shoulder. With your new comfort, Connie lets his head fall back upon the seat and for a few minutes, neither of you say anything. You can hear his security's thumbs tap away as they send messages and scroll through feeds on their phones, likely scoping the damage of the new release of pictures.

Connie's hand begins to stroke up and down your back. Slow. Comforting.

Your voice is tiny when you mewl, ". . They're gonna tear me apart." You want to cry. "J-Just for bein' with you."

The words feel strange to say aloud, nonetheless, they're the truth. A man like Connie, with fans all over the globe, with three hundred million Instagram followers and counting, you know you've just stepped into some deep shit. "Pictures ain't the end of the world."

You look down at your shoes. "It feels like it."

Connie nods, "I know. But it ain't."

He sounds so calm, so . . at ease. It confuses you. With a frown, you lift your chin to look up at him, "You're not worried?"

He glances down at you then back out the tinted windows. "I knew this shit was gon' happen eventually."

"You did?"

"Mm." He's quiet for a second longer. " 's not like I was gon' keep you a secret forever anyway."

The sprinter turns off a main road into a gated one after the driver punches in a code on a keypad with his thumb. You're surrounded by tall, brick buildings of old warehouses with glass fronts near the water that have been converted into luxury lofts. The car doesn't stop until it's in front of the largest one with the skyline of New York painted behind it. "C'mon." Connie's pulling open the door and patting your thigh to get you to hop down. You don't have to ask where you are because it's somehow obvious. ". . . Is this . ."

No hesitation. With his arm around your waist, he's steering you into the direction of the glass door entrance, "Yeah. This my place."

The lobby is more of a gallery. Concrete floors are buffed smooth and dark, steel beams stretch across the high ceiling. A long slab of polished, black marble acts as the reception desk where only one woman works with her braids pulled into a high bun and glasses on as she takes a call.

You clutch the strap of your little handbag tighter, watching the doorman greet Connie with a simple head nod.

No conversation. Barely even a pause. Connie nods back and is leading you towards the elevator near the back of a hall. He jams his thumb into a button, they open immediately with a quiet, metallic whisper and it's after you both step inside when he produces a key fob from his back pocket, presses it up against a sensor panel, and the doors close. You barely feel anything when the elevator starts to rise.

You feel like you've drunken four nitro espressos back to back.

When you slowly glance up at him to take him in, you see him simply standing there with his hands in his pockets, face handsome and devoid of any type of expression as he gazes forward. You suppose your stare must have been hard because he suddenly glances back down at you too, "What?"

You shift your eyes back forward, "Nothing."

The elevator slows.

You expected a hallway, or maybe even another lobby, but when the doors open, you've both been transported right within his loft.

You step off first then quickly stop.

The space is gigantic. It stretches across the entire top floor of the building with exposed, dark brown brick running across the length of the room, only sometimes broken by a wall of floor to ceiling windows. He has a view from nearly every angle of the loft. East, West, South, and North.

Dark walnut flooring stretch beneath your feet with a large, abstract rug in cream or charcoal spotted here and there, the pattern similar to brush strokes painted on a canvas. The living area acts as the center piece . . . dipped low away from everything else with a dark, leather sectional — the kind you sink into — facing a wall mounted television screen about as large as a movie theater's. Even the lighting fits in with everything – golden yet dim, painting the space in a vibe that makes your breathing slow.

". . Oh my . . god, Connie."

Your voice echos against the high ceilings.

You hear him drop a set of keys in a shallow, concrete bowl as he walks over to the kitchen, casual yet slow, to open a matte black, fridge door. You continue on your own little tour, finding the space to be too grand to not want to explore. Walking closer to the windows, you spot a balcony that stretches out for what looks like half a mile, wrapping around the exterior of the loft as his own private deck where an infinity pool runs along the edge . . sleek, long, and narrow. You remember his words, 'Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out.' Yeah. One deep inhale and look out at the city, and you find yourself to be almost entirely relaxed.

Here, the world feels quiet.

Like everything and everybody exists somewhere on an entirely different plane.

"You good?"

You turn around to face him. He's taken a seat on the sectional with his shoes off and legs outstretched in front of him. It's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. You watch him lean to grab a blunt and lighter out of an ash tray, shaped in a 'C' and only after lighting it, taking a drag, and realizing you haven't said anything else yet, does Connie simply watch you for a long second before saying, "C'mere."

He watches you slowly walk over and descend the small staircase. Before sitting down, you drop your purse on the center table then take a seat upon a cushion, a few inches away from him. You smell like cherries. Cherries and almonds. And for a while, he lets his eyes take you in. You're pretty, always fucking pretty, but you look especially pretty tonight with your hair still crimped, make up still bringing out the sharp line of your eyes, and your lips glossed. His chain still hangs from your neck. It's so long on you that the dog tags sway against your stomach. "So."

You look away from him, shy as always. ". . So . ."

He lifts his head to blow a stream of smoke out towards the ceiling, "You calm now?"

". . . Yeah."

"You wanna talk?"

"About what?"

"About these pictures circling the 'net now."

Seeing his place for the first time must've completely pulled you out of that headspace because once he brings it up, he watches your shoulders tense and eyes snap closed. The inhale through your nose is sharp. Connie's shaking his head. "Yo . . breathe."

" 'm trying." You sound exhausted when you toe off your shoes to lie entirely back against the other couch cushions with your arms thrown over your face. It leaves your feet in Connie's direction which he grabs with both his hands to pull your legs properly over his thighs while holding his blunt between his lips. ". . What are we gonna do?"

He's quiet for a while.

You almost think he didn't hear you until you drop your arms from your face to look at him to see him staring intensely at the chain that has now came to rest on the mounds of your tits. His stare isn't one of lust, just . . . focus. The intensity swimming within the dark clouds of his hazel eyes makes the hair on your skin stand upright. "If we do this," he utters quietly. "we do it right."

Your voice is gentle when you hum, "Hm?"

He licks his lips, looks away for a second, then takes another hit of his blunt. "I mean, I don't play that embarrassin' each other shit." His voice is quiet but hard. "If you mine, you mine. Simple as that."

Your stomach flutters. You remain silent for a while, before lifting up on your elbows. Your voice sounds almost meek when you mutter back, "So, if I'm yours then . ."

He blows out the smoke. "Then I'm yours, too."

"Oh."

Your little, quiet reply is so small yet so genuine that Connie's eyes can't help promptly flicking back to your face to study it. But, it appears his attention is much too much and abrupt for you because you end up dropping back flat against the cushion to cover your slowly widening smile like you're trying to hide from the moment entirely.

Connie only stares for a while before a breath is exhaled through his nose . . something close to laughter.

"Man, look at you . . ." One of his hands is pulling at your wrist. "Why you hidin' for?"

" 'm not."

He waits until you drop your hands. Only then does he get a better look at your face. He can tell you're blushing, regardless of the brown of your skin hiding it. Something in his chest tightens as he smirks and leans back while beginning to circle his thumb slowly over the smooth, soft skin of your shin. "You fuckin' precious."

"Connie, stop it."

He's chuckling, "Nah, for real. We doin' this shit so that means I gotta know some shit."

You're humming again, sweet and soft as your head tilts, "Know what?"

He leans forward to ash his blunt as his voice grows more gruff when he says, "What you like, what you don't like . . . shit you expect from me."

You gently blink, "Oh . . ." Honestly, you're stuck. Your fingers start to fiddle with his — your — chain as you try to think while Connie eyes you the entire time, quiet and patient, with the slow stroke of his thumb never halting. He watches how you go to say something, part your lips, then snap them back closed like you're indecisive. A small smirk pulls up his lips. "You'on know?"

Cutely, your nose wrinkles. "I do know . . . 's just weird sayin' it."

His head shakes, "Ain't weird." Another hit of his blunt. "You just shy."

When you go to melt away again, he's back pulling at your legs to keep you exactly where you are. " 'm askin' this 'cause I actually give a fuck. I don't want you guessin' and assumin' shit . . . I don't wanna be guessin' and assumin' shit."

Everybody's different. And Connie wants this. He wants you more than he's ever wanted another person in his life.

". . Okay," your voice is delicate as you start to thumb with your fingers on your stomach. "I guess . . . I just like when someone's honest. And . . I don't like feelin' like 'm bothering you."

Impossible, he thinks, but he nods slowly while letting you continue.

Your eyes drift towards one of the windows when you mumble, "I like . . attention. I don't wanna feel like . . 'm too much . . . or too little for you."

"You ain't gotta worry about that wit' me."

You watch him outstretch his arm along the backrest of the couch. "Why not?"

His gaze settles on you, slow and steady. " 'Cause if I didn't wanna deal wit' you, you wouldn't be in my house right now." The blunt is back at his lips.

His answer, his stare, invokes something warm within the pit of your stomach. You've had a front row seat in watching Connie move and you know he's telling the truth. Being someone special, only his exception makes you feel good, you won't lie to yourself. "Okay . ." you're back smiling again and looking away. "Just be consistent with me . . . and sweet to me . . and I'll be okay."

"You easy to please, you know that?"

Your eyes widen in slight surprise, "Really?" You think any other guy would have already been rebutting some stuff and you've barely even said anything.

"Mm," he's rubbing at your shin again, a little higher this time, near your knee. "I jus' want you to get used to talkin' to me."

You bottom lip juts out a little before you can help it, "What do you mean?"

"Means," his eyes flick down to where his thumb rubs before they're back on yours, "you'on ever hold eye contact with me for too long. I don't like it."

Of course he's noticed. " . . 'm sorry." Your tone softens again.

His smirk deepens as he keeps his stare steady, "Ain't nothin' to apologize for . ." He leans forward to ash his blunt again before pulling it back to his lips. "Jus' . . work on it for me."

"Okay."

Higher, his thumb rubs. It's an inch above your knee now, near the inside where your skin gets softer and dimples with faint cellulite. You swallow, fight to ignore it, and go to ask, "Your turn now. What else?"

"I don't fuck with that silent treatment shit," his attention is on the window. The city lights swim within his eyes that appear more murky green tonight. You know that the both of you are thinking about Houston . . you dodging him, avoiding him. You look back at your fingers and rub at the pretty, pink gems studded all over your extra long, jelly white acrylics. "If you mad, tell me. You sad, tell me." He waits until you nod before he resumes, voice hushed but hard. "Ain't gon' be seein' you entertaining nobody else. Smilin' in niggas faces, lettin' em touch you." He takes a longer pull of his blunt while shaking his head. It's as if the thought alone is enough to piss him off.

You shake your head slowly, batting your lashes as your brows furrow, ". . I won't, Connie."

"I know." It's firm, final. No need to get too deep into it because that line's been drawn clear. "And I know you expect the same from me. You don't gotta trip over me doin' shit like that. I like loyalty."

Another nod from you and he does the same.

"You just gotta talk to me, ma," higher, his thumb climbs. It's near the middle of the inside of your thigh now so you break your streak of faux nonchalance to look down at his hand. He continues to talk as if he doesn't realize but you feel it . . . in his stare. He knows what he's doing. "Talk to me . . . 's only so much I can read off you. Lemme in your head . . lemme hear that pretty voice and we'll be all good."

"O . . kay." You breathe and close your eyes, willing the stirring in your gut calm. Your pussy is starting to warm as more of your blood rushes south, straight down to your clit.

Then the room grows really quiet. So quiet to where you can hear the faint splash of the river wading below and hear how the leather beneath his back shifts as Connie leans deeper against the cushion behind him. When you open them, he's staring at you . . . not outside the windows, at the skyline, at your chest, but at your face, like he's analyzing each minuscule expression you make.

His thumb creeps higher.

You inhale again and tighten your fingers around the pillow beneath you. He notices the way he notices everything else but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't quicken his movement, nor does he slow, he just . . watches.

Another quiet pass of his thumb, and it's right there, right at the edge of where your little micro shorts stop above your thigh. Only inches away from your pussy that thumps with the matching beat of your heart. You watch the corner of his mouth lift, just barely. "You think too loud."

You feel it then.

His thumb on your clit, through your shorts and panties and the singular touch is enough for your eyes to flutter close as the slightest, tiniest whimper pushes out your nose. "Mmph."

" 's okay," he mumbles, rolling it 'round and 'round in slow circles. He takes another hit of his blunt, snapping his eyes from your face to his hand to watch your thick thighs slowly begin to part the slightest bit more opened. "Wit' me, you'on gotta worry about me neglectin' this either."

A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. You suddenly clamp your thighs around his wrist which makes him hold his blunt between his tightly folded lips to push one of them back open. Around the joint, he murmurs, "Nah, we don't do that shit over here."

"C-Connie." Your voice breaks around his name.

His thumb is working steady now. Smooth, perfect circles that has your hole clenching around the thin cotton of your panties as if it were trying to pull them inside for some sort of penetration.

"Tranquila," promptly, he pulls his blunt away. "You good, mama. Jus' feel it."

He's watching . . . reading . . . studying. Your breathing, the little furrow in your brows, how you bite at your bottom lip to keep from making too many sounds. You don't masturbate often, it's obvious. You're tightly strung, like your whole body's a knot. Connie wants to work you lax. "Take these off."

His hand is gone.

You bat your eyes open with your chest rising and falling shakily to watch him stub his blunt out. Then he's back. He hooks his hands within the fabric of your shorts and underwear to slowly peel them down your thighs off of your legs. " 'm nervous." It slips past your lips before you can reel it back in, however Connie's already shaking his head before the word fully leaves them.

"Nah, you don't gotta be. You jus' gotta lay here. Let me do what I do."

Still mewling, you let him part your legs open for him to get a good look at what lies in between. Your pussy's pretty — fat and brown and waxed smooth with your lips thick enough to hide your hole away but not your clit. It peeks out from in between them, puffy and slick, begging Connie to keep going, to treat her sweetly. "You so pretty, mama."

A sound seems like it's wrenched out of you when his bare thumb is on it now, doing the same thing he was just doing just seconds ago through your shorts. You're so sensitive. Eyes of stormy hazel watch as you turn your face into your arm you throw up beside your head. He watches you bite down on your bicep as his thumb dips low to tease the puckered entrance of your pussy — working the tip of it just barely in and out to feel you gush around it before it's back at your clit, this time more slick than it was before.

"Told you I was gon' celebrate, ain't I?"

You didn't think he meant this.

"C-Connie," you hiccup and dare yourself to glance down.

His thumb swirling on your bud, his tatted arm, his bicep, up to his shoulder. God, he's a dream. He's your dream. You feel his body lower. His lips find your cheek for a soft peck before he's forcing your head out of your arm to push a wet, sloppy kiss on your lips. "Nah," he mumbles into the cavern of your panting mouth. "You can say Daddy . . . or you can call me Papa. I'll let you choose."

Another strangled whimper when his thumb suddenly slides nice and deep inside your pussy til it bottoms out with a nasty squelch. "Mm, both . ." you sniffle back while lifting your hips into his hand. "Wan' both."

He's smiling again. His rare one. The one that shows all his teeth — only tonight, the bottom sparkles with an open faced frame of diamonds. "Puedes tener ambos, mama. Ion judge."

"F-Fuck."

He's pulling his thumb out to trade it for his middle finger. The both of you watch it push in, the glide nice and smooth. Your pussy pushes out a small splatter of wetness that splashes onto his wrist where a black, calfskin strapped, phillipe watch is wrapped around. He doesn't give you time to adjust to it before he's pushing his ring finger along side it. Your eyes roll back into your skull. "U-Unh—"

Connie has never been so honed in yet foggy brained on something, on someone, until now. His lips are parted, forehead pressed against yours as he starts to push his fingers in and out . . sweet and deep, muscles firm. The desire that's slowly been building inside of him for you over the course of these past couple months feels like it's gnawing at all of his patience now, chewing away the part of him that's normally more composed. He thinks about you on stage, at rehearsals, in a booth — pretty and doe eyed. All the times he's felt you staring at him however, each time he'd look back, you'd dart your eyes away . . nervous, like he caught you doing something you weren't supposed to.

"Always so fuckin' shy, huh?" He's pinning your arms up above your head to keep you from hiding your face inside them.

It used to make him smirk to himself.

Now it just makes him want to see how long you can hold his stare before you crack.

"Look at me . . open y'fuckin' eyes . . watch me make this pussy mine."

He rocks his palm up into the swollen bead of your clit, watching you squeak and go to try to snap your legs closed. But, he's between them. You can only lock your thighs around the span of his hips as you hiccup, "—nie . . Connie, p-please."

His forehead is back, pressing up against yours as he inhales your wet, shuddery breaths into his lungs, "I know," he's kissing you – holds your face between his fingers that he squeezes in to make your lips pucker out. "Oh, I know, mami. I know."

That feeling is already creeping in close. Right between your pelvis that makes the soft, pulpy walls of your cunt clench around his fingers and your heart drop. Your pussy is gurgling so loud now that if anyone were to suddenly come up the elevator, just one step inside and they'd know immediately what the sound was. You're so wet. Thick, transparent liquid, texture like syrup, trickles down the crack of your ass to the leather below. It smears against your cheeks, makes Connie's hand dirty.

Another moan — this one weak, broken. You cry like Connie's hurting you but the way your hips jerk . . . one would be confused as to what's truly going on. "Daddy," you whine for him. You squirm beneath the hold his singular hand has both your wrists in as your voice grows weary. "Daddy, please."

"You good," Connie's mumbling, face focused as he tilts his head to get a better look at your walls dragging against his knuckles. "You good, baby," He says it like he swears it. "You just gotta cum."

"Okay," you nod quickly, words going breathy as if you were simply just pleading with him to not make you do that. "Okay, okay . . O . . . kay—"

He twists his fingers in, pulls them out, twists them back in, and buries them til the hilt to massage the pads right into the doughy blob of your gspot.

"Hng." Your back arches up into his chest as your toes curl and cum washes out around his fingers. It gushes down his palm, down to his wrist and in between the cheeks of your ass to the couch. Connie growls out a short, gruff 'Hmm' sound, watching strings of the thick, pearly liquid play between his digits like spider webs each time he pulls them out and stretches them apart. His hand is glossy, from finger to wrist.

"There you go . . There you fuckin' go, ma."

You're shaking . . . hiccuping and twitching, letting him plunge them back inside your little, messy cunt for another thrust, pull them out, plunge them back in, and keep up the rhythm until you're pleading with him, " 's a l-lot . . T-Too much . . Daddy, wait—"

Connie backs off. One last plunge then pull out and he's smacking wet, little slaps against your clit. "Voy a gozar con ella," you hear him mumble. "Messy as fuck. I didn't think you'd get like this."

He pinches your folds together, just to watch your clit bulge at him. It's as though your pussy is a drug. Regardless of him simply staring at it, touching it, tasting it, or playing with it, he can't get enough.

You're teary eyed and brainless, watching him stand, reach behind his neck then peel off his shirt within one fluid motion. Beneath the moonlight, his abs are carved deep within his abdomen, each line catching the light like they were sculpted there by hand. Black ink moves across his skin in hypnotizing swirls, curling over his pecs and sliding down his obliques to disappear beneath his cargos. You can only admire — still foggy brained, thoughts still tangled, watching him press his tongue into his cheek for a moment while staring at you as if he were trying to decide just what to do with you before he's leaning in, sliding his strong arms beneath your back, and pulling you up into him while standing.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck, feeling his hands find the plush globes of your ass to hold as he walks you both through the house, pass what feels like a thousand windows, down a long hall, to a set of double doors.

While he opens them, you take the chance to rub your hand down his hair.

It's been growing out a bit, just barely. Tiny, blond curls and roots of black. You like it. It fits him. You listen to him inhale as you scratch your nails down his the back of his neck.

"Mm," he hums, kicking the door shut. Your lips find the arch of it where his shoulder almost begins as he walks. You kiss first, soft and sweet before suckling gently, feeling his muscles ripple beneath your fingers. "Shit feels good."

He tips you backwards until you fall against his plush, pillow top california king mattress that slightly swallows you when you land. "Said you was gon' be mine, right?" He remains standing at your feet. His room has only one wall of windows and it leaves just enough light to trace the outline of his body. "I want you to eat this dick up, then."

At just the mention of it, you're already curling onto your hands and knees to meet him at the edge. "I know it's a lil unfair . ." He eyes your lips as he mumbles, low and dawdling. "But Daddy promises . . . I'll make you cum on my tongue later on tonight, okay?" You're nodding, eyes big and brown when you pull at his zipper. You don't care. For so many nights you've thought about him . . about his hands, his voice, his smile, his eyes. So many lonely hotel nights where you'd punish yourself about it. No touching, no shower head, no pillow humps.

You've thought about what it'd look like.

Fat and short, long and skinny, no veins, lots of them. You didn't know, it drove you fucking crazy. Seeing him the next day always made you feel like a creep.

One push of his hand to the hem of his Tom Ford briefs and it bounces out over the elastic.

For a split moment, you don't even realize you stopped breathing. You can feel heat rushing to your face, your chest, your cunt. Everywhere. Because it's beautiful.

"Mm." A sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh but not . . not one either. "You can touch it, mami."

He watches your lips part. It's as though once given permission, you go ahead and do so — grab him by the base, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm like a dumbbell. You're amazed, almost. Eight inches long, perfect girth with a handful of veins that branch out across his shaft like bolts of lightning to pump blood up to his fat, leaky tip that is the same delicious pink shade of his lips. His balls are heavy when you cup them too . . swollen with so much cum that you think should hurt. But he only breathes, soft and calm at your sweet touches, holding his hands behind his back to let you take your precious time.

"Think it's gon' fit?"

You look up at him while holding his shaft right up against your face.

Connie's eyes grow so dark, you think they're black. Beneath his breath, he whispers, "Oh my fuckin' . ."

He watches you slowly begin to nod. "Yeah," you whisper back. Cute and sweet. "We can make it fit, Daddy."

Oh my fucking God.

A soft kiss to his tip.

Connie watches your plump lips push out in order for you to properly wrap them completely around it so that you're able to suckle out his leaking pre as if his dick was a straw. His eyes grow heavy. You hear his voice in your head, 'Ain't nothin' to apologize for . . Jus' work on it for me.' You keep your gaze locked steadfast on his as you slowly push an inch deeper inside your mouth.

No sounds from him yet. No words. Just . . a scarily intense amount of focus. He slowly brings his bottom lip beneath his teeth, watching you add in another and another.

When you hit six is when he sees it.

Your eyebrows furrow in, nose wrinkles, and your back caves in as you suddenly cough then pull back. "Mmmm . . almost." He's smirking while suddenly palming the back of your head to pull you right back. "Casi, mama. Casi. One more time."

He slowly feeds his cock right back inside your mouth. He hears you whimper around it as he keeps his hand at your head, pushing you lower and lower. When you gag again, he's right there, keeping you down while wrapping his hand around your throat. "Hazme sentir orgulloso," he's mumbling as if he's straining himself to push in deeper. "Lemme see it . . lemme watch my baby swallow my shit, huh?"

You cough, Connie disregards it. He pulls you only halfway off before both his hands, the one at your head and the one at your throat, are pulling you back in. "Yeah . ." He makes a nice rhythm, pulling and pushing, listening to you gag as his jaw falls open at the feel of your warm, little mouth. Your tongue works at the underside, obscenely swirling and slurping as you try your best to keep your cheeks sucked in tight. Spit begins to pool within the corners of your lips. It trickles down your chin as he plants his feet flat to really dig himself in deep. "Fuck, relax your throat . . Y-Yeah . . There you go. Qué niña tan inteligente, hm?"

His tone, dark and heavy, teeters the line of sweet condescension. It makes your pussy pulse and work out a glob of slick that runs straight down your clit to drip between your legs upon his sheets.

It's so good. Letting him stroke his dick in and out of your throat, even while occasionally choking on it, feels so good. Your spit thickens into strings of foam once he lets you go, grabs your hand and makes you wrap it around his base. He doesn't have to say it because you can feel it radiating off of him, Show me what you can do. You're not the most experienced, but what you lack in it is made up entirely in your effort.

Connie watches you pull him out and smack his dripping wet shaft on your lips while panting. He loves that shit. He loves it even more when you loll your tongue out to bounce his tip off of it, over and over. Your eyes are heavy as you stare up at him. You're high off the musk of him. His taste is potent enough to linger at the back of your throat, minutes after having swallowed his precum into your stomach. When you start to stroke him, you use both hands, circling them in opposite directions while focusing on the tip — just the tip. you dig your tongue into the little hole of it while massaging it against the bumpy roof of your mouth.

One of Connie's eyes squint closed as he slowly breathes out a shaky breath, ". . S-Shit . ." His voice is strained thin yet deep. "Just like that, baby. Just like that."

Saliva squishes beneath the spaces of your fingers. You feel them, his balls, gently swaying as you tug at his cock, needy for his cum to be swallowed into your throat. You pop him out of your mouth with a cute sniffle and gasp to get your tongue on them. They're fat enough to only fit in your mouth, one by one so it leaves the left one to receive your care first. You tongue and kiss at it if it were Connie's lips, sweet and messy, feeling his hand at the back of your head to keep you there. "Keep strokin' . . keep pumpin' that fuckin' fist."

You swirl it up and down his length, feeling his hand wrap around yours to coach you through it. He shows you how he likes it — grip tight, extra love at the tip from your thumb. When you switch over to the right, he tells you so, "Love that shit," he utters, words panted out. "Y . . Your tongue, mama. Love it right there."

You purr out a darling sound of happiness.

His eyes drag over your face slow. Taking in what he can see which is only really your nose and eyes. Your pupils are blown wide, you stare back up at him like you love it, too. His balls in your mouth, his dick in your hand, dripping pre down your pretty nails. ". . Ungh, shit." His eyes roll back as his head falls rearward. He's about to cum. You're about to make him cum. Fuck. He thinks about this being regular . . . your pussy wrapped around his fingers, his dick in your throat. Winding down after a show, before a show. He thinks about the soft cheeks of your ass gripped between his fingers, your skin under his teeth, tongue in his mouth . . You both in Greece somewhere, island hopping in Santorini, feeding you strawberries, pumping your stomach full of load after load in a bungalow surrounded by the ocean.

He's pulling you back forward to feed his dick back inside yours.

"S-Stay still," he mumbles quickly. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft, feeling your lips wrap around his tip and you sit there . . waiting for it. "Qué buena tú ere," he huffs. "So good. You so fuckin' good, mama, fuck."

His dick throbs when he cums. It pumps out . . . glob after glob into the warm hollow of your mouth, forcing you to swallow in fear of letting a single drip trickle past your lips. And the face he makes . . .

Every single feature of his goes entirely lax as he groans out a slow, slurred curse that mixes with the syllables of your name. He watches you slowly swallow it before you pull off with an adorable popping sound of your lips. You watch his dick bob in the air, heavy and still hard, rushing with blood at knowing what lies between your thighs. It's while you're blushing and shyly smiling, staring at it as if you've been struck by an arrow from cupid when you squeeze it before murmuring, "I wanna do it again."

Hell no.

Connie's bending at his waist, grabbing you by the face and pushing his tongue inside your mouth. "Nah, nah, nah." He's smiling as your tongue traces over the diamonds sparkling in his mouth while pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed. "We'll worry about that another time, pretty."

"But—"

He's shaking his head, leaning over you with his hands pressed upon the mattress on either side of your head. The moonlight cuts across the bulging slopes of his shoulder muscles as he hovers there, close enough so that you can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto your own. He makes sure you're listening when he quietly says, "—When I tell you some'n, you need to listen, alright?"

You're looking away again, pouting, as you poke your fingers into his skin like you almost want to say no. Connie's waiting for it, anticipating it actually because he's always been able to tell that underneath your timidity reads a wretched, little pup that just wants to test how far she can stretch her leash.

His mouth twitches.

"See. There you go."

You blink up to gaze at him beneath your dark and fluffy lashes, " 'm not doin' anything."

"Mm." With the tip of his cock, he runs it along your soft, fat folds. He watches your mouth fall the slightest bit open as he nudges at your clit with it, swirling it around like he did with his finger. "You get quiet sometimes . . start lookin' away . . try to talk back. I seen you do it to your manager, too."

You whimper when he nudges at your entrance. The crown of his dick is fat enough to already stretch you open and he's barely even given you an inch. You anticipate the rest, needy for it as you bite your lip and look down at his hand that holds his base steady. "It's cute," he mumbles, forcing your eyes back up to his. ". . . But you still need to listen . . You understand me?"

Thoughtlessly, you're nodding while tossing your arms over his shoulders. You just want it. You need him.

"Okay," your legs are moving to wrap around and pull him in closer. "Yeah."

Connie reads straight through it. As much as he doesn't want to, he keeps his dick away from even touching your drippy, little cunt when he says, "Yeah what?"

There it is.

You breathe out a long, wounded whine, throw your head back into the sheets, eyebrows furrow in tight — God, the dramatics. "Yes, I u-understand."

The words come out of you as if they'd been reluctantly dragged from the depths of your pretty soul. Connie's jaw clicks.

You may actually be worse than he thought.

No need to worry though. The blood rushing beneath both of your veins is hot. He's aching for you, you're aching for him. He'll give you a pass this time. But after muttering, "Yeah, we gon' work on fixin' yo' attitude another day, too," beneath his breath, he's pushing his cock within the welcoming walls of your pussy.

You hiccup on your next inhale — sounds like the wind's literally been knocked out of you as he works himself in slow, inch by inch, with his forearms beneath your head, acting as a makeshift pillow to keep you comfortable and lift your face closer to his so that his eyes can drink in your face morphing into one of slight plain.

He's smirking when he whispers, "Tá grande, eh?"

You nod as if you understand, hand flat against his abdomen. You don't push at him but the mere action is enough to piss him off. Patiently, he moves your arm away, not needing the obtrusion from keeping him pushing deep inside or blocking the view of your warm, soft walls literally sucking him in. But, then you're back and you're weakly shoving at him this time and tenderly babbling, "C-Connie . . 's e-enough. N-No more, okay?"

He looks down to gauge your progress. Five inches.

"Nah, you got a little more ways to go, mami."

Impossible. It feels like he's already in your tummy. You shake your head, pushing at him again. "Connie, noo—"

Grabbing you by that same arm, he lifts one of his hands, with your wrist inside of it, to gather your other and pin them both against your stomach. "Lo hacemos caber, 's what you said. So we gon' make it fit." He doesn't need the whining and crying and pleads. One more thrust in and he's buried so deep inside you that he feels something inside absolutely gush out the minute he does. You squeak and he blows out a slow, deep breath while looking down at the picture of your folds split so wide apart that your clit is poking out now, hard and blatant. "Mhmmm."

He watches your eyes grow heavy. He must have hit a button inside you to make your brain shut off because now, you're quiet . . only hiccuping, sucking in shaky breaths, and mewling his name. "You okay," he mumbles with a kiss to your lips. "Shhh . . tranquila, there you go."

He works you open with slow, careful strokes — pulling his hips back then pushing them back forward as if he has all the time in the world. Each push inside has his dick only pulling out more wet than before. You feel so . . . fucking . . good. Connie wouldn't have thought you would — not like this. Words are unable to describe how truly heavenly it feels to have the tight, grooved confines of your pussy working at his dick like this. Molding, kneading, and gripping at it.

"O-Ohh, shit," you quiveringly whimper. You hear it — the faint sounds of your juices trickling out around his shaft as he faithfully begins to thrust. He still has your wrists in his hands though they're unmoving. You feel as though you've been rendered immobile from the sudden onslaught of pleasure that's taken your brain in capture. "Con— . . Fuck . . . Mhmmmm."

When you begin to nod, Connie does too. He lets your wrists go to slip his arms back beneath your head, "Mhmmm," he mimics softly. "What I say?"

Your clit rubs against the faint, coarse mat of his pubes in only the most delicious way. You feel like your head is spinning. You can't respond.

"Lemme stretch this shit out," he mumbles, pulling further back to add more weight within the next thrust. "Jus' lay here and take it. Lemme make this pussy mine, mm?"

Your eyes tightly close as you listen to your skin begin to smack. You want him to. You need him to, you just can't say it because your tongue somehow feels too big for your mouth. Thankfully, Connie seems to understand your nonsensical babbles because after another kiss, this one upon the bridge of your nose where your birthmark stretches across, he lifts himself up on the flats of his palms to start to beat your pussy sore. You fight to keep your legs open, fight to keep from squirting too much of your slick on him, but it's proven one of the most challenging instances of your life when he bends one of them further back into your shoulder to dig in deep.

Tears gloss over your eyes.

You'd have think he was stirring your gspot into battered mush. It's overstimulating in the most weirdest way — you're at a threshold of so much pain and pleasure that you don't know what to do.

A dollop of his spit is cool against your clit once he lets it drip past his lips and onto it which he then uses to rub with his thumb, "You gotta lemme make you feel good, mama," he utters beneath your pitiful sobs and blubbering. "The only way me and you gon' work . . . gotta let me do this."

"O-Okay," you're hiccuping against, sounding absolutely precious as you grip at the sheets beneath you. " 's j-jus' so . . deep, Daddy."

He nods as though he understands, eyebrows pinched in sympathy, "I know, baby . . You takin' it so fuckin' good, though."

It's so loud . . . the skin smacking, the build up of your cream as he churns your slick into goo, you keening out his name. Connie could give less of a fuck about the world outside of you both. Nothing but you matter. Nothing but you and this perfect fucking pussy you have between your legs matter. He pushes his chain out of the way to shove your shirt up and grab a handful of your plump, bouncing tit.

"Hngg — God — Fuck . . please."

Each drag of his dick inside the weeping walls of your pussy is relentless. Pleasure sparks at every nerve of your body as you dig your nails into the skin at his sides, feeling the muscle beneath his skin crest. Everything about him is dizzyingly attractive. "S-So han'some," you slur, unable to help rubbing your hand down the side of his face. You watch his eyes grow sharper as he turns it into your palm to press a kiss against your wrist.

"Mmm, thank you, mama," he groans, burying your scent within his nose. "Y-You so sweet. S-So fuckin' sexy, too."

He refuses to pull out when he wants to change positions. He lowers down, rolls over onto his back and pulls you on top to grab you by the soft, fleshy skin of your ass cheeks to force you to rock your pussy up and down the length of his cock. Oh. He likes this view. You're unable to hide your face away as you keep your hands on his pecs for balance as you let him bounce you as if you weighed nothing but a mere pound.

The skin at the bottom of your thighs tremble with each slap of them against the tops of his own. You feel your ass ricochetting off of his pelvis as your chain swings against his chest. "Pussy's so fuckin' good," Connie growls, lifting you high to slam you back down until you're cutely squeaking with every one. "Look at you . . creamin' on my shit, ma."

You're dangerous. Connie doesn't think you know what you've just done . . . just what you've unleashed inside of him. A man so entirely enraptured with you, that when the thought creeps in, quiet and unwelcomed, of this not working out, he doesn't think he'll be able to go back to normal. His jaw tightens at the mere idea of it. Because Connie's always been good at control – at keeping people within the respectful boundaries of his life, close or far, forgettable and not.

But you . . . you've somehow slipped past his usual lines.

Slow at first. Some glances here, a small smile there, maybe even a wave if you were feeling bold that day.

And now you're here, teary faced and doe eyed, getting your pussy plowed from the bottom by him as you look down at him like he's hung the exact moon tonight in the sky, like he's something bigger than what the world already sees him as, looking at him like he matters so fucking much to you.

How easily you can break him if you choose to . . . and you don't even know it.

His jaw clenches again. His balls draw up tight. He feels you. " 'm cumming, Daddy," you mewl. God, he hopes this is forever.

"Córrete, por favor," he grunts, feeling himself creep closer to that edge for the second time tonight. He needs you to cum. "Please, mami. Do it. Squirt on this shit."

Cream is packed at his base. It sticks to your pussy in thick webs as he forces you to rise and fall on his length until you're there — you're squirting out a sweet, messy stream of liquid that leaves your body with an audible hiss. Connie's not far off when he sees it. Your body shaking on top of his, mouth opened, mind gone. He lets you fall down on his dick with a loud plop as he forces you to keep still when he starts to pump thick, white ropes of his cum deep past the tiny hole of your cervix. "Hng, shit," he groans, forcing you back up . . only to slam you back down again. "Fuck, mama." Again. And again.

You press your hand against his forearm, silently telling him that you've reached your limit.

Your cunt feels like it's been beaten sore. Your make up is completely fucked and you're mentally exhausted. You collapse on top of him and bury your face into his neck with a weepy hiccup. "N-No more."

Connie's catching his breath, feeling the mess of cum beginning to slowly dry between the both of your legs. He doesn't think he have it in him to move you or even move himself. "Okay," he whispers with a kiss to your cheek. "Alright . . . try to close your eyes."

You do. With enough slow rubs to your back and kisses on your shoulder, you slowly fade off into a world of dreams, content within his arms.

ׅ ❤︎

It's in the morning, near eleven am when the both of you power back on your phones.

You nibble at your thumbnail, dressed in one of his hoodies with sleep still swollen in your eyes and standing within the middle of his living area as you scroll through the thousands of notifications that have piled upon your screen. DMs, comments, likes, and shares. You're surprised to open up the comment section on a four pic grid of the infamous paparazzi pictures, climbing with nearly one million likes to see 'fork found in kitchen' 'hope they have 36 babies on you losers' 'somebody hack his icloud and leak the tape.'

There's a few bad ones sure, claiming you slept your way up to the top to be at this point in your career and now hand in hand with Connie Springer . . . but it's easy for you to ignore upon looking up to see a familiar set of stormy hazel eyes already staring at you from the kitchen, waiting for you to power it back off, drop it in his hand, and fall into his embrace.

yourusername

♡1.4k 💬 211 ↺356 ▷289

Liked by ybfn and others

comments have been limited.

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weirdo.

who weird?

who took dat picture in yo recent?

my friend nigga???

don’t nobody go to marcel wit they fuckin homegirls

stop playin wimme fore i call.

he finna be wonderin why  verizon callin 😩😭

aight.

dw bout it.

you can’t out play the player nigga.

fine sum safe. gn!

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stephcastle

♡26k 💬 2,653 ↺587 ▷8.5k

—

carterbryant: 💪🏽!!

USER1: oh this isn’t-

USER2: omggg 🥺

dylanharper: okay pop out then stephanieeee 😂

stephcastle chillll 😂

comments have been limited.

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lmfaooooo

ur funny

i’ll be here all day folks 🫡

ok lol

ain’t you say devin in town this week?

you always gotta take shit too far

stop playin wit me

say i wont

he not even goin

you finna look stupid 😭

already went nigga. ask him bout me.

fuck you think he was here for last month?

you lyin

say you swear

bro

oh wow you weird as fuck

shit don’t feel good huh?

never did no grimey shit like that to you

did.

didn’t.

you can’t remember cause all that ˓       fucking scrambling yo brain

yo shit must be puréed den

      yup! dev mixed my shit 😩

yeah you blocked. foh.

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why are you like this bro

answer yo phone

seen

bro

wya

          ya auntie house

i’m deadass

i miss you

            awwwwn

if this was a year ago ts would have ˓     worked so well

you always think i’m trynna trick you or sum

             cause you do

you actually evil asf ˓     idk why you be acting confused

you do shit to me first

      stop trynna get even lmfao

            mr stephanie

how dat work

you do sum to me imma react accordingly

      and thts ur problem whore

whatever

are you finna come thru or not

im trynna wet my face

      say tht! gimme 20

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ur childish bye.

                ciao!

seeya.

                later!

goodnight.

            sundown!

i don’t like you.

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            i see you.

wtf

don’t send me no sinister ass shit like dat

    tell that bum to get off ur arm    ˓    as if she know u

and YOU know she don’t like me.

mind you this my arm

      i must gotta cause a scene

don’t be dumb

        finna be oooverly cooky

lol

i love when you possessive

shit turn me on

         not even playin rn.

aight aight chill

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get ur bitches out my dms ˓     fore i show her sum frl.

who?

                  nigga.

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rude little bitch you got.

oh my god yo

why would you say allat to her

🤷‍♀️

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miss u.

she must’ve done left yo stupid ass

i left her thank you very much

aka yall got bored

her ass argue too much

we argue all the time lol

that’s different tho

how so steph

idk it just is

right right

your door open?

you gon pull up regardless…

as always

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💌~ this was actually so fun to write LMFAO like i’m sorry i like writing dumb shit like this and i like writing reader as a bad person idc! it’s fun, i love drama! lmk if yall want more of this duo cause i was gonna do more buuut editing took too long lol

also praying to GODDD somebody makes another texting app cause omfg…this editing took too long man, i had to text from my ipad and then manually space out the texts on here 💔😭

Creeping through the house, you moved with calculated precision, the thrill of the game pulsing through your veins. You’d been outside in the backyard moments ago, the warm sun on your back as you crouched behind a bush, planning your next move. Slowly, you slipped through the sliding back door into the kitchen, carefully ensuring the coast was clear. Your heart raced with excitement—two of your enemies had already been taken out: your own six year old daughter, Ariel, and your brother-in-law, Nicholas, both now lying in the backyard, victims of your careful strategy.

The game was Capture the Flag, a family-wide war waged in every corner of the vacation home. The entire Hamilton family and guests had split evenly into two teams, each determined to outwit the other. The flags were cleverly disguised as two of Ariel’s stuffed animals, making the game even more whimsical. Your team had hidden the fluffy lion in the upstairs master bathroom, a perfect fortress for your team to defend.

As you stealthily entered the living room, your mind was singularly focused on finding the octopus plushie, the flag that the opposing team was fiercely protecting. The house was quiet, almost too quiet, as you scanned the room for any sign of movement. Your senses were sharp, but your thoughts were preoccupied with finding the plushie, and that distraction was your downfall.

In your focused state, you didn’t notice the subtle sounds of soft footsteps approaching. As you entered the next room, your Nerf gun poised for action, you suddenly heard a shuffle. Before you could react, you found yourself face-to-face with Lewis, his Nerf gun raised.

But instead of firing, he hesitated, his gun lowered as he took in your determined expression.

Lewis greeted you with a playful smirk, eyes lingering on the orange bandana tied around your left wrist. “Looks like your team sent in the big guns to take me out.”

He stood there, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the nearby windows, casting a warm glow over him. Dressed in a simple white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he looked both relaxed and ready for action. The bandana in his team’s color—bright red—was tied around his forehead. His eyes, sharp and amused, were locked onto yours with a mixture of challenge and affection.

You didn’t lower your Nerf gun, but your mind was already racing. If Lewis was here, then his team’s flag must be close by. You glanced around subtly, trying to discern any clues, but Lewis seemed to realize your thoughts. Yet, he made no moves that might give away the location of the octopus. Instead, his eyes twinkled with mischief as he watched you.

“I thought I had you,” you said with a mock pout, still holding your gun up, though it was clear you wouldn’t be shooting him now.

“Almost,” he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He stepped closer, his gaze locked on yours. “What’s the matter, baby? Got cold feet?”

You raised an eyebrow in playful challenge, trying not to let his easy confidence shake you. The living room around you was full of potential hiding spots—the bookshelf, the couch cushions, even the potted plant in the corner. As you quickly racked through the possibilities, you tried to gauge where his team might have hidden the flag. Lewis, however, gave nothing away, standing there with that maddeningly calm expression.

“Hardly,” you shot back with a grin. “I’m just giving you a moment to form an escape plan because you’re rusty.”

Lewis scoffed at the accusation, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “Me? Rusty?”

“Oh, don’t sound so offended,” you teased, finger still resting on the trigger. “Don’t act like the great Lewis—”

“Sir Lewis,” he corrected with a teasing grin, the title making his smirk even more irresistible.

You couldn’t resist. Before he could react, you fired your Nerf gun, the foam dart bouncing harmlessly off his chest. His eyes widened in surprise, and then he burst into laughter, the deep, rich sound filling the room.

“You deserved that,” you grinned, lowering your weapon.

“That didn’t count,” Lewis protested, still laughing, his eyes twinkling with playful disbelief.

"What happened? I thought you had superhuman reflexes?"

"I was trying to go easy on you," Lewis chuckled at the sight of your rolling eyes. "But that still didn't count. I didn't even have a fair draw."

“Oh, really?” you teased, smirking as you tilted your head. “And what are you going to do to convince me to give you an extra life?”

A mischievous grin spread across your husband's face as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you. “I can think of something,” he murmured, his voice low and enticing. Before you could respond, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you behind the safety of a nearby wall.

The quick action pulled a gasp from you. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing lightly against your ear as he whispered, “Shh,” the sound almost a caress. His breath tickled your skin, making your heart race, and suddenly, the game felt far less important than the magnetic pull between you two.

The past day had been a blur of travel, with the kids bubbling with excitement to finally meet up with Lewis in Morocco. Your arrival had been a whirlwind—greetings filled with laughter and joy, as Mason and Ariel clung to Lewis as if they never wanted to let go. They hung on his every word, fought to sit next to him at dinner, and later curled up against him during the Super Mario movie they insisted on watching together, their little bodies nestled comfortably against his.

By the time he managed to get them to bed, you had already succumbed to exhaustion, barely stirring as you fell asleep. The day’s events had worn you out, leaving you completely drained.

This morning, you woke to find his side of the bed cold. Lewis had taken on the responsibility of keeping Mason and Ariel on their schedule, letting you sleep in while he cooked breakfast and handled the morning chaos. The smell of coffee and the sound of their giggles had drifted upstairs, but you remained blissfully unaware, catching a few more precious minutes of sleep.

When you finally stumbled downstairs, groggy and in desperate need of caffeine, you were immediately met with a Nerf gun pointed in your direction.

“Just in time, Momma’s on my team!” Mason, your eight year old, had announced gleefully, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Huh?” you had mumbled, still half-asleep and disoriented, not quite processing what was happening.

Lewis had instantly reached for you, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you to his side. "Nah, she's mine."

“That’s not fair!” Mason had exclaimed, pouting in protest. “I called her first--"

"Fine." Lewis had grinned, always a sucker for your son's wide brown eyes, sparing you a quick kiss on the cheek before surrendering you to Mason. His touch had been brief, but it lingered, a warm reminder of how much you both needed a moment alone.

The warmth of his arm around your waist, the scent of him—a mix of cologne and the fresh air from outside—was comforting. Now, as you stood close to Lewis, you realized you hadn't spent a single moment alone with your husband.

It seemed like Lewis had the same thought because he shifted your Nerf gun aside, his expression softening as he looked at you. It suddenly dawning on him the two of you were tucked away in a quiet corner, standing against the cool wall of the living room, out of sight from the rest of the house.

His hands cupped your face, the warmth of his palms seeping into your skin as his thumbs brushed tenderly along your cheeks. His eyes roamed your face, tracing the familiar lines, lingering on your lips as your weight instinctively shifted to your toes. There was a softness in his gaze, one that made your heart flutter as he leaned in slowly, his lips capturing yours in a gentle, lingering kiss.

All that existed in that moment was the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way his touch sent a comforting heat through your body. You relaxed into him, your hands instinctively finding their place on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your fingertips.

When he finally pulled back, your eyes fluttered open, and you couldn’t resist a teasing grin. “How do I know this isn’t just a trick to distract me from finding your flag?”

His response was a grin of his own, one that made your heart skip a beat. Without a word, he leaned in again, his hands pressing firmly against the wall behind you boxing you in. He didn't need to initiate it, your lips instantly finding his.

Lewis didn’t hesitate to press his hips against yours as your arms secured around his neck. This kiss was different—deeper, hungrier. His mouth moved against yours with a raw intensity that took your breath away, as if he was trying to convey just how much he’d missed you in your days apart.

His fingers slid further under your shirt, the warmth of his hands searing against your skin as he tugged you closer, eliminating any remaining distance between your bodies. His lips grew more demanding, his tongue parting lips as he deepened the connection, teasing and exploring in a way that made your knees go weak.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as you melted into him, lost in the sensation of his mouth on yours. The world around you ceased to exist, the only thing that mattered was the feel of him—his touch, his taste, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged as he whispered, “I missed you so much.”

“Me too...maybe we should get back to the game,” you murmured, the warmth of his hand on your spine letting you there was only a few seconds before he abandoned the game entirely.

Lewis chuckled softly, your words doing little to deter his train of thought. The warmth of his mouth moved to your neck.

“That was the only freebie you get," you giggled at the sensation. "But if I shoot you again, you're dead."

Lewis pulled back for a moment, eyes sparkling with the same mischief you had fallen in love with. “I thought you loved me."

You smirked, shaking your head. “Not when you’re the enemy,” you shot back, your competitive spirit flaring up again. “I’m trying to win that ice cream that’s on the line.”

Ducking under his arm, you peeked around the corner, making sure the coast was clear before stepping back into the fray. But before you could move too far, Lewis tugged you back, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you close for one last, deep kiss.

“You know,” you began, a new idea forming, “you could always reveal where you hid the flag. Might make it worth your while.”

Lewis smirked against your lips, his voice low as he mumbled, “I might just tell you if you kiss me like that again.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing whisper of a kiss, the promise in his voice making your heart race. “If that means we can finish this upstairs.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound filled with warmth as you leaned in to kiss him again, deciding that maybe—just maybe—ending the game quicker wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

"Then tell me where your flag is," you encourage, the warmth of your hands against his stomach. You could feel the skip of his heart as your palms dragged along his chest, a soft moan leaving his lips as your touch retraced their steps nails dragging along his skin. "And I'll show you how much I missed you."

His fingers pressed into your hips as your touch ghosted over the front of his sweatpants, his hips pressing forward for more.

The breathless "shit," against your ear brought a smile to your lips.

“It’s behind the plant," he mumbled, all logic leaving his mind as you complied with his silent plea. The feeling of your hand against him promising what could come the moment the game was over. "By the far right window."

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, Lewis’s lips captured yours in a searing kiss. His hands drifting to your ass, kneading the skin. His tongue swept over yours, a slow, deliberate tease that left you craving more.

“Mom!”

You both broke apart with a start, your heart racing as you instinctively pushed Lewis back, trying to compose yourself like a couple of teenagers caught in the act. Mason stood at the end of the hallway, his eyes wide with curiosity and suspicion. You instinctively reached down, grabbing your Nerf gun, as your eyes took in the orange bandana tied around his curls. You point it at a grinning Lewis. The game suddenly at the forefront of your mind.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone laced with a blend of innocence and accusation.

“Nothing,” you both blurted out in unison, your voices a little too high-pitched, a little too fast.

Mason’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusing finger directly at you. “You’re with the enemy!”

Lewis clutched his chest in mock offense, his expression one of exaggerated shock. “Enemy? Me? I'm your dad-”

But Mason wasn’t buying it. His gaze remained fixed, his little brow furrowing as he repeated, “Not during capture the flag! And Mom was helping you!”

Lewis’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he glanced your way. “She nearly surrendered. She was about to give me the location of your flag.”

“I did not!” you protested, your fist playfully ramming into Lewis’s left shoulder, the playful jab making him wince in mock pain. “I’d never surrender, Mase.”

Mason’s gaze flickered back to you, his grin widening. “Did Dad get hit?”

“Actually,” you replied, trying to keep a straight face. You were a woman of your word, suddenly realizing the benefit of granting Lewis a new life. “not yet.”

Suddenly, Lewis’s eyes widened with realization. “Wait a minute…”

Before he could react, Mason quickly aimed his Nerf gun and fired. The foam dart hit Lewis squarely in the chest, and he theatrically collapsed to the floor with exaggerated groans, his limbs splayed out dramatically.

In a split second, you turned and darted toward the hiding spot, but Lewis was faster than you anticipated. With a swift move, he sprang up and grabbed you from behind. The unexpected embrace caused you to drop your Nerf gun, your laughter bursting out uncontrollably. Pulling your body back, he opted for your waist as you turned to push him off. But he was faster, his strong arms encircled your waist lifting you off the ground.

“Cheater!” you screamed; your voice laced with playful accusation as you tried to wriggle free. Lewis stumbled forward, readjusting his grip as you twisted in his arms. "It's behind the planter, Mason."

Mason scrambled off to grab the hidden flag, his laughter trailing behind him, signaling your husband's defeat.

“Boss.” Calls out his right hand as he walks in and Bucky snaps his chin out his pensive hold.

“Yeah.”

Looking up from the glow of his screen, a twisted smile slithers across his face. “I think I got it.”

“I really can’t go with you?” She frowns on the bed, watching him pack a bag of atypical Bucky attire. A couple black shirts, black jeans, sneakers, his leather jacket. Casual, plain. Inconspicuous. This is a first time in a long time he’s leaving her alone for a couple of days on “business.” Business that has to do with her ex-husband she’s sure, and she didn’t get why the secrecy. She’d been in the loop, even gave him the green light, so she knew what was coming. What was the point? Why can’t he just tell her?

He drops his shoulders and sighs, “no angel…” ripping the bag closed. Bucky leans down to kiss her pouty bottom lip. “But we can go wherever you want when I get back.”

When this bullshit is finally over. When they’re finally free of him. He didn’t want to go, but this was the best time to take her ex out without suspicion. Bucky didn’t have to hide this from her, but the less she knew the better. Just in case. She’ll understand. For now, she wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Okaaay…I guess…” Annoyed, her brow wrinkles. Why won’t he just tell her the truth.

“Don’t do that.” Bucky grins down at her, playfully pinching her cheek to release that scowl but it doesn’t work. “You have nothing to be upset about.”

She cuts her eyes up at him trying to be cute when he knows what’s up. “Yes I do. I wanna go.”

He big rolls his eyes, growing tired of her little attitude. She hasn’t been defiant like this in a while and he forgot how difficult she can be when she wants her way. “When have you ever gone with me before?”

“So?” She folds her arms and shrugs. “Why can’t I go now?”

Bucky snatches his bag off the bed and walks off to end this goofy argument. He’s really doesn’t have time for this. “Because I said so. Don’t make me be an asshole about this.”

She rolls her eyes, silently mocks him behind his toned back. She wanted to tell him she knew he was lying, but she didn’t want to push his buttons anymore than she has by being a brat. He’s only trying to protect her she knows that. Aware of what she’s up to, Bucky cuts a sick glare back over his shoulder and she stops as she throws her hands up.

Groaning she dramatically throws herself down on the bed. “Fiiiiiiine.” He droops his shoulders, drops his bag at the door, then turns on his heel and sulks back over to her still throwing a hissy fit. The mattress dips as Bucky climbs atop her shaking his head. The lengths she’ll go.

Bucky sweetly begs, “please stop,” as he nuzzles her nose, lands a juicy kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be sad, and don’t worry.” Then he kisses her left cheek, rests his forehead on hers and heaves a big sigh. He’s got to go. He’s got to be the one who takes him out. “I love you.”

She shuts her eyes and tosses her arms around his shoulders. “I love you too…” and when she opens them again, she meets his dazzling gaze and swoons. She hates to see him go, especially when he’s off to do something dangerous. Illegal. Always makes her wonder what she’d do without him, and where her mind wanders always freaks her the fuck out.

She pulls him in and kisses him with everything she’s got. Sending him off with a good reminder as to why he needs to come back in one piece. She fists his hair, sucks his tongue into her mouth, and Bucky moans out in shock, caught off guard by how intense she’s being. Pleading don’t leave her, and he vows he won’t as he deepens their kiss, scooping his arm around her lower back. Clawing her side as she grapples onto his back, making out like they’ll never have this chance again.

She left him in awe, whispering, “be careful daddy...” as she slowly brushes her full damp lips over his.

One last long kiss before he abandons her there already longing for his return. “I will,” Bucky softly grins, caresses her cheek, “promise…”

“Are you ready?” Positioned inside the hotel’s bar, his right hand sits on the phone, tucked off at a dimly table. A gorgeous young lady coyly takes a seat beside him and grabs a fat envelope from his hand.

Standing outside in a dark alleyway, awaiting his cue, Bucky scoffs, “beyond…” itching to get inside and get the job done already. He’s been fantasizing about this moment for too long now. Fidgeting around in the shadows, he fuckin can’t wait to get his hands on him.

“He’s back in his room. Alone and drunk, expecting her. So you’re good to go.” Like they planned and their accomplice did her job well. His dumbass easily fell for their bait since he’s such a lonely loser dying for any woman’s attention. This really couldn’t have gone any smoother. Imagining her ex’s face when he sees Bucky at his door instead of the woman he was talking up really gets his blood pumping. “Room 513.”

Bucky nods, triple checks his waistband for his knife just as he steps out onto the empty sidewalk. “Perfect. I’ll be in touch.”

Ding! Bucky pops up the collar of his jacket, and pulls down the brim of his hat as he steps off the elevator, swiftly stalking down the warmly lit hall. His heart excitingly thumps in his ears, but he’s calm and collected, scanning the illuminated room numbers until finally he stumbles upon his. Bucky cooly stretches out his shoulders and neck, shakes his limbs loose, then quickly knocks on the door, slipping into his zone as he waits. There’s some weird rumbling around inside, then a moment of silence before the door noisily unlocks. Bucky clenches his fists, squints up and down the quiet hall. Ready. The doorknob clicks and her ex gradually pulls the door open. Bucky inches his foot ever so slightly over the threshold, just in case he tries anything, using some of his weight to push his way on in. Once her ex realizes what’s happening, he stumbles back in fear. Eyes wide and jaw dangling.

“Good evening.” Bucky’s smile is long and devious, growling as he overpowers him. “Expecting someone?”

“Oh shit!” Her ex nearly hollers but Bucky swiftly slaps his big hand over his mouth.

“Sh, sh, shhh…don’t wanna cause a ruckus now do we…” He shushes as he shakes his head. The hotel door slams shut behind him dragging her ex across the room. “Because if you shout or scream, the more violent I get…and I don’t think you wanna go out that way. Painfully. Horrifically.” Her ex begins to whine and Bucky hums a dark chuckle in his ear. “So shut the fuck up. Make this easy for yourself, and I’ll end your life before you can blink with a happy smile…” Click, goes the blade of his knife directly before his shaky eyes, and Bucky points the sharp tip to his widening smile. “See? Because I’m so goddamn thrilled to finally get my hands on you. God you have no fuckin idea.”

Bucky sends him flying back into a random chair, and it hits the wall with a muted thump. Her ex husband sharply gasps out. His fingers grip the arms as he stares up at Bucky lookin completely psychotic towering over him, his knife glistening in the moonlight that peaks through the curtains. He wanted to scream for help anyway, but he believed Bucky when he said he’d make this worse and he didn’t want to go through that torture again. So he squirms and cowers away from him encroaching, afraid to look at him pointing his knife at his clenched throat.

“Awww…don’t look away. Less fun when I can’t see the fear fade out of your eyes. Yeah, that’s right…get one last good look at the man who took your girl, who’s going to take your life.” Her ex’s breath trembles as he peeks open his eyes and hesitantly turns his chin meeting Bucky’s demented bright eyes. “C’mon, be a fuckin man for once. So that way, you won’t leave this world a total pussy…”

Bucky squats down, bites back a lighthearted laugh as he presses the cool sharp edge into his pulsing artery. Her ex’s muffled whimpers and whines sound from inside his hyperventilating chest. He’s doing his best to accept his fate, to man up for his wrong doings, but he’s so mad this asshole wins. And Bucky’s so smug about it too with that crazed toothy smile. The last thing he was going to see. Who knew this is where he would end up. If he could take it all back, he would. He never meant to fall in love with her best friend. Never meant to hurt her like that. And now he’s got to pay the ultimate price. All because she went and fucked around with the right one.

What luck…his ex wife ends up hooking up with the most notorious delinquent known in their city. Bucky must really love her if he’s willing to go this far. If only her ex would have stayed in his lane, maybe he wouldn’t have found himself in this position. She warned him and he refused to listen. For whatever reason, he felt like he needed to win her back. Even though he’s the one that burned her, he couldn’t lose her to a corrupt man like Bucky. But all his pointless efforts got him here. She was long gone before he took her away, and he underestimated Bucky’s power. Their love. He was going out lookin like such a fool while this asshole was going to come out the savior. What sick karma…

“Any last words?” His brows wiggle, and her ex’s chin quivers as if he’s about to speak, but Bucky pierces his hot flesh and laughs, “yeah right…like I’d deliver any pathetic message for you, you fuckin piece of shit. Fuckin scum.” Bucky bites behind grit teeth, pressing the blade deeper and warm blood trickles down to the disfigured collar of his shirt. Her ex nearly screams, tears fall from the corners of his eyes. The smell of his fear clouds Bucky’s brain, pumps his heart faster. Nearly maniacally cackling to himself as the blood stain expands down his shirt, he deepens the cut and to hear the faint tear of his skin is so satisfying. Along with his muted cries, his wildest dream’s coming true. “You don’t deserve to mutter another word to my girl. No more fuckin lies, no more of your fuckin bullshit. You’re done. Your time has fuckin finally come...”

“Well, well, well…look what the cat dragged in…” Her mom snidely remarks as she opens the front door, rolling her neck and crossing her arms. “Your man’s busy, so you wanna spend time with your mother…”

“Mom don’t start…” Her hand waves her away as she steps inside. She knew she was going to have to hear her mouth about how she hasn’t seen them since brunch, but she had to bite it so she can get some shit off her chest. Being all alone in the house had her spazzing out. Overthinking everything. Was Bucky ok? Was he actually somewhere possibly burying her ex husband’s body? Was Bucky going to propose now that he’s six feet under? If that’s so, she can’t go into their marriage without her mom knowing some truth to their relationship. She has to come clean. “I came over because I need to talk to you.”

She nervously cracks her knuckles, paces the foyer and her mom curiously cocks her head as she closes the door. “Talk? About what?” Her mom slowly inquires, scanning her body for any…changes. She isn’t pregnant, is she? Her mom can’t tell with all her nervous back and forth. She abruptly takes her by the shoulders and looks her dead in the eye, expecting to hear some startling news. “Girl.”

She inhales a deep breath and sighs, “about Bucky. Think it’s time I told you the truth…”

She doesn’t know why, but everything in her body told her to. Maybe because he was somewhere possibly killing her ex husband. Maybe because she knew they were officially on the path of spending the rest of their lives together. Whatever. All the silence and time alone and worrying convinced her to call her mom. All she could think about was what if something happens to him. What if she has to confess everything to her mom after he’s in jail or what if he comes back with a ring; she was literally going crazy, wrecked with guilt that she hadn’t been honest all of a sudden. She was scared about everything, and she needed her mom.

The truth, her mom blinks, staring at her a little confused. So her gut was right all along then? They were hiding something. At least it’s not a baby; she can be a little grateful for that. But how long had they gone on lying? And why did they have to? Her mom didn’t like that. She drops her hands off her shoulders. “See, I knew your ass was lyin about something…” Suddenly her finger’s in her bewildered face, glaring her down as she storms off.

“Mom!” She shouts after her heading for the living room.

“Nah, nah, nah…I knew something was up at brunch.” Her indignant finger wags, glad she was right all along. “The way y’all looked at each other…totally gave it away.”

“Mom whatever.”

“I know you little girl.” She’s never been a good liar, why she doesn’t lie to her mom. So Bucky had to have persuaded her to do so, which is just another strike against them. “So what is it, huh? What’s the story behind Bucky?”

Where does she even start? That they were once vengeful fuck buddies? That he essentially kidnapped her but she went willingly? This wasn’t going to be easy, but her mom should know the truth if Bucky planned on making her Mrs. Barnes. She takes her mom’s hands. “Just keep an open mind because…I don’t know how you’re going to feel about him after I tell you the truth.”

She literally withered, rolling her eyes as she heaved a tired sigh. Preparing for the worst. “Oh lord…I’m gonna go get a bottle of wine. Feel like I’ll need it.”

Using the light from the window to find his way to the bathroom, Bucky turns on the faucet and washes his hands and knife clean in the dark. The hot water felt good on his jittery fingers. He inhales a deep soothing breath to calm his nerves, drops the knife and firmly grips the edge of the sink. He’s relieved, sure, but he feels…well…he can’t explain it. Overwhelmed…grateful it’s fuckin over…but—off. Never felt like this before. Suddenly he missed her, needed her arms around him, her perfect lips up under his jaw.

Could she end up hating him for this? When he tells her what he did, how they did it, would a part of her see him differently? There’s that anxiety again. That foreboding “does she really love me and accept me for the monster I am” that shakes him to his core. Any day now, she could feel like this life isn’t for her, that he really isn’t for her, and she’ll leave him. Bucky can’t live without her. She’s too much a part of his being to lose her.

So what if this is the thing that snaps her to her senses? Or killing her cheating husband was what she ultimately wanted and now that the deed is done, she no longer needs him. Bucky softly smacks his lips, shakes his thoughts away. This anxiety’s going to be the death of him. Everything’s fine…everything’s going to be fine now that their main concern’s lifeless in the other room. Piece of shit, his anger sets in again, gritting his teeth as he tightens his grip on the edge of the sink. What did he think would happen if he kept interfering? Bucky’s a man of his word.

His phone vibrating in his jacket pocket takes him out of his downward spiral. His right hand calling right on time. “Is it done?”

Bucky nods as he turns off the faucet. “Yeah…it’s done…” He blindly yanks a towel off its rack and dries off his blade before he retracts it and tucks it back in its place. “The crew?”

“An hour out. Are you good boss?”

Bucky shrugs as he chunks the towel into the sink, stepping back out into the room and looking back at the mess he’s made. “Sure, whatever,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes at her ex bloody and slumped over in the chair. What does it matter. What’s done is done. “Clean this mess and let’s get the fuck out of here. Need to get home to my wife.”

“He loves me mom. Like seriously loves me,” she implores, afraid she’s completely freaked her out by the looks of her wrinkled brow. She hasn’t muttered a word since she started from their risky start. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You have nothing to worry about. Bucky’ll always protect me.”

He’s off killing for her right now as a matter of fact. That didn’t matter. What matters is that her mom doesn’t flip shit. She blinks several dozen times as the details of their relationship registers. Like, she should have guessed by the size of him that he was…threatening but not…like that. Bucky’s so sweet, and nice on the eyes, and so well rounded there’s no way he’s…he’s a…

“Sooo let me get this straight…” Her mom shakes out of her state of shock, just knows she’s mishearing this story. “You went after this man knowing damn well who he was…?”

One of the big things that turned her on about him… “Yeah, yeah mom,” she sighs pinching the bridge of her nose. “I told you I was bitter, angry…and you know deep down I like bad boys...”

Back when she was a rebellious teenager, sure, but that phase was deemed dead when she met her husband. Her mom side eyes her as she picks up her wine glass. “Yeah but this one’s a little extreme…” She empties it down her throat then quickly refills it. She was going to kill the bottle fuckin around with her crazy ass child.

She clutches her mom’s arm and implores, “Mom, trust me, Bucky saved me. You know I would have stayed unhappy and resentful in my marriage if it wasn’t for him. And what good would that have done?!”

“But aren’t you afraid?” She frowns, blanketing her hand with her own. “Don’t you think you can be with someone a little more…normal?!”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, “Of course I am, that’s why I’m telling you everything. But I don’t want to be with anyone else. I love Bucky.”

Her mom can tell she means it, and she wants to have faith in them, but…this is a little messed up. “He can put your life in danger.”

“Mom, I trust him with my life. Why I went with him, why I’m still with him. Come on you’ve seen us together. Seen the way he looks at me, looks after me. He’s the last person on Earth who’d hurt me or let anything happen to me.”

Her mom still couldn’t wrap her head around all this though. “But…he took you away? Moved you into his house?”

She just heaves a tired sigh. “Bucky told me he would come for me, and I went willingly.” She hated to repeat herself, to explain that no matter the circumstances, she wanted this. Bucky isn’t the bad guy. His big bad wolf spirit motivates her to proudly stand over her mom, make her point clear. “You can’t change how I feel about him. You won’t. If I would’ve never told you the truth, you’d be none the wiser. You had a sneaky suspicion, so what. I could’ve kept this from you, but I told you because I wanted to be honest with you! So just give him a chance like I did, ok? Please, just trust me…”

Just then her cell phone vibrates on the coffee table between them. A photo of Bucky graces her screen. She and her mom stare at it for a minute then their eyes meet again, just before her mom up and storms out of the room. She almost called after her, but instead, she collapses back down onto the couch and grunts as she snatches up her phone, tapping the green icon.

“Hey,” she huffs, and Bucky scrunches his nose. Not the warm welcome he expected.

“Angel, what’s up? What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “I’m at my mom’s right now so I’ll tell you when you get home.”

Randomly at her mom’s? Bucky wasn’t expecting that either. “Oh…well that’s why I called. I’m on the way as we speak. Just wanted to let you know.”

The news pulls her spine straight, relieved that he’s back but, he sounds a little distressed. “Are you okay? Did everything go smoothly?”

He wasn’t trying to show his emotions but the sound of her voice pulls them out. Wincing his eyes shut, he massages his forehead. “Yeah angel, I’m fine. Everything’s fine...” Bucky’s voice wavered and cracked he tries to quickly recover by clearing his throat.

He didn’t sound fine at all but she can’t get into it with her mom in the other room, so she’ll drop it until they’re alone together. “Missed you wolf. Was going a little stir crazy without you…”

That made him smile, made him feel a bit better.“Missed you too baby love. God I can’t wait to fuckin kiss your face, squeeze the life out of you. Never gonna let you go.”

“Fuckin dork,” she snickers at the thought of his thick ass attached to her waist. “Can’t wait to see you either. I’m about to head out anyway.” She darts an irritated glance to where her mom just exited minutes ago.

“Good. I’ll be waiting…” Bucky suggestively sings, preemptively licking his bottom lip he can’t wait to get a taste of her.

“Boy get your nasty ass off my phone…” Standing to leave she snorts and bucks her eyes at him giggling in her ear. “Love you…see you soon.”

As she hangs up and grabs her keys, her mom reappears to ask, “so he’s back?” As if she wasn’t eavesdropping.

She rolls her eyes at the stupid question. “Yeah. I’ll talk to you later.” She turns the doorknob but then her mom stops her by saying,

“Baby, look, I do trust you. And…if you trust Bucky, then I do too. I just want you to be happy...”

But she knows her mom isn’t that easy, and was only trying to make amends because she didn’t want to be on her bad side. She can tell she’s serious about Bucky and her mom’s willing to see where this goes. Bucky did make a great first impression on her, she had to admit, so she can come around to getting to know him better. If her daughter can look past what he does with his life, then she’ll have to learn to do the same. She can’t let something like this get between them.

Shrugging her shoulders like whatever, she opens the front door. She’s done talking about it now. She’s got other things to worry about. “Ok mom. Love you.” And shuts it behind her without a proper goodbye. Her mom withers. She hates that’s how they left it.

“Love you too…”

She practically skips into the house she’s so excited to see Bucky and put what just happened with her mom behind her. So telling the truth didn’t go well, but it went better than she imagined. At least it’s out there, and at least her mom says she’ll try to understand. Just give her time. Let Bucky work his charm.

“Baaaabe!!” She yells out as she dumps her keys and kicks her shoes off. “Bucky! Baby where are you?!”

When he doesn’t answer, she bolts up the stairs, yanking her shirt off and tossing it down to the floor. In their room, Bucky’s stark naked at the foot of their bed, laughing at her thundering steps coming down the hall. Dick fully erect and dripping, he rests his hands back on the duvet and spreads his thick thighs further apart. She can already envision him there all sprawled out in their bed as she rips her jeans open, breathlessly laughing at herself trying to hop out of them as she approaches their bedroom door. Freeing her legs and stumbling in to find him exactly as she imagined. Biting back a sleazy smile, she throws her pants down, slams the door shut behind her and takes in every dimple and ripple on his body. Absolutely salivating, her folds flutter, nipples harden as she takes a deep breath. Barely apart for a couple of days and this is the reaction? They were feenin for one another like a couple of crackheads.

Bucky casts his mischievous gaze down her half naked body and hums, “I told you I’d be waiting.”

And ready just look at his cock dancing around, beckoning her on over. So insane he looks like that, that she gets to come home to him. Her nerves tingle under his piercing blue eyes. Precum drips down his taught veiny shaft. She wishes she could capture how stunning he looks in this moment.

“Well…what are you waiting for? Come here…” His sinful lips and finger curl, summoning her to the bed.

She gives herself a running start and catapults herself on top of his hard body, tackling him down and mauling him with sloppy kisses as he takes her by her hips and positions her over his sticky wet tip. Bucky weakly grunts her name between her full lips, poking and toying his way between her fluttering folds. He bends his knees, plants his big feet on the edge of the bed and pushes her down, splitting her wet pussy right open. Sinking into his place he moans as he fills her up, beaming he’s so pleased to feel her heat, to hear her breath catch. She arches her back and cries a happy whimper.

“Mmm damn daddy…missed you so badly…”

“Fuck angel I know, I feel it…so fuckin wet for me making my dick so hard…” Bucky throbs in the pit of her stomach just to make sure she feels it. “Feel how bad I missed you? Huh? Don’t it feel so fuckin good…”

She fists her own hair as she nods. “Always…love the way you fuck me like you need my pussy.”

Bucky braces her sides, rocking her back and forth as he pumps her. “I do baby…I need you so fuckin bad. I’m made for you and only you.”

They hiss and whine as their hips roll and grind, desperately clawing one another’s arms, shoulders, sides. Her pussy squelches around his dick slapping against her folds. He can’t reach any deeper, fuck her any harder but he tries anyhow, because he can’t get enough of how beautiful she sounds crying his name. She stares deep into his soul, biting back her tired moans as she passionately rides his thick dick.

“Fuck me angel,” Bucky breathlessly chants, gazing sweetly up at her, “yeah fuck me…own this dick…”

His saucy smirk and gravely voice turn her on so much she shudders, winds her hips around to feel him in every nook and cranny. “I am daddy…I do.”

Bucky whispers, “tell me,” as he affectionately brushes his damp fingertips over her dry lips, admiring the way her cream oozes down his shaft with each mighty stroke.

“I own this dick. I own you.” She moans, wraps her fingers around his throat with a warm sexy smile. “My big bad wolf.”

Bucky growls as he bounces her up off the bed, “ugh fuck yes. Yours forever angel.” And no one can get in the way of his forever anymore. He feels vindicated, free. No longer haunted by his anxieties now that they’re reunited. Here is where she belongs.

Wrapping an arm around her back, he abruptly switches positions and flips her over onto her back, staying inside her as he sets his knees into the mattress. Fisting the covers by her bed, Bucky digs harder between her shaky thighs, popping her off his pelvis. She’s what he needs in his messy world. His perfect girl. His devilish little angel. She’s all his…

“It’s you and me baby. You and me…”

His possessive hold strengthens the longer he watches her mewl and shudder, the firmer he strokes her soaking pussy. She squeals with each bounce, holding on to his tense shoulders as she peers up into his carnivorous gaze. Cocking a small smirk, Bucky loses himself in her, hypnotized by the sounds of their sex, the dire look in her eyes. She’s everything…

“Oh my god daddy yeah.”

Bucky desperately whimpers, deliriously mumbles, “I’m yours angel. Always will be. I belong to you…only you baby love. And you’re mine…all mine…forever…” trying to hold back but he’s too emotional, too needy, slipping as his orgasm builds and builds.

She grapples on, clawing his burning flesh, watching Bucky weaken, but his steady stroke doesn’t falter. “Fuck. Fuck yeah give it to me daddy. Give me what I want don’t hold back.”

“Oh god,” he roars clawing the duvet and sheets, pounding through her clamped walls, eyes rolling back into his head, “oh fuck—fuck angel—give you all of me…”

“That’s right daddy you do…I’m so lucky…” she smirks as she cups his flustered cheek, watching him on the verge of falling apart. She wasn’t too far behind him herself. With the way he’s digging her pussy out? They violently contract against each other ready to erupt. She cards her shaky fingers into his hair, scratching his scalp and hollering, “Oh my god cum with me…please. Please daddy don’t stop!”

Bucky takes her by the throat, straightens up on his knees, casting a hungry gaze down her trembling body. He fills her creamy pussy, huffs a dark growl, chokes her a little. And the way her body squirms beneath him, the way she weakly whimpers and tears fill her eyes, makes him nearly coat her beating walls. Hungry for her cum, he strokes her long and rough, keeping a strong hold around her neck. Grunting, growling, searching for air, Bucky whines,

“Fuck I love you ingerul meu. Te iubesc atat de mult…fuck…voi muri pentru tine—oh my god! Sunt ingerul tau…”

She arches off the bed, nearly hollers and gushes; she loves when Bucky slips his Romanian. Means he feels out of his mind good and is going to cum so hard. Means he’s saying something emotional and doesn’t want her to know. Whatever…the shit is so sexy and always lures her to completion. One more stern smooth stroke against her spot. One more firm squeeze around her throat. And they’re going…to…fuckin…melt…

Holding one another, they gasp together with airy smiles, playing in each other’s hair. Basking in the afterglow of their passionate reunion. She can’t feel her legs intertwined with his, and her folds still throb and drip cum along his beefy thigh. They love when they cum in unison. Makes them feel connected. And they’re so blissfully happy, all warm and tingly still yearning for more. She couldn’t get his fragile voice out of her ears. So sensitive, so delicate like he could fall apart any second. In a way she’s never heard before.

She lifts her chin. “Bucky…baby…” He hums in return, squeezing her closer. “Everything went ok on your trip?”

“Yeah angel,” he uncomfortably shifts, clears his throat, “Why do you ask?”

“You didn’t sound ok on the phone…and you seem…needy babe...like something’s the matter…”

Damn, was it that obvious? Or was she that in tuned with his body? Let’s be real, he wasn’t doing all that great hiding his emotions. Bucky’s really going through it, but he doesn’t want to dump on her. Wants to love on her he missed her so much. Cherish every minute because who knows when it’ll be their last. His anxieties still weigh on his chest. Bucky doesn’t want to spoil the mood. It wasn’t the time; he’d much rather do this instead.

He casts his tired but smitten gaze on her searching for the truth. “Everything’s fine…better now that I’m with you.”

“Bucky…” He didn’t have to lie, doesn’t have to be so strong all the time. She can tell something’s up. Something heavy’s on his mind. Did killing her ex trigger something?

“Don’t worry.” Bucky forges a sweet grin and kisses her forehead, but his glossy blue eyes give him away. “There’s nothing to worry about anymore…”

She studies his handsome face. She wanted to tell him she knew why he left her. So he can come out and say what it is and stop hiding behind his big bad persona. She can handle anything. And he wanted to tell her the truth about what he’d done and his doubts now that the deed’s done. Deep down Bucky knows she would never leave him, and he knows he can be completely honest with her it’s just hard. He did feel much secure in her arms, watching her try to read him, gazing deeply into her big brown eyes. But he can’t let go of his fear.

Never breaking their stare down, she sits up on the bed and rests her right hand on his chest. “You can talk to me about anything Bucky. I know who you are demands you to be hard, but you don’t have to be with me. Not all the time.”

Bucky sighs a smirk as he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. “I know angel. Just not right now. Tomorrow, okay?” He pulls her back down into his loving embrace, swallowing his tears. How does she do that?

“Alright…”

She carefully settles back into his warmth, kissing his scruffy jawline. She’ll let that weary look in his eye go for now. No matter how hard he grins and pretends he’s cool, those eyes never lie. Bucky brushes his hand back over her hair.

“So what happened at your mom’s?”

She rolls her eyes and sighs, “oh…well…”

Will he be mad that she told her mom everything? She didn’t think he’d bring that up at this moment, and now she’s the one backed into a corner. Should she tell him? She really doesn’t know how he’ll react. But to prove a point, she’ll be honest. Just to one up him. She nervously sweeps her hand over his rippling abs, wrinkles her nose.

“Um, I told my mom the truth about us…you…”

The news takes a minute or two to register, and when it does, Bucky lurches up, wide eyed and stunned. She didn’t. She wouldn’t, not without him. That’s so messed up. He snaps his neck back over his shoulder, confused as to why she would do that. She better have a good explanation as to why she would go behind his back and do this. He should’ve been there to explain himself. Shit…looks like she fucked up.

Claudia had been on his radar ever since Louie’s omissions of their past. For the most part she’d presented herself as a respectable business woman, aside from the few times she made those subtle advances. That hadn’t been the first time older women had taken an interest in him. Still, there was so much he did not know about the woman, and maybe things that Louie wasn’t ready to reveal could have aided him. Nonetheless, Clauida was all he could think about as the next kick to his side damn near took his breath away. 

Had it all been a set up orchestrated by her? Some way or other to take control and gain the upper hand? To what end though? She already had the dope. 

Pain. The epitome of clinging to life. Or, that’s how Franklin Saint chose to categorize it. At least in the moment under the dim lamp overhead that illuminated his orchestrated beating, he felt that way. Maybe the truth was a different matter entirely, but Franklin had his fair share of pains the past few months, both mentally and physically, which presented itself in different choices and decisions he’d found himself making. Some external, but most in the private caverns of his own brain. He was being tested for better or worse. Funny how the mind could run rampant with scenarios and destinations. He knew that this certain path would be his only chance at a different kind of life. Otherwise, he’d be working at Cho’s corner store forever, under someone else, taking orders. It didn’t matter how comfortable he’d gotten, or how good he may have had it there doing basically whatever he wanted as long as the work got done, that sort of life wasn’t too far from a slave’s. Or how Leon once put it, a house nigga. 

Franklin imagined such a life as the most grusome type of torture fathomable, with no possible means of escape. Chains you couldn’t see. 

Franklin wanted more for himself. He thought about his mother Cissy, how every day must have felt for her to keep going. Still, he should have seen this coming. He’d gotten too comfortable, picking up the key of cocaine the way he had. Like he’d held some type of protection. Those eyes were on him. The one guy, a little taller than the other one that was with him, hadn't even tried to pretend to stare in a nonchalant way. Bold. Since he’d been the same guy to place the gun, finger on the trigger so intimately that one wrong move could mean the end of things. Or, Franklin sighed, at least for his eye. He may very well survive it.  

But, there was a moment looking down that barrel Franklin reconsidered if all this was really what he wanted wholeheartedly and sincerely. Deep down he held a strong feeling that guns getting pointed at him would become a recurring thing. Call it luck, Avi hadn’t shot him the day he told him to put on the vest to prove himself to the game. He had heart and gut to grit through it although he was scared shitless. But that time was different from now. After all, this had been the first time he’d actually looked death in the face, close up. Definitely way too close for comfort. He’d learned early on that the drug game wasn’t kind to naivety, and soon discovered with the first punch delivered as he fell from his bike and hit the ground, he had a lot of catching up to do. After this little encounter, no one could be above suspicion in Franklin's mind.  

That had been his weakness. Not looking over his shoulder at all times. 

He should have known that something was coming. He’d failed to pay attention to the little details. The looks and glances. The fact that he’d come alone. Claudia Crane's unwillingness to speak freely without code and contention spoke volumes on her knowledge of the do’s and don’ts, but he did not heed the example. Due to the cunning nature Franklin had detected in her, the banter that took place kept the femme interested. That was what he needed, her interest. Her interest in him was what kept him around. Her entertaining the idea of doing business meant he had time to grow his own with strategy. He hadn’t even known that he was making a name for himself, so early. 

When Franklin made the decision to choose the path presented before him with the promise of freedom and financial security, he never expected the shift to turn his life completely upside down as quickly as it had. Enemies had grown substantially, and his outer nerd-like facade no longer made him inconspicuous to suspicion. That tall lanky kid with the backpack. It was like the role flipped. Now he stood out like a sore thumb. Someone no one really paid attention to had become a curious affair. Really, what would he be doing in a club talking to someone with Claudia’s reputation. He should have expected more eyes than those belonging to the taller and shorter males that had robbed him. 

Sometimes late at night when he could be alone with his own secret thoughts, he would contemplate on a different path. One less violent. He figured doubting was natural in the growing process. The things he’d done plagued his conscience like an aching wound. But then, he would think of Cissy, always. 

His mother looked so beat down by the everyday pressures of life that he felt it his duty to repay her for all the hard work it took to raise him. Cissy couldn’t take all the credit. Jerome had every bit of influence where Alton’s absence was heavily felt. But still. Although Franklin hardly ever agreed one hundred percent on how Jerome chose to live, he never outright judged any decisions made by him or Louie. His preferences alone kept it all from rubbing off on him personally. That was their life. He undoubtedly had his own to worry about. The only time their two lifestyles intersected was when Franklin had begun selling weed for some extra cash. But selling weed and cocaine were two very different things. 

What was next for the prep school bound kid from South Central? 

The question came up several times after the blowout at Claremont Mckenna. A brief intermission did not mean that no return was ever possible, at least according to Cissy. Franklin had concluded otherwise. She wasn’t there for the experience. Didn’t know how it felt to be undermined and made to feel like nothing under the guise of white folk who couldn’t give a damn anyway. Or, maybe she did. Her boss was an outright piece of shit. In the end, Franklin made up his mind that he would never step foot on the campus again, but he regarded her sentiment as something that all mothers carried when it came to their children. She only wanted the best for him, something more than she had. So, this had to work. 

Franklin marveled at how he could lay on the cold bum piss infested ground in the alley thinking about everything as he held his stomach that might fold with the shortest push for breath. They could have killed him, and that thought was paralyzing. Why hadn’t they? Perhaps his outer appearance had given the impression that he wasn’t as threatening as the typical drug dealer. Maybe they thought killing him was too much trouble? Or, it could be that someone was looking out for him up there in the sky somewhere. A much simpler resolution. According to the other guy, he wasn’t worth the bullet. He knew deep down the two men were Lenny and Ray Ray. Two names that would cause him more strife then he needed later on, but this time he couldn't make out faces to go with each. All that remained of them both were black holes. Empty. Franklin wouldn’t argue that much. Pretty soon, they'd left him cradling his sides and bent in the fetal position. So be it. The last thing he wanted was for his mama to get that call that would take her from an already troubled sleep. He would realize much later, that wouldn't be something he could avoid. Only, it wasn't her waking up in the middle of the night, but running to their next door neighbors house to find him in a pool of his own blood, although he still couldn't get the look she held when he'd been picked up by police and thrown in the back of one of those hellish cars with the red winding lights after he shot Kevin. 

Getting beat within an inch of one’s life wasn’t exactly merciful, but he survived it. Or maybe it hadn't been that literal, just that it felt like he was dying, if that was what death felt like in some capacity. But he knew to his better judgment that he was walking back in his memories in a dream. None of which was pleasant, but at the same time not in the present either. 

All these things had already happened. 

The thought alone made him pick himself up with all the strength he could muster. Maybe, he thought, if he could continue, he could wake up. 

A stumble to the feet brought on a wave of nausea that rushed over him with a sudden urgency. He neared stairs in a wobble and with a stroke of breath he’d leaned over to discard blood, garnered up saliva that had gotten stuck in his throat, and something he’d eaten earlier. Once he became empty, he outstretched a hand to latch onto the mental railing of the stairs that would lead him back into a door, the same way he’d remembered walking out. The first time he’d had every intention of being discreet when leaving, but they’d calculated his moves. 

The ascent became complicated after the fourth step and he had to stop a couple times before he managed himself to make it to that particular door that he pulled open and maneuvered himself through. 

His vision spined and leveled up and down in and out as the lights presented a difficulty in locating Claudia, until he noticed her mingling with a few patriots. This was odd too, because Claudia had since long been dead. That was Louie's story to tell. Either way, she'd gotten what she was after. Claudia's club. 

“Yo’ young blood. They fuck up yo shit already?” 

He grinned. He remembered her saying that. 

“Saw you talkin' to um.” He answered back to play along. 

“You be real careful bout’ what you say.” 

“Be real easy settin’ me up.” 

She hadn't, and he knew that now. 

“You a smooth talker, but you don't know shit about business. You porch customers you gonna get blow back. I imagine your connect aint gon be to happy but uh, question is what you willing to do about it?” 

“Who are they?”

“And why the fuck would I tell you that?” 

Anger rose up in his belly. That same anger he had when he bought Cissy the house only for her to deny it, or the time Leon, Kevin and Jerome thought it was a good idea to wage a war with the Mexicans, even the same anger when Melody told him to stop, that he and his family were provoking the police, right after Jerome's heinous beating and his return from the hospital. Every time he saw Alton stumbling down the streets in a drunken stupor. 

The anger rested, but even in a dream he managed to keep it from reaching his features, although his eyes pleaded for answers, the same way they had back then. 

“Cause I'm askin’ you. Nicely.”

Claudia's expression eased, either from pity or the fact that he was young. He still didn't care for the reason. 

“I tell you who they are. Next time I'm buying from you, you be real nice to me you feel me.”

“Uh huh.”

“Melody and Wanda. Ask around. You'll find them. Happy hunting baby.” 

Something changed. Those were of course the wrong names. The dream shifted. Franklin no longer found himself in Claudia's club, but the skate rink he used to frequent. With all that had happened, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been there to enjoy himself. 

The rink had always been a beautiful mess of color, with disco balls twinkling overhead and the smooth rhythm of roller skates gliding over the wooden floor with that familiar thick scent of popcorn locked onto laughter that echoed against the walls. It seemed all the black youth in South Central were on wheels every Friday night to display moves that were a mixture of practiced choreography and spontaneous improvisation. That had been the way it always was, but that was not the view he currently held. 

The glassy surface of the rink, surrounded by crumbling brick walls adorned with wild vines, glistened like a diamond among ruins now mostly shattered. Beneath the cracked roof, reflections danced under flickering lights. The outer parts of the rink were dark. Franklin thought about the blacked out faces of Lenny and RayRay. How similar that same bleakness appeared. A memory but not a memory. Almost like a future thing. The silence had to be the worst of it. No longer did the music bump against the walls as a tantalizing enchantress. In fact, what he heard now was Leon's voice in a terrifying repetition. 

‘Keep Wanda out the cook house.’

The phrase could become its own shadow. Pretty soon it took shape and the Wanda that was flesh and blood skated past him with wild hair and big eyes, a small clear pipe edged between her two large and cracked lips that bled some. The hairs on the back of his neck stood. If he’d seen Wanda, then he was sure he would see…

“Killed my daddy.” 

It was Melody’s voice that came out next. He searched for her through the darkness, and no sooner did she walk from it, the same wild hair as Wanda right along with the big eyes, and dry cracking lips greeted him. 

Only on Melody, were the eyes angry. 

“How you feel now Franklin. I killed you.”

“No you didn’t. I'm not dead Mel.” 

A smirk emerged to expose her yellow teeth. “You sure about that. I shot you three good times just to make sure.” 

Someone else came from the darkness. Dried blood caked at the side of the man's face, one eye rolled back but the other neared toward franklin. The man walked to stand beside Melody. 

“Aundre,” Franklin breathed out.

“Here sweetheart. Let me show you how it's done.” 

Aundre, or the one dead, raised his hand. A pistol in it. One that Franklin couldn’t figure out how and where it had gotten into the former officer’s possession, but nonetheless aimed in his direction. His nostrils flared. 

“Stop acting like this shit is my fault. I gave you an out. You should have taken it!” He yelled this, his voice strong, filled with defiance. The words hung, heavy with their meaning. 

“How ya’ feeling, Saint?” 

Yet another voice called behind. Startled, Franklin turned to find a familiar face rushing to catch up to the present. A frantic reminder of the urgency of the moment.

“Kev,” he replied, heart racing. He suddenly felt the weight of his decisions standing in the form of his dead friend. 

“Miss you man. Seems like it's been a long time since we last talked,” Kevin said, his expression both serious and empathetic. “I thought you were gonna join me? What happened? You get cold feet or something? Lotta company over on this side.” 

Franklin swallowed hard. “Nah man. I don't. I didn't wanna die.” 

Kevin sighed. “Yeah. I get that Saint. I do. Because Neither did I.” 

Anguish surged through him. “So what. You gonna haunt my dreams forever now? Don't put all this on me. You were gonna get us all killed Kev. You wanted to start a whole war, and for what, ego, pride and all that shit. Nah, I couldn't let that happen!” He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, the anger pouring out of his mouth, a culmination of all the confusion and guilt feeling inside. Franklin stepped away, retreating deeper into the darkness. 

“Okay Saint. What you say we call a truce. You come with us. Make things even,” Kevin countered gently.

Those words washed over. For a moment, silence enveloped. The world moved forward as he stood frozen, faced with the harsh reality of his future. Time slowed as Franklin considered his choices, the weight of his past pressing firmly upon him. He had a chance to rebuild his life, but it felt like stepping into the abyss. With every moment he spent in limbo, he was losing himself even more. 

“I didn’t want to die,” he whispered, the realization dawning on him. “Not then, not now. Besides, I can't leave it the way it is. I need to wake up. Go back. Make shit right.” 

With a deep, fortifying breath, Franklin squared his shoulders. For the first time, it felt less like a surrender and more like a declaration. He turned from the three of them and began to run, his feet pounding against hard iron. Cold seeped through the thin blue shirt he now wore brought on by another shift in the dream, but the chill was nothing compared to the terror coursing through him. The scene had changed once again. This time it was the rusted bars of a prison cell that closed in on him. Shadows flickered at the periphery of his vision, teasing his mind, hitting at things best left unseen. Each glance over his shoulder felt like an invitation for the darkness to catch him. The bars prevented him from going left or right. The only way was forward. The path twisted and turned, wrapped by nightmares that clawed at his sanity. Memories flashed before him. Faces and voices of the people he loved, distorted and twisted. His mother’s laughter became a screech, his uncle's smile morphed into a haunting grin. They urged him to come closer, but Franklin knew better than to succumb to their lure. Instead he pushed on, driven by a primal instinct to escape whatever lurked behind him. Melody and Andre? Kevin? Or something worse. 

His breath grew ragged, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. Was it just his imagination? A trick of the mind? Or something really following him? He could hear it now, a low growl, steadily gaining ground. Panic bubbled to the surface, his brain racing with the thoughts of what might be chasing him. With newfound determination, he surged, pushing himself harder than he ever thought possible. The growl transformed into a guttural roar, echoing through the air. The siren call of light faded into muffled screams, blending with the cacophony that began to assault his ears. The nightmare spun out of control. His hands were clammy, perspiration dripped from his brow, and all he could hear was that monstrous sound drawing out everything else. 

At the edge of his vision, the light shifted, revealing a figure wrapped in shadows. It hunched low, its shared teeth glinting as it turned its gaze toward him. At that moment Franklin realized that what had been chasing him was none other than himself. He wanted to scream, but the sound lodged in his throat. In that instant, time slowed. The world around him melted away, and all that mattered was the desperate need to escape. Franklin summoned every ounce of strength he had left and bolted, driven by the primal urge to survive.

With each step, the floor creaked ominous beneath his feet. Or Franklin thought they had been his feet. His breath hitched when he peered downward. Limbs twisted, joints swollen and out of alignment. The grotesque sight reminded him of old horror movies, when bodies defined the laws of nature and horror lurked in every corner. He’d often enjoyed horror films. Just not his own. With newfound adrenaline, he fought against the pain, urging his body to move. But as he pushed himself down the hallway, his legs crumbled beneath his weight, snapping like brittle twigs. Each step resulted in another fracture. Panic clawed its way up his chest as he desperately crawled, dragging his broken limbs behind him. Just as he reached the next door, his resolve faltered as the sounds of gunfire filled in behind. The scene changed again and the image of a graveyard filled his view. Melody, Kevin and Aundre remained but they were not alone. There came a gathering of people, almost zombie like, matching both Wanda and Melody in appearance. Mouths hung, and arms outstretched, hungry begging to be satisfied and fed. Wanda came around again and laughed, “Give us some of that good ol roc Franklin,” she said. Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet gave way, and he found himself tumbling. The walls of earth and stone rushing past. The world above became a small dot of light until it disappeared completely.

Franklin jolted awake, heart pounding. A frantic rapid beat that wouldn’t slow. The remnants of his nightmare clung as shadows, vivid and relentless. He sat up gasping for breath. The familiar surroundings of his room blurred for a moment, suffocating. 

The quiet hung like an oppressive weight and an overwhelming sense of dread crept into his bones. Could this be the plane of reality? Or just another spiral into a different part of his nightmare? 

Hot. He felt very hot, although the window near his bed sat open and he lay shirtless. He reached down to touch his legs to make sure they were still both attached to his torso. They were. He breathed out, relieved. 

Franklin wiped the perspiration from his forehead. A futile action, since it showed up all over. A faint indent where he’d positioned himself lingered beneath with his sweat woven into the fabric of the sheets. The hallway outside his door shadowed. The scent of antiseptic stayed heavy. He hated the smell, but the wounds needed constant cleaning to heal. Once his entire body plunged in a serving agony of soreness brought on by the three new holes in the different areas of his aching flesh once he moved, he decided to lay deadly still.

He’d been lucky. Every bullet was extracted, and none had broken. Pain, again, his saving grace while remaining his greatest of torments. He sprang free from the horrible hallucination he’d been locked into like the fingers of a clock frozen in place that catapulted forward into remission. A prison that his mind condemned him to. 

The ringing in his ears subsided little by little, only to be replaced by a knocking coming from the living room. 

Someone at the door. 

He waited, and it continued. Cissy had left. He remembered her saying something about going out. Oh yeah, to a movie with Alton, he told himself. She’d been hesitant at first, scared to leave him, but he’d assured her of only sleep. Now, he became afraid to close his eyes. 

He regarded the dresser closest to the bed. The orange-colored bottle that sat just at its edge, with the label that held his full name across it. Way past the hours of instruction, he noticed the clock. The knocks from the living room battled for his attention.

A short wave of dizziness clung when he got up. He fought through it, passed the bottle, and the cane Alton purchased for him. The object reminded him of a serpent ready to bite.

He held on to anything, leaning weight on walls long and wide. One foot at a time, he planned to put an end to the knocking. 

He made it, annoyed, damn near in tears, and sweating more than in the nightmare, and pulled the door open just enough to peer out with its familiar squeak echoing in the stillness. 

“Beanz…” 

He hadn’t seen her since the day of Audre’s funeral. The Day Melody shot him and left him for dead. Cissy’s doing, no doubt. He remembered after waking up, for a long time, only she sat beside the hospital bed. No Jerome, Louie or Leon to visit. 

The drifting in and out of consequences in her arms while she screamed, waiting for medics with the possible complications of an induced coma, had terrified her. Keeping everyone else away. Irrational behavior maybe, but he could have died that day, and death was never an easy thing to stare in the face. No nightmare would compare to the horror of the real thing. 

What last thoughts did Aundre Wright have? Did he regret not taking Melody and starting a brand new life somewhere else? 

Franklin damn sure remembered his last thoughts when the final bullet shot through his back. 

Please. Not yet. I’m not ready. I need more time. 

Eyes stayed locked until uneasiness made it uncomfortable that one of them had to say something. 

“My mama wanted me to bring this. For Alton and Cissy. They home?” 

Tone’s matched. Shock mingled with hesitancy and excretion. One that soothed against mental turmoil. He lowered his gaze to her grip on the red pot, nodded, and with a clench of the jaw, bit back anguish. 

“Went to a movie or sumthin’. You can leave it for her. She’ll get it later.” 

When she made her way inside, her passion twist sung. She wore an off the shoulder sweater paired with high-waisted acid-wash denim jeans. High tops in a bold pattern that complimented her sweater because of the speckles of teal throughout. Dramatic eyeliner, and two chunky gold bracelets on her left wrist. She smelled amazing. The perfume from the amusement park. 

As he wandered to the counter, he watched Beanz. Bright yellow paint adorned the walls, a sunny kind of hue. A mismatched collection of magnets clung to the refrigerator. Franklin stepped onto the cool tile floor, a sensation grounding him in a swirl of memories. She pulled a small white envelope and laid it against the side of the pot in full view for Cissy and Alton to find upon their return, avoiding his eyes while her fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the kitchen table. A wide, round piece that had accommodated countless meals. 

Part of him wanted to feel reassured. For her to stay, talk a while, catch him up. Other parts longed for freedom. For the ability to breathe without the weight of their unresolved issues pressing down. 

“Thanks for letting me in.”

She finished swiftly, back in the living room, eagerly moving toward the door. 

“Man. Beanz, Damnit hold up! Can we just-” 

A lightning of shock rocked down his back and legs. The sudden surge made him cry out, eyes pressed tightly together as he placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. 

“Oh, my God. You’re bleeding!”   

The nightmares hadn’t been kind to his bandages. All the thrashing and fighting he’d been doing disturbed his injuries. Now on his knees hunched over rocking back and forth in an effort to calm the whaling that encompassed his body, he found praying might bring an end to the pain. 

“You should have a crutch or a cane to walk with Franklin.”

“I do have a cane,” he gritted out. “Alton bought it for me. Don’t need it. I can walk fine.” 

“Right. Tell me where and I’ll go get it.”

“Just help me back to my room B. I’ll be fine once I sit down.” 

Briefly, she reminded him of his mother, Cissy. 

Through Hell or High Water, they made it. 

 She’d noticed the cane and the prescription.

“I see this isn’t the only thing you’re not following orders about.” 

She picked up the bottle, appearing to read the back instructions before a small smack of the teeth made him cautious of her disappointment. 

“You need to take some of these?” 

He only touched alcohol once. Weed had never been his thing. A time or two, Kevin and Leon gave him shit for it. Once they found out that his resolve would not waver, they left it alone. Pills were like those things. 

“Naw.” He protested. “Don’t want um. They mess with my mind. Fuck with my dreams.” 

 Obviously, she disagreed. Uncomfortable with her expression, he breathed out, already exhausted by what she might say.

“Has nothing to do with your dreams. Sounds more like your conscience is accusing you, Frank.” 

He narrowed his eyes. Whether a dismissal or an accusation, he remembered the time he rode with Andre. How do you sleep at night? Knowing all the things he’d done, a small chuckle left him. A little joke between himself and that conscience that she mentioned. Whether she caught on or not, he didn’t know. At the moment, it wasn’t the most important aspect of her statement. Perhaps in a small taste of revenge, Aundre called his bluff, despite the snarky rebuttal to the question that he gave so callously, Like a baby. The truth was, he had hardly had a restless sleep since.

When She held out her hand with the two green pills sitting nicely on her palm, he regarded her eyes.  

“Hm.” 

A slight shake of the head, he shifted his position on the bed. “No thank you,” he shot back. 

She only moved her hand closer. “It’s not a request, Franklin Saint. So here. Take them.” 

He sat still, this time silent, curtly before he leaned forward with a grunt, grabbed the two pills, and tossed them in his mouth. The horrible feeling of swallowing them down without water only lasted a second before they were gone. 

“Now. Where’s the stuff so I can get you cleaned up?”

He made a head gesture toward the hallway. 

“Bathroom.” 

A well-used tote bag slung over her shoulder upon return to his room. It’s contents, crinkling with the promise of relief, but also despair. Franklin had encountered many dualities of late. He looked at the plastic, then at her. 

For the most part, he closed his eyes, taking on the sensations of the cold and dry things that touched his skin. She inquired, tugged at the ends of his shirt and he helped her get it off, hating the entire process as it worsened the levels to a staggering degree. With the removal of the previous coverings, her facial expression changed. 

“Franklin,” she murmured. “What kind of dreams?” 

He sighed heavily as the coolness of the cleaning product ran over a raw area of the wound. “You mean the nightmares? I’ve had a lot. None ever really the same. Except the fire.” 

“Fire?”  

“Yeah. I’d be running down the street. My block. Flames chase me. Igniting trees. When I wake up, I’m always hot. I’m running in my own personal hell.” 

He noticed she had stopped working.

“Sit up a bit,” she instructed gently, helping to adjust against the pillows.

He held back the grimace through a toothy grin. When the grin left, he replaced it with a hum. Still pissed off, he thought. Maybe not outright, but the passive aggressiveness was evident. He couldn’t really blame her for keeping an emotional distance. His near death experience hadn’t rendered his memories useless. Unfortunately for her, up close, he read a person pretty well. She was desperate to ignore the tremors beneath her facade of strength. The Beanz that cleaned his wounds was not the Beanz he knew. 

“Why Franklin?”

The question came unexpectedly. 

“Why what?” He replied, weariness evident in his tone. 

“Why did you say those things? Is that how you really feel? Nothing at all…” 

“You want the truth?” 

“I do. I deserve it.” 

He nodded, keeping her in his view. “Then the truth is this. I was selfish.” 

A pause came after, but nothing followed. It really was that simple. He couldn’t explain it away or dress it up. 

“Okay. That’s fair.”

She didn’t sound satisfied with the answer, but she didn’t press him to give her any more than what he provided by the time she’d finished up and began to gather all the solid cotton. 

“It was real. I did feel something Beanz. And it scared me.” 

He looked in her direction. 

Her pressing questions at the repass had made him angry. Almost as angry as the conversation with Reed had those couple of days after he’d shot Aundre. Neither Beanz nor the white man who’d become his cocaine supplier much by force than an exchange of respectable businessmen, spoke with a pestering temper. The conversations mirrored one another, each pulling for answers from him. The result, unfortunately, had been his detached coldness. She got all the pent up poignancy he’d been bottling up. 

“You really hurt me, Franklin.”

The weight of guilt settled on his shoulders. The statement haunted him as he memorized the expression on her face. “That’s why I’m asking for your forgiveness.” He leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper, reaching out as if drawn by an invisible thread of reason. His fingers brushed against hers. “Forgive me.” 

He’d lost his composure at the amusement park. That, he admitted to himself. The boundaries between the older brother’s best friend and potential lover blurred with a single kiss. It wasn’t that he hadn’t meant to kiss her with her favorite song playing. He had. It came at the perfect opportunity to express feelings he’d been battling with.

The making of a moment she described when speaking about Darnell, the dance, and the dress. 

The kiss in front of the Ferris wheel, their moment. 

Later that night, he’d made a quick trip up to Darnell’s after picking up Peaches. Although it hadn’t been his own fist to caution any more involvement with her, Franklin was certain that Darnell had got the message loud and clear. No action on Leon’s part needed. The prior Vietnam war vet’s hand was so bruised the next day he’d wrapped up his wailing knuckles by the time the afternoon came around. Franklin guessed Darnell’s face would take at least a month to heal. But that was the point. What he loved, he protected. 

“I thought you died.” 

Franklin hadn’t expected her to say that, nor had he expected arms to circle around his neck to offer any warmth. It hurt briefly, the initial contact, but there was nothing that would make him break the hug she provided him. 

Seconds past, his own arms wrapped over the lower part of her back. The way she hugged him might have exposed true desires all along. She’d disciplined herself while cleaning his wounds, but Franklin knew the resolve would wane, eventually. Her body trembled against his chest momentarily, and he realized she had started to cry. 

The Beanz he’d been with on the Ferris wheel. The one vulnerable and open resurfaced. 

“There was so much blood on the floor. On you,” she said. A note of trepidation in her voice. “I was mad. Mad at you for how you treated me. I’d made up my mind that I wouldn't talk to you. It was different when it all became the real thing. That you could, actually die on Aundre Wright’s living room floor. That I’d never get the chance to tell you I didn’t mean it. That I was sorry. That my anger got the best of me.” 

He frowned, the memories flooding back in vivid detail. The gun, Mel and utter darkness. 

“I didn’t know what to do. If I did enough, if I made it worse…”

He removed her arms, so they faced one another. Her eyeliner still presented well despite the circumstances. Franklin stared into brown eyes, mixed with empathy and resolve. They were at war. The real reason he pushed her away. Casualties happened in war all the time. He would never be able to live with himself, knowing he had something to do with his best friend’s little sister getting hurt, or worse. Leon wouldn’t forgive him. As long as he himself obtained such war scars, he’d never feel sorry. It all boiled down to choices. He’d  chosen to shoot Kevin, and he chose to shoot Andre. He wouldn’t walk away unharmed. Just his turn, that was all. 

He moved, intention clear as he leaned closer. 

“You saved my life, Beanz. That was more than enough.” He told her, voice steady. “I probably would have bled out, completely alone. But because of you, I didn’t. I’m alive. And I’m thankful.”

He felt himself drawn in, and it happened with a nervous exhale from her, as he closed the distance, tension before their lips met softly, tentative and unsure, then deepening as heads moved. Was it the sting of tragedy pulling toward this need? He deliberated. Or was he hoping to provide her assurance? 

They separated, but never very far, foreheads pressed against the other. Oddly, perhaps scared or cautious like children trying not to get caught doing something they shouldn’t, they both waited. 

Franklin remembered how the first kiss tasted: a mixture of ice cream and funnel cake. All the makings of the night they shared together, laced with heavy conversation and comfort. The kiss this time was nothing but her, raw and unfiltered. He found that he liked this one the best. 

Damn, why did temptation offer all the sweet nothings? A hesitant kiss blooming into something deeper and more passionate. He thought long and hard about it all the days of his recovery. 

What if South Central hadn’t been burning from the inside? 

What if Leon gave his blessing? 

What if everyone walked away happy? 

What if he could really have the life he wanted? 

What if…

The pills started to take effect. Maybe he still wavered on the low plains of a dream. His own imagination, slipping into another sweet moment of comfort. He couldn’t make the distinction. Either way, she’d brought him back, standing as she prepared herself to leave him. 

“I should probably go. Girls’ night at Tiara’s. I’m already late.”  

He reached out to grab onto her wrist, firmly but not unkind. The pain flared anew with such a daring action since the medication had not dulled the aching completely, but he ignored its rage. 

“Leshanda…”

He watched her stop abruptly in place and stare at him. He never used her name. Hadn’t in years. 

“Do you? Do you forgive me?” 

“Yes.” Her expression shifted, with some form of condolence to it. “I do. Anything you’ve done, you’ve paid for it and then some.” 

 With the bite of tears on the rise, those words made his gaze divert. He didn’t deserve forgiveness, but was glad at least to have hers. A grin came and went. He nodded and he let her go. 

“So, uh where y’all going? Skating or sumthin?” 

She shook her head and lowered it. “No uh. Just to Tiara’s. Me, Charisma, Moe Moe, and Jaz. In Fact I really should call them. Let them know I’m on my way.” 

One of his eyebrows rose in earnest. “Staying in. On a Friday night?” 

“Uh, huh. That’s bout’ the only place my mama let me go these days. It’s gotten real bad with the gangs and all that. Lotta shootings lately. Everybody’s on edge. With good reason I guess.” 

He sighed and settled back on the cushions of his pillows inviting a quieting of their voices before she spoke.  

“Franklin. I gotta ask something of you.” 

He focused on her. 

“Maybe that’s the most logical decision. Walking away. After what you been through. But Lee needs you.” 

His gaze moved, traveling the places in his room that held the most light. A desperation swung on her words. One he didn’t like. 

“I’m scared for him,” she continued. “He can be hotheaded. You know him. He’s not gonna back down. You need each other. So please, try your best to fix this. For all our sake.” 

His eyes came back on hers, a flicker of resistance crossing his face right before he lifted his chin and a grin met his lips while he nodded. 

“I will.”

She nodded. The place between them stretched far and before tears could hit her pretty brown eyes, he heard the urgency fill her voice. 

“Kay. Yeah, phone call right, let me.” She stopped, not finishing her sentence, as something in the far corner of the bed seemed to catch her attention. “Wait, is that…” 

He threw a glance over his shoulder, taking in the pink and purple fur that held a distinct shine. 

“That’s my bear.” She confirmed. “The one from the…” 

“Yep.”

“Ha, I kinda thought I wouldn’t see it again. You kept it?”

That film of tears surfaced in her eyes for the second time. 

“Course.” A soft chuckle escaped. “Took me like three tries. No way I was leaving it behind.” 

She blinked a few times and the tears never fell. “Three. Right. More like ten and some change.” 

His smile grew. “You gonna do me like that?” 

They both laughed and when the laughter settled, so did some of the pain.  

“This got me through the healing process. I had something to hold on to.” He gave the stuffed animal a squeeze before he lifted the teddy bear in her direction. “But, it doesn't belong to me. Won this for you.” 

She stretched out her hand, only to pull back slowly and rest it at her side. 

“No. You keep it Franklin.” 

He lowered the teddy bear back in its place on the edge of the bed. 

She took a shaky breath. “Well, what are you gonna do?”

“Let these pills kick in. Probably post up in the living room. Watch cartoons. Them ol’ funny ones from the 1940s.”

“1940’s, huh?”

“Yeah. A marathon with no commercials.”

“Well. Sounds like a good night. You and some cartoons. Mind if I use the phone?” 

“Course. You know where it is.” 

“Thanks.”

His heart sat heavy as she turned the corner down the hall. He’d watched her the same way the day of Andre’s funeral. Pretty soon he heard her voice, faintly. He offered the empty room a bittersweet smile, preparing his mind for the walk to the living room and old cartoon marathon. From the window the stars outside blinked awake, scattered jewels across the canvas of dark sky. Beauty amidst his ache. 

When she reemerged at the door frame, he sat up.

“Hope you don’t mind. But. Change of plans.” She laid her jacket over the top of the chair at his desk. “Thought you could use some company.” A little smirk grew on her. “Just so happens. I like old cartoons.” She drew up one of her fingers eagerly with a sense of playful glee. “Annnd, that stew my mama made sounds so good right now. Thought we might eat us a bowl.”

He sat still, looking and quiet, the bite rose up again and he lifted his chin. The smile that came this time filled him with gratefulness. She wasn't leaving. 

“Thanks Beanz. For sticking around.” 

“Don't mention it.” She smacked her hands down on her legs and made her way over to him. “Whelp. Let's get this show on the road then.”

“Alright.” He reached over to his drawer and took out one of his clean t-shirts and put it on. “Help me up so I can lean on that wall right there.” 

With a roll of the eyes, she shook her head at the request. “Nun uh,” she countered, taking a step back to grab the cane. Just like the pills, she offered it. “You use this thing.” 

“Man B come on. Just help me,” he ventured, eyes searching as he pushed it away. 

“No. I’m serious. So here, come on.” She offered a second time. 

He took a deep breath and lowered his head. “I don't wanna depend on that thing for the rest of my life. Shouldn't get used to it.” 

“Look. Don’t you remember? Lee walked with a cane for a lil’ bit after he got shot. And he doesn’t walk with it now. Does he?” 

He let a few seconds pass before he answered. “He doesn't.”

“Well then. Pretty soon you won’t either. It's only for a lil bit Frank. Come on. Please…”

He sighed, reached out, and took the cane. As he positioned his weight, she encouraged the process, standing close enough that he could lean in if he lost balance. He took it slowly, step by step, awkward and unsteady. A hint of a grin played on the corner of his lips as her words filled in his ears. 

“You got this, easy, that’s good, one after the other, keep taking those steps forward.” 

He drew in a deep breath and continued to lift the cane ahead of him. You got one job in this life Saint, he surmised. So do it, with all you have. 

A/N: To my wonderful reader @vile-harlot who requested this part three of the Franklin Saint and Beanz Simmons saga! I actually really got into this one. All in all, I hope you enjoyed the read! Thanks for all the support. 

you giggle in response to his cute behaviour while he rolls his eyes and sulks in his usual childish manner. you remember that day as if it was yesterday. you were looking for your brother, aran ojiro, who was supposedly in the sports hall. it didn't help at the time that you were quite new to the school at the time, so you didn't know what to expect when you opened the door. what you didn't know is that, miya atsumu, was practicing his spikes just as you were entering the gymnasium to meet your brother. the ball came flying towards the centre of your face sending you crashing to the ground, all your notes and stationery spewed around your fallen figure.

" that was an amazing spike though y/n " he flexes giving you a cheeky, expecting you to forgive him. you kiss your in response. you turn to face him, your left arm forming a triangle to support your head as you lie on your side. "you're so beautiful, atsumu", you whisper.

for a few moments, he is astonished and speechless. "do you think 'm pretty, baby?". you respond with a genuine nod. your love, kindness and attentiveness make him feel like he loved unconditionally. he's never felt anything so. lovely and pleasurable before. he leans forward and kisses you in the lips, a kiss so soft and deep you can't help but slip your tongue. " i love you so much, y/n", he gazes into your eyes holding your cheek in the palm of his hands, his thumb lightly caressing your smooth skin.

"i love you too, atsumu"

thank you for reading, rbs are appreciated ♡︎

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