#finding angel

The atmosphere of Exotica is thick with tension, smoke, and the heady mix of whiskey and desire. The dim lights paint shadows across the room, highlighting glimpses of glistening skin and hypnotic movements on the stage, dancing for the royalty that graces them with their presence. 

The Tribal Chief himself, the OTC, Roman Reigns, leans back in the plush leather seat of the VIP booth, the low hum of bass vibrating under his feet as he swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass. He is flanked by the Bloodline—his twin cousins Jimmy and Jey Uso, cracking jokes, their deep laughs mixing with the club’s music, and Sami Zayn, ever the oddball, trying to keep up with their rhythm. But Roman isn’t in the mood for their antics tonight. His eyes, sharp and commanding, scan the room with practiced ease, surveying his surroundings.

He exudes power, raw and undeniable. The kind of power that makes the atmosphere in the club shift when he entered. People notice him, revere him, but Roman isn’t here for attention tonight. He is here to relax, to unwind from the pressures of leading the Bloodline.  

His gaze drifts across the stage where a line of dancers twirl around the poles gleaming under the flickering lights. Their movements blend into a hypnotic mix of practiced sexuality and polished choreography, but none of it holds his attention. Beside him, Jimmy and Jey are fully engaged, tossing dollar bills at the dancers twerking before them with boisterous excitement. Meanwhile, Sami shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his face flushing bright crimson when one dancer comes prowling over to him. Roman, however, remains detached, his eyes scanning the scene with disinterest, as if waiting for something—or someone—worth his time.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the marquee attraction, the super duper star herself, the reason why y’all are here tonight, Angel!”

The room erupts into cheers, the energy shifting as the spotlight centers on the main stage. Roman’s disinterest wavers as his eyes instinctively follow the light.

Out of the shadows steps a woman with commanding grace. Tall, blessed with impossibly long legs, dangerous curves and a boat load of charisma. Her rich skin glows with a warmth that rivals the whiskey in his hand. Her dazzling gold outfit shimmers with every twist of her hips. The stage name “Angel” glitters in tiny diamonds on the choker around her neck, but Roman knows immediately that there’s more to her than the superficial allure of the costume and skyscraper platform heels. There is a grace to her movements, a quiet confidence that separates her from the other strippers he’s seen tonight.

He’s not seeing this one. He’s watching. Closely.

Jimmy and Jey whoop and whistle, tossing more bills into the air, but Roman barely notices. His gaze is transfixed on her, his earlier disinterest dissolved completely. Unlike the others, there’s something about her presence; something that demands attention beyond the surface level.

Angel ascends the pole with ease, her body swaying and twisting with a sensuality that feels more like art than routine. This isn’t just another dancer. There’s something deeper to uncover here, something rare, coveted. The other women around her strip with a hard edge, but she possesses a real sultry and sensual flair to her act, a dignity to her performance. She exudes a class that stands out in places like this, a queen in the midst of chaos, and Roman feels the pull instantly.

The atmosphere in the VIP room is electric, but Roman barely notices the commotion around him. His gaze stays locked on the woman commanding the stage. With a fluid shimmy, she slides down the pole, landing in a flawless split that sets the room ablaze with cheers and flying bills. She owns the space with a power, confidence, and a magnetism Roman can’t tear his eyes away from. It’s not just her beauty; it’s the way she carries herself, the way she seems untouchable yet utterly captivating. 

“Man, she fine as hell,” Jey murmurs beside him, his voice carrying a clear undercurrent of desire.

Roman’s jaw tightens ever so slightly. His eyes don’t leave her for a second. “Yeah,” he says, his tone measured but firm. “She is.”

Jey leans back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m thinkin’ I might need to go say somethin’ to her after this.”

Roman finally turns his head, fixing Jey with a sharp look that shuts his cousin up mid-thought. It’s not just a glance. It’s deeper than that...A warning, as he cuts him off with a low, commanding voice, “Don’t waste your time.”

Jey raises a brow, his expression half-amused, half-irritated. “Word? You callin’ dibs now, bro?”

Roman’s lips curve into a slight smirk, but there’s no humor in it, only certainty. “Dude, ain’t you married?” he points out. 

“So? What she don’t know won’t hurt her,” Jey shrugs.

Jimmy lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair as he catches the tension between his twin and his cousin and decides to instigate. “Not y’all eyeing up the same chick again. We ain’t kids no more, man.”

Sami chuckles, raising his glass. “Nah, I’m enjoying this. May the best man win, Uce.”

Roman ignores them, his focus returning to the woman as she twerks her ass while in a split, her moves hypnotic, provocative. He’s not about to let this turn into a competition, especially not with Jey. Whatever this pull is, it’s his to figure out, and he won’t let anyone get in his way. Not even family.

Angel glances in his direction, her sultry gaze lingering on him for the briefest moment. It’s not a look she gives anyone else in the room, and Roman feels a spark of something primal ignite within him.

And with that, his mind is made up. Whatever it takes, Angel is about to find out that when Roman Reigns wants something...or someone...he gets it.

Always.

After her set ends, a bouncer helps her gather all the money littering the stage and she leaves with it, the sway of her hips mesmerizing. Bag in hand, she slithers through the crowd gracefully, acknowledging patrons with polite smiles but never lingering. Roman’s eyes follow her until she disappears behind the curtains. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. 

He wants to know more. Needs to.

The conversation with his boys is forgotten as he stands with his drink, towering over the table with an air of quiet authority. He adjusts the cuff of his black button-down shirt, the tailored fabric stretching over his broad chest.

“Where you goin’, Uce?” Jey asks as he sips his whiskey.

Roman doesn’t respond and leaves no room for further questions.

The twins share a wary glance while Sami simply shrugs, watching as Roman disappears into the dimly lit crowd. The Tribal Chief is on a mission, and nothing, not even their curiosity, will interfere.

He maneuvers through the club with purpose, his imposing frame parting the sea of patrons like a king among men. He spots her near the back of the club, standing by the bar. Up close, she is even more captivating. Her skin, the color of Switzerland’s finest chocolate, shimmers under the club’s ambient light, and her long, shapely legs seem to go on forever. She has changed into a sheer black robe that hints at the gold costume beneath, her hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. She sips a glass of wine with an air of nonchalance, ignoring the eager stares of men around her, including his.

Roman approaches, his presence impossible to ignore. When she turns her head to look at him, he feels the full impact of her eyes with the force of a locomotive; almond shaped, slanted, sharp and assessing. Stunning. She doesn’t fawn over him like so many others do. Instead, she regards him with quiet curiosity, as if she can see right through the aura of dominance he wears like armor.

“Angel,” Roman greets, his voice low but commanding.

She raises an eyebrow, her full lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. “That’s what they call me,” she replies, her voice melodic, the tone smooth and confident. “And you are?”

“Roman.”

“Roman,” she repeats, savoring the sound of his name. “You been sittin’ in that VIP booth like you own the place.”

“I could say the same about you,” he counters, his eyes never leaving hers. “You move like you own the stage.”

Her smile widens slightly, and she takes a slow sip of her wine. “Cause I do,” she says matter-of-factly. He believes her. “So, what brings the king down from his throne tonight? Lookin’ for a little entertainment?”

“I’m lookin’ for you,” he says simply, his honesty catching her off guard.

Angel pauses. It’s a line she’s probably used to hearing, but Roman can see the flicker of intrigue in her eyes. She sets her glass down and leans slightly against the bar, her body language relaxed but her gaze sharp.

“And now you’ve found me. What do you want, Roman?”

“To get to know you.” His words are deliberate, cutting through the noise around them.

Angel rolls her eyes. “Now where have I heard that before?”

Roman’s lips curve into a faint smirk, his gaze unwavering. “Probably from dudes who didn’t mean it.”

Angel’s brow arches, the sharpness in her eyes softening just slightly. He leans in, his deep voice lowering enough to make the words feel intimate, even amidst the noise of the room.

“But I’m not them, Angel. I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”

Her posture stiffens for a moment, caught off guard by the weight in his tone. Most men come to her with lines coated in empty charm, but there is something in his voice, calm, steady, and unrelenting, that makes it hard to dismiss him outright.

She tilts her head, studying him. “So, you think I’ll just tell you my life story cuz you asked nicely?”

“No,” Roman concedes with a slight smirk. “I think you’ll tell me what you want me to know. For now.”

Her laughter is soft but genuine, and Roman feels the sound settle warmly in his chest. “Cocky, ain’t ya?”

“Not if I back it up. And nine times outta ten, I do.”

Angel steps closer, her warm, floral perfume drifting around him like a soft embrace. She places a manicured hand lightly on his chest, watching as his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment at her touch. This isn’t the first time she’s seen a man react to her this way, but there's something about this moment and this man that sends a distinct rush of pride through her. Her fingers graze the smooth fabric of his shirt, lingering just enough to feel the tension beneath.

“Come on.” She glances over her shoulder, nodding toward a discreet hallway that leads to the club’s ‘champagne’ rooms.

Roman’s pulse quickens, but he keeps his composure. He follows her, his hand instinctively resting on the small of her back as they navigate through the crowd. He ignores the looks and whispers, his focus entirely on the woman in front of him.

The room is dark, save for a single crimson lamp in the corner casting an intimate glow. A plush leather couch sits in the center, and the faint scent of vanilla lingers in the air. Angel closes the door behind them, her demeanor shifting slightly. She is still confident, still in control, but there is a softness to her now...a vulnerability that intrigues Roman even more.

“Sit,” she motions to the couch.

Roman obeys, his broad shoulders taking up more space than the seat seems to allow. He leans back, his legs spread slightly, his hands resting on his thighs as he watches her with an intensity that makes her pulse race.

Angel moves to the small stereo in the corner, selecting a track with a slow, sultry beat. ‘Pornstar’. A classic. As August Alsina’s voice fills the room, Angel turns to face him, her hips swaying from left to right, fluid and mesmerizing. She unties the sash of her robe, letting the sheer fabric slip from her shoulders and pool at her feet. 

Roman’s eyes darken as he drinks in her killer figure; the curves of her hips, the length of her legs, the sprinkle of butterfly tattoos on her right pelvis, dangerously close to her crotch. The skimpy costume clings to her like it’s painted on her. But it’s not just her body that captivates him; it’s the confidence in every step she takes.

Turning her back, Angel sways from side to side, then rolls in circular motions. She goes slow, bending her knees as her hips move left and right, letting Roman drink in her aura. He licks his lips as his eyes rest on the rhythmic twerking of her plump, round ass, his dick jumping in response to that blessed sight, forcing him to shift in his seat to ease the tightness in his pants. Her curves are to die for, toned and thick all at once. He can feel his pulse quickening yet again tonight, and not just from desire—from something deeper. Something he can’t quite name. His hands remain on his thighs, his body still, his eyes following every movement, absorbing the energy she radiates.

Angel turns and approaches him, loving the heat in his eyes drifting back and forth between her face and her body. She smooths her hands along his solid thighs, memorizing the feel of him. She has to admit; his sheer size and strength is extremely sexy. She gauges him at six-three and well over two hundred and fifty pounds of pure hard muscle. She places her hands on his shoulders, leaning in just enough for him to catch the heat of her breath against his skin.

“This what you came for, baby?” she murmurs, her voice teasing but laced with something deeper.

Roman looks up at her. “I came for you,” he responds, his voice rough with sincerity.

Angel giggles at the (possibly) unintentional double entendre and bends at the waist, ensuring he can see her bountiful cleavage. She places her palms on his knees and pushes them further apart. Giving a sultry whip of her hair, she stares at him through her long lashes as she swings one leg over his, then the other, and straddles his lap. A soft moan leaves her lips as the hard ridge of his length presses through his pants. He feels…big. Heavy, like the rest of him, and she acknowledges so by rolling her hips back and forth, grinding on him, her body pressed to his in a way that sends electricity coursing through them both. 

“You can touch me,” she says out of the blue.

Roman looks at her, eyes cloudy but determined to attain her consent. “You sure?”

“Mm-hmm.”

His hands find her waist, his grip firm but respectful as she moves on him to the beat of the music. Feeling like she’s teased him enough, she unhooks her corset and lets it fall away. Roman swallows hard as her breasts are revealed to him. Beautiful and round and full. His eyes light up when he sees the tiny silver bars piercing each of her nipples, enhancing the naughty side of her. He aches to feel them in his palms but decides not to push his luck. She’s already breaking the no-touch rule for him.

The dim glow of the private room shrouds them like a secret, the bass of the music outside fading into a distant thrum. Angel dances on Roman with a slow, intentional rhythm, her curves molding to him in a way that feels impossibly intimate. Her arms wind around his broad shoulders, her breath hitching as his strong hands caress her body, his touch firm yet reverent.

Caught up in the moment, she leans in and presses a soft, instinctive kiss to his neck, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver through her. Roman’s low groan in response, his grip tightening as if anchoring her to him, makes her pulse race. Their bodies move like they’ve done this a thousand times in the throes of lovemaking, the line between dancer and client blurring into something deep and electric, as she focuses solely on pleasing him, and judging from the heat in his eyes, she's succeeding.

As the song fades, she remains on his lap, her fingers on the back of his neck, teasing the tiny strands of hair that aren’t slicked down with the rest of his man bun. She leans in, her lips hovering near his ear.

“You wanna know me like you say you do?” she whispers, “You gotta earn it.”

Her words are a challenge, and Roman welcomes it. “I will.”

Angel’s breath hitches as his intense gaze pins her in place. For a man who radiates power and control, his eyes betray something deeper; curiosity, tenderness, and an undeniable hunger that mirrors her own. She knows the rules, though. Getting too close, letting herself feel something for a customer, is dangerous. For him and her. But with Roman, the lines can’t help but blur. She has no idea what it is about him; his quiet strength, his unwavering focus, or the way he seems to see her beyond the surface; but she finds herself wanting desperately to let him in. 

Roman’s hands remain on Angel’s waist, his thumbs brushing her warm skin just above the swell of her hips. The room feels smaller somehow, the air thinning with an intensity that neither can ignore.

“What’s your name? Your real name,” he asks, his deep voice cutting through the charged silence of the room. 

She hesitates for a moment, her instinct to deflect warring with the pull she feels toward him. 

“Naima.”

Roman repeats it, her name rolling off his tongue with a smoothness that sprouts goosebumps all over her skin. “Naima. Beautiful, like you,” he says simply, as though the name alone tells him everything he needs to know.

She studies him for a moment, her dark eyes searching his face, trying to read him. “Roman suits you,” she assesses, “Regal. Strong. Unyielding.” Her fingers skim down the front of his shirt, her touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “But there’s more to you, isn’t there?”

Roman smirks. “Just like there’s more to you.”

The moment stretches between them, the air thickening with unspoken words. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, they lean closer, hearts hammering like they’ve been waiting for this moment. Roman’s hand cups her jaw, their mouths a hair’s breadth apart. 

“Tell me if I’m crossing a line,” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle.

Naima shakes her head, her heated gaze flicking to his mouth. Reaching for his glass of whiskey, their eyes remain locked as she takes a lingering sip, the rich warmth of the drink coating her lips. She then leans in, sliding her tongue into his mouth. The smoky flavor of the whiskey mingles with their shared desire, igniting the moment into something electric as their mouths meet in a slow yet deliberate exploration. 

Roman’s lips are warm and firm, his beard soft on her face. And the way he holds her—possessive yet tender—makes Naima’s knees weak. Every rule she has set for herself is currently being broken, but it feels so right. As the kiss deepens, tongues teasing, tasting, she melts into him, her hand anchored to the back of his neck as the world outside the room disappears. The tension between them shifts, transforming from anticipation into something more profound. 

When they finally pull apart, both are breathless. As their foreheads rest together, Naima lets out a soft, nervous laugh. “Wow. That was…”

“...Yeah, it was,” Roman admits, gazing at her.

She lingers on his lap, in his arms, her heart still racing. “I don’t usually do this,” she starts, her fingers caressing his neck in a move that feels oddly familiar even though they’ve never met before.

Roman smiles, gently rubbing her back. “I don’t, either.”

She chuckles softly, her voice tinged with disbelief. “You? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it. I’m not here for games, Naima.” His voice is firm, grounding her in the moment. “I saw you out there, and I knew I needed to meet you. Now that I have, I’m not walking away without knowing more.”

The intensity of his words sends a shiver through her. She’s not used to men wanting more than a fleeting fantasy. She’s used to their attention, but not like this. She has to wonder what this gorgeous, powerful man could possibly want with someone like her. But in his gaze, she doesn’t see the hunger of a man merely looking for a night of pleasure. Hell, she’s sitting on top of him, titties exposed, and yet he’s kept his eyes on her face the entire time. There’s a quiet sincerity about him that unsettles her in the best way.

Hesitating for a moment, she slides off his lap and puts her outfit back on, smoothing her hands down her hips as she steadies herself. “You’re different, Roman. I can feel it. But I need to know. Why me?”

He leans back on the couch, his eyes never leaving hers. “Because...” he starts, then pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. “You’ve got this strength, this...presence. You walk into a room, and everything stops. And you’re not even trying. That’s rare.”

Her lips part, and for a moment, she’s unsure how to respond. Compliments in her world are usually shallow, surface-level. But this? Roman speaks as if he sees right through the carefully constructed walls she’s built over the years.

“You don’t know me, though,” she whispers.

“Not yet.” He stands, towering over her, his presence commanding yet gentle. He reaches into his wallet. “But I want to.” His touch is equally gentle as he takes her hand and places a thick wad of $100 bills into it. Her eyes widen slightly, but before she can speak, he leans in close, his voice deep and warm. "That’s not for the dance," he says. "It’s for your time. I’m hoping you’ll spend more of it with me tonight."

Naima glances at the money, then back at him, a spark of amusement and curiosity lighting her eyes.

“I don’t like to mix business with pleasure,” she says, teasing but cautious.

Roman smirks that half-smile of his that she’s already growing to like. “Good thing this ain’t business anymore.”

Naima exhales, feeling the weight of his words settle over her. She wants to believe him, to let herself be vulnerable just this once. But trust isn’t easy for her. Not anymore.

Still, something about Roman makes her want to take that risk.

“Alright, then.” She glances toward the curtain. “Let’s get out of here.”

His brow lifts. “Where do you wanna go?”

“There’s a little café a few blocks from here,” she says, surprising herself with the suggestion. “It’s quiet this time of night. We can talk.”

Roman nods. “Lead the way.”

Her lips curve into a small smile, the tension easing as she nods. “Let me go change first and we’ll go.”

As she leaves the room, Naima can’t help but look down again at the wad of cash in her hand. It’s not just the money. It’s the way he gave it to her, the care in his gesture.

For the first time in a long time, she feels appreciated. And as they step into the night, hand in hand a few minutes later, she can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary is about to begin.

Thoughts on the first chapter? Should I keep going?

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Naima sits at her desk, the glow of her laptop screen the only light in the quiet bedroom. It’s well past midnight, but sleep isn’t even a thought. Not when she’s been obsessing over every cut, every transition, every second of this video.

Their first Valentine’s Day.

She wants this to be right. Not extravagant, not over the top—just something that means something. Something that captures what they’ve become.

A year ago, she never could’ve imagined this. That he would be hers. That she’d be sitting here, heart full, carefully piecing together their story, one that unfolded in ways she never expected but, somehow, felt inevitable.

With a practiced eye, she scrolls through her camera roll, pulling out clips that define them.

Roman carrying her suitcase through an airport, looking back at her with that teasing smirk.

A blurry shot of them laughing in the car, her filming him as he rants about Atlanta traffic.

His big hand wrapped around hers as they walk through a city, fingers interlocked like they always should be.

A quiet moment in bed, his arm slung over her waist, sharing soft, sweet kisses that were clearly leading to something more.

A snippet of her in the crowd at his match at last year’s Wrestlemania, eyes locked on him, the camera catching the pride on her face.

Her surprising him with his favorite sushi tray one random afternoon, him beaming at the camera as he holds them up.

Him showering her with hundred-dollar bills at Exotica, her laughing as she twerks on him, giving him his money’s worth, Jimmy and Naomi hyping them up in the VIP section.

A clip of them at the beach, her on his back, both of them soaked from the ocean waves.

The late-night drive where she caught him singing along to a song he swore he didn’t know.

She threads them together seamlessly, using the same precision she applies to her work on the Elysian Moves Instagram page. The pacing, the music, the way each moment flows into the next—it all has to feel right. Like them.

She keeps the full video at a minute, a perfect distillation of what they are. Then she creates a shorter, 30-second version for Instagram, something the world can see.

But it’s the captions that make it.

Little statements appear throughout the video, subtle yet intentional.

I didn’t see you coming, but somehow, you’ve always felt meant to be.

You are home.

I didn’t just fall in love with you. I ran into love with you.

My safe space. My love. My person.

And at the very end, the words that make her heart tighten as she types them out:

I love you, Roman.

Naima exhales, staring at the finished product.

She hopes he feels this.

The wheels of the jet touch down with a smooth glide, and Roman exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he leans back in his seat. He’s flown in and out of Atlanta more times than he can count, but these days, the trips feel different.

For years, this city had been a checkpoint. A place he passed through for work, for college, for obligations that didn’t leave much room for sentimentality. Georgia Tech was where he honed his discipline, his drive. Back then, Atlanta had been about chasing a dream. But now, it’s about her.

Naima.

This city—her city—has become something else entirely. A place that pulls him back in ways he never expected. He used to come here for matches, media, appearances. Now? Now he comes because he wants to. Because she’s here.

His schedule isn’t as relentless as it used to be, something he made sure of. A few years ago, the thought of stepping back from WWE, of letting someone else carry the load, would’ve been unthinkable. But things change. Priorities shift. He spent over a decade giving everything to the business. He’s still him, still the Tribal Chief, still at the top—but he’s also a man who wants more than just titles and main events.

He wants her.

And if cutting back means more time with Naima, more time wrapped up in her warmth, in her world, then it’s worth it. She’s worth it.

As the jet rolls to a stop, he rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaling.

Valentine’s Day.

He’s never been the sentimental type. His last couple of Valentine’s had been…transactional, at best. A quick call to his assistant, a luxury gift delivered to Princess, his ex-fiancée, a generic message attached. No real thought. No real feeling. Just an obligation.

But this year is different.

This year, he actually wants to make it special. For her.

Because Naima isn’t some obligation. She’s his woman. His love.

And that alone makes all the difference.

Late morning sun filters through the windows, casting soft light over the soft interior of Naima’s townhouse. Roman is stretched out on her couch, shirtless, gray sweatpants worn low on his hips—because of course. One arm rests along the back of the couch, the other wrapped around a cold bottle of water. His focus drifts between SportsCenter and the plate of wings and Valentine’s-themed cookies laid before him on the coffee table.

He’s comfortable. Content.

Naima plops down beside him, her body warm against his, fitting into his side like she belongs there. Without thinking, he tugs her closer, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against her hip.

She presses her phone into his hand. “I have a surprise for you,” she says, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

His brows lift. “Yeah?”

She nods, biting her bottom lip. There’s something in her eyes; something nervous, something deep.

Roman notices everything when it comes to her.

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head.

Her fingers tighten slightly around his forearm. “One of your Valentine’s gifts.”

His lips twitch. “One of them? You out here spoiling me, baby?”

“Maybe.” She grins, but there’s a flicker of hesitation beneath it. Because this? This is something big.

Roman is private—fiercely so. He’s always kept their relationship just between them, away from prying eyes. And Naima has come to understand that, to respect it, embrace it even. But her love for him is too vast, too consuming to be hidden away. It fills every inch of her. And now, she wants the world to see it.

She just hopes he understands.

Roman studies her for a beat, then shifts his gaze to the phone in his hand, pressing play.

She watches him as he watches the video. Watches the subtle changes in his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls a little deeper. Watches his lips part slightly, his jaw tighten as he swallows hard.

By the time the final words appear on-screen—I love you, Roman—he’s completely still.

The weight of it settles over him, sinks into him.

Naima tightens her grip on his bicep, pursing her lips against it. “I wanted you to know,” she murmurs. “And I want the world to know, too.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the screen, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. Then, after a moment, he blinks, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he exhales sharply.

“You tryna make me soft, baby?” His voice is husky, rough around the edges.

She tilts her head up, brushing her fingers along his arm. “You're already soft for me, big daddy. Just making sure you feel how much I love you.”

Roman sets the phone down, turning toward her. His hand cups the side of her face, his touch gentle despite the sheer size of it. His thumb brushes along her jaw, reverent.

“I feel it, baby,” he murmurs. “I feel it every day. But this?” He shakes his head, eyes dark, voice thick. “This hits different.”

Naima swallows, emotions swelling in her heart. “Good.”

A quiet, shaky chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he presses his forehead to hers, exhaling deeply. “You know I love you too, right?” His voice dips, heavy with feeling. “So much.”

She smiles softly. “Yeah, I know.”

He kisses her, slow and sensual and full of everything he can’t quite put into words. And when he finally pulls back, he lingers, resting his forehead against hers. Shaking his head, he huffs out a small, incredulous laugh.

“Baby, you done set the bar too high for Valentine’s now.”

Naima grins against his lips. “Guess you gotta step your game up, big daddy.”

He smirks, eyes warm, adoring. “Oh, I will.” He kisses her again, soft and teasing. “Anything for you.”

Valentine’s Day

Naima barely stirs when Roman lifts her into his arms, her body naturally curling into his warmth. She mumbles something against his chest, too groggy to form actual words.

Roman just chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple as he carries her and their wiggling four-month-old Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Chief, out of her townhouse and into his waiting Rolls-Royce Cullinan. He settles her into the passenger seat, closes her door and rounds the hood of the car. By the time he gets in, Naima has already slumped against the headrest, eyes barely open.

“Mm,” she groans sleepily, “Where we goin’?”

“My crib,” he murmurs cryptically, rubbing her thigh as he pulls off.

She dozes off again, lulled by the quiet hum of the luxury SUV and the warmth of his hand on her. She stirs slightly when they pull into the underground parking of his Atlanta condo, and Roman takes his time waking her up, brushing soft kisses along her jaw.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispers. “We’re here.”

Naima groans in protest but lets him help her out of the car, half-leaning into him as they take the elevator up. Chief, full of morning energy, tugs at his leash, eager to explore.

When the door to the lavish condo swings open, Naima steps inside—and stops.

The entire space is filled with balloons.

They float against the ceiling, tied to chairs and tables, surrounding the entire living room. Red, pink, white, all scattered amongst oversized I Love You balloons. Rose petals trail from the entrance toward the bedroom, and the soft melody of D’Angelo’s “Lady” hums through the speakers.

Her breath catches.

She’s been wined and dined before. She’s had men try to impress her with extravagant gifts, luxury trips, money—so much money. But this? This feels a whole lot different. This feels intentional.

She turns, still taking it all in, before her gaze finds Roman’s.

“You did all this?” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving.

Roman steps up behind her, his big arms sliding around her waist as he nuzzles into her neck. “Yeah. Made a lot of calls, but I did it.”

Her hands rest over his, pressing them closer against her stomach. “You really tryna make me cry first thing in the morning?”

Roman grins, kissing her exposed shoulder. “Nah, but if you did, I wouldn’t be mad at it.”

Naima shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling too hard. “You're ridiculous.”

Before Roman can respond,

Pop!

Both their heads snap toward the sound just in time to see Chief bouncing on his hind legs, snapping his tiny jaws at one of the balloons. He jumps again, missing but determined.

“This damn dog,” Roman groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Boy! Leave the damn balloons alone.”

Chief barks once, his little tail wagging, then leaps, almost getting the string between his teeth.

Naima giggles, turning back to her man. “This is just the beginning of the day?”

He slides his hands down to her hips, squeezing lightly. “Just the beginning, beautiful.”

The rest of their day unfolds effortlessly.

They spend the afternoon wrapped up in each other, lounging around the condo in comfortable silence. Roman, freshly showered and dressed in nothing but sweats, flips through channels, occasionally distracted by Naima as she scrolls through her phone, stretched out across his lap. Chief sprawls on the floor near their feet, snoring softly.

At various points, Roman surprises her with gifts—luxury perfume, a pair of Chopard diamond earrings, and a silk robe so soft it feels like water against her skin.

Naima stares at the earrings for a long moment before looking up at him. “Dude, you are spoiling the hell outta me.”

Roman smirks. “Ain’t that my job?”

She tilts her head, studying him with something unreadable in her gaze. Then, without a word, she gets up, disappearing into the bedroom. When she returns, there’s a sleek, velvet box in her hands.

Roman raises an eyebrow as she places it on his lap. “What’s this?”

“Another gift.”

He eyes her, then the box, before flipping it open.

Inside sits a stunning, custom-designed gold bracelet, thick yet refined, engraved with the words My Ali’i. 

My Chief in Samoan. In delicate script.

Roman’s lips part slightly.

Naima watches him carefully, a little nervous. “I know you don’t do a lot of jewelry, but I saw this and thought-”

Roman doesn’t let her finish.

He pulls her onto his lap, cupping her face in both hands before kissing her deeply, his mouth warm and hungry against hers. By the time he pulls back, Naima’s breathing is uneven, her fingers curled into his chest.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I love it.”

She exhales, relieved. “Yeah?”

Roman smirks, cups her shapely hips. “Now you really got me out here tryna make sure I earn this title.”

Naima laughs softly, her fingers threading into his hair as she tugs him closer. “You already do, big guy.”

Her hands drift lower, slipping beneath his waistband, fingers wrapping around his thick length. Roman groans, his grip on her hips tightening as she pushes his sweats down just enough to free him. She meets his gaze, her eyes dark with intent, before sinking down on his dick.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his head falling back as his fingers dig into her skin.

Naima grins, rolling her hips, watching his control unravel. “Better hold on, Tribal Chief.”

As evening falls, Roman tells her to get dressed. They’re going out. He doesn’t say where, but Naima already knows he’s about to pull out all the stops, like always.

She takes her time getting ready, and steps out in a scandalous red latex dress that fits like it was poured onto her body; glossy, tight, strapless, and short enough to flaunt every inch of her toned, impossibly long legs. Her skin glows under the soft lighting, dewy and radiant, her hair sleek and wet as if she just emerged from a fantasy Roman didn’t even know he needed.

His jaw flexes, his fingers twitch at his sides, and his already low patience for the world outside of her dissolves instantly.

Waiting by the kitchen, dressed in an all-black button-down and slacks, his sleeves rolled up just enough to tease that thick, tattooed forearm of his, he looks good. Too good. And when his dark eyes drag over her, slow and smoldering, Naima's breath catches.

Clearly, the feeling is mutual.

“Baby…” His voice is dangerously low, thick with admiration and something darker. “You tryna unalive me, baby?”

Naima swallows, gathering herself before stepping closer, smoothing a hand over his jawline. “Maybe. You like it, daddy?”

Roman's hands find her waist, tugging her in just enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. “I always do, mamas.”

Her eyes roam over him, appreciation gleaming in their depths. “You look so damn good.” She bites her lip, fingers lingering on his face. “You sure we’ll be able to keep our hands to ourselves tonight?”

Roman smirks, his grip on her waist tightening as he leans down, his lips brushing her ear.

“Oh, we won’t, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dark and promising. “Matter of fact, I’m already tryin’ to figure out which part of the night I’m gonna have you bent over.”

Naima gasps. “Baby!”

He merely laughs, taps her ass and leads her out of the condo.

They leave in his Rolls-Royce, Naima still clueless about their destination. When they arrive, she realizes the restaurant is completely empty.

She turns to him, wide-eyed. “You cleared out the whole place?”

Roman smiles, his fingers threading through hers. “Only the best for my girl.”

She shakes her head in disbelief, still getting used to this. She’s been around wealthy men before, but none of them move like him. None of them make her feel like this.

Dinner is intimate. Their dinner is indulgent yet refined, a perfect reflection of the night.

They start with a rich lobster bisque and warm, crusty bread, though Roman’s wagyu beef tartare gets a playful nose wrinkle from Naima. For the main course, he enjoys a perfectly seared bone-in ribeye with truffle mashed potatoes, while she savors butter-poached lobster tail with Parmesan risotto. Sipping on a deep Cabernet, Roman keeps her glass full, his eyes never leaving her. Dessert is a molten chocolate lava cake, and when Naima hums in pleasure at the first bite, Roman leans in, his voice dark and ominous, 

“Keep making noises like that and we gon’ cut this dinner short.”

Naima smirks, taking another slow, deliberate bite, her pretty eyes shining with mischief.

Roman huffs, shaking his head. “Baby girl, you play too much.”

It’s always like this with them; this effortless push and pull, the teasing undercurrent woven into every glance, every touch. He watches her sip her wine, watches that smug little smirk every time she catches him staring. The candlelight flickers between them, casting a warm glow over a love that burns just as intensely.

Somewhere in the middle of their conversation, Naima's voice softens. “Babe…what do you see for us?” she asks.

Roman watches her, the cerebral being that he is taking his time to digest the loaded question. “What do you see?” he gently counters.

She hesitates. “A future.”

His gaze darkens with something deeper. “Good. ‘Cause I see the same thing.”

Her heart stumbles. After everything he’s been through, after everything they’ve been through, it’s almost a shock that he feels this way. About her. And yet, it isn’t.

Roman reaches for her hand, his grip warm, steady, full of quiet promises. “I want it all with you, Nai. Whenever you’re ready,” he vows.

Naima swallows hard, squeezing his hand. She may not be ready yet, and he knows that. Their love still feels too good to be true. But when she is, he’ll be the first to know.

This place is straight vibes. 

An upscale lounge with an old-school feel, where dim lighting meets the golden era of 90s R&B and hip-hop. The bass thrums through the space, the atmosphere thick with a sultry energy that wraps around them the moment they step inside. Roman takes her hand, leading her straight to the VVIP section where a plush leather couch waits. His whiskey arrives within minutes, but he barely touches it.

Because Naima is a problem tonight.

She’s out on the floor, lost in the music, that short-ass red dress clinging to every inch of her body like a second skin. Her hips move slow, teasing, rolling in time with the beat, her long waves cascading down her back. That butterfly tattoo on her hip peeks out every time she shifts just right, and he’s already decided he’s putting his mouth there before the night is over.

Men are watching her. They always do. But surprisingly, he doesn’t give a damn. Not tonight. Let them look. She knows where she’s going when this night ends.

She spins, eyes locking onto his, and her grin is electric. Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth” slides through the speakers, and she drops low, hands on her thighs, twerking to the rhythm, her ass practically begging for him to grab it.

The OTC exhales, shaking his head. This woman is gonna kill me.

Naima is tipsy. Loud, wild, his. Singing along at the top of her lungs when “This Is How We Do It” drops, throwing her hands up before dancing her way back toward him.

Roman is waiting, his massive frame sprawled across the couch, a lazy grin on his face.

“Come here,” he calls out over the music, motioning her over with a crook of his finger.

She doesn’t hesitate. Strutting toward him, her dress rides high on her thighs as she climbs into his lap, straddling him like she owns the damn place. She sets her drink down on the table without looking, wrapping her arms around his neck as Tamia’s “So Into You” begins to play.

“You know this one?” she asks, her voice breathy and playful.

Roman smirks, his hands immediately settling on her bare thighs, grunting as her cleavage inches towards his face. “’Course I do.”

She leans in closer, her lips by his ear as she begins to sing along, off-key and slurring slightly but sexy as hell.

I really like what you’ve done to me…

He exhales slowly, fingers flexing against her skin. She’s gonna make him do something reckless.

“You tryna start some shit in public, baby?” His voice is low, rough against her ear.

Naima bites her lip, shifting against him just right, feeling him harden beneath her. “Maybe.”

That’s all he needs.

His hand snakes around her neck, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss that starts slow but spirals into something messy, desperate. She tastes like wine and trouble, her fingers in his hair, his hands on her ass. The music, the crowd, all of it blurs into nothing.

She grinds down on him, rolling her hips in a way that makes his jaw clench, and he exhales sharply against her lips.

“We leavin’,” he growls.

She smirks, licking her lips. “Took your fine ass long enough.”

They barely make it to the car.

The Cullinan is parked in a private indoor lot behind the bar, discreet and empty. The second the door shuts behind them, Roman’s hands are on her, pushing her back against the seat.

Naima yelps, laughing breathlessly. “Roman, what the fuck-”

“Shut up.” His mouth crashes into hers again, swallowing the rest of her words.

She moans into the kiss, fingers tugging at his shirt, his belt. He yanks the hem of her dress up roughly, hands gripping her ass, pulling her forward.

“You know what you was doin’ back there,” he mutters against her lips, his voice thick with need.

She laughs breathlessly, lifting her hips to meet his touch. “What, you couldn’t handle it?”

Roman smirks, dark and dangerous. “Oh, I’ma handle it.”

He spins her, pressing her face down into the leather seat, hands sliding up her thighs, over her curves. Naima shudders, gasping as he kisses the back of her neck, down her spine.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dripping with lust. His fingers slip between her thighs, tracing slow circles over the wetness seeping there. “Makin’ a mess on my seats already.”

She hisses as his grip tightens. “Don’t act like you not the one startin’ shit.”

Roman spanks her ass, chuckling darkly at her gasp. His lips ghost over her ear. “You been askin’ for this all night.” He rubs her pussy, and she trembles. “Tell me how bad you want it, baby.”

Her nails scrape against the leather as she exhales shakily. “You already know.”

Roman grips her chin, tilting her face toward him. “Say it.”

Naima's mouth meets his, her gaze bold and unashamed. “I want you, big daddy.”

His growl rumbles through the space, and that’s all it takes before the car is filled with heat, moans, and the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin. The windows fog, the Cullinan rocking slightly, her body arching into his with every frantic movement.

Roman keeps his grip on her hip, holding her steady as he drives into her, deep and unrelenting. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting fill the car, mingling with her breathy moans and his hungry groans.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, his lips pressed to her shoulder. His other hand cups her heavy, exposed breast, teasing her sensitive nipple. “You feel too damn good.”

Naima is gone, completely lost in the pleasure he’s giving her. Every stroke hits just right, sending fire through her veins, tightening the coil low in her belly. Her hands press against the backseat window, her moans breaking apart as she meets his thrusts, chasing that edge.

“Roman…” she gasps, her voice shaky, “I…I’m close.”

He smirks against her skin, his pace shifting, his strokes deeper, dragging her right where he wants her. His fingers leave her breast and slide back down to where they’re joined, circling that sensitive bud, making her cry out.

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is thick, teasing, knowing. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

She doesn’t need much more than that. With a shuddering scream, she unravels, pleasure slamming into her, her walls pulsing around him. Her body trembles, back arching, thighs shaking as waves of euphoria crash through her.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Roman groans, feeling her tighten around his dick. He grips her harder, his own restraint crumbling. “Shit, you feel so good…”

He pumps deep in her, the pleasure climbing fast, and Naima, still breathless and floating from her own release, whispers, “Come in me, baby. Please.”

His jaw clenches. That does it. His thrusts stutter, his entire body tensing as he unloads in her with a guttural moan, his face buried in her neck as he comes hard. 

For a long moment, all that’s left is the sound of their ragged breathing. Then Naima, still sprawled out on the seat, groans. “We really just fucked in your damn Rolls Royce?”

Roman, still catching his breath, smirks against her neck. “Don’t act like you ain’t love every second of it.”

She laughs, breathless. “Ridiculous.”

He flops into a seated position and pulls her into his lap, kissing her deeply, his grip firm but gentle. “And you love it.”

She sighs, melting against him despite herself. “Love you.”

Roman just chuckles, nipping at her bottom lip. “I know you do.”

Morning comes too fast.

Naima blinks groggily, cheek pressed against his chest, his huge arm wrapped protectively around her. She stretches slightly, wincing at the awkward angle.

She looks around, realization dawning. “Oh god. We really slept in the car?”

Roman stirs beneath her, groaning as he cracks an eye open. “Damn.”

Naima sits up, adjusting her dress. “We look crazy.”

He pulls her back down, smirking. “We look like we had a hell of a Valentine’s.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile she fights is undeniable and futile.

Roman kisses her mouth, fingers tracing slow circles against her hip. “Happy Valentine’s, baby.”

She sighs, nuzzling into him. “Happy Valentine’s, big guy.”

That evening, Naima uploads her Valentine’s Day  video to her Instagram, pairing it with a simple but heartfelt caption:

She sets her phone aside and curls up next to Roman on the couch, not thinking much about it after that. But within hours, the post explodes.

Thousands of likes pour in.

The comments flood in just as fast—friends, dancers from Elysian, fans of both her and Roman, all gushing over the video, over the way their love feels through the screen.

— Y’all are the definition of soulmates 🥰

— THE ROMANCE, I’M CRYING🥹

— Not me watching this 10 times in a row.

— She loves him OUT LOUD, we love to see it.

— This is my favorite couple ever idc idc.

— Roman won at life, fr.

And then Roman finally drops his comment underneath her post.

I love you.

No emojis. No extras. Just those three words. But somehow, it’s the realest, deepest thing he could’ve said.

Naima smiles, clicking on his profile.

And then she sees it.

Roman’s own post.

He’s reposted the video to his page, with a caption that makes her heart stop.

Every day with you is a gift. I love you, @naimurphy ❤️🥰#ForeverMyGirl

The moment it hits his page, the internet erupts.

— ROMAN JUST SHUT THE WHOLE TL DOWN WTF 🤯

— The way he loves her… I wanna experience that just once in my life.

— This man just said ‘mine’ without saying it.

— THE CAPTION THO 😭😭 #ForeverMyGirl

— Naima, you have been CHOSEN 😭

— Roman don’t be posting NOTHINGGG like this, omg 😭 Love is real.

— Their love is my Roman Empire.

— I need a man to repost me with this type of energy or I don’t want it 🙂‍↔️

Naima bites her lip, staring at the screen. The comments, the love, the overwhelming reaction.

Roman watches her from the side, amused. “What’s that look for, baby?”

She shakes her head, grinning. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out how I got so damn lucky.”

Roman smiles wide, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at him. “Nah, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to hers, gentle and soft. “I’m the lucky one.”

THE END...for now.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all

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The diner is quiet, a stark contrast to the neon-lit chaos of Exotica. It’s one of Naima’s favorite spots, a place where she can escape and think. Roman holds the door open for her, his imposing presence drawing a few curious glances from the late-night patrons. They slide into a booth near the back, the worn leather seats creaking softly beneath them.

Naima orders coffee, while Roman opts for tea. The nondescript gesture makes her smile. Most men she knows wouldn’t touch tea, insisting on something stronger, more masculine. But Roman doesn’t seem to care about appearances. He is comfortable in his skin, and his confidence is magnetic. 

They stay at the diner for hours, their conversation ebbing and flowing. Roman finds himself captivated by her high-pitched laugh, the way it lights up her entire face. He notices so much about her, maybe too much; the way her fingers tap rhythmically against the table when she’s thinking, the slight tilt of her head when she is listening intently, the sparkle in her eyes when she talks about the things she loves.

“So, what do you do for fun?” he asks, a playful glint in his eyes.

Naima's smile is soft and she doesn’t hesitate. “Well,” she begins, “I got a few. I model, I create content, but my absolute favorite is teaching dance classes a couple of times a week.”

Roman’s brow arches in surprise, his gaze shifting from his mug to her face. “Really?”

Naima nods, her smile widening at his interest. “Yeah. There's a local studio not too far away from here. That’s where I teach. Hip-hop, jazz, Afrobeats…pole,” she winks at him, making him laugh. “I’ve been doing it for a few years now, and I upload the videos on my YouTube and Instagram pages. It’s something I’m really passionate about. It’s my little escape from everything else.” She pauses, her voice softening. “It’s a lot of work but I love it. It’s my way of staying grounded.”

Roman’s expression softens even more. He hears the passion in her voice, sees the way her eyes light up, and it only makes him more curious. “That’s amazing. How did you get it started?”

Naima exhales, thinking back. “It started with private lessons, actually. I was helping a friend train for an audition, and word just kinda spread. More people started reaching out; dancers, performers, even people with no background in dance who just wanted to learn. At some point, I realized I had something real, something I could build on.”

Roman nods, taking it in. “So you went from that to having your own company?”

She smiles. “Pretty much. The studio space came later, but yeah. It wasn’t easy, though. I had to network, put myself out there, find the right people who believed in the vision. But I love it. Seeing people connect with movement, watching them gain confidence; it’s more than just dancing. It’s self-expression, release…therapy, in a way.”

Roman watches her, the admiration clear in his orbs. “That’s dope as hell,” he murmurs. “You built somethin’ legit, somethin’ meaningful.”

Naima shrugs, but there’s a quiet pride in her eyes. “Yeah…I did.”

Roman smiles, impressed. “Maybe you could show me a move or two sometime?”

Naima laughs. “I could, but you’d have to work really hard to keep up. I don’t teach any easy routines.”

He chuckles, leaning in slightly, teasing. “Well, I’m pretty competitive. You might be surprised.”

She shakes her head, still smiling, feeling a little more connected to him than before. His interest in something so personal to her stays on her mind. She didn’t expect to open up in such a casual way, but she’s glad she has.

“Sounds like you got a lot going on,” Roman goes on, admiring the way she seems to balance so much. “I respect that. You’re not just dancing…you’re putting something real into the world, something that matters. That takes dedication.”

Naima feels a warmth spread through her chest, and the quiet sincerity in his voice makes her heart flutter just a little. “Thanks, Roman,” she says, meeting his gaze. “I really appreciate you saying that.”

“Of course. What you’re doing is special, Naima.”

For a moment, she basks in the glow of his words, but then her smile turns slightly bittersweet. “I try. Gotta make do with it, after my plans for world domination got derailed,” she adds with a shrug.

Roman’s eyes narrow curiously. “What happened?”

Naima’s gaze shifts away, her lips pressing together briefly. Something unspoken lingers in the air between them, a flash of pain in her eyes. “Very long story. Trust me,” she says, her tone final but not unkind.

Roman doesn’t press further, sensing that the moment isn’t right. Instead, he nods, letting the silence between them settle. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says simply.

Naima huffs a quiet laugh, giving him a small, skeptical smile. Sure, okay. Maybe one day. Not that it really matters…she seriously doubts she’ll ever see him again after tonight.

“You’re a great dancer, though. I saw it tonight,” he points out, his deep voice carrying a note of conviction.

Naima feels her face flush. “I appreciate that.”

“For real. You just…don’t seem like you belong there,” he says quietly. “Not like the others.”

Naima tilts her head, watching him closely. “What makes you think that?” Her voice is calm—too calm. Like she already knows what he’s about to say.

Roman holds her stare, unwavering, like it’s been all night. “It’s the way you carry yourself. You’re not just performing for an audience. You have control. You know exactly who you are. And that’s rare in a place like the club.”

She considers his words for a moment before letting out a soft laugh, more thoughtful than amused. “Maybe you’re right,” she admits. “I’ve learned to navigate life by my own rules. That’s why I’m where I’m at, and not anywhere else.”

Roman continues to study her, his expression shifting just slightly. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, but something about her words settles deep. It’s the first real glimpse beyond the surface, beyond the walls they’re both still carefully holding up.

“You ever think about leavin’?” he asks, his voice low, barely a whisper.

Of course. The dreaded question. “Sometimes,” she offers, her tone tinged with uncertainty. “But it’s complicated.” There is a brief, yet heavy pause before she speaks again, forcing her tone to shift to something more playful. “Why? You wanna try and convince me to quit this job? Whisk me away somewhere?”

Roman chuckles, the sound as warm as his tea. “If you want me to.” And he leaves it at that.

Scoffing softly, she glances down, absentmindedly fidgeting with the silver bracelet on her left wrist. The movement draws Roman’s attention, and he catches sight of the small butterfly tattoo just inside her wrist.

“What’s the story behind that?” he asks, nodding toward it. “And the other butterflies on your hip?”

Naima hesitates, then turns her wrist to show him. “They’re reminders. Butterflies go through so much to become what they are. It’s my way of telling myself that even when things get tough, I can still transform into something bigger, better.”

Roman stays quiet, as if letting her words settle. Then, without a word, he reaches out and takes her hand, his fingers warm against hers. He lifts her wrist to his lips and presses a soft, deliberate kiss to the ink. The gesture is unexpected, intimate in a way that makes Naima’s breath hitch.

“You’re cool as shit,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently over the tattoo. “Don’t let anyone, including yourself, tell you otherwise.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them, charged with something neither of them expected to feel tonight. Naima exhales, shaking her head with a soft laugh. And just as she starts to pull away, her fingers hesitate. Then, subtly, she loosens her grip, shifting just enough so that their fingers intertwine.

It’s a small thing. Barely anything.

But the sparks between them right now? Crazy.

“You’re not like most men I meet,” she comments, realizing just how much she enjoys staring into his eyes.

Roman smirks, leaning back slightly. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is.”

When the conversation finally lulls, he glances at his watch and frowns slightly. “It’s late. Let me drive you home.”

Naima arches an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “What are you driving? Some flashy sports car?”

Roman chuckles, shaking his head. “Not exactly.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick message. Minutes later, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Ghost pulls up outside the diner.

Naima’s eyes widen, and she bursts out laughing. “Of course. Big baller shit.”

Roman laughs with her as he stands and extends his hand. “Come on. Let's get you home safe.”

She takes his hand, his grip firm yet easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. As they step out of the diner, the night air wraps around them, cool against the warmth lingering between their palms. Naima doesn’t overthink it—won’t let herself—but there’s a feeling settling deep in her chest.

Something about tonight feels different. Unfinished. Like a story just waiting to be written.

The ride home is quiet but intimate, the hum of the Rolls-Royce’s engine a soothing backdrop to the charged silence between them in the back seat. Roman's arm is draped around her waist, pulling her close as she rests her head on his shoulder. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the faint scent of his cologne all combine to create a cocoon of comfort and tension that neither can deny.

Roman’s fingers idly trace circles on her hip, his touch gentle and soothing. Naima tilts her head slightly to look up at him, her dark eyes drinking in the sharp plane of his jaw, his chiseled cheekbones right above his thick beard. The faintest smile plays on her lips as he looks down, catching her eye.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she teases.

“I’m just taking it all in,” Roman answers, his deep voice resonating in her ears. His hand moves to cup her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone. “Taking you in,” he continues, his gaze dropping to her lips for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes. 

Naima smiles and snuggles closer to him, enjoying his warmth as his arm tightens around her. They remain that way for the rest of the drive, the tension between them building with every passing second. 

The car pulls up in front of her home, a modern apartment complex tucked away in a quiet part of Atlanta. Roman steps out first, rounding the vehicle to open her door. His presence is imposing yet effortless, the way he holds out his hand—solid, sure—making it impossible to ignore the pull between them.

Naima slides her fingers into his, warmth spreading through her chest as he takes her duffel bag without a word, his easy confidence making it feel natural to let him. She leads him through the entrance, the soft click of her heels against the tiled floor the only sound between them.

The elevator doors glide open, and as they step inside, the space suddenly feels smaller. Closer. The air shifts, thickening. Naima presses the button for her floor, then leans back against the mirrored wall. She can feel his gaze, the weight of it sending a slow shiver down her spine. She grips her keys a little tighter, the metal cool against her palm, a poor distraction from the heat licking at her skin. When she turns her head slightly, their eyes meet in the reflection.

Neither of them speaks, but the charge between them says everything.

The elevator hums as it ascends, a tortuously slow climb. Roman’s fingers flex around the strap of her bag, and for a moment, she swears he’s debating something. The anticipation coils between them, thick and electric.

By the time the doors slide open, Naima exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Roman follows her out, handing her bag back as they stand there. Their fingers brush in the exchange, a fleeting touch that sends a spark racing up her arm.

Her heart pounds.

She looks up at him, lips parting, and Roman tilts his head slightly, eyes hooded, searching. She swallows hard, gripping her bag tighter.

“Thanks for the ride,” she murmurs, though it feels like the least important thing she could say right now. “And for tonight.”

Roman nods, his gaze lingering on her. “I should be thanking you,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a conversation that felt...real.”

Naima smiles shyly, her pulse quickening. “Same here.”

They stand there a little longer, neither wanting to say goodbye. Finally, Roman leans in, his hand gently cupping her cheek. His touch is tender, but his eyes hold a fierce intensity. Dipping his head, he presses his lips to hers, kissing her slowly, deeply, and Naima feels herself melt into him. Her hands find their way to his chest, feeling the strength beneath the fabric of his shirt as they get lost in the moment.

When they finally pull apart, their breaths mingling in the cool night air, Naima hesitates. Her logical mind is screaming at her to say goodbye, to end the night here and let him go back into the elevator. But her attraction to Roman is immense and seemingly stronger than reason.

“Do you wanna come in?” she asks, her voice just above a whisper.

Roman searches her face, his dark eyes filled with both desire and caution. “Do you want me to come in?”

Naima nods, the truth spilling from her lips before she can second-guess herself. “Yes.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He follows her down the hallway, his hand in hers as they make their way to her front door. The air between them thickens with anticipation, as she unlocks the door and lets him in.

The living room is a blend of warmth and quiet luxury, the kind of space that feels effortlessly inviting. A plush sectional stretches along one wall, its velvety texture accented by an array of throw pillows in soft neutrals—ivory, champagne, and deep charcoal. A thick, cream-colored knit blanket is draped casually over one arm, a contrast to the sleek, asymmetrical coffee table in front of it. The table’s modern design is softened by the small details on top—a lit candle labeled Warm Vanilla & Cashmere, a stack of choreography notes bound neatly with a ribbon, and a single glass of water with a slice of lemon floating inside.

The muted glow from the wall sconces casts a golden hue across the room, complementing the deep mauve and taupe tones woven throughout the space. Roman’s eyes track over to the open-concept kitchen, where the white quartz countertops gleam under the dim lighting. A fruit bowl sits on the island, overflowing with fresh oranges, apples, and bananas, next to a neatly arranged mason jar full of wooden cooking utensils. There’s a subtle scent of lavender in the air, likely from the discreet diffuser plugged into the far corner.

Everything is carefully put together, yet lived-in. Feminine, but not overwhelmingly so. Comfortable, but still carrying an understated elegance…the kind of balance that tells him she has a taste for the finer things but doesn’t go out of her way to flaunt it.

Roman takes it all in, his dark eyes lingering on the details before settling on her. Naima watches him, shifting slightly, suddenly aware of how much this space reflects her.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” she mutters, toying with the hem of her shirt, as if playing it down will make his gaze feel less intense.

Roman doesn’t say anything right away. He just nods, slow and assured, before looking back at her. “It suits you,” he murmurs.

And for some reason, that makes her stomach flip.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of her curly hair from her face. The simple gesture sends a shiver down her spine, and she finds herself leaning into his touch.

The tension between them is palpable now, a current of electricity that neither can resist. Roman’s hands meet her waist, pulling her flush against him as he leans down to capture her lips in another searing kiss. This one is different; hungrier, more desperate; as if they’re both finally giving in to the pull that has been tugging them close all night.

Naima’s hands slide up his chest, her fingers tangling in his hair as she deepens the kiss, their tongues tangling together. Roman groans softly, the sound vibrating against her lips as his hands roam up her back, anchoring her to him.

“Naima,” he rasps, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. His gaze is dark, filled with desire, but also restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I mean it.” 

She stares up at him, her heart racing. His care, his need for her consent, makes her chest tighten in the best way. It’s not something she’s used to, and it only deepens the pull she feels toward him.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, her voice trembling with raw emotion, her lips brushing against his as she speaks. “I want you.”

He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling as if her words are the permission he needs to finally let go. “Are you sure?” he asks, cupping her face.

Naima nods, tugging him closer if that is even physically possible. “I’ve never been more sure.”

His restraint shatters, and he kisses her again, more hungrily this time, pouring every ounce of pent-up desire into it. Naima responds eagerly, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and fumbling to undo them. He helps her, shrugging out of the fabric and tossing it aside, revealing the thick muscles and intricate tattoos etched beneath. Her hands trace the lines of ink, her touch reverent.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, breathless just touching him. He feels so good.

Roman smiles and finds her lips again. “Not as beautiful as you.”

They take their time, their movements slow and deliberate as they undress each other. Roman’s hands find her skin, warm and eager, but it’s her breasts that steal his focus. Big, round, and perfect in his grasp, his palms mold over them, relishing their weight, his thumbs sweeping over her pierced nipples with a reverence that makes her shiver.

“Damn,” he mutters, his voice thick with appreciation. His dark eyes drink her in, lingering as if trying to commit every curve to memory. “So damn beautiful.”

Naima feels the heat rise to her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. She especially can’t look away from that monster hanging between his thighs. She swallows, wondering how the heck it’s going to fit. Her thoughts are interrupted when he pulls her back into his embrace. The intensity between them grows with every kiss, every caress. It’s as if they’ve done this a hundred times, yet every touch is new and electric.

He lifts her effortlessly, carrying her toward the sectional like she’s weightless. A fire has been ignited that threatens to consume them both. As Roman lays her down, his large frame covering hers on the plush couch, they both know there is no turning back. The connection between them is undeniable, and tonight, they will explore it fully.

The delicious heat of his naked skin on hers, his thick, heavy dick nestling against her pussy, ekes a moan from her mouth into his...especially as he grinds against her, his heavy shaft nudging along her clit and making her ache for him to be inside of her. It spurs her to reach down between their bodies and curl her hand around him, thick and long and hard.

“Damn,” she breathes, mesmerized.

Roman pulls back slightly, his eyes wide as she begins to stroke him up and down. "Naima..." he says, his voice husky, "I…shit…I don’t have any condoms. I didn’t exactly plan on...this." His eyes search hers, his desire tempered by concern.

Naima smiles at his thoughtfulness. "I like that you’re careful," she whispers, reaching for her purse and pulling a Trojan out. "I’m on the pill, but I don’t take chances either." She places it in his hand. "Now, where were we?"

Roman grins and kisses her again, this time more fervently, knowing they’re both on the same page. Her heart rate accelerates watching him roll the condom over his intimidating length, meeting his eyes as he hooks her thighs around his waist. Bracing himself on one hand while the other guides his dick inside her wet, waiting pussy, they both exhale throaty groans as her walls stretch around his invasion, breaking her in with his girth. 

Jesus…

He forces himself to still and let her adjust to him, his mouth on hers to soothe the trembles of her body. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” he whispers against her lips. 

“No,” she shakes her head and kisses him, hot and hurried, “I can…I can take it.” 

“Good,” he says with a low, rumbling growl. He rolls his hips, thrusting into her, out and back in. Naima feels the pleasure threatening to snatch her from her own body, only tied down by the luscious heat that anchors her to the couch with his grinding strokes. He’s taking his time, exploring her body as if it’s something sacred. He whispers her name like a prayer, his heavy panting warming the side of her throat as he rocks in and out of her, drawing moans and soft cries and sparking sensations that feel otherworldly.

“Oh, fuck, Roman…” 

“Baby, you’re so tight…feels so good,” he groans. He hitches her long ass legs higher on his hips, groaning as the move nudges him even deeper inside of her. She can practically feel him in her stomach. She dares to look down, to watch all that dick piston in and out of her, her cream coating the thick length, granting him easier access inside her. It’s the hottest thing she has seen in a long time. It’s even hotter, the way he looks at her, like she’s the only woman in the world. It’s overwhelming and grounding all at once. Her hands caress his broad shoulders and his long hair as their foreheads touch, sharing delicious, breathy kisses as they move in perfect rhythm. She’s letting herself go in a way she hasn’t in years, surrendering completely to the moment. 

“Oooh, just like that…mmmph, fuck!” Her pleas dissolve into desperate moans as she nears euphoria. As though sensing it, he pushes deeper, tapping the bottom of her pussy, making it clench around the base of his cock. Her eyes widen as jolts of pleasure rip through her body as it spasms, making her come harder than she’s come in so long.

“Mmm, you came for me, baby?” Roman grins, withdrawing from her and dipping his face between her thighs. “Let me taste it…”

Her back arches off of the couch when his mouth spreads over her folds, his warm, long tongue lapping up her sweetness. Resting an arm over her stomach, his other hand wraps around her thigh to hold her still as he delves deep, working her pussy with frightening expertise. The sound of her heartbeat and the sloppy slurps of his skilled mouth thud in Naima’s ears as she fights back tears from how good he’s making her feel. She claws at locks of his hair, her head thrown back into the pillows, letting out a squeal she can’t control as another intense orgasm crashes into her with the force of a tsunami. She feels her body deflate, panting softly as she throws her arm across her face. Roman’s chuckle rattles in her ears as he moves her hand away to kiss her, both moaning as they exchange the taste of her.

“You’re fucking incredible,” she sighs.

His smile widens as he turns her onto her stomach. He kneels behind her, nudging her knees apart with one huge thigh, and pulls her hips back, the action rubbing his erection against her wet entrance. With his chest flush on her back, he brushes her hair away from her neck to kiss her shoulder. He eases his dick back into her, growling at the slick sensation that engulfs his length yet again.

“Shit, baby…” 

"Tell me, baby girl. This feel good?" He moves slowly, pushing in and pulling out in gradual, deliberate strokes. 

“Yes…it’s…better,” she groans, goosebumps sprouting from his warm breath in the crook of her neck. The swipe of his tongue on her skin makes her pussy tighten, her increasing wetness slipping him more easily inside her. Naima reaches up to slide her fingers through his hair, her lips meeting his in a sloppy, hungry kiss. She presses her face against his, their labored breaths joined as one.

"Naima...fuck, baby, your pussy feels amazing..."

Her breath catches at the lust clouding his eyes. Boldly, she licks at his mouth, whispering back to him, "Your dick feels amazing too, I love how deep you are…"

Roman feels his dick twitch at that. Everything about this woman is sexy as hell. Her body, her husky voice, he’s taken by it all. He feels her begin to move, his breathing growing ragged at the sight of her round, supple cheeks bouncing off his dick, grinding back on his groin, her groans washing over him as she dares to take him even deeper inside her. Roman’s palm smooths over her stomach, sliding up to grope her breast, pinching her nipple, making her cry out as lightning zips through her.

“Fuck!” 

Gripping her waist in his big hands, Roman regains control of the pace as he thrusts harder and deeper, giving her every thick inch of him, reveling in her increasingly loud moans. “Mmm-hmm, take this dick, baby, you asked for it…damn, this pussy squeezin’ me,” he growls, giving her ass a smack. 

Naima cries out from the sting of his palm, clinging to a throw pillow in complete bliss as he feeds her with deep, pounding backshots to her g-spot that makes his heavy ballsac slap against her clit and her eyes roll in the back of her head. She can’t believe how present he is, so focused on her. How good it's felt from the first minute. It’s been a perfect mix of passion and tenderness and wild abandon. 

Roman peppers more kisses along her neck, nuzzling his face in it as his balls tighten, sounding him off for his own climax. “Come for me again, Naima. Soak my dick, give it to me,” he orders.

There’s something about the command of his voice that compels her body to obey right away. The sky seems to fall as she comes a third time, her thighs shaking as her pussy gushes. Roman’s deep moans mingle with hers in a sweet symphony as he tumbles into his own orgasm, his cock twitching and pulsing inside her. Naima loves it, loves the crack in his deep voice as pleasure melts his big frame down to nothingness.

His thrusts finally slow, languid and lazy, letting her milk him thoroughly while they consume each other’s moans, his hand massaging her breast as he keeps her close to him like precious porcelain. 

The room takes its time to stop spinning as they lie tangled together on the couch, their bodies gleaming with sweat, still buzzing with the aftershocks of their magic coupling. Roman’s arms wind around her, holding her tight as he presses a kiss to her temple. Naima rests her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. She can’t believe what’s just happened. Can’t believe that sex like this still exists, that she can have such mind-blowing back-to-back orgasms. That this man—so different from anyone she’s ever met—treated her like she was something precious the entire time. She wishes she could have more. She wishes it didn’t have to end tomorrow like she knows it will.

As sleep begins to tug at her, she picks the next best option, “Please stay.”

Roman pulls the throw blanket over them both and kisses her forehead tenderly. “I’m right here, baby.”

Roman’s phone buzzes loudly on the coffee table, jarring him awake. The soft morning light spills through the blinds, highlighting the peaceful expression on Naima’s face as she lays curled against him. For a moment, he debates ignoring the call altogether, but when the screen lights up again with Jimmy’s name, he rolls his eyes and reluctantly answers.

“What?” Roman’s voice is a low growl, still rough from sleep.

“Mannn, don’t ‘what’ me, Uce,” Jimmy shoots back, sounding annoyed. “Where you at? The jet’s ready and we’re waiting. Jey and Sami are here, but you MIA. Wassup?”

Roman exhales heavily, his free hand gently brushing Naima’s hair as she stirs slightly. “The jet can wait.”

Jimmy’s laugh comes through the phone, sharp and knowing. “Oh, it’s like that? You still with that stripper chick? Angel?”

“Jimmy,” Roman warns, his voice dropping.

“Relax, Uce. I’m just sayin’,” Jimmy teases. “Pussy gotta be bomb if you keepin’ us all waitin’. Jey gon’ be mad at your ass though. He was talking about her all night.”

Roman shakes his head, his patience wearing thin. “Too bad. And I said, I’ll get there when I fucking get there. That’s all y’all need to know.”

Before Jimmy can press further, Roman ends the call and sets the phone back down. He leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking down at Naima, who has begun to wake.

Her eyes flutter open, and for a moment, she just looks at him, her expression unreadable. “Morning.”

“Morning.” His smile is soft and his kiss is even softer. 

“You’re still here,” she comments when he pulls back. At the slight frown on his face, she shrugs, smoothing her hair. “Most guys don’t usually stick around,” she answers bluntly; the truth.

Roman lets his thumb graze her chin. “I ain’t most guys. And I wasn’t going anywhere without seeing your pretty eyes one more time.”

Her heart flutters, and she smiles wider, flattered and relieved. "I’m glad you stayed," she whispers.

Roman leans in, pressing another kiss to her mouth before sitting back. “Me too. I hate that I gotta leave.”

Naima nods, trying to mask her disappointment. “It’s okay. I get it. You’ve got your people waitin’ on you,” she says softly, guarded again. “I can’t keep you here.”

Roman shakes his head, his brow furrowing as he reaches for her hand. “Truth is, I wanna see you again,” he says earnestly.

She stares at him, struggling to keep her neutral expression intact. “You barely know me, Roman. We just met.”

He chuckles softly, the warmth in his chest growing. “I know enough. I know that you’re different. We spent a lot of last night talking and laughing, which I hardly do...It felt like we’ve known each other a long time.”

The intensity of his gaze has her looking away, unsure of how to respond as she processes his words. She feels the same way too…She likes him, more than she’s ready to admit. But she’s also cautious. It’s just one night. The last thing she wants is to fall into something that will only leave her hurt. Again.

“Are you sure?” she asks hesitantly, “I mean…I’m just a strip-”

“Don’t,” he interrupts gently but firmly, his large hand coming up to cup her cheek. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve spent hours with you and I still want more. Last night wasn’t just fun...it was real. At least to me.”

Naima’s heart is battling with her head. She really wants to believe him, to trust that this isn’t just a fleeting moment for him. “What do you even see in me?” she presses, her voice laced with vulnerability.

Roman’s expression softens. “I see you, baby girl,” he says smoothly. “Not Angel. Not the dancer. You. Smart, funny, beautiful as fuck, Naima.”

Her heart clenches at his words, and for the first time in a long time, she feels seen in a way that goes beyond the surface. But doubt still hovers like a dark cloud. “What happens when you leave? When reality sets in?”

Roman smiles faintly. “We'll make our own reality,” he says confidently, picking up his phone and handing it to her. “Here. Put your number in. And take mine, too.”

Naima hesitates for a moment, then reaches for her own phone on the coffee table and gives it to him. She taps in her digits, saving her number for him. “There,” she says, swapping their phones back. “I’m in your phone.”

“And I’m in yours,” Roman says, his voice soft as he eyes her.

She laughs lightly, shaking her head. “You’re persistent as fuck, aren’t you?”

“When it comes to something I want? Always,” he replies with a smirk.

He stands reluctantly, gathering his clothes and slipping them on. Naima rises too, wrapping the throw blanket around her before walking him to the door. As they reach it, he stops, looking down at her. 

“I’ll call you,” he says.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she replies with a smile, her voice teasing, though the sincerity is still there.

“I’m not the type to break promises,” he insists confidently. “And I’m not the type to walk away from something that feels so special.”

Naima’s eyes soften, and for a split second, it feels like the world has paused around them. There’s no rush, no obligation. Just the two of them, standing on the edge of something new.

Roman steps closer and wraps his arms around her in a warm, lingering embrace that neither seems ready to end. She buries her face in the curve of his neck, inhaling his scent—whiskey, cedar, and something undeniably him—and feeling an ache she doesn’t quite understand.

His large hands span her lower back, silently promising that this is not goodbye, just a ’see you later’. She clings to him, her fingers tracing soft patterns over the muscles beneath his shirt, reluctant to let go.

Pulling back to rest his forehead gently against hers, his thumb caresses her chin, near her lips. He leans in, capturing her mouth in a tender kiss. It’s neither rushed nor fleeting; it is gentle and filled with the quiet passion of a man who doesn’t just want her for one night. Naima kisses him back just as deeply, savoring the taste of him. Time seems to stretch, their shared silence speaking louder than any words can. 

When they finally part, their breaths mingle, neither ready to fully break the connection. Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, his lips linger for a moment before he pulls back, his eyes searching hers one last time.

“I’ll see you soon, baby girl,” he vows, his voice rough but soft, like gravel smoothed by the sea. “Take care of yourself.” 

Naima nods, her heart thudding in her chest, the sadness of him leaving creeping in even though she’s just met him. “I will. And right back at’cha,” she whispers.

Roman gives her one final brief, sweet kiss before stepping away. As he walks out the door, it feels as though a piece of him stays behind, wrapped around her like the memory of his embrace.

She smiles as she closes the door, leaning against it as her heart races. They only just met, but it feels like something she doesn’t want to let slip away. 

And on the other side of the door, Roman feels the same, a hopeful smile brightening his handsome face.

That maybe, just maybe...they’re both ready to take this chance.

It's all sunshine and roses now...but not for long...

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divider belongs to @bernardsbendystraws

The Miami sun is high in the sky, casting its golden rays over the famed city. Palm trees sway gently in the breeze, adorned with twinkling lights that sparkle even in the daylight, giving the vibrant streets a festive charm. 

Roman’s penthouse, perched high above the bustling streets, is no exception. Ornaments of red and green and gold glimmer on a ten-foot high Christmas tree standing in the corner of the living room, a towering contrast to the sleek modernity of the space. It’s not exactly the snowy holiday Naima grew up with in Atlanta, but she’s not complaining. Not when she’s with her man.

Naima hums along to “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blasting through the speakers, twirling a wooden spoon in her hand as she checks on the smoky jollof rice in the kitchen. The turkey is ready and well stuffed, so that is settled. Her bare feet pad softly across the hardwood floor, her movements fluid and effortless, the dancer in her kicking in. Chief, their three-month-old Staffy puppy, is sprawled nearby, lazily gnawing on a holiday-shaped chew toy that she bought him.

Roman sets the table, looking at his girlfriend with an amused smirk. “Mariah again?” he teases, his deep voice cutting through the music.

Naima turns, feigning offense. “Not you actin' like you don’t love this song, big guy.”

He chuckles, stepping closer to her. “It’s a classic, I’ll give you that.”

She rolls her eyes, scoops a spoonful of rice and blows on it before holding it up to his lips. “Here. Taste this.”

Roman takes the bite, chewing slowly. The smoky flavor hits his tongue first, followed by the rich spices that taste even better than the last one she made a month ago. He lets out a low hum of approval.

“Damn, baby,” he says, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Naima grins, her beautiful brown eyes sparkling. “That’s just the rice. Wait till you try the turkey and plantain.”

Roman glances at the counter where the massive golden-brown turkey rests, surrounded by perfectly caramelized plantains and a big bowl of sapasui specially made for him. His diet, meticulously planned for his wrestling, is going to take a serious hit tonight. But he doesn’t care. It’s Christmas, and Naima’s cooking is worth every cheat day.

“Diet starts tomorrow,” he declares, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her close.

“Tomorrow,” she insists, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Tonight, you’re eating everything I made, handsome.”

Roman chuckles to himself as she kisses his cheek and walks away, his gaze dropping to those long, shapely legs of hers. Naima has been in his life for a while now, but every time they are together, it feels like a fresh challenge—a battle of wills he doesn’t mind losing. Most of the time.

The table is set with mismatched plates—his playful touch—and candles flickering softly in the center. Chief sits obediently at the side, eyeing the turkey but making no moves toward it, as if he knows better. The couple sits right next to each other on the table. Roman’s red-and-green sweater fits him perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders and muscular chest. Naima’s matching sweater is oversized and hangs loose on her frame, exposing one shoulder and riding up her thighs each time she moves. Of course, Roman notices, and his hand rests possessively on her thigh, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles in that affectionate, sensual way that always leaves her weak.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Naima says, nodding toward the huge tree and the perfectly arranged garland along the fireplace. “I know Christmas isn’t your thing like that.”

Roman smiles, his hand tightening just slightly on her leg. “Yeah, well, I figured you’d cry if we didn’t at least have a tree.”

Naima smacks his shoulder, though a grin spreads across her face. “You ain’t right!”

“I’m just sayin’,” he teases, his baritone laced with humor. “You been talking about Christmas since Halloween ended. Couldn’t let you down, mamas. After all, this is your first Christmas outside Atlanta. Am I right?” 

Naima nods and sips her glass of champagne. “Yep. Feels weird not being with Adara and Julien, but…this is nice. Different, but nice.”

Roman cuts out a large piece of turkey and places it in Chief’s bowl, the little puppy gobbling the meat happily. “You talk to them today?” he asks. Knowing how close she is to her sister and nephew, he can already guess the answer.

“Of course,” she replies, “Adara says hi. And Julien was hyped about that new wrestling game you sent him. You officially won Christmas with that.”

He chuckles, proud. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Naima leans back in her chair, watching her boyfriend for a moment. There's something so easy about the way they’re together, the way they fit into each other’s lives despite their wildly different worlds. She loves this version of Roman—relaxed, unguarded, a far cry from the intense Tribal Chief persona that dominates the squared circle. Here, he gets to be just him. With her. His safe space.

She's honored.

“I’m glad I’m here with you,” she tells him, affection in her voice.

Roman’s gaze softens. “Me too, baby girl.”

After dinner, they retreat to the couch, plates of leftover plantain and wine glasses in hand. Chief curls up at their feet, munching on a leftover turkey leg. Roman’s arm is draped over Naima’s shoulder, his fingers lazily playing with her long hair. She rests against him, her legs stretched across his lap as “Home Alone” plays on the 64-inch TV.

“You got one more present,” Roman announces suddenly.

Naima raises an eyebrow. “I thought we agreed on no more presents.” They've already exchanged small gifts earlier in the day—she gave him a custom leather wrestling gear bag embroidered with his initials, and he surprised her with a sleek pair of Saint Laurent knee-high boots she’d been eyeing for months. 

“I ain’t agree to shit,” he smirks, a small, wrapped box materializing in his hand. “Here.”

Naima sits up, taking the box from him and unwrapping it carefully. Her jaw drops as she takes in the unmistakable Harry Winston packaging, her fingers trembling slightly as she unties the ribbon. She carefully opens the box, her breath catching as her eyes fall on the exquisite piece inside—a diamond necklace that glimmers like a constellation of stars. The delicate chain, made of intricate diamond clusters, forms a flawless, radiant circle that exudes elegance and timeless luxury, leaving her utterly speechless.

“Baby…”

“I saw it and thought of you,” he says, his tone casual, though the way his eyes linger on her face betray how much the gift means to him. “You light up my life, mamas. Figured it was fitting.”

Her throat tightens as he helps her put the necklace on, the cool chain resting against her skin. “Thank you. It’s so beautiful,” she whispers.

“Well, it was either this or the anklet,” he adds with a cheeky wiggle of his eyebrows as he caresses the back of her leg, “Woulda been great for these long-ass legs I can’t stop staring at.”

“You always gotta be so extra,” she giggles, her voice teasing but shaky.

Roman grins, his eyes bright and happy. “You bring it out of me,” he whispers, his heart swelling as she holds him tight. He will never tire of moments like this with her.

“Your turn,” she announces, reaching behind the couch to grab a flat, rectangular package.

Roman unwraps the paper carefully, revealing a framed portrait of the two of them sitting on an equipment crate backstage after his match at Summerslam. He was still in his wrestling gear, his Undisputed Championship resting on his lap, while Naima sat beside him, close enough for their thighs to touch. Her arms are around him and their eyes are closed, heads tilted and leaning against each other as if the world had disappeared for just that moment. The image, captured by Naomi, radiates intimacy and quiet strength, capturing everything unspoken between them in that stillness.

He is quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on the frame.

“You don’t like it?” Naima questions, suddenly uncertain.

“I love it,” he breathes, his voice low but full of emotion. “This…” He trails off, his fingers grazing the edge of the frame. “This is amazing, baby girl.”

“I wanted you to have something to remind you of who’s always in your corner,” she says, her voice soft and sincere.

Roman sets the frame down carefully and hugs her again. “I love you. You’re my everything,” he murmurs, the weight of his words settling between them.

Naima shivers, her heart racing for him like it always does. “I love you too. And you’re mine.” Her fingers clasp behind his neck as she pulls him in for a kiss. It starts slow, purposeful, their lips meeting in a way that feels as natural as breathing. Naima’s hands frame Roman’s face, her fingertips brushing against his beard as their mouths move in perfect sync. It's sensual, unhurried, yet electric enough to send shivers down their spines. 

Roman’s large hands roam down her back, possessive and sure, pulling her closer until she’s in his lap. When she moans softly into his mouth, it ignites something primal in him. The sound drives him crazy, her lips and her voice working together to undo him in a way no one else ever has. It’s a reminder of everything they share—the connection that goes beyond words, beyond the teasing and playful banter.

When they finally pull apart, she rests her forehead against his, her breathing unsteady. “Believe it or not, I got one more gift for you,” she informs him, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “It’s red and made of satin and lace.”

“Yeah?” Roman’s voice roughens, his hands still on her hips.

She leans in close, her teeth tugging on his earlobe as she whispers, “Mm-hmm. But you get to see it later.”

Roman groans low in his throat, his hold on her tightening. “You really tryna test my patience, huh?”

Naima laughs, sliding off his lap before he can pull her back. “Ya know what they say, baby; patience is a virtue.”

The rest of the night passes in a haze of laughter, wine, and stolen touches. Chief dozes near the fireplace, his tiny snores filling the silence of the now-muted TV. As Naima cleans up the dishes from their late-night snacks, Roman leans against the counter, watching her.

“You ever think about what’s next?” he asks suddenly.

She glances over her shoulder, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“For us,” he elaborates, his voice unwavering.

Naima pauses, her hands stilling. “I mean…I’m happy right now. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says, his lips twitching into a small smile. “I am. But I’m talking like, big picture. Like, what happens when we’re not doing this flying-back-and-forth shit anymore? What if you moved to Miami permanently? With me.”

Naima turns to face him fully, leaning against the sink. “That means leaving Adara and Julien in Atlanta. Leaving Exotica. I know you’d love that,” she rolls her eyes.

Roman shrugs. “Well, it is your workplace, regardless of my feelings towards it. But we can figure that out together. Right?”

She exhales, crossing her arms. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. Kinda feels like jinxing it.”

He pushes off the counter, narrowing the distance between them. “I get it. I just want you to know I’m serious about this. About us. I don’t care where you came from or what you’ve done. I just…I’m all in with you.”

Naima gazes at him, her chest tightening. “You sure you know what you’re gettin’ into, Reigns?” she whispers.

Roman grins, his hands finding her waist. “Baby girl, I’ve been sure pretty much since the day I met you.”

Her smile is wide and her heart feels impossibly full. “Guess I better go put your present on, then.”

Roman’s laughter echoes through the penthouse as she saunters off, her long legs carrying her toward his bedroom. “Don’t take too long,” he calls after her.

Ten minutes later, Naima’s heart is still racing with excitement. She can feel the heat of the shower still lingering on her body, buzzing with the anticipation of what is to come. Roman’s words echo in her head; “Don’t take too long.” 

A playful grin crosses her lips. It will definitely be worth the wait.

The silk robe is soft and gentle on her skin as she moves around the bedroom. The lights are dimmed just enough to set the mood. She reaches for the speaker, turning on a playlist full of sultry, slow R&B songs that she uses for her private dances. Usually, she has an audience of several, tossing dollars at her, hungry for more. Tonight, her audience consists of just one, the most important one; Roman Reigns himself, her man…her everything.

She stands in front of the full-length mirror and lets her long, damp hair cascade down her back, shimmering under the soft lighting. She takes a deep breath as she eyes her reflection, seeing a stark difference between the woman staring back at her and the one from seven years ago.

Well done, Naima. Well done.

She quickly goes to the gift bag she’d tucked away, pulling out the lingerie she had purchased specially for him—a festive red set with white fur trim and a playful Santa-inspired design. The bra and thong set hugs her curves perfectly, and she can feel herself getting wetter, more eager. She doesn’t need much of an excuse to get her man all worked up, but tonight? Tonight is different.

She peeks her head through the door and calls out to him, her voice low and teasing. “Baby, I need some help in here!”

As he enters the bedroom, his gaze immediately falls on her—no longer in the oversized sweater, but in blood red lingerie, looking like a vision. His mouth goes dry, his pants tightening as he drinks in the sight.

“Goddamn, baby girl,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with desire. He leans against the doorframe, his eyes scanning her, taking in the way the fabric clings to her slender body. “You look fucking incredible.”

“You like it, big daddy?” she asks, her voice dripping with temptation as she strikes a pose that extends her already long legs.

“Like it? I fucking love it,” he growls, his voice rough with desire. “But how the hell are you not tired from all the cooking?”

Naima’s lips curve into a sultry smile as she inches closer to him, her hips swaying with every step. “I’m never too tired to please you, Ro.”

Roman’s expression softens, but there’s a spark of something else in his eyes—anticipation. He doesn't respond at first, just watches as she takes his hand and leads him to the bed, motioning for him to sit. He obeys without question, his body already tingling with desire.

She walks over to the speakers and turns the volume up just enough. The sultry, slow beat of “To My Bed” by Chris Brown fills the room, its sensual tone ensconcing them both like a velvet blanket. She stands for a moment, letting the rhythm of the song take over her body. The satin fabric of her lingerie shimmers as she dances, her movements sensual and determined, drawing him in. There’s no rush from her—each motion is deliberate, designed to drive him crazy. 

Roman’s hands rest on his knees, gripping them tightly, the intensity in his gaze saying more than words can express. His breath quickens as she turns and gives him an eyeful of the thong that’s swallowed up by her fat, bountiful ass cheeks. Then, she slowly approaches him, her legs long and lithe, flexing with an effortless grace. She leans forward, pushing her chest in his face, her hands smoothing over his broad shoulders. 

“You like what you see, big guy?” she inquires, her voice low and smokier than her jollof, dripping with sex and authority, knowing she has him in the palm of her hand.

“Damn right I do,” Roman growls in response, his hands closing over her breasts, the tension in the air as thick as a storm about to break.

A slow smile plays across her lips, a smile that sends shivers through him. She reaches up and places a Santa hat on his head, her fingers brushing over his scalp before letting the hat sit on top.

“Guess you’re my Christmas gift, huh?” she teases, winking at him, her fingers lightly tapping the top of the hat.

Roman can’t help but snicker despite the lust pulsing through him. “You know it, mamas. Just unwrap me already.”

Naima stands in front of him for a moment, her body swaying, the sheer satin glistening against her skin as the lights of the room catches the fabric just right. Roman’s eyes roam over her, memorizing every inch. Her body, her long legs, that damn sexy smile of hers, the way she looks in the tiny underwear. She knows how to play him like a violin, and tonight he is her willing instrument.

Naima’s smile grows as she slowly unhooks her bra, letting it fall to the floor, exposing the breasts and pierced nipples that never fail to make his mouth water. She drops down low, then slowly rolls back up as her hands run over her curves, caressing herself. She hears his breathing getting heavier, and that only fuels her further. She lets the music take control, her body moving with a confidence that only Roman can bring out of her.

His eyes are glued to her, his expression a mix of lust and admiration. “You’re killing me, mamas,” he moans, his voice clogged with desire.

She stops for a moment, standing in front of him, her ample chest rising and falling with each breath. “Oh, I’m just getting started, big guy,” she purrs, her voice low and sultry. “You’ve been a good boy tonight, so I think you’ve earned a little something special.”

Roman chuckles darkly, his hands resting on the bed now, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “You’ve got no idea what I’m gonna do to you after this,” he warns.

Naima smirks at his little threat, her confidence skyrocketing as his hungry stare stalks her every move. With her back to him, she sensually shimmies between his parted legs and lowers herself onto his lap. Her backside rests right on his crotch as she keeps moving, rolling her ass back and forth in a manner that makes his jaw clench. She throws a sly glance over her shoulder, catching the way his hands twitch, aching to touch her again.

“What’s the matter, big guy? Can’t handle it?” she taunts, her voice low and teasing.

Roman exhales sharply, his resolve crumbling as his hands shoot up to grab her waist. His fingers dig into her skin as she bounces her ass on him, the enticing rhythm making his entire body flare up with heat. “Goddamn, baby,” he hisses.

The near pain in his voice earns a laugh from her, rich, full of mischief and lust as she presses back harder, causing him to groan yet again. “That’s right, daddy, watch me throw this fat ass on you,” she moans, steadying herself with her hands on his knees while her hips and ass do all the talking.

Roman tilts his head back for a moment, shutting his eyes tightly as he feels himself throb from the near unbearable friction. “You keep this up and I’m not gonna last long,” he growls, reaching out to squeeze her backside wreaking havoc on his stiff crotch.

“That's the plan,” she shoots back, grinding against him some more before standing up abruptly, leaving him gaping at her like she’s just snatched his soul. “Gotta give Santa his Christmas dance,” she giggles, stepping back and twerking to the music again.

Roman licks his lips as he adjusts himself and the hat on his head. “Santa’s getting impatient, baby girl. You better finish that dance quick before I take what’s mine,” he grumbles.

Naima's eyes stay fixated on her man as she tugs on the waistband of her thong and slips it down her legs, tossing it playfully at him which he catches easily. Her body is now completely bare, save for the light sheen of sweat that clings to her skin, making her glow. She straddles him again, leaning in so their noses almost touch. “What if I don’t wanna finish, big daddy?” she murmurs, her lips brushing his teasingly.

This time, Roman doesn’t hesitate. He grips her thighs and flips them over, pinning her beneath him. The bed shifts under their combined weight as he stares down at her, his smirk widening. “I know where I wanna finish,” he mutters, his voice catching right before he crushes his mouth to hers. His big hands eagerly roam her curves as he presses himself against her, the warmth of her naked body sparking a fire he can’t extinguish.

With a teasing grin, Naima pulls his sweater off him and helps him shove his pants down. Then, moving with surprising speed and strength, she rolls them over so she is back on top. Her hands smooth down his chest, running her fingers over the muscles of his abdomen, and she reaches down to grip his length, massaging him for a second or two before sliding him inside her. 

With a soft moan, she sits up and presses her hands on his chest, pinning him down as he drops his hands from her waist to her ass, squeezing the supple cheeks. His grip tightens as she rides him with the skill of an equestrian, her shapely hips rolling and rotating, seemingly spelling her name on him. He can feel her wetness seeping between them, the friction driving him crazy.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, “You make me lose my fuckin' mind.”

Naima dips down, capturing his lips with a passion that sends fireworks off in his brain. The kiss is deep, intense, needy. Their tongues tangle with an urgency that speaks volumes to their never-ending lust for each other, Roman’s hips joining the frantic dance of want as he meets her halfway with deep thrusts right against her sweet spot. The scent of her perfume, something floral and warm, mingles with the sweet musk of desire, and his head spins from the intoxicating combination.

“Shit, Ro…” Naima moans. She grips the pillow behind Roman’s head as she pounces and bounces on his dick with increased urgency, the slickness of her pussy, the feel of him deep inside her, making everything feel like it’s about to explode. She lets out another breathy moan, her face nuzzling his neck, her heavy pants sprouting goosebumps on his skin. Roman’s breath catches in his throat as the feel of her beautiful body writhing on top of him, along with a dizzying myriad of sensations, nudges him closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his pupils dilated and hazy from pleasure as he stares up at her, “Baby, I don’t know how much longer I can last.”

Naima smiles down at him, her hair falling over her shoulders in soft waves, her chest rising and falling in tandem with her rising and falling on his dick. She cups his face, gazing right into his eyes as she whispers, “Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

Roman’s eyes darken with lust. It’s the easiest confession he’ll ever make. “You're the best I’ve ever had, baby girl. By a mile. Don’t nobody fuck me like you do,” he professes.

Her body responds to his praise like a fine-tuned instrument. Her movements become faster, more desperate with every dropdown. Their foreheads press together, and she groans as he suddenly shifts and flips her underneath him. He hitches her legs higher around his waist and pumps into her determinedly, cursing as the new angle deepens his reach inside her. Overwhelmed, Naima's eyes squeeze shut, her fingernails in his back, swept away by the intensity of their passion, reverberating through the entire master bedroom as euphoria comes calling. The bed rocks harder from the force of Roman's thrusts, indescribable pleasure drawing them closer and closer.

“Open your eyes, Naima. Look at me when you come,” Roman coaxes her with a kiss, his voice almost pleading as his fingers brush along her stomach and find that sensitive spot between her legs. He toys with it, his personal pleasure button, playing with the sticky mess she’s made and luxuriating in the sounds of her shaky moans as he fucks her into the mattress.

Naima obeys and locks glazed, unfocused eyes with him, barely holding on as the world crescendos around them. Only a half-minute later, it all comes crashing down like a tidal wave; powerful, overwhelming, all-encompassing. Naima screams as her juices gush from the impact, all over his dick, her entire frame shaking with the bone-tingling intensity of her orgasm. Roman’s grip on her and on reality falters as her pussy tightens around him, sparking his release, his drenched dick pulsing and twitching as he fills her to the brim. They collapse together, panting and sweaty, spent and wrecked. He rolls onto his back and immediately pulls her close, his face buried in her hair as he struggles to catch his breath.

Naima lets out a contented sigh, smiling as she nestles against his chest. “Guess that was a Christmas gift for both of us, huh?” she murmurs.

Roman chuckles, his lips meeting her forehead. “You’re the best gift I could ever ask for, baby.”

She smiles up at him, her heart warm and full. “And you’re mine. You don’t know what you’ve done for me, Roman.”

And with one more heartfelt kiss, they cling to each other, their bodies still buzzing from the most beautiful experience, knowing that the holiday season has brought them even closer, if that was even possible.

🎄THE END...for now.🎄

Read Finding Angel here

Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

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The air outdoors smells like roasted garlic and something fried.

Sunlight dapples through the awning above their table, warming the wooden patio beneath Naima’s bare calves. She and Phoenix are tucked away in a quiet corner of their favorite little café two blocks from their studio. The air is warm, the buzz of the city a distant murmur, and the scent of sweet tea and grilled cheese fills the air. Neither of them says much at first, and that’s the beauty of it. With Phoenix, she doesn’t have to. They’re in sync like that.

For four years now, they’ve been co-pilots of Elysian Motion Company; choreographers, dreamers, business partners. Friends. The kind that can say everything and nothing all in one look. They met at a dance conference in New Orleans, both leading workshops on different sides of the convention center, both drawn to each other’s precision, energy, and presence. It had been a natural fit. He saw her, like, saw her, and Naima felt safe with him. Felt…seen.

Like he saw her for more than what she had become.

Phoenix props his chin on his knuckles, his elbow resting lazily on the table as he sips from his iced matcha. The straw clicks softly against the cup, his sharp eyes tracking every little detail—especially her. His plate’s a mess of waffle fry crumbs and a chicken sandwich that looks like it fought back. Naima’s isn’t much better; her chili burger is half gone, the top bun clinging for dear life. It's the kind of indulgent lunch that would make their students side-eye them, but neither of them cares. Not here. Not with each other. This has always been their space to exhale.

Her phone vibrates on the table, screen lighting up with a familiar name.

Roman

Phoenix’s brow lifts almost imperceptibly, catching it before she can tuck the phone away, like she always tries to do when he’s around. He’s noticed the name more times than he can count these past weeks, and every time, she makes a quiet effort to keep it out of sight. He doesn’t exactly like that.

He leans back slowly, drink still in hand. That familiar smirk of his twists at his lips, somehow making him look even more handsome. “Ah, there it is again.”

Naima sighs through her nose, already bracing. “What are you talking about?”

“Nah, don’t worry. I wasn’t gonna snoop,” he says, his tone too casual to be casual. “But you’ve been gettin’ real quick with the phone lately. And every time it lights up, it’s him.”

He says the name without saying it, but it lingers in the air like perfume. Heavy. Unwelcome. She tries to play it cool, grabbing a fry and gesturing flippantly. “And who exactly are you talking about, Phoenix?”

His smirk harbors no humor. “You know who. Roman,” he replies, his voice low and edged. “I Googled him, ya know, out of curiosity. Wrestler, huh? Interesting.”

Her chuckle is light and effortless, but her guard is visibly up. “Okay…and?”

Phoenix shrugs with more than just nonchalance, his eyes sharp. His tone borders on accusatory as he explains, “I just think it’s funny, that’s all. He seems like your usual type, and yet, not your type at all.”

Naima arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “You don’t know my type.”

He smirks, that half-smile that means he’s got a comeback ready. He always does. “Oh, I know you better than you think, Nai. Your type is the ones who play big and live loud, but never stick around.”

Naima feels a familiar weariness settle over her. Here we go again, she thinks, already tired of this conversation that seems to come up every time a man so much as breathes in her direction outside of Exotica. “Chill. It’s still new,” she says evenly, feeling drained already. “Nothing serious. We’re just…seeing each other.”

Phoenix’s expression barely changes, but the corners of his mouth twitch downward in that way that says he’s not buying it. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “That’s what they all say at first.” He sets his glass down a little harder than necessary; the ice clinks against the rim, sharp like a warning bell. “He’s public. He’s loud. That’s not your world, Naima. Not really.”

She tilts her head, challenging. “He’s not loud, Phoenix. Not like that. He’s private. Way more private than you’d expect.”

Phoenix scoffs softly, but there’s no humor behind it. “Private or not, I checked his IG. Yachts, jets, bling, closed restaurants with some Paul guy who’s his manager or whatever. Whole arenas chanting his name like he’s some kind of god. That kind of spotlight? That life? Feels familiar, don’t it? Ain’t too far off from the world you built for yourself at Exotica.”

Naima doesn’t flinch, but his words dig in deeper than she lets on. She knew this was coming. She knew Phoenix would dig; he always does when he feels her slipping away.

She stiffens slightly but keeps her voice calm. “You think I’m with him because he reminds me of the men who toss stacks at my feet?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I think it makes sense. You know how men like him move. You’re not surprised by it. It’s safe in its own twisted way.. Predictable, even.” He runs a hand over his jaw, frustration tightening his features. “He cool with what you do?”

The question isn’t new, but from Phoenix, it still stings. He’s never understood...not fully. He’s tried, but that disapproval never fully leaves his voice. She’s used to it by now. From everyone.

“He knows,” Naima replies coolly. “And he might not like it, but he’s trying.”

Phoenix stares at her for a beat too long. “You could do more than dance in dark rooms for men who don’t give a shit about you.”

“And I do,” she fires back, not with anger but with certainty. “You of all people know how hard I’ve worked, what I built. Dancing was how I survived. Elysian is how I live.”

He doesn’t retort right away, because he knows she’s right. The tension hums under the quiet.

Finally, Phoenix leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not trying to start shit. I just…” His jaw works before he forces it out. “I care about you, Nai.”

Naima’s heart thuds a little too hard at that. Not because she feels the same. But because she doesn’t. Not like that.

“I know,” she says softly. “And I care about you too.”

He gives her a look that’s far too gentle, too loaded. “Just don’t let him change you. Or make you question who the fuck you are.”

She forces a tight smile as the silence between them stretches, long and taut. She watches him, waiting for the next line of criticism. But Phoenix doesn’t speak again. He just picks at the edge of his plate, clearly turning something over in his head. She knows what else he wants to say. What he's always wanted to say. But Phoenix never pushes when it matters most. It’s one of the reasons she loves him the way she does…even if it’s not in the way he wishes.

They leave a few minutes later, walking side by side down the sidewalk toward Elysian. The afternoon sun glints off the metal railings, the scent of honeysuckle wafting on the breeze.

He bumps her shoulder lightly. “You still choreographing that solo tonight?”

“Yup,” she answers, “You gonna stop hovering and let me work?”

“Doubtful,” he mutters, but his smile is back, wry and teasing. That’s the thing with Phoenix. No matter how tense things get, no matter how much goes unsaid, he never lets it linger. He never lets their friendship crack. And Naima appreciates that more than he’ll ever know.

Even if she can’t give him the one thing, the only thing, he secretly hopes for.

Adara’s living room has always been a sanctuary for Naima. With warm-toned walls, soft throws draped over the back of a plush sectional, and the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air, it’s the kind of space that feels like a balm to her soul. It’s quiet in the way her life rarely is; no music blaring from the studio, no clacking heels on Exotica’s backstage floor, no city noise slipping through cracked windows. Here, she can breathe. Here, she can just…be. With the only family she has, and knows.

She curls into one corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a bowl of gourmet truffle popcorn resting against her thigh. Julien is next to her, happily engrossed in the video playing on the mounted smart TV: WWE Presents: The Bloodline’s Best Moments. His small hand dives into his popcorn bag with practiced ease, eyes wide as he narrates each match and rivalry like a seasoned analyst.

Naima’s mind is somewhere else entirely.

Well, not entirely.

It’s glued to the screen. Or rather, to him.

Roman’s shirt clings to his broad shoulders, sweat glistening across his temple, walking with a calm that spoke volumes louder than any hype music. Dominant. Regal. Dangerous. His on-screen presence wraps around her like velvet and barbed wire; soft and seductive, but undeniably sharp.

She hasn’t watched wrestling in ages, but now she can’t look away.

Because she’s felt that presence—under her, over her, inside her. The way he takes control in bed mirrors the way he commands a crowd. No wasted movements. No hesitation. When Roman touches her, it’s like he’s orchestrating a symphony and she’s the instrument he’s mastered. The man makes missionary feel like a goddamn miracle.

She shifts in her seat, heat pooling where she doesn’t need it right now.

“This is when he first won the Universal Championship,” Julien mumbles through a mouthful of popcorn, pointing at the screen. “He beat Bray Wyatt and Braun Strowman. But there’s no crowd in the arena because of COVID.”

It wouldn’t have mattered. His huge frame and undeniable aura made up for the lack of noise. Naima’s lips part slightly as Roman raises the title overhead, eyes dark and defiant, mouth tight with victory. 

She swallows, ignoring the throb between her thighs. Fuck. 

She has danced for billionaires. Flirted with CEOs, judges, Grammy-winning rappers. But none of them got her like this. Dirty thoughts churn low in her belly. Roman Reigns is a sexy-ass man, and she’s had the privilege of being pinned by him in a way no pay-per-view could capture without it getting banned.

“Damn,” she mutters, licking sugar off her finger like it's his mouth. How does he make a black tee and sweats look better than a Tom Ford suit? He could wear a garbage bag and she’d still be tempted to sit on his face.

Julien, oblivious, keeps talking. “Yeah. He’s in the Bloodline with his cousins, Jimmy and Jey. They twins. And Solo Sikoa, too. They’re like, unstoppable.”

“Oh, they’re really cousins?” she asks, noting the resemblance as Jimmy and Jey appear on screen, barking into mics,  armed with the same swagger. She vaguely remembers them from the night she first met Roman at Exotica. The whole family is fine as hell. 

Julien nods eagerly. “Yeah! They’re all Samoan. And they stick together. Even when they fight each other sometimes, it’s always about loyalty.”

She nods slowly. That part she likes. Loyalty. A trait she likes to believe she possesses, herself.

The video cuts to Roman making his infamous ramp walk, two championship belts draped over both shoulders like they were born there. She watches him, transfixed. He moves like a man who knows the world belongs to him; shoulders back, spine straight, eyes locked on his target. The roar of the crowd practically vibrates through the screen.

She’s caught up. She hates how easily she’s caught up.

Because she’s not the kind of woman who swoons. Not the type who gets wrapped up. Not since…well, not since things broke her in ways she tries to forget. But with Roman? She can’t explain it. She doesn’t want to. 

Still…What does a man like that want with a woman like her?

She’s used to men who want her for the fantasy. The performance. They want her when the lights hit the stage and the dollars rain down. Roman looks at her like she’s more than skin and rhythm. But as much as she’s tried to assure herself otherwise, she's so certain that it’s all an act by him, a ruse, and it scares the hell out of her.

Adara steps into the living room, her eyebrow lifting as she catches the tail end of Roman’s highlight reel on the TV. Her arms cross as she settles into the armchair across from Naima, head tilted with interest, but not without suspicion.

“Hmm,” she hums, eyes locked on Roman’s slow-motion entrance down the ramp. “He's fine, I’ll give you that. But what’s his angle, though?”

Naima smirks, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “You sound like Phoenix.”

Adara lets out a laugh, dramatic and knowing. “Oh, of course I do. Mr. Overprotective himself.” She shifts, kicking off her shoes. “That man stays in his feelings where you’re concerned. I swear, I thought y’all were gonna end up together eventually.”

Naima scoffs, rolling her eyes but not denying it outright.

Adara leans forward, teasing now. “Girl, you really acting like you don’t see it? He looks at you like he wanna be the air you breathe. Like if he had it his way, you’d never look at another man again. Especially not some fine-ass Samoan with cheekbones carved by the gods.”

Naima tries not to smile, and fails woefully.

“Phoenix is my friend,” she stresses, though her voice falters ever so slightly. “We’ve been business partners for years. He knows what it is.”

Adara huffs openly at her lovable, but deliberately obtuse baby sister. “Uh-huh. And yet, somehow, he always manages to be wherever you are. Always got something slick to say about any man who breathes in your direction. Don’t make me start pulling receipts.”

Naima throws a pillow at her, laughing now despite herself. But deep down, she knows her sister isn’t entirely wrong.

And that makes things…complicated.

Naima tosses a piece of popcorn in her mouth, eyes back on the TV as she chews slowly, then murmurs, “Alright, back to your regularly scheduled programming, Roman Reigns.”

Adara quirks a brow, sinking deeper into her chair with a teasing grin. “Oh, we never left that topic. You think I didn’t notice the way you were practically squirming while watching this video? Girl, please.”

Naima giggles, but the laugh that follows is tight, uneasy, as is the sigh that escapes from her chest. Heavy. Resigned. “You think I’m just another notch to him?” she asks her sister, her gaze expectant, grim.

That earns her a long look. Adara’s smile slips, her expression sharpening. “I think I’ve seen what this world does to girls like us,” she says, voice even but edged with steel.

The room feels heavier now, the weight of their shared past pressing in.

“I know what you mean,” Naima says quietly. “But we’re just…casual. It’s been fun so far. I’m not expecting anything. I’ve got history. And he’s had…higher value women.” She doesn’t say Princess’s name—refuses to mention that bitch out loud—but it’s there, hanging in the silence.

Adara tilts her head. “So what? You’ve got baggage? So does he, I bet. That don’t make you any less worthy. Don’t start selling yourself short now, Naima. We already let one man strip us of enough.”

Naima nods, but the weight in her chest doesn’t lift. Their past hovers, unspoken. The kind of pain only sisters understand. The kind that makes trust feel like a death sentence.

As the video winds down, Julien happily replays a moment when Roman spears someone out of their boots, cheering like it’s a playoff game. But Naima isn’t watching anymore.

She’s still wondering if a man like Roman could, would, ever love a woman with blood on her hands, ghosts in her bed, and steel in her spine.

And worse…if she could ever really, truly, let him.

Roman lounges on the midnight-gray sectional in his sleek Miami penthouse, the city’s glow flickering like distant fire through floor-to-ceiling windows. The room is quiet, eerily so, bathed in the cool, bluish hue of twilight and the faint hum of the Atlantic breeze threading through an open balcony door. The only real source of light? The screen of his phone, which burns like a beacon in his hand as he scrolls through a rabbit hole of temptation.

Naima’s Instagram.

He hadn’t planned on this. One post, just one, had popped up on his explore page earlier; her standing in front of a mirror, her face half-turned, lips glossy, a tease of skin flashing beneath a cropped hoodie. And that was it. Now he’s knee-deep in her grid, hypnotized by every photo, every caption, every unapologetic ounce of her.

Another post loads. This one is a slow, almost cinematic reveal of her in a metallic bikini, her skin catching light like polished bronze. Her legs, long and glistening, stretch across a plush lounge chair. The curve of her hips, the mischievous quirk of her smile; it all hits him like a gut punch. Her smirk is that of a woman who knows the chaos she causes.

Roman exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. The sound echoes in the empty room, sharp and misplaced, like he startled himself.

The comments below read like a digital thirst trap graveyard.

Now this is a baddie. Phew 

I'd sell my car, house, and soul just to touch her.

Lemme take care of you, ma. You too fine to be working poles.

I volunteer as tribute!

Roman’s jaw twitches, his temper rising. He tells himself it’s just internet noise. Background static. She’s fine; of course men are gonna drool over her. She’s sex and starlight and unbothered grace. She’s what happens when fire learns how to walk in heels.

But still.

His thumb hovers as another video loads. It’s her, dancing. Her body moves like silk poured into motion, every sway calculated, every turn effortless. Her legs, those damn legs again, eat up the stage. And her smile?

Goddamn.

Roman leans back, resting his head against the cool leather cushions. He’s been with beautiful women. Dated models, actresses, socialites, even female wrestlers. But this? She’s different. There’s heat in her, yes, but there’s also something grounded. Rugged. A woman who’s seen some shit. Who’s fought to make her own lane. That pulls him in more than anything.

But then come the doubts. Again. His past. Her present. The reality of her being a stripper. The glint in men’s eyes when they talk about her like she’s for sale. The fact that she lives in a world full of temptation, not unlike his, yet somehow he's finding a little difficult to navigate.

As he watches yet another video of her laughing as she spins on stage, teeth and heels glinting like daggers, he's wondering how the heck this woman pulled him in so deep, so quickly.

A new photo flashes on screen; Naima in cutoff denim shorts and a white crop top, her curls wild and joy painted across her face. She’s caught mid-laugh, looking off-camera like someone had said something unexpectedly funny. It’s not posed. Not sexy on purpose. It’s real.

This is the photo that truly knocks the wind out of him.

He stares at it for so long, he doesn’t hear his nosy ass cousin enter his living area.

“Yo, Tribal Chief!” Jimmy Uso crows, his chirpy voice cutting into the silence like a blade. “You good?”

Roman snaps out of it, nearly dropping the phone as he shoves it under his thigh like a teenager hiding porn. “Yeah. I’m straight.”

Jimmy arches a brow, grinning as he flops down beside him. “You sure? 'Cause you look like a kid who just got caught jackin’ off to some OnlyFans or some shit.”

Roman groans. “Man, shut the hell up. Whatchu want?”

Jimmy kicks his feet up on the edge of the coffee table. “Was gonna ask if you wanted to go grab dinner, but now I’m curious. What’s got you lookin’ like you just got sucker-punched by Cupid?”

Roman doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Because Jimmy is lunging before he can stop him, snatching his phone from beneath him with terrifying speed. 

Roman lets out an indignant squawk. “Man!”

Jimmy ignores him, squints, and scrolls. He knows the password already. Roman hasn’t changed it in probably a decade. His face lights up when he finds what he’s looking for. “Ohhhhhh. So we lurking now, huh?” he teases.

“Jimmy, gimme my damn phone—”

“Naw, naw, man, hold up.” Jimmy whistles low, lips tugged into a grin as he leans in, thumbing across the photo Roman left on screen. “Damn, Uce. You got that in your life and still stressin’? Come on.”

Roman doesn’t answer right away. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs, big hands clasped like a man praying for clarity he can’t seem to find. The glow from his phone paints faint shadows across his face, all sharp jaw and inner turmoil.

“It ain’t just that,” he mutters.

Jimmy’s grin fades. He’s known Roman long enough to recognize that tone, the quiet before some real shit gets laid out. “Then what is it?” he presses.

When Roman exhales, it comes out slow, heavy, like he's dragging every word up from the pit of his chest. “She got dudes in her DMs, man. Sayin’ all the same shit I did. ‘I’ll take care of you.’ ‘You too fine for the club.’ All that let me rescue you, baby nonsense. Flyin’ her out, makin’ promises, throwin’ stacks like it’s confetti.”

He pauses, jaw ticking beneath his beard, something bitter brewing behind his teeth. “And I’m sittin’ here, tryna act like I’m different. Like I didn’t already do all that shit…Kissed her, slept with her. What makes me not just another moth tryna burn up in her flame?”

Jimmy bursts out laughing, head tilting back like he’s been waiting to say it. “Hoo lawd! My boy’s weak for lil’ miss stripper gyal!”

Roman’s head snaps up, eyes flashing. “No, I’m not.”

Jimmy lifts his brows, unimpressed. “Uce, come on. This is classic Roman Reigns when he's in too deep. You out here stressin’ like you just another one of her…what do you and Jey call ‘em? Strip Club Simps?”

Roman drags a hand down his face, his fingers pressing into his eyes like he’s trying to reset his whole damn brain. He exhales through his teeth, then shakes his head. “I’m not in deep,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “I ain’t out here fallin’ or none of that soft shit. I just…” His voice falters for a second, then steadies. “I just don’t wanna be the same as every other motherfucker who slid into her life sayin’ the same sweet lies. I wanna mean it. I do mean it. That don’t make me weak.”

Jimmy leans back slowly, arms folded, eyes narrowing with something closer to curiosity than judgment. Then, after a long beat, quiet and measured: “Lemme ask you somethin’.”

Roman glances at him, a flicker of dread prickling at his gut. He knows exactly what’s coming, but he still braces for it.

Jimmy studies him, then speaks, softer this time. “This about Princess?”

The name lands like a stone in deep water.

Roman doesn’t move at first. Just sits there. Rigid. Still.

Jimmy clocks it instantly. His voice drops, gentler this time. “I know what y’all had. What she did to you. How long you let that shit bleed into everything. You never said it out loud, but I was there. I saw it, Uce. You were twisted up over her for years. So I gotta ask you—for real—you done? Cuz if you’re not, then you really ain’t no different from them dudes with the lies.”

Roman leans back slowly, his body language easy but his eyes guarded. He shrugs like it’s nothing. “She’s not part of this,” he insists. Ignoring the untruth. Ignoring their history which lingers like a ghost…whispering doubts, threading poison through his ribs.

Jimmy studies him for a beat longer, then passes back the phone. His expression softens. “Look, you like Naima. Anyone with eyes can see that. You ain’t been this light in months, Uce. Hell, Naomi noticed it too.”

Roman’s brows lift a little. “Naomi?”

Jimmy smirks as he recalls his inquisitive ass wife bombarding him with questions about why Roman’s been “cheesing so damn hard lately”. “She already askin’ who got you like this and when she gon’ meet her.”

Roman chuckles under his breath, a wry little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jimmy sits up, a mischievous spark in his eye. “You know what? I got a solution.”

Roman eyes him, wary. “What?”

“We got SmackDown in Atlanta in two weeks.”

He immediately knows where this is going.

Jimmy continues, voice slick with suggestion. “Invite her. Bring her to the show. Let her see your world. Backstage, gorilla position, the whole nine. Afterparty with the crew. You’ll know real quick if she’s built for this.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, heavy and foreboding. Naima would have to navigate backstage chaos, producers yelling, agents pacing, talent being pulled in ten different directions. The stares. The weight of being the chick with Roman Reigns. Then there’s the after-show dinner with the boys and their wives and girlfriends and side pieces, where everyone sizes up new faces with polite smiles and subtle judgment.

It’s not glamorous. It’s a pressure cooker.

But if she can move through all that and still see him? Still want him? Then maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for them.

Roman lets that sink in. The weight of it. The possibility.

Jimmy claps him on the shoulder, hard enough to jostle him. “I guess that’s settled. Maybe now you’ll quit creepin’ on her socials like a teenager with a crush.”

Roman barks a short laugh as Jimmy heads for the hallway. “Get outta here.”

“I’m just sayin’, Uce! You too grown to be playin’ peekaboo on IG like some sophomore in heat! Now get your ass up and let’s go eat.”

The front door clicks shut behind him, and silence stretches once more. Roman stares at his phone, at that photo of Naima laughing in the sunlight like she’s never been burned by the world.

“Damn,” he murmurs again, thumb hovering over the call button.

Stripper or not, trouble or not, she’s got him.

And maybe for once…that ain’t such a bad thing.

The walls of Exotica’s backstage rehearsal room feel like they’re closing in; sweating perfume, ambition, and years of unspoken resentment. Dim overhead fluorescents stutter like dying stars, casting the long mirrored walls in a jittery glow. A single pole stands at the center like an altar, slick, metallic, worshipped and feared in equal measure. 

Naima stands just inside the threshold, arms folded tight across her chest. This room has always felt like a cage to her, never quite enough air, never enough grace. Her own dance studio is her sanctuary. This? This is just where the circus trains.

Brandy leans against the mirrored wall, one leg crossed over the other, her face a mask of indifference. But Naima knows that stillness well…It’s Brandy’s version of a middle finger. Especially when Khalil’s around.

And today? Khalil is very much around.

He slinks across the room like a roach that knows it runs the place, baggy shirt half unbuttoned, cheap cologne choking the air, his blunt tucked behind one ear like some greasy badge of honor. His gaze licks over the girls like they’re nothing more than products on a shelf. And when his eyes land on the nervous new girl, his grin turns predatory.

“Aight, Cinnamon,” he drawls, voice thick with phlegm and ego. “Let’s see whatchu got. And don’t waste my time wit’ no half-assed TikTok shit neither. Make it nasty, or go home.”

Cinnamon steps forward, trembling slightly, the platform heels making her steps more uncertain than seductive. She grips the pole like it’s a lifeline and begins her routine. Her spins are soft, movements timid, her body too tense to sell anything but nerves.

Khalil scoffs before she can finish a single rotation.

“Bitch, what the fuck is this?” he snaps, “You dancin’ or havin’ a seizure? This the fuckin’ Bunny Hop? I swear to God, y’all new bitches come in here actin’ like this a TikTok audition and not a damn strip club!”

Cinnamon flinches. Her face floods red. She misses her grip, lands off-beat, and her lip starts to tremble. A single tear breaks free and slides down her cheek like the tip of a bad memory.

Naima’s arms tighten. She doesn’t blink. Brandy’s jaw ticks, her stare boring a hole through Khalil’s back. She shifts like she might lunge at him, but somehow, she remains grounded. Just.

In the corner, Goldie sits on her perch, legs crossed, tablet in hand. Immaculate. Regal. Watching. The House Mom says nothing, only lifts her chin slightly, eyes narrowing.

Khalil spits on the floor, his beady eyes flashing. “This weak-ass shit ain’t gonna make nobody throw money! You think these suits wanna see you cryin’? Bitch, wipe those tears ‘fore I give you somethin’ to cry about.”

“Enough, Khalil,” Goldie finally calls out, her tone cool and sharp as cracked glass despite her exasperation. Her words slice through the room. “She’s new. Give her a fuckin' minute.”

Khalil doesn’t miss a beat. “You too soft on these hoes, Goldie. Don’t make it worse.”

Naima speaks up before she can stop herself. “She’s learning, Khalil. You act like you don’t remember what that looks like,” she says.

He turns toward her slowly. And here comes the heat. That fake smile. That snake-oil sweetness laced in piss and poison. “Awwww, here go Angel tryna save a hoe again. How fuckin' sweet. Tell me…who saved your ass all those years ago? Huh? Didn’t I have to scrape you up off that sticky-ass floor myself?”

The words hit Naima like a slap, but her face stays unreadable. Her shoulders square. Beside her, Brandy's eyes are blazing, and is about to open her mouth when Naima holds up a hand to stop her. She wades into the tension like a blade sliding into silk. “You didn’t save me,” she corrects, head held high. “You saw profit, and I saw a way out. That’s it. Let’s not rewrite history.”

Khalil sneers, steps closer. He eyes her up and down like a product he’s trying to price out. “Coulda fooled me. You actin’ all righteous now, but I still remember them big ol’ titties bouncin’ for singles in that bum ass club I found you in.”

The room stills. Naima doesn’t move. But Goldie does. She stands, slow and tall, and for the first time, the quiet storm rises.

“That’s enough,” she snaps. Her voice is low, but laced with warning. “Sheathe your damn sword, Khalil. Show some respect, or get the fuck out.”

Khalil raises both hands, grinning like a devil in Sunday white. “Aight, aight. Relax. I’m just playin’.” But his eyes are cold. “Angel know I got love for her. Don’t you, baby?”

Brandy steps forward now, full heat in her stride, ready to scorch the room in a different way, but Naima gently places a hand on her arm. Stops her. Shakes her head.

“Whatever helps you sleep, Khalil,” she says, her husky voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Just remember who keeps this stage full.”

He cackles again, mean and hollow. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget who gave you the damn stage to begin with.” And with that, he strides out, smelling like cheap smoke and old sin.

The air in the room slowly returns, relieved sighs echoing quietly.

Naima walks over to Cinnamon, who’s still shell-shocked, still holding herself like she might crumble. “Hey,” she says gently, waiting for the girl to make eye contact. “It was a little rough, but you’ll get there. You got something. You just need space to find it.”

Cinnamon nods, eyes glassy but grateful. “You really think I can do this?”

Naima smiles. “I know you can. Come to my studio next week. I’ll help you clean up your routine,” she offers.

The new girl’s face lights up like a sunrise. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

As they pack up their belongings to head out, Brandy mutters behind Naima, “He always gotta go too fuckin’ far. It ain’t right, Nai.”

Naima pauses, her grip tightening slightly on her duffel bag as she straightens up. She doesn’t turn around right away. The weight of Brandy’s words settle like dust on her spine. “I know,” she says after a beat, her voice calm. Too calm. Too practiced. “It’s just who he is. Let him talk.”

Brandy eyes her, not buying the act. But Naima’s already slipped into her armor; the easy smile, the lifted chin, the unbothered shrug that hides the tension wound tight in her chest.

Because no matter how far she’s come, Khalil never lets her forget the night he “discovered” her, like she was some desperate stray he pulled from the gutter. And every time he throws it in her face, it lands like a bruise under her ribs.

“One day, somebody’s gonna check him,” Brandy predicts.

Naima hums in agreement, even if she knows it won’t be her. Not yet. Khalil’s power is real, and volatile, and it’s smarter to let him think she’s still dancing to his tune…for now.

But in her heart, she’s already writing her own.

The late evening air kisses Naima’s skin as she steps out of Exotica, the echo of Khalil’s voice still faintly humming in the back of her mind like an unwelcome mosquito. Her sneakers pad against the pavement as she walks to her car, the tension of the backstage rehearsal room still lingering in her muscles, but it’s Phoenix’s voice in her head now—his laugh, his focus, his rhythm syncing with hers like they share a heartbeat. The studio lights. The music. The rush.

A contemporary dance they rehearsed earlier in the morning still simmers in her bones. A fun piece that helped her unwind before this mess in Exotica.

She unlocks her phone and pulls up the video of her and Phoenix, moving like fire and smoke across the floor. Their bodies twine and spin, a language only dancers know, and in the middle of it, she sees herself. Not Angel. Not a fantasy or a headliner. Just Naima. Fluid. Strong. Real.

On impulse, she searches for Roman's contact and hits forward. Her fingers hover over the screen, then she types a caption before sending it to him:

A lil’ glimpse of the other side of me 💃🏾

Her stomach flips the second it delivers.

She’s never sent him anything like this. Not her world, not her work. And definitely not the piece of herself that still dares to dream past strobe lights and salivating men. A piece that still believes in something beyond Exotica.

Her phone buzzes before she even pulls out of the parking lot.

Roman.

She answers the FaceTime, one hand on the wheel, the other lifting her phone to the dash. The screen lights up with his face; shirtless, sprawled out on what looks like a hotel bed, head resting back against the pillows, his long hair knotted into a bun atop his head. Moonlight beams in through his window, painting him in silver.

God, he’s beautiful.

“That’s you in your element, huh?” he rumbles, voice low and lazy, like honeyed butter on her skin.

Naima grins, her eyes flicking between the screen and the road ahead. “You like it?”

“Love it,” he says, and there’s something rich in his tone, admiration with a slow burn beneath. “You were killin’ that shit, girl. Fluid as hell. That’s your floor.”

Her heart flutters, her pride curling inside her like a stretch after a good song. But then his gaze shifts, sharpens. That calm intensity of his cuts through the flirtation. 

“Who’s the dude?”

Naima’s brow arches. She laughs softly. “Phoenix. My partner. We run the studio together.”

Roman’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and his eyes narrow just enough to draw out the truth. Not jealousy. Not quite. But something adjacent. Something territorial. Protective. The kind of look that says, That’s mine…even if I’m still figuring out what to do with her.

“What’s with the face?” she teases. “You look like you smelled somethin’ funny.”

His silence lasts a beat too long. Then…

“He likes you,” Roman observes, his baritone voice low and firm. “I can see it all over him.”

Naima glances at the phone like really? “How the hell did you get all that from one video?”

Roman’s smirk is slow, sure. “’Cause I’m a man. I know that look. Man’s tryin’ real hard to act like he ain’t starving while he stands in the kitchen.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the smile pulling at her lips. “You gonna be like this all the time? Because if we wanna go there, I’ve seen the women you wrestle with. They’re all fine as hell.”

“Maybe,” Roman admits, that same smirk deepening into something darker, possessive in the sexiest way. “But they ain’t you.”

The air in the car seems to shift, warm and electric. Her cheeks heat as she turns into Brandy’s complex, heart gliding against her ribs like a hand sliding up her thigh.

“Good answer,” she murmurs.

They say their goodbyes, the call ending too soon as always. She parks and sits there, letting the moment settle around her like fog on a lake. Roman saw her. Not the club version. Not the curated Instagram fantasy. But the version of her. drenched in sweat and artistry and purpose.

And he liked it.

She stares at her phone, thumb hovering, debating whether to send him the address to her studio. To take another step.

Nope. Not yet. Girl, chill out.

For now, she’ll take this small piece of progress and let it bloom, slowly, gradually, like a song that hasn’t hit the chorus yet.

Roman Reigns might not know it yet, but she’s inviting him deeper into her world. And he’s just stepped through the first door.

Brandy’s Living Room; Late Evening

The scent of cocoa butter hangs sweet and thick in the air, mingling with the faint, sharp tang of burnt hair from a hot comb recently used. The soft buzz of a muted TV cycles through slow-motion promos of SmackDown, casting flickers of blue light across Brandy’s living room. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm, lived-in and loud with character. A few salon chairs sit pushed to the wall like exiled soldiers, and a half-braided mannequin stares blankly from the corner. Her daughter, Treasure’s glitter-dusted backpack hangs from the back of a chair, one strap slipping like it’s tired, too.

Brandy’s curled up on the couch in a tank top and leggings, her curls piled in a defiant bun atop her head, a wad of cash flipping through her fingers. Naima perches catlike on the armrest, cross-legged, working on her own stack of cash with the precision of a blackjack dealer. There’s a crease in her brow that gives her away; counting, yes, but also thinking. Always thinking.

“Alright,” Brandy says, slapping her own money down on the coffee table. “Four parties in three weeks. After house cut and tip-outs? We pulled in forty-five hundred each. Not bad, huh?”

Naima nods, lips twisting in a wry smile. “Not bad. Those last two parties saved us. Them dudes didn’t know how to act.”

Brandy snorts. “Girl. That Johnny fool damn near shoved his whole wallet in my G-string. I was like, ‘Chill, you gon’ knock me over!’”

Naima chuckles, setting her bills in tidy stacks. “At least he paid. I’m still mad about that broke ass bum from the bachelor party last month. Talkin’ ‘bout financial hardship like we the damn IRS.”

“Right?!” Brandy throws her head back laughing. “If one more frat boy tells me to ‘make it clap’ like I’m Alexa on command, I might catch a charge.”

Naima smirks. “That’s why I hit ’em with that pay-up-or-peace-out energy early. I don’t do charity.”

Brandy waves her off, grinning. “You say that, but you was all over that tech CEO last week like rent was due. What was his name again? Steve?”

“Stuart,” Naima says flatly. “And he tipped in hundreds, so you bet your ass I was all over him.”

Brandy cackles. “Aight then! Let me find out Stuart got a brother who sends child support without a court order. Cuz Ray?” She starts peeling off bills like confessions. “This man out here buyin’ a PS5 and asking me for gas money while I’m out here bustin’ ass to keep Treasure fed. Make that make sense!”

Naima sighs, her heart tugging. “Still nothing from him?”

Brandy’s voice sharpens. “Not a damn dime. Then he got the nerve to call and ask if I can ‘spot him’ till Friday. How about you spot your daughter a warm meal and a clean pair of shoes?”

The frustration lingers for a beat, and Naima can almost see the steam coming out of her friend’s ears. Eager to switch topics, she asks, “What you doing with your cut?”

Brandy’s eyes go soft, like a smile before it reaches the lips. “Treasure’s been begging for that Barbie Dreamhouse. The ads run every damn hour on Netflix. I might get it for her.” She shrugs, but it’s the proud, motherly kind. “My baby deserves it.”

Naima nods, but her mind begins to drift, her eyes tracing the uneven edge of the coffee table.

Brandy notices, realizes exactly what it is. The silence stretches, turns into something that hums in the air. Then, gently, she asks, “You ever think about trying again?”

Naima freezes, fingers still mid-pick at her nail polish. Her tone is dry, evasive. “Trying what? Going back to college?”

Brandy doesn’t let her off that easy. “Girl, you know damn well I ain’t talkin’ about college!”

“And you know damn well I don’t like talkin’ about it,” Naima murmurs, eyes fixed on the floor.

Brandy watches her, eyes narrowing with empathy, not pity. “Nai…”

Naima swallows, shakes the thoughts out of her head and shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. “Look, it don’t matter. I’ve seen what it’s like. You with Treasure. Adara with Julien. Y’all are busting your asses for your babies. It’s hard. And after what happened...maybe I’m better off without—”

Brandy’s voice softens like a balm. “Naima, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Naima replies quickly, too quickly. Her throat tightens anyway. “But the idea of going through that again? I don’t know if my mental’s built for that.”

They sit in the quiet for a moment, each woman letting the weight of unspoken pain rest between them.

“You still got time,” Brandy finally says. “But don’t let fear decide for you. You’ll be great at it, Nai.”

Naima doesn’t respond. Just nods and reaches for her stack of cash again, retreating into motion.

“What about you?” Brandy asks, trying to lighten the air. “What you doin’ with your cut?”

Naima hesitates, then says, “Putting a deposit down on the studio. Phoenix and I been trying to renovate for months. This’ll cover a big chunk.”

Brandy raises a brow, already smirking mischievously. “Oop. Speak of the devil. Mr. Dance Partner Extraordinaire. That boy so in love with you it’s painful to watch sometimes.”

“Brandy,” Naima warns, exasperated.

“What?” Brandy snickers. “All I’m sayin’ is the man looks at you like you invented gravity. He ain’t slick.”

Naima rolls her eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at her lips as Brandy leans back, folding her arms. “But real question. Why you ain't spending Roman’s money, anyway? Ain’t he a multimillionaire or sum'n?”

Naima’s lips curl in a slow half-smile. “We just started dating. Barely. I’m not tryna have him thinking that’s all it is with him.”

Brandy tilts her head, squinting like she’s reading her. “Mm. Maybe. But he feels different, Nai. I was there when he showed up at your place, all tall and fine. I remember how you lit up. Dudes you been with before? They never brought that outta you.”

Naima laughs, but the edge in her voice betrays her. “The ones I’ve dealt with barely made it past the first date once they found out what I do. It’s always the same line: ‘Oh, you strip? So when do I get a private show?’” Her tone is thick with sarcasm as she rolls her eyes.

Brandy scoffs and rises to her feet, heading towards the kitchen. “Idiots. If they can’t handle the grind, they can’t handle the goddess.”

Naima doesn’t get to reply, as her phone vibrates in her lap. She glances down, and her breath catches just a little.

Roman: I’m thinking about flying in this weekend. That cool with you?

Her lips twitch before she can stop them. It’s the way he asks. Not ‘I’m coming’, but ‘Is it okay with you?’ No ego, no assumptions. Just…consent. Respect.

She really likes that.

She types back quickly, trying not to sound too giddy:

Naima: Yeah. I’d like that. 

She tucks her phone face-down, her whole body hums with anticipation. The thought of seeing him again. Of his voice in her ear, his hand on her hip, his quiet smile.

From the kitchen, Brandy opens the fridge and grabs two bottles of water, but her eyes never really leave Naima. She catches the flicker of a smile, the kind Naima tries to suppress but can’t quite tuck away. The kind that curves at the edges and lingers just a little too long. She watches how she pretends to be unbothered as she turns her phone screen-down like it’s made of secrets and gold, but the smile remains.

It’s cute.

Brandy grins to herself, unscrewing the bottle cap with a quiet pop. She smirks as she takes a long sip of water and lets her friend have that little moment of quiet giddiness.

Lord knows she deserves it.

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