#stack moore x oc

The house stood alone in the middle of thirteen acres of Mississippi land, sitting heavy and certain like it had been placed there with intention instead of built. Nothing crowded it, and nothing reached too close. The land stretched out in every direction, wide and open, edged by tall trees that kept their distance like they understood what belonged to that space and what didn’t.

The quiet around it wasn’t empty. It was settled, the kind that felt claimed before anyone even set foot on it, like the land had already decided who it would hold and who it wouldn’t. Heat clung low to the ground, slow and steady, carrying the scent of dirt and wood and something old that hadn’t been disturbed in years.

The house sat at the center of it all, two stories high with a wide porch wrapping around the front, its structure solid and unmoving against the open stretch of land. The wood was still new enough to hold its scent, the paint clean, the steps untouched by time. It didn’t look borrowed or temporary. It looked like something meant to be stood in, something meant to be kept, something claimed and built to last.

Cherry stood near the front window, one hand resting against the frame while the other held the small of her back. Her body moved slower now, heavier than it had been even a few weeks ago, her stomach round and full in a way that made everything else feel secondary to it.

Eight months. That number sat differently now, closer and more real than it had any right to be. The house was quiet except for the soft sound of her moving through it, her bare feet brushing across the wooden floors as she moved from one room to the next. The sound was light but steady, like she was learning the rhythm of the place with every step. She had already been through most of it that day, touching things, shifting things, pausing longer than she needed to in certain rooms, placing small pieces of herself into corners that had started out unfamiliar.

Her presence lingered in those spaces now, subtle but undeniable, in the way a chair sat just slightly angled, in the way a window was left open to let air move through, in the way the house no longer felt untouched. It was still new and not fully settled around her, but it was beginning to hold her shape, to reflect her in quiet, unspoken ways. She paused near the staircase, her fingers trailing lightly along the banister as her eyes moved over the space like she was memorizing it without meaning to, like she needed to know every inch of it before the baby came.

The rooms were bigger than anything she had lived in before, the ceilings higher, the air different, like it had more space to move and more room to breathe. Outside, the wind moved slow through the trees, brushing against the house in a way that felt constant, like something always breathing just beyond the walls, something steady and watchful. Cherry shifted her weight slightly, her hand pressing more firmly into her lower back for a moment before sliding forward to rest over her stomach. The baby moved, slow and strong. She exhaled softly, her fingers spreading instinctively over the curve of it, her thumb brushing along the fabric of her dress as if she could map where it was inside her.

“You getting big,” she murmured under her breath.

The words came easily now, natural, like she had been talking to it longer than she actually had. The front door opened behind her. She didn’t turn right away. She already knew it was him. Stack stepped inside, the sound of his boots heavier against the floor than anything else in the house. The outside came in with him, heat and dust and the faint scent of tobacco clinging to his clothes, something sharp and familiar that settled into the space like it belonged there too. His eyes found her immediately. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there for a second, taking her in like he had been gone longer than he had, like the time away from her never matched how it felt.

Cherry turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him over her shoulder.

“You back already?” she asked softly.

Stack moved toward her, slow but direct, like there wasn’t anywhere else he needed to be, like every step had already been decided before he took it.

“Wasn’t gone long.”

His gaze dropped to her stomach before it came back up to her face. Always checking. Always measuring. Cherry watched him as he got closer, the way his presence filled the space without trying, the way it always felt like the room adjusted around him instead of the other way around.

“You been walking around?” he asked, his tone edged with something that sat just short of irritation. Cherry gave a small shrug. “Just a little.” Stack’s jaw shifted slightly, his eyes moving over her again, slower this time and more deliberate, like he was trying to catch something she hadn’t said. “Ain’t no reason for you to be up like that,” he said. Cherry turned more fully, leaning back lightly against the banister, her hand still resting over her stomach. “I can walk through my own house.”

“That ain’t what I said.”

“It is.”

A pause settled between them, not tense, just familiar, like they had already had this conversation in different forms. Stack stepped closer until he was right in front of her, his hand coming up without hesitation and settling against her stomach like it belonged there more than anywhere else. He did it like it was instinct now, like his body moved there before his mind even caught up. It wasn’t new.

He had been doing it more and more since they got there, every chance he got, like he was checking in on something that already answered back to him. Sometimes he would stand there without saying anything, just his hand resting there, waiting. Other times, he would press a little firmer, his thumb moving slow like he was trying to feel something specific. Like he knew the baby could feel him. Like they already knew each other. Cherry stilled under it, not surprised, never surprised. His touch was warm and steady, his thumb moving once like he was confirming something only he believed he understood.

“You doing too much,” he muttered. Cherry looked up at him, her expression soft but not yielding. “I’m fine.” Stack’s eyes met hers, something sharper sitting behind them. “I know you fine. That ain’t the point.”

“Then what is.”

“That you ain’t gotta be doing all that.”

Cherry’s lips pressed together slightly, not upset, just aware of him and the way everything about her had become something he watched. “You don’t like seeing me move?” she asked, a quiet hint of teasing under it. Stack didn’t smile. “Ain’t about liking it. You don’t need to be doing nothing but sitting down and resting.” Cherry let out a soft breath, her hand coming up to rest over his, where it sat on her stomach.

“I been sitting all morning.”

“Then sit some more.”

She shook her head slightly, a small smile slipping through anyway. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” Of course he was. Cherry studied his face for a moment, the way he meant everything he said, the way his concern carried weight instead of softness. “I like fixing things,” she said quietly. “Making it feel like mine.” Stack’s gaze softened just slightly. “It is yours.” Not gently. Just certain. Cherry held his gaze, something settling in her chest at the way he said it, at how easily he made things feel decided.

“Then let me move around in it.” Another pause stretched between them. Stack’s hand stayed where it was, his thumb brushing once more over her stomach like he was thinking through something he wasn’t saying.

“You ain’t lifting nothing,” he said finally.

“I wasn’t.”

“And you ain’t reaching up for nothing either.”

“I won’t.”

“And you ain’t walking around this whole house all day.”

Cherry raised an eyebrow slightly. “Now—” Stack leaned in just enough to cut that off. “You ain’t gotta lift a damn thing in this house.” The words settled between them, heavy and certain. Cherry looked at him for a long moment, really looked at him, at the way he stood there like this was already decided. Then her expression softened.

“Alright.”

Stack nodded once, like that was how it was always supposed to go. His hand stayed on her stomach a moment longer, his thumb brushing slowly across it before he leaned in. His mouth pressed against hers first, firm and brief but intentional. Cherry leaned into it slightly. Stack pulled back just enough to look at her, then lowered his head, pressing a slower kiss against her stomach, his hand still spread there like he was holding both of them in place. It lingered. Then he straightened, his hand sliding away as he stepped back. Cherry watched him move through the house with that same quiet certainty, like the space had already learned him, like it had shaped itself around his presence.

And somehow, she was part of that too.

Not separate.

Not outside.

Inside whatever he had decided this was.

Outside, the wind moved through the trees again, brushing against the house as if it were breathing.

The house seemed to inhale and hold it, as if it possessed a rhythm independent of those within it.

Within that quiet, something was taking form slowly and deliberately.

It was not gentle.

It was not effortless.

But it was unwavering.

It carried weight, something anchored and intentional.

It did not ask for permission.

It simply existed.

Something resembling a life.

By the time the light began to lean toward evening, the heat had softened just enough for the land to feel walkable, the kind of late-day warmth that lingered instead of pressed, settling over everything without urgency.

Cherry took her time crossing it. The house sat behind her now, solid and still in the middle of all that open ground, its porch half-shadowed beneath the slant of the sun, looking less like something she’d just come from and more like something watching her leave. Ahead of her, farther out past the main stretch of yard and nearer the line of trees, sat Smoke’s place, smaller but just as certain in its placement.

It stood back from the main house with the same quiet self-possession Smoke carried in his body, smaller, cleaner, practical in every way that mattered. There was no wasted space and no ornament, just a sturdy little house set off on its own piece of the land, close enough to reach and far enough to be his without question.

Cherry had a plate balanced carefully in one hand and a folded cloth draped over the other arm. Stack had gone back into town for something he said wouldn’t take long, and the quiet of the property stretched around her in a way that made movement feel easier than stillness, as if she stayed too long in one place, she might start thinking too much. So she walked, slow and careful, the baby sitting low and heavy now, making every step feel more deliberate than the one before it as her body adjusted with each shift of weight. The air smelled like dirt, grass, sun-warmed wood, and the faint trace of tobacco that always seemed to cling to something out here, whether either brother was nearby or not.

By the time she reached Smoke’s porch, she paused longer than she meant to, one hand shifting automatically to the underside of her stomach as she steadied herself before climbing the steps. The wood creaked softly beneath her weight, a small sound that felt louder in the quiet.

The front door stood open. Smoke sat at a small table inside with a book open in front of him, one elbow resting against the wood, his head tilted slightly like he’d been reading long enough to forget the rest of the world existed. The room behind him looked exactly like she expected, but being inside it made that expectation feel more real. It was clean, sparse, and practical; everything had a place, and everything in its place seemed chosen for use instead of comfort. There was a bed against one wall, a small stove, a wash basin, and a shelf with a few things stacked neatly—nothing cluttered, nothing decorative. It looked lived in, but only by a man who didn’t need much to feel settled, a man who made space for himself and nothing more.

Smoke looked up when her shadow crossed the doorway, his expression shifting, not quite surprised but not expectant either, like he hadn’t been waiting but wasn’t bothered that she came.

“Thought you was at the house,” he said.

Cherry lifted the plate slightly. “I was.”

He looked at the food, then back at her, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “What’s that.”

“I brought you something to eat.”

Smoke stared at her for a half second longer than necessary, then leaned back in his chair, one brow lifting. “I ain’t ask for that.”

Cherry stepped inside anyway. “I know.” He huffed, low. “You just gon’ do what you want, huh.”

“Mm,” she said, setting the plate down. “Seems like it.”

That pulled something closer to a smile out of him, brief and unwilling.

She set the plate in front of him. The food was still warm, steam lifting faintly from smothered chicken laid over soft rice, the gravy thick and dark with onions cooked down low and slow. Beside it sat a scoop of greens, tender and seasoned deep, and a slice of cornbread wrapped in cloth to keep its heat. The smell settled into the room, rich and familiar, carrying the kind of comfort that didn’t need to be announced.

Smoke looked at it, then at her. “You walked all the way out here for this?”

Cherry lowered herself carefully into the chair across from him, slower than she used to but steady, her movements controlled in a way that made the strain almost invisible. “It wasn’t far.”

“It was far enough.”

She gave him a small look. “You gon’ eat it or keep fussing at me?”

He snorted. “You bossy as hell for somebody who just showed up.”

“And you ungrateful as hell for somebody who ain’t cook.”

That got him. A short laugh slipped out before he could stop it. “Yeah, aight.”

He picked up the fork. “You sound like him.”

Cherry tilted her head. “Do I?”

“Little bit. It’s that tone. Like you already decided how this gon’ go.”

She let that sit, a softer look crossing her face. “Maybe I have.”

“Mm,” he muttered, taking a bite. “Dangerous habit.”

“From the right person?” she said, glancing at him. “Or the wrong one.”

He chewed, considering her, then shrugged. “Both.”

She looked around again. “It’s nice.”

Smoke glanced around like he’d never thought about it that way. “It’s a house.”

“It’s yours.”

That made him look back at her, really look this time. Cherry folded her hands over her stomach and leaned back slightly, settling into the chair. “You like being out here by yourself?”

Smoke took another bite. “I like being where it’s quiet. And where your man ain’t pacing holes in the damn floor.”

Cherry smiled. “He don’t pace that much.”

Smoke gave her a look. “You just got here. Give it time.”

Cherry’s eyes drifted toward the open door. “You could’ve stayed in the big house.”

“Could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

Smoke set his fork down. “Your man don’t know how to be in a room without filling it. Talk loud, move loud, think loud. Shit get crowded quick.”

Cherry looked down, smiling faintly. “He’s a lot.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Smoke said. “Other way is he don’t know when to leave something alone.”

They sat in that for a moment, the quiet between them not empty but settled. Cherry watched him eat another bite. “He worries all the time.”

“About you?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been worrying since Florida. Damn near hovering.”

Cherry glanced up. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to. He ain’t normal about you.”

The words landed plain. Cherry’s hand moved lightly over her stomach. “I know.”

“No, I mean it,” Smoke went on, blunt. “He ain’t just into you. He locked in on you. Whole different kind of problem.”

Cherry’s expression didn’t change. “And that don’t bother you?” he asked.

She took her time. “It should. Maybe.”

Smoke waited.

“But it doesn’t.”

He studied her, then shook his head once, like he’d expected something else and didn’t get it. “Aight… nah, hold on,” he said, leaning back slightly, looking at her more direct now. “You too calm about that.”

Cherry didn’t look away. Her hand rested over her stomach, slow, steady. “He ain’t the first man that been like that with me,” she said.

That shifted something in Smoke immediately; his expression didn’t soften, but it sharpened in a different way. “What you mean.”

Cherry exhaled softly through her nose, her gaze drifting for a moment before coming back to him. “My husband… he was like that. In his own way.”

Smoke didn’t interrupt.

“He was always on me,” she continued, voice quiet but clear. “Every little thing—how I talked, how I walked, what I wore, what I said around people. If I laughed too loud, if I didn’t say enough. It was always something.” Her fingers moved slowly over her stomach as she spoke, like she was grounding herself in it. “At home, it was worse. Always telling me what I should be doing, what I wasn’t doing right, like I was always falling short of something I couldn’t even see.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet.

“And in public…” she paused, then gave a faint, humorless smile. “I wasn’t even a person half the time. Just something standing next to him. Something he owned.”

Smoke leaned back, exhaling low. “Yeah. That sound about right for a man like that.”

Cherry nodded faintly. “So when you say Stack ain’t normal about me… I hear you.” A beat passed. “But it ain’t the same.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How.”

Cherry didn’t rush her answer. “Because with him… I don’t feel small.”

That landed.

“He loud, he overbearing, he don’t ask half the time,” she went on, a small breath leaving her. “But I feel him when he do it—the way he look at me, the way he touch me, the way he talk about me like I’m already…” she paused, searching.

“His,” Smoke said flat.

Cherry glanced at him, then nodded once. “Yeah.”

Smoke watched her carefully.

“But it don’t feel like I’m disappearing,” she added. “It feel like I’m… being held.”

The room went quiet in a different way now. Smoke leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. “You sure you ain’t just trading one kind of man for another.”

Cherry met his gaze without hesitation. “I thought about that.”

“And?”

“And I ain’t never had nobody look at me like I matter before,” she said simply.

That shut him up for a second.

Cherry’s hand pressed lightly against her stomach. “He don’t make me feel like I gotta shrink to fit next to him. If anything… he make everything bigger, louder, harder to ignore.”

Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Yeah, that sound like his crazy ass.”

Cherry smiled a little at that. “But it feel like love,” she said, almost to herself.

Smoke watched her for a long second, then leaned back again, picking his fork up like he needed something to do with his hands. “Aight. Long as you know what you stepping into.”

Cherry nodded. “I do.”

He pointed the fork at her slightly. “And if he start acting like that husband of yours…”

Cherry raised a brow.

Smoke shrugged. “I’ll handle him.”

That pulled a real smile out of her. “I believe you.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, taking another bite. “You should.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, just real. Smoke picked his fork back up. “You know what folks in Clarksdale think of him.”

“I know some of it.”

“Not all.”

“No.”

“He got a name there. People know him. They also know not to play with him.”

“And what is he.”

Smoke leaned back a little. “Depends who you ask. Reckless. Loud. Think with his chest more than his head. When he want something, he run it till it turn into something bigger than it was supposed to be. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse.”

Cherry listened quietly.

“Folks call him charming when they like him. Dangerous when they don’t. Man got a way with words, and he know it.”

Her fingers shifted over her stomach. “You saying I should be careful.”

“I’m saying you should know who you with. Ain’t the same thing.”

She nodded. “I do.”

Smoke raised a brow. “Do you.”

Cherry looked out toward the light. “I know he watches everything I do. I know he treats me like I’m fragile one minute and something sacred the next. I know he decides things before I say yes.” She glanced back at him. “And I still say yes.”

Smoke huffed. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“And I know he means it,” she added.

That made him look at her closer. “He do.”

“That’s what matters.”

Something in Smoke shifted, not open, but less closed. He took another bite, slower this time. “Clarksdale ain’t gentle. You know that.”

She nodded.

“And this life ain’t either. Pretty house don’t change that shit. It ain’t just him. It’s everything around him—money, business, folks watching, folks waiting.”

“I know I walked into something heavy.”

“You say that like it don’t scare you.”

“It does.”

That caught him.

“But I was scared before,” she said, quieter, “and I was alone then.”

The room went still. Smoke nodded once. “Fair enough.”

Cherry glanced at the plate. “You like it?”

“It’s good,” he said, already halfway through it. A beat, then quieter: “Real good, actually.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

He pointed his fork at her. “Don’t get used to me saying thank you.”

“I won’t,” she said, smiling anyway.

The light outside shifted lower, the space between the two houses looking softer now, less like distance and more like connection. Smoke picked his fork back up. “He know you out here?”

Cherry almost laughed. “No.”

“He gon’ come looking.”

“I figured.”

“And you still came.”

“I wanted to see your place.”

“And bring me food I didn’t ask for.”

“Yes.”

That pulled another almost-smile from him. “You something else.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He nodded once, then said it plain, “You can come by.”

Cherry blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just don’t be walking all the way out here tired like that. If you fall out on this land, he gon’ blame me, and I ain’t dealing with that shit.”

Cherry laughed softly. “I’ll be careful.”

“Yeah, you better.”

Something in her softened. “Alright.”

That was enough.

Cherry shifted slightly in her seat, glancing at him with something lighter in her expression now. “So… how you feel about being Uncle Smokey Bear?”

Smoke paused mid-bite, then slowly looked up at her. “…what.”

Cherry tried not to smile too wide. “Stack said that’s what the baby gon’ call you.”

Smoke stared at her for a second, then let out a sharp breath. “Man, hell no.”

That made her laugh, soft but real.

“I think it’s cute,” she said.

“Cute?” he repeated, looking genuinely offended. “Sound like some damn cartoon character.”

“He already been calling you that,” she added.

“I know he has,” Smoke muttered. “I been ignoring it, hoping it’d die off.”

Cherry shook her head, still smiling. “I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

“Yeah, well, he don’t get to name shit that involve me,” he said, pointing his fork at her. “And you don’t need to be encouraging that nonsense either.”

Cherry laughed again, softer this time. “So what you wanna be called then?”

Smoke leaned back in his chair, thinking like it actually mattered. “Uncle Smoke is fine.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Cherry tilted her head. “That’s a little boring.”

Smoke gave her a look. “This ain’t about being interesting. It’s about not having a grown man walking around calling me Smokey Bear like I’m about to tell people not to start forest fires.”

That pulled another laugh out of her.

“Okay,” she said, nodding like she’d consider it. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long,” he muttered. “Or he gon’ have you calling me that shit in public.”

Cherry smiled, her hand resting over her stomach again. “I think the baby might like it.”

Smoke shook his head. “The baby don’t even know what the hell that is yet.”

“Still,” she said softly.

He looked at her for a second, then sighed under his breath, quieter this time. “If that boy come out calling me Smokey Bear, I’m blaming both of y’all.”

Cherry’s smile lingered. “You gon’ love him anyway.”

Smoke didn’t answer right away, just looked back down at his plate. “…yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

Outside, the wind moved through the trees again, and somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of a car carried through the air.

Stack.

They both heard it.

Smoke shook his head under his breath. “Here his crazy ass come.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“Cherry!”

His voice carried across the land, loud as hell, cutting straight through the quiet like he expected everything to answer him.

Cherry froze for half a second, then looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at her.

And just like that, they both started laughing.

“See?” Smoke muttered through it, shaking his head. “Told you. Man don’t know how to be quiet about nothing.”

Cherry laughed softer, but it stayed, warm and full. “He’s coming.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said, pushing his chair back slightly. “Loud as hell too.”

Outside, his voice came again, closer this time.

“Cherry!”

Cherry shook her head, still smiling.

And this time, she stood.

The house felt different with all three of them in it. Not louder, exactly, and not chaotic in any way that could be named. Just full, like something had settled into it that hadn’t been there before, something that stretched through the walls and floors and sat in the air without asking permission.

Cherry moved through it more slowly that morning, barefoot against the wooden floors, the soft sound of her steps carrying lightly through the space. The windows were open, letting in warm air that moved the curtains just enough to make them breathe, lifting and falling like something alive. Sunlight spilled in across the floor in long, quiet stretches, catching along her legs as she passed through it and warming her skin as she moved from room to room without hurry.

Stack watched her. He’d been doing that more, not in passing, not glances thrown over his shoulder. Watching, like he was trying to read something written in a language he didn’t know but understood anyway, piece by piece, without needing it explained. Like he was standing at the edge of something vast and unfinished, something he couldn’t name yet but knew damn well he wasn’t ever going to turn away from.

Cherry stood near the mirror in the bedroom, one hand resting on the curve of her stomach while the other moved slowly through her hair, pulling it back and smoothing it down with careful, patient strokes. Her movements were unhurried, softer now, shaped by the weight she carried and the way her body had changed around it, every motion considered whether she meant it to be or not.

Stack leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, quiet for once, and that alone felt different. Smoke had already been out back since early, leaving the house in a kind of stillness that made every small sound feel more noticeable: the brush in her hand, the shift of her feet, the quiet pull of fabric when she moved, and him, always him.

“You been standing there long?” Cherry asked, catching his reflection in the mirror without turning.

Stack didn’t move. “Long enough.”

Cherry’s mouth curved slightly, but she didn’t face him yet. “You always watch me like that?”

“Yeah.”

There wasn’t any hesitation in it, and there wasn’t any shame either. Cherry shook her head softly, dragging the brush through her hair again. “You don’t even try to hide it.”

“Ain’t nothing to hide.”

He pushed off the doorframe then, moving toward her slow, carrying that same easy command he wore everywhere else, the voice that sold deals, the grin that disarmed rooms, the kind of presence that made men listen and women lean in. That was who he was out there, but here, with her, it slipped. Something in him went softer, almost against his own will, like power loosening its grip the closer he got to her. He still moved like he owned the space and still reached for her like she was already his, but underneath it there was something else, something quieter, hungrier.

He’d wanted her from the first look back in Clarksdale, carried that want all the way to Florida and back again, and now that she was here, real and close and carrying that baby, it settled in him like something permanent. He knew he came off bossy, knew he pushed, knew he didn’t ask half the time, and it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to let her want for a damn thing, not her and not that baby.

So he stepped into her space like he always did, steady and certain but softer at the edges now, like something in him had already decided she deserved the world, and he was going to build it around her whether she asked for it or not.

By the time he reached her, his hand was already finding her back, settling there like it belonged. It always did. Cherry’s shoulders eased just slightly under the weight of it, a small shift that didn’t go unnoticed.

“You need to sit down?” he asked, his voice low, casual, but already leaning toward instruction.

“I just woke up,” she said.

“And you already up moving around.”

“I’m brushing my hair, Stack.”

He didn’t argue and didn’t push it further. He just stayed close, his hand sliding from her back to her stomach, spreading over it like he needed to feel it, like checking in had become something his body did on its own.

The baby shifted under his palm, and he stilled. That look came back, like something in him locked in deeper, tightening and settling all at once. Cherry watched him in the mirror this time, really watched him, the way his focus narrowed and the way everything else dropped off when he felt that movement, like the rest of the world stopped existing for a second.

“You felt that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now.

His thumb moved slowly over her stomach, like he was following it, like he understood it, like he was learning something that didn’t need words. Cherry set the brush down, her fingers lingering against the wood of the dresser for a second.

“You do that a lot,” she said.

“Do what.”

“Touch me like that.”

Stack glanced up at her reflection. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

She shook her head slightly. “It’s not.”

He hummed low under his breath, satisfied with that answer in a way he didn’t bother hiding, like it confirmed something he had already decided. Cherry turned in his hold then, slow, until she was facing him. His hand didn’t leave her. It never did.

“You always been like this?” she asked.

Stack frowned slightly, like he didn’t understand the question. “Like what.”

She gestured lightly between them, her voice quieter now. “This.”

He looked at her for a second, then shook his head once. “No.”

There wasn’t anything else behind it, no explanation and no dressing it up, just truth, flat and unmoving. Cherry searched his face for a moment longer, like she expected more, like she thought he might soften it or shape it into something easier to hold. He didn’t.

“You ain’t never had nobody make you act like this?” she asked.

Stack’s mouth twitched slightly, not quite a smile. “Nah.” His hand pressed a little firmer against her stomach, grounding himself there like that was the center of everything. “Ain’t never wanted to.”

That landed heavier and Cherry felt it settle somewhere deeper than the words themselves. He wasn’t trying to impress her and he wasn’t trying to convince her. He was just saying it like it was, like everything with him.

She looked down for a second, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist where it rested against her, tracing the edge of it without thinking. “You different with me,” she said.

“I know.”

There wasn’t any hesitation in that either, no confusion. Cherry let out a soft breath, something in her easing at the way he owned it instead of denying it, like there was no version of him that pretended otherwise.

Stack shifted closer, closing what little space was left between them, his free hand coming up to tilt her chin just slightly so she had to look at him again. “I told you,” he said, voice low and certain. “I was gone love you.”

Cherry’s lips parted slightly at that, a quiet reaction she didn’t try to hide, her eyes searching his like she might find something different there if she looked long enough. “You didn’t even know me,” she said.

“Didn’t need to.”

That same certainty held. His thumb brushed once along her jaw before his hand dropped again, settling back where it always went, against her stomach, like that was the place he trusted most. He exhaled slowly, like something in him settled every time he touched her, like the contact anchored him in a way nothing else did.

Cherry watched him, really watched him now, the way he moved around her, the way he handled her like something already his but not carelessly, carefully and intentionally, like he understood the weight of what he was holding even if he didn’t say it out loud.

“You don’t ever get tired of it?” she asked.

“Of what.”

“Me.”

That made him look at her differently, not confused and not surprised, just certain again. “Nah.”

It was simple and final. Cherry held his gaze, something in her settling in response to that, not because it was soft but because it wasn’t. It didn’t waver or question itself, and it didn’t ask anything of her. It just was.

Stack’s hand moved again, slow and absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore, like touching her had become something his body did without permission, like it had always been there and always would be.

Outside, somewhere in the distance, Smoke’s voice carried faintly across the land, saying something sharp and annoyed at whatever he was dealing with out back, the sound cutting through the quiet for a second before fading again. Stack barely reacted. He didn’t turn and didn’t shift. His focus stayed where it always did, on her.

Cherry noticed that too, the way nothing pulled him away, and the way nothing competed. She smiled just slightly, something softer settling into her now, her hand coming up to rest over his again, pressing lightly against it like she was meeting him there instead of just being held.

A quiet settled between them again, but it wasn’t empty. Stack’s hand stayed where it was, spread over her stomach, his thumb dragging slow, thoughtful lines like he was still feeling for something, still listening in a way that didn’t need words.

“You think it’s a boy,” he said after a moment, like it wasn’t a question.

Cherry blinked slightly, caught off guard by the shift. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

She huffed a small breath, almost laughing. “You just deciding things now?”

“Been deciding,” he muttered, glancing down at her stomach again. “That’s my son.”

Cherry shook her head, smiling despite herself. “We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”

Stack didn’t look convinced. “It’s a boy.”

“And if it’s not?” she asked, tilting her head.

He finally looked back at her, one brow lifting just slightly. “Then I’ll deal with that when it happens.”

That made her laugh, soft and warm, her hand pressing over his again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Nah,” he said, quieter now. “I just know what I’m looking at.”

His hand moved again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was trying to feel something that hadn’t happened yet. Cherry watched him, something softer settling in her chest.

“You talk to the baby too,” she said.

Stack glanced up. “Yeah.”

“What you be saying?”

He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “Whatever come to mind.”

“That don’t answer nothing.”

He looked back down at her stomach. “Be telling him I’m here. That he ain’t gotta worry about nothing.”

Cherry’s expression shifted, just a little. “And if it’s a girl?” she asked.

Stack didn’t miss a beat. “Same thing.”

That landed quieter and more certain. Cherry’s fingers moved lightly against his hand. “You really think about all that?”

“All the time,” he said, like it was obvious.

She studied him for a second, then glanced down at her stomach, her voice softer now. “We gotta go see the doctor again soon.”

Stack’s attention snapped back up immediately. “When.”

“Next week,” she said. “He told me I need to come back for another check.”

Stack nodded once, already set. “Aight. We going.”

Cherry smiled faintly. “We?”

“Yeah,” he said, like there wasn’t another option. “I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming,” he repeated, firmer this time.

Cherry held his gaze for a second, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Stack’s hand slid slightly higher on her stomach, like he was already thinking ahead, already placing himself there before it even happened. “You ain’t going nowhere by yourself like that,” he added, quieter now but just as certain.

Cherry didn’t argue and didn’t push it. She just let her hand rest over his, letting that settle the same way everything else about him did, heavy, certain, already decided. For once, it didn’t feel like too much. It felt like something she could lean into, something she already was.

Clarksdale didn’t mind its business.

It never had.

The town breathed through talk, lived off it, stretched it thin, and passed it from porch to storefront to backroom like it was currency. Names carried weight here, and some names carried more than others. Stack’s had always been one of them, moving through conversations whether he was there or not, slipping into mouths easily, his reputation walking into rooms long before he ever stepped foot in them. Folks told stories about him like they knew him, like they had a piece of him figured out, like they could name what kind of man he was without ever standing close enough to feel it.

They didn’t.

But they talked anyway.

So when he came back through town with her beside him, people noticed in a way that wasn’t quiet and wasn’t kind. They noticed the way he walked with her, slow and certain like he had nowhere else to be, the way he kept her close like the space between them didn’t belong to anybody else. They noticed the way his hand never really left her body for long, always resting somewhere, her back, her arm, her stomach, like he needed to feel her there to believe it. And they noticed her too, not just that she was with him, but how she carried it, how she didn’t flinch under it, how she didn’t step back or try to make herself smaller beside him.

Cherry felt it before she fully understood it, before she could even name it. It pressed in on her slow, like heat settling into skin, like something thick in the air that didn’t move out the way just because she walked through it.

The way heads turned just a second too long. The way voices dipped low but not low enough. The way eyes lingered, not just on him, but on her. On her stomach. On the way she carried herself. On the way she didn’t shrink under it.

They walked side by side down the street, Stack’s hand firm at the small of her back, guiding more than holding, like he didn’t trust the ground itself not to shift under her feet if he let go. He hadn’t even wanted her out here in the first place.

She’d been getting restless on that land, pacing slow from room to room, standing in the baby’s room longer than she meant to, talking about needing more things, softer things, things that made it feel finished. Said she wanted to come into town, just for a little while, just to find a few more things for the baby.

Stack had shut that down quick.

Told her she didn’t need to be going nowhere this close, not with the baby sitting heavy like that. Said something about how anything could happen if she stepped too far from the house, like the baby might decide to come the second she wasn’t under his roof where he could see her.

Cherry had just looked at him.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t push.

Just gave him that look—soft, quiet, a little stubborn under it—and those eyes that didn’t ask loud but didn’t back down either.

And that had been enough.

He gave in.

Told himself it was just for a little while. Told himself he’d keep her close the whole time. Told himself nothing was going to touch her if he was right there.

So now his hand stayed firm against her back, his thumb moving every now and then, small, absent motions that said more than the grip did, like he was checking in without asking, like he needed to feel that she was still there every few seconds.

Cherry kept her head up. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention, not like this, not where it felt like people already had something decided about her before she even opened her mouth.

But Stack felt it was different. Every look, every whisper, every shift in the air around her didn’t just pass by him, it stuck. It crawled under his skin fast, faster than it should’ve, faster than he could slow down. Because in his mind, it wasn’t just talk. It was pressure. Noise. Disruption. Something reaching for her that had no right to.

And she wasn’t supposed to have none of that.

Not her.

Not his baby.

Not the peace he’d already decided belonged to them.

A group of men stood outside a storefront, leaned back against the wood like they had nowhere else to be and no reason to move. One of them nudged the other as Stack passed, not even pretending to be subtle about it.

“Well I’ll be damned,” one of them muttered, not quiet enough. “Stack finally got him one to keep?”

Another let out a low chuckle, dragging it out like he wanted it heard. “Shit, look like he ain’t waste no time neither.”

Cherry heard it. Every word. Felt it land, even if she didn’t show it. Her steps didn’t falter, didn’t slow, didn’t break.

But Stack’s hand tightened.

Another voice, closer now, bold enough to carry. “She pregnant already?”

A woman’s voice followed, softer but sharper, cutting cleaner than the men’s. “Mm. That one might stick.”

That did it.

Not just the words.

Not just the tone.

But the fact that it kept going. That it didn’t stop. That it kept reaching.

Stack stopped walking so sudden Cherry almost stepped into him. The shift in him was immediate, not gradual, not controlled. Sharp. Unsteady in a way it usually wasn’t.

His hand slid off her back, and for a split second, the absence of it felt louder than everything else.

Then he pulled the gun.

Metal flashed like it had been waiting for this moment, like it belonged in his hand the same way she did. The street changed instantly. Sound dropped. Movement stalled. Even the air felt like it tightened around them.

Stack turned, arm lifting, not aiming at one person but all of them, the gun moving just enough to make the point clear. Not reckless. Not careful either. Just enough to let everybody know he meant every word that hadn’t come out yet.

“Say that shit again,” he snapped, voice cutting sharp through the air. “Go on. Say it louder.”

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The whole street held its breath like it didn’t want to be next.

Stack stepped forward once, jaw tight, eyes locked on them like he was already past talking. “All that whispering—y’all got something to say, say it where I can hear it.”

Silence dropped heavy and thick, pressing down on everything.

Exactly how he wanted it.

He gestured with the gun, slow and deliberate, like he was marking the space, claiming it the same way he claimed everything else. “She mine,” he said, louder now. “Mine. That baby too. So whatever the fuck y’all think you got to say—keep it to yourself.”

His voice didn’t just carry across the street, it cut through people, settled into them.

No charm. No smoothness. No version of him they were used to.

Just heat.

Possession.

Something restless and damn near unhinged sitting right under the surface.

The men outside the storefront straightened quick, hands lifting, eyes dropping anywhere but him.

“Ain’t nobody—” one started.

“Shut up,” Stack cut him off instantly. “I ain’t ask you to explain shit.”

Another man stepped back entirely, like distance might make him invisible. A woman across the street turned away like she hadn’t said anything at all.

The whole street shifted. People looked away. Bodies angled differently. Like everybody suddenly remembered how to mind their business all at once.

Stack stood there a second longer than necessary, chest rising slow, the gun still loose in his hand, like he hadn’t decided if he was done yet, like something in him was still looking for a reason.

Then he lowered it.

Not rushed.

Not apologetic.

Just done.

And turned back to her like nothing else mattered, like nothing else ever would.

Cherry stood where he left her.

And she should’ve been scared. At least a little. Should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve stepped back. Should’ve told him to stop.

But she didn’t.

Her cheeks were warm, warmer than they should’ve been. Her heart was beating faster than the moment called for. And there was something else there too, something softer, something unfamiliar, something that spread instead of tightened.

Because nobody had ever loved her like that before. Not out loud. Not where people could see it. Not where it was messy, loud, and unapologetic. Not where someone chose her in front of everybody and didn’t soften it to make it easier to look at.

Stack stepped back into her space like the distance between them had been wrong from the start. His hand found her again, settling over her stomach, pressing there like he needed to feel both of them at once, like he needed to ground himself back into something real.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower now, but still edged with something that hadn’t settled all the way.

Cherry looked up at him, really looked. At the man his brother warned about. At the man the town talked about. At the man who just pulled a gun in the middle of the street over her and didn’t regret it.

“I’m fine,” she said.

And she was.

More than fine.

She felt chosen. Seen and claimed in a way that didn’t hide her.

Stack searched her face longer this time, like he was making sure, like he was ready to turn right back around and do it again if anything in her expression told him to.

She didn’t look away. Didn’t shrink.

If anything, she leaned into him just a little more.

That did something to him. You could see it, feel it, that edge in him easing just enough to settle back into something controlled.

“Let ‘em look,” he muttered, still tense, still watching the street out the corner of his eye. “Let ‘em talk. Ain’t none of that shit touching you.”

Cherry’s lips curved, small but real. “You sure about that?”

He glanced back at the street once, slow and deliberate, making sure everybody was still looking somewhere else, then back at her.

“I know it,” he said.

And this time, she believed him.

They started walking again. The street stayed quiet behind them. No more whispers. No more comments. Just space.

Respect.

Or fear.

Didn’t matter which.

And as Cherry walked beside him, feeling his hand steady against her, feeling the weight of him next to her, she didn’t feel small under it. She didn’t feel controlled. She didn’t feel owned in the way she once had been.

She felt held.

Out loud.

For everyone to see.

And she didn’t pull away.

By the time they made it back to the house, the sun had started to dip lower, stretching gold across the land and catching on the windows like something slow and steady settling in. The whole place looked softer in that light, quieter, like it was holding the day in its hands before letting it go.

Stack didn’t say much on the way in.

Didn’t need to.

Their hands stayed locked the whole walk back, firm and grounding, like he was still halfway in that moment in town, still carrying it in his chest even if he wasn’t speaking on it. Now and then his thumb would move, small and absent, like he needed that reassurance more than he’d admit.

Once they stepped inside, he finally let out a long, heavy breath like he’d just finished doing hard labor instead of terrorizing half the damn town.

“I’m gone lay down for a minute,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face like being that kind of man all day took something out of him.

Cherry blinked at him. “You alright?”

“I’m good,” he said, already moving past her, already pulling his shirt off over his head like he was peeling the whole situation off his skin. “Just need a second. Being right all the time get tiring.”

Cherry let out a small laugh at that, watching him like she didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not.

He didn’t look back, just waved a hand like he was dismissing the whole day. “Whole town got me working,” he added under his breath.

She watched him go, the way his shoulders still held tension even as he walked away, the way something in him didn’t fully settle, but now there was something else mixed in too, something almost ridiculous about it, like he really did think being that loud, that intense, that damn extra was just part of his daily workload.

For a second, she almost followed him.

Almost stayed.

But she didn’t.

She turned instead.

And headed back outside.

The air felt different now, quieter in a way that didn’t feel heavy, just open. The land stretched out the same as it always did, wide and still, holding everything without asking anything in return. It felt easier to breathe out there, like the tension didn’t stick the same way.

She made her way down the path toward Smoke’s place, one hand resting under her stomach as she walked, slower now, more careful, but steady. Every step felt deliberate, but not difficult, just… aware.

He was out front when she got there, sitting on the edge of his porch with a small toolbox beside him, something taken apart in his hands. The pieces were laid out neatly next to him, like he already knew how it all went back together.

He looked up when he heard her coming.

Eyes dropped to her stomach first.

Then back to her face.

“…there go trouble,” he muttered.

Cherry smiled. “Hey, Smokey Bear.”

Smoke paused, the tool in his hand going still for a second.

Then he rolled his eyes. “Man, don’t start that shit.”

She laughed softly, easing herself up onto the porch and lowering down beside him with a small exhale. “It fits you.”

“It don’t fit me,” he said, going back to what he was working on. “It fit whatever nonsense my brother got going on in his head.”

Cherry watched his hands move, steady and sure, fixing something without needing to think too hard about it. Something was calming about it, the way he worked, like everything had a place and he knew exactly where it went.

“He's serious about the baby calling you that,” she said.

“Yeah, and he also say that baby is a boy like he done met him already,” Smoke muttered. “Don’t mean none of that shit real.”

Cherry smiled, her hand resting over her stomach. “He serious about it.”

“I know he is,” Smoke said. “That’s the problem.”

There was a beat of quiet between them, easy, not heavy, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Smoke glanced at her again, one brow lifting slightly.

“Heard about y’all in town.”

Cherry blinked. “Already?”

He snorted. “This Clarksdale. News move faster than people do. Hell, I heard about it before y’all probably even left the damn street.”

She looked down for a second, a small smile tugging at her mouth like she couldn’t quite hide it. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Smoke let out a short laugh. “Man was out there waving a gun at folks.”

Cherry’s cheeks warmed again, but she didn’t hide it this time. “They was talking.”

“They always talking,” Smoke said, setting the tool down for a second to look at her properly. “That ain’t new.”

Cherry shrugged lightly. “He ain’t like it.”

“No,” Smoke said flat. “He didn’t.”

Something was knowing in his tone, like he didn’t need details to understand exactly how it went.

Cherry shifted slightly, settling more comfortably, one hand braced behind her. “You mad at him?”

Smoke shook his head once. “Nah. That’s just him.”

He picked the tool back up, turning it in his hands, eyes narrowing slightly as he lined something up. “When he want something… it don’t stay small.”

Cherry watched him. “What you mean.”

Smoke let out a breath through his nose. “I mean he don’t do nothing halfway. Never have. Even when we was kids.”

Cherry leaned in just slightly, interested. “What was he like?”

That pulled something almost like a smile out of Smoke, brief and gone just as quick. “Hardheaded as hell.”

Cherry laughed.

“Always got to be right,” he continued. “Always got to push something further than it needed to go. If he liked something, it turned into the only thing that mattered. Didn’t care who said what about it either.”

Cherry’s fingers moved slowly over her stomach. “And now it’s me.”

Smoke glanced at her, not soft, but not sharp either. Just honest. “Yeah.”

That sat between them.

Not heavy.

Just real.

Cherry didn’t flinch from it.

Didn’t pull back.

If anything, she nodded.

“I figured,” she said quietly.

Smoke studied her for a second, like he expected something else, maybe hesitation, maybe doubt, maybe her realizing what that really meant.

He didn’t get it.

“You ain’t worried about that?” he asked.

Cherry thought about it.

About the way Stack looked at her.

The way he touched her.

The way he moved through the world like it owed him everything it had to offer.

Then she shook her head softly.

“No.”

Smoke raised a brow slightly.

Cherry’s voice stayed quiet, but sure. “He don’t make me feel like I’m losing myself in it.”

That made him pause.

“He make me feel like I’m the center of it,” she added, her hand pressing a little more firmly against her stomach.

Smoke leaned back slightly, exhaling low. “Yeah… that sound like him too.”

Cherry smiled faintly, something softer settling in her expression.

“He always like that,” Smoke went on. “Whatever he lock in on… he build everything around it. Don’t matter if it make sense to nobody else.”

Cherry glanced out toward the land, toward the house in the distance. “It make sense to him.”

“That’s all he need,” Smoke said.

She looked back at him. “And you?”

“What about me.”

“You just watch it happen?”

Smoke shrugged. “I keep an eye on it. Make sure it don’t go too far off the rails.”

Cherry laughed softly. “That don’t sound like much.”

“It is when it come to him,” he said. “Trust me.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You talk about him like he a problem.”

“He is a problem,” Smoke said plainly. “Just depends on if it work in your favor or not.”

Cherry laughed again, this time fuller, easier.

“That your brother,” she said.

“Exactly,” he muttered.

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was easy.

Comfortable in a way that didn’t need effort, like something had settled between them without either of them forcing it.

Cherry shifted slightly, looking over at him. “You gon’ be a good uncle.”

Smoke gave her a look. “Don’t start.”

“Smokey Bear,” she said again, smiling wider now.

He shook his head, but there was something lighter in it now, something closer to acceptance than resistance. “I swear to God, if that baby come out calling me that…”

Cherry laughed, hand over her stomach. “He might.”

“He better not,” Smoke muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it anymore.

Cherry looked at him for a second, something softer settling in her expression, something more certain. “I’m glad you here.”

Smoke didn’t answer right away.

Just looked out at the land, at the stretch of it, at the house in the distance.

Then back at her.

“…yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

From the house, faint through the open space—

“Cherry!”

Stack’s voice carried, loud as ever, cutting clean through the quiet.

A beat.

Then louder—

“Cherry, bring my son back in here!”

Smoke froze.

Then slowly looked up at her.

“…this nigga can’t even nap without supervision?”

Cherry laughed, already pushing herself up slowly, steadying herself with one hand on the porch.

From the house again—

“I’m serious! I can’t sleep if he ain’t in here!”

Smoke leaned back, shaking his head. “Man ain’t even born yet and he already got visitation rights.”

Cherry laughed harder at that, one hand over her stomach. “Coming!” she called back.

“Yeah, you better come on!” Stack yelled again. “And tell that big dumb nigga stop sitting out there like he ain’t got nothing to do!”

Smoke sat up straighter. “Who the fuck he talking to?”

“YOU!” Stack’s voice came right back.

Smoke let out a sharp laugh, pushing up from the porch. “Man, fuck you! Go to sleep!”

“I would if you’d stop stressing my house out!” Stack shot back.

“This your house now?” Smoke yelled, stepping closer to the edge of the porch. “You ain’t even pay for all this shit by yourself!”

“Don’t matter! It’s mine when I say it is!”

Cherry stood between it, laughing, shaking her head as she started making her way back toward the house.

“Both of y’all sound crazy,” she called over her shoulder.

“Tell him leave me alone!” Stack yelled.

“Tell him shut the fuck up!” Smoke shot back.

Cherry just kept walking, smiling to herself, one hand resting over her stomach.

Behind her, they kept going.

Back and forth.

Loud.

Petty.

Familiar.

And for the first time since stepping into all of this—

It didn’t feel overwhelming.

It felt like something she was already a part of.

Night settled heavy over the land, pressing quiet into every corner of the house. The darkness didn’t feel empty, just full in a different way, like everything had slowed down and tucked itself in for the night.

Everything eased with it.

Everything except her.

Cherry shifted in the bed again, the sheets twisting around her legs, one hand braced against the mattress as she tried to get comfortable for what felt like the hundredth time. Her body didn’t move the way it used to. Every turn took effort, every adjustment felt like it pulled somewhere else, and every position stopped working the second she settled into it.

Too hot.

Too tight.

Too much weight sitting low and constant.

She let out a quiet, frustrated breath, her other hand pressing against her stomach like she could ease it into stillness if she just held it right.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath.

Beside her, Stack stirred instantly.

It didn’t matter how deep he’d been asleep or how late it was. The second she moved too much, he felt it like something in him was wired straight to her.

“You alright?” he said, already pushing himself up on one elbow, his voice rough with sleep but alert underneath it.

Cherry didn’t answer right away. She just shifted again, slower this time, wincing slightly as the weight pulled different across her body.

“I can’t get comfortable,” she said finally, irritation slipping into her voice before she could soften it.

Stack was fully awake now. He sat up, one hand already reaching for her before he was even fully oriented, touching her arm, then her stomach, like he needed to check both before anything else.

“Where it hurt at?” he asked.

“It don’t hurt,” she said quickly. “It’s just—”

She exhaled, sharper this time, the frustration pushing through stronger.

“Everything.”

That was enough for him.

He swung his legs off the bed immediately.

“Aight, hold on.”

Cherry frowned. “Stack—”

But he was already moving, lighting the lamp, pulling back covers, adjusting pillows like he could fix it if he moved fast enough, like speed alone might solve it.

“You gotta sit up some,” he said, already guiding her carefully, one hand behind her back, the other steady at her stomach.

“I was just sitting up,” she snapped, sharper than she meant to, the words coming out before she could catch them.

Stack paused.

It was small.

Barely there.

But it was enough.

Cherry felt it immediately, the shift in him, the way his movement slowed, the way something in his posture pulled back just slightly.

Her irritation didn’t go away. If anything, it pushed forward harder, fed by how tired she was, how uncomfortable she felt in her own body.

“I don’t know what I need,” she added, her voice tight now. “I’m just tired.”

That word sat heavier than everything else.

Tired.

Not just in her body.

In everything.

Stack didn’t answer right away. He didn’t push, didn’t correct her, didn’t try to take control of it like he usually would.

He just nodded once, slower now.

“Aight,” he said, quieter.

That was new.

He moved different after that, less fast, less forceful, still there and still close, but softer at the edges, like he was paying attention differently now.

“Come here,” he murmured, easing her back just enough, adjusting the pillows behind her with more care this time, taking his time instead of rushing through it.

Cherry let him. She didn’t fight it and didn’t have the energy to. Her body felt too heavy for resistance.

He sat beside her after, one hand still resting over her stomach, his thumb moving slow, steady, like he was trying to settle both of them at once.

“You been up all night?” he asked.

“Feels like it,” she muttered.

Her eyes burned, her body ached, and for no reason she could explain, she felt like crying.

It came suddenly.

Sharp.

Her throat tightened, her face turning slightly away from him as she blinked hard, trying to push it back.

Stack noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now, leaning in just slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

Too quick.

He didn’t believe that, and it showed even if he didn’t say it.

Cherry wiped under her eye, annoyed now, frustrated with herself more than anything. “I don’t even know why I feel like this.”

Stack’s hand moved from her stomach to her cheek, slow and careful, like he was handling something fragile, even if she didn’t say it out loud.

“It’s alright,” he said.

And this time it wasn’t loud or overwhelming.

It was steady.

Grounded.

Cherry leaned into it without thinking, just a little.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said.

“You don’t know,” she shot back, but there wasn’t any real bite in it.

He huffed a quiet breath. “Aight, I don’t know. But I’m here.”

That landed better.

Cherry closed her eyes for a second, her body still heavy, her mind still restless, but something in her was easing just a little.

Stack shifted again, reaching down toward her feet.

“Give me your leg,” he said.

She didn’t argue this time. She just moved it toward him slowly.

He pulled her foot into his lap, his hands firm but careful as he started rubbing along the arch, working his way up slow like he’d done this enough times to know exactly where to press and how much pressure to use.

Cherry let out a quiet breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded slightly.

He kept going, steady, focused, quiet, letting the rhythm of it settle the space between them.

The room softened around them.

Not silent.

Just easier.

Cherry watched him for a moment, the way his head dipped slightly, the way all that intensity he carried during the day had nowhere to go here except into this, into taking care of her.

“You ain’t gotta do all this,” she murmured.

He didn’t look up. “Yeah I do.”

“No you don’t.”

He glanced up then, just briefly. “Yeah I do.”

There it was again.

That certainty.

But quieter now.

Less overwhelming.

Cherry didn’t argue this time. She just let him keep going.

After a while, her breathing slowed. The tightness in her chest eased just enough, and the urge to cry passed the same way it came, sudden and without reason.

Stack shifted closer again, easing her back down carefully once he finished, adjusting the blankets like he was tucking something in place, making sure everything sat right before he let go.

His hand found her stomach again.

It always did.

“You good?” he asked.

Cherry nodded, her eyes heavier now.

“Yeah.”

He stayed there. He didn’t move away and didn’t turn over. He just watched her for a second longer than necessary, like he needed to see it settle for himself.

Then he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead.

And then lower.

To her stomach.

His hand was spreading there like he was holding both of them again.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured.

Cherry exhaled, softer now, her body starting to give in just a little.

Stack didn’t move right away.

His hand stayed spread over her stomach, thumb moving slow, like he was waiting for something.

Then he leaned down slightly, his voice dropping lower, softer—different.

“Yeah, you hear me in there?” he murmured, like it was just between him and the baby. “You gotta let your mama sleep. You been up all night with her.”

Cherry’s lips twitched faintly.

“You doing too much already,” he continued quietly. “Ain’t even here yet and you stressing people out.”

She let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh.

Stack glanced up at her for a second, catching it, then looked back down, encouraged now.

“And when you get here,” he went on, rubbing slow circles over her stomach, “you ain’t gotta worry about nothing. I got you. Everything already handled.”

Cherry’s hand shifted over his, her fingers resting lightly against his wrist.

“And don’t listen to your uncle neither,” he added, his tone dipping just slightly toward something amused. “He don’t know what the hell he talking about half the time.”

Cherry let out a quiet laugh at that.

“Talking ‘bout he don’t want to be called Smokey Bear,” Stack muttered. “Too late for that. That’s locked in.”

She shook her head, smiling now despite herself.

“He gone act like he don’t like you too,” Stack went on, softer now, almost like he was thinking out loud. “But he do. He just weird about it.”

Cherry’s chest loosened, the tightness from earlier easing more with every word.

Stack’s voice dropped even quieter, slower, like he was settling into something steady.

“I been waiting on you,” he murmured. “Long time.”

That one landed different.

Cherry looked down at him, something in her softening deeper than before.

He pressed one more slow kiss to her stomach, his hand still steady there.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “You just take your time.”

Cherry exhaled, her body finally giving in, the tension easing out of her limbs bit by bit.

And this time, her body followed.

Not fully at ease.

Not completely comfortable.

But held enough to rest.

Morning came slow, but it didn’t come quiet. The house was already alive with it, the kind of lived-in noise that filled space before the day had fully decided what it was going to be.

Pans shifted in the kitchen and cabinets opened and closed. The low murmur of voices carried through the house, not calm and not peaceful, just contained. It was the kind of energy that always settled between the twins when they were in the same room too long, like something always on the edge of tipping into an argument, whether it needed to or not.

Cherry sat at the table, one hand resting over her stomach and the other wrapped loosely around a glass she hadn’t really been drinking from. The food in front of her was still warm and still good, but she’d barely touched it, her appetite coming and going with her moods these days.

Across from her, Stack and Smoke were already at it.

“You burnt this,” Stack said, pushing his plate slightly like it offended him.

Smoke didn’t even look up. “Then don’t eat it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“And I’m just saying shut the fuck up and eat,” Smoke shot back.

Cherry smiled faintly, watching them go back and forth like it was its own routine, something practiced and familiar, something that filled the house in a way silence never could.

“You always complaining,” Smoke added. “Eat the damn food.”

“It ain’t complaining if it’s true.”

“It is when you still eating it.”

Stack sucked his teeth but took another bite anyway, like he had something to prove.

Cherry shook her head softly, a quiet laugh slipping out of her before she could stop it. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

“Don’t put that on me,” Smoke muttered.

Cherry leaned back slightly in her chair, watching them, feeling that strange sense of normal settle around her, something she hadn’t had in a long time.

Then a knock hit the door, sharp and out of place, cutting straight through everything. All three of them stilled at once. Nobody came out here like that, not without word first.

Stack’s head turned first, then Smoke’s. Cherry felt it low in her chest before anything else, something tightening without warning, something wrong.

Stack pushed his chair back slow and stood, his body shifting from relaxed to alert in a second. Smoke followed right behind him, quieter but just as ready, his presence turning heavier.

“Stay here,” Stack said without looking at her.

Cherry didn’t argue. She didn’t move, but she listened.

The door opened. There was a pause, then a voice she didn’t recognize.

“Cherry here?”

Stack didn’t answer right away. “Who asking?”

The man shifted on the porch. “Name’s Leon. I’m her husband’s cousin. Came up from Florida.”

That name, that connection, landed heavy in the space, like something dragged in from far away that didn’t belong here.

Cherry was already on her feet before she realized it, moving toward the doorway like something in her needed to see it for herself. Stack glanced back at her, and the second he saw her face, something in his expression hardened.

She stepped into view. Leon looked at her, eyes moving quickly, taking in her stomach, the house behind her, and the men on either side of her, like he was trying to piece together something he didn’t like.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That’s her.”

Cherry’s voice was steady. “What do you want?”

Leon exhaled like he’d been holding it in. “Ray getting out.”

The air shifted immediately, sharp and cold.

“He’ll be out soon,” Leon continued. “And he expecting you to come back. Said to come get you, make sure you ready.”

Cherry didn’t move or flinch. She didn’t even look surprised. Something in her simply settled, not panic and not fear, just finality.

Before she could speak, Stack stepped forward.

“That ain’t happening.”

His voice was calm, too calm, the kind of calm that didn’t invite conversation.

Leon looked at him, eyes narrowing. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

“It got everything to do with me,” Stack said, stepping closer without asking for space. His presence filled it anyway. “She ain’t going nowhere. Neither is my child.”

Leon’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t your—”

“It is now,” Stack cut him off.

There was no hesitation and no room left for argument. Silence stretched tight between them.

Smoke shifted beside him, arms crossing, his stance settling into something solid. He wasn’t stepping in, but he wasn’t stepping back either.

Leon scoffed. “You must not know Ray.”

Stack smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “I don’t need to.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make it personal. “But he better know me.”

Leon stepped forward.

That was the mistake.

It happened fast. Smoke moved first, then Stack. Hands grabbed, a fist cracked across bone, then another. Leon barely got a sound out before they were on him, the impact sharp against the quiet morning.

Cherry stood in the doorway, watching, still and unmoving. She didn’t step in and didn’t stop it, because something in her understood that this wasn’t chaos. This was protection.

It was over quick. It always was with them.

Leon hit the porch hard, breath knocked out of him, trying to push himself up. Stack grabbed him again, dragging him halfway upright just to land one more punch clean across his face.

“Take that message back with you,” he snapped.

Leon spit blood, trying to hold onto something like pride even as his face swelled.

Stack stepped back, reached, and pulled his gun smooth and natural like it belonged in his hand.

Smoke didn’t flinch.

Leon’s eyes widened.

The shot cracked through the morning.

Leon yelled, dropping hard and clutching his left ass cheek, pain ripping through him as he tried to move.

Stack lowered the gun slow, like it was nothing more than punctuation. “Told you. He too late.”

Smoke grabbed Leon by the collar and dragged him to the edge of the porch like he weighed nothing.

“Take your ass back to Florida,” Smoke muttered. “And make sure Ray get the message.”

He shoved him off. Leon hit the ground hard, cursing and scrambling, limping as he tried to get away.

Neither of them followed. They didn’t need to. The message was already sent.

Stack turned back toward the doorway, toward her. Cherry stood there, still watching him, not scared and not shaken, just sure.

He stepped closer, slower now, searching her face for anything that might’ve changed.

She didn’t give him fear or hesitation.

“I ain’t going back,” she said.

It was simple, clear, and final.

Stack nodded once like that settled everything. “Yeah. I know.”

Smoke stepped up beside him, close enough to make it clear he was part of this too. His eyes moved to Cherry, not sharp and not questioning, just protective and settled.

She met his gaze, and for a moment it wasn’t about Stack at all. It was something quieter and steadier.

Family.

“You heard him,” Smoke said, voice low but firm. “Ain’t nobody coming here taking nothing from this house.”

His eyes dropped briefly to her stomach, then back to her face. “And that go for you too. You good here.”

Cherry felt something warm settle in her chest.

“Smokey Bear got you,” he added under his breath.

Stack huffed beside him. “Man, you done accepted that shit now?”

Smoke shot him a look. “Shut the fuck up.”

There wasn’t any real heat in it.

Cherry smiled.

Because she saw it now.

Not just Stack choosing her.

Not just her choosing Stack.

But Smoke standing in it too, not loud and not dramatic, just solid.

And as the quiet settled back over the house, heavier now and different than before, there wasn’t anything uncertain about it.

Not for any of them.

The house didn’t feel the same after. It wasn’t tense, and it wasn’t broken. It had just settled in a different way, like something had been drawn clear and couldn’t be undone, like a line had been crossed and neither of them had any intention of stepping back over it.

By the time they finished eating, the noise had faded into something quieter. The usual rhythm of the house softened, but it didn’t disappear. Smoke stayed inside, giving them space without saying it out loud, without making it a thing, and Stack didn’t question it. He just reached for her, and she went with him.

They stepped out back together, the land stretching wide and open in front of them, the air warmer now, the sun sitting higher but not harsh. It felt like the world had kept moving like nothing happened, even though something had.

Cherry’s hand stayed in his as they walked, her fingers laced through his like it had already become second nature, like it belonged there. Their pace was slow and unhurried, like neither of them had anywhere else to be, like time itself had eased up around them.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. The quiet between them wasn’t empty. It was full, thick with everything that had just happened and everything that didn’t need to be said out loud.

Cherry glanced at him from the side, watching the way his jaw still held tension, the way his eyes moved over the land like he was still checking everything, still making sure nothing followed them out here, like the moment hadn’t fully left him yet.

“You still mad?” she asked.

Stack didn’t look at her right away. “I ain’t mad.”

She hummed softly, unconvinced. “You shot him.”

“He needed to hear me.”

Cherry let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That’s how you communicate?”

“Sometimes,” he said simply.

That made her smile, small at first, then a little wider, something lighter settling into her chest.

They kept walking, the grass shifting under their feet, the lake catching light in the distance, everything calm in a way that almost didn’t match what just happened. It felt like two different worlds sitting on top of each other, like peace and chaos had learned how to exist side by side.

Cherry looked down at their hands for a second, then back up at him, something playful moving through her now, something that didn’t quite belong to the heaviness of the morning.

“You love me?” she asked suddenly.

Stack stopped and turned to her, like the question didn’t catch him off guard but demanded his full attention, like nothing else existed in that moment but her asking it.

“Yeah,” he said.

It wasn’t soft, and it wasn’t hesitant. It was just true.

Cherry studied his face for a second, something thoughtful moving behind her eyes, something almost playful layered over something deeper.

“You’d still love me if I was… a frog?” she asked.

Stack blinked once, then frowned slightly. “A what?”

“A frog,” she repeated, serious like it made sense, like it was something they actually needed to consider.

He looked at her for a long second, then shook his head slowly. “…yeah.”

Cherry’s brows lifted, surprised. “You would?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. “I’d just have to keep you in the house.”

She laughed, the sound light and real, cutting through everything heavy from earlier. “Why?”

“So nobody step on you,” he said. “Or try to take you.”

“That don’t make no sense,” she said, still laughing.

“It make sense to me.”

She shook her head, smiling wider now, the warmth of it settling deeper. “What if I was… a giraffe?”

Stack squinted at her like he was actually thinking about it, like he was working through it piece by piece.

“…that’d be inconvenient,” he muttered.

Cherry laughed again. “Inconvenient?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You too big for the house.”

“So you wouldn’t love me?”

“I ain’t say that,” he shot back immediately. “I’d just build something bigger.”

That made her pause, not because of the words themselves, but because of how easily they came out of him, like it wasn’t even something he had to think about.

Her smile softened, something quieter settling underneath it.

“What if I was ugly?” she pressed, her voice dipping just a little.

Stack’s expression didn’t change. “You not.”

“But what if I was?”

He stepped closer then, closing the space between them like the question itself irritated him, like he didn’t like where her mind was going.

“I’d still want you,” he said.

Cherry held his gaze, searching it, testing it.

“And if I was a gorilla?” she asked, a small smile tugging at her mouth again, trying to lighten it.

Stack let out a breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh. “You asking a lot of dumb shit right now.”

“Answer it.”

He looked at her, really looked, then reached for her, his hand sliding from hers up to her face, holding her there like he needed her still for a second, like he needed her to hear him without distraction.

“Yeah,” he said. “I would.”

Cherry’s smile faded just enough to make room for something deeper, something more vulnerable.

“Why?” she asked.

That question landed differently.

Stack didn’t answer right away. His thumb moved along her cheek, slower now, his eyes searching her face like he was trying to say it in a way that stuck, in a way she couldn’t question later.

“Because it’s you,” he said finally.

It was simple, certain, unmoved.

Cherry felt something in her chest shift at that, something tightening and loosening at the same time. She exhaled softly, like she’d been holding that breath longer than she realized.

“I didn’t pick you because you safe,” she said.

Stack’s eyes sharpened slightly. “I know.”

“I picked you because you see me,” she continued, her voice steady but quieter now, more exposed. “You don’t look past me. You don’t talk over me.”

Stack didn’t interrupt. He didn’t move. He just listened, fully, like every word mattered.

“I feel… kept with you,” she said.

That word sat heavily between them, different from anything else she could’ve said.

Stack’s jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, but in something deeper, something that settled into him instead of pushing out.

“I ain’t never had that,” she added.

Silence followed, not empty, just full.

Then Stack moved.

Fast.

His hand dropped from her face to her waist, pulling her into him like the space between them shouldn’t have existed in the first place, like he was correcting something.

“You got it now,” he said.

His voice wasn’t soft. It was intense, certain, like a promise that didn’t need to be gentle to be real.

“I told you,” he went on, one hand pressing against her stomach, the other holding her close like he wasn’t letting go again. “Ain’t nothing touching you. Not him. Not nobody.”

Cherry’s hands came up to his chest, holding onto him just as tightly, not resisting it and not questioning it.

“I know,” she said.

And she did.

That was the difference.

Stack leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers for a second, his breath slow but heavy, like something in him had locked in deeper, like this wasn’t something he was willing to lose under any circumstance.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “You mine.”

Cherry didn’t pull back, didn’t correct him, didn’t soften it. She just nodded slightly.

“I know,” she repeated.

And this time, it wasn’t something happening to her. It was something she chose, something she stepped into willingly.

The wind moved around them, soft and steady, the land stretching quietly and endlessly in every direction, as if it were holding them in place.

And standing there, held in him like that, wrapped up in something that didn’t follow logic and didn’t ask permission, it didn’t feel like something she might lose.

It felt like something she had already decided to keep.

Even if it didn’t make sense.

Even if it never would.

It was theirs.

The house had gone quiet again, but this time it settled deeper, like the walls themselves understood something had shifted and chose to hold it gently instead of disturb it. The stillness carried a weight to it now, not oppressive but deliberate, as if the space itself had adjusted in response to her presence and was now maintaining that balance with quiet precision. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that felt empty or abandoned, the kind that echoed absence. It was structured, almost intentional, shaped by the rhythm of someone finally at rest within it. It was the kind that meant she was finally asleep, the kind that signaled a temporary equilibrium where even the smallest disturbance would feel like a disruption of something fragile but deeply necessary.

Stack stood at the bottom of the stairs longer than he needed to, listening without moving, his head tilted just slightly like he could hear her from there. Even her breathing mattered at that distance, like the sound of it grounded something in him that nothing else could. He had practically forced her upstairs, told her she needed rest, didn’t ask, didn’t give her room to argue. He hovered until she laid down and waited until her eyes stayed closed longer than a few seconds at a time, and only then did he leave. Now the house held that stillness, soft and steady, like everything inside it had adjusted itself around her instead of moving through her.

Stack exhaled once, then turned and headed outside. The air felt different out there, cooler, the day beginning to settle into something quieter. The light stretched long across the land, softening the edges of everything it touched. He walked the path toward Smoke’s place without rushing, but there was something in his steps that didn’t slow down either, something focused, something already moving ahead of him.

Smoke was already out there, of course he was, sitting on the porch, leaned back in his chair like he’d been there long enough to think through whatever needed thinking, like he’d been waiting without making it obvious. He didn’t look surprised when Stack walked up. “Thought you’d come out here,” Smoke said.

Stack didn’t answer. He just stepped up onto the porch, pausing for a second before dropping into the chair beside him, his weight settling heavy but controlled. Silence came first, not awkward and not forced, just there, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Smoke glanced at him from the side, taking him in without being obvious about it. It didn’t take much. It never did. He already knew. Still, he let it sit a second longer before speaking. “You done?”

Stack leaned back slightly, one arm thrown over the chair like he owned the space. “For now.”

Smoke snorted. “Yeah, aight. You say that like you ain’t been acting crazy all damn morning.”

Stack cut his eyes at him. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” Smoke shot back immediately. “You gone shoot me too?”

Stack let out a breath through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite. “Don’t tempt me.”

Smoke shook his head, leaning back, looking him over like he was both irritated and amused at the same time. “Man… you done lost your damn mind.”

Stack didn’t deny it and didn’t even try. Smoke let that sit for a second, then tilted his head slightly. “You really gone marry her?”

“Yeah.”

There was no hesitation.

Smoke stared at him, then let out a short laugh. “That fast?”

Stack shrugged like it was obvious. “Ain’t nothing to wait on.”

“Ain’t nothing to—” Smoke cut himself off, shaking his head. “Man, you just met her like that.”

“I been knew her,” Stack shot back.

Smoke gave him a look. “Three years ago ain’t ‘been knew’ nobody.”

“It is when it’s her.”

That shut him up for half a second. Just half.

Smoke leaned forward, elbows on his knees, pointing at him. “See, that right there. That shit. That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t hear yourself?”

“I hear myself just fine.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.”

Stack smirked slightly, not pressed in the slightest. Smoke watched him, then shook his head again, quieter this time. “…you serious.”

“Yeah.”

Same answer. Same tone. Unmoved.

Smoke leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. “Man…” He looked out over the land for a second, thinking, then glanced back at him. “You know she got a whole past, right?”

Stack’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I know.”

“She pregnant by another man.”

“I know.”

“And you still sitting here talking about ‘that’s mine’ like you signed something.”

Stack finally looked at him fully, and something in his expression shifted—sharper, more anchored, like Smoke had stepped into something he wasn’t playing about.

“It is mine,” he said, not just defensive but certain. His jaw tightened, his eyes locking onto Smoke like he needed him to understand it the same way he did. “I’m the one talking to that baby. I’m the one rubbing her stomach every night, feeling him move, making sure she straight.”

Smoke didn’t interrupt and didn’t joke.

Stack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, grounding himself in it. “I’m the one thinking about names, thinking about what he gone be, what he gone need. I’m the one already setting everything up.” His eyes flicked toward the house for a second, then back. “I’m the one gave you a name too. Got you out here answering to Smokey Bear like it make sense.”

Smoke huffed under his breath at that, but didn’t cut him off.

Stack sat back slightly, but the intensity didn’t leave him. “So yeah,” he finished, quieter now but just as solid, “it is mine.”

Smoke held his gaze, then nodded once, slow. “…aight.” It wasn’t agreement, but it was acceptance. That was how this worked.

Smoke tapped his fingers against his knee, then pointed toward the house behind them. “You know she tired as hell, right?”

“I know.”

“You stressing her out, doing all that extra shit.”

“I handled it.”

“You shot somebody on the porch.”

“He needed to understand.”

Smoke let out a short laugh. “You is insane.”

Stack didn’t argue and didn’t need to.

Smoke sat there for a second longer, then leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting just a little, not soft but more grounded. “She good though,” he said.

Stack glanced at him.

Smoke shrugged. “I’m just saying. She good here.”

Stack’s expression didn’t change, but something in it settled deeper. “Yeah.”

Smoke nodded once, then added, “And them babies too.”

Stack’s eyes flicked to him. “…babies?”

Smoke shrugged again. “I don’t know what she having. I’m covering all bases.”

Stack huffed a quiet laugh at that.

“Smokey Bear got a lot of responsibility now,” Smoke added under his breath.

Stack looked at him sideways. “Man, you really going with that?”

Smoke shot him a look. “Shut the fuck up.” There wasn’t any real heat in it, just acceptance.

He leaned back again, sighing like he was settling into something he didn’t plan but wasn’t fighting either. “…you got a ring?” he asked.

Stack shook his head. “Not yet.”

Smoke nodded slowly. “Then we gone fix that.”

Stack glanced at him. “Yeah?”

Smoke shrugged. “Yeah. If you gone do this crazy shit, you gone do it right.”

Stack smirked slightly. “Knew you was gone say that.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Smoke muttered. “I’m still telling you this dumb.”

“But you helping.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said. “I am.”

Stack nodded once like that settled it. It always did.

Smoke rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his mind shifting from doubt to logistics. “You could get something made,” he said after a moment. “Ain’t gotta be flashy. Just something that mean something.”

Stack listened, really listened. “What kind of something,” he asked.

Smoke shrugged. “Hell if I know. You the one in love.”

Stack didn’t react to the word, didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it. He just sat there, quiet, his gaze fixed somewhere out across the land like he could already see it forming.

“I want it to be right,” he said.

That was quieter, more honest than anything else he’d said.

Smoke glanced at him again, something shifting slightly in his expression, something softer under all that bluntness. “…I know,” he said.

Another pause settled between them, heavier but not uncomfortable, just real. “You sure about this?” Smoke asked one last time, not because he expected a different answer, but because it mattered enough to ask again.

Stack didn’t even look at him. “Yeah.”

That was it. Final.

Smoke let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but there wasn’t any argument left in him now. “Alright,” he said.

Stack leaned back in his chair, something in his shoulders easing just slightly, like that was all he needed to hear—not permission, not approval, just confirmation. Loyalty.

They sat there a while longer, the quiet stretching out around them, the plan already forming in pieces without needing to be fully spoken yet.

And inside the house, upstairs, she slept, unaware for now.

By the time the sun started dropping, the land looked different. Earlier that day, while the house held that quiet around her, Stack and Smoke had already moved on something neither of them said out loud. They didn’t make it a conversation or sit and plan it out like it was optional. Stack said what he was going to do, Smoke sighed like it was stupid, and then he got up anyway.

They drove into town while she slept, the road stretching long and dusty under the afternoon heat, neither of them saying much once they got going because they didn’t need to. It was already decided. The jeweler didn’t have much worth looking at, not for her, and Stack took one look at the glass cases and shook his head, unimpressed in a way that didn’t settle.

“Y’all got anything better than this?” he asked.

The man hesitated, then disappeared into the back, and what he brought out sat differently. It was a red diamond, deep and rare, the kind of stone that didn’t belong in most hands, especially not in a place like this and especially not in a time like this. Even Smoke leaned forward slightly when he saw it.

“…that’s different,” he muttered.

Stack didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at it, steady and focused, then nodded once.

“That one.”

There was no hesitation and no asking the price first. Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You serious?”

Stack didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

Of course he was. They had it set and adjusted to fit her without her even knowing, the jeweler moving carefully under Stack’s watch like he understood this wasn’t something to mess up. By the time they left, the sun had already started lowering.

Now, as evening settled in, the land softened. The light stretched long across the acres, catching on the edges of the house, the trees, and the water just beyond them, turning everything gold and glowing like it was holding the day in place a little longer before letting it slip away. The air carried that same feeling, slow and heavy, like time itself had eased up just for a moment.

Cherry didn’t think much of it when Stack told her to come outside. He did that all the time, always pulling her somewhere, always needing her close, like distance didn’t sit right with him. She moved slowly, one hand on her lower back as she stepped down from the porch, the weight of it constant and grounding, her other hand reaching for his without thinking. He took it immediately, his grip firm and familiar like he expected it, like he’d been waiting for it before she even moved.

They walked together, the path worn slightly from use now, the pond not too far from the house sitting still and wide, reflecting the sky like it belonged to it. Cherry looked out over it, breathing in slow, her shoulders easing just slightly.

“It’s pretty out here,” she said softly.

Stack didn’t answer right away because he wasn’t looking at the water or the sky. He was looking at her. Cherry felt it after a second and turned her head slightly.

“What?”

He didn’t look away. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing, and it never was with him. The quiet settled around them, the water barely moving, the air warm against their skin, and it felt like something was building.

Cherry shifted slightly, glancing back out at the pond. “You brought me all the way out here just to stare at me?”

Stack huffed a small breath, something almost like a smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah. That, and something else.”

Cherry raised a brow, turning toward him more fully. “What else?”

Stack stepped closer, slow and measured like every movement mattered. His hand found her stomach like it always did, spreading there, grounding himself before anything else. His thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles that lingered longer with each pass, like he was memorizing the feeling, like he was speaking without words, like this was how he made it real to himself. His other hand came up to her face, brushing along her cheek with a steady, certain touch.

“You already mine,” he said.

Cherry’s breath caught slightly, not surprised, just aware of the weight in it.

“But I’m gone make it official,” he went on, his voice carrying without needing to be loud, settling between them like something already decided. “I ain’t asking you. I’m telling you what we doing.”

There was nothing forced or uncertain in it. It felt inevitable, like the future already existed and he was just naming it out loud. Cherry didn’t pull away or correct him. She just watched him, letting him speak, letting him lay it out the way he needed to.

His hand continued its slow movement against her stomach, grounding himself in her, in the baby, in the moment. “You changed everything for me,” he said, quieter now, rougher, real in a way that didn’t try to dress itself up. “I ain’t never been like this. Ain’t never looked at nobody and thought about tomorrow like it mattered. Ain’t never stayed still long enough to even care.”

Cherry’s expression softened as she searched his face, taking in something she hadn’t seen from him before. Stack didn’t look away.

“But with you… it do. Everything do.”

His hand pressed firmer against her stomach, including the baby in every word. “Both of y’all.”

Cherry felt it deep in her chest, the way he said it like there was no division. “I’m already building something for you,” he continued. “Already thinking about what you gone need, what you ain’t never gone have to worry about again. I wake up thinking about it. Go to sleep thinking about it.”

Something heavier sat under his voice now, something consuming. “I don’t care where you came from. Don’t care about none of that. That shit don’t follow you here.”

His hand moved to her chin, lifting her face so she met his eyes fully. “All that matter is right here.”

“You.”

Then his hand returned to her stomach, spreading there like it belonged.

“And mine.”

Cherry’s breath stayed slow and steady, her chest tight in a way that didn’t feel wrong. Stack stepped closer, closing the space completely.

“I’m gone give you a name,” he said. “A real one. One that mean something. One that make sure nobody ever question where you belong again.”

Something deeper settled in her, not pressure and not fear, something grounding, something chosen.

“You staying with me?”

It wasn’t quite a demand and not quite a question, something in between. Cherry looked at him, really looked at the man in front of her, at the life he was laying out, at the certainty in him, and she smiled.

“Yes.”

Stack didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into him and kissed her, slow and firm, like sealing something that had already been decided long before this moment.

Behind them, near the edge of the path, Smoke stood with his arms crossed, watching. He’d been there long enough to see it unfold, long enough to understand it without needing a word. He shook his head slightly under his breath.

“…this nigga,” he muttered.

There wasn’t resistance in it anymore, just acknowledgment, because he saw what this was and what it had become. Even if he still thought it was crazy, he wasn’t standing against it.

The sun dipped lower, the light softening as it settled behind the trees, stretching shadows across the water. The pond held that last bit of gold like it didn’t want to let it go. Cherry stood at the edge of it with Stack behind her, his arms wrapped around her, one hand resting over her stomach like it belonged there.

She leaned back into him without thinking. The land stretched out in front of them, wide and open, holding something that hadn’t fully taken shape yet.

A future that wasn’t clean and wasn’t certain, but was real, and chosen.

And as the light faded and the quiet settled deeper around them, it felt like something they both intended to keep.

Paris hadn’t meant to squirt. It wasn’t part of the plan. Wasn’t something she’d even thought about—definitely not something she wanted to happen right then, straddling Stack on his couch, hoodie bunched around her ribs, thighs bare, sweat clinging to the back of her knees. The living room was bathed in the low blue flicker of the TV screen, muted sound rolling under their heavy breathing. The city outside was quiet, but inside, it was just breath, heat, and the slick glide of his fingers working her open, slow and deliberate, like he had nothing but time and all the intention in the world.

His focus had been lethal. Chin tucked, mouth parted, eyes locked on her like her body was a puzzle he meant to master. Two fingers curled inside her, firm and precise, dragging against that spot that made her toes curl. His thumb moved over her clit in lazy, expert circles, the kind of touch that was too calm for the chaos it stirred up in her belly. Paris had tried to hold it in—bit her lip, rolled her hips slow, tried not to let that tension climb too fast. But Stack had known. He always knew. He watched her like her body spoke its own language, and he was fluent.

Then his voice dropped, low and ragged, his mouth right against her ear.

"You always make that sound when you close in. Like you don’t wanna give it up, but you can’t help it."

And just like that, she broke.

Her thighs snapped shut around his wrist. Her breath hitched, her eyes flew open. The coil inside her snapped, and something in her chest and spine buckled with it. It wasn’t just a climax. It was a release. A rush. A wet, heat-slick explosion that soaked her thighs, his hand, the couch cushion beneath them. Her mouth dropped open on a soundless gasp, her head thrown back, arms shaking.

Stack froze.

His wrist was still flexed inside her, fingers pulsing in place. His shirt clung wet to his chest. His forearm glistened. His face?

He looked down.

Then up.

Then back down again.

And grinned like he just found proof of God.

"Yo."

Paris whimpered, slapped both hands over her face. "Don’t start."

"Nah, don’t you start. Did you just squirt on me?"

"I swear to God, Stack, shut up—"

He leaned back slowly, grinning wider, taking stock of his soaked arm like it was the finest piece of art he’d ever seen. "You squirted, Paris. You squirted. On me. And you thought I wasn’t gon’ notice?"

She groaned, sinking further into the cushion. "It’s not like I planned it! It just—it doesn’t happen all the time—"

"Well, it’s happening again. You done unlocked a superpower, and I’m not lettin’ it go." His voice dropped lower, more reverent now. "You opened the floodgates, mama. I’m tryna drown."

He said it with awe. Like she’d just revealed some rare, beautiful truth that had changed the way he viewed the world.

That was three days ago.

Since then, Stack had been relentless. He brought it up like small talk. Like asking about the weather. Called her Waterworks with a crooked grin, even in public. Whispered in her ear while she stood at the sink, grabbed her waist from behind like her thighs held secrets. He texted her late night: emojis, inside jokes, a photo of his sheets captioned “need replacements, thx to you.” One text just read: Next time, I’m bringing a poncho.

Paris had tried to act unfazed. Told herself he’d get over it. That it was a one-time thing. A fluke.

But Stack wasn’t moving on.

Not when the image of her coming apart like that—wet and messy, wild and loud—was burned behind his eyelids. Not when it haunted his dreams, kept him hard half the night. Not when his hands kept twitching like they were searching for that same reaction.

Today, he was on a mission. Focused. Hungry. Intent.

He was going to make her squirt again.

And this time, he was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

It started slow. Like he didn’t have a whole plan mapped out in his head. Like he wasn’t already halfway to obsessed. But Stack had a tell, his jaw tight, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, that fixed stare like he was watching a fuse burn down. And Paris saw it. Felt it. Even in the way he touched her, like he wasn’t just reaching for pleasure, he was chasing a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Stack wasn’t even trying to play it cool anymore. He’d done that for three days. Three long, torturous days of pretending he didn’t have her squirt seared into the back of his skull like a tattoo. That first splash had haunted him, woken him up at night with his dick hard, had him zoning out in the middle of conversations, had him texting her the most ridiculous shit just to get a reaction. Tonight, the mask was off. He was all focus. All intention. All hunger.

Paris knew something was up the second he pulled her onto his lap.

They were in his bedroom, light low, air thick with the kind of anticipation that sat on skin like sweat. The TV was on mute in the background, flickering like a ghost. His blunt sat forgotten in the ashtray, burning slow and curling upward. Some sultry R&B track hummed from his speaker, soft drums, a voice that sounded like fucking, and the second her knees touched the mattress, she knew.

Stack’s hands were already sliding up the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging into that sweet spot just beneath the curve of her ass. She was in his hoodie, no shorts, skin warm from the inside out. She straddled him again, like before. But this time, he didn’t waste a second. There was no warm-up. No hesitation.

His mouth crashed into hers with a hunger that pulled sound from her throat. A deep, claiming kiss that left no space for breath, no room for protest. His hands roamed like he owned her—under her shirt, over her ribs, down her spine—touching her like he’d been waiting to get back to this exact moment. And maybe he had.

He kissed like a man who fought for his spot in her life, messy, rough, unforgiving. She moaned into it, wrapped her arms around his neck, and let herself be consumed.

Then he shifted. Pressed her down onto the mattress with careful force, settling between her thighs like he belonged there. His shirt was off. Clothes peeled away like afterthoughts, tossed to the floor without care. The foreplay had been silent, wordless, just hands and heat. But now that he had her laid out beneath him, something in his expression changed.

“Hold on,” he muttered, eyes narrowed in concentration, shifting his hips like he was dialing in a code. “I’m tryna remember the exact angle. The science behind this shit.”

Paris raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious right now?”

"Hell yeah, I saw it on Twitter."

She opened her mouth to say something, but then he pushed in, slow, thick, all of him, and whatever snark she had died in a choked gasp. Her back arched. He sank deep, deep enough to make her thighs quake. A low groan rumbled from his chest, that familiar growl of satisfaction when he got her right where he wanted.

He didn’t speak. Just started driving into her hard and fast, hips snapping, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to lose his mind. Every thrust was deep and punishing, the kind that made the bed creak and her voice pitch up into a broken moan. He adjusted his angle with sharp precision, his grip tightening, rhythm relentless, until—

There.

Her breath caught. Her eyes flew open. Her mouth dropped on a moan that clawed from her belly. Her hands flew to his arms, nails biting down, thighs shaking around his hips.

And then it happened.

Wet.

Not slick. Not creamy. But a gush.

A flood that spread between them, hot and immediate.

Stack stopped mid-thrust. Froze.

His eyes went wide. He looked down. Then up at her.

Then back down again.

He blinked once. Twice.

Paris felt the wet. Felt the tension in his body. Felt the weight of his stare. “Don’t,” she said quickly, already covering her face. “Don’t start—”

His voice was reverent. Like he was witnessing a miracle. 

“I swear to God, Elias—”

“You squirted again.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s a thing, Paris. It’s the thing. It’s the only thing now.”

She groaned, buried her face deeper into her palms. “I hate you.”

“You love me. And you just baptized me.”

She laughed, because she couldn’t help it, and tried to squirm away, but his hands locked tight around her hips, keeping her in place like she was something sacred.

His eyes were gleaming. Unhinged with joy. “I need to see that again.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but his hips started rolling again, deeper this time, more focused. His hands gripped tighter, like she might vanish. And Paris knew, clear as anything, she was fucked.

He’d found his favorite toy.

And he was ready to break it open again.

Paris never stood a chance. Not with the way he was looking at her, like she held a secret he was born to uncover. Stack’s grin was all heat, crooked and dangerous, the kind that belonged to a man who’d found his new favorite obsession. That first squirt hadn’t satisfied him. It just rewired his brain. Now he needed to see it in every angle, every position, every fucking time. It wasn’t just desire, it was devotion disguised as filth, reverence wrapped up in raunch. And she? She was the altar.

He sat back on his knees, wiping his soaked fingers down his abs like war paint, grinning down at her like she was dessert. The way her chest was rising and falling, still gasping from the last orgasm, only made him harder. Made him hungrier. He leaned forward and kissed her neck, slow and messy, before pulling back and murmuring, “Flip over.”

Paris blinked up at him, still breathless, lashes damp. “What?”

“Doggy,” he said, tapping her thigh like it was a command. “C’mon. I wanna see it from the back. Bet this ass throw it back while you squirt too.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched with a smile. Obeying, she dragged herself onto her elbows and knees, arching her back slow, spine dipping just right. Her ass lifted high, round and soft, and Stack let out a low hiss through his teeth, jaw tight as he ran both hands over the curve of her hips. He slid his palms up and down her sides, thumbs pressing into her dimples, dragging her back toward him with a grip that said mine.

“Look at this,” he muttered like he was seeing her for the first time. “Gon’ be a fuckin’ waterfall.”

He lined up, not bothering with teasing. Not when he was already leaking, already aching, already past the point of patience. He pushed in deep in one thrust, no warning, no easing in. She choked on a moan, hands grabbing at the sheets, her elbows buckling. Stack groaned low in his throat, and then he was moving, no slow grind, just hard, deep strokes.Like he was trying to fuck every drop out of her.

Paris was gasping, fingers clawing for something to hold on to, eyes squeezed shut. Every stroke jolted her forward, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls. The bed rocked under them, and her ass bounced with every thrust, slick sounds filling the room like music. Her body shook beneath him, tension winding tight in her belly again, too soon, too fast, and too much.

Stack grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked gently but firmly, leaned over her back until his chest grazed hers. “You feel that? You feel what you do to me? Gimme that mess again, baby. I want it on my fuckin’ thighs. I want it everywhere.”

“Elias—” she moaned, broken, teetering, but he didn’t let up.

He adjusted, got one knee up on the bed for better leverage, changing the angle until he found it again, that swollen, tender spot that made her twitch every time he hit it. That sacred, liquid switch inside her that answered to no one but him. He slammed into it over and over, the sound of his pelvis crashing into her ass loud and obscene, the rhythm brutal, relentless. Her pussy gripped him like it was trying to pull him in deeper, wetter with every thrust. Paris shook violently, eyes blown wide, mouth falling open in a scream that caught in her throat. Her body trembled under him, ass arching, legs quaking as her orgasm slammed through her like a freight train, shaking, sobbing, her slick flooding out around him as she came, again and again, like her body didn’t know how to stop.

A full-body release, a gush so hot and violent it sprayed down his thighs, coating his skin, soaking the sheets.

Stack pulled out with a growl, dick glistening, watching it all drip with wide, reverent eyes. “God damn,” he muttered, running his fingers through the mess and licking them clean. “You tryin’ to baptize me again?”

Paris collapsed forward, trembling, face buried in the sheets.

He smacked her ass once, not hard, just enough to make it jiggle. “Don’t run now. We not done. I need that mouth on me next. But first…”

He slid down the bed, open-mouthed kisses trailing along her spine, slow and wet, leaving a path of heat down to the base of her back. Each kiss was possessive, a mark in the making. When he reached the swell of her ass, he paused, spread her cheeks apart with both hands, and exhaled like he was facing down divinity. His breath kissed her soaked folds before his tongue did, a slow, deliberate drag from clit to entrance that made her jerk and moan. He buried his face there like it was the only source of air, groaning low as the taste hit his tongue. He spread her wider with both thumbs, grinding his mouth into her pussy like he was trying to wear her out from the inside. His tongue flicked fast, desperate, messy, his beard already soaked, chin slick with her arousal. No teasing. No warmup. Just straight, filthy hunger, like he was starving and she was the only thing that could save him.

He moaned into her, beard drenched within seconds, licking and sucking like he was trying to drown himself in her. She was still on her hands and knees, back arched, legs spread just enough to let him get deep and messy. His tongue didn’t stay on her clit, it was on a journey. He flicked and circled it with maddening precision, then dragged his tongue down to her entrance and pushed in, slow at first, then deeper, tongue-fucking her until her knees shook and her moans turned into gasps. Paris whimpered, her voice cracking, head dropping between her arms. He growled and spread her wider, thumbs gripping into the meat of her ass.

But he wasn’t done.

His tongue kept moving, tracing her from that fluttering entrance down to her tightest point, licking her asshole like it was part of the meal. He lapped at her there with the same filthy reverence, groaning like he could taste her nerves. Her whole body jerked, helpless, pussy clenching around nothing. And just when she thought he was done, he dragged his mouth back up in one long, wet sweep and locked onto her clit again, sucking it hard, lips sealed around it, tongue fluttering fast.

Paris cried out, voice wrecked, her face still smashed into the mattress, fingers digging into the headboard like she could keep from falling apart.

“Stack—fuck—please—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even look up. One hand stayed firm on her hip, the other slipping underneath to rub her clit in tight, obscene circles. His tongue pressed deep, chasing that spongy, swollen spot that made her gush before.

And just like that—another wave.

A violent, hot gush that soaked his chin, hit his throat, dripped down his chest.

Stack pulled back only long enough to catch his breath, tongue still out, eyes blown wide with hunger. “You leaking like a broke faucet. Shit got my beard drippin’. I should bottle this and sell it.”

Paris tried to crawl away, overwhelmed and trembling, but he growled and grabbed her hips, dragging her right back.

“Nah, baby. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He licked his lips, face glistening, looking up at her like a man who just tasted heaven and wasn’t ready to leave.

Stack was on one now. Completely gone. Eyes glassy, beard soaked, brain short-circuited by every sound, every squirt, every tremble Paris gave him. She had no idea what she’d awakened in him days ago, but now it was alive and ravenous, possessive, hungry, competitive. Somewhere between the way she gripped the sheets and the way her slick painted his chest, he decided to set a personal goal. One that had everything to do with pride and nothing to do with mercy.

“I’ma see if I can do it three times before you tap out,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel, throat thick with lust.

Paris lifted her head just barely from the sheets, already shaking, her body twitching from aftershocks. “I’ma knock your ass out if you keep talkin’ like that while my pussy malfunctionin’.”

He laughed, the sound dark and shameless. “Say that shit again while it’s squirting on my chest.”

Then he moved, fast, deliberate, flipping her over like she was weightless. Flat on her back now, legs spread wide and knees hooked up by his arms. She was open, exposed, soaked. Her inner thighs shimmered with slick, her pussy swollen and pulsing like it had its own heartbeat.

Stack didn’t waste time. Two fingers plunged into her again, slick and smooth, curling upward until he hit the spot that made her legs kick. His thumb circled her clit, slow at first, teasing, while his head dipped lower. He drove them in nearly to the base, not stopping until his knuckles kissed her heat, making sure she felt every inch of pressure, every calculated stroke.

He didn’t just eat her. He feasted. Devoured. Like he needed it to live. His tongue flattened, dragged slow over her clit, then flicked it in tight, rhythmic bursts. He groaned into her like her taste alone was enough to unravel him. His fingers fucked her with purpose, slow, then faster, then pushing and pulsing like a lockpick trying to crack her open again. She was already unraveling.

“Elias, fuck, you doin’ too much,” she whimpered, fists tangled in the sheets.

He grinned against her pussy, lips wet. “Nah, baby.”

Paris was trembling all over, muscles twitching, belly tensing. Her moans got louder, breathless. She couldn’t keep still. Her hands kept reaching out, pulling at him, pushing, grabbing anything she could find.

And then he did it. Twisted his fingers just right, angled his thumb against her clit, and sucked her with deep, wet focus.

“Stack, you, fuck, if I squirt again I’m gonna—”

“Go ‘head and scream, mama,” he growled. “Let the neighbors hear the weather.”

And just like that, she screamed.

Her back arched. Her hips bucked off the bed. Her pussy let go in a violent rush that sprayed his chest, face, hands. Stack let out a deep groan, dropping his head as the warmth coated him.

“God damn,” he hissed, licking his lips. “You tryin’ to drown me for real.”

She sobbed, legs shaking, thighs instinctively trying to clamp shut. He pried them open.

“Nah. You said I’m doin’ too much?” he said, eyes blazing. “We not even halfway done. One more. I need one more.”

She shook her head, but her body betrayed her. Already pulsing. Already clenching around his fingers.

Stack leaned in again, mouth dragging down to her entrance. He kissed her slit, tongue laving slowly, then looked up at her, eyes dark with intent. Without another word, he rose onto his knees, grabbed her thighs, and lined himself up.

He pushed into her slow but deep, burying himself inch by inch until his pelvis met her soaked folds with a wet slap. Paris gasped, hands flying to his arms, nails digging in.

Her pussy clenched around him immediately, slick and hot, and Stack’s eyes rolled back just a little.

Then he moved. Every thrust knocked the breath out of her lungs, the pressure inside her building like a scream with nowhere to go.

Paris was a mess, sweat-slick, moaning, body jolting with every stroke. Her legs wrapped around him without thought, like her body couldn’t bear to let him go.

“Don’t hold back on me,” he grunted, one hand sliding under her ass, angling her up as he drove deeper. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

She sobbed his name, high-pitched and broken.

Her whole body tensed, locked, and then released.

A third gush exploded between them, spraying across his stomach and thighs, soaking the sheets beneath her. Her scream tore through the room, raw and desperate.

Stack groaned deep, still stroking through it, watching her fall apart under him.

“God damn,” he muttered, hips slowing only slightly. “Look at that fuckin’ mess.”

Paris collapsed back, twitching, eyes fluttering shut.

He leaned down, kissed her inner thigh, then her mound, then up her stomach in a slow trail.

“Three times,” he whispered, dick still hard inside her. “Told you.”

She couldn’t even speak. Could barely breathe.

He pulled out slow, watching the way her slick clung to him, how wet and ruined she looked beneath him.

Paris was laid out like a woman who’d just seen God and lived to tell about it. If she could talk. Her body was limp across the soaked sheets, one thigh still twitching in little, involuntary aftershocks, hair stuck to her damp cheeks, and her chest rising and falling like she’d just outrun a wildfire. Her voice? Gone. Not a whisper left. All she could manage were small, broken sighs and the occasional breathless whimper that barely counted as sound. Her eyes stayed shut, her limbs loose, melted into the mattress like the bed had swallowed her whole.

Stack lay next to her, just as sweaty, his beard glistening, his entire chest shining with the mess they’d made. A grin was stretched across his face like he’d just hit the damn jackpot and knew no one else could ever take it from him. He turned his head, eyes moving slowly over her wrecked body with lazy satisfaction, one arm draped across his stomach, the other resting on the bed beside her.

“You good?”

Paris didn’t even open her eyes. Her voice came out low and hoarse. “No. I’m mad at you.”

He laughed, deep and warm and smug as hell. “You squirted seven times, Paris. That’s a biblical event. You should be proud. That was some Moses-parting-the-sea type shit.”

“My thighs won’t stop twitchin’. I need electrolytes.”

“I need another round.”

She cracked an eye open, rolled her head toward him, and smacked his chest with a palm that barely had strength behind it. “You’re sick. That’s what you are.”

He shrugged like she’d just complimented him. “You’re hydrated.”

Then he turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow, brushing a finger across her cheek like he hadn’t just turned her body into a flood zone. His eyes danced, full of mischief and filthy affection.

“Niagara.”

She groaned, covering her face with one hand. “Stop calling me that.”

“I’m just sayin’. We might need to get FEMA involved. This pussy got natural disaster potential.”

“Elias.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She peeked at him from between her fingers. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I’m too tired to argue.”

“Which means I’m right.”

She shoved him again, but this time it was softer. Her lips curled despite herself, cheeks glowing with the kind of flush that came from being completely and unapologetically ruined.

Stack leaned in, kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her nose, then finally her lips. Soft now. Gentle. Like the storm had passed but he still needed to worship the wreckage.

“You’re insane,” she whispered against his mouth.

He smiled, that grin still smug, still soft around the edges now that the fire had cooled.

“I’ma make you do that shit again tomorrow. And the next day. Forever.”

stripper!stack who’s performance expands from just grinding on stage for hungry patrons. he has you on your back with your tight baby pink tube dress pulled up your waist and your matching color thong thrown astray on the floor. your legs are folded into your chest as he thrusts his cock in and out of your weeping cunt, pleasure of the heaviness of his girth to the curve of him kissing your g spot combined with the wet sticky sounds you were creating made your eyes roll to the back of your head and whiney moans escape your lips. 

stripper!stack who “this pussy is so wet for me, mama…she cryin’ for me huh?” 

“breathe with me baby…jus’ like that..fuck baby you so damn pretty.”

“it’s okay baby you cum on it, that’s your dick baby-fuck…”

stripper!stack who ignores the banging on the door from the bouncer telling him he’s going over the time limit because fuck him and that time limit…with a pussy as warm, wet and tight as yours everything else be damned. it just drives him to purposefully thrust into you harder, squeezing out your third and fourth orgasms with some pretty loud “yes daddy!”s and “this your pussy”s and a dash of “please cum in me, pa!”. 

stripper!stack who pulls out and finishes on the lower part of your tummy, rubbing the mess into your caramel skin. he kisses you greedily, all tongue, saliva and a bit of teeth dancing along each other as you swallow each other’s moans. 

“so…how much do I owe you for that?” you ask with a slight pant as pick up your heels and search for your panties after he wiped you clean. 

stripper!stack who replies with “consider this your welcome gift free of charge.” he offers, dangling your thong by his finger which you snatch from him playfully to step back into. “but…if you come by next thursday wearing this dress again i’ll hook you up with somethin’. choice is yours, babygirl.”

“you like this with all your clients, mister stack?” you raise an eyebrow. 

stripper!stack who simply brushes a stray curl from your face. “nah..just the ones who moan pretty like you.” he then pecks your lips soft, like petals, causing your face to heat up. “see you thursday?” he silently hopes as he leads out back to your awaiting friends.

“we’ll see.” you answer vaguely, swaying your hips as you return to your friends who await the story you're about to tell, but by the way you’re smiling at him,  he can expect to see you again and a smile grows on his own face. 

taglist: @cafeluvs @delicateprint @mirathebookworm @a4g3lstarfire @monstaxmomma0 @bl3ssyn @thecoloredpages @dumb-b4mbi @spiicii @wrestlingprincess80 @transparentphantomface @pinkkycherrish @groovytidalwavevoid  @sug3rco0k1es @girlstowomen @zillasvilla @lexiis26 @ami-sk @loveabledovee @sajoi @ultralspblr @aurelover @christinabae @queenofklonnie22 @bxrbie1 @midnightmemoirsofher @adultinginheels @chocobuttabaybee @namtiddiesismybias @iamxtonii @moundbayou @mbjswife @devilxo @harmshake @piinkbenjamins @Michealbacting @peachygelic @whatasillyguy

He didn’t even close the front door.

Just stood there in Mona’s hallway, heart pounding like it was trying to punch out of his chest, breath caught somewhere between rage and confusion. The air still smelled like weed and something sweeter—something wetter. Something that didn’t have anything to do with him.

That strap-on flashed behind his eyes again.

He rubbed his face like it might wipe the image out. It didn’t.

Mona. Fucking Mona. Bent over, ass up, moaning somebody else’s name like it was holy. And Tee. Tee. Not Tyrone. Not Tony. Not Terrance. Tee with soft hands and a mean-ass stroke game apparently.

He couldn’t stop hearing it.

“Right there, Tee—fuck.”

Stack’s throat tightened. He laughed under his breath, but it didn’t feel funny. Not really. Maybe this was the kind of funny that hurt.

She told him they weren’t together. She told him she had options. Told him not to catch feelings. Told him she wasn’t Tasha.

And yet, here he was. Mad. Embarrassed. Hard. Hurt.

He didn’t even know where to put all of that.

Every time he thought about her with somebody else, it made him want to punch a wall—and then fuck her so good she forgot anybody else existed.

But now?

Now she knew he saw. And she grinned. Said hey like he walked in on her making a sandwich. Like she didn’t have a whole chick in her guts.

He sat on the edge of her couch, elbows on his knees, jaw locked.

He wanted to be mad. But the truth was, he wasn’t just mad. He was jealous. He was turned on. He was confused. And worst of all?

He was still in love with a woman who swore she didn’t belong to anybody.

Not even him.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen.

And that was enough time for his pride to start itching like a bad rash. He told himself he was leaving. Told himself it wasn’t his business. But his feet didn’t move. His jaw just clenched tighter. His chest felt heavier.

Then it got quiet. Too quiet.

Stack looked toward the stairs. He knew better. But he didn’t listen.

He crept up slow, making sure the steps didn’t creak under his weight. The door was still cracked. Just a sliver. Just enough to see.

He shouldn’t have looked.

But he did.

Mona was on her back now, legs spread wide, knees nearly at her shoulders. Tee was between them, still wearing that strap like a damn weapon, one hand on Mona’s throat, the other holding her leg up as she stroked deep and slow.

Mona’s eyes were rolled back. Her mouth open. Her moans were quieter now. More guttural. More desperate.

Stack watched, breath caught in his throat.

That used to be me.

His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He watched her arch. Watched Tee kiss her chest, her neck, her mouth. Watched Mona pull her in with both arms, whispering things he couldn’t hear.

He felt like a ghost in his own dream.

So this what it feels like. To want somebody who doesn’t need you. To get replaced. Quietly. By somebody smoother. Softer. Stronger.

He felt sick. Turned on. Stupid. Turned on again.

This was what karma looked like.

A strap-on. Two wet bodies. And the one woman he ever really wanted—moaning for somebody else.

He backed away from the door, heart beating in his throat, mouth dry.

And still... still hard as fuck.

He didn’t know if he wanted to cry, fuck, or fight.

Maybe all three.

The next morning, Stack stayed in bed. Didn’t open his blinds. Didn’t answer his phone. He laid there, hoodie half on, TV playing some old rerun he wasn’t watching, thinking about Mona’s moans. Thinking about Tee’s hands. Thinking about his pride curled up in the corner somewhere, weeping.

He thought maybe she’d text. Maybe check in. But Mona wasn’t the check-in type. She let you sit in your silence until it cooked you.

That’s what he figured.

Until he heard her knock.

Three loud bangs on his door.

He sat up. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Stack! Open the damn door!”

That voice was unmistakable.

He shuffled to the front, cracked the door, hoodie now fully on like armor.

Mona stood there with her hair tied up, leggings and an oversized tee, brows slightly raised. A half-smirk sat on her lips.

“You ghostin’ me now?” she asked, stepping in before he could answer.

“I ain’t ghostin’—”

“You left like a lil bitch,” she said. “Didn’t even say bye.”

He shut the door behind her, arms crossed. “You was busy.”

Mona turned, tilting her head with mock sympathy in her tone. “Aww. You mad?”

He sucked his teeth. “I ain’t mad. I just… damn, Mona. You said Tee like you say my name.”

She raised a brow. “So?”

“So it fucked me up.”

She grinned, slow and wicked. “Good.”

Then she plopped down on his couch, kicked her feet up like she owned the place, and pulled out a blunt. “You gonna sit there looking sad, or you gonna roll something?”

Stack sat across from her, still sulking, still looking like he didn’t know which emotion to pick.

“You know,” Mona said, exhaling slow, “you coulda stayed. Or joined. Tee asked if you was coming. She was with it.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

She shrugged. “You act like you ain’t used to friends with benefits.”

He frowned. “Not with somebody I actually fuck with.”

Mona’s eyes narrowed a little, but she didn’t say anything at first.

“You and Tee a thing?” he asked, voice low.

She smiled. “Maybe.”

Stack leaned back. That answer hit like a sucker punch.

She looked at him then, softer than before.

“Look, I know you got feelings. I do too. But I ain’t forgot how easy you folded when you was engaged. I remember how fast you lied to her, and how fast you slid into my bed like it wasn’t nothing.”

He looked down, jaw tight.

“I’m not saying I don’t want you,” she continued. “But I know how I got you. And if I got you that way, there’s always a chance I’ll lose you the same way.”

Stack didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

She took one last drag and stood.

“That door’s open,” she said, nodding toward the space between them. “But we both gotta be ready to stop being hoes first.”

Stack had her crying in his mouth.

Stassi couldn’t forget that part. Not the stretch, not the filth, not the sound of his voice in her ear while her body broke down over and over again. It was relentless. Intentional. Every orgasm ripped from her like he owned the rights to her pleasure. And when she told him she needed him, he didn’t gloat. He just smiled like he already knew.

That was two days ago.

And he hadn’t let up.

It wasn’t always sex, though that definitely hadn’t stopped, but it was the way he moved around her now. Possessive without being loud. Always touching. Always watching. Hands on her waist when she passed. Standing behind her at the sink like she belonged in his reach. She couldn’t pour a glass of juice without Stack leaning in and whispering something that made her thighs clench.

She’d created a monster. Or maybe awakened one.

And Stassi had kept up. Mouth sharp, eyes bold, acting unbothered even when her legs shook the next morning. But in the back of her head, a thought had started to crawl forward.

He wasn’t the only one who could fuck somebody senseless.

Because while Stack had spent that night teaching her a lesson, how good it could be, how far she could go, what it felt like to have a man handle her, he never considered the consequences.

He never asked what would happen if she learned too well.

So now, it was her turn. Not to dominate. Not to flip the dynamic forever. But to remind him she pays attention. And when she decides to take control, she doesn’t play fair.

Tonight, Stack’s mouth was gonna write a check his body couldn’t cash.

And she was gonna make sure he felt it.

—

It had been two days.

Two full days of Stack acting like he hadn’t completely turned her out. Like he hadn’t had her crying and shaking, spread out across his sheets as if she were made for it. He cooked breakfast like normal. Walked around half-naked like normal. Texted his brother talking shit as though nothing had changed.

And that was the problem.

Stassi couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not in the emotional, lovesick way. In the calculated, tactical way. Like she’d watched the footage of her own breakdown and now she was ready to rewrite the playbook. She had let him take the lead, let him guide her through it, and now she was done letting him think that was the end of the story.

He had been too good. The kind of good that lingered behind your eyes when you closed them. The kind that made you say things you weren’t ready to admit. The kind that rearranged your ego along with your spine. But now that she had felt it, soaked in it, and studied the rhythm of how he moved, she knew exactly what she wanted to do in return. She wanted to watch him squirm. Wanted to see what that mouth sounded like when it wasn't running with confidence but gasping for breath.

She had memorized the way his voice dropped, how his hands moved with intention, how his body responded to control. And now she was going to hand it all back to him, but flipped. Slower. Meaner. Focused.

So when Stack leaned back on the couch that night, legs spread like he owned the space, shoulders draped across the cushions like he was posing for the cover of arrogance itself, Stassi knew it was time.

She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t give him a warning. She stepped out of her room slowly, wearing one of his old t-shirts that hung just long enough to tease. No bra. No shorts. Just bare thighs and quiet intention. Her eyes locked on him the entire time, heavy with something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

Stack looked up from his phone. His gaze dragged across her body, pausing just a second too long at the way the shirt clung to her chest. Then it climbed back up to her face. His eyes narrowed slightly. He knew her well enough to know when she wasn’t just being cute.

“You tryna start somethin’?” he asked, voice low with amusement, though his hand paused mid-scroll.

She tilted her head like she hadn’t already made up her mind. “Maybe.”

His smirk curled, full of that same confidence that had once knocked her breathless. He tossed the phone aside and opened his arms slightly, inviting. “Aight. Come here, then.”

She moved toward him slowly, deliberately. Climbed onto the couch like she belonged there. Straddled his lap, her knees sinking into the cushions as her weight settled over him. Her hands rested on his shoulders, fingers trailing lightly along his neck. Every movement was a decision. Every brush of skin a warning.

Stack’s hands slid to her waist without hesitation. Gripped her like he always did, steady and sure, thumbs rubbing soft circles into her skin. He leaned in, already aiming to kiss her, ready to take control like he always did.

She pulled back before his lips could touch hers.

“Don’t move.”

Stack blinked. Confusion flickered behind his eyes, just for a moment. “What?”

Her voice didn’t waver. “I said don’t move.”

He sat back slightly, brow lifted. A smirk threatened. “You tryna play dom now?”

“I’m not playing.” She rocked forward slightly, letting the heat between her thighs press against the firm bulge in his sweats. “You said I couldn’t fold you.”

He laughed, short and smug. “You can’t.”

Stassi leaned closer. Her lips brushed his ear, her breath warm and certain. “Then sit back and let me try.”

Stack didn’t speak right away. That silence was everything. For once, he didn’t have something slick to say.

But he leaned back into the couch. His hands dropped to his thighs. He gave her the space.

And she smiled like a woman who knew exactly what she was about to do. Because this time, it wasn’t about matching energy. It was about taking everything he taught her and turning it into a lesson of her own.

He hadn’t expected her to drop.

One second she was straddling his lap, grinding just enough to keep him hard and distracted. The next, she slid off his thighs and dropped to her knees between them like gravity had claimed her on purpose. Stack didn’t even have time to process it. His hands were still hovering in the air, reaching for where her hips used to be, his brain just catching up to the shift in dynamic.

“Wait—”

She looked up at him as her fingers curled into the waistband of his sweats. “Don’t move.”

Stack opened his mouth to say something slick, probably to recover control, but stopped when she yanked them down to his ankles. His dick sprang up, thick and pulsing, and her tongue swiped across her bottom lip like she’d just seen dessert. Her expression didn’t change. There was no tease in it, no performance. This wasn’t about looking sexy. This was about him.

Then she went straight to it.

Her mouth wrapped around the tip and took him deep in the same breath. No warning. No mercy. She sucked him like she knew the blueprint, like she had mapped out the pressure points, knew every weak spot and planned to press them all at once.

“Shit,” he hissed, head falling back against the couch.

Her hands came up to brace his thighs, pinning him down with a pressure that said stay right there. She didn’t build up to it. She found a rhythm almost instantly, her mouth moving with slow, dangerous precision. There was no bobbing for attention. This was control. This was technique. She sucked like she was trying to break a record he didn’t know he held.

Her eyes didn’t move. Locked on him the whole time. Wide. Steady. Hungry. Watching every twitch in his jaw, every flicker of disbelief in his eyes as he tried to keep himself together. Watching the exact moment his cockiness started to falter.

Stack groaned, his hips twitching involuntarily. He reached out blindly, one hand grabbing the armrest, the other twitching like he wanted to touch her but remembered what she’d said. Don’t move.

He tried to talk through it. Tried to reclaim his breath.

“You—You really tryna—”

She pulled back just enough to let her tongue circle the head. The swirl was slow, messy, intentional. Then she sank back down again, swallowing him deeper with a wet slurp that echoed between them.

“Relax,” she murmured, her lips brushing his base, voice muffled but clear.

Stack grunted, thighs flexing tight.

“Why you tensing up?” she asked next, letting her hand drift up his thigh just a little. Her tone was smug, sure, but calm in a way that made it hit harder. “You scared I’m gon’ suck the soul out you?”

He tried to laugh. He really did. But it came out choked, cracked right down the middle by the moan that ripped out of him seconds later.

“Nah, keep that same energy,” she whispered, dragging her tongue along a sensitive vein before sucking him back down. “You was loud before.”

He looked down at her, eyes half-lidded and glassy, jaw clenched tight. “You tryna embarrass me?”

She blinked up at him, slow and deliberate, her mouth still full of him.

Then she hummed.

The vibration shot up his spine like a live wire. He jerked, hand flying to the back of her head on instinct. But she pulled off of him with a pop, eyes sharp.

“I said don’t move.”

His hand dropped fast. Too fast. His chest was heaving now, his calm evaporating. That ever-present smugness he wore like cologne was starting to crack. His mouth was open but no words came out.

She gripped the base of his dick, her hand moving slow and steady. One pump. Then another. Just enough to keep him on edge, his tip already slick with precum. Then she went back in.

This time, she swallowed him like a pro. No hesitation. No playing cute. She deepthroated him like she had done it a thousand times, like it was second nature. Her throat tightened around him, nose buried to his pelvis, spit bubbling at the corners of her lips. Then she pulled back with a filthy slurp and did it again.

She was sloppy with it now, on purpose. Letting drool spill down his shaft, wetting her own hand as she stroked what she couldn't fit. Her other hand moved lower, cupping his balls, rolling them with just the right pressure.

Stack's whole body jerked. His toes curled in his socks. One leg kicked out, damn near spasm. “Fuck, girl,” he groaned, voice cracking. His head thudded back against the couch like he needed to hold on to reality.

He was wiggling now, shifting like he couldn’t get comfortable, like her mouth was too much. Too good. She kept going. Didn’t give him space to breathe. Just the wet sounds of her mouth working him, the weight of his dick hitting the back of her throat, and the light squeeze of her palm underneath.

He looked down at her in disbelief. “Goddamn. You tryna kill me?”

She smirked around his length, eyes still on him. Then she moaned again, deep in her throat, sending another shiver through his spine.

“Nah, baby,” she said, breathless between strokes. “I’m just tryna make you tap out.”

Stack’s breathing was ragged now, loud. His hands fisted the couch cushions. “This some pornstar shit,” he managed, but his voice was a mess.

And he knew he wasn’t gonna last.

“Fuck,” he muttered, barely audible.

She sucked harder. Just once. A little deeper. A little slower.

“Shit—Stassi, wait—”

He came.

Fast. Hard. With a groan so loud it echoed. His whole body locked up, every muscle tensed and twitching. His legs kicked. His stomach clenched. He tried to hold in the sound, but it broke through his teeth, long and low and wrecked.

She didn’t stop immediately.

She kept sucking through it, drawing it out like she wanted to see how long he could stand it. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t ease up until he visibly flinched away from her mouth.

Only then did she pull back, slow and unbothered. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, lips swollen, chin wet.

She looked up at him, breathing even. Entirely unfazed.

“Already?”

Stack let out a shaky breath, eyes dazed, chest still rising and falling like he’d run a sprint. “Man, fuck you,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, a crooked grin forming even as his thigh twitched. “You tryna ruin me?”

Stassi licked her lips slow, leaned back just enough to admire her handiwork. “You loud for somebody who folded first round.”

He chuckled, winded. “You got tricks, huh? Aight... that’s how we movin’?”

She raised a brow, tilting her head. “This just the warm-up, baby.”

Stack stumbled off the couch first, legs wobbly like a newborn deer. His knees damn near buckled as he made his way to the kitchen, grabbed his water bottle, and downed it like a man lost in the desert. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then braced himself on the counter, staring into space like he had just survived a near-death experience.

“What the fuck,” he muttered to himself, still trying to gather the pieces of his ego.

Stassi stood up in the living room, moving like she had nowhere to be and all night to prove a point. She wiped her mouth one last time, dragged her fingers through her hair, and stretched like she hadn’t just given head with the power of a divine curse. Her oversized shirt clung to her curves in ways that seemed unfair now. Stack had seen that shirt a dozen times, but after tonight, it wasn’t just fabric anymore. It was a warning.

He walked back into the room, slow and disoriented, holding the bottle like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

“You proud of yourself?” he asked, voice still a little hoarse. There was a smirk behind it, but it was weak, like he was struggling to keep his cool.

Stassi didn’t answer.

She just climbed into his lap again like she had never gotten off. No announcement. No warning. She straddled him with the confidence of a woman who knew she had him and didn’t need to chase a damn thing. His hands went to her hips out of habit, but she was already grinding, slow and deliberate, her heat dragging across the length of him. He was still sensitive, still raw, but his body was betraying him, stiffening again under her without hesitation.

“You tryna kill me for real,” he muttered, groaning when she rolled her hips just right.

Her hands splayed on his chest, fingers dragging over his skin like she was learning it all over again. She dipped her head to press her lips against his neck, soft and slow, and then whispered.

“You not done yet.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide, that cocky gleam from earlier flickering like a dying bulb. “You serious?”

She nodded, calm as ever. “Serious as hell.”

Before he could think, he was hard again. His body moved on instinct, like it was trying to redeem itself. Stassi kissed him slow, unhurried, and when she pulled back, her voice was low, velvet and threat.

“Gon’ let me ride you?”

Stack groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch. “You askin’ like I got a choice.”

She chuckled, reached between them, and guided him back into place. He twitched in her grip, still hypersensitive, but she didn’t care. She stroked him once, twice, slicking him up against her folds, and then she sank down.

It was slow. Intentional. She took him inch by inch, all the way to the base, and stayed there, letting the tight squeeze of her walls remind him who had control now.

“Shit, Stassi.”

She rolled her hips once, then again, the kind of motion that made his toes curl.

“Damn,” he groaned, voice already wrecked. “You tryna make me tap again?”

She leaned down, kissed the shell of his ear, and whispered, “I ain’t even started yet.”

Stack sat there like a man recovering from whiplash. Eventually, he eased her off, slipped out from under her, and stood up on shaky legs.

“Nah, let me regroup,” he said, pacing like that would somehow bring him back to life. He snatched his water bottle again and downed half of it before wiping his mouth and flexing his jaw. “Aight. Now we even.”

Stassi stayed seated on the couch, legs crossed, eyes sharp. She didn’t argue. She didn’t smile. She just watched him like a cat watches a bird.

“You not done,” she said.

She stood up without a word.

“Stack.”

He turned, and she was already moving. She pressed her palms to his chest, kissed his jaw, then pushed him back step by step until his knees hit the couch again.

“You not done,” she repeated, her voice low and firm.

He blinked at her, still catching up. “Wait. You mean right now?”

She didn’t answer. She just pushed him down, climbed into his lap again, and grabbed his dick like it belonged to her.

“Stassi, wait, I’m not—”

She lined him back up and sank down before he was even fully ready. His body jumped like she’d shocked him.

She leaned into his ear.

“No mercy.”

Stack groaned, deep and guttural. His legs spread wider without thinking, his hands gripping the couch cushions as she started to move.

“Fuck.”

Stack was already overwhelmed. Every nerve in his body felt like it was firing twice, trying to catch up to what Stassi was doing. She hadn’t even broken a sweat yet, and he was already somewhere between overstimulated and floating. Then she started riding him like she had something to prove. No breaks. No slow start. Just dominance in motion.

She wasn’t just fucking him. She was putting on a full-blown performance. Her knees dug into the couch cushions, thighs flexing with every bounce. Each rise of her hips was smooth and deliberate, every drop heavy and soaked, smacking down on him with force. Her ass hit his thighs with a rhythm that didn’t let up, and her grip on his shoulders kept her steady while she put in work. The slick sounds between them filled the room, wet and obscene.

Then she shifted.

She planted both feet flat on the couch, lifted herself up, and dropped her entire weight onto his dick like she was trying to break him open. Her pace changed completely. No more measured strokes, just raw, filthy aggression. Her thighs slammed down with strength and precision, making obscene squelching noises every time she bottomed out. Her pussy sucked him in, wet and tight, clenching around him like it was trying to milk every last drop he had.

She rode him with purpose, like she wasn’t just chasing her own nut, she was tearing his soul out through his dick. Her tits bounced violently with every slam, glistening with sweat, her nipples flushed and tight. The sounds were lewd, wet, unfiltered. Slap after slap of her ass on his thighs echoed in the room. She was fucking him like she was on camera, like she wanted him never to forget what it felt like to be under her.

And that look on her face was focused, hungry, cocky as hell, like she already knew he was about to fold again. She didn’t just look like a woman in control. She looked like a goddamn predator.

Stack’s fingers gripped the couch cushions so tight his knuckles went pale. His head dropped back, and his jaw clenched. He was trying so hard not to moan, not to give her that satisfaction, but the sounds were dragging out of him anyway. Deep. Guttural. Desperate.

“Breathe,” she whispered, leaning forward, her lips ghosting over his cheek.

He inhaled quick, shaky. His eyes fluttered, barely able to stay open.

“You shaking.”

His thighs jerked under her, already trembling. She never slowed. Just ground down harder, rolled her hips with that little twist at the top that knocked the air right out of his lungs.

“Why you holding your breath like that?” she asked, her voice dropping lower. Her lips brushed his ear again. “You bout to cum again?”

Stack gritted his teeth, tried to hold on, but his whole body was betraying him. His thighs were shaking, sweat dripping down his temple, and his stomach was flexing like he was fighting off the urge to cum again. But his voice was starting to crack, and the words he did manage came out wrecked. “God damn, you ridin’ the fuck outta me. Pussy got me damn near cryin’. Shit feel too fuckin’ good.”

He tried to puff his chest, throw some bravado on his voice, but it came out ragged, laced with every bit of desperation he was trying to hide. His hands twitched on her waist, not to stop her, just to feel something solid while she kept bouncing like her only goal was to break him wide open.

She smiled at the strain in his voice, the panic just under the surface.

“You loud now,” she said, dragging her nails lightly across his chest.

He tried to pull it together, tried to snatch back the upper hand. “Fuck— you tryna make a nigga cry?” he muttered, a weak laugh behind it, like if he joked fast enough he could drown out the moans choking their way out of him.

“Look like you already there,” she whispered.

He clenched his jaw again, but it didn’t stop the sounds. His moans were slipping through, thick and broken. The deeper she sank, the louder he got. “Shit—fuck, that pussy too good. Got me fuckin’ twitchin’ and shit.”

His hands moved to her waist, not rough, but searching for balance. He started to shift his hips, tried to roll her under him. Something. Anything to reset the pace.

“I didn’t say move,” she said.

The sentence hit like a command.

Stack froze instantly.

She kept going.

The slap of her ass on his thighs got louder. The couch groaned under them, loud with protest. His feet were spread on the floor now, legs planted wide, but even with that grounding, he couldn’t keep up. She rode him like a machine, steady and ruthless, her pace never slipping. His moans spilled out uncontrollably, lips parted, breath stuttering between curses and incoherent praise.

“Fuck, fuck—shit, baby, slow down,” he breathed, eyes rolling. “You tryna take all my nut tonight, huh?”

Stassi looked down at him, her chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down the curve of her throat. Her eyes were locked on his, watching the breakdown happen in real time.

“You can’t keep up, huh?” she whispered.

He tried to answer. Tried to breathe. Tried to nod. But all he could do was grip her thighs and hold on.

She was dragging another orgasm out of him. Slowly. Purposefully. And the worst part?

They weren’t even close to done.

Stack barely had time to recover before Stassi was moving again. She slid off his lap and stood up slowly, her skin glistening with sweat, curves flexing as she stretched her legs like she hadn’t just ridden him into silence. Stack leaned back, chest heaving, lungs burning like he’d just sprinted through hell. His thighs were still trembling, and his dick was pulsing with oversensitivity. He reached for the water again, desperate for a few seconds of reprieve, but she didn’t give him the luxury.

She turned around with a lazy smirk, glancing back over her shoulder as she walked a few paces forward. Then she bent over in front of the couch, hands gripping the armrest, back arching into a perfect curve that had Stack’s heart damn near stalling. Her ass jutted up high, bouncing slightly as she positioned herself, already glistening and dripping.

And then she reached back with two fingers and spread herself open, slowly dragging them through the wetness before circling her clit with deliberate pressure. Her hips rocked softly, teasing herself with the same fingers, and Stack could see everything from where he sat. She rubbed slow, letting out a soft moan, and when she glanced over her shoulder again, her eyes locked on him with a knowing heat.

She pulled her fingers out, glistening and wet, and gave him a look that made his dick twitch hard.

“Bring that dick here.”

Stack blinked like he was seeing a hallucination, then sat up slow, pulled by something deeper than instinct. “You serious?” he rasped.

She looked back again, her voice smug and teasing. “I look like I’m playin’ with you?”

Stack stood up, body aching, nerves shot, but his dick didn’t get the memo. It was rising again, heavy and twitching, still wet and swollen. He stepped behind her, hands finding her hips automatically, and lined himself up with her soaked entrance. She was hot and slick and stretched open just enough to tease him.

She reached back and gripped his base again, guiding him into her. “Don’t stall now.”

He slid in slow, jaw clenching as her walls swallowed him. He had to brace himself on her back, fingers splaying wide across her spine to keep from losing it on entry alone.

She didn’t let him savor it.

Before he could set a pace, she threw it back hard. Ass smacking into him with force, angle perfect, pushing him deeper than he was ready for.

“Fuck,” Stack choked out.

She did it again. And again. Each time more brutal, more reckless. The sound of her ass colliding with his thighs echoed through the space, sharp, wet, and filthy. She wasn’t easing into anything. She was on a mission now, using her ass like a weapon, flinging it back with enough power to knock the wind out of him. Each bounce knocked his breath loose, forced groans out of his throat that he couldn’t hold back. Her rhythm didn’t falter once, even when his grip slipped or his knees buckled.

She angled her hips slightly lower, putting a curve in her spine that made the impact hit even deeper. She knew exactly where to tilt, how to grip him tight, and how to make that pussy pulse around him like it was sucking him dry. Every single stroke pushed him further from control, deeper into the kind of pleasure that made his eyes roll and his mouth hang open.

She was taking control and riding him from underneath, like she was laying claim. Not just fucking him. Owning him, driving him to the edge with no intention of letting him come back from it.

He tried to hold her hips still, tried to plant his feet and regain rhythm, but she was too quick. Too ruthless. Her back curved and flexed as she angled herself down further, hips tilting just enough to grind his dick against every sensitive spot inside her. And every time she threw it back, it made his knees buckle and his chest fall forward until he was damn near draped over her, gripping her waist like an anchor.

His eyes rolled back damn near permanently, pupils blown wide and unfocused every time her ass smacked against his pelvis. He bit down on his bottom lip like it was the only thing keeping him from crying out, but the moans still broke through loud, raw, filthy. Whimpers slipped between his teeth like he was losing his mind, voice trembling every time she milked his dick with that tight, wet grip. His breath came out ragged, a mix of choked curses and drawn-out groans that made it clear he was hanging on by a thread. His forehead dropped to her back, sweat pouring down his face, his mouth pressed to her skin like he needed to anchor himself somewhere before he nutted again without warning. “Shit, Stassi, this pussy fuckin’ unreal,” he panted. 

She kept control of the depth and pressure, locking him into the perfect rhythm and daring him to keep up. And the way his body trembled behind her, the way he clung to her like he was holding on for life, it was clear he couldn’t.

“That all you got?” she asked, breathless and smug. “You was loud earlier. What happened to all that talk?”

Stack groaned through clenched teeth, breath caught in his throat. “Shit. Fuck, girl. Hold up. Let a nigga breathe.”

She threw it back even harder. “Don’t quit now.”

The slap of skin echoed louder, her ass jiggling with every impact, wetness dripping down the backs of her thighs, and soaking his lower half. Stack’s hips stuttered, the pressure mounting too fast. His grip faltered. His knees wobbled.

His voice cracked as he cursed again. “Fuck—Stassi—yo, this shit too good.”

She angled her hips and met every thrust with precision, squeezing around him until he couldn’t see straight. His balls tightened. His vision blurred. Sweat was pouring off him, dripping onto her back and down her spine.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice hoarse, head dropping like he was about to fold in half. “You tryna fuck the nut outta my spine? Shit feel like it’s grippin’ me from the inside out.”

Stassi looked back with a wild glint in her eye, sweat dripping off her brow and down her back. Her smirk was wicked, her voice dark and low. “Sound like that dick ready to surrender.”

His legs were trembling, and he could feel the orgasm building again. Every time he got close to pulling back, she took it further. She didn’t just ride it out; she gripped him and dragged him over the edge. Again and again.

She looked back at him, biting her lip, sweat glistening between her shoulder blades. “What happened, Stack? You tired?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Just moaned loud and long, body twitching.

She kept moving.

She wasn’t impressed with the way he tried to hold on. She was watching him fall apart, stroke by stroke, and loving every second of it. She wanted him broken. Wanted him wrecked. And from the way he sounded raw, fucked-out, groaning like he was about to cry, she was almost there.

The only difference between now and when she was in this position?

She wasn’t going to stop until he couldn’t stand straight.

Stack was on the verge. His thighs were shaking, his hips stuttering, and every muscle in his body was screaming that he was done. Cooked. Finished. Over. He’d already nutted once and barely lived to tell the tale, but Stassi hadn’t let up. She was still throwing it back, that sweat-slicked skin glowing under the low light, her rhythm steady like she trained for this shit. Every time he thought she might slow down, she took it up a notch instead.

His arms gave out first. Then his knees. He collapsed to his ass on the couch, his body slumped like his soul had left the chat. Breathing ragged, chest heaving, eyes unfocused like he was watching ghosts. But Stassi didn’t give him a second. No mercy. She followed right after, straddling him with calm, controlled energy, reaching down and sliding him back inside her like she hadn’t just taken him to hell and back.

“Damn,” he groaned, head dropping back, neck exposed, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. “Yo—Stassi—chill. I’m sensitive as fuck.”

She didn’t respond with words. Just a slow, sinful roll of her hips that had his toes curling again. Her pussy gripped him like it was trying to wring the life out of him. Wet, warm, tight, every stroke made his brain glitch. His breath hitched as he whimpered through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the couch like he was bracing for an earthquake.

Then she started to grind.

Slow at first, just enough to make him twitch. Then harder. Deeper. That same rhythm that had his nerves shot minutes ago, but now she was on top, looking him dead in the eyes, making sure he felt every fucking motion.

Stack’s hands were useless. Couldn’t grab, couldn’t guide. He gripped the cushions, head lolling back, mouth open. His eyes fluttered like he was holding back tears. That same man who’d talked all that shit a few days ago? Gone. What remained was someone being dragged, slowly and beautifully, into surrender.

“Breathe,” she whispered, close to his ear.

He did. Ragged and sharp.

“Look at me.”

He tried. Managed to open his eyes halfway. What he saw was her hair wild, skin glowing, a smile on her face that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Don’t run now,” she said, voice soft, almost sweet.

And then she came.

Her breath caught. Her body tightened. She moaned deep and long in his ear as her pussy clenched around him hard, milking him slow and steady, pulsing like she was determined to empty him. Her nails scraped down his chest, thighs trembling as her orgasm hit in full. She gasped, rode it out, her hips not stopping until every wave passed.

That was it.

That was the final blow.

His whole body jerked, once, then again, like he’d been shocked. His mouth dropped in a silent scream. His abs seized. His vision blurred and then whitewashed. He nutted so hard he choked on air, whole body twitching beneath her.

And then it happened.

The fart.

Loud. Rude. Startling.

It echoed between them like a betrayal written in bold.

Stassi froze.

Stack froze.

They locked eyes.

Two seconds of absolute silence.

Then Stassi burst into laughter so hard she doubled over, forehead dropping onto his shoulder. She was wheezing, face twisted, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Nigga—did you just—?”

“Yo, I didn’t mean to!” Stack shouted, chest still twitching. “That nut hit my soul! Shit knocked somethin’ loose!”

He looked mortified. Absolutely devastated. And Stassi? Still laughing, voice bouncing off the walls, barely able to breathe.

“Man, I hate you,” he muttered, covering his face with both hands like he could disappear into the couch.

“No you don’t.”

She wiped her eyes, still chuckling, then slid beside him on the couch, her body glowing, heart still racing. She leaned in, kissed the corner of his jaw, soft but lingering.

“That’s how it feels,” she whispered, low and satisfied.

He groaned, slouching deeper. “You evil.”

Another kiss, just beneath his ear.

“You taught me.”

Stack peeked at her through his fingers, lips twitching. “I ain’t teach you that fuckin’ finishing move. That was disrespectful.”

Stassi smirked. “Sound like you mad I beat you at your own game.”

“I’m mad you laughed while I was ascended.”

She shrugged, grinning like the devil. “Ascend quieter next time.”

Bonus Drabble: The Fart Heard Round the World

The apartment was quiet.

Sunlight spilled in through the windows, and Stack was sprawled across the couch like he’d just survived something biblical. He hadn’t moved much since Stassi left for the store. Every muscle in his body was fried, twitching every now and then like a car engine still ticking after the keys had been pulled.

He had one arm tossed over his eyes, the other lazily holding his phone to his ear.

“Bruh,” he mumbled, voice still hoarse, “she broke me.”

Smoke’s voice came through the speaker, confused. “Who?”

“Stassi.”

A pause.

“You lettin’ her ride you like that already?”

Stack groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “It wasn’t a ride. It was a ritual. Nigga, I think I blacked out.”

Smoke was already laughing. “You said that shit like she cast a spell on you.”

“Nah, fuck that. Listen.” Stack sat up just enough to lean his head against the back of the couch. “She gave me head so nasty I came in like twenty seconds. Then she rode me like she was mad at my ancestors. Then…” He sighed, long and dramatic. “Then we did backshots and I nutted so hard I farted.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the phone nearly exploded with laughter.

Smoke was howling. “Nigga, WHAT?”

“I farted, bro. Like a full-ass, no warning, no mercy, cheek clapper. Mid-orgasm. She was ridin’ me like she owned stock in it, and my soul left my body—and my body left behind a sound I ain’t never heard before.”

Smoke was crying now. “Yo—did she hear it?”

“She froze. We both did. Like time stopped.”

“And?”

“She started laughing so hard she collapsed. Nigga, I wanted to die. I was still cummin’. Like, I farted and came at the same time. That’s spiritual warfare.”

Smoke was wheezing on the other end. “So what she say after?”

Stack laid back down, defeated. “She kissed me like she ain’t just watch me embarrass myself, told me, ‘That’s how it feels.’ Then said I taught her.”

Smoke whistled low. “She cold.”

“She evil,” Stack corrected. “And I love her. But she evil.”

Smoke chuckled. “You layin’ on that couch limp as hell, huh?”

“Bro, I ain’t even got bones no more.”

Another pause. Then Stack muttered under his breath.

“I’m scared to fuck her again.”

Stack knew the proposal was bullshit the moment he slid the ring on her finger. Not because he didn’t mean it, not exactly, but because the second Tasha gasped and threw her hands over her mouth like she hadn’t been threatening to leave every week for the last six months, he felt nothing. Not pride, not excitement. Just a dull pressure behind his eyes and the faint taste of tequila from the shot he took in the car before walking in. He hadn't even taken the key out the ignition when he decided to ruin both their lives in one kneel.

They were in her mama’s kitchen, of all places. Fluorescent lighting, salmon-colored walls, a pot of neck bones on the stove that made the whole house smell like memories and gout. Her mama screamed like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment, hand to her chest like Stack was the second coming of Jesus and not the same man she caught texting a girl named Jayda with a tongue ring and a tattoo of a money bag on her titty three months ago. Her sister cried. Her cousin recorded the whole thing like it wasn’t a hostage situation in real time. Tasha had coordinated her whole outfit to match the occasion, down to her press-ons that spelled out "Wifey" in rhinestones.

Stack hadn’t even gotten through the speech he barely rehearsed, mumbling something about forever and forgiveness before she squealed like a piglet and hollered, “Oh my God!” and tackled him like she just won a BET award. The box hit the floor. Somebody kicked it under the table. Nobody cared. And just like that, Stack was engaged.

Now he was sitting in the passenger seat of her Honda, window cracked, letting the Mississippi heat stick to his skin like punishment. Tasha was on the phone with her auntie, retelling the whole story like she hadn’t just lived it, voice high and sugary like she was narrating a fairytale. He tuned her out somewhere between, "Girl, he got down on one knee right there in Mama’s kitchen," and "I knew he was gon' do it today. I just felt it in my spirit."

He stared at the house next door, eyes glazed, brain nowhere in sight. Then the screen door creaked open, and that’s when he saw her.

She popped out the passenger side of a U-Haul like a jack-in-the-box with an attitude. Hair big and frizzy, tied up in a pineapple puff with a silk scarf that looked like it had been through war. Oversized tee with "Hot Girl Graduate" in glitter letters, no bra in sight, biker shorts clinging to thick thighs like they paid rent. She had a blunt tucked behind one ear, a box of cereal under one arm, and a fanny pack with cartoon stickers all over it bouncing on her hip.

She looked like chaos. Raw, unfiltered, no edges laid, edges be damned. Like she smelled like mango lotion and smoked-out secrets. Like she didn’t know how to shut up or stay still. Like the type of girl who laugh too loud, talk too much, and say the exact wrong thing at the worst possible time. Stack hated that kind of woman. Or, at least, he used to.

He blinked.

She bent over to grab something off the grass, and that damn shirt rode up just enough to show the top of a tattoo on her lower back. A little red devil with a gold tooth and a pitchfork. And even that small piece of ink made his fingertips twitch.

"Baby, did you hear what I said?"

Stack blinked again, pulled out of his trance like somebody yanked him back into his body. Tasha was staring at him with suspicion, phone pressed to her chest, eyebrows pulled tight.

"Yeah," he lied automatically.

"What'd I say then?"

He paused. Shrugged. "Something about your auntie and that cheap-ass wig."

She slapped his arm, light but sharp. "Boy, shut up. I said, I think we should do an engagement party next weekend."

"Mm."

"You don't sound excited."

"I'm just hot," he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "And we been in your mama house for five damn hours. I'm tired."

She huffed like she was the one suffering, slid her phone back up to her ear, and waved him off. "Whatever. I'ma call Monique back."

He nodded, already turning his head back toward the U-Haul like gravity was working against him. And there she was again. The neighbor.

This time, she caught him lookin'. And she didn't look away.

She squinted at him, tilted her head like she was sizing him up for a roast. Then she smirked, slow and crooked, eyes low, before lighting the blunt behind her ear with a hot pink lighter. She blew the smoke straight up and out like a goddamn genie, hips swaying as she walked back toward the truck.

Stack felt something low in his gut tighten, some part of him that hadn't stirred in a long time. Not since before Tasha put a toothbrush in his cup holder and called it love.

Tasha kept talking but her words were muffled now, like they were underwater. All he could see was the girl next door, ash on her lip, thighs jiggling as she laughed at something the movers said, her voice a melody of mischief.

He was fucked.

And not in the way he liked.

Stack had every intention of minding his business. He really did. That first day, when he caught himself staring out the window like some bored-ass husband in a Lifetime movie, he told himself it was the heat. Maybe it was the weed she lit up in broad daylight that wafted through the vents. Or maybe it was just boredom. But it wasn’t supposed to mean nothing. He already had enough on his plate. A whole fiancée, a relationship held together with Band-Aids and bad sex, and a wedding that felt more like a funeral march with every passing day. Mona wasn’t supposed to be anything but a distraction.

Two days later, he was in his backyard, half-dressed in mesh shorts and no drawers, pretending to be checking the grill. He hadn’t even seasoned the chicken yet. Just needed an excuse to be outside. Mona was out again. He didn’t know her name yet, but he knew her walk now, and the way she hummed to herself when she was high. Today, she was dragging trash bins to the curb while barefoot, blasting Erykah Badu from a busted Bluetooth speaker, and wearing a cutoff tee with a baby alien smoking a joint on it. Her legs were long and soft-looking, thick in the right places, and her hair was piled on top of her head in a lopsided bun that looked like it had survived both sleep and a thunderstorm.

She saw him. Of course she did.

“You the nosy nigga in the window, ain’t you?” she called out, hands on hips.

Stack blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she grinned, wide and wicked. “The one that was damn near leaning out the window the other day, tryna peep.”

He snorted, smirk curling. “Ain’t nobody checkin' for you, girl.”

“Please,” she said, waving him off, “You looked like a catfish with Wi-Fi, posted up in that window. All hot and bothered.”

He laughed, couldn’t help it. There was something about her that disarmed him. She was cute, but not delicate. Her energy was too damn big. Like she didn’t know how to whisper, like her volume stayed at ten. She moved through the world like she had a backstage pass to it, like rules were just suggestions and decency was optional.

“So what’s your name, loud mouth?”

“Mona,” she said, lighting another blunt right there in the driveway. “And you?”

“Stack.”

“Oh, you one of them niggas.”

“What the hell that mean?”

She exhaled slow, walked a few steps closer. “It mean you look like a Stack. You probably play too much, cheat on your girl, and think you God’s gift just ‘cause your beard connect.”

Stack raised an eyebrow. “Damn. You always this judgmental or you just ain’t smoked enough yet?”

She laughed, deep and unbothered. “I got you pegged already. You the type that break hearts for sport. Niggas like you got audacity in your DNA.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to. I got intuition. And your energy loud as hell. Got cheater written all over it.”

He should’ve been offended. Instead, he was grinning like a fool. This girl had a mouth on her, but it didn’t feel like nagging. It was banter, messy and electric. Like they were already in the middle of something that hadn’t officially started. And her voice had that Southern softness layered over sharp edges, like velvet over a switchblade.

“You single?” he asked.

She squinted at him through the smoke. “I’m grown. That answer your question?”

He chuckled. “Kinda.”

Mona looked him up and down, slow and deliberate, like she was checking a car for dents. “Your girl know you out here tryna flirt with strangers in them dusty-ass shorts?”

“Who said I was flirtin'?”

“Your eyes did. Your mouth just catchin' up.”

He didn’t respond, and she didn’t wait. She turned around, hips swaying like the laws of physics bent just for her. He watched her walk away like a man hypnotized, grill forgotten, chicken unseasoned, and his thoughts stuck somewhere between "What the hell just happened" and "Do she got a man?"

“Oh,” she tossed over her shoulder, “And you might wanna put some drawers on. Whole neighborhood can see them commitment issues from here.”

Stack stood there, blinking, wondering what the hell just happened. She was not what he liked. She was loud, blunt, didn’t give a fuck about his ego, and smoked more weed than he sold in college. She didn't giggle at his jokes or bat her lashes. She called him out, called him outta pocket, and still managed to smile like she ran shit. But something about her made the air taste different. Less stale.

Later that night, Stack was laying in bed, half-listening to Tasha watch crime documentaries while she planned their engagement party. She kept pausing the show to ask him about invitation colors and whether they should get a custom Snapchat filter. He nodded, offered the occasional grunt, and kept his eyes on the ceiling. He reached for his phone out of habit, thumb hovering over old texts from girls he should’ve deleted. Some he had. Most he hadn’t.

Instead, his mind drifted to Mona. That devil tattoo. That laugh. That mouth. The way she looked him dead in the face like she could read his whole spirit and still didn’t flinch. The way her voice stuck to him like honey on skin.

He turned on his side, stared at the wall, and cussed under his breath. He didn’t even know her last name.

He was already in trouble.

Mona had a way of showing up in places she wasn’t supposed to be, like she got bored with time and bent it to her liking. Stack swore he was gonna avoid her. He told himself to keep his ass inside, focus on work, and try to actually be the man he pretended to be on Instagram. But three days after that first back-and-forth, he caught her out front in an oversized tee and bonnet, barefoot again, pulling weeds from her flower bed like she was part of the damn earth. She had a joint in her mouth and dirt under her nails, and she looked good. Too good. Like every woman his mama told him would ruin his life and leave him smiling about it.

They talked again. Then they talked the day after that. Not long conversations, just little moments that kept stacking like loose change in a junk drawer. Him walking to the mailbox he didn’t even check, drawing out his steps like he was waiting for her to speak first. Her sitting on the porch pretending to read some old-ass novel with the pages bent back, but her eyes kept drifting above the book's spine, watching him like she was reading him instead. At first, it was just glances. Then it turned into jokes about the heat, about nosy neighbors, about how Tasha always slammed her car door like it owed her money. Then it became familiarity. Mona started calling him "Mailman" even when he wasn't holding no mail. He called her "Coach" because she always had a whistle in her tone. Their rhythm formed easy, like it had been there before either of them showed up. Sometimes she'd bring him a Gatorade without asking. Sometimes he'd light her blunt when her lighter ran out of fluid. They didn't talk about real things, not yet, but the way they moved around each other? That was its own language. And neither one of them was trying to stop speaking it.

That Sunday, Tasha left for the weekend to visit her aunt in Baton Rouge. Stack lied and said he had too much work to do. She rolled her eyes but didn’t press. She stopped pressing months ago. Now she just existed around him, like furniture he couldn’t return.

The moment her car pulled off, he found himself sitting on the back porch with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, debating texting Mona.

He didn’t have to.

She came strolling around the side of the house with a bag of Hot Cheetos, a pack of pre-rolls, and a half-drunk bottle of Casamigos. No invitation. No warning. Just vibes.

"You free or fake busy?" she asked, lifting the bottle like an offering.

"I mean, I ain’t clocked in, if that’s what you askin'."

She laughed and plopped down in the lawn chair next to his. Her thighs spread comfortably, like she owned the air between them.

"Good. 'Cause I been tryna smoke in peace and my music too ratchet for the front porch."

They smoked. Passed the bottle back and forth. Talked shit about neighbors like it was a sport, giving each other scores for creativity. Mona clowned the man two houses down who always wore socks with sandals and sprayed Febreze on his car seats. Stack imitated the woman across the street who always peeked through her blinds like the FBI cut her checks.

They laughed too much. The Casamigos made everything warmer, looser. Mona told him about her ex who moved to Vegas, started calling himself "Crypto Kenny," and tried to scam his way into a pyramid scheme selling fake alkaline water. She said the man once tried to convince her that drinking it made your skin "resonate higher."

Stack nearly choked on his drink. In return, he told her about the time he got catfished by a woman with a fake baby, not a toddler or a child, but a literal newborn prop baby she cradled in videos like a damn Build-A-Bear with a bonnet. He said he only figured it out because she kept putting the baby to sleep at 3 p.m. and it never moved.

Mona wheezed laughing, smacked his leg, and called him "slow as hell for fallin' for that." He took it. Gladly. The laughter between them filled the space like music, the kind that came without speakers, just rhythm and breath and timing. Their eyes met a little longer each time, their knees brushed and stayed. The air started to vibrate, heavy with that unspoken question neither of them had the nerve to answer yet.

The sun dipped low, and the air got heavy, thick with heat and liquor and that buzzing energy that floats around people trying not to admit they want each other.

"Why you really engage?" she asked, voice low, eyes on the stars just starting to blink into view.

Stack didn’t answer right away. He took a sip, leaned back in the chair.

"She been down for me for a minute. I felt like I owed it to her."

"That’s dumb," Mona said, blunt between her fingers, smoke curling up.

"Yeah," he nodded. "It is."

She looked at him then. Really looked. Not the teasing, smirking kind of look she usually gave. This one was soft around the edges, but steady.

"You ever think about what you want? Not what you owe. Not what you built. Just what you want?"

"Right now?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I want you to stop lookin' at me like that unless you tryna do something about it."

Mona didn’t blink. Just took a slow drag and stood up.

"Come on."

She didn’t explain. Didn’t wait to see if he was gonna follow. She just walked inside his house like it was hers. Left the door open behind her.

Stack followed.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Mona turned toward the kitchen like she knew where everything was and didn’t need permission to touch it. She bent over the counter slow, with intention, looked back at him with a raised brow like she was giving him one last chance to prove he wasn’t all bark. Then she pulled her shirt over her head in one smooth motion and gave him that devil tattoo like a challenge and a warning. Stack didn’t even think. He dropped his shorts and stepped up behind her like he was possessed, dick already heavy, pulsing with heat.

She wasn’t shy about it. Reached back and guided him in like she had a claim on it already. Her body was hot and wet, and the moment he sank into her, he damn near folded. Mona moaned, low and feral, one hand pressed flat to the counter, the other curled into a fist like she was trying to brace herself. He gripped her hips and started slow, deliberate, dragging himself out just to slide back in deeper. Her ass bounced with every stroke, rippling under his hands like waves he didn’t wanna stop riding.

It was messy. Loud. Her laughter bounced off the tile, wild and unbothered, while she threw that shit back like it was a challenge. He held her hips like she was the answer to every bad choice he ever made, and the cure to the ones he hadn’t yet. She kept talking through it, gasping and cussing, throwing instructions over her shoulder, demanding his best like she was paying for it.

“Fuck me like you mad. Don’t hold back now.”

Told him what to do, how to do it, and clowned him every time he hesitated.

“That all you got, Mississippi? I thought you said you was grown.”

“Shut up and hold still,” he growled, grabbing her tighter, snapping his hips harder just to shut her up.

“Mmm, see? Now you talkin' my language.”

She reached under herself, touched her clit while he kept fucking into her like he couldn’t stop. Her thighs started trembling, her voice catching in her throat as she whispered his name, not sweet, not soft, but needy. She was so damn alive in that moment, so present, so unapologetic about taking up space and making noise, Stack forgot what silence sounded like.

She laughed and cursed and praised him all at once, dragging her nails across the countertop and pushing back against him like she had something to prove. And he let her. Let her wreck him from the inside out and call it joy. He nutted with a grunt, deep and raw, his whole body shaking like she pulled the soul out his chest.

By the time it ended, they both had bite marks, bruises, and no regrets. At least not yet.

"This what you needed, huh? Lil break from fake love?"

He couldn’t even answer. Could barely breathe.

After, they laid on the floor, sticky with sweat, breathing hard.

"That can’t happen again," he said, eyes on the ceiling.

"Mmhm. Sure," she mumbled, curling up on the rug like a satisfied cat.

He wanted to believe himself. Wanted to believe this was a one-time sin. But when Mona reached over and slid her hand down his chest, he already knew he was lying.

Boundaries? Gone.

Backshots? Delivered.

And Stack? Deep in it now.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A mistake made under moonlight and Casamigos. Something Stack could shove in the back of his brain and forget like the rest of his bad decisions. But Mona didn’t move like regret. She moved like a habit. The kind you pick up quick and shake off slow.

By Tuesday, he was back at her house.

She answered the door with one sock on, a bowl of cereal in her hand, and a black silk robe barely tied over nothing. Her hair was twisted up into two messy bantu knots, and her eyes were low from whatever she’d just smoked. Stack wasn’t sure if she knew how good she looked like that or if she just didn’t care.

“Damn, you always show up like you payin’ rent?” she asked, not moving from the doorway.

“You gon’ let me in or you want me to sit on the porch with the Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

She smirked, took one long, exaggerated bite of cereal, then stepped aside.

They didn’t make it past the living room.

This time was different. Sloppier. Hungrier. They were both high. Not floaty high—horny high. The kind of high that made skin feel electric and everything funny. Mona giggled every time Stack kissed her neck, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to moan or laugh.

“Yo stubble scratchin’ my titties,” she snorted, squirming under him as he pushed the robe off her shoulders.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, mouth full of her. He took his time with her chest, flicking his tongue over one nipple ring while his hand massaged the other. She arched into him, breathing out his name like it was a spell.

They tripped over her rug, hit the couch sideways, her legs tangled in his shorts as he pulled her robe completely open. Bare brown skin, soft and warm, glowed under the hazy light from the TV still playing in the background. Her nipples were hard, gold rings catching the flicker of color, and her thighs trembled when his hand slid between them.

Mona was already soaked. He dipped his fingers in slow, teasing her clit until she whimpered.

“Stop playin’,” she breathed.

“Say please.”

She popped his chest. “Nigga—”

Before she could finish, he pushed inside her in one long stroke, slow and deep, and the rest of her sentence died in her throat. Her mouth dropped open in a quiet gasp that turned into a moan, her nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his back as her legs locked around his waist.

He stayed still for a second, chest rising hard, breathing through the tight, wet grip of her body around him. Her walls clenched like she wasn’t letting him go.

“Fuck, Mona…” he growled, head dropping to her shoulder.

“I know,” she whispered back, her breath shaky. She rocked her hips slow, dragging his length out of her until just the tip stayed in, then rolled forward again and made them both moan.

Stack started to move, hips snapping forward, building a rhythm that made the couch creak beneath them. Every time he slammed into her, Mona let out these breathless little whimpers that only spurred him on. He held her by the waist, guiding her back to meet each thrust, watching her tits bounce with every movement.

She leaned in, bit his lip mid-kiss, then licked it soft, grinning. "Harder," she demanded.

He gave it to her. Fast and deep, holding nothing back. The slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with their ragged breathing and the wet sound of her taking every inch. He slid a hand between them, rubbed her clit in fast, messy circles, and her whole body bucked beneath him.

“Shit, Stack—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop,” she gasped.

He didn’t. Couldn’t. He was lost in her, in the feel of her, the scent of weed and sweat and sex thick in the air. She met every thrust like she wanted him to break her in half.

Then she flipped them somehow, catching him off guard, straddling him on the couch with a hunger that made his breath hitch. Her thighs shook, but she moved with purpose, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. She guided him back inside her with a slow, filthy grind, the kind that made his head fall back and his fingers tighten on her hips.

Her movements started slow, intentional, hips rolling in tight circles that made every inch of him drag inside her. It wasn’t just sex; it was control, and Mona took it like it was hers to begin with. Stack tried to hold her waist, but she slapped his hands away and pinned them to his chest. “Nah, sit back. Let me work.”

Then she started to bounce slow at first, deliberate and deep, then faster, harder, each drop sending shockwaves through his thighs. The clap of her ass against his skin echoed through the room. Her hands were firm on his chest, nails digging in as she rode him like she had something to prove. Her eyes stayed locked on his the whole time, daring him to blink, daring him to break.

“Look at me,” she panted, breath hot against his mouth. “Don’t look away. Don’t punk out now.”

Stack didn’t. Couldn’t. He was transfixed by the way her body moved, how her tits bounced in rhythm with each thrust, the sweat slicking between them. She was moaning now, short and breathless, fingers slipping down to rub her clit while she chased her orgasm without shame.

His hands flew to her hips again, this time gripping tight, guiding her down as he bucked up into her, lost in the way she felt, the way she sounded, the way she owned him.

She smirked down at him, breathless and flushed. “Now that’s the face I wanted to see.”

“Look at you,” she whispered, rotating her hips. “You gon’ come for me?”

He groaned. She was too much. Perfect. Filthy. Free.

She reached down, slid two fingers over her clit while he watched in a daze. Her moans turned sharper, needier. Then she gasped, her whole body locking up as she came, pulsing around him so tight he damn near saw stars.

He grabbed her ass with both hands and held her down as he followed, forcing her to take every last inch while his hips stuttered, desperate and erratic. His breath came out in harsh, broken curses against her neck, jaw clenched so tight it felt like it might snap. His body locked up beneath her, every muscle flexing as the release tore through him like a wave, crashing and curling from his spine to his toes. He could feel her pulse still fluttering around him, warm and wet, and it only made the orgasm drag out longer, hotter, like his body wasn’t ready to let go. His vision blurred. His legs went numb. For a second, all he could do was hold her there, still buried deep inside, heart pounding like a warning he didn’t want to hear.

They both collapsed, sweaty and breathless, her laying against his chest as their heartbeats slowed.

Stack reached up, brushed a curl from her face, still trying to catch his breath.

“You toxic as hell,” he muttered.

Mona snorted and tossed a pillow at his face. “You engaged, nigga. I’m just single and vibin’.”

“Vibin’?”

“Yup.” She stood up, walking away like she didn’t just rearrange his damn organs. “You the one out here riskin' it all. I told you—don't catch feelings. You got a whole fiancée. I’m not messy, you are.”

Stack didn’t say shit. Couldn’t. He was too busy watching the way her ass moved while she walked to the kitchen.

Tasha had started asking questions. Not the obvious ones. Just the kind that came with a tilt of her head and a shift in her tone. "Where you been?" "Why your phone always face down now?" "Who you textin’ that got you smilin’ at your screen?"

He lied, of course. He always lied. But it didn’t feel smooth anymore. Not when Mona was still in his skin, still on his breath.

He told himself he wasn’t catching feelings. He told himself it was just sex, just fun, just a temporary escape.

But he kept showing up.

And she kept letting him in.

Stack knew he was moving reckless, but the risk had started to feel like the reward. What used to feel like guilt now felt like gravity. He didn’t even knock anymore. Just texted Mona a “yo” and let himself in. She never locked the door anyway. Said if death wanted her, it could walk in like everybody else, and she’d offer it a seat and a shot.

That Thursday afternoon, he slid out of Tasha’s bed and mumbled something about going to the gym. She barely looked up from her phone, just mumbled something back with an attitude that felt more like obligation than love. Stack dipped out in gym shorts and a hoodie, no bag, no intentions of lifting a damn thing except Mona’s legs.

Mona opened the door in one of his hoodies, big, black, and smelling like his cologne. Her hair was wrapped in a red scarf, and she had a blunt tucked behind one ear and a popsicle in her mouth like she was cooling off after a sin she hadn't committed yet.

“Thought you had leg day,” she said, already walking back inside, hips swinging like a dare.

“I do. And I’m starting with yours.”

They didn’t even make it to the couch this time. She bent over the kitchen table, popsicle still in her mouth, hoodie riding up over her ass. Stack kissed the back of her neck like a man starved, already pulling her shorts down. It was fast, filthy, full of tension and moaning and heat. He pressed into her from behind, one hand braced against the table, the other wrapped around her throat as her popsicle hit the floor, forgotten.

Their bodies slammed together in a rhythm as desperate as it was dirty. Mona kept calling him names between gasps—"cheatin' ass," "gym-lie tellin' ass," "still-pussy-whipped ass"—but her voice cracked every time he hit that one spot that made her legs buckle.

Halfway through round two, Stack's phone lit up on the counter. Neither of them noticed.

But outside, in the driveway, Tasha did.

She was on her way to the grocery store when she spotted Stack’s car parked half-assed in front of the neighbor’s house. Same hoodie he wore earlier, still in the front seat. Her heart started galloping. She parked two houses down, hands gripping the wheel tight as her chest tightened.

She stepped out of the car with a slow, deliberate pace, heels clicking like a metronome of rage. She didn’t come to confirm what she already knew she came to see it.

When she got to the porch, she didn’t knock. She banged. Hard. Fists to the door like she was trying to summon the devil himself and beat his ass for good measure.

Mona pulled the door open with one hand, blunt in the other. She was barefoot, wearing nothing but Stack’s hoodie and a pair of panties that didn’t even pretend to cover her ass. Her eyes were half-lidded, and she looked annoyingly unbothered.

Tasha’s mouth dropped.

“Can I help you?” Mona asked, voice flat like a cashier at closing.

“Where the fuck is Stack?”

Mona blinked. Blew out a long puff of smoke. “Stack who?”

“Bitch, don’t play with me.”

Mona grinned, leaned against the doorframe like she had all damn day. “Ain’t nobody here but me and my playlist.”

Inside, Stack was hiding in the hallway bathroom, heart pounding like a drum solo, sweat dripping down his temples. He had pulled his shorts up, but his dick was still half-hard, and his soul was somewhere on the kitchen floor. He pressed his back to the wall, breathing shallow, praying.

“Stack!” Tasha shouted, trying to push past Mona.

Mona didn’t move. She just held her ground, one leg propped against the door like a bouncer. “You knock on people’s doors this loud all the time, or just when your man’s dick goes missing?”

Tasha’s face twisted. “You think this shit funny?”

Mona took another puff, exhaled slow. “A little bit.”

The two women locked eyes, heat rising. Tasha’s fists curled at her sides like she was debating jail time. But Mona? She wasn’t even breathing hard. Just leaned back, relaxed, in full control like a cat watching a dog bark behind glass.

“If he’s here,” Tasha said, voice low and trembling, “you better tell him to come outside before I tear this whole house apart.”

Mona tilted her head. “If he was here, which he’s not, I’d tell him to stay his scary ass in the bathroom ‘til your angry-ass heels click back to that Corolla.”

Tasha’s eyes widened. “You think I won’t fuck you up?”

Mona smiled, sweet and slow. “Oh, I know you won’t.”

The door slammed in her face before she could answer.

Tasha stood there for a second, frozen, lips trembling, face flushing red. Then she screamed. Not a yell. A scream full volume, deep from the gut, fists banging on the door like a woman possessed.

“You got me fucked up, Stack!” she yelled. “You really got me out here lookin’ stupid in these goddamn streets?”

Inside, Stack sat on the edge of the bathtub, head in his hands. He could still hear her through the wall.

“Bitch, when I find out you in there, I swear to God I’ll break every—”

Mona turned her speaker up louder, drowning Tasha out with Megan Thee Stallion.

Ten minutes later, it was silent.

Stack stayed in the bathroom until Mona came back, still smirking, still barefoot, licking a fresh popsicle like nothing happened.

“Coast clear?” he whispered.

“Boy, get out that damn bathroom. You smell like panic and sex.”

He stepped out slow, rubbing his face.

“That’s yo girl screamin’ outside?” she teased, licking her lips.

“Ex. After today, anyway.”

Mona shrugged, walking past him. “Mmhm. We’ll see.”

Stack stood there in the hallway, half-naked and fully exposed. He was officially caught.

And Mona? She just tossed him another popsicle and said, “You stayin’ for dinner or you gotta go cry in your car?”

Later that night, the chaos settled into silence. The windows were cracked to let the smoke out, and Mona sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket with her legs crossed beneath her. The air smelled like heat and ash and the burnt leftovers of whatever the hell Stack had tried to cook earlier.

Stack hesitated by the front door, hand resting on the knob but not turning it. He kept peeking through the blinds like he was expecting to see Tasha parked outside again, engine running, eyes wild, ready to throw hands and accusations. His nerves hadn’t come down since earlier. He still felt like he had a spotlight on his back. Every creak in the floor, every passing car, made his shoulders tense.

“Stop actin’ like you in a spy movie,” Mona called from the porch, not even turning around. Her voice was casual, laced with humor and smoke. “She ain’t out there.”

Stack didn’t move.

Mona glanced back, lifted her chin toward the street. “Her car gone. Been gone. She ain’t comin’ back tonight. You good.”

He sighed, heavy and slow, then finally opened the door and stepped outside like the ground might betray him. The porch light was dim, casting long shadows across Mona’s blanket-wrapped form. The wood creaked under his weight as he eased down beside her.

“Paranoid ass,” she muttered, handing him the blunt without looking at him.

The warmth from her body radiated under the blanket, and the night air carried a quiet stillness that wrapped around them both. Stack glanced at her sideways, then back toward the empty street. The house was finally quiet, but the noise in his chest hadn’t stopped yet.

She passed him the blunt without looking at him.

“You ever gonna stop lookin’ like somebody kicked your dog?”

Stack exhaled hard, took the blunt, and stared ahead at the dark yard. “Nah,” he muttered. “That was wild.”

Mona snorted. “That was light work. I didn’t even have to raise my voice. That girl made herself look crazy.”

He glanced at her then, eyes heavy. “I ain’t mean for none of this to happen like this.”

“No one ever does,” she said, pulling the blanket tighter. “But you walked into this barefoot, like it wasn’t hot.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that pressed down on your chest and made the air feel heavier. Stack passed the blunt back. She took it, held it between her fingers, but didn’t smoke it right away.

“I’ve seen your type before,” she said eventually. “Men who don’t know how to sit still. Who get handed love like a plate of food and still look for something spicy on the side.”

He looked away but didn’t argue.

“You burn down everything good in your life just to feel something new,” she continued. “Like the old shit ain’t ever enough. Even when it’s solid.”

Stack let her words settle. He rested his arms on his knees, head bowed.

“You think I’m just a fuck-up,” he said quietly.

“I think you scared to be bored. Scared to be seen.”

He nodded, slowly. A beat passed. Then he said, “My pops used to disappear for days. When he came back, he’d pretend like nothing happened. My mama, she’d smile through it. Cry at night. She used to say, ‘Men get tired. Just let him rest when he come home.’”

Mona didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

“I swore I’d never be like him,” he said, shaking his head. “But I catch myself doin’ the same shit. Dippin’ when I should talk. Lying because the truth feels like a fight I ain’t got the words for.”

He looked up, eyes meeting hers. They were raw, tired, honest.

“I ain’t proud of it. But it’s what I know.”

Mona held his gaze for a long moment. Then finally, she took a hit from the blunt. She blew the smoke out slow, eyes still on him.

“I ain’t saving you,” she said softly. “I’m just not gonna pretend I don’t see you drowning.”

Stack leaned in without thinking. His hand found the side of her face, thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. Their lips met, slow and deep. There was no fire this time, no frenzy. Just weight. Just truth.

She kissed him back with the kind of patience that made time feel slow. Their mouths moved together like they’d been doing this for years. He tasted weed and honey and something that might have been forgiveness.

When she pulled back, their foreheads touched. Her eyes stayed closed. His hand stayed on her cheek.

“I don’t know what this is,” he whispered.

“Me neither,” she whispered back. “But it don’t feel fake.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth.

Then they just sat. Sharing the blunt, breathing each other in. Saying nothing. Saying everything.

No sex. No rush. Just heat and the sharp, soft ache of something real trying to grow in the middle of all this mess.

Stack didn’t crash at Mona’s that night. He wanted to, but something about the way she looked at him on the porch told him the bullshit needed to be handled first. All of it. For real this time.

So he went home.

The walk was quiet, no music, his stomach was a knot. Tasha’s car was back, parked straight, perfect, like always. He took one last breath, one last look at the street, and walked in like a man ready to get hit.

The house was too clean. The kind of clean that screamed tension, like someone had been scrubbing the anger out of the walls. It smelled of sharp bleach and vanilla-scented candles and everything was too still. Tasha was in the living room, folded laundry on the coffee table, each shirt stacked like it had something to prove. The TV was paused on a true crime documentary, the screen frozen on a mugshot. She didn’t speak when he walked in. Just kept her hand on the remote and her eyes on the blank space in front of her until she turned her head slowly, like her neck weighed more than it should.

“You went to the gym?” she asked flatly, without turning her body. Her voice didn’t sound curious. It sounded like a trap she was tired of setting.

“No,” Stack said. He stayed standing, just inside the door. “I was at Mona’s.”

The air changed. The kind of shift you feel more than hear. Tasha didn’t blink. She stared at him like she was running the words through her mind a second time just to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. Then her jaw set, her mouth twisted up, and her chest began to rise and fall with sharp, short breaths.

Her hands, still gripping the remote, started to shake.

“So you not even gon’ lie no more?” she snapped. “You just bold now?”

“I’m tired of lyin’,” he said. “And you been tired of me. We both know that.”

Tasha stood up. Her arms were shaking.

“You fucked her?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

She laughed. Loud and mean. “Wow. You really a fuckin’ joke, Stack. You really out here throwin’ away five years for a bitch that don’t even own a dresser.”

He didn’t rise to it. He just stood there and took it.

“I ain’t gon’ put my hands on you,” she said, voice trembling now. “But I swear to God, I could.”

“I deserve that,” he said. “But I ain’t stayin’. And I ain’t comin’ back.”

“Damn right you not,” she hissed. “Because when I leave, I’m takin’ every damn thing that belong to me and not a single thing that reminds me of your sorry ass.”

She stormed past him, straight to the bedroom, snatching open drawers, yanking clothes off hangers, tossing shoes into a duffel. Stack stayed in the living room, staring at the turned-off TV like it might tell him how to feel. Tasha cursed the whole time she packed, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Hope she suck the soul outta you,” she shouted from the hallway. “Hope her broke ass drain you for every dime, every ounce of energy, just like you drained me.”

Twenty minutes later, she was gone. Slamming the door behind her like she was trying to break it. Stack didn’t move. Not for a long while.

When he finally stood, he walked through the house slowly. Room by room. Nothing felt like his. Everything was still and hollow and way too clean.

So he left.

Mona didn’t ask questions when he showed back up. She was on the couch in bike shorts and a tank top, eating cereal out of the box, watching something ridiculous on TV. She glanced at him as he stood in the doorway, then scooted over and patted the spot beside her.

“You handle your business?”

“Yeah.”

“Then sit your grown ass down.”

He did. He sat. And he stayed.

Later that day, Mona was in the backyard, barefoot in the grass with a speaker blasting SZA. A joint in one hand, a red Solo cup in the other. She danced like the world owed her joy, hips swaying, ass bouncing, smoke curling from her mouth.

Stack stood over the grill, shirtless, flipping chicken like he was born to. Sweat gleamed on his chest, and his smile was slow and easy. This time, he wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t running. He belonged right where he was.

Kids from across the street peeked through the fence, wide-eyed. Aunties on porches paused, one clutching her pearls, the other shaking her head like this was everything wrong with the world and everything she wished she still had.

Mona dropped into a slow twerk, laughing at something Stack said as the beat rolled through the yard.

He looked up, caught the chaos, caught her, and grinned.

“Yeah,” he said, licking sauce off his thumb. “This my kinda hell.”

He didn’t need saving.

But damn if he didn’t feel found.

The school called at 2:37 PM. Stack answered with his usual grace: “What the fuck now?”

Apparently, Zion had called a classmate a “dusty-ass mothball with a Target face,” then refused to apologize on account of “having emotional exhaustion.” He’d also hidden the class’s iPad in a potted plant and led a rebellion against snack time because “the apples looked suspicious.”

Stack didn’t ask for details. He just growled into the phone, grabbed his keys, and muttered, “Swear to God, that little motherfucker gon’ make me catch a charge one day.”

He pulled up to the school like it owed him money. Black hoodie, joggers, and slides with socks. No fucks given. He stomped through the front office like a man on a mission and only grunted when the secretary smiled nervously and pointed him toward Room 14.

He expected chaos. Screaming. Desks flipped. Glue sticks weaponized. What he found was… yoga.

Soft flute music floated from the cracked door. A lavender diffuser puffed a gentle cloud into the hallway. Children sat on rainbow mats in uneven rows, their shoes off, arms wobbly in the air like confused birds. And right in the middle of it all, calm as sin, was her.

She had curls piled high like a crown of wildflowers, loose pants that swished when she moved, and a sunshine-yellow shirt that said BREATHE, BITCH in glittery rhinestones. She was bent in half, smiling upside down through her legs, speaking softly like a stoned fairy.

And Zion?

Zion was sitting directly in her lap, face serene, hands folded. This boy, who had threatened to sue over nap time yesterday, now looked like he was one exhale away from nirvana.

Stack blinked, stepping into the room like it was enemy territory.

“What the hell is this?”

The woman looked up, bright-eyed and unbothered. “Afternoon. You must be Mr. Moore.”

Stack crossed his arms. “That’s me. Where’s the teacher? I got a call sayin’ my son was out here actin’ like he ain’t got no home training.”

“Oh, he was,” she said, cheerful as hell. “But we’re working on grounding techniques. Little man’s full of feelings today.”

Zion opened one eye and said flatly, “I told that boy his breath smelled like hospital sadness and expired peppermints.”

“Zee,” she said sweetly, brushing a curl off his forehead, “what did we say about being emotionally honest without being rude?”

He thought about it. “Say it in a British accent so it sounds nicer?”

“Progress,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head.

Stack’s arms dropped.

He wasn’t ready for that. For her. For the way his kid melted into her like she was made of clouds and candy. He wasn’t ready for the way her voice curled under his skin or how her eyes seemed to smile all on their own.

She stood, lifting Zion with her like he weighed nothing. He immediately latched onto her shoulders, one leg around her hip, clearly not in a hurry to leave.

Stack cleared his throat. “He ain’t usually this… calm.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, shifting Zion to her other side. “He’s a passionate communicator with a strong leadership instinct. Also, he cussed out a Beanie Baby earlier for looking at him funny.”

Zion nodded solemnly. “It was disrespectful.”

Stack rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

She smiled again. “I’m Ash. Miss Ash to the kids. I run the mindfulness and movement program here.”

Stack stared at her. “Mindfulness?”

“Yoga, baby breathing, trauma-informed glitter,” she said, like it was all one word. “You’d be amazed at what five minutes of silence and a Capri Sun can do for a child’s nervous system.”

Zion reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of fruit snacks. “See? She gets me.”

Stack looked at his son. Then at the woman. Then back at his son.

Zion peeled open the pack with his teeth and spoke through gummy worms. “Daddy, you can go. I live here now.”

“Like hell you do.”

Miss Ash gave a low chuckle, and Stack felt that shit deep in his chest.

“Sorry about the call,” she said. “It’s protocol when certain words are used.”

“What’d he say?”

“Honestly?” She shrugged. “Something about somebody looking like a crusty microwave onion. I blacked out halfway through.”

Stack bit back a grin. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

There was a long pause. Not awkward. Just… charged.

Zion leaned toward her ear and whispered loudly, “He think you cute. He gon’ try to ask for your number but he gon’ wait until we get to the car.”

Ash raised her brows, clearly fighting a smile. “Oh? That so?”

Stack glared at his son. “Zee, shut up.”

Zion blinked. “I’m just sayin’. You brushed your beard in the car mirror. That’s date behavior.”

Ash laughed, loud and light and dangerous. “Well, Mr. Moore, if you do want to talk more about Zion’s chakra alignment or his career in insult comedy, you’re welcome to come by anytime.”

Stack stared at her for a beat. Then said, quietly, “Yeah. I might.”

Ash gently lowered Zion to the floor. He hugged her thigh like he’d known her his whole life.

“Miss Ash,” he mumbled, looking up at her. “Do you got a man?”

“Zion!” Stack barked.

Ash tilted her head, playful. “Not at the moment, sweetheart. Why?”

Zion pointed at Stack. “He get lonely sometimes.”

Ash blinked, caught off guard for the first time. She looked at Stack, who was glaring at his son like he wanted to throw him in a recycling bin.

Zion grabbed Stack’s hand and started dragging him toward the door. “C’mon, Daddy. You nervous. She not gon’ bite you unless you ask.”

Ash’s laugh followed them all the way to the hallway.

Stack didn’t look back. He couldn’t. His ears were hot, his pulse loud in his neck, and his kid was still talking shit.

“She pretty, huh? I like her. You should marry her so I can keep doing yoga. I’m getting flexible as fuck.”

Stack groaned. “Boy, if you don’t shut your damn mouth—”

“I can’t. It’s genetic.”

Stack didn’t argue.

Because he knew the kid was right.

Tuesday morning started with a Nerf bullet to the face.

Stack groaned, arm flinging over his eyes. Zion was standing on the bed in his underwear, shirtless, messy-haired, holding the foam gun like a war general. “You said wake you up if you hit snooze again.”

“I meant with words, Zee.”

“Violence is more effective. That’s what you said when I threw a Lego at the mouse.”

Stack sat up, rubbing his jaw. “That mouse is dead now. You wanna be next?”

Zion jumped off the bed, cackling. “I got a field trip today. You can’t kill me on an important day.”

“Field trip?” Stack blinked. “You didn’t say nothin’ about that.”

Zion stopped mid-dance. “I gave you the paper.”

“You handed me a crayon drawing of a dinosaur riding a scooter.”

“Same thing.”

Stack dragged himself out of bed and moved on muscle memory. Hoodie, sweatpants, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. Lunch. He had to pack lunch. Zion was already dressed by the time he made it to the kitchen, shirt inside out, socks mismatched, talking to himself in the voice of an evil villain.

Stack opened the fridge and stared into the abyss. One questionable yogurt, an expired juice box, and a slice of pizza that might’ve been from last week. Maybe.

“Zee, what do y’all even eat on these trips? Is it like real food or field trip food?”

Zion zipped up his hoodie. “They said ‘healthy lunch.’ So probably cardboard and lies.”

Stack exhaled. “Guess I’ll UberEats you a Lunchable.”

“You said that last time and I ended up eating somebody’s emergency granola bar from a trauma kit.”

“Get your ass in the car.”

They made it to the school just as the buses were loading. Stack hopped the curb like a delinquent, parked illegally, and half-jogged to the front door with Zion in tow. The boy was humming the Jaws theme and wearing sunglasses that he clearly stole from somewhere.

Inside, chaos reigned. Clipboards, juice coolers, stray backpacks, a parent arguing with a teacher about gluten. Stack spotted the pack of children forming in the lobby, most of them in matching yellow field trip shirts. Zion blended in like a tiny gang leader, already talking shit to another kid about the superiority of fruit snacks versus raisins.

Then he saw her.

Ash was kneeling next to a kid whose Velcro shoes were losing the war. She had her hair in two space buns, a denim jacket over a pastel pink tee that read Good Vibes or Goodbye, and those same loose, swishy pants that moved like water. She glanced up as Stack approached, smile blooming instantly.

“Mr. Moore. Zion made it. Mostly clothed.”

“He forgot to tell me about the trip until we was halfway here.”

“That tracks.”

“I also forgot to pack him lunch.”

She stood, dusting her hands. “That also tracks.”

“Y’all don’t got emergency lunch or somethin’?”

“We have… government granola.”

Stack winced. “Damn. That bad?”

“Imagine betrayal in bar form.”

Zion appeared beside them, sunglasses still on, hoodie unzipped like he was starring in a preschool rap video. “It taste like divorce and broken promises.”

Ash gave him a look. “Where did you hear that?”

“YouTube.”

“No more YouTube.”

Stack looked mildly panicked. “Look, I can run to the store or somethin’. You got fifteen minutes?”

Ash reached into her bag. “Already handled. I split mine with him.”

She held up a paper bag, with neat handwriting on the front in purple ink. Zion 💖 Do Not Share Unless You Wanna Get Cursed

Stack raised an eyebrow. “You packed an extra lunch?”

“I always do. There’s always at least one kid who forgets. Or whose parent does.”

He stared at her. “You psychic or just organized?”

“Little bit of both. Moon was in retrograde this morning.”

Zion snatched the bag. “It got grapes in it?”

“Red. No seeds.”

He fist-pumped and walked away like he just signed a million-dollar deal.

Stack watched him go. “He really fuck with you, you know that?”

Ash looked at him, more serious now. “Yeah. I do.”

There was a beat of quiet. Not awkward. Just full.

Stack scratched his beard. “Listen. About the other day…”

Ash tilted her head. “The yoga class? Or when your child tried to auction me off as a wife?”

He gave a crooked grin. “That part.”

Ash smiled, but softer now. “He’s a sweet kid. Big personality. Bigger heart. Reminds me of someone.”

Stack’s grin faltered. “I ain’t sweet.”

“You are when he’s lookin’. That counts.”

Another pause. This time, heavier.

“I been doin’ this alone for a long time,” he said, voice low. “Ain’t never really had help. Not like this.”

Ash folded her arms. “You think this is help?”

“Ain’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”

She looked at him, really looked, and something behind her eyes shifted. She saw it now. The tired behind the tough. The worry behind the jokes.

“I like him,” she said finally. “He’s my favorite gremlin.”

Stack smiled again. Not a smirk. A real one.

“You ever need anything,” he said, suddenly serious, “you hit me. I mean that.”

Ash arched a brow. “Like what?”

“Car jump. Heavy liftin’. Somebody talkin’ reckless. I throw hands for a living.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you still smilin’.”

Zion came barreling back at full speed. “Miss Ash! I forgot to tell you, my daddy shaved his ears this morning ‘cause he said he might see you!”

Stack looked like he’d just been shot.

Ash gasped, covering her mouth.

Zion wasn’t done. “He used the clippers. The fancy ones. And the smell-good lotion.”

Stack picked him up and started walking away.

Ash called after them, still laughing, “See you after the trip, Mr. Moore!”

Stack didn’t turn around.

Zion shouted over his shoulder, “His ears real smooth now!”

Stack muttered, “I’m takin’ you back to the hospital. Return to sender.”

Zion giggled. “She gon’ marry you. I feel it in my chakras.”

Stack didn’t respond.

But his ears were red.

And she was still watching.

They should’ve left him at the school. That’s what Stack told himself the second he stepped off the bus and got hit in the face with a flying juice pouch.

“ZION!” Ash shouted, already jogging after him. “We talked about throwing food!”

Zion, mid-sprint across the botanical garden lawn, turned around and cupped his hands. “I was testing gravity!”

Ash stopped and closed her eyes, breathing through her nose. “And?”

“It still works!”

Stack stood there, hoodie up, black sunglasses on, surrounded by small children like a brooding mob boss at a Chuck E. Cheese. “Why the hell am I even here again?”

Ash reappeared beside him, holding a clipboard and radiating sunshine in a cloud of peach-scented body mist. “Because your child said you volunteered.”

“I ain’t volunteer shit.”

She flipped the clipboard toward him. Zion had scribbled MY DADDY SAID YES. HE STRONG AND WILL BRING SNACKS in a blue crayon across the chaperone list.

Stack sighed. “He set me up.”

Ash smiled. “He manifested your presence.”

They followed the swarm of kids into the first exhibit, something about pollination and butterflies. Zion immediately took off toward a fake beehive, screaming, “THIS WHERE THE MAGIC HAPPENS,” before slipping and crashing into a garden gnome.

Stack didn’t move. Just sipped from his to-go cup of iced coffee and muttered, “Natural selection was right there.”

Ash giggled and crouched beside Zion, who had popped up completely unharmed, arms spread like he’d just performed a stunt.

“I’m unkillable,” he whispered.

“I believe you,” Ash whispered back.

Stack watched the two of them from a distance. It was weird, seeing his son this way. Carefree. Not loud in a defensive, gotta-be-heard-first way. Just loud because he was happy.

He hadn’t seen that kind of loud in a long time.

Ash handed Zion a leaf guide and sent him toward a group of kids gathered around a pond. Then she walked back over, slipping her clipboard under one arm.

“You look tense,” she said, voice lilting.

“I’m surrounded by sticky little humans and I ain’t smoked in twelve hours. What gave it away?”

She leaned close, eyes twinkling. “You’re scowling at a lily pad like it owes you money.”

He tried to smile but it came out crooked. “You do this every day?”

“Every week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes Fridays if the vibes are off.”

“Vibes?”

“You don’t believe in those?”

“I believe in naps. And whiskey.”

Ash laughed again, light and unbothered. She had this way of making everything feel warmer, like a fireplace you didn’t know you needed until you sat too close. She adjusted the strap of her bag, glanced out at the chaos, then back at him.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, tone softer now. “Zion’s been talking about you coming on one of these.”

“He don’t say that to me.”

“He says a lot more than you think.”

Stack’s stomach twisted a little. He didn’t know what to do with that. What to say. Ash didn’t press it. She just walked beside him as they made their way to the next exhibit, where children were screaming about frogs and fighting over who got to feed the koi fish.

By the time they reached the picnic area for lunch, Stack was ready to fake a back injury. He sat on the edge of a bench, legs spread, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Zion was sitting on the grass with his friends, holding court like a tiny pastor, telling exaggerated stories about “the time I saw my daddy beat up a vending machine.”

Ash handed Stack a cold water bottle and sat next to him, knees brushing.

“You survived,” she said, sipping from her own bottle.

“Barely. One of them little girls just told me I smell like ‘mean cologne and feelings.’”

Ash choked. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know but it felt like a hate crime.”

They both laughed, leaning into each other without realizing. For a minute, it was quiet. Just the breeze. The shrieks of distant children. Zion yelling, “I’M NOT CRYING, I’M JUST FULL OF PASSION,” somewhere near the hand-washing station.

Stack glanced sideways. “You ever wanted kids?”

Ash blinked. Then smiled, softer this time. “Yeah. I think so. I always wanted a house full of little weirdos.”

He smirked. “Well, you got one already.”

She looked at him. “Zion’s… special.”

“He too damn much.”

“You love that about him.”

He didn’t respond, but she knew it was true. She could see it in the way his shoulders dropped every time Zion laughed. In the way his hand twitched like he wanted to fix his son’s hoodie when it slipped off his shoulder. He was a loud, foul-mouthed man, but the love he had for that boy was deep and loud and rooted.

Ash looked away first. Stack didn’t.

“Your ex ain’t do field trips?” she asked quietly.

Stack shook his head. “She barely did birthdays. Said Zion was too much. Said I was worse.”

Ash frowned. “She wrong.”

“I know that now.”

There was a pause. Stack reached into his pocket and pulled out a single Jolly Rancher. He unwrapped it and handed it to her.

She took it without question. “Watermelon. You psychic too?”

“Nah. Just pay attention.”

Ash popped it in her mouth and grinned.

They didn’t talk for a while after that. Just sat there, listening to the wind, the kids, the chaos. Zion ran by with a leaf crown and yelled, “WE’RE DOING MAGIC!” before disappearing behind a tree.

Ash nudged him. “You’re a good dad, you know.”

Stack didn’t look at her. But he said, real low, “Only good when people like you show up.”

She wanted to kiss him. Right there. Right in front of the juice coolers and Capri Suns and shrieking five-year-olds.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a moment for kissing.

This was the part where the slow burn dug a little deeper.

Where two people sat too close and shared candy and history and sun.

And pretended not to feel it.

Even though it was loud. Even though it was growing.

Even though they both knew…

Zion was gonna be really pissed when they finally gave in and didn’t let him officiate the wedding.

Ash wasn’t supposed to be there.

She was just dropping off Zion’s hoodie. He’d left it after yoga class, and when she tried to return it the next day, he dramatically announced he was “mourning the loss” and couldn’t move forward until it was home safe. So she texted Stack, and Stack said, “Pull up if you want. We home.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected.

But it wasn’t this.

Stack opened the door shirtless, covered in Nerf darts, holding a half-eaten string cheese and blinking like he just woke up from a nap that involved violence.

Zion darted past him, barefoot, in a Spider-Man cape and pajama pants, yelling something about justice and string theory.

Ash stood there with the hoodie in one hand and her soul trying to stay inside her body.

Stack blinked again. “Yo.”

She blinked back. “Hi.”

Stack looked down at himself, looked back at her, then stepped aside like this was all perfectly normal. “You comin’ in or what?”

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and chaos. A candle burned on the counter. The TV was playing Kung Fu Panda on mute. The floor was a minefield of LEGOs, crayons, and snack wrappers. Somewhere in the background, a microwave beeped without stopping.

Zion popped up on the couch like a prairie dog. “MISS ASH!”

Ash waved, carefully stepping over what she prayed was a pillow and not a dead stuffed animal. “Hey, baby. Brought your hoodie.”

Zion launched himself off the couch and hugged her leg like a football tackle. “I thought I lost it forever. I was gonna put a picture on a milk carton.”

Stack closed the door behind her. “You hungry or somethin’? I was gonna make waffles.”

“It’s seven thirty.”

“I didn’t ask what time it was. I asked if you hungry.”

Ash laughed and set the hoodie on the back of a chair. “You always cook in your drawers?”

“You always show up smellin’ like sunshine and cake?”

She didn’t answer that. Couldn’t. The way he said it was too low. Too smooth. He didn’t even look at her when he said it, just walked into the kitchen like his back muscles weren’t showing off on purpose.

Ash swallowed and looked at Zion, who was now attempting to climb the bookshelf.

“You let him do that?” she asked.

Stack shrugged. “I got insurance.”

Ash snorted and kicked her shoes off, moving around the space like she belonged there. Zion tossed a pillow in her direction. She caught it and threw it back. He screamed like it was war.

“Miss Ash!” he shouted. “You wanna stay for dinner?”

Stack called from the kitchen, “We got eggs, waffles, and regret.”

Ash smiled. “That’s my favorite kind of menu.”

Ten minutes later, she was sitting at the counter with a paper plate full of waffles and eggs, watching Stack flip bacon with his tattoos on full display and Zion humming a murder ballad he made up about marshmallows and revenge.

Ash was trying not to stare. She really was.

But damn.

He moved like he didn’t care who watched. Sweatpants low on his hips. Beard trimmed. Arms thick. Voice casual but deep when he asked her if she wanted syrup or honey. And when she said both, he grinned like he’d already won something.

Zion sat between them with his mouth full. “Miss Ash, you ever get married?”

Ash looked up. “No, baby. Not yet.”

“You ever kiss somebody on a Tuesday?”

Stack dropped his fork.

Ash blinked. “That’s… specific.”

Zion nodded. “I read somewhere that’s how love starts.”

Stack groaned. “Where the hell you read that?”

“My heart.”

Stack got up and walked away.

Ash choked on her orange juice.

After dinner, Zion passed out mid-yoga pose on the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other stretched dramatically into the air like he was reaching for an invisible Oscar. Stack covered him with a blanket, tucked his cape like a burrito, and stood there for a second. Just watching.

Ash watched him.

Stack turned. “He talk about you all the time.”

“He talk about you, too.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“He says you smell like cedar wood and bad decisions. But in a good way.”

Stack snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. “He always say weird shit like that?”

“Only about people he loves.”

Silence.

Ash walked to the kitchen, started rinsing plates without asking. Stack leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her with a look that had weight.

“You know you ain’t have to come all the way here just for a hoodie.”

“I know.”

“You tryna see somethin’, Miss Ash?”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for the heat to reach her skin.

They stood there, inches apart, the kitchen humming around them.

Ash looked up. “Stack.”

He looked down. “Yeah?”

“You ever kiss somebody on a Tuesday?”

His mouth twitched.

Then he leaned in.

Not all the way. Just enough for her to feel his breath.

Her hand brushed his. He didn’t move.

Then Zion snorted in his sleep and rolled over, knocking a cup off the coffee table.

The moment broke.

Stack stepped back.

Ash looked down at her hand like it betrayed her.

“I should go,” she said quietly.

Stack nodded. “Yeah.”

Neither of them moved.

Zion mumbled, “Y’all scary.”

Ash turned and grabbed her shoes.

Stack walked her to the door.

When she opened it, he touched her wrist. Just for a second.

“Ash.”

She turned.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

She smiled, heart loud in her chest.

“Goodnight, Stack.”

He watched her leave.

Didn’t close the door until her car disappeared.

And even then, he still stood there.

Wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled back.

If he’d kissed her.

On a Tuesday.

The school was quiet after hours. Empty halls, lights dimmed, soft hum of the janitor’s radio echoing somewhere in the distance. Ash was in her office, the little mismatched haven she carved out between the copy room and the pre-K reading nook. Crystals lined the windowsill, stacks of picture books leaned against a small Buddha statue, and her favorite vanilla incense burned in the corner, low and steady.

She was scribbling notes about Zion’s behavior plan: “less yelling, more breathing, reward with fruit snacks, avoid raisins at all costs” when a knock rattled the door.

Before she could answer, it swung open.

Stack stood there, hoodie half-zipped, jaw tight, eyes sharp and burning.

“I need a second.”

Ash blinked. “What happened?”

He stepped inside and shut the door harder than necessary. His energy filled the room instantly, all heat and tension, too big for the soft lighting and calming playlists.

“That little short-haired lady,” he growled, pacing, “the one who talk like she chew gravel.”

“Ms. Denise?”

“Yeah. Her. Pulled me aside like I was one of her damn students. Talkin’ ‘bout Zion bein’ a ‘disruptive force.’ Said he need a stricter environment. That maybe I’m too ‘permissive’.”

Ash leaned back in her chair, calm but alert. “What did you say?”

“I said if she got a problem with my son, she need to say it to me, not whisper it like she tryna stir up shit behind his back. I said he ain’t no problem, he’s five. And if she wanna question my parenting, she can come see me like an adult.”

Ash tried not to smile. “And then?”

“I may have said something about her crusty shoes and expired attitude.”

Ash couldn’t hold it. She laughed, hand over her mouth. “Stack.”

He turned, looking at her like he was still too hot to be calmed down.

“She act like he out here biting teachers and flippin’ tables. He loud. He cusses. So fuckin’ what? He mine. He smart. He got a big ass heart. And yeah, he wild, but he ain’t bad.”

Ash stood slowly, walking around the desk.

“He’s not bad,” she said softly.

Stack stopped pacing. His chest rose and fell fast. His fists unclenched. Their eyes met and stayed.

“Every time they talk about him like that,” he said, voice lower now, raw, “it feel like they talkin’ about me too. Like they lookin’ at both of us and sayin’, ‘Y’all ain’t enough.’”

Ash reached out and touched his arm. Just a gentle anchor.

“You are.”

Stack looked down at her hand, then back at her face.

Ash’s voice dropped. “You both are.”

He exhaled sharp, like the air left his lungs all at once.

Then something shifted.

Stack's hands slammed into the wall beside her head before his mouth ever did. There was no question in it, no pause. He kissed her like he wanted to brand it into her skin. All tongue and teeth and the kind of pressure that made her gasp, made her thighs clench, made her hips roll against him without thinking.

His mouth tore a whimper out of her as he pressed in close, so solid it made her knees weak. The kiss was filthy. Hungry. Her back hit the wall, her hands in his hoodie, dragging him closer like she needed him to suffocate the space between them.

“You want this?” he growled, voice rough, breath hot against her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, already breathless.

That was all he needed. He shoved his thigh between hers and pushed her skirt up roughly, hand sliding up her thigh, fingers curling against her pussy through the cotton of her panties. She was soaked, and he groaned deep in his chest when he felt it.

“Fuck, Ash,” he muttered, fingers pressing harder, slow circles that made her hips buck. Her panties were already soaked through, the thin cotton clinging to her folds, drenched and sticky with how badly she needed him. He pressed his fingers in deeper, and the heat of her arousal coated him instantly, wetness pooling, dripping down to the crease of her thigh. Her body pulsed against his touch, slick and eager, every inch of her soft and open and begging. 

“Don’t tease,” she gasped.

He didn’t. He yanked her panties to the side and slid two fingers in deep, pumping them slowly, spreading her open until she moaned loudly and messy. The wet sounds were obscene in the small room, her pussy squelching around his fingers as she clenched and trembled against the wall.

“Yeah,” he said low, voice like gravel and sex, “just like that. You gon’ cum on my fingers like a good girl?”

She whimpered, head falling back. “Please.”

“Look at me,” he growled. “Wanna watch your face when you cum.”

She forced her eyes open, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with the edge of release. He curled his fingers just right, dragging them along her front wall with the perfect pressure, and her whole body jolted. Her legs locked around his waist, nails digging into his arms as she came hard, her pussy gripping his fingers like a desperate, wet fist. Her walls pulsed and fluttered, coating his hand in slick that dripped down between her thighs, soaking his wrist.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even let her catch a breath. He pulled his fingers out slow, watching the mess glisten in the low light, her arousal stringing between her and his hand. Then he shoved his fingers into his mouth with a filthy groan, licking them clean like he was tasting something sacred. “Taste like you were made to sit on my tongue.”

Ash whimpered, dizzy, thighs still trembling.

He grabbed her hips and turned her fast, pressing her chest to the wall, hiking her skirt up with one hand while the other shoved his sweats down just enough to free his dick. It slapped against her ass, thick, already leaking.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “Tell me to stop.”

Instead of answering with words, she pushed her ass back against him in one smooth, deliberate grind, arching her back and spreading her legs wider as a silent demand. Her pussy, slick and open, dragged along the length of his dick as she rocked her hips back. It was an answer clearer than anything she could’ve said, a soaked, needy invitation that made his breath catch. He groaned behind her, grabbed her hips tighter, and didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed the base of his dick, rubbed it through her slick folds, watching the way her wetness spread across him, coating every thick inch in a messy sheen that made him curse under his breath. He teased her entrance with the tip, dragging it up and down through her swollen folds, letting the head catch just barely before slipping away again. She rocked back into him, desperate, slick, and open, practically begging without saying a word.

Then he pushed in slow inch by thick inch, stretching her open, splitting her around him with a deep, steady glide that forced a guttural moan from her throat. Her pussy clung to him, warm and dripping, pulling him deeper with every breathless second. Her hands slapped the wall, her fingers scrambling for something to hold onto, and her mouth fell open in a silent, wrecked cry as he bottomed out inside her.

“Fuck,” Stack growled, teeth gritted. 

She could barely speak. Could only gasp, “More.”

He gave it to her. He slammed into her with a rhythm that made the wall shake, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. His thrusts were punishing, deep, brutal, and exactly what she needed. Her nails scratched the wall, face pressed to her forearm as she took it.

“You take this dick so good,” he growled into her ear, voice low and wrecked. “Fuck, you feel incredible—so wet, so tight. Can’t get enough of how you squeeze around me like that.”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yours. Fuck, Stack—don’t stop.”

He wasn’t stopping. Not until he was all the way in, balls slapping her soaked pussy, her walls gripping him like she never wanted to let go. She came again, harder this time, screaming into her arm, body locking as she pulsed around him.

He followed with a snarl, buried deep, dick throbbing as he spilled inside her, the hot pulse of release stretching out longer than he meant to, grinding his hips through the aftershocks as she quivered around him. Every twitch of her cunt milked him harder, pulling out every drop until he had nothing left to give, only the trembling of his thighs and the loud pant of breath against her neck.

She gasped beneath him, cheek against the wall, still twitching from the aftershocks of her own orgasm. His hands, rough and still shaking, slid up her sides, holding her tighter, grounding himself in the shape of her body.

They collapsed against the wall together, bodies slack, legs tangled, panting like they’d both run through fire. Her skin was damp with sweat, sticking to his chest, and he stayed inside her, softening slowly as the silence wrapped around them like a blanket. His arms stayed tight, his nose pressed into the curve of her shoulder, as if he let go, something permanent would fall apart.

Then—

“Daddy? Miss Ash? Y’all doing adult yoga in there?”

Stack froze mid-breath, arms tightening around her instinctively like he could shield them both from the sound. Ash wheezed a laugh against his chest, shoulders shaking, face buried in the curve of his neck as she tried not to cackle out loud.

Stack’s eyes closed. “I’m killin’ him,” he muttered, voice rough and still breathless.

Ash turned her head slightly, lips brushing his jaw. “You love him,” she whispered, voice soft and sticky with warmth.

He let out a sharp exhale, his body still half-tensed. “Yeah,” he said, the word dragging out on a sigh. His hand rubbed up and down her back slowly, still grounding himself. “And now he yours too.”

They didn’t move right away. Just stood there, bodies wrapped up, still joined, still slick and warm, letting the weight of what just happened settle between them while the chaos of Zion lingered outside the door, oblivious and inevitable.

Ash was quiet the next day. Not cold. Not distant. Just... gentle. The kind of soft you use when you’re scared to touch something too soon after it’s cracked. Everything about her said careful. Her words. Her walk. Even the way she smiled a little slower, a little sadder. Like she was holding something in her mouth she didn’t want to swallow just yet.

She smiled when she passed Stack in the hallway. Touched his arm for a second too long. But there was weight in her eyes. Not regret, not shame. Just the kind of heaviness that comes with too much feeling. Like she’d come down from the high and was still sorting through what was real. The kind of look that says: I need to breathe, and maybe cry a little too. But I ain’t runnin’.

Stack felt it. He’d been around enough women to know the difference between afterglow and aftermath. The way she didn’t text him that night. The way her laughter was half a shade lower. She wasn’t pulling away, but she was holding herself steady. Probably didn’t want to fall. Not too fast. Not too hard.

He couldn’t blame her. That wasn’t just sex. That was something else. Something loud and deep and messy. And now she had to carry it, alone, while smiling in a room full of kids like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t pulled her apart in that office and held her like he didn’t want to let go.

Zion noticed.

He didn’t have the language for it, not really, but he could feel the difference. Miss Ash smiled at him the same, but there was this... thickness to her energy now. Her hugs felt shorter. Her voice was still sweet, but quieter. Like she was walking on tiptoe around something invisible.

Zion hated it.

And he didn’t know why, not in words that made sense. All he knew was that Miss Ash wasn’t Miss Ash this week. And Daddy kept looking at her like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. And he felt left out, like something big was happenin,g and nobody was telling him.

Zion was five. He wasn’t stupid. He just watched. He saw the way she touched his dad’s arm in the hallway. Saw the way Daddy smiled back, all soft at the corners like he only did with Zion and nobody else.

And then he snapped.

It was a Tuesday. Art day. Glitter on every surface and juice boxes in the sunbeam by the window. Miss Ash handed him a new set of markers, said something sweet like, "For my favorite wild thing."

And Zion lost it.

He slapped the markers out of her hand.

"I don’t want it!"

Kids turned. Teachers stilled. Ash blinked, shocked.

"Zion," she said gently, crouching to his level, "baby, what’s going on?"

"You ain’t my real mama!"

It echoed. Loud. Brutal. The kind of kid-honest that slices deep.

Ash’s mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes did that thing again, too wide, too wet, too fast. She stood slowly. Nodded once. Said, "Okay, baby. I hear you."

And walked out.

The air in the classroom felt wrong after that. The other kids didn’t speak. The teachers whispered. Zion sat at his desk with his arms folded and didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t even touch the markers once they were picked up off the floor.

Stack got the call an hour later. Showed up like a thundercloud in sweats and boots, jaw tight, energy dark. Not yelling. Not wild. Just a storm waiting to break.

Zion was sitting in the reading corner with his arms crossed and his mouth set like he was mad, but his eyes were red. He looked up when his daddy came in and then looked away fast, like he knew he was in trouble but didn’t know how to fix it.

They didn’t speak until they got in the car.

Stack didn’t yell. Just drove.

Zion kicked his feet. Picked at a thread on his jacket. Tried to look anywhere but at his daddy’s face.

After five minutes of silence, Stack said, "What happened?"

Zion didn’t answer.

"She cried," Stack said, low. "Miss Ash. She cried ‘cause of you. You proud of that?"

Zion’s lip trembled. He looked out the window. "She ain’t my mom."

"Nah, she not. But she care about you like one."

"She gon’ leave."

Stack blinked. Looked over. "What?"

Zion turned, angry tears already falling. "She gon’ leave like Mama did. She be nice, then she gon’ go!"

Stack pulled over. Parked. Turned in his seat.

"Listen to me," he said, voice low and firm. "You remember when you was three, and your mama stopped comin’?"

Zion nodded. Wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"That wasn’t you. That was her. She ain’t know how to stay. She ain’t want this life. Me and you? We been holdin’ it down without her."

Zion sniffled.

"Ash ain’t her. She don’t love like that."

"But what if she leave anyway?"

Stack took a breath. His voice cracked when he said it. "Then I’ma hurt. And you gon’ hurt. But that’s life, son. We don’t push people away before they can love us. That’s not how we survive. We give people a chance to show up. That’s how we grow."

Zion looked small. Real small. Like the baby he used to be. His face crumpled up and he crawled across the seat into his daddy’s arms.

Stack reached over, pulled him close. Let Zion cry into his chest for a minute. Maybe longer.

When they got home, Stack didn’t say much. Just cooked. Fried chicken. Mac and cheese. Zion watched him from the table, chin on his hand, quiet in a way he never was.

Stack stood in the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, eyes locked on the phone in his palm. He stared at Ash’s contact for a long time before pressing call. She picked up after three rings.

“Hey,” her voice came through, quiet but not cold.

“You home?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Zion wants to talk to you. You think you can come over?”

A pause. Then: “Yeah. I’ll be there in twenty.”

She showed up just before the mac and cheese finished baking. She knocked. Stack opened the door, and there she was, hair pulled back, hoodie over leggings, eyes still tired but softer than earlier. She looked at him like she didn’t know where she stood, but she came anyway.

Zion peeked out from behind the couch. He hesitated, then walked up slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice small and eyes big. “I didn’t mean it. I just got scared.”

Ash crouched, met him eye to eye. “Thank you for saying that, baby. I was scared too.”

He wrapped his arms around her neck, and she held him tight, rubbing his back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Stack watched them both, chest heavy, throat tight. This wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that mattered more.

Dinner had been loud and messy and exactly right. Stack had fried chicken thighs, seasoned just the way Zion liked, extra paprika, no green stuff. The skin was crisp, the meat juicy, and Zion kept yelling out, "This slap!" after every bite like it was the first time he’d ever tasted real food. Ash had brought over roasted sweet potatoes with cinnamon butter, soft, warm, a little sweet on the edges, and a kale salad nobody touched but her, though Stack pretended to fork through it out of guilt. Zion made a dramatic show of sniffing the salad bowl and saying, "That smells like outside and consequences," before diving back into his plate like it owed him money.

There were drinks spilled, crumbs on the floor, and a loud argument about who was better at dodgeball, Zion or Zion’s imaginary cousin from "the Bronx." Stack pretended to care, Ash pretended to mediate, and Zion held court like a tiny king in a plastic chair, barbecue sauce smeared across his cheek.

They laughed through the whole thing. Ash and Stack stealing glances across the table, bumping feet under it. Zion pretending not to notice but smiling anyway, laughing with a mouth full of cornbread. At one point, Ash got up to grab more napkins and Stack watched her walk to the kitchen like the room had slowed down for her. Just her.

After the dishes were rinsed and the table wiped down, Zion contributed by drying one plate before running off to watch cartoons. He came back into the room holding something behind his back.

He handed her the card, like it was something hot he wasn’t sure he wanted to hold anymore.

Ash opened it slowly. Folded construction paper, crooked heart drawn in red marker. Inside, in big, shaky capital letters, it read: "I GUESS I LOVE YOU."

There was glitter. Way too much glitter. Most of it wasn’t even attached anymore, just lightly sprinkled chaos that stuck to her fingers and the air around her.

Ash laughed. That full-body kind of laugh that made her nose crinkle and her shoulders shake. That kind of laugh that said something in her chest had just softened.

"You guess?" she said, looking at him over the card, eyes twinkling.

Zion shrugged hard, already embarrassed. "I mean... yeah. I guess. Whatever."

She kissed the top of his head anyway. “Guess I love you too.”

From then on, things were quieter. Not distant, just settled. Ash didn’t hover. Stack didn’t push. Zion stopped glaring across the dinner table like somebody stole his juice box. There was peace, not because everything was fixed, but because everyone chose to stay. The air in the house felt different, like it had been rearranged around something new and fragile but good.

Stack started calling her by her full name less. Started saying “baby” more, in that low voice that slid down her spine like warm syrup. Sometimes it was casual, half-asleep with coffee in hand, or mumbled with a smirk while Zion clowned at the dinner table, but other times it lingered, like he meant something more. Started brushing past her in the hallway like he wasn’t trying to start something, but always left her needing to finish it. Fingers at the small of her back. Knuckles grazing her hip. That look when she passed him the remote, like he wanted to pull her into his lap instead.

Their silences felt full now. Not tense. Just lived in. Like background noise you choose. The quiet hum of people who’d figured out how to breathe in each other’s rhythm. She started moving through the house like she belonged there. Leaving her scarf on the couch. Putting her mug next to his. Falling into the space between words like it had always been hers.

One night, Zion knocked out early, mouth wide open on the couch with one sock off, his blanket tangled around his leg and the remote in his lap like he’d been mid-command when sleep ambushed him. Ash stood over him with a blanket and whispered, “He look like he snored through his whole past life.”

Stack came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, voice low in her ear. “He get it from me.”

She leaned into him without thinking. That kind of lean that says I’m tired, I trust you, I want to stay like this for a minute. Her body molded into his like it had done it a hundred times before, like she already knew the shape of comfort in his arms. She let her head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the clean, warm scent of him, soap and dinner and something that always smelled like home. His hands didn’t press, didn’t pull, just settled around her hips like he’d been waiting all day to hold her still. And for a moment, the house went quiet. The lights low, Zion snoring faintly in the background, the world paused just enough for her to feel safe there. Not like a visitor. Like someone expected. Someone wanted.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Stack backed her into the wall, slow, soft, his hands under her sweatshirt, his lips finding that spot behind her ear that made her knees weak. His touch was unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to feel her sigh against his mouth.

It wasn’t fast this time. Wasn’t wild.

It was slow.

Intentional.

She gasped when he slipped his fingers into her panties, not just because of the heat, but because of how gently he touched her like he already knew every part of her and just wanted to relearn the map. He circled her clit with the softest pressure, coaxing, not demanding, until she was melting into his chest.

He kissed her like he had time. Like he wanted to memorize the way she tasted before he said anything else. Long, soft kisses. Lips brushing, tongue teasing, breaths exchanged like secrets.

“Right here?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Right here.”

When he sank inside her, she moaned into his mouth, arms tight around his shoulders, breath catching like her body forgot what it was like to be held like this. He rocked into her slow, steady, lips brushing hers with every thrust. She clung to him, every roll of his hips drawing a soft sound from her throat, every inch of him worshipping her body like a psalm.

“Stack,” she gasped. “Baby—”

“You feel like home,” he murmured. “You know that?”

She kissed him. Long. Deep. Full of everything she couldn’t say.

His strokes stayed slow. Deep. Like he wanted to tell her something with every push. She wrapped her legs around his waist and took all of it, every wordless promise, every quiet praise.

“You so good,” he whispered. “So damn good. All of you.”

She clenched around him, mouth falling open on a whimper. Her eyes fluttered closed, head thrown back as the tension built, pressure winding up in the pit of her belly like a soft ache about to break.

“I got you,” he breathed. “You right here with me.”

She came like a slow tide, waves rolling through her in pulses, his name soft on her lips.

He followed with a groan, buried deep, his forehead resting against hers, hands clutching her hips like he needed her to stay right there forever. Their bodies stayed locked together, breathing heavy, skin damp, the silence around them sweet and thick.

Eventually, she shifted, lips brushing his jaw as she whispered, “Come to bed.”

They moved together down the hallway, slow and still half-connected by the weight of what just passed between them. His hand stayed on her lower back. Hers lingered on his chest, fingers lightly gripping his shirt. The bedroom was dim when they entered, moonlight spilling across the sheets. No rush, no words, just quiet breaths as they undressed each other in pieces, like unwrapping a memory.

Stack laid her down like something sacred. Crawled over her slow, kissed her deeper, his palms sliding along her sides like he was rediscovering her inch by inch. Their bodies met again, no hurry in the way he filled her, just reverence. He moved with the rhythm of someone who wanted to memorize how she felt under him, around him, with him. Every inch he pressed into her felt like a vow, every breath shared like a blessing he wasn’t sure he deserved but was damn sure going to hold on to.

Ash arched beneath him, hands on his back, thighs open, sighing with every soft roll of his hips. Her fingers traced slow paths down his spine, anchoring herself to the weight of his body and the steadiness of his love. She moved with him, not just beneath him, but with him, meeting his pace, chasing his kiss, opening wider for him like her whole body had learned the language of yes. He whispered her name between kisses, said it like it meant everything. Told her she was everything warm, needed, right. Every moan she gave him was earned with a stroke that reached deep, a kiss that lingered, a pause that said, I'm still here. I’m not done loving you yet. He stayed right there, lips brushing her jaw, her shoulder, her throat, hands gripping her like he didn’t know where she ended and he began.

Then—

Zion’s voice from the hallway: “Is y’all married now or what?”

Ash wheezed a laugh.

Stack didn’t move. Just muttered, “I swear to God, I’m puttin’ him up for adoption.”

Zion walked off, already talking to himself. “Y’all grown folks nasty.”

Ash pulled him in for one more kiss, still breathless. “He not wrong.”

It started with a phone call.

The number showed up unknown, but Stack had a feeling before he even picked up. Some cold instinct was waking up in his gut like a warning. He answered anyway. One word.

"Yeah."

The voice on the other end was smooth. Too smooth. Fake polite, like it came with a side of side-eye and fresh drama. "Hey, Stack. It’s me."

He didn’t say anything.

“I just wanted to talk. About Zion.”

Still, he didn’t say shit. Just let the silence stretch until her voice cracked around the edges.

“I think it’s time,” she continued. “I want to see him. Maybe we should talk about custody.”

Stack hung up.

Didn’t slam it. Didn’t curse. Just ended the call like it was a favor.

Ash found him in the backyard an hour later, sitting in one of those busted lawn chairs Zion kept jumping off like a trampoline. He was staring at nothing, jaw tight, chest rising slow and heavy like he was trying to hold everything in.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, put her hand on his shoulder. Didn’t ask. Didn’t prod. Just let him sit in it until he was ready.

"She called," he said, voice low.

Ash didn’t ask who. She already knew.

He looked up at her, eyes raw. “She said the word ‘custody’ like she earned the right to use it.”

Ash sat down beside him. Crossed her legs. Folded her hands in her lap like a storm was brewing and she’d already decided to stand in the middle of it, earrings swinging with quiet intent.

“You want me to handle it?”

He blinked. “What?”

Ash looked at him, dead serious. “You want me to handle it.”

And that’s how Ash ended up in the principal’s office the next morning, in full yoga set and hoops, standing toe-to-toe with Zion’s biological mother, who had shown up with fake tears and a manila folder full of weak-ass paperwork. She was dressed like she came for a performance, not a child. The kind of outfit meant to impress strangers and intimidate people who cared.

“You’re overstepping,” the woman said, eyes narrow, lips curled like she smelled something sour.

Ash smiled sweetly, tilting her head like she was about to offer a prayer. “See, I came in peace, but don’t get it twisted, I majored in yoga and minored in cussin’. Don’t let the stretchy pants fool you.”

The principal looked like she wanted to melt into her office chair. Zion’s mother looked ready to swing. Ash? Ash just stood there like the whole room was hers.

“You don’t get to come back and call it parenting just ‘cause the boy you left behind turned out better than you expected,” she said, calm and cutting. Her voice didn’t rise. She didn’t throw hands. But every syllable hit like a slap.

“You his teacher,” the woman spat. “That’s it.”

Ash leaned in, voice dropping to something velvet and iron. “No, baby. I’m the woman who made your son a card. Who held him when he cried. Who taught him how to breathe through the nightmares you left in his bones. I’m the one who shows up every damn day. Don’t come at me unless you brought something stronger than cheap perfume and an expired apology.”

Stack came in midway, breath caught, heart in his throat, just in time to see the silence fall like judgment. Ash stood in the middle of the room, still blazing, still solid. Still his.

He didn’t have to say a thing. Her presence said enough for both of them.

Later, when the paperwork came back, the judge sided with Stack, denying any motion to revisit custody. It felt like a door finally closed. Not with a bang. With a lock.

Ash sat on the porch with Zion asleep in her lap. His little mouth was open, one sock halfway off, hands curled like he’d been fighting dragons in his dreams. The sun was low. Everything felt golden and still.

Stack kneeled beside her, his hand covering hers, thumb stroking the back like he was trying to memorize the texture of the moment.

“I used to think love was about feeling safe,” he said, voice low. “But it’s also about watching someone go to war for what’s yours, like it’s theirs too.”

Ash looked down at Zion, fingers brushing his curls, her other hand wrapped around Stack’s.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said, lips twitching into a smile. “I did it because that little boy deserves every ounce of fight I got.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s how I knew it was real.”

They didn’t say the words then. Didn’t have to.

But when Ash kissed him slow, steady, and full of heat, Zion snoring against her chest, Stack knew he’d already found his family.

Not the one he started with.

But the one that stayed. And fought. And loved like their lives depended on it.

–

It’d been almost a year since that woman tried to rewrite a story she abandoned. Twelve months since Ash took off her hoops and verbally drop-kicked Zion’s birth mother into the next zip code. And somewhere between court documents and casserole nights, the three of them, Stack, Ash, and Zion, had become what Zion now loudly called "The Best Family in the Whole Damn World."

Family Day at school looked different this year.

Ash was the first to show up, wearing a pink hoodie that read Emotionally Adopted Mama in rhinestones. Stack arrived late, as usual, with a juice box in one hand and Zion’s forgotten lunch in the other. He looked like a man who lost three battles before noon and was still ready to square up on behalf of his household.

Zion had drawn them on construction paper, big heads, small bodies, Stack’s beard scribbled like a thundercloud. The title read: My Daddy, My Mama, and Me (The Loud One).

His teacher laughed and pulled Ash aside. “He told me y’all adopted him emotionally before legally.”

Ash wiped her eye, smirking. “He be listening sometimes.”

Zion popped up behind them, hands on his hips. “Miss Ash said paperwork ain’t love. I be quotin’ now.”

Ash kissed the top of his head. “Look at you bein’ wise and messy.”

Then came Yoga for Daddies.

Ash started the class half-joking, half-inspired, but it caught on like wildfire, mostly because the daddies were fine and the mats were close.

Stack showed up late to that too, wearing gray sweatpants and confusion.

“What’s this? Flexin’ for God?”

Zion was already on his mat, folded like a pretzel. “Daddy, do the pose before you embarrass us.”

Ash walked over, grinning, as she helped him into a stretch that put his pride in danger. Her hands lingered. Everyone noticed.

From the doorway, Elijah, Stack’s twin, whistled low. “Y’all might need to cool it before the mats catch fire.”

That got a full laugh out of Ash and a warning glare from Stack. Zion whispered, “Y’all nasty,” then kept posing like a tiny boss.

Then there was the talent show.

Zion didn’t tell anyone what he signed up to do. They showed up expecting a poem. Maybe a puppet.

What they got was a belly dance to a slowed-down remix of “Wipe Me Down.”

Ash screamed. Stack dropped his phone from laughing too hard. Zion shimmied like rent was due.

“SHAKE WHAT YO DADDY GAVE YOU!” Ash hollered, filming every second.

Stack had to sit down, tears in his eyes. “This child gon’ get suspended from life.”

And then came the proposal.

Stack didn’t want to do it in a restaurant or in front of an audience. He wanted it where their life happened right in the middle of the chaos they’d built.

He and Zion had been whispering all morning. Zion was acting extra suspicious, hiding something behind his back, bursting into giggles anytime Ash looked his way.

After dinner, while Ash was rinsing dishes and humming off-key to some ‘90s R&B, Zion ran into the kitchen holding a paper crown made out of construction paper and glitter.

“Mama Ash,” he said dramatically, placing it on her head. “Your royal presence is required in the living room.”

Ash turned, laughing. “What y’all up to now?”

“Royal business,” Zion said, already tugging her hand.

She followed, drying her hands on a dish towel, only to find the lights dimmed, a single candle flickering on the coffee table, and Stack kneeling, real, real kneeling on the rug.

Zion stood beside him, holding up a crumpled sign that read: Will You Marry My Daddy? He Nervous.

Stack looked up at her, heart in his throat. “I don’t got a speech. I just know life ain’t never made more sense than it does with you in it. You make this loud little boy braver. You make me better. And I want you, loud days, messy nights, yoga pants, glitter, all of it. I want you forever.”

Ash’s hand flew to her mouth, tears already slipping down her cheeks.

Zion added, “Plus we already a family. This just paperwork.”

Ash laughed, nodded, cried, and said yes all at once.

They tackled Stack to the rug, Zion jumping on top of both of them shouting, “WE GETTIN’ MARRIEDDD!”

That night Ash and Stack laid in bed.

It was giggly. Playful. Full of whispered jokes and breathless kisses.

Ash rolled on top of him, hair wild, eyes dancing. “We really gettin’ married, huh?”

Stack grinned, hands on her hips. “You stuck with me, baby.”

They didn’t make it far before Zion’s fist banged on the door.

“IF Y’ALL MAKING ANOTHER ONE, NAME HIM AFTER ME.”

They collapsed in laughter, limbs tangled, love thick in the air.

The night ended the same way it always did, Zion snoring between them, one leg across Stack’s stomach, Ash curled into his back.

A family. Loud, messy, sacred.

Theirs.