#stack moore x reader

“Don't scratch my car” Smoke had warned.

Stack had answered with nothing more than a laugh. The truth was, he hadn't borrowed it for a joyride - not really. It had been seven long days. Seven days since he'd seen her smile. Seven days since he'd heard her laugh. Seven days was entirely too long.

Word traveled quickly through the neighborhoods of the Delta. By supper, somebody had mentioned pastor Bailey was leading a week-long revival in Tennessee. Elias didn't need to hear another word. It would certainly be rude to leave a young girl all by her lonesome for a week - now, wouldn't it? The smug basterd even couldn't stop himself from grinning as he zoomed past the little white church - “if only that preacher knew”

If only the preacher knew the man that singlehandedly corrupted his precious, sweet little girl, set in his pews every Sunday. Elias didn’t believe in sin - at least not the kind he preached about from the pulpit. He believed in the curve of a woman’s waist, the taste of cheap whiskey, and the thrill of doing exactly what he wasn't supposed to do.

Pastor Bailey was no fool, but there were things he didn't know - maybe that was for the best. The widowed pastor had arrived from Baltimore with his daughter years earlier with ideas that most folks around the Delta called dangerous. He preached that every soul stood equal before God. Black, white, poor, or rich. - It didn't matter. He believed that we were all gonna live together in peace when we got to heaven, so might as well learn together too.

His congregation reflected it too. People whispered and others threatened. The Klan certainly hadn't appreciated the message and above all the pastor possessed two qualities in abundance - faith and absolutely no fear. Everybody knew the bible on his desk was there to save anyone's soul if willing. They also knew the loaded shotgun within arm's reach was there to protect his congregation. His belief in the 2nd amendment was just as strong as the Klan’s twisted and disgusting mindset.

Smoke respected a man who practiced what he preached, especially when that preaching came backed by equal measures of scripture and shotgun steel. Pastor Bailey was a dangerous kind of holy man - soft-spoken, gentle-hearted, but with a spine of pure iron. He protected his flock like a mother bear, willing to trade scripture verses with bullets if necessary.

Truth be told, Elijah and Elias only started attending because Annie insisted. “Boy,” she'd told both twins, “the Lord's been good to you whether you admit it or not”

Elias had rolled his eyes the entire first service - hell, he would have fallen asleep if Annie hadn't smacked that flashly fedora off his thick skull. But he had remembered every second of that day anyway. The preacher had been halfway through a sermon about judgment when Elais' attention drifted.

Not to the pulpit, but to the second pew closet to the front - she was sitting beside Grace Chow of all people. She had that pink bible opened to Revelations like a good little girl.

She looked like an angel, her profile soft and innocent, simple pale blue dress and her hair pinned back. She listened like every word her father spoke mattered. Then she looked up and caught him staring. Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, Elias gave the most flirtatious wink he'd ever given to any woman. And instead of looking offended she'd blushed - actually blushed and gave him the cutest smile he'd ever seen. And that smile hadn't left him ever since.

If only the preacher knew Elias Moore had singlehandedly corrupted his daughter - Took her. virginity inside that very church no less.

The memory of it still made him grin like a fool - that stolen hour between Wednesday night Bible study and the late service, when he'd backed her against the choir loft the day she wore that prim little dress. He didn’t believe in blasphemies or purities, but he believed in the way her legs had wrapped around his waist and the way she’d bitten his shoulder to hold back her cries.

Goddamn, that girl had learned fast. He'd taught her how to touch him, how to take him deep, how to ride him until they were both shaking and desperate. She had learned that the things her daddy preached about as sinful - greed, gluttony, lust - felt an awful lot like heaven when Elias was the one administering them. He’d taught her where to press her fingers to make her back arch and that being a "good girl" didn't mean being silent.

The thought alone was enough to make Elias shift in his seat as he navigated the winding roads. Dust swirled around the crimson car as he pulled up to the Bailey house. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of purple and gold. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he stared at the front door.

That house was the definition of wholesome. The porch was swept clean, lace curtains in the windows, and a swing rocking gently in the evening breeze. It was the home of a God-fearing man and his beloved daughter, the absolute sanctuary of Southern propriety.

It was also the residence of Elias' personal addiction. He climbed out of the car and quietly shut the door. There was only a lamp glowing in the window. He stepped onto the porch and gave the screen door the gentlest knock he could manage. He heard the floorboards creak inside. His heart did that annoying little stutter it always did around this house, like some kind of twisted religious experience. He adjusted his collar - damn thing feeling too tight suddenly - and ran a hand over his jaw. He'd washed up. Smelled like Bay Rum cologne instead of the usual cigarette and Irish beer.

A moment later the door opened just enough for one bright e/c eye to peek through. “Elias” the whole door swung wide and her arms were around his neck. The sweetest greetings he's ever received. Not even Smoke was ever that happy to see him - and they were twins.

Elias caught her smoothly, one hand splaying out across her lower back as he pulled her flush against him. “Well, hell,” he murmured softly, nuzzling into her neck without a single care - thank the lord she didn't have neighbors. “Miss me, Baby?”

“course,” Y/n pulled back, but didn't break the connection. Her tiny hands curled into that burgundy vest that framed his body so well. “thought you gone and forgotten about me”

“Never happen, sweetheart.” Elias caught her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. His expression was shamelessly soft - a side of him absolutely nobody else got to see. Not Smoke, not Sammie, not Annie. Just her. “A man doesn't forget his obsession”

That word made her shiver - she liked being Elias' obsession. She liked being the only person who could make Elias Moore act like a lovesick fool, the only person who could make him knock politely instead of just letting himself in. She was the reason he washed the whiskey off his breath and ironed his shirt.

“Missed you,” she said and looked up at him with those sweet eyes like he hasn't ruined her billion times over. “You really drove all this way just to see me?”

“Every Mile,” Elias said, dipping his head to the side and pressing a soft kiss to her neck before slipping his hands into his pockets. He leaned against the doorframe casually, trying to play it cool - like he wasn't halfway across town to spend one night with her. “Your daddy leave?”

“this mornin' for Tennessee,” she smiled as those sweet little eyes took a quick scan up and down his body. It's scary to think how her mind works like his now.

His suit jacket was long gone and he was wearing that pale red dress shirt and burgundy suit vest over that muscular chest of his. He still had that red tie tucked in behind it, but it was loose at his neck. “He'll be gone all week” she said as her slim fingers loosely gripped his tie and pulled him closer by it.

He let her reel him in without an ounce of resistance, stepping across that sacred threshold like he owned the place. Her little hand fisted in his silk tie was the only leash he’d ever accept. “A whole week,” he murmured, smirking down at her. “Lord have mercy on my soul”

“Guess we'll be praying for forgiveness Sunday” she smirked.

“Don't hold your breath, baby,” Elias laughed low in his throat, moving his hands to grip her waist and kick the front door shut with his heel. The sound of the latch clicking felt heavier than a gavel strike. “If the Good Lord heard the things I’m planning to do to you all week, he’d strike me dead before I even made it to the amen”

Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of stubble - he hadn't shaved this morning. “Would you die happy?” She stared up at him with that sweetness that usually made him want to ruin her something fierce.

“Die happy? Baby, if I died with your name on my lips, I'd be the happiest sinner to ever cross that river” His hands tightened on her waist, lifting her effortlessly to sit on the dining room table. He stepped between her thighs, leaning down so his lips brushed against hers.

He kissed her slowly, reverently, treating that innocent mouth like the most holy thing in existence. The contradiction was lethal - a man dressed in expensive suits and danger, absolutely worshiping the preacher's daughter. His hands slid up her thighs under her skirt, ruining her decency before they even started. “My good girl,” He murmured against her mouth. “My sweet, wicked girl”

She sighed into his mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist to drag him impossibly closer. The heat of his big palms against her inner thighs was enough to make her head spin, completely bypassing any Sunday school lesson she’d ever learned. “Elias” she shuddered, fingers curling into his vest.

Elias tilted his head and deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers with that practiced, sinful skill that made her toes curl. He kissed her like a man starving, like a man who would burn the whole damn town to the ground if it meant he could keep tasting her.

His hands were already working their magic, sliding under her skirt with zero hesitation, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her panties. He wanted them gone. He wanted her bare and spread for him on this very table where her daddy said grace. The blasphemy of it made his cock throb painfully against his slacks.

“P-please... Elias” y/n said softly - begging.

There was something devastatingly beautiful about the preacher's daughter begging for sin right in the center of her father's dining room. “Shh, baby,” He soothed against your neck, hand sliding down to grip your thighs possessively. “Just let me take care of you, alright?” He whispered as he dropped to his knees between your thighs.

Elias hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, slowly dragging them down her legs and pressing a reverent kiss to the inside of her thigh as he tossed them aside onto the pristine rug. He looked up at her from his knees, resting his chin against her inner thigh, eyes dark and worshipful. “Open up for me, sweetheart”

It was the ultimate surrender - a sweet, innocent girl parting her legs for sin itself. Y/n leaned back on her hands, spreading her thighs obediently, exposing herself completely. Her daddy would have a coronary seeing his daughter bare on the table like this. Elias looked up at her like she was the altar and he was the man meant to worship.

“E-Elias”

“I know, baby,” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her inner thigh. “I know” His hands slid up her legs, spreading her wider as he leaned in and pressed his mouth against her center. The first lick was slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of heaven. His stubble grazed her sensitive skin, making her head tilt back as she let out pleasurable whine.

The sound made his cock twitch hard against his slacks - preacher's daughter whimpering like a sinner in his mouth. He used his thumbs to spread her open wider, exposing every delicate fold like he was studying scripture. His tongue dipped low first, tracing her perimeter before teasing the slit. He wasn't rushing. Never rushed with her. Every moan she gave was earned.

“Elias,” y/n shuddered, her hips arching as her fists curled into the collar of his shirt. “D-don't stop... Please don't stop”

Like he could ever stop once he had her taste on his tongue. Like he wouldn't burn in hell happily if it meant he could eat this sweet pussy all day. He groaned against her, the vibration making her gasp his name in prayer. He flattened his tongue and licked her slowly, thoroughly, worshipping her clit like a holy sacrament. Her legs shook helplessly, those pretty thighs trembling against his ears. This was his church, his altar, his religion - burying his face between the preacher's daughter's legs. He sucked gently, drawing a high, broken whine from her throat as her hips arched desperately and utterly ruined.

The vibrations of his groans hit her clit directly and made her back arch off the table. Stubborn little thing - she was already close and he could taste it, sweetening rapidly. His tongue worked her with the patience of a man who had nothing but time, nothing but this week to worship at her altar.

“I need to come,” y/n begged desperately. “P-please, I'm so close, Elias”

“Then come, baby” He could feel her tightening, her walls fluttering around his tongue as he pushed it deep inside her, fucking her with his mouth while his thumbs pressed against her clit. Preacher's daughter came apart like shattered glass, beautiful and desperate. He caught every tremor, every gasp, every moan that wasn't for God but for him.

He sat back on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning smugly as he watched her catch her breath. She looked utterly debauched - hair messed up, skirt hiked up, face flushed, mouth parted. He kissed her inner thighs gently before standing up between her spread legs. He unbuttoned his vest slowly, giving her access to his shirt buttons. “Unbutton me” he commanded softly.

Her fingers shook slightly as she obeyed, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling hands. He helped her push the fabric off his shoulders, revealing his chest - hard muscles, beautiful dark skin, and the faint scars that told stories that he could never bring himself to tell her.

But she traced every scar unconsciously - one across his ribs, another near his collarbone. Each one a testament to a life she'd never fully understood, but craved. He watched her face, letting her memorize every inch as his chest heaved slightly. Her fingers traced down to the V-line of his torso dipping into his slacks.

“B-bedroom,” her voice was breathlessly soft - desperate. Her soft gaze met him. “please”

He didn't need to be told twice. The way she looked at him - needy, desperate, wanting him like he was her personal salvation - made his cock ache. He gathered her up effortlessly, carrying her bridal style through her daddy's house. Up the stairs, past the family photos, past the Bible verses framed on walls, and into her bedroom.

Her room was exactly how he remembered - soft pink walls, lace curtains, smell of rose and mint - her daddy would be proud. His cock throbbed as he set her down on her bed, taking in the pretty details. Like the Bible on her nightstand with flowers pressed between pages and the teddy bear that rested against the bed frame.

“Elias...” y/n whispered. “P-please. Make love me, ruin me”

Those words - fuck. Something dark and possessive swelled in his chest at the vulnerability in her voice. This good girl wanted him to mark her up, wanted her daddy's perfect daughter fucked senseless in her bed.

“I always do” He murmured as his belt hit the floor with a clatter before kicking his slacks off, followed by his boxers, leaving him bare and heavy, his cock flushed and hard against his stomach. He crawled over her, palms on either side of her head. He lowered himself to press a heated kiss against her throat, right over her frantically beating pulse. Then he reached behind her back, finding the zipper of her dress and dragging it down with agonizing slowness. The fabric fell away, leaving her bare on her soft sheets. Only thing left was the small golden cross necklace resting between her breasts. He hovered over her, his cock throbbing against her stomach, trapping her in his shadow.

“Spread your legs, baby” He murmured against her neck, his voice rough with desire.

He watched her obey, his eyes darkened as he took in the sight - soft thighs parted, pink pussy glistening with arousal, innocent body ready for his sinful touch. He reached down, gripping his cock and rubbing the head against her wet folds, teasing her entrance.

“Elias, P-please!” she whined.

“Shh, baby... I got you” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her lips as he slowly pushed inside her. Her walls clenched around him immediately - tight, hot, perfect. He groaned into her mouth as he filled her inch by inch until he was seated deep inside. “Fuck…”

“Oh, God. Don't ever stop” She moaned, biting her lip as her nails made little crescents into his back. He started to move slowly, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in deeply, grinding his hips against her clit. He watched her face, committing every soft whimper, every flutter of her eyelashes to memory.

“I'll fuck you every day until your father finds out. Until he knows his precious daughter is taking a black man's cock like a whore” Elias snapped his hips this time, his body slamming hers with increased ferocity.

The blasphemy of it made her gasp - his words were filthy, wrong, sinful. But her body betrayed her, clenching harder around him. He hit that spot inside her that made her toes curl, grinding against it deliberately.

“And you know what he'll say, huh?” He fucked her faster now, making the bed creak. “He'll say, 'My babygirl is lost - she's fuckin’ the devil.' And you know what I'll say?” He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

“I'll tell him his daughter found a better salvation,” He slammed into her particularly hard, making her cry out his name. His hand wrapped around her throat - not squeezing, just holding, claiming. “A salvation that actually satisfies her. I'll make you scream my name instead of praying to heaven”

His cock hit that spot again, making her vision blur. He angled his hips to grind ruthlessly against that spot, watching her eyes roll back. Her pussy fluttered violently around him, sucking him in deeper. “Only thing listenin’ to you is me,” He moved faster, driving into her with sinful precision, ruining her for anyone else. “Who makes you feel this good?”

“You!” she choked out, her back arching violently off the mattress as her nails clawed down his back. “feels so good”

The bed creaked and moaned in protest as he hiked her thigh higher up his hip and fucked her harder, unable to hold back anymore. He was defiling the pastor's baby girl in her own bed, using her body to worship at his own personal altar of lust. “Come for me, baby” He demanded hoarsely, grinding against her clit.

He rolled his hips sharply against that sensitive spot inside her, forcing the orgasm out of her violently. Her entire body seized, back bowing off the mattress as she screamed his name, her walls clamping down around him like a vice. He fucked her through it, whispering filthy praises, ruining her completely on her floral sheets.

Elias groaned as her tight heat milked him, triggering his own release. He swiftly pulled out, emptying his load all over her plush thighs with a guttural curse that would make her father faint. He collapsed over her, both of them panting heavily, his sweaty forehead pressed against hers. “That's my good girl”

Her chest heaved, heart hammering against her ribs. She was ruined - absolutely ruined. Her father's daughter, coming on a sinner while her Bible sat five inches from her hand. She looked at Elias - sweat glistening on his dark skin, cock still half-hard and leaking onto her thighs, looking like the devil himself.

He leaned down, capturing her swollen lips in a messy, dirty kiss, stealing the air right from her lungs. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his dark eyes boring into hers - possessive, unrepentant. “God ain't watching you now, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the cross around her neck. “I am”

“will you protect me always?” she whispered.

“Until my dying breath,” He swore without hesitation. “I’ll worship you, and kill anyone who ever touches you.” He brushed her nose with his. “You’re mine, baby. Not God’s. Mine”

He pulled away to look at her, his gaze softening as he took in her flushed face and sated body. He slowly cleaned her up with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket, wiping away the evidence of their release. When he was done, he pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest as he lay back on the twin sized bed that was barely big enough for the both of them.

The bass was still a deep, physical pulse against Stack's ribs when he kicked his front door shut, the sound chasing him inside like it wasn't done with him yet. Laughter bled through the hallway walls, distant, dissolving into the hum of his apartment settling back into its bones. The night clung to him—top-shelf whiskey sharp on his tongue, someone else's floral perfume tangled in his shirt collar, the kind of energy that didn't fade easily, just settled under his skin like a low-grade fever.

She was already inside before he made it to the kitchen.

No invitation.

No hesitation.

Just slipped past him like she owned the place, like she'd been mapping his space in her head for weeks. Stack watched her move, slow, assessing, head tilted as she navigated his apartment like she belonged there. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. The thought barely registered.

"Make yourself at home then," he drawled, voice rough from smoke and amusement.

She laughed, kicking off stilettos that landed with two soft thumps near the couch, the sound light and easy like this was just another Tuesday, just another him. "Don't act like you didn't bring me here for exactly this," she shot back, glancing over her shoulder with eyes that already knew the answer.

Stack smirked, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the counter. He didn't confirm. Didn't deny.

Didn't need to.

The space between them closed the way it always did, magnetic, unspoken, predictable in a way that never felt boring. Hands found places they shouldn't linger in public, voices dropped lower, laughter melting into something softer, something slower. Her dress pooled on his floor like black water. His shirt followed. The night blurred at the edges, sharp focus narrowing to skin on skin, the way her breath hitched when his teeth grazed her collarbone, the taste of sweat and expensive perfume as he flipped her over his kitchen counter, the cool marble against her stomach making her arch back into him.

Fast until it wasn't.

Then morning came.

Pale light sliced through the blinds, cutting across the room in thin lines that landed across tangled sheets, across skin already cooling in the air conditioning. The apartment felt different in daylight. Quieter. Realer.

Stack was already up.

Jeans zipped but unbuckled, moving around the room with the same ease he always had, like this part was routine, like none of this required thought. He pulled his shirt over his head, glanced once toward the bed where she was still watching him with eyes that held morning vulnerability, the kind that wanted more than the night had promised.

"You always leave this early?" she asked, voice thick with sleep as she pushed up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to expose the bite marks purpling on her shoulder.

Stack didn't look at her right away. Just reached for his keys, patting his pockets like he always did, making sure everything was where it needed to be.

"Got shit to do," he said simply.

It wasn't rude.

It wasn't gentle either.

It just... was.

She watched him for a second longer, like she was deciding whether to push it, whether to demand the morning-after tenderness she thought she'd earned.

"You gon' hit me later?" she asked, a little smile tugging at her lips like she already knew the script but wanted to hear it anyway.

Stack finally looked at her then.

Not long.

Just enough.

"Yeah," he said, already turning away as he spoke. "I'll hit you."

He wouldn't.

They both knew it.

But it sounded good in the moment, and that was usually enough.

His phone buzzed on the counter as he headed toward the door, lighting up with a name he didn't bother reacting to. Then another. And another.

He glanced down, thumb swiping across the screen, scrolling without urgency. Different names. Different conversations. Same tone.

Options.

Always options.

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth as he leaned against the doorframe, typing something quick back, already moving on before the message was even fully sent.

Behind him, she shifted in the bed, the sound soft, almost forgotten already.

Stack opened the door, stepping out into the hallway like nothing inside that apartment had weight to it, as it all stayed behind the moment he left.

No attachments. No follow-ups. No consequences. Just another night. Just another name. And nothing that stuck. 

The pounding didn't stop.

It hammered through his skull like a jackhammer, loud, insistent, echoing through the walls of his apartment in a way that didn't match the lazy afternoon sun already painting stripes across his floor. Stack groaned into his pillow, one arm thrown over his face as if that alone might block it out. His head was still heavy from the night before, bourbon and someone else's perfume lingering on his skin, body slow, mind not fully caught up to the fact that morning had come, whether he was ready or not.

Then it came again. Harder. Followed by something else. A sound that didn't belong. High. Sharp. Persistent.

Stack's eyes cracked open, brows pulling together as he lay there for a second, listening. The knocking stopped.

The other sound didn't.

A baby.

Crying.

He pushed himself up slowly, blinking against the light creeping through his blinds, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. His apartment wasn't the type of place babies just... showed up in. It was the kind of place women slipped out of before dawn, not the kind where responsibility arrived unannounced. He sat there for a second longer than he should have, like maybe if he stayed still enough, the sound would go away on its own.

It didn't.

"Man, what the hell..." he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cold under his feet as he made his way toward the door, each step slower than the last, irritation building with every cry that echoed through the hallway outside. He didn't rush. Didn't think he needed to.

He opened the door halfway.

And stopped.

A baby carrier sat right there on his doorstep.

Small.

Still.

Except for the baby inside it—a perfect ball of chocolate with cheeks so full they looked like they might overflow, face scrunched up tight as it cried like it had been waiting on him specifically. The baby couldn't have been more than six months old, with skin the color of rich cocoa and fists balled up tight like tiny weapons.

Stack stared at it.

Then down the hallway.

Empty.

Dead quiet.

No footsteps. No elevator ding. No sign of anybody who might've left it there.

"...Nah," he said under his breath, like saying it out loud might undo whatever he was looking at.

He looked back at the baby.

The baby looked back.

Still crying.

Stack opened the door wider, stepping out just enough to glance both directions again, like somebody might pop out and claim this as a joke.

Nothing.

Just him.

And the baby.

"Yeah, aight," he muttered, running a hand over his head. "Y'all got the wrong door."

The baby didn't care.

It cried louder.

Stack exhaled sharply, crouching down like he wasn't fully committing to the situation yet. His eyes caught the folded piece of paper tucked into the side of the carrier.

He hesitated.

Then grabbed it.

Unfolded it.

His eyes scanned the words once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

"I'm not ready to be a mom.

He's yours."

Stack blinked.

Looked back at the baby.

Then at the note.

Then back at the baby again.

"...He?" he said out loud, voice flat with disbelief.

The baby hiccupped mid-cry like it was answering him, those chubby cheeks jiggling with the sound.

"Yours?"

His head tilted slightly, confusion shifting fast into irritation.

"WHO?"

The word echoed louder than he meant it to, bouncing off the hallway walls.

The baby flinched.

Then cried harder, little tears tracking paths through that perfect chocolate skin.

Stack cursed under his breath, looking down at the carrier like it had personally offended him.

"Nah, nah, nah," he muttered, shaking his head as he stood back up. "This ain't... this ain't mine."

But he didn't close the door.

Didn't walk away.

Didn't leave it sitting there either.

The crying didn't give him that option.

He crouched again, slower this time, staring at the baby like it might explain itself if he looked long enough. The baby had eyes the color of warm honey, now swimming in tears, and a shock of soft curls that were already damp with sweat.

It didn't.

It just kept crying.

Loud.

Relentless.

Stack exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed now, one hand bracing against his knee as the other hovered awkwardly over the carrier.

"...Aight," he muttered. "Aight, shut up. Damn."

He reached down.

Paused.

Adjusted his grip like he wasn't sure what part of it he was supposed to hold.

Then picked the carrier up like it might explode if he moved too fast.

The crying didn't stop.

If anything, it got worse.

Stack stiffened immediately, arms locking in place as he held the baby out slightly, like distance might help. It didn't. He froze. Standing there in his doorway. Holding a crying baby. Looking like he had absolutely no idea what the hell to do next.

Stack made it three steps into his apartment before he stopped.

Just stood there. Door still open behind him. Baby was still crying in his hands like it had something to prove. He looked down at it slowly, like maybe the angle would change something.

It didn't.

"...Nah," he said again, quieter this time, like he was trying to convince himself instead of the empty hallway. "Nah, this ain't... this ain't right."

The baby cried harder, those chocolate cheeks turning blotchy with effort.

Stack's jaw tightened.

"Aight, aight, I hear you," he muttered, shifting the carrier awkwardly from one arm to the other like it was a hot potato. "Damn, you loud. You got lungs on you, I'll give you that."

He nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click echoing a little too final for his liking. Now it was just him. And the baby. Inside. Stack froze again for a second. Then immediately started pacing.

Back and forth across his living room, like movement would solve something his brain hadn't caught up to yet, the carrier bumping against his leg with every other step.

"This gotta be a mistake," he muttered, more to himself than anything. "Somebody got the wrong Stack. Ain't no way. I use protection. Mostly."

The baby cried.

Unimpressed.

Stack ran a hand over his face, already stressed, already irritated, already overwhelmed, and he hadn't even made it ten minutes into this situation.

"Aight... think," he said, pointing at the floor like he was addressing himself in a meeting. "Think."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Then he started talking.

Out loud.

To the baby.

"You got the wrong one," he said, pacing again, shaking his head. "It ain't me. I don't even be... like that. I'm the wrong kind of nigga for this parenting shit. You need a responsible one. Maybe my brother Elijah? He's the calm one. I'm the... other one."

The baby let out a sharp cry that sounded a lot like disagreement.

Stack stopped mid-step.

"...Don't do that," he said, pointing at it now. "Don't do that like you know somethin'. You can't even talk yet."

The baby kept crying.

Louder.

Stack sucked his teeth, frustration climbing fast as he shifted the carrier again, grip awkward, unsure.

"Aight," he muttered. "Aight, let's run this back. Let's make a list."

He started pacing again.

"Keisha?" he said, thinking out loud. "Nah. Keisha moved to Houston. And she had that little dog—she wouldn't even... nah."

The baby cried.

"Right," he said quickly, nodding like the baby confirmed it. "Exactly. Not her."

He kept going.

"Jasmine?"

Pause.

His face twisted.

"...Nah. Jasmine don't even like kids. She told me that. Like, aggressively. Said if she ever got pregnant she'd 'take care of it' if you know what I mean. And I did not stick around to ask questions."

The baby cried again.

"See?" he said, gesturing like he was making a point. "You hear that? She don't like you. You dodged a bullet with that one, little man."

The baby wailed louder.

"Damn, aight!" Stack snapped, immediately scrubbing a hand over his face again. "You ain't gotta take it personal. I'm just trying to figure out who your mama is so I can return you like defective merchandise."

He kept pacing.

"Brianna?" he tried next, slower this time. "Wait..."

He stopped.

Thinking.

Then shook his head.

"Nah, Brianna had a boyfriend. I remember that. She was stressin' him out, not me. Plus she was allergic to latex, so we used... other methods. Very thorough methods."

The baby cried.

Relentless.

Stack exhaled hard, chest rising and falling faster now as the noise started to get to him.

"This don't make no sense," he muttered. "Y'all just be droppin' kids off like it's Amazon or somethin'? I ain't order this. I didn't even get a confirmation email."

The baby did not care.

Stack stopped pacing and looked down at it again, really looked this time, like he was trying to find answers in its face.

All he saw was a tiny human screaming like the world was ending.

"...Aight," he said slowly, voice dropping like he was about to negotiate. "What you need? You hungry? You wet? You need to... I don't know, burp or some shit?"

The baby screamed louder.

Stack blinked.

"...That ain't helpful," he muttered.

He shifted again, trying to adjust how he held the carrier, then frowned like something about it felt off.

"Do I... take you out?" he asked, genuinely unsure. "Is that allowed? Like, are you supposed to stay in there until you're 18 or some shit?"

The baby cried.

Stack looked around his apartment like answers might be sitting on his couch.

Nothing. No instructions. No manual. Just him.

"Man..." he muttered under his breath.

He crouched down slightly, setting the carrier on the couch like he was defusing something dangerous.

The crying didn't stop.

If anything, it echoed louder in the space now that it wasn't moving.

"Aight, aight," he said quickly, hands hovering over the baby like he was about to perform surgery with no training. "I got you. I got you."

He didn't. He reached in. Paused.

Then awkwardly slid his hands under the baby, lifting it out with stiff, uncertain movements like he was afraid it might break.

The crying spiked immediately.

Stack stiffened.

"Oh nah," he said, eyes widening. "See? I knew I shouldn't have did that. You don't like it out here. Okay, back in you go."

He started to put the baby back in the carrier, but the baby's tiny fist caught on his chain, yanking it hard.

"Ow! Damn, little man, you strong as hell!" Stack yelped, fumbling to free himself while keeping the baby from falling. "Aight, aight, you win! You can stay out."

He held the baby out slightly, arms locked again.

"Hey," he said, trying a different tone, like talking to an adult. "Relax. You good. Ain't nothin' happenin'. We just gonna figure this out. Adult to... tiny adult."

The baby screamed.

Louder.

Stack grimaced.

"Okay, so that don't work," he muttered.

He tried rocking it.

Too fast. Too stiff. Like he was shaking a problem loose.

The baby hated that. Cried even harder.

"Aight—damn!" he snapped, immediately slowing down, panicking now. "Aight, my fault, my fault. Too much. Got it."

He tried bouncing next.

Then patting.

Then just... holding it.

None of it worked.

"Man, you hungry?" he asked suddenly, like that might be it. "You want some water?"

He paused.

Blinking.

"...You don't drink water, do you? You probably need that... what's it called... milk? Formula? I don't have none of that. I got almond milk for my smoothies. You want almond milk? It's vanilla flavored."

The baby screamed.

"Yeah, that sounded stupid when I said it," he muttered quickly.

He started pacing again, baby in his arms now, movements uneven, energy frantic.

"Aight, what else babies do?" he said, thinking out loud. "Eat. Sleep. Cry. You already cryin' so what that leave?"

The baby answered by crying louder.

Stack stopped.

Closed his eyes for a second.

Took a breath.

Then opened them again, looking down at the baby like he was out of options.

"...Nah," he said finally, shaking his head slowly, exhaustion and disbelief settling in at the same time. "Nah... this ain't mine."

But he didn't put it down. Didn't walk away. Just stood there. Holding it. Stressed. Overwhelmed. And very, very aware that the situation wasn't going anywhere.

Stack didn't even think about it. He just grabbed his phone. Still pacing.

Still holding the baby like it was a problem he couldn't put down.

The crying hadn't stopped, just shifted, louder in some moments, quieter in others, but constant enough to sit right behind his eyes like pressure.

He scrolled through his contacts too fast, thumb flicking with no patience until he found the one name that made the most sense in a situation that didn't make any.

Smoke.

He hit call immediately.

Didn't even think twice.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then picked up.

"...What?" Smoke's voice came through rough with sleep, irritated in a way that said this better be worth it.

"Pull up," Stack said instantly.

No explanation.

No context.

Just urgency.

Smoke went quiet for a second.

"...Why?"

"Just pull up," Stack repeated, sharper this time, pacing faster now as the baby let out another sharp cry right against his chest. "I got a situation."

There was a pause.

Then—

"...What kind of situation?"

Stack stopped pacing just long enough to look down at the baby like it might answer for him.

"It's a baby," he said flatly.

Silence.

"...What?"

"A baby," Stack repeated, already irritated at having to explain it out loud. "Like a real one. Small. Loud. In my house."

Another pause. Longer this time. Then Smoke laughed. Not a small laugh either.

A full one.

"Man, get the fuck off my phone," he said, clearly not believing him.

"I'm dead serious," Stack snapped, shifting the baby again as it cried harder. "Somebody left this baby at my door."

That got his attention.

"...You serious?"

"Yes!"

The baby cried again, loud enough for it to carry through the phone.

Smoke went quiet.

Then—

"...I'll be there in ten."

The line clicked.

Stack didn't move for a second.

Just stood there, breathing heavier than he realized, the weight of the baby settling into his arms whether he wanted it to or not.

"...Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Hurry up."

By the time Smoke knocked, Stack was still pacing.

Same spot.

Same path worn into the floor.

Baby still crying.

Energy still frantic.

He opened the door quickly this time, like relief was standing on the other side.

Smoke stepped in slow.

Took one look at Stack.

Then, at the baby.

Then back at Stack.

And blinked.

"...Oh, you wasn't lyin'," he said, voice flat with disbelief.

Stack didn't even respond.

Just held the baby out slightly like he was passing off a problem.

"Take it," he said.

Smoke stepped back immediately.

"Hell no."

Stack frowned.

"What you mean hell no?"

"I mean hell no," Smoke repeated, holding his hands up like that boundary was solid. "That's yours."

"I don't know that," Stack shot back instantly. "That's the whole problem."

The baby cried.

Right between them.

Smoke winced slightly.

"...Damn, he loud," he muttered.

"Man, I said that already," Stack snapped.

They both stood there for a second.

Looking at the baby.

Listening to it cry.

Neither moving.

"...Why you holdin' him like that?" Smoke asked finally.

Stack glanced down.

"...Like what?"

"Like he finna explode," Smoke said.

"...He might," Stack muttered.

Smoke huffed a quiet laugh, stepping a little closer now, curiosity winning over hesitation.

"...Lemme see," he said.

Stack hesitated.

Then, slowly and awkwardly, he shifted the baby toward him.

Smoke reached out.

Paused.

Adjusted his hands.

Then took the baby like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Which he didn't.

The baby cried harder.

Smoke stiffened immediately.

"...Oh nah," he said quickly, eyes widening. "He don't like me."

Stack snorted.

"He don't like me either."

Smoke tried rocking him.

Too slow.

Then too fast.

Then stopped altogether.

"...Aight, I don't like this," he said, handing the baby right back.

Stack took him automatically.

Like it wasn't even a question anymore.

They both paused.

"...So what babies need?" Smoke asked, looking around like the answer might be sitting on the counter.

Stack stared at him.

"...You the one with ideas."

"I ain't got no ideas," Smoke shot back. "I just came to see what the hell you talkin' about."

The baby cried.

Louder.

Stack groaned.

"Aight, Google it," he said, nodding toward Smoke's phone.

Smoke pulled it out, already typing.

"...Why baby cryin' so much?" he read out loud.

They both leaned in slightly.

Like this was serious.

Like the answer mattered.

"...It says they cry when they hungry, tired, or need a diaper change," Smoke said.

Stack blinked.

"...That's all of it."

"Yeah," Smoke said, scrolling. "That don't help."

The baby cried again.

Relentless.

Stack shifted him, trying again, bouncing a little softer this time.

"...Try holdin' him different," Smoke suggested.

Stack adjusted. Carefully. Awkwardly. But slower this time. Less panicked.

The crying…

Hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then lowered.

Just a little.

Both of them froze.

"...You hear that?" Smoke said quietly.

Stack didn't respond.

Didn't move.

Just held the baby exactly how he was.

The crying softened.

Not gone. But less. Breathier.

Like it was running out of energy.

Stack's shoulders dropped slightly without him realizing it.

Smoke leaned in a little.

"...Don't move," he whispered.

"I ain't movin'," Stack muttered back.

They stood there.

Still. Watching. Waiting.

The baby let out one more small sound.

Then…

Quiet. Not fully asleep. But calm.

For the first time.

Stack blinked down at him. Smoke blinked too.

Neither said anything for a second.

Then Smoke let out a slow breath.

"...We did that?"

Stack shook his head slightly.

"...I don't know what just happened."

They both stared at the baby.

Like they just survived something.

Like they didn't trust it to last.

And for the first time since it started…

It was quiet.

Smoke stepped closer, tilting his head as he really looked at the baby for the first time. His eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with realization.

"Damn," he said quietly, a slow grin spreading across his face. "He look just like you."

Stack frowned, glancing down at the baby's face. "What you talkin' about?"

"The mouth," Smoke said, pointing with his chin. "Same pout you had when we were little. And those cheeks... man, you were a big-ass crybaby too. Cried over everything. Couldn't find your favorite toy? Cry. Mama wouldn't give you extra dessert? Cry. I pushed you in the mud? Cry for an hour straight."

Stack shot him a look. "I didn't cry for an hour."

"You cried until Mama gave you that special attention," Smoke shot back. "This little dude got your exact same 'the world is ending' cry face. Look at that bottom lip sticking out. That's all you, bruh."

Stack rolled his eyes but kept looking at the baby, really seeing it this time. The resemblance was undeniable.

"Whatever," he muttered. "That don't tell me who his mama is."

Smoke's expression sobered slightly. "Yeah, about that." He crossed his arms. "Who the hell did you knock up? And don't say you don't know, 'cause I know your count better than you do."

Stack shifted the baby, now more comfortable in his arms. "I been thinkin' about that. Keisha moved to Houston. Jasmine don't even like kids. Brianna had a boyfriend..."

Smoke shook his head. "Nah, none of them would do this. This feels... personal. Like somebody who knows you enough to know you'd be home this morning, but don't know you well enough to know you ain't equipped for this."

Stack frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means somebody who thought you'd step up," Smoke said simply. "Somebody who believed in you more than you believe in yourself."

Stack looked away, jaw tight. "Ain't nobody ask for this."

"Well somebody asked for something nine months ago," Smoke shot back. "And now you got consequences showing up at your door like a Domino's order you didn't remember placing."

The baby stirred slightly, letting out a soft whimper. Both men froze, watching until he settled again.

"You need to get a DNA test," Smoke said quietly. "As soon as possible. And you need to figure out who left him here."

Stack nodded slowly. "I know."

"You also need to figure out what you're gonna do with him in the meantime," Smoke added, gesturing toward the baby. "'Cause he ain't going nowhere until you do."

Stack looked down at the baby's face, peaceful now in sleep, those chocolate cheeks still puffy from crying. For the first time, he didn't see just a problem; he saw a tiny version of himself, complete with the same dramatic flair and need for attention.

"Damn," he muttered. "I really was a crybaby, huh?"

Smoke laughed softly. "The biggest. But you grew out of it." He paused, then added, "Mostly."

Stack shot him a look but didn't argue.

"So what we doin' now?" Smoke asked.

Stack looked around his apartment, suddenly seeing it differently. Not as his space, but as a space that wasn't equipped for a baby.

"First," he said, determination replacing panic in his voice. "We figure out what babies need. For real this time."

Smoke nodded, pulling out his phone again. "Aight. 'What to buy for a six-month-old emergency baby situation'."

Stack snorted but leaned in to look at the screen with him, the baby still sleeping peacefully in his arms, completely unaware that he'd just changed everything.

Smoke's thumbs flew across his phone screen, eyes squinting as he scrolled through what seemed like an endless list of baby supplies.

"Aight," he said finally. "Diapers. Wipes. Formula. Bottles. Something called a 'burp cloth'—the hell is that? And... baby food? He six months, right? He probably eatin' solids or some shit."

Stack adjusted the baby in his arms, the little guy starting to stir again. "Just get the essentials. And hurry. I think he's about to wake up fully."

"I'm on it," Smoke said, already heading for the door. "Don't do nothing stupid while I'm gone."

"No promises," Stack muttered, watching the door close behind his brother.

Five minutes later, the baby's eyes fluttered open. Five minutes after that, he was crying again.

"Aw, hell no," Stack muttered, bouncing him gently. "We was doing so good. Don't do this to me, little man."

The baby responded by crying louder, his face scrunching up like he'd just witnessed the world's greatest injustice.

"Aight, aight, what is it?" Stack said, pacing again. "You hungry? 'Cause uncle Smoke comin' with the goods. You wet? 'Cause I ain't figured out how to check that yet. You just missin' your mama? 'Cause I can't help you there either."

The baby cried harder.

Stack groaned. "This is exactly why I wrap it up. Every time. Except for that one time with... actually, there was like five times I didn't. But four of them were in the shower, so that don't count, right?"

The baby didn't answer.

Just kept crying.

Twenty minutes later, Smoke bust back in with three plastic bags hanging from each arm.

"I got everything," he announced, dropping the bags on the counter. "And the lady at the store looked at me like I was a kidnapper. Had to explain this was an emergency situation."

"Did you tell her it was your nephew?" Stack asked, still bouncing the crying baby.

Smoke paused. "Nah, I just said it was complicated. Which part of these is the diapers?"

"The ones that look like little underwear," Stack said, nodding toward one of the packages.

Smoke ripped open the package, pulling out a diaper that looked way too big for the tiny human currently screaming his head off.

"Aight, let's do this," Smoke said, determination in his eyes. "You hold him, I'll change him."

Stack carefully laid the baby on the couch, but the moment he let go, the crying intensified.

"Damn," Smoke muttered. "He really don't like being put down."

"Then hurry up," Stack said, hovering over them. "Before he shatters my eardrums."

Smoke knelt down, fumbling with the diaper. "Aight, first we gotta take the old one off. But how do I... like, do I just rip these sides?"

"Man, how would I know?" Stack snapped. "I thought you was the one with ideas, Mr. Google."

"I'm the one who went to the store!" Smoke shot back, finally figuring out how to release the tabs on the dirty diaper. He peeled it back slowly, then immediately recoiled.

"Oh HELL no," he yelled, jumping back. "That's poop! That's actual poop on my hand!"

Stack burst out laughing. "Welcome to parenthood, Uncle Smoke."

"Don't call me that!" Smoke yelled, running to the sink. "This is disgusting! Why is it so... mustard-colored? And why is it everywhere?"

"It's a baby, Smoke," Stack said, still laughing as he tried to keep the baby from rolling off the couch. "What did you expect, roses?"

"I expected it to stay contained!" Smoke yelled, scrubbing his hands frantically. "That's what diapers are for! To contain! This one failed its one job!"

"Maybe you put it on wrong," Stack suggested.

"I ain't put it on at all! This was the previous one!" Smoke shot back, finally clean but still looking traumatized. "I ain't touching him again. You do it."

"I ain't touchin' no poop!" Stack yelled back.

"You gotta!" Smoke yelled. "He's your son!"

"You the uncle!" Stack yelled back. "Uncles do stuff like this!"

Smoke paused, hands still dripping. "When did I agree to be the uncle?"

"When you walked through that door," Stack said firmly. "Now grab a wipe and help me."

Smoke sighed dramatically, grabbing the container of wipes and pulling one out. "This is the nastiest shit I've ever done."

"Just hurry," Stack said, finally managing to hold the baby's legs up. "I think he's about to go again."

"Don't say that!" Smoke yelled, quickly wiping the baby's butt with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb. "Aight, clean. Now what?"

"Now put the new diaper on," Stack instructed.

Smoke fumbled with the clean diaper, finally getting it positioned. "How tight is it supposed to be?"

"I don't know," Stack said. "Tight enough to hold stuff, loose enough for him to breathe?"

Smoke managed to get the diaper fastened, but it was crooked and barely contained the baby's chunky thighs.

"Well, it's on," Smoke declared, standing up. "That's a win."

The baby immediately started crying again.

"What now?" Stack groaned, picking him up. "We changed you, rocked you... what else you want?"

"Maybe he's hungry," Smoke suggested, pulling out the can of formula. "How do we make this?"

The instructions on the can might as well have been in another language for all the sense they made to two men who'd never mixed formula in their lives.

"It say mix two scoops with six ounces of water," Smoke read, squinting at the tiny print.

"Where we get six ounces of water?" Stack asked.

"From the sink?" Smoke suggested, as if it were obvious.

"I don't think that's right," Stack said. "Ain't it supposed to be... sterile or some shit?"

Smoke looked around the kitchen, then spotted a water bottle on the counter. "Aight, this water is purified. That's close to sterile, right?"

"Close enough," Stack decided, already trying to get the baby to take the bottle nipple.

The baby refused.

Turned his head.

Cried harder.

"He don't want it," Stack said, frustrated.

"Maybe the milk is too cold?" Smoke suggested.

"Or too hot?" Stack countered.

"Or maybe he just don't like your delivery," Smoke shot back. "Let me try."

Smoke took the bottle, but the baby refused him too.

"Man, what is wrong with him?" Smoke asked, exasperated.

"Maybe he ain't a formula baby," Stack said, pacing again. "Maybe he needs... real food?"

Smoke pulled out a jar of baby food peaches. "Aight, let's try this."

Stack managed to get the baby seated, though he kept trying to stand up. Smoke dipped the tiny spoon in the jar and approached cautiously.

"Aight, little man," he said softly. "Just a taste."

The baby opened his mouth.

Smoke spooned in a tiny amount of peach puree.

The baby's face scrunched up in confusion.

Then he smiled.

Then he grabbed the spoon.

Then he smeared peaches everywhere.

In his hair.

On his clothes.

On Stack's arm.

On Smoke's face.

"OH FUCK NO!" Smoke yelled, jumping back again. "Not again! Why is everything so messy?"

"That's what babies do!" Stack yelled back, trying to contain the chaos. "They make messes!"

"Why didn't nobody tell us that?" Smoke yelled, wiping peach puree from his cheek. "His ass should come with a warning label!"

They finally managed to get most of the peaches into the baby's mouth, though they both looked like they'd been in a food fight by the end of it.

The baby, however, seemed satisfied. His crying stopped. His eyes drooped.

And just as Stack was cleaning peach puree from his own arm, the baby's head lolled forward onto his chest.

And everything went quiet. Stack froze. Smoke froze.

They both looked at the baby, now asleep against Stack's chest, tiny breaths warm against his skin.

"Don't move," Smoke whispered.

"I ain't movin'," Stack whispered back.

They stood there for a full minute.

Just watching.

Just breathing.

Stack looked down at the baby's face, peaceful now in sleep, those chocolate cheeks still smudged with peach puree, tiny fists curled against his chest.

"...Man," he said softly, so quiet Smoke almost didn't hear him.

Smoke stepped closer, looking down at the baby too. "Yeah," he said quietly. "He really is your mini-me, huh?"

Stack didn't answer. Just kept looking at the baby. Like he was seeing him for the first time. Not as a problem. Not as a mistake. But as his.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of chaos, exhaustion, and moments neither brother would admit were actually kind of sweet.

It started with the baby waking them both at 3 a.m. with a cry so piercing it cut through Stack's expensive sound system still playing softly in the background. They stumbled through a diaper change that left both men questioning their life choices, followed by a bottle feeding that ended with formula on the ceiling; neither could explain how it got there.

By morning, they'd figured out the baby's schedule: cry, eat, poop, sleep, repeat. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes all at once.

Stack tried to maintain his distance, calling himself "the babysitter" and referring to the baby as "the situation." Smoke, meanwhile, had fully embraced his role as "uncle," even though he still flinched every time the baby made a sound that suggested another diaper change was imminent.

They took turns holding the baby when he cried, discovered he liked being bounced gently while watching sports highlights, and learned the hard way that babies can projectile vomit without warning.

By the second night, both men were running on caffeine and desperation, the apartment littered with baby supplies and takeout containers they hadn't had time to throw away.

"You know," Smoke said around 2 a.m. as they both stared at the baby sleeping in a laundry basket padded with pillows (the makeshift crib Stack had refused to buy), "we've been calling him everything but his name."

Stack didn't look away from the baby. "His name wasn't on the letter."

"So we gotta name him?" Smoke asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

"I ain't naming him," Stack said immediately. "I'm the maybe daddy. Maybe daddies don't name babies."

Smoke snorted. "Maybe Daddy? That's what you're going with?"

"Until the test results come back," Stack confirmed. "Then I'll be the definitely not daddy or the oh shit daddy."

"Well, we can't keep calling him 'the baby' or 'chocolate baby' or 'little dude' forever," Smoke pointed out. "What are we gonna call him?"

Stack shrugged. "I don't know. Baby John Doe?"

Smoke rolled his eyes. "We're not calling him that. And we're definitely not naming him after you."

"What's wrong with naming him after me?" Stack asked, genuinely offended.

"Everything," Smoke said flatly. "The world does not need another Elias 'Stack' Moore. One of you is more than enough, trust me."

Stack shot him a look but didn't argue.

They fell silent again, both watching the baby sleep.

"You know," Smoke said quietly, "you've been acting like a dad even if you won't admit it."

Stack frowned. "How?"

"You check on him every five minutes when he's sleeping," Smoke pointed out. "You bought that expensive baby formula when the store brand was right next to it. You're currently sitting here watching him sleep instead of getting your own rest. That's dad shit, bruh."

Stack didn't respond, just kept watching the baby's chest rise and fall.

"I need proof," he said finally, so quiet Smoke almost didn't hear him.

"What?"

"I need to know for sure," Stack said, looking at his brother. "One way or the other. I can't... I can't keep doing this without knowing."

Smoke nodded slowly. "So what's the plan?"

"DNA test," Stack said simply. "Tomorrow."

The next morning, Stack found himself standing in a pharmacy, staring at the wall of DNA test kits like they were written in a foreign language. The baby was strapped to his chest in a carrier he'd bought at 3 a.m. from a 24-hour store, the little man now awake and chewing on his own fist.

"Which one?" Stack muttered to himself. "There's like ten different kinds."

The baby let out a soft sound, like he was trying to help.

"Yeah, you're a lot of help," Stack muttered, grabbing the most expensive one. "If you're mine, you got expensive taste, so this one's probably right."

Back at the apartment, they stared at the kit.

"Aight," Smoke said, reading the instructions. "It says we need to swab his cheek. And yours."

"What if he bites me?" Stack asked, genuinely concerned.

"He's six months old, Stack," Smoke said. "I don't think he's got teeth yet."

"Still," Stack muttered, opening the swab package. "He's strong. And he's got a temper. Definitely gets that from his mama."

Smoke snorted. "Or his maybe daddy."

Stack carefully approached the baby, who was now sitting on the couch surrounded by pillows. "Aight, little man," he said softly. "I just need to get a little sample from your cheek. Won't hurt a bit."

The baby opened his mouth willingly.

Stack quickly swabbed his cheek.

The baby didn't even flinch.

"See?" Smoke said. "That wasn't so bad."

"Now for me," Stack said, swabbing his own cheek. "Aight, now what?"

"We seal 'em and send 'em in," Smoke said, reading the instructions. "Results in 3-5 business days."

Stack sealed both samples in the provided envelopes, writing his information on one and just "Baby John Doe" on the other.

"You're really not gonna give him a name?" Smoke asked.

"Not until I know," Stack said simply. "Not until I'm sure."

Smoke nodded, understanding. "So what do we do while we wait?"

Stack looked at the baby, who was now trying to eat the corner of a pillow. "Same thing we've been doing. Taking care of him."

"Even if he might not be yours?" Smoke asked.

Stack paused, then shrugged. "Somebody's gotta. And right now, that's us."

Smoke smiled slightly. "You know, you'd make a pretty good dad. If you are one."

Stack didn't respond, just watched the baby, something unreadable in his expression.

"Maybe," he said finally. "But let's wait for the results before we start planning the daddy-daughter dance."

Smoke laughed. "It's a boy, dumbass."

"Whatever," Stack muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Daddy-son dance. Same difference."

They both fell silent, watching the baby, who had successfully gotten the corner of the pillow in his mouth and was now gumming it happily.

Three to five business days. That's what they had to wait. But somehow, it already felt like it didn't matter.

The morning after they sent off the DNA test, Smoke stood in the doorway of Stack's apartment, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Aight, I'm heading out," he announced, watching as Stack tried to balance the baby on his hip while making coffee one-handed.

Stack paused, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "What you mean, heading out? You my backup."

"I'm your twin," Smoke corrected, adjusting his bag. "Identical twins. I don't wanna confuse my nephew. He might think there's two of me, and that's just too much awesome for one little dude to handle."

Stack snorted. "You ain't that awesome."

"Plus," Smoke added, ignoring him, "you need to figure this out on your own. You and... little man." He gestured toward the baby. "You need to learn each other's language or some shit."

Stack frowned. "We communicate just fine."

"Really?" Smoke challenged. "What's he saying right now?"

Stack looked down at the baby, who was currently chewing on his own fist while staring at Stack's coffee cup. "He wants coffee. Obviously."

Smoke laughed. "Yeah, okay. Look, I'll be back tomorrow to check on y'all. But you need to do this alone. Call me if it's a real emergency. And by emergency, I mean blood, fire, or if you somehow manage to lose him in your own apartment."

"I wouldn't lose him," Stack muttered, but there was uncertainty in his voice.

"Just... call me if you need anything," Smoke said, his tone softening slightly. "Anything at all."

Stack nodded. "Aight."

Smoke hesitated at the door, then turned back. "Hey, what are you gonna call him while we wait?"

Stack looked down at the baby, who had now managed to get his fist stuck in his mouth and was making frustrated little sounds. "Choc."

Smoke raised an eyebrow. "Choc?"

"Short for chocolate," Stack explained. "He's chocolate-colored, so... Choc."

Smoke considered this. "Could be worse. Could be Baby John Doe."

"He's not Baby John Doe," Stack said quickly. "He's Choc."

Smoke smiled slightly. "Aight then. Choc it is. Take care of my nephew, little brother."

The silence that followed felt heavier than Stack expected. He looked down at Choc, who was now staring up at him with wide, curious eyes.

"Well," Stack said to the empty apartment. "It's just you and me now, little dude."

Choc responded by spitting up on Stack's shirt.

"Great," Stack muttered. "Just what this needed."

The first day alone was chaos. Choc cried every time Stack tried to put him down, which meant Stack carried him everywhere, including to the bathroom, which was an experience neither of them enjoyed.

By day three, Stack had learned to distinguish between Choc's different cries. There was the "I'm hungry" cry (high-pitched and insistent), the "I need a new diaper" cry (more of a whiny, uncomfortable sound), and the "I'm just being dramatic" cry (loud and attention-seeking, which Stack admitted was probably genetic).

"You better not be mine," Stack muttered on day four, bouncing Choc gently as he cried for what seemed like no reason at all. "You hear me? You better not be mine, 'cause I don't have the patience for all this drama."

But even as he said it, his arms tightened around the baby, his movements instinctively soothing.

That night, as Stack was trying to get Choc to sleep, the baby grabbed his finger, wrapping tiny chocolate-colored fingers around it and holding on tight.

Stack froze, looking down at their joined hands. Something warm spread through his chest, something unfamiliar and terrifying.

"Yeah, aight," he whispered, carefully extracting his finger only to have Choc grab it again. "You got a grip on you, little man. Must get that from your mama."

By the end of the first week, Stack's apartment had transformed. The expensive minimalist decor was now cluttered with baby gear, a proper crib (delivered and assembled by a very confused delivery guy), a changing table, and a high chair that Stack couldn't figure out how to fold.

His online shopping history told a story he wasn't ready to admit to himself yet. Baby clothes in sizes 6-9 months. Soft toys that made different noises when squeezed. A stroller that costs more than his car payment. Organic baby food in flavors that Stack couldn't pronounce.

"It's just temporary," he kept telling himself. "Just until we know for sure."

But on day eight, when Choc woke up crying from a nightmare, Stack didn't hesitate. He picked him up, brought him to his own bed, and let the baby sleep curled against his chest, tiny breaths warm against his skin.

In the morning, he found himself watching Choc sleep, tracing the shape of his full cheeks with his finger, marveling at the tiny curls forming on his head.

"You know," he whispered to the sleeping baby, "you got my eyes. Or Smoke's eyes. Whatever. Same eyes."

Choc stirred, opening his eyes and looking up at Stack like he understood.

"Yeah, you hear me," Stack said softly. "You hear everything, don't you?"

Choc responded by grabbing Stack's finger again, holding on tight like he never wanted to let go.

Stack didn't pull away this time.

Just lay there, watching the baby, feeling something rumble inside him.

Something permanent.

Something that felt suspiciously like love.

"Damn," he muttered to the ceiling. "I'm screwed."

Choc let out a soft sound, like agreement, and snuggled closer.

Stack wrapped his arm around the baby, holding him closer.

"You better not be mine," he whispered again, but there was no conviction in his voice. "You hear me, Choc? You better not be mine."

But even as he said it, he was already planning what they'd do tomorrow. A walk in the park with the new stroller. Maybe they'd try that organic sweet potato puree that had cost a ridiculous amount.

Anything. Everything. Whatever this little chocolate-colored dude needed.

And if the test came back positive? Well. Stack would deal with that then.

Nine days after Smoke had left, the knock on the door came at 2 p.m. exactly. Stack didn't even look up from where he was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, watching Choc attempt to crawl across the living room rug.

"It's open," he called out, reaching out to steady Choc when the baby's arms gave out, and he face-planted gently into the rug.

The door opened, and Smoke stepped inside, stopping immediately when he saw the scene before him. Stack—his brother, who once complained if someone breathed too loud in his apartment—was sitting on the floor, cooing softly at a baby who was currently spitting on the expensive rug.

"Damn," Smoke said quietly, closing the door behind him. "Y'all look domestic as hell."

Stack glanced up, a small smile playing on his lips. "Watch this," he whispered, then looked back at Choc. "Come on, little man, you can do it. Just a little further."

Choc pushed up on his arms again, determination in his eyes as he tried to move forward, managing to scoot about an inch before collapsing again with a frustrated grunt.

"He's been trying to crawl for three days," Stack explained, picking Choc up and settling him in his lap. "Got the arm strength but not the coordination yet."

Smoke watched them, something unreadable in his expression. "You learn all that from Google?"

"BabyCenter dot com," Stack corrected, bouncing Choc gently when the baby started to fuss. "They got articles on everything. Developmental milestones, feeding schedules, how to get them to sleep through the night..."

"You readin' baby articles?" Smoke asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Research," Stack said quickly. "Just research. For maybe daddy."

Smoke nodded slowly, his eyes taking in the changes to the apartment. The baby-proofed corners, the colorful playmat in the middle of the living room, the bottle sterilizer sitting on the kitchen counter.

"You been busy," he noted.

"Gotta be prepared," Stack said, already moving to the kitchen to warm a bottle. "You never know when the results might come back. Need to be ready."

"For what?" Smoke asked, following him. "To hand him over if he's not yours?"

Stack paused, bottle halfway to the microwave. "Yeah. For that."

But even as he said it, he was adjusting the bottle temperature with the expertise of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Testing it on his wrist. Making sure it was perfect.

Smoke leaned against the counter, watching his brother. "You know, when I left, you could barely figure out how to hold him without looking like you were handling a bomb."

"Practice makes perfect," Stack muttered, heading back to the living room where Choc was now chewing on a teething toy.

"You sayin' it ain't yours," Smoke said quietly, following him. "But you ain't put him down yet."

Stack didn't respond, just settled on the couch and positioned Choc for his bottle, the baby immediately latching on with practiced ease.

"I mean, look at you," Smoke continued, his tone softer now. "You got a system. You know his cries. You know his schedule. You bought him clothes that'll fit next season."

"Just being prepared," Stack repeated, but there was less conviction in his voice this time.

Smoke stepped closer, sitting on the coffee table across from them. "Stack."

"What?"

"Look at me."

Stack looked up, and for the first time, Smoke saw something in his brother's eyes he'd never seen before. Something soft. Something vulnerable.

"You're attached," Smoke said simply. "And that's okay."

Stack opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Looked down at Choc, who was now watching him with those wide, trusting eyes.

"I don't know what I am," Stack admitted quietly. "I just know... I can't imagine him not being here anymore."

Smoke nodded slowly. "Yeah. I see that."

They sat in silence for a moment, just watching Choc drink his bottle, tiny fingers wrapped around Stack's thumb.

"What you gonna do if the test comes back negative?" Smoke asked finally.

Stack didn't answer right away, just gently stroked Choc's cheek with his free hand.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I guess... I guess I'll figure it out then."

"And if it's positive?" Smoke pressed.

Stack looked up at his brother, something unreadable in his expression.

"Then I guess I'm a dad," he said quietly. "A really unprepared, probably gonna screw it up dad... but a dad nonetheless."

Smoke smiled slightly. "You'd be a good one."

Stack snorted. "Yeah, right. I can barely take care of myself."

"You're taking care of him just fine," Smoke pointed out. "Better than fine, actually. You're a natural."

Stack looked down at Choc, who had finished his bottle and was now blinking sleepily. "I just do what feels right."

"Exactly," Smoke said. "That's what parents do."

Stack carefully shifted Choc to his shoulder, patting his back gently until the baby let out a soft burp.

"You know," Smoke said quietly, "I was thinking... if he is yours, and if you need help with anything, I'm here. For real this time. Not just as backup, but as... whatever you need me to be."

Stack looked at his brother, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Smoke confirmed. "Uncle Smoke got a ring to it, don't it?"

Stack laughed softly, careful not to wake the now-sleeping baby. "Yeah, I guess it does."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just watching Choc sleep.

Stack shifted Choc in his arms, the baby stirring slightly but not waking. "You know, part of me hopes they don't come back at all."

Smoke raised an eyebrow. "How you mean?"

"Just... this," Stack said quietly, gesturing between himself and the baby. "This is good. This works. If the results come back, everything changes. One way or another."

"And if it stays like this?" Smoke asked.

"Then I get to keep him," Stack said simply. "Even if I'm not his dad. I get to keep him."

Smoke studied his brother's face, saw the raw honesty there, the fear and hope warring in his eyes.

"You know," Smoke said quietly, "it doesn't really matter what that test says. You're already his dad in every way that counts."

Stack didn't respond, just held Choc closer, burying his face in the baby's soft curls for a moment.

When he looked up again, his eyes were shining.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

The envelope arrived on a Tuesday.

Thin. White. Business-like.

Stack saw it the moment he walked in from grabbing the mail, his heart doing something strange in his chest. He'd been waiting for this—dreading this—for eleven days. Part of him had hoped it would never come, that they could just exist in this weird in-between space where he was the maybe daddy and Choc was his chocolate baby and nothing had to be decided.

But there it was.

The answer.

Sitting on his counter like any other piece of mail.

Except it wasn't.

"Smoke," Stack called out, his voice rougher than he intended. "Get in here."

Smoke emerged from the bedroom, where he'd been trying to teach Choc how to clap his hands (with limited success). "What's up? Did you order more of them expensive baby wipes again? 'Cause I told you, the store brand works just—"

He stopped when he saw the envelope in Stack's hand.

"Oh," Smoke said quietly. "It's here."

Choc started fussing in Smoke's arms.

"Shhh," Smoke murmured, bouncing him gently. "It's okay, little man. It's okay."

Stack stared at the envelope like it might bite him. "You open it."

"Nope," Smoke said immediately. "That's all you, bruh."

"I can't," Stack admitted, the words barely audible. "My hands are shaking."

Smoke stepped closer, shifting Choc to his hip. "You've been waiting for this. You said you needed to know."

"I know what I said," Stack muttered, running a hand over his face. "But that was before. Before... everything."

Before Choc learned to recognize his voice. Before he fell asleep on Stack's chest every night. Before Stack started ordering baby clothes in bigger sizes "just in case."

Before it started feeling real.

"Want me to do it?" Smoke asked gently.

Stack hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I got it."

He took a deep breath, ripped open the envelope with more force than necessary, and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside.

His eyes scanned the words once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

Like his brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing.

Smoke watched him, saw the exact moment the words registered. The way Stack's shoulders slumped slightly. The way his breath caught. The way his eyes closed for just a second.

"Well?" Smoke asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's it say?"

Stack didn't answer right away, just kept looking at the paper like it might change if he stared long enough.

"Stack?"

"It's positive," Stack said finally, his voice flat. "99.9% probability of paternity."

Silence.

Choc let out a soft sound, like he felt the weight of those words.

Smoke reached out, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You okay?"

Stack didn't respond, just folded the paper carefully, like it was something fragile. Something important.

"Stack?"

"Yeah," Stack said finally, looking up at his brother. "I'm fine."

But he wasn't.

Not really.

There was something in his eyes Smoke couldn't quite read. Something that looked a lot like fear.

"You don't look fine," Smoke pointed out gently.

"I just... I need a minute," Stack said, walking to the window and looking out at nothing in particular. "I need to process this."

Smoke watched him, saw the tension in his brother's shoulders, the way his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"You wanted to know," Smoke reminded him quietly. "You said you needed proof."

"I know what I said," Stack muttered, still not turning around. "I just... I don't know what I thought would happen. What I thought I would feel."

"And what do you feel?" Smoke asked.

Stack turned around then, and Smoke saw it clearly in his eyes. The conflict. The fear. The overwhelming weight of it all.

"I don't know," Stack admitted. "Relieved and terrified at the same time. Like I got what I wanted and what I was afraid of, all at once."

Choc reached out toward Stack, making soft sounds, like he could feel his father's distress from across the room.

Stack walked over slowly, carefully taking Choc from Smoke's arms, holding him close like he was trying to memorize the weight of him.

"Hey, little man," he whispered, pressing his face into Choc's soft curls. "Hey, chocolate baby."

Choc grabbed onto Stack's shirt, holding on tight like he knew.

Like he understood.

"You're mine," Stack whispered, the words barely audible. "You're really mine."

He looked up at Smoke, something raw and vulnerable in his eyes.

"Now what?" he asked.

Smoke smiled slightly. "Now you're his dad. The best damn dad you can be."

Stack looked down at Choc, who was now watching him with those wide, trusting eyes, like he knew exactly who his father was.

Like he'd known all along.

"Yeah," Stack said quietly, bouncing Choc gently when the baby started to fuss. "Yeah, okay."

He didn't say anything else, just stood there holding his son, his future, his everything.

Three days after the results came back, Stack was sitting on his couch, Choc propped against his chest as they watched sports highlights. The baby was now officially named Elijah—after his uncle, who had protested but secretly been thrilled.

"You know," Stack said, adjusting Elijah so he could see the TV better, "you're way too young to be watching basketball. But we gotta start you early. Can't have you growing up liking that weak-ass soccer Smoke tried to get you into."

Smoke, who was sitting on the other end of the couch, rolled his eyes. "Soccer is the most popular sport in the world. It's called culture, Stack."

"It's called boring," Stack shot back. "Ain't nobody wanna watch grown men run around for two hours and only score once. Where's the drama? Where's the trash talk? Where's the—"

Elijah let out a loud fart, followed by a giggle.

Both brothers stopped and looked at him.

"See?" Stack said, pointing. "Even he agrees with me. That was his opinion on soccer."

Smoke snorted. "That was gas, not an opinion."

"Same difference," Stack muttered, bouncing Elijah gently. "You hear that, little man? Your uncle don't appreciate sophisticated sports analysis."

Elijah responded by grabbing Stack's nose with his surprisingly strong grip.

"Ow," Stack complained, but he didn't pull away. "You got your daddy's strength. And your uncle's face. We gonna have to get you tested to make sure you ain't actually his."

Smoke laughed. "Nah, he's all you. Same dramatic flair. Same need for attention. Same inability to just sit still and be quiet."

Stack looked down at Elijah, who was now trying to eat his own foot. "Yeah, well, at least he's cute. That's gonna come in handy."

"What you mean?" Smoke asked, already suspicious.

Stack's eyes lit up with mischief. "I'm just saying... single moms at the playground? They gonna see this cute little chocolate dude and they gonna wanna know who his daddy is. Elijah here is gonna be my new wing man."

Smoke stared at him. "You're not serious."

"Dead serious," Stack said, grinning. "I'll be like, 'Yeah, that's my son. Single dad over here, just trying to make it work.' They love that shit. Makes you look responsible and sensitive."

"You are neither of those things," Smoke pointed out.

"Not yet," Stack corrected. "But I will be. For the playground moms."

Smoke shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm practical," Stack corrected. "Besides, you need to go get some random girl pregnant so Elijah and I can have play dates with you and your baby."

Smoke's eyes widened. "I need to WHAT?"

"You heard me," Stack said, already planning. "We can be those dads at the playground. Comparing notes on sleep schedules and baby food flavors. Chicks dig that shit."

"I'm not getting someone pregnant just so you can pick up women at playgrounds," Smoke said firmly.

"Selfish," Stack muttered, adjusting Elijah when the baby started to fuss. "Just selfish. Here I am, trying to think about your future love life, and you're not even appreciating it."

Smoke watched his brother with Elijah, saw how naturally Stack held him, how instinctively he responded to every sound and movement. It was like watching someone who'd been doing this forever, not someone who'd been thrown into fatherhood less than two weeks ago.

"You're gonna be a good dad, you know," Smoke said quietly.

Stack glanced up, surprised by the sincerity in his brother's voice. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Smoke confirmed. "Even if you plan to use your son as a chick magnet."

"Hey, you gotta work with what you got," Stack said, but there was something soft in his eyes now. "And what I got is this cute little dude who's gonna help me find his new mama."

Elijah let out a loud yawn, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.

"Someone's getting sleepy," Smoke noted.

"Yeah, well, it's hard work being this adorable," Stack said, standing up carefully. "Come on, little man. Nap time before your daddy takes you scouting for future stepmoms."

As Stack walked toward the bedroom, Elijah curled against his chest, already half asleep, Smoke watched them go.

"Hey," Smoke called out.

Stack paused at the bedroom door. "What?"

"You really gonna name him Elijah?" Smoke asked. "After me?"

Stack looked down at the baby in his arms, then back at his brother.

"Who else would I name him after?" he asked quietly. "You're the best man I know. If he grows up to be half the man you are... he'll be alright."

Smoke felt something tighten in his throat. "Damn, Stack. Getting all sentimental on me."

"Don't get used to it," Stack called out, disappearing into the bedroom. "I'm still gonna use my son to pick up women at the playground."

Smoke laughed, shaking his head.

A few minutes later, Stack came back out, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear if Elijah woke up.

"So," Smoke said as Stack sat back down on the couch. "What's the plan now?"

Stack leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the couch. "Plan? The plan is to figure out how to be a dad. The plan is not to screw this up. The plan is to raise this little dude to be better than me."

He paused, then added with a grin, "And the plan is to find him a mama who's hot, rich, and doesn't mind that I plan to use our son to pick up women at playgrounds."

Smoke snorted. "Good luck with that."

"Hey, never underestimate the power of a cute baby," Stack said, his eyes drifting toward the bedroom door. "Never underestimate the power of having something that's yours. Something that matters."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just listening to the soft sounds coming from the bedroom.

"Man," Stack said finally, quiet now. "You got the worst timing I ever seen."

Smoke looked at him, confused. "What you mean?"

"Not you," Stack said, gesturing toward the bedroom. "Him. Showing up when I was least prepared. Turning my whole world upside down. Making me... feel things."

He paused, then smiled slightly.

"Best thing that ever happened to me too," he added softly. "But don't tell nobody I said that. Got a reputation to maintain."

Smoke laughed. "Your secret's safe with me."

They sat there for a while longer, just two brothers watching the sun set outside, both knowing that everything had changed.

And somehow, it was exactly as it should be.

There wasn’t much to say. You were born in the outskirts of Houston, and then suddenly you were growing up in Clarksdale with your mother’s family. You were young, but you saw and experienced more than you should have. A little too independent, a little too bratty, and too much of a princess to admit it. But, at least you were kind. 

Stack was falling more and more for you. It was almost like you’d put him in a trap, he’d never felt this way before. He decided at that moment that you’d be with him forever, and he could find ways to convince you to say ‘yes’. And, you’ll live together ever after, happily or not. 

You’d been watching him, too. Ever since you’d heard the twins were back. Your friends had all tried to get them to notice them somehow. And, they did. But, never more than tricking off on a pretty girl for the night. You watched them get tossed to the side before the night had been over. 

You wondered what made Stack so intrigued, but you weren’t complaining at all about the attention from the older man. You wanted to see what all the talk was about and if it was true. 

Every bit of what you’d heard about the twins was true, of course. You’d find that out eventually, but Stack was going to have his fun with you tonight. A fresh, new, pretty face in Clarksdale. So untouched by them, by the history of this place. Untainted, pure-blooded. He wondered how you tasted. He was starting to get hard at the thought of your juices on his tongue. Your blood, too. Was it as sweet as you looked? He hoped so. 

“You ain’t scared of me, are ya?” You’d think he was born with a smirk with how permanently etched it was onto his face.

However, you were not scared. You should’ve been, but he wasn’t giving off that energy. Instead, you felt comfort. In the company of this cold-blooded (?) killer. It was odd. Your usually sharp mind wasn’t picking up on the warning signs of even engaging in small talk with Stack, let alone letting him talk his way between your legs. 

“What’s there to be scared of?” He chuckled, it was low and almost sinister. Then, he was on his knees in front of you. His hands softly glided up your calf, the only soft thing about him was his touch. That intrigued you even more. He kept going until they stopped between your plush thighs. So warm and inviting. He made the mistake of looking into your eyes, those, too, were warm and inviting. What was he going to do with you?

“There’s a lot to be scared of, baby.”

That sent a chill down your spine and left your skin covered in goosebumps. Fear and attraction were never a good mix. But, he swore he never saw something look as good as you with such emotion laced in your eyes. 

That scared you, more than you were willing to admit. But it only pulled you in closer. Sucked you in rather. It was not soft or gentle. From the moment the two of you laid eyes on each other, it had been a violent rollercoaster of want and need and fear and maybe obsession. 

You parted your legs so he could continue. He massaged the supple skin. Almost like he was admiring it. Then he was hiking one thigh over his shoulder, while holding eye contact with you. He was going to drag this feeling out as much as he wanted, no care for how he could see you dripping onto your dress. 

He could smell your arousal from where he was sitting on the desk, hell, he could almost taste it. Now that he was up close and personal with you, he could feel it. The warmth that radiated onto his skin as he slid his fingers through your folds. 

There goes that sinister laugh again,

“I ain’t even touched you, girl. And, you out here makin' a mess in this chair.”

Elias was too much of a fucking tease, and you were starting to figure that out quickly. He easily slid one finger in, testing the waters and prepping you for what was to come. Then he slid in another, working you open with the two. You were damn tight, wrapped around him like a glove. His fingers immediately found that spongy spot with how long they were. 

And then you were a moaning mess before him. You gripped the chair as he kept up a steady pace while fingering you. You had already been so wickedly turned on that you were approaching your orgasm fast. He watched eagerly as you threw your head back, with your eyes almost rolling into your head. He almost gave in and let you cum right there, but he had a more devious plan in store for you. 

Pulling his fingers out to taste, he watched as you snapped your eyes back on him. Pout creeping onto your pretty lips, whimpers coming from that mouth of yours. He ignored your protests as he slipped his fingers into his mouth, savoring your taste. You tasted just as he’d imagined, like heaven. 

He brought his lips to yours, almost kissing you. He just hovered over you for a second, each of you breathing the other in. You kept doing so until your breath shook from the intimacy of it all. And then he was kissing you. It was rushed and full of need. The two of you were way past wanting each other. It was just need now. Full-on desperation for the other. 

All that could be heard in the room was the wet sounds of you kissing and the moans that came from the depths of your souls. Then, Elias pulled away. Breathing heavy, he looked into your eyes. Then down at your swollen, shining lips. How your dress had exposed your breast from his frantic massaging. You looked a mess, and he’d made you that way. But you were a beautiful mess. And, goddamn, was he going to ruin you some more. 

Back between your legs, he licked at your clit more, then sucking on it, then alternating between the two. Your soft, pillowy thighs enveloped his head while he had his arms locked around them. He ate you out with such ferocity. His saliva and your juices dripped down his chin, staining his shirt. But he didn’t care. 

The closer you were to your orgasm, the faster your heart raced. The faster your heart beats against your chest, the faster your pulse increases. He could hear it even with your thighs muffling outside sounds, he heard it clear as day. 

The licking and sucking turned into kissing as he placed soft kisses on your clit before turning his head to do so on your thighs. He started with soft kisses, then he left hickies on the supple flesh. You suddenly felt a pain in your thigh that only worsened the longer he was there. You soon realized that he was biting, hard enough to draw blood. 

Yet, none had spilled. Then, he was looking at you again. His eyes were different. Not the midnight brown ones you were starting to love. They were a dark green, glowing almost. And, his teeth. They were sharp and stained with your blood, as was the rest of his face. It was like he was an entirely different person. 

But the energy surrounding you two still hadn’t changed. His hands still moved up and down your leg, like he was trying to comfort you. He asked again,

“Still ain’t scared?”

No, you were not. You were looking Death in the face, and all you wanted to do was kiss him. You shook your head at him, moving to lick the blood that dripped down his chin. Placing a soft kiss on his chin, you then kissed him harshly. The taste of your blood and your arousal, and just him alone. A combination you didn’t know you craved. 

As the two of you kissed, he unbuttoned the front of your dress. He stopped to rid you of your clothes and admire your body. His eyes looked you over, and then he focused on the pulse in your neck.

You had quickly come to terms with what he was. You’d sit with your Nanny and listen to her tell old stories of your ancestors. The tales of the creatures they used as scary stories at night. And yet, nothing had changed. 

So, you didn’t stop him when he was dangerously close to your neck, but he paused. Out of uncertainty. As much as he’d want you to live forever undead with him, he did not want to make that choice for you. 

He kissed your neck instead. Still very dangerous for him to do so, you could hear his heavy breaths as he fought the urge. Globs of drool dripping onto your chest and thigh. This won’t be the last time you hear this sweet man beg,

“Please, baby.”

He wanted to take a bite so badly. The need to feel the warmth of your blood on his skin again, the sweet, metallic-tasting liquid, the fact that it was yours. He could almost cry. So, he kept begging instead. 

“Please, please, please,” he whimpered out. 

You allowed him to graze his teeth along your neck, impressed at his self-control, though it was quickly fading. You thought for a second about your life, what you could lose if you allowed him to do this. You’d outlive everyone you cared about, you’d never feel the warmth of the sun on your skin again, you’d be forced to change as time did too. What was the upside?

To be frank, there wasn’t. But why not? What’s stopping you? You’d get to see how people change, experience all you’ve wanted without worrying about lack of time, and you wouldn’t be doing it alone. Because, as naive as it sounds, Elias wasn’t going anywhere. He’d be right by your side, and that’s something you both would make sure of. 

“Go ahead,” you breathed out. 

He did not waste any time, but he did make sure to be as gentle as he could. The pain was quick and sharp. Then, a sudden cold sweat. It lasted for what felt like hours, but he still held you through it. Paranoia and fear crept into you, you’d naturally fight back if you didn’t already feel so drained. 

Then, the warmth sank in. Fear faded into euphoria. You loved the way he held you too much. Like, even his touch was enough to make you moan, and it was. The melodies you sang into his ear had him grinding against you. You were weak in the knees. Who knew?

Tingling began in the tips of your fingers and toes. You could not open your eyes more than halfway. The weakness in your knees grew heavier by the minute. Little black dots dipped in and out of your vision. You knew you were nearing your end. 

Then, nothingness. Elias stopped when he felt your body drop in his arms. You almost looked peaceful. A sleeping lady of his own. He laid your body on the floor carefully so as not to injure you. 

For the first time since becoming a vampire, he doesn’t feel alone. Yes, he’d always had his brother, but it wouldn’t be forever. Smoke didn’t want that future for himself because of Annie, and he respected that. He loved Mary, of course, but that was in the past now. 

He waited for what felt like forever for you to wake up again. He felt the twitch in your body, then felt as life began to force its way back into you. He watched the fangs peek over your lips, then your brown eyes were now a greenish blue. Now he wasn’t alone anymore. Truly. 

You felt oddly euphoric, erotic even. But you were on fire and terribly hungry. Hungrier than you’ve ever been, you felt like you were starving to death, like your insides were eating themselves. He knew that feeling, it was so indescribable, he was sure only people like the two of you could feel it. That sickening feeling of starvation, all while wanting to rip the clothes off of the person next to you. Good thing it was him. And, good thing he was ready to give you whatever you’d ask for. 

He helped you off the floor. You flopped into his side, barely hanging onto him, but he held you tight. From the outside, it looked as if Stack was helping some drunk ass girl find her way to the door, but Smoke knew more than that. 

He hated what his brother had become and the way it had happened, but at least he found someone to suffer through that shit with him.  

Anyway, it was a good cover story to hide the fact that you two were about to kill some unsuspecting motherfucker. 

He sat you softly under a tree, ducked off somewhere quiet. He whispered promises of finding something warm and fresh for you and peppered kisses along your sweaty skin. Now, you were left alone as the breeze cooled you down. You had so little care and disregard for what this had truly meant as you thought. 

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

He came back as fast as he had gone. Some pretty, brown thing on his arm. When he approached you, he swiftly introduced the two of you under the guise of a possible threesome. 

Which, you’d be down for if you weren’t fucking dying from the inside out. But you played along and let him slot the girl between you. She was a giggling mess, and she whispered about how she’d never done this before, poor girl. 

“Neither have I,” you whispered back as you kissed along her neck. Elias watched you through half-lidded eyes, his erection returning once again when he realized what was about to happen. But he let you continue. 

You slid your palm over her thighs as her moans filled the night air. Then, your fingers found the dampness of her panties, causing her to shiver while your fingers ran along them. 

You worked your way to her lips, softly nipping at them while Elias replaced your kissing of her neck. His big hands massaged her breasts while your fingers rubbed slow, tight circles on her clit. Her legs fell lower as her moans got louder, and her orgasm approached faster. 

You kissed her through it while she groaned into your kisses with her thighs wrapped tightly around your arm. You’d have kept loving on her if you didn’t have to kill her. 

So, your fingers slipped inside of her. By then, she’d fully slumped against Stack, his hands still massaging her while you gave her one last good night of her life. You began attacking her neck with kisses again, littering her skin with hickies. 

You began salivating. Stack watched as it dripped between her breasts. He could only groan at the sight while he pressed his cock against her back. Then, you felt your fangs sinking into her skin. Between the pain and the pleasure she was receiving, surely leaving her with whiplash. 

There was a bit of guilt as you realized you were taking your first life. But you were bound to this for the rest of your unnatural life, it’ll get easier at some point. It was too late to turn back now, but a small part of you wondered, would this feeling ever go away?

You were in a whirlwind of emotion. Despair and sadness, confusion, satiated. And yet the ache between your legs continued to grow. 

Elias hid the girl elsewhere while you sat and came to terms with it all. Then, suddenly, he was wrapping his arms around you, knowing that feeling, too. You wondered if something was wrong with you, with how you... just killed someone. But what plagued your mind was fucking Stack senseless against this tree. You sat in silence for a while before the rubbing turned into heavy groping. 

It was like you couldn’t get enough of each other, like you needed each other. Your teeth clashed while you kissed. The grip he had on your ass would leave bruises by morning. 

You ground your sopping core onto the print of his cock, causing both of you to moan. Your underwear was stuffed in his back pocket from before, so both of you were making a mess of his pants. Which he quickly rid himself of as he had to be inside of you already. 

You were so turned on that he slid in so easily, you began rocking your hips back and forth. He kissed your shoulder blade while you rode him, attempting to hide his moans. 

“Come on, baby, I wanna hear you. Let me know how good I’m making you feel.” You pried him away and kissed him again so feverishly that it left both of you reeling. He did as he was told and instantly let out those beautiful sounds he’d been holding in. 

His hands moved your hips, he was making you fuck him at this point. His head was thrown back against the tree, and his skin glistened in the light. The slight breeze in the Mississippi air did little to cool the two of you down. 

“Fuck,” slipped past his parted lips. His hips stuttered into yours, he was close. Your lips attacked his neck, kissing and sucking on the salty skin. Your fangs started to peak out, grazing what used to be his pulse. They were so sharp that they softly pricked him. You lapped up the slow-pooling blood, causing him to moan more. 

You watched him become lost in his pleasure, and it only fueled your own. As he reached closer to his end, the warmth in your belly started to grow. The pace you two had built was starting to become sloppy. Your moans, along with his, were a melody to be heard. 

The pressure began to grow for the two of you. You rocked faster, wanting to feel his warmth spread inside of you. His grip on your hips grew, almost as if he was trying to still your movements. 

“Please,” he begged again. 

“Please don’t-” 

You loved to hear him beg, it was a stark contrast from the hard exterior he wore with his brother. You sensed a vulnerability in the way that he pleaded. The fact that he was willing to share that with you made you ride him harder. 

“You can do it, baby. Give it to me.”

His hips thrusted up one last time as he spilled into you, immediately, that warmth you worked so hard for. His head rested on your shoulder as he did so, panting harshly. However, you kept going. Your hip moved to a slow, considerate pace, but you were still chasing your own high. 

He was back to helping you ride him, it was his turn to coax you into your orgasm. Your moans were stalled by his as he kissed you messily, saliva coating your chins. His hands then moved to your ass, giving the doughy flesh a touch squeeze. The long, slow strokes caused your legs to shake. With one final stroke, heat flooded through you in waves. You held onto him as your body twitched lightly after. 

You chuckled softly, causing him to cover your face in kisses, wondering why. “You sound good when you’re begging.” He cracked a smile, rubbing circles into your thigh. 

“Yeah, don’t you go round here telling ya lil friends about how you had one of the twins begging for it.” Your laughter flowed into the empty air surrounding you. The music from the juke sounds so far away now. 

Stack didn't say anything the first time he noticed it.

It was small. Easy to brush off if he wasn't the type to pay attention to everything. They were at a friend's place, music low, people scattered across the living room, talking over each other the way they always did. Somebody arguing about nothing in the corner, somebody else laughing too loud at their own joke, the air thick with food, liquor, and familiarity. Summer was sitting beside him, thigh pressed to his like it belonged there, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against his arm while she laughed at something somebody said across the room.

But her laugh carried.

Not loud in a way that begged for attention, not forced, not performative. It just stretched. Warm. Full. Like it didn't mind being heard. Like she knew exactly how far it would travel and let it go anyway, unconcerned with who caught it.

Stack's eyes slid to her for a second, quiet, observant.

She didn't look back at him.

But her fingers tightened just a little where they rested on his arm, nails pressing just enough to be felt, not enough to be called out.

He clocked it.

Filed it away.

Said nothing.

The second time, it was in his kitchen.

A couple of friends over, nothing major. Music playing from his speaker, something old school, bass low and steady, conversations layered on top of each other like background noise that never really went quiet. Cabinets open, somebody asking where the cups were, like they hadn't been in his place a hundred times before.

Summer had him pinned lightly against the counter, smiling up at him like she wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, like this was just another casual moment in a room full of people who definitely did not need to see what she was doing.

Her hand slid under his shirt.

Not quick.

Not sneaky.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like she wanted him to feel every inch of it.

Stack's jaw shifted slightly, eyes dropping to her, then flicking past her shoulder toward the living room, where voices carried a little too close for comfort, where somebody could turn the corner at any second and catch exactly what she was doing.

"You bold tonight," he murmured low enough for just her, voice even, controlled, but there was a warning tucked in it.

She smiled like she didn't hear the warning at all.

"Am I?" she asked, fingers pressing just a little firmer against his stomach, thumb dragging slow like she was testing him right back.

Stack watched her for a second longer than necessary, eyes heavy, searching her face for something she wasn't saying out loud.

Still said nothing.

But he felt it.

The intention.

The choice.

The way she didn't rush.

The way she didn't care who might walk in.

The third time is when it stopped being a coincidence.

They were out, standing in line for drinks, bodies packed closer than necessary, voices overlapping, heat sitting heavy in the space like it had nowhere to go. The kind of crowd where personal space didn't exist and everything felt just a little too close.

Summer leaned into him from behind, chest to his back, arms sliding around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her body fit against his like she knew exactly how to place it.

Like she'd done it before.

Her mouth brushed his ear.

"You takin' too long," she murmured, breath warm, voice soft, but there was something under it. Something intentional.

But her body didn't move away.

If anything, she pressed closer.

Closer than necessary.

Closer than casual.

Stack went still for half a second.

Not because he didn't like it.

Because he was thinking.

Because now he was watching on purpose.

His hand dropped back, settling over hers where they rested on his stomach. His thumb dragged slowly across her knuckles, not just touching now, testing and applying pressure just enough to see what she'd do with it.

She inhaled just a little sharper than she meant to.

Barely there.

But he felt it.

And that was it.

That was the moment it clicked.

Stack's head tilted slightly, eyes forward, but his attention locked in on her completely now, tuned in to every small shift she made.

It wasn't just touch.

It wasn't just timing.

It was proximity.

It was the way she chose her moments.

The way she lingered when people were close enough to notice but not close enough to interrupt.

The way her body reacted to that thin line between private and public.

The way her breathing changed when there was risk sitting right there between them.

A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, something darker settling in behind it.

Understanding.

Recognition.

"Oh," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than her, voice low and almost amused.

His thumb pressed a little firmer against her hand, holding it there like he wasn't letting her pretend anymore.

"You like bein' watched... or you like me knowin' they could?"

Summer didn't respond.

Didn't deny it.

Didn't move.

But she didn't pull away either.

And that told him everything he needed to know.

Stack's smirk deepened just slightly, something more deliberate settling into his posture now, something that said he wasn't just observing anymore.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the right moment.

The right setting.

The right amount of pressure.

Because now that he knew...

He was gonna make her say it.

The grocery store was damn near empty, the kind of late-night quiet that made every sound feel louder than it needed to be. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing everything in that pale, unforgiving glow that made even fresh produce look a little tired. The air smelled faintly like cleaning solution and overripe fruit, that weird mix of fresh and stale that only showed up this late. Somewhere in the distance, a cart wheel squeaked with every turn, echoing faintly through the aisles like it had something to say and nobody to listen.

Stack pushed the cart with one hand, the other resting loose against the handle, shoulders relaxed, but his eyes moving, always moving. He wasn't really looking for anything in particular. This wasn't a real grocery run. This was a "we forgot half the shit we need" run, last minute before people started showing up at his place expecting food, drinks, and a good time like he was hosting a full event.

"Remind me why we ain't just ordered everything," he muttered, glancing over at her.

Summer didn't answer right away. She was too busy picking up something off the shelf, turning it over like she was about to read the ingredients, then putting it right back like she never cared in the first place.

"Because," she said finally, dragging the word out as she stepped into his space instead of around him, "this is more fun."

Her hip bumped his.

Not hard.

Just enough.

Stack looked down at her slowly, unhurried, his gaze dragging over her face, lingering just a beat too long before dipping lower, taking his time like he had nothing but it. His eyes moved over her in a way that wasn't careless, wasn't random, like he was studying her, breaking her down piece by piece, then lifting back up to her eyes like he understood more than he was letting on. He let his eyes linger on the curve of her breasts pushing against the thin fabric of her shirt, the way her nipples hardened slightly under his gaze.

"Fun for who?" he asked.

"For me," she said easily.

She reached across him for something on the shelf.

"Move."

But she didn't sound like she wanted him to.

Stack didn't move right away.

He just stood there, blocking her on purpose now, watching how she handled it.

"Say please," he said, voice low, calm, like he had all the time in the world.

Summer smiled, soft and a little too knowing, eyes flicking up to his like she understood exactly what he was doing.

"Please," she said.

But instead of stepping back, she stepped closer.

Her body brushed against his chest, slow and deliberate, her arm sliding past him to grab a bag of chips off the shelf. The contact wasn't quick. Wasn't accidental. She lingered there just a second longer than necessary, her side pressed to him like she was seeing how long he'd let it happen. Her breasts flattened against his arm, and he could feel the heat of her body through their clothes.

Stack's grip tightened slightly on the cart.

There it goes.

He didn't react out loud. Didn't shift away. Just watched her from the corner of his eye as she pulled back, dropped the chips into the cart, and kept moving as if nothing happened.

But something had already shifted.

They moved down the next aisle, the wheels of the cart rolling steadily against the tile. Summer walked ahead this time, then slowed just enough for him to catch up before falling back into step beside him like she planned it that way.

Her fingers brushed against his wrist as she reached into the cart to move something around.

Light.

Casual.

But not accidental.

Stack noticed.

Of course he did.

"Why you keep touchin' me?" he asked, not looking at her, voice even, like he was asking about the weather.

Summer glanced up at him, feigning innocence too smooth to be real, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile.

"I'm not," she said.

Her hand slid over his again when she said it.

Stack let out a quiet breath through his nose, something close to a laugh but edged with something else now. His head tilted slightly, eyes dropping to where her fingers lingered before lifting back to her face.

"You a liar," he muttered.

She didn't deny it.

Just smiled and kept walking.

They turned into the next aisle, quieter than the rest, stocked with things nobody came for this late unless they had to. Paper towels. Cleaning supplies. Plastic-wrapped boredom. The kind of place people passed through, not stayed in.

Summer slowed again.

Waited.

Then fell into step right beside him, closer this time.

Her shoulder brushed his arm.

Stayed there.

Stack's jaw shifted slightly as he looked ahead, then down at her without turning his head fully.

Yeah.

He felt it now.

Not just the touching.

The timing.

The space.

The way she was choosing open areas instead of corners.

The way she wasn't trying to hide it.

The way she was doing it, like the emptiness of the store didn't matter, like somebody could turn the corner at any second, and she still wouldn't move.

Summer leaned in slightly, her mouth close enough to his ear that her voice didn't have to travel far.

"You always walk this slow?" she whispered.

Her breath brushed his skin, warm, intentional.

Stack stopped walking.

The cart rolled forward half an inch before the wheels caught with a soft click.

Silence settled around them, heavier than before.

He turned his head just enough to look at her, eyes darker now, sharper, something more focused settling behind them.

"You doin' that on purpose," he said quietly.

Not a question.

Summer blinked at him, expression soft, unreadable for half a second.

"Doin' what?" she asked.

But she didn't step back.

Didn't create space.

If anything, she leaned just a little closer, like she wanted to see what he'd do next.

Stack held her gaze, silent, watching the way her chest rose and fell just a little faster than before, the way her lips parted like she might say something else but chose not to.

And there it was again.

That same thing he'd noticed before.

That same edge.

That same quiet little risk she kept flirting with.

A slow, knowing look crossed his face, subtle but present, something heavier settling into it now.

He didn't call her out.

Not yet.

But the way his hand slid from the cart to her waist, fingers pressing just enough to make her feel it, to hold her there for a second longer than necessary before letting go, said everything.

He felt the way her body reacted to it.

Saw it.

Stored it.

He was paying attention now.

Really paying attention.

And Summer knew it.

"Stop playin' with me," he said, his voice low and rough. "I see what you're doin'."

Summer's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pull away.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, but her voice was breathy, betraying her.

Stack's hand tightened on her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space between them.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "So your pussy ain't gettin' wet right now? So you ain't thinkin' 'bout me bendin' you over this cart and fuckin' you right here where anyone could walk in and see?"

Summer gasped, her body trembling slightly against his.

"Stack," she breathed, but it wasn't a protest. It was a plea.

"Uh-huh," he chuckled, his hand sliding down to cup her ass, squeezing it firmly. "That's what I thought. You like this shit, don't you? Gettin' all worked up in public where someone might catch us."

He could feel her heart racing against his chest, could see the way her pupils dilated with desire.

"Answer me," he commanded, his voice dropping even lower. "You like thinkin' 'bout my dick buried deep in this tight little pussy while we're shoppin' for chips and soda?"

Summer nodded, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and arousal.

"Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible.

Stack’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk. He released her, but not before giving her ass one last squeeze. Summer stumbled slightly, her legs feeling weak beneath her. Stack pushed the cart forward, leaving her to catch up, a knowing grin on his face.

Summer took a deep breath, trying to compose herself as she followed him. Her panties were soaked, her body thrumming with need. She knew he wasn't done with her yet. The night was just getting started.

They drifted toward the back of the store without saying it out loud, like both of them understood the direction without needing to name it. The aisles thinned out the further they went, shelves stretching taller, quieter, like the sound didn't carry the same way back there. The hum of the freezers took over, low and constant, a cold breath rolling through the air that made everything feel just a little more cut off from the rest of the store.

The bright overhead lights felt harsher back here, too clean, too exposing, like there was nowhere to hide, and somehow that made it worse.

Or better.

Stack slowed the cart gradually, then stopped it altogether near a half-stocked shelf, one wheel turned slightly, as if it had given up on being pushed any further. He didn't say anything about stopping. Didn't need to.

Summer didn't question it.

She stepped in closer instead.

Close enough that the front of her body met his like it had somewhere to be.

Like it belonged there.

It wasn't sudden.

It wasn't rushed.

It was that same slow, deliberate press she'd been giving him all night, but heavier now, more intentional now that the space around them had emptied and the quiet made everything feel louder.

Her hands came up lightly, resting against his chest, fingers spreading just enough to feel the heat through his shirt, to feel him there, solid and real. She could feel the hard planes of his pecs, the steady thump of his heart against her palms. His dark skin radiated warmth even through the fabric, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the store.

"Thought we was gettin' drinks for people," she murmured, voice low, but she wasn't reaching for anything on the shelf, wasn't even pretending to anymore.

Stack didn't answer right away.

His eyes dropped to where her body pressed against his, taking in the way she fit against him, the way she wasn't easing up, then lifted back to her face, quiet, calculating, reading her the same way he had been all night. He let his gaze linger on her full lips, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the slight sheen of sweat on her brown skin that made her glow under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"You ain't grabbed nothin' in two aisles," he said.

She shrugged, but she didn't move back.

Didn't even pretend to.

"Maybe I'm distracted."

Her voice was soft.

But her body said more.

Always had.

Stack's hand came up, slow, settling at her waist again, firmer this time. Not testing anymore.

Holding.

Grounding her there like he was done letting her play like he didn't see what she was doing. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of her thigh, just below the hem of her tiny skirt, tracing circles that made her shiver. The denim was rough against his fingertips, a stark contrast to the smooth, warm skin beneath. He could feel the slight tremor that ran through her body as his touch inched higher, testing the boundaries of that flimsy fabric.

Footsteps echoed somewhere behind them, faint at first, then closer.

Someone turning into the next aisle over.

The sound carried more clearly back here, bouncing off tile and metal shelving, impossible to ignore.

Summer heard it.

He knew she did.

Her body tensed for half a second.

Then didn't move.

Didn't step back.

Didn't create space.

If anything, her fingers pressed just a little deeper into his chest, her body staying exactly where it was like the possibility of being seen wasn't something to avoid.

Like it was something she was sitting in.

Stack's eyes flicked past her shoulder for half a second, catching the blur of movement at the end of the aisle, just enough to confirm somebody was there.

Then came right back to her.

And that was it.

That was the moment it locked in.

Not a guess.

Not a maybe.

A fact.

His thumb shifted against her side, pressing just enough to ground her there, to keep her right where she was while he leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, voice dropping lower.

"You like this," he murmured.

Rougher now.

Slower.

Dipped in something that wasn't guessing anymore.

A statement.

Summer's breath caught.

Soft.

Immediate.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt like she didn't even realize she was doing it, like her body answered before her mouth ever could.

Stack felt it.

Every bit of it.

Every little reaction she tried not to give him.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes locked on her face, searching for denial, for hesitation, for anything that said he was wrong.

It didn't come.

Instead, her lips parted slightly.

Her chest rose.

Her eyes flickered, just for a second.

And she didn't say a word.

That was louder than anything she could've said.

He shifted closer instead, closing that last inch of space between them, his hand sliding just a little lower at her waist, subtle, controlled, deliberate, watching the way her body reacted to the change. His fingers brushed against the curve of her hip, then down to the swell of her ass, squeezing gently as he pulled her flush against him. The thin fabric of her skirt did nothing to hide the heat of his palm, and as her hips met his, she felt it, the hard, thick length of him pressing against her stomach through the loose material of his basketball shorts. He was freeballing, and the sudden, solid pressure of his dick against her body made her breath catch in her throat. Stack's hand tightened on her ass, holding her there, forcing her to feel every inch of what she was doing to him.

Another breath.

Sharper this time.

Her nails pressed into his shirt.

There it was.

Stack's mouth curved slightly, slow, satisfied, like he'd just confirmed something he already knew but needed to feel for himself.

Summer swallowed, her throat moving under his gaze, eyes flicking toward the end of the aisle for just a second, just enough to acknowledge the risk, before landing back on him.

She still didn't move.

Didn't step away.

Didn't break it.

And that told him everything.

Not just that she liked it.

But she wanted it.

Instead of letting her go, Stack's hand moved from her ass to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her in. His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and demanding. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was sloppy, wet, and possessive. His tongue slid between her lips, claiming her mouth with a raw intensity that made her knees weak. He tasted like mint and something distinctly masculine, something that was all Stack. Summer moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shirt as he deepened the kiss, devouring her like he couldn't get enough.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. Summer's lips were swollen and glistening, her eyes dark with desire. A thin string of saliva connected their mouths for a moment before breaking.

Stack's thumb brushed against her bottom lip, wiping away the moisture. His eyes were hooded, dark with promise, her body still trembling from the intensity of the kiss. Her panties were soaked, her mind hazy with need. 

Stack's hand tightened on the back of her neck, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He didn't say another word, just turned, pulling her along with him. His grip was firm, possessive, a clear statement that she was coming with him. Summer stumbled slightly, her legs still weak from that kiss, but quickly found her footing, her heart hammering against her ribs with each step.

He didn't head for the checkout. He didn't head for the exit. He pulled her deeper into the store, toward the produce section, where the air grew cooler, and the earthy scent of fresh vegetables hung thick. The fluorescent lights here seemed even brighter, reflecting off the misters that kept the greens crisp.

He stopped abruptly in front of a large wooden crate filled with apples, red and green, a vibrant splash of color against the sterile backdrop. Without breaking eye contact, Stack gave her a gentle but insistent push backward. Summer's back hit the rough wood of the crate with a soft thud, the corner digging into her shoulder blades.

"Stack," she started, her voice a little shaky, but he was already moving into her space, caging her in with his body.

His hands went straight for the hem of her mini skirt, his fingers hooking under the fabric. He didn't hesitate, didn't ask. He just slid his hands upward, palms rough and warm against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Summer gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself as his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of her panties.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low, a gravelly rumble that vibrated through her entire body.

Summer's eyes snapped to his. They were dark, intense, burning with a hunger that made her pussy clench in anticipation. He held her gaze as his fingers hooked into the side of her panties, pulling them aside to expose her slick folds to the cool air of the store.

"So fuckin' wet," he murmured, his thumb sliding through her wetness, circling her clit with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her knees buckle. "All this from a little kiss in the middle of the store?"

Summer couldn't answer, could only bite her lip to keep from crying out as he continued to tease her, his touch maddeningly light.

"You get like this when people close by?" he asked, his voice dropping even lower. "Your pussy get this soaked knowin' somebody could walk around this corner any second and see me with my fingers buried in you?"

He slid one finger inside her, then two, pumping them slowly as his thumb continued to work her clit. Summer's breath hitched, her hips rocking against his hand instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him.

"Stack," she breathed, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Please."

"Please what?" he asked, his fingers stilling inside her, his thumb pressing down just enough to make her squirm. "Tell me what you want, Summer. Tell me what you're thinkin' 'bout right now."

She tried to deflect, tried to turn her head away, but his free hand came up to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Uh uh," he murmured. "Don't you dare look away from me. I want you to say it. I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you right here, right now."

Summer's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but her body betrayed her, her pussy clenching around his fingers, her hips rolling against his hand. She could hear the distant hum of the freezers, the squeak of a cart wheel somewhere in the store, and the faint murmur of voices. The risk was real, the danger palpable, and it only made her want him more.

"Say it," he commanded again, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you want me to fuck you in the middle of this grocery store. Tell me you want me to bend you over this apple crate and bury my dick so deep in that greedy little pussy of yours that you forget where we are."

Summer's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, her body trembling with the force of her arousal. When she opened them again, they were dark with need, her lips parted as she finally gave him what he wanted.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire. "I want you to fuck me. Right here. In the middle of the grocery store."

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across Stack's face. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "Good girl."

Then he pulled his fingers out of her, brought them to his lips, and licked her juices off with a groan of appreciation. His eyes never left hers as he tasted her, his tongue swirling around his digits, savoring her flavor like it was the sweetest thing in the store.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick with need.

Summer's knees trembled, her body still buzzing from his touch. She watched, mesmerized, as he cleaned his fingers, her pussy clenching with need. She wanted more. Needed more.

Before she could say anything, his head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked past her shoulder, toward the main aisle. Summer frowned, about to turn, but his hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to look back at him.

"Don't," he warned, his voice low. "Don't you fuckin' move."

Summer froze, her heart pounding against her ribs. She could hear it now too, the soft squeak of a cart wheel, the rustle of plastic bags. An employee. Restocking, maybe, or just passing through. They were close. Too close.

Stack's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. Instead of stopping, instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer, his body pressing against hers, pinning her against the apple crate.

"You hear that?" he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Someone's comin'."

Summer's breath hitched, her body tensing with a mixture of fear and excitement.

"They could turn this corner any second," he continued, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Could see me pressed up against you. See your skirt hiked up around your waist. See how fuckin' soaked your panties are."

His hand slid back under her skirt, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made her gasp.

"Should we stop?" he asked, his eyes locked on hers, testing her. "Should we pretend we were just shoppin' for apples?"

Summer shook her head, her eyes dark with desire. "No," she whispered. "Don't stop."

Stack's smirk widened. "That's what I thought."

He leaned in, capturing her mouth in another searing kiss, his tongue delving deep, claiming her, tasting her, as his fingers continued to work their magic between her legs. The sounds of the store faded away, replaced by the rush of blood in her ears, the frantic beating of her heart, the soft moans that escaped her throat.

Then—

The cart squeaked again, closer this time. A young employee rounded the corner, a box of cereal in his hands, his eyes scanning the shelves. He didn't see them at first, not with the large display of bananas blocking their view. But he was getting closer.

Stack's movements slowed, his touch becoming more deliberate, more intense. He was drawing it out, savoring the risk, the danger, the possibility of being caught.

Summer's eyes widened as the employee stepped past the bananas, his gaze landing on them. He froze, his mouth falling open, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the scene before him—Stack with his hand up Summer's skirt, their bodies pressed together in a passionate embrace.

Stack didn't stop.

Didn't even flinch.

He just held the employee's gaze, a challenging look in his eyes, as he continued to kiss Summer, his fingers still working her clit, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

Summer could feel the employee's eyes on them, could feel his shock, his disbelief. And instead of being embarrassed, instead of pulling away, she found herself getting even more turned on, her body responding to the added stimulation, the added risk.

"Stack," she moaned against his mouth, her hips rocking against his hand. "I'm gonna cum."

"Not yet," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Not until I say so."

It was a silent scream. A wave of pleasure so intense, so overwhelming, that it stole her voice, leaving her gasping for air, her body trembling with the force of it. It was a release of all the pent-up desire and frustration that had been building for what felt like an eternity, a cathartic, soul-shattering experience that left her feeling raw and exposed, but also completely and utterly alive.

Stack held her through it, his arms wrapped around her waist, his mouth still claiming hers, as the employee stood there, frozen in shock, his box of cereal forgotten on the floor.

When her tremors subsided, Stack pulled back, a triumphant smirk on his face. He looked over at the employee, who was still standing there, mouth agape.

"You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna move along?" Stack asked, his voice casual, as if they were just discussing the weather.

The employee blinked, then scrambled to pick up his cereal, nearly dropping it again in his haste. He mumbled an apology, then practically ran down the aisle, disappearing around the corner.

Stack turned back to Summer, his eyes dark with need. "That was just a taste," he murmured, his hands moving to her hips, turning her around to face the apple crate. "Now for the main course."

He bent her over the line of fruits, her hands bracing against the rough wood of the crate. He dropped to his knees behind her, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirt up over her round ass. He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties, and with a sharp tug, he ripped them off, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound.

Summer fucking gasped, her body already shaking like a junkie needing a fix. She could feel his breath, hot and nasty, right against her puckered asshole. His hands weren't gentle; they were possessive, digging into the soft flesh of her ass, spreading her so wide she felt the stretch in her thighs, and the cool air hit her dripping pussy. Then his mouth was on her. No finesse, no teasing bullshit. Just a hot, wet mouth sealing over her like he was trying to suck the soul out of her. His tongue was a thick, greedy muscle, plunging deep into her pussy, fucking her with it before dragging it up to swirl around her clit, lapping at her juices like they were honey. It was messy, loud, and so fucking nasty her ears burned. The wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth eating her out echoed in the quiet aisle, punctuated by his guttural moans of pleasure. He was a goddamn animal, feasting on her, and she was loving every second of it.

Summer cried out, her fingers digging into the wood of the crate as he worked his magic. His tongue was everywhere, lapping at her folds, circling her clit, diving deep inside her. He was relentless, merciless, driving her wild with need. She could feel the cool air of the store blowing against her clit, a contrast to the heat of his mouth, adding to the sensory overload.

"Stack," she moaned, her body writhing against his face. "Please. I need you."

He ignored her pleas, his focus solely on her pleasure, his tongue and lips working in tandem to push her closer and closer to the edge. She could feel another orgasm building, this one more intense than the last, her body tensing, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Just as she was about to cum, he pulled back, leaving her panting and desperate. He stood up, his hands still gripping her hips, and she could hear the rustle of fabric as he dropped his shorts.

Summer looked back over her shoulder, her eyes widening at the sight of his dick. It wasn't just big; it was a masterpiece of dark, vascular flesh, thick and heavy in his hand. The shaft was a deep, rich brown, ridged with prominent veins that trailed up its length, mapping a path to the broad, mushroom head that was already glistening. It curved slightly to the right, a perfect, natural arc that promised to hit every nerve ending inside her just right. Summer's mouth watered instantly, a sudden, sharp ache in her jaw as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. It was beautiful, intimidating, and exactly what she needed—a heavy, throbbing piece of him that she craved with every fiber of her being.

He positioned himself behind her, the head of his dick teasing her entrance, sliding through her wetness but not entering. He was torturing her, drawing it out, making her beg for it.

"Please, Stack," she whimpered, her hips rocking back, trying to take him in. "I need you inside me."

"Patience, baby girl," he murmured, his hands tightening on her hips. "Good things come to those who wait."

But he couldn't wait any longer. With a groan, he pushed inside her, just the head at first, stretching her, filling her. Summer cried out, her body arching back, her hands gripping the crate for support.

He slid in deeper, inch by inch, his dick filling her, stretching her to her limits. He paused for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, then began to move, slow at first, then faster, harder, his hips slapping against her ass with each thrust.

Summer was lost in a haze of pleasure, her body moving in time with his, her moans filling the quiet of the store. She could feel the cool air blowing against her clit as he fucked her, adding to the rush, the intensity of the moment. She bit her lip, trying to stifle her cries, but it was no use. He was too good, too big, too perfect.

Stack's grip on her hips tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pounded into her, his dick hitting all the right spots, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. He could feel her pussy clenching around him, could feel how close she was, but he wasn't ready to let her cum yet. Not until he was ready.

"Who's pussy is this?" he demanded, his voice rough with need.

"Yours," she cried out, her body trembling. "It's yours, Stack."

"Damn right," he growled, his thrusts becoming even more punishing, even more intense. "This pussy belongs to me."

Summer could feel another orgasm building, this one more powerful than the last. She was so close, so damn close, her body tensing, her breath catching in her throat.

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Cum all over my dick."

A raw, guttural scream tore from Summer's throat, bouncing off the sterile tile and metal shelves of the store. It wasn't a cry of pleasure; it was the sound of a detonation. Her body seized, a violent, full-body convulsion that started in her pussy and radiated outwards, a bliss that ripped through her like a goddamn earthquake. It was a messy, overwhelming flood that short-circuited her brain, leaving her gasping for air like a fish out of water, her limbs turning to useless jelly as the aftershocks continued to tremble through her wrecked, spent body.

Stack continued to fuck her through her orgasm, his thrusts never faltering, his dick still hard and ready for more.  When her tremors subsided, he pulled out, turning her around to face him. His eyes were dark with need, his dick still standing at attention, glistening with her juices.

"We ain't done," he murmured, his voice thick with need. "Not by a long shot."

Before Summer could fully catch her breath, Stack's hands were on her waist, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his torso instinctively as he stood up straight, her arms circling his neck for balance. The sudden shift in position made her dizzy, her body still humming from her orgasm. She could feel the raw strength in his arms, the way his muscles bunched and flexed as he held her, his stamina on another level entirely.

"You feel that?" he growled against her lips, his dick pressing against her entrance, teasing her. "Feel how hard you make me?"

Summer could only nod, her breath catching in her throat as he slowly lowered her onto his dick, inch by thick, curved inch. The stretch was delicious, a burning pleasure that made her toes curl. She was so full, her pussy clenching around his length as he bottomed out.

"Fuck," she moaned, her head falling back as he started to move, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her see stars.

Stack's hands tightened on her ass, gripping her cheeks as he lifted her up and down, his dick sliding in and out of her with ease. Summer met his thrusts, her body moving in time with his, her arms tightening around his neck as she pulled him in for a kiss.

It was sloppy, wet, and desperate, tongues and teeth and breathless moans. Summer could taste herself on his lips, a heady combination of her arousal and his masculine flavor. She bit his lower lip, hard, drawing a groan from him that vibrated through her entire body.

"You like that, don't you?" she panted against his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders. "You like it when I get a little nasty."

Stack's response was a deep, guttural growl as he increased his pace, his hips snapping up to meet hers, his dick pounding into her with a force that made her cry out. Summer leaned back in his arms, using his shoulders as leverage, her body arching as she met his thrusts, her breasts bouncing with each movement.

"Harder," she demanded, her voice hoarse with need. "Fuck me harder, Stack."

He obliged, his movements becoming even more punishing, even more intense. Summer's head fell back, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she lost herself in the pleasure, the pain, the sheer ecstasy of being fucked by him.

But she wasn't done yet.

With a wicked grin, she leaned forward, her tongue tracing a path up his neck, her teeth grazing his earlobe. She could feel his shudder, his slight falter in rhythm as she whispered dirty things in his ear, telling him all the nasty things she wanted to do to him, all the ways she wanted him to fuck her.

"You like that?" she murmured, her voice low and seductive. "You like it when I talk dirty to you? When I tell you how much I love your fat dick stretching my pussy?"

Stack's grip on her ass tightened, his knuckles turning white as he fought for control. But Summer was relentless, her tongue delving into his ear, her hands roaming over his chest, her nails scraping against his nipples.

"Cum for me," she demanded, her voice rough with need. "I want to feel you cum inside me."

But Stack wasn't ready. Not yet.

With a growl, he shifted his grip, his hands moving to her thighs as he lifted her higher, changing the angle of his thrusts.

What they didn't see, lost in their own world of pleasure and pain, was the new employee who had just come out of the side door of the produce warehouse. A young woman, no older than twenty, with wide eyes and a mouth that had fallen open in shock. She stood there, frozen in place, her hands gripping a clipboard as she took in the scene before her—Stack with Summer in his arms, his dick buried deep inside her, their bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time itself.

She should have said something. Should have turned away, should have reported them. But she couldn't. She was mesmerized, captivated by the raw, unadulterated passion playing out before her. She watched, her heart pounding against her ribs, as Stack continued to fuck Summer, his movements becoming even more intense, even more demanding.

Stack's grip tightened on her thighs, his biceps straining as he held her, his hips still rolling in that deep, punishing rhythm. With a low growl, he shifted his weight, turning them both as he moved toward a large, flat display crate filled with bags of oranges. He laid her down gently, her back hitting the mesh bags with a soft rustle. The position was awkward, her legs still tangled around his waist, but Stack didn't miss a beat. He adjusted his stance, his dick still buried deep inside her, and started to move again, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor.

Summer moaned, her hands gripping the edges of the crate as he fucked her, her body arching up to meet his thrusts. But it wasn't enough. He wanted more. Needed more.

"Turn this way,"  he commanded as she shifted her body to a new angle, his voice rough with need.  Summer complied, her movements slow as she rolled onto her back, her legs falling open in invitation. Stack followed, settling between her thighs, his dick sliding back into her with ease. He braced himself on his elbows, his body hovering over hers, his eyes locked on her face as he started to move again.

It was then that he saw her.

The new employee. The young woman from the warehouse. She was still there, still watching, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape. But she wasn't just watching anymore. She had moved closer, her hand resting on her chest, her body leaning forward as if trying to get a better look.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Stack's face. He could see the flush on her cheeks, the way her nipples were hard against her uniform, the slight tremor in her hands. She was turned on. And that knowledge, that power, sent a thrill through him that was almost as potent as the pleasure of Summer's pussy wrapped around his dick.

He shifted his position slightly, turning their bodies just enough to give the employee a better view. He wanted her to see. Wanted her to watch as his dick disappeared into Summer's tight, wet heat, as Summer's body arched and writhed beneath him.

"You like that, baby girl?" he growled, his eyes still locked on Summer's face, his voice low and rough. "You like my dick stretchin' this tight little pussy?"

Summer could only nod, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he continued to pound into her, his hips slapping against her thighs with each thrust.

But then he shifted his gaze, his eyes flicking over to the employee, a challenging look in his eyes as he addressed them both.

"Y'all like that?" he asked, his voice dropping even lower, a seductive rumble that vibrated through the entire produce section. "Like watchin' me fuck this pretty pussy? Like seein' how she takes all this dick?"

The employee's eyes widened, her cheeks flushing even more as she realized he was talking to her. But she didn't move. Didn't look away. Just stood there, mesmerized, as he continued to put on a show for them both.

Summer's eyes fluttered open, her gaze following his, and she saw the employee. A gasp escaped her lips, her body tensing for a moment as she realized they were being watched. But instead of being embarrassed, instead of pulling away, she found herself getting even more turned on, her pussy clenching around his dick, her hips rocking up to meet his thrusts.

"Stack," she moaned, her voice hoarse with need. "She's watchin' us."

"I know," he growled, his eyes still locked on the employee, a triumphant smirk on his face. "And she's enjoyin' every minute of it. Ain't you, sweetheart?"

The employee could only nod, her hand moving from her chest to her mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and arousal.

"Good," Stack murmured, his attention turning back to Summer, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. "Then let's give her a real show."

He shifted his position slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, his dick hitting a new spot, a place so deep, so sensitive, that Summer cried out, her body arching off the crate.

"Right there," she screamed, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. "Right there, Stack. Don't stop."

He obliged, his movements becoming even more intense, even more demanding. He could feel her getting close, her body tensing, her breath catching in her throat. He could feel the way her pussy was clenching around him, the way her juices were flowing, the way her entire being was focused on the pleasure he was giving her.

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Cum all over my dick. Let her see how good I make you feel."

That was all it took.

With a cry that echoed through the store, Summer's body convulsed, waves of pleasure washing over her as her orgasm soared through her. But this was different. More intense. More overwhelming.

And then it happened.

A gush of fluid erupted from her pussy, soaking his dick, his thighs, the crate beneath them. It was messy, it was damn near perfect, and Stack had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

"Fuck," he growled, his eyes widening in surprise and delight as he continued to fuck her through her orgasm, his dick sliding in and out of her with ease, her juices making everything slick and wet and oh so good. "That's it, baby girl. Cum for me. Make a mess for me."

Summer's body continued to convulse, wave after wave of pleasure washing over her as she squirted, her cries filling the quiet of the store. The employee stood there, frozen in place, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and awe, her hand still pressed against her mouth.

Summer lay slumped against the crate, her body limp and pliant, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. Stack slowed his movements, his dick still buried deep inside her, his eyes locked on her face, a triumphant smirk on his lips.

"You see that?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, his gaze flicking over to the employee. "That's what I do to her. That's what this dick does to her."

The employee could only nod, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and arousal, her body trembling with a need that was so palpable, so undeniable, that Stack could almost taste it.

He pulled out of Summer slowly, his dick glistening with her juices, and turned his full attention to the employee.

But before he could take a step, Summer was sliding off the crate, her legs still shaky from her orgasm. She landed on her knees on the cool tile floor, her eyes locked on his dick as she reached for it, her fingers wrapping around his thick, curved shaft.

"Summer," he started, but she was already leaning in, her tongue darting out to lick the head of his dick, tasting the combination of his cum he’s been trying to hold back and her own juices.

Stack groaned, his head falling back as she took him into her mouth, her lips stretching around his girth. It was a tight fit, a perfect, wet heat that made his knees weak. Her tongue was a velvet weapon, swirling around the head, tracing the ridge, delving into the slit to taste more of him. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing as she worked her way down his shaft, her nose pressing against his pubic bone.

"Fuck," he growled, his hands tangling in her hair, his hips rocking forward as he started to fuck her mouth, his dick sliding in and out of her throat with ease. "That's it, baby girl. Take all this dick." His voice was a low, guttural rumble, thick with lust and pride as he watched her lips stretch obscenely around his girth. He tightened his grip, using her hair as leverage to pull her deeper, to feel the tight, wet clench of her throat as he pushed past her gag reflex. "Look at you," he grunted, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he stared down at her. "Chokin' on this shit like you was born for it. This pretty little mouth was made to get fucked, wasn't it?" He could feel her moan vibrate around his shaft, a desperate, needy sound that went straight to his balls. He pulled back, just enough to let her gasp for air, a thick string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to the head of his dick. Before she could catch her breath, he was sliding back in, deeper this time, his hips snapping forward with a sharp, deliberate thrust that buried him to the hilt. "Yeah," he hissed, his head falling back for a moment as the sheer, overwhelming pleasure of it washed over him. "That's what the fuck I'm talkin' 'bout. Take that shit. Take every last inch."

Summer moaned around his shaft, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine. She could feel him throbbing in her mouth, could taste the salt of his skin. It was intoxicating, addictive, and she wanted more.

Stack's eyes flicked over to the employee, a challenging look in his eyes as he watched her watch them. She was still there, still watching, her hand pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and awe.

"Look at you, just standin' there," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvety rasp that was somehow more intimate than his growls. His hips maintained their slow, hypnotic rhythm, his dick disappearing into Summer's willing mouth. "Ain't you ever seen somethin' so pretty before? Watch how she takes it... how she worships this dick." His eyes, dark and knowing, stayed locked on the employee, a slow, wicked smile playing on his lips. "I bet your mouth's waterin' right now, ain't it? Wonderin' what she's tastin'... how good it feels to have a throat this full." He let out a soft groan as Summer swirled her tongue, his gaze never leaving the other woman. "Don't be shy now. You can look all you want. Maybe, if you're a good girl and keep watchin' so nice and quiet, I'll let you find out for yourself."

Summer pulled back slightly, her lips wrapping around the head of his dick as she started to suck, her cheeks hollowing out with the force of her suction. She could feel him getting closer, his body tensing, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

But she wasn't done yet.

With a wicked grin, she leaned in, her tongue tracing a path down his shaft, her lips wrapping around his balls as she started to suck, her hands stroking his dick in time with her movements. But that was just the appetizer. Summer pulled back with a wet pop, her eyes locking onto his with a wild, unhinged look. She wasn't just sucking his dick anymore; she was worshipping it, devouring it like a woman possessed. She took him back into her mouth, deeper this time, her head bobbing furiously, her movements sloppy and uncontrolled. The sounds were obscene, wet, slurping noises filled the produce section as she worked his shaft with a desperate hunger. She gargled around his length, the vibrations making Stack's knees buckle, his hands tightening in her hair as he struggled to maintain control. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded, a mixture of lust and defiance in their depths as she continued to suck, her cheeks hollowing out with the force of her suction. She was a mess, saliva dripping down her chin, coating his dick in a slick, glistening sheen, but she didn't care. All that mattered was him, the taste of him, the feel of him in her mouth, the way he was losing control because of her.

Stack cried out, his body arching as she worked her magic, her tongue and lips driving him wild with need. He could feel the pressure building, the familiar tingle at the base of his spine that signaled his impending orgasm.

"Summer," he growled, his hands tightening in her hair. "I'm gonna cum."

But Summer didn't pull away. Instead, she doubled down, her movements becoming even more intense, even more demanding. She wanted it. Wanted all of him.

With a final, guttural groan, Stack's body convulsed, his dick pulsing as he came, hot, thick ropes of cum shooting from the tip, coating Summer's face, her lips, her cheeks. It was messy, it was graphic, it was damn near perfect, and Summer had never felt more alive.

She looked up at him, her face glistening with his cum, her eyes dark with desire. Then she turned her attention to the employee, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across her face as she licked her lips, savoring the taste of him.

The employee's eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock as she watched Summer, her body trembling with a need that was so palpable, so undeniable, that Stack could almost taste it.

Stack pulled Summer to her feet, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her, his tongue delving deep, tasting himself on her lips.

"You see that?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, his gaze flicking over to the employee. "That's what I do to her. That's what this dick does to her."

The employee didn't just nod. Her entire body seized up, a sharp, audible gasp tearing from her lips as if she'd been struck. Her clipboard slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the tiled floor with a sound that was shockingly loud in the sudden, charged silence. Her eyes, wide and glassy, darted between Stack's imposing frame and Summer's debauched form, unable to settle on one horrifying, captivating sight. A deep, violent flush crept up her neck, burning her cheeks a deep, mottled crimson. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked pants, the starched fabric of her uniform straining against her heaving breasts. She was frozen, a statue caught in the blinding high beams of their raw, unfiltered lust, her body screaming a dozen conflicting signals—run, hide, watch, touch—all at once. She was a live wire, trembling so violently that Stack could see it from across the aisle, her need a palpable, electric current in the air between them.

He let out a low, breathy chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as he looked from Summer's cum-slicked face to the petrified employee. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, his eyes dancing with mischief. "You want some?" he asked, his voice soft, almost gentle.

The air in the produce section was thick, heavy with the scent of oranges, sex, and the employee's stunned silence. Stack broke the tension first, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he gently helped Summer to her feet. Her legs were still unsteady, and he kept an arm wrapped securely around her waist, a clear, possessive gesture.

"Alright, show's over," he announced to the room, his voice casual as if he were commenting on the weather. He looked down at Summer, his thumb gently wiping a smear of his cum from her cheek. "You a mess, girl."

Summer just smirked, leaning into him as she began to straighten her skirt. Her movements were languid, satisfied. She didn't spare the employee another glance, fully aware of the woman's frozen, wide-eyed stare. The power was a heady thing, and she wore it well.

They moved with an unhurried grace, fixing their clothes with practiced ease. Stack pulled his basketball shorts up, settling them low on his hips, while Summer smoothed down her mini skirt, her movements slow and deliberate. They looked like they'd just finished a particularly vigorous workout, not a public, three-person sexual spectacle in the middle of a grocery store.

"C'mon," Stack said, taking her hand. "We still got guests waitin' on us."

He led her away, leaving the employee standing there amidst the wreckage of her night shift—a discarded clipboard, a bed of ruined oranges, and the lingering image of something she'd never be able to unsee. They didn't look back.

They walked through the rest of the store as if nothing had happened, the fluorescent lights now seeming almost mundane after the raw intensity of the produce aisle. The energy between them was still heavy, a palpable thrumming that connected them with every step. They grabbed the forgotten bags of chips and a six-pack of beer, their movements synchronized, comfortable.

At the checkout, the cashier barely looked up, scanning their items with robotic efficiency. Stack paid in cash, his hand resting possessively on the small of Summer's back. The whole transaction was bizarrely normal, a stark contrast to the chaos they'd just left behind.

Outside, the cool night air was a welcome shock to their systems. The streetlights cast long shadows across the parking lot as they walked to the car. The silence between them wasn't awkward; it was charged, filled with unspoken words and lingering sensations.

Summer slid into the passenger seat, buckling her seatbelt with a soft click. She tried to act normal, to pretend her heart wasn't still racing, that she couldn't still feel the ghost of his hands on her body, the taste of him on her lips.

"You think she'll say anything?" she asked, her voice a little too casual.

Stack started the car, the engine rumbling to life. He didn't answer right away, just pulled out of the parking spot, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He let the silence stretch, letting her squirm just a little.

Finally, he glanced over at her, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "Don't matter if she does. Ain't nobody gonna believe her anyway."

He paused, his gaze turning serious, intense. He reached over, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, his touch sending a shiver down her spine.

"But that ain't what we're talkin' 'bout, is it?" he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Next time, you gon' tell me before you try to turn me into entertainment."

Summer's breath caught, her eyes widening slightly. She opened her mouth to protest, to deflect, but the words died on her lips. He saw right through her, saw the part of her that craved the risk, the attention, the thrill of being watched.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, seductive whisper.

"I'ma keep my eye on you… you don't just like me, you like the show."

Summer shivered, a fresh wave of arousal washing over her. He knew her. Saw her. And instead of being scared or running, she felt a sense of relief, of being truly seen for the first time.

She leaned into his touch, her eyes meeting his, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face.

"Maybe," she whispered, her voice thick with need. "Or maybe I just like watchin' you put on a show."

Stack's smirk widened, his eyes dark with promise.

"Oh, baby girl," he growled, his hand sliding down to her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "We ain't even started yet."

The night was still young, and they had so much more to explore.

Clarksdale, Mississippi sat heavy under the kind of heat that made everything move slower, men, music, even time itself. The air clung to skin, thick and damp, smelling like dust, sweat, cheap liquor, and something sweet rotting just beneath it. It settled in your lungs if you breathed too deep, made your shirt stick to your back if you stood still too long. And right in the middle of all that was the juke joint, low-lit, loud, alive in a way the rest of the town only pretended to be. Music spilled out the door and bled into the street, a rhythm that didn’t ask permission to be felt, just took hold and stayed there.

Stack leaned against the wooden post just outside, one boot hooked behind the other, hat tipped low enough to shadow his eyes. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, the smoke curling up slowly like it didn’t have nowhere better to be. He wasn’t doing nothing in particular, just watching. He always was. Watching people, watching movement, watching opportunity before it even knew it was about to walk his way.

Inside, laughter cracked like glass, sharp and sudden. Boots stomped against worn wood floors, cards slapped tables, and somebody was already too drunk to stand straight. Smoke handled the inside, smooth, controlled, making sure money kept flowing and nobody got too bold. He didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. Didn’t have to repeat himself twice. That was his lane.

Stack preferred the outside. That’s where things walked in before they knew what they were stepping into. That’s where he saw everything first. That’s when he saw her.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where she came from. Didn’t know nothing except that the whole damn street seemed to quiet down when she stepped onto it, like something soft slipped into a place that didn’t deserve it.

She was walking behind a man, her husband, though Stack didn’t need confirmation to know that. It was in the distance between them, not too far, not too close. The way she stayed just a step behind him felt practiced, like she’d learned that was where she belonged. Quiet, careful, measured. Like she’d been taught not to take up too much space.

The man talked big, hands moving, voice carrying, selling something Stack didn’t care enough to figure out. He laughed too loudly at his own words, leaned too close when he spoke to folks, like he thought force could turn into charm if he pushed it hard enough. Stack barely looked at him twice.

He kept his eyes on her. She moved softly, like she wasn’t meant for the same world the rest of them were stomping through. Small frame, neat, wrapped up in fabric that did its best to hide her shape, but didn’t quite succeed. Not to him. The way the dress fell told its own story if you knew how to look, and he always did.

There was something else, too, something in the way she held herself. Not pride, not fear exactly either, just restraint. Like she was constantly folding herself inward so nobody had to notice her unless they wanted to.

He dragged slowly on his cigarette, eyes locked in without even trying to pretend otherwise. “Who that?” he muttered, more to himself than anybody, voice rough from smoke and disinterest.

Nobody answered. Nobody needed to.

She didn’t look up at first. She just followed behind that man from door to door while he pitched whatever dream he thought folks would buy. But every now and then, like something tugged at her, something quiet but persistent, her eyes would lift.

And when they did, they found him.

The first time it happened, Stack didn’t move. Didn’t straighten up. Didn’t shift. He just stood there, staring right back like he’d been waiting on it, like the moment had already been decided before either of them stepped into it. Then, slow and easy, he tipped his hat. Nothing flashy, nothing loud, just enough to be felt.

Her reaction was immediate. That shy little smile, soft and uncertain, spread across her face like it didn’t come out often, like it surprised even her. And just as quick, her cheeks deepened, that warm brown turning richer, touched with red that climbed up slow and steady.

Stack huffed out a quiet laugh, cigarette hanging from his lip. “Yeah…” he murmured, almost under his breath. “Look at you.”

She dropped her gaze almost as fast as she’d lifted it, falling back into step behind her husband like she hadn’t just been seen, like she hadn’t just been noticed in a way that lingered longer than it should have.

But Stack had already caught it, and once he caught something, he didn’t let it go.

Days passed like that. Not many, just enough.

He saw her more than once, always the same pattern. That man was talking, moving, pushing forward like the world owed him attention. Her following, quiet as a shadow, soft as something that could disappear if the wind hit too hard.

Sometimes Stack would already be outside when they came through. Sometimes he’d step out just in time. It didn’t matter. He always saw her.

And every time their eyes met, it was the same. A small rhythm that belonged only to them. He tipped his hat. She gave that shy smile. Her cheeks warmed every single time.

He never walked up to her. Never interrupted. Never spoke a word. He didn’t need to.

In his mind, something had already started forming, something that didn’t require permission or conversation. Something that made sense to him in a way nothing else ever really bothered to.

“She a butterfly,” he said one evening, voice low, watching her disappear into the distance behind that man, her dress catching just a little in the breeze.

Smoke, standing beside him, didn’t even look. “You don’t even know that girl.”

Stack smirked, slow and crooked, like the answer was obvious. “Don’t need to.”

The words came easily, certain. Like knowing her wasn’t about time. Wasn’t about conversation. Like seeing her had already told him everything he felt like he needed to know.

The last day she was in town, the sky hung low and gray, thick clouds threatening rain that never quite came. The air felt heavier than usual, like something was waiting to happen and just hadn’t found its moment yet.

Stack stood in his usual spot, shoulder against that same post, watching the street like he always did, though this time there was something more intentional in it.

He was looking for her.

She passed by one last time, same steps, same distance behind her husband, same quiet presence that somehow still managed to pull his attention every single time.

But this time she looked at him first. Not by accident. Not delayed.

On purpose.

And when he tipped his hat, that smile came quicker, a little warmer, a little less unsure, like something small had taken root in the space between glances and decided to stay.

Stack watched her go until she disappeared completely, swallowed up by the street and everything moving through it. He didn’t chase. Didn’t call out. Didn’t break the pattern they’d built.

He just stood there, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers until it singed his skin, and he finally flicked it away.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, voice low, almost thoughtful for once. “Ain’t the last time I see you.”

It wasn’t a hope. Wasn’t even a wish. It didn’t sound like either one.

It sounded like a decision.

Like something already set in motion, whether she knew it or not.

And in Stack’s world, that was usually enough.

The road stretched long and hot beneath them, cutting through Mississippi like it had somewhere better to be. Dust kicked up behind the car in lazy clouds, hanging in the air before settling back down like it didn’t feel like moving no more than anything else out here. The sun sat high, pressing down through the windshield, turning the inside of the car into something just shy of unbearable. Heat wrapped around them, settled into the seats, into their clothes, into their skin like it meant to stay.

Stack had his arm hanging out the window, fingers loose, letting the wind hit his skin while the rest of him stayed slouched in the passenger seat like he’d been sitting there his whole life. His hat tipped low, shadowing his eyes, but not enough to hide the irritation sitting there. “Man,” he muttered, shifting like he couldn’t get comfortable no matter how he tried, “I hate being out the Delta this long. Don’t feel right.”

Smoke didn’t look at him, hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward, posture straight like the heat didn’t touch him the same way it did everybody else. “You been complaining since we left,” he said calmly.

“‘Cause we still ain’t back,” Stack shot back without missing a beat.

Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite. “You act like Clarksdale finna disappear without you.”

Stack turned his head, squinting at him. “It might. Ain’t nobody running it right when I’m gone.”

“That right?” Smoke’s tone stayed flat, but something was sitting under it, amused, unimpressed. “Thought I was there.”

Stack waved a hand like that didn’t matter. “You don’t count. You too quiet. Folks get nervous when it’s too quiet.”

“Folks get dead when it’s too loud,” Smoke replied.

That pulled a grin out of Stack, slow and sharp. “Yeah, but at least they entertained before it happen.” Smoke finally glanced at him then, just for a second, eyes cutting over before going back to the road. “You gon’ talk the whole way there?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured.”

Stack shifted again, dragging his arm back inside, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together like he was trying to wake himself up. “I’m serious though. We been stretching that supply too thin. Folks already asking questions. You heard Johnson the other night, talking ‘bout the shine tasting watered down.”

“I heard him,” Smoke said. “I also heard him come back for another drink.”

“That ain’t the point,” Stack snapped lightly. “I don’t like folks thinking we slipping.”

“We ain’t slipping. We adjusting.”

Stack sucked his teeth. “Sound like slipping with better words. It sound like you trying to dress it up.”

“It sound like business,” Smoke replied.

Stack leaned back again, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t like business when it take me out my city. Everything run how it’s supposed to when I’m there. I step away, now we chasing suppliers in a whole other state.”

“You like money.”

Stack paused, then nodded once. “I do like money.”

“And money don’t come from sitting still.”

“Money come from me,” Stack said, pointing at himself. “Let’s not get that confused.”

Smoke hummed under his breath, unconvinced. “Right.”

They rode in silence for a moment, the sound of the engine filling the space between them, tires humming steady against the road. It didn’t last long. Stack glanced out the window, watching the land pass by in long stretches of nothing. Trees, dirt, the same patches of dry land repeating themselves like the world got lazy out here. “Hope this connection worth it.”

“It is,” Smoke said.

“You know that or you just saying it?”

“I don’t waste time guessing.”

Stack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Mister always got a plan. Mister got it all figured out.”

“Somebody got to.”

“Here you go.” Stack leaned back again, dragging a hand down his face slower this time. “You always do that. Act like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Smoke’s jaw shifted just slightly. “I don’t act like nothing.”

“You do,” Stack insisted. “That little look you get. Like you already thinking three steps ahead and I’m just out here winging it.”

“That ain’t acting,” Smoke said after a brief pause.

Stack stared at him for a second, then barked out a laugh. “Man, fuck you.”

Smoke’s mouth twitched, just barely. “You’ll be alright.”

Stack shook his head, still smiling. “One day I’m gon’ let you run your mouth like that in front of the wrong person.”

“You don’t. You like me alive.”

“Debatable.”

“It ain’t.”

Stack let out a short laugh, shaking his head again before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He tapped it against his palm twice, then lit it, cupping the flame against the breeze coming through the window. He took a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before pushing it out slow, watching it disappear into the heat. “You ever think maybe I’m the smart one?”

Smoke didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

Stack blinked, then turned his head slowly. “You answered that too fast.”

“I didn’t have to think about it.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Stack said, pointing at him again. “That right there. Disrespect.”

“That’s honesty.”

“Same thing coming from you.”

Smoke exhaled softly through his nose again, closer to a real laugh this time, but still controlled.

The road kept stretching ahead of them, endless and unmoved. The sun dipped just slightly, not enough to cool anything down, just enough to change the color of the light spilling across the land. Shadows grew longer, but the heat stayed the same, pressing in just as hard.

Stack shifted again, more restless now. “Soon as we lock this in,” he said, voice quieter, more focused under the edge of irritation, “we head right back. I ain’t trying to be out here longer than we got to.”

Smoke nodded once. “That’s the plan.”

“You better not start liking it out here,” Stack added, side-eyeing him. “I ain’t splitting time with no damn Florida.”

That got a real reaction, faint but there. Smoke glanced at him again. “You jealous of a state now?”

“Yeah,” Stack said without hesitation. “I don’t trust nothing that ain’t Mississippi.”

“That sound stupid.”

“It sound right.”

Smoke shook his head slightly, but didn’t argue further.

The land began to change gradually the further they drove, the air creeping heavier even with the windows cracked, thicker somehow. The breeze that came through didn’t pass clean anymore. It lingered, sat on the skin, carried something unfamiliar in it that didn’t belong to where they came from.

Stack noticed it before he said anything. His arm shifted back out the window, testing it like he didn’t believe what he was feeling. “This air feel different,” he muttered.

Smoke nodded once, eyes still forward. “We getting close.”

The trees started looking different too, taller in places, thinner in others, the land opening up in ways that didn’t feel like home. The road didn’t change, but everything around it did just enough to notice, just enough to remind them they weren’t in Mississippi no more.

Stack leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling again. “Yeah… I don’t like it.”

Smoke almost smiled. “You’ll survive.”

“Yeah,” Stack said after a second, gaze drifting back out the window, quieter now, but no less certain. “I always do.”

The car pushed forward, tires humming steady against the road as the last stretch of Mississippi fell behind them without ceremony. Just ahead, waiting without saying a word, was Florida.

By the time they made it into Ocala, Florida, the sun had already started leaning toward the late afternoon, but the heat hadn’t let up none. If anything, it felt heavier here, thicker, like the air had weight to it. It sat on your shoulders, clung to your clothes, made every breath feel just a little slower than it should’ve been. Even the breeze felt different, not something that passed through you, but something that stayed, pressing close like it had its own intentions.

They’d been in town for a few hours already, long enough to walk most of the main stretch, long enough to see who watched too hard and who didn’t look at all, long enough to know this place smiled in your face and kept something else tucked behind its teeth. It was also long enough for Stack to decide he didn’t like it.

“This place sticky as hell,” he muttered, stepping off the wooden porch of the building they’d just walked out of, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the feeling off him. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, already irritated. “Air feel like it touching me too much.”

Smoke stepped out behind him, unbothered as ever, pulling his hat down just slightly against the sun. His movements were slower, measured, like nothing around him demanded urgency. “That’s called humidity.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I gathered.”

Stack glanced around the street, eyes moving slow but sharp, taking everything in whether he meant to or not. The town had more movement than Clarksdale, more color, more noise. Folks moved quicker, talked louder, storefronts busier, wagons rolling through, people calling out to each other like they had somewhere to be and somewhere to get back to. But underneath all that, something else sat there, something quieter and more watchful. Stack couldn’t name it, just felt it settling in the back of his mind like a warning he wasn’t ready to listen to.

“People out here move funny,” he said.

“People always move funny when you ain’t home,” Smoke replied.

Stack clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. His attention was already drifting, scanning faces, doorways, windows, not looking for nothing specific, just looking the way he always did, like something might present itself if he paid enough attention.

They had business to finish. The man they came to see wasn’t ready for them yet and told them to come back later like their time wasn’t worth respecting. So now they had hours to kill, walking the streets and getting familiar with a place neither of them trusted.

That didn’t sit right with Stack, and it didn’t sit right with Smoke either, even if he carried it quieter.

Stack rolled his neck, exhaling sharp through his nose. “I don’t like waiting on nobody.”

“You don’t like not being in control,” Smoke corrected.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

Stack glanced at him sideways. “It is when I’m the one being made to wait.”

Smoke adjusted his cuff, gaze still forward. “You want to walk back in there and rush him?”

Stack paused, then smirked a little. “I mean… I could.”

“You won’t,” Smoke said simply.

Stack sucked his teeth. “You always take the fun out of shit.”

“Somebody got to keep you from making extra problems.”

Stack let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Man… we got too much time on our hands.”

That was the real issue. Too much time meant too much thinking and too much stillness, and neither of them were built for that, even if Smoke wore it better.

Stack glanced down the street again, eyes narrowing slightly as something crossed his mind. His mouth tilted just a little, something mischievous settling in. “We could find us something to do,” he said.

Smoke didn’t look at him, but he already knew that tone. “What kind of something?”

Stack shrugged one shoulder, casual but not really. “This kind of town? Don’t tell me you ain’t seen it yet.”

Smoke’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, then back ahead. “Seen what.”

Stack gestured loosely down the street with two fingers. “Ain’t no place this lively without a hoe house tucked somewhere close. You know that.”

A beat passed. Smoke didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t dismiss it either. Stack caught that and grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“You restless,” Smoke said.

“So are you.”

“I’m fine.”

Stack gave him a look. “You ain’t fine. You just quiet about it.”

Smoke didn’t respond, but his jaw shifted just slightly. That was enough of an answer.

A few more steps passed in silence before Smoke spoke again, voice low and casual like he was commenting on the weather. “I need some pussy.”

Stack turned his head slow, then broke into a grin, sharp and immediate. “There you go,” he said, amused. “Thought you was gon’ keep acting like you above it.”

“I ain’t above nothing,” Smoke replied, tone flat. “I just don’t talk as much as you.”

Stack laughed under his breath, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Same difference.”

Stack straightened a little, rolling his shoulders again. “Come on. We got time to waste, might as well waste it right.”

Smoke exhaled slowly, considering it, weighing it the way he did everything. Then he nodded once. “Fine. But we not getting comfortable.”

Stack’s grin widened. “I never get comfortable.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when I ain’t home.”

They turned down another stretch of the street, slower now, less focused on business and more on reading the town differently, watching who lingered, who stood outside too long, what doors stayed closed but busy. It didn’t take long to spot it. The building didn’t look too different from the others at first glance, but the energy around it gave it away. Men went in with purpose and came out a little looser. Women in the windows didn’t belong to the street the way everyone else did.

Stack huffed a quiet laugh. “There it is.”

Smoke’s gaze swept over it once, quick and assessing. “You always know where to look.”

“I know what I like.”

“Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Stack smirked and started toward it, but his steps slowed before he made it halfway. Something pulled his attention sideways, and just like that everything else stopped mattering.

Stack didn’t like having time to think. Thinking made things stretch and made him restless. “Soon as we handle this,” he said, adjusting his hat, “we leaving. Same day if we can. I ain’t sleeping out here.”

“That depend on how the deal go,” Smoke said.

“It’s gon’ go how we need it to go,” Stack replied, tone sharp with certainty.

Smoke didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Stack always spoke like things bent to him whether they did or not.

They moved down the street side by side, their presence noticeable whether folks meant to stare or not. Two men who didn’t belong, carrying themselves like they weren’t asking for space, just taking it. Conversations dipped when they passed, eyes followed and then quickly looked away. Stack noticed all of it.

And then his attention caught on something else entirely.

At first, it wasn’t nothing, just a woman stepping out of a storefront, easing her way through the doorway slow and careful, like she had to think about each movement before she made it, like even something as simple as stepping outside required a kind of quiet effort. One hand rested against her stomach.

He almost looked past her. Almost.

Something about the way she moved slowed his attention just enough to linger. Not her face, not yet, just the way she carried herself, familiar in a way he couldn’t place right away. Then longer. Then still.

She stepped fully into the light, adjusting her grip on the door behind her before letting it close. Her other hand hovered near her stomach, protective without thinking about it. Pregnant. Seven months, maybe.

Stack’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, just focus sharpening into something more precise. She shifted her weight, turning just a little, and that’s when it hit him, hard and sudden, like something snapping into place that had been waiting on him to catch up.

Everything else dropped away. The noise of the street dulled until it sounded distant, the movement around him blurred into something meaningless, even the heat pulled back like his body forgot about it just long enough for this moment to settle in.

“That’s her…” he said, low, almost under his breath.

Smoke heard him anyway. His eyes shifted immediately, not to her, but to Stack first, because something in his tone changed into something that didn’t belong to casual noticing. Stack wasn’t looking around anymore, wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking. He was locked in.

“Who?” Smoke asked, voice even.

Stack didn’t answer. He didn’t blink and didn’t look away.

Smoke followed his line of sight then and finally let his gaze land where Stack’s had already settled. The woman had paused just outside the storefront, adjusting something in her hands before lifting her head like she felt it, like she felt eyes on her the same way she had years ago.

And her eyes found his.

Stack felt it before he even saw it fully. That same look, that same softness, recognition flickering slow behind it like something waking up. Three years gone and still there.

Her lips parted just slightly, like she almost said something but didn’t know what to say. That shy smile didn’t come as quick this time and didn’t bloom as easy. It was still there, just quieter, tired.

And something in her face had changed. Not just the weight she carried in her body, but in her eyes. Something was sitting behind them now that hadn’t been there before, something worn down, something that had been through more than it should have.

Stack took a slow step forward without realizing he moved at all, like his body made the decision before his mind needed to.

His voice came out lower this time, more certain, more settled in something that didn’t need to be explained. “She still mine.”

Smoke looked at him then, really looked, because that wasn’t curiosity, wasn’t recognition, wasn’t even interest. That was possession.

And Stack was already gone.

Stack didn’t realize he was moving at first. One second, he was standing beside Smoke, the noise of the street dulled out around him, the heat pressing in, voices blending into something distant and unimportant, and the next, his feet were carrying him forward like something had taken hold of him from the inside and decided for him.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Every step was slow and deliberate, measured in a way that looked almost casual but wasn’t, like he had all the time in the world and she wasn’t going nowhere, like the space between them wasn’t distance, just something meant to be closed.

His eyes stayed on her the whole way, taking her in, not just looking but studying, memorizing. The curve of her face, softer now but still the same. The way her body had changed, fuller with the weight she carried, but still holding that same shape he remembered, even through the fabric. The way her dress stretched just slightly across her stomach, the way her shoulders curved inward like she was still trying to take up less space than she deserved. The way she stood, careful, like she was always aware of herself now in a way she hadn’t been before. Different, but still her.

Stack reached up as he got closer, pulling his hat from his head in one smooth motion. It wasn’t rushed or awkward, just natural, like it belonged to the way he approached her. He let it hang loosely in his hand at his side, giving her a full look at him without obstruction.

His hair was slicked back clean, parted neatly like he took his time with it, not a strand out of place. His face was sharper than it had been years ago, more defined, more sure of itself. There was confidence sitting in the way he carried himself now, heavier and more settled. When his mouth tilted just slightly into something that wasn’t quite a smile yet, that flash of gold caught the light at the corner of his teeth.

Cherry saw all of it, and for a second, she didn’t move. Her hand stayed resting against her stomach, fingers spread lightly like she was grounding herself without thinking about it. Her eyes moved over him slowly, not rushed, not panicked, just taking him in the same way he was taking her in.

Recognition didn’t hit her all at once. It came in pieces, the way he looked at her first, then the way he stood, then the memory of that hat tipping forward just slightly over and over again three years ago. Her breath stilled as it settled into something real.

He stopped a few steps in front of her, close enough to speak without raising his voice, close enough to feel like he had stepped into her space without asking, like he had every right to be there, but not close enough to touch.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air between them held something thick, something unspoken but understood in a way that didn’t make sense for two people who had never actually met. The sounds of the street started to creep back in around them, but it didn’t reach where they stood.

Stack broke it first. “Hey, butterfly.”

His voice was low and familiar like it had always belonged there, like he’d said it to her a hundred times before instead of never once.

Cherry blinked, and that small, shy smile tried to come back, softer than before, hesitant, like it had to push through everything else sitting on her. “I…” she paused, almost embarrassed by it, like she didn’t know how to explain something that didn’t have words. “I remember you.”

Stack’s mouth curved just a little more at that, enough for that gold tooth to show clearer now. “I know you do.” There was no question in it, just certainty.

Cherry let out a small breath, shifting her weight slightly, one hand still resting against her stomach like it belonged there. “You used to…” she glanced down briefly, then back up at him, “tip your hat.”

Stack lifted the one in his hand just slightly like a quiet echo of it. “Still do.”

That pulled something a little warmer out of her, a flicker of that old softness returning for a second, something lighter pressing through the heaviness she carried, but it faded again just as quick.

Stack’s eyes dropped briefly to her stomach, not lingering too long but not pretending he didn’t see it either. “You pregnant,” he said plainly.

Cherry’s hand instinctively pressed a little more firmly against her stomach like she felt the need to shield it under his gaze even if he hadn’t reached for her. “Yes,” she said quietly.

Stack nodded once like that confirmed something for him, like it fit into whatever he had already decided in his head. “How far along?”

“Seven months.”

He hummed low under his breath, eyes flicking back up to her face, taking her in again with that same steady focus. “You out here by yourself?”

Cherry hesitated, and that question sat heavier than the others. “I’m alright,” she said instead, gentle, deflecting without pushing him away, like she didn’t want to lie but didn’t want to open that door either.

Stack tilted his head slightly, watching her closer now. “That ain’t what I asked.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t let her slide past it either. It held steady on her.

Cherry swallowed, her fingers shifting slightly against her stomach. “My husband…” she started, then stopped, like the word itself didn’t sit right coming out of her mouth anymore.

Stack didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush her. He just stood there, waiting like he already had time for whatever answer she gave, like nothing else in the world was pulling at him.

“He’s… not here,” she said finally.

Stack’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes sharpened just slightly. “Where he at then?”

Cherry looked off to the side for a second, gathering herself, choosing what to say and what not to. “He was doing business,” she said slowly. “It didn’t go well.”

Stack stayed quiet as she continued. “There were accusations. Money, deals, things that weren’t what he said they were.” She glanced back at him, almost apologetic for how unclear it sounded. “He’s in jail.”

The words sat between them. Stack nodded once, and that was it. No sympathy, no surprise, no shift in how he looked at her.

“He ain’t here,” he said simply. “That’s what matter.”

Cherry blinked at him, caught off guard by how easy that came out of him. It wasn’t cruel. It just wasn’t softened. There was no pity in it, no careful handling, just truth the way he saw it.

She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to respond to something that didn’t ask her to feel anything about it at all. “I…” she started, then stopped again, unsure where to go with it.

Stack didn’t press that part. He shifted slightly instead, rolling his shoulders back like he was settling into the space between them, as he had already decided to stay in it. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Cherry hesitated for half a second, then answered. “Cherry.”

Stack’s brows lifted just slightly, like he appreciated that. “Cherry,” he repeated slower, like he was testing how it sat on his tongue, like he was making it his already. “Yeah… that fit.”

She gave a small, almost shy smile at that, eyes dipping briefly before coming back up. “Cherry Mae Whitfield,” she added softly, more formal this time.

Stack nodded once, committing it. “Whitfield.” Then he straightened just a little, shifting his hat in his hand before finally offering his name in return. “Elias Moore. But everybody call me Stack.”

Cherry looked at him a little longer this time, like the name settled something for her, like it gave shape to the feeling she remembered. “Stack,” she repeated quietly.

He smiled then, just enough to show that gold again. “Yeah.”

A brief silence passed between them again, but it didn’t feel strained. It felt full, like something had already been established without either of them saying it out loud.

Stack glanced back the way he came for half a second, where Smoke still stood watching, then back at her. “I’m in town for a little while,” he said.

Cherry nodded faintly. “Oh.”

Stack took a small step back, not leaving, just shifting the space slightly like he knew he had pushed close enough for now, like he knew how to pull back just enough to not break what was forming.

“I’m gon’ see you again,” he said.

Cherry’s breath caught just slightly at that, something uncertain flickering across her face, something that should have resisted it, but she didn’t say no, didn’t correct him, didn’t question it. She just nodded, small and quiet. “Okay.”

Stack held her gaze for another second, like that was enough for him, like that was all the confirmation he needed. Then he stepped back fully, turning just enough to start walking away, but not before looking at her one more time, taking her in again like he was already certain this wasn’t the end of it, like it had never been.

By the time he made it back to Smoke, that same slow confidence had turned into something else entirely, something brighter and more obvious. A grin spread across his face, wide and unapologetic, that gold flashing every time his lips pulled back.

Smoke didn’t move from where he stood, arms relaxed at his sides, eyes already on him before he even got close. He read the expression first, then the energy behind it, and he already knew he wasn’t about to like whatever came out of Stack’s mouth next.

“There it is,” Smoke muttered low, more to himself than anything. “That look.”

Stack stepped up beside him, still half turned like he might look back at Cherry again if he let himself. “Yeah,” he said, voice carrying that same satisfaction. “Yeah.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What you did.”

Stack let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “Man, I ain’t even do nothing yet.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Stack finally looked at him then, grin still sitting heavy on his face. “She coming with us.”

Smoke didn’t react right away. He didn’t blink, didn’t shift, just looked at him.

“…Who.”

Stack jerked his chin back toward where she stood down the street like it should’ve been obvious. “Cherry.”

A pause stretched between them. Then another.

Smoke let out a slow breath, eyes dragging away for a second before coming back. “The pregnant woman you just met.”

Stack nodded once like that didn’t complicate nothing. “Yeah.”

“The married one.”

“Her husband in jail.”

“That don’t make her not married.”

“It make him not here,” Stack shot back easily.

Smoke stared at him for a second longer, then shook his head just slightly. “You been talking to her five minutes.”

“Long enough.”

“That ain’t how that work.”

“That’s exactly how it work,” Stack said, already starting to move again, expecting Smoke to follow like always. “You just don’t be paying attention.”

Smoke fell into step beside him anyway, because of course he did, but his expression stayed the same, somewhere between disbelief and quiet irritation. “What she say.”

Stack rolled his shoulders, still riding whatever high that moment gave him. “She remember me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“She do though. Told me herself.”

Smoke exhaled slowly. “And the rest.”

Stack glanced ahead as they walked, hands moving a little as he talked now, energy building instead of settling. “Seven months,” he said.

Smoke’s eyes flicked to him. “You counted.”

“She told me. Seven months. Baby healthy.”

Smoke’s jaw shifted. “You asked that.”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed between them.

“You don’t know that woman,” Smoke said.

Stack looked at him like that was the dumbest thing he could’ve said. “I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do enough.”

Smoke huffed a quiet breath. “And the husband.”

“In jail.”

“For what.”

“Bad business. Fraud. Something like that,” Stack said, waving it off like the details didn’t matter. “He ain’t coming back the same way he left.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You don’t know that either.”

Stack shrugged. “Don’t need to.”

They reached the building they had been in earlier, the one tied to their business, and slowed near the front, settling back into place like they were waiting again. Only now Stack didn’t seem nearly as bothered by it.

He leaned against the post, the same way he had back in Clarksdale, but this time there was something more settled in him, something certain.

Smoke watched him for a second before speaking again. “So let me get this straight.”

Stack glanced at him. “Go ahead.”

“You met a married woman.”

“Mm.”

“She pregnant.”

“Mm.”

“Seven months.”

“Yeah.”

“Her husband alive.”

“In jail.”

Smoke paused, then continued anyway. “And you decided…”

Stack’s grin came back, slow and sharp. “She coming home with us.”

Smoke stared at him, really stared this time.

“…You serious.”

Stack didn’t hesitate. “Dead serious.”

A long silence stretched between them before Smoke shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping out, low and disbelieving. “You done lost your mind.”

“Nah,” Stack said easily. “I found something.”

Smoke looked at him again, longer this time, reading him the way he always did, trying to find the line between impulsive and dangerous. This felt like both.

“And the baby,” Smoke added, watching him carefully. “That part just don’t matter to you.”

Stack’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it settled deeper.

“That baby coming with her,” he said. “So it’s mine too.”

Smoke let out a quiet breath, shaking his head again. “You don’t even hear yourself.”

“I do,” Stack said. “Sound right to me.”

Smoke looked off down the street for a second, then back at him, something almost amused sitting under the disbelief now. “You met her twice three years ago.”

Stack shrugged, easy. “Don’t matter. I been knowing her.”

Smoke let out another quiet laugh, this one a little fuller. “Yeah… alright.”

He didn’t agree. He didn’t believe it. But he didn’t stop him either.

He just leaned back beside him, eyes drifting out toward the street, waiting on business to come back around while his brother stood there already planning a future that hadn’t happened yet and somehow believing it already belonged to him.

By the time they sat down to handle business, Stack wasn’t really there.

He was in the chair. He was at the table. He had a glass in his hand that he barely touched, turning it once, twice, like his body needed something to do while his mind stayed somewhere else entirely. His attention drifted back down the street, back to a woman standing in the sun with her hand resting over her stomach, back to the way she looked at him like she remembered something she couldn’t quite name.

Smoke noticed it immediately.

The man they were meeting with talked too much, same as most men trying to sell something. Words kept coming without pause, numbers stacking on top of each other, routes explained twice over, supply promises dressed up like guarantees that sounded better the more he repeated them. He leaned forward when he talked, elbows pressing into the table like that alone would make his words land heavier, laughed at his own points like he needed them to feel convincing, and kept glancing between them to see if either one was buying it. He tried too hard to sound like he had control over things that clearly weren’t steady, as if he spoke with enough confidence it might turn into truth.

Smoke listened, asked the right questions, pressed where it mattered, picking apart the details and putting them back together in a way that made sense.

Stack didn’t.

“—and I can have it moved up from the south end by the end of the week,” the man was saying, leaning forward like he was closing something important.

Stack nodded.

Didn’t respond.

Didn’t even look at him.

His gaze stayed low, unfocused, like he was watching something that wasn’t in the room.

Smoke’s eyes flicked to his brother for half a second before settling back on the man across from them. “At what volume,” he asked smoothly, voice even, controlled.

The conversation kept moving, but Smoke’s attention split now, one half handling business, the other watching Stack sink deeper into something he hadn’t even tried to hide.

At one point, the man laughed at something he said, loud and unnecessary.

Stack didn’t.

Didn’t even blink.

Didn’t react at all.

Smoke leaned back slightly, tapping his fingers once against the table, a quiet, steady rhythm that matched the way his mind worked through everything being said. His eyes stayed on the man across from them, but there was calculation behind it now, measuring tone, gaps, what was being said and what wasn’t. When he spoke again, it wasn’t rushed or forced. It slid in smooth, redirecting the conversation exactly where it needed to go without making it obvious he had taken control of it. He carried it clean, controlled, like he always did, like this was the part he understood best, holding the room without ever raising his voice.

Stack just sat there, mind somewhere else entirely, replaying a moment that had already passed like it was still happening.

By the time they finished, the deal was close enough to settled, details to be finalized later. Good enough.

Smoke stood first.

Stack followed a second later, slower, like he was stepping back into his body instead of moving with it.

They stepped back out into the heat, the door closing behind them, the noise of the town filling back in around them, louder than before.

Stack exhaled like he had been holding his breath the whole time.

“Man,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “let’s wrap this shit up.”

Smoke looked at him.

Really looked this time.

“You hear anything that man said?”

Stack waved a hand like it didn’t matter. “Enough.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s enough of one.”

Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose, something closer to irritation now. “You not even trying.”

Stack turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “I don’t need to try. You got it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is today.”

A beat passed between them before Smoke shook his head once, looking off down the street like he needed a second before dealing with him directly.

Then he looked back.

“This about her.”

Stack didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even pretend to.

“Yeah.”

Smoke stared at him, searching his face for something that looked like sense.

Didn’t find it.

“You serious,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t even know her.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do enough.”

Smoke let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but not amused. “That ain’t how that work.”

Stack leaned back against the wall beside the building, folding his arms like he had already settled into his position, like this conversation wasn’t even necessary. “You keep saying that like I’m supposed to care.”

“Because you should.”

Stack shook his head once. “Nah. I know what I’m looking at.”

“And what is that.”

Stack’s mouth curved slightly, something firm sitting behind it, something already decided. “My wife.”

Smoke blinked.

Slow.

Then looked away for a second like he needed to process that without reacting too fast.

“…Your what.”

“My wife,” Stack repeated, easy as anything. “I’m gon’ marry her.”

Smoke let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You done skipped a whole lot of steps.”

“Ain’t no steps,” Stack said. “It’s simple.”

“It’s not simple.”

“It is when you know.”

Smoke looked back at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You don’t know nothing.”

“I know enough.”

A pause stretched between them, thicker this time.

Then Stack added, almost casually, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he’d said yet.

“And that baby mine too.”

Smoke went still.

Then turned his head slowly.

“…Say that again.”

Stack didn’t hesitate. “That baby, it’s mine.”

Smoke stared at him for a long second, searching for a crack in it, something that looked like a joke.

Didn’t find one.

Then he let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh.

“You serious right now.”

“Yeah.”

“You claiming another man’s child.”

“He ain’t here.”

“That don’t make it yours.”

“It will be.”

Smoke shook his head again, slower this time, like he was watching something unfold that he already knew wasn’t going to end clean.

“You lost.”

Stack smirked just a little. “Nah. I’m right on time.”

Smoke looked at him, really looked, and this time the humor started to creep in under the disbelief despite himself.

“You really believe this.”

Stack didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of Smoke, low and dry. “Alright.”

He nodded once, like he had come to a decision.

Not agreement.

Just acceptance.

“I’m not stopping you,” he said.

Stack didn’t ask him to.

“I know.”

Smoke crossed his arms then, leaning back beside him, eyes drifting out toward the street again. “But I’m watching this.”

Stack huffed a small laugh. “Watch all you want.”

“I am.”

A beat passed.

Then Stack added, almost like he couldn’t help himself, grin creeping back onto his face.

“Better get used to it too.”

Smoke didn’t look at him. “To what.”

Stack’s grin widened. “Being Uncle Smoke.”

Smoke closed his eyes for a second.

“…Don’t do that.”

Stack laughed, louder this time. “Uncle Smoky Bear.”

“Don’t ever call me that again.”

Stack was still laughing, shaking his head. “You gon’ be around that baby, might as well accept it.”

Smoke opened his eyes again, side-eyeing him. “That ain’t your baby.”

“It is now.”

Smoke let out another breath, this one heavier, but there was something almost amused sitting under it now despite himself. “Yeah,” he muttered. “We gon’ see.”

They stood there like that, waiting, one grounded in reality, the other already living in something he hadn’t built yet but believed in like it was already done.

And Smoke decided right then he wasn’t going to interfere.

He was just going to watch it play out.

Cherry was home by the time the weight of the day finally settled into her. The small house sat quietly around her, the kind of quiet that didn’t comfort so much as it lingered. The windows were cracked just enough to let the evening air slip in, but it didn’t carry much relief from the heat. It just moved the stillness around.

She moved slowly through the space, setting things down where they belonged without really thinking about it. A basket from the market rested on the table, vegetables still tucked inside, a bit of soil clinging to some of them from where she’d picked through them herself. Her garden sat just outside, small but cared for, one of the few things that felt like hers, something she could tend to, something that grew because she gave it attention.

Today had been long, longer than most, and her hand drifted to her stomach again, resting there the way it always did now, like it had found its place without asking her permission.

She had gone to see her husband first, and the memory pressed in without her inviting it. The jail had been hot, heavier than the air outside, walls holding in everything no one wanted to carry. He had looked the same and not the same all at once, still loud in his own way, still talking like he had control over things he clearly didn’t, still speaking at her instead of to her. He hadn’t asked how she was. He hadn’t asked about the baby beyond a passing mention that didn’t linger long enough to matter. He talked about himself, about getting out, about fixing things, about how everything would be different.

Cherry had stood there, hands folded, nodding where she was supposed to, saying what was expected of her the way she always had, and when she left, nothing about her felt different. Just heavier.

After that, she had gone to the market, moving slow between the stands, picking out what she needed. The sun had been high then, pressing down on everything, making the world feel louder than it actually was. People moved around her, blending together, but none of it really reached her. She kept to herself like always until she didn’t.

Cherry paused near the table now, fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the basket before she pulled her hand back. Her mind moved through the day without asking her permission, the jail, the market, and then him.

Stack.

Elias.

Her breath slowed just slightly as his name settled in her thoughts. Elias. She liked the way it sounded. It didn’t feel rushed or sharp. It sat low and steady, like something that carried weight without needing to prove it.

Her fingers pressed lightly against her stomach again as she leaned back against the table, letting herself feel it instead of pushing it away. The way he looked at her, not past her, not around her, but at her, like she was something worth seeing, like she had been there all along and he was just now stepping into it.

His presence lingered in a way that didn’t make sense. Strong and certain, something about standing in front of him that felt different. Not safe, not exactly, but not unsafe either, just held, like the space around her had shifted without her understanding how.

Cherry closed her eyes for a second, letting that feeling sit in her chest before she exhaled slowly. No one had ever spoken to her like that, not her husband, not anyone, not like she was something to be chosen instead of carried along.

Her eyes opened again, gaze drifting toward the window and the fading light outside. He said he was going to see her again. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He just said it like it was already decided, and the thought of that should have unsettled her more than it did, but it didn’t. It stayed with her, quiet and steady.

Cherry lowered her gaze slightly, her thoughts pulling inward, softer now, less guarded than they should have been. “Elias…” she murmured under her breath, testing it, feeling it settle on her tongue.

Her hand rested more firmly against her stomach this time, not out of instinct, but awareness. For the first time in a long time, something unfamiliar settled in her chest. Not fear, not uncertainty, but something softer, something that felt like the beginning of something she didn’t understand yet.

And for once, she didn’t try to push it away.

The next morning came too quick for Smoke, but not for Stack. He had been up before the sun fully settled into the sky, already dressed, already moving, already decided. The room still held the quiet weight of early morning, that thick stillness before the town stretched awake, but Stack had already stepped past it like it didn’t apply to him.

Smoke sat on the edge of the bed in the boarding house, elbows on his knees, watching his brother pace once, then again, like he had somewhere to be that couldn’t wait another second. His eyes followed him slow, heavy with sleep but sharp enough to read exactly what this was.

“You not even gon’ eat?” Smoke asked, voice rough, low, still waking up.

Stack adjusted his cuffs, smoothing them down with careful attention, barely glancing at him. “I’ll eat later.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I meant it then too.”

Smoke let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face, then down his jaw. “You going to see her.”

Stack didn’t deny it. “Yeah.”

Smoke leaned back slightly, studying him for a long second, already knowing he wasn’t about to stop him. “You don’t even know where she live.”

Stack’s mouth tilted just a little, something confident sitting there like it had always been. “I will.”

By the time the town had properly woken up, Stack was already walking through it like he belonged there. The streets were starting to fill, shop doors opening, voices rising, movement building into something steady. He moved through it all untouched by it, stopping where he needed to, asking just enough questions, saying just enough to get what he wanted. He didn’t rush and he didn’t wander. He moved with purpose, like every step already had a destination waiting on it. It didn’t take long. Someone always knew somebody, and Cherry was the kind of woman people noticed, even if she moved quiet, even if she tried not to be seen.

By mid-morning, Stack stood in front of her house. He didn’t step up right away. He looked, really looked. The house sat near the edge of a small lake, the water still and wide, reflecting light in soft ripples that made everything feel calmer than it should have been. The yard was kept, not perfect but cared for in a way that showed consistency, not neglect. The garden off to the side held rows of life, greens pushing through soil that had been turned by careful hands. It felt like her, quiet and soft but steady.

Stack took it all in slow and thorough, like he was already placing himself inside it. Then he stepped up onto the porch and knocked once, firm and certain, like he knew she would answer.

It didn’t take long. The door opened, and there she was.

Cherry.

Her surprise came first, clear across her face before she could smooth it down. Her eyes widened just slightly, her body stilling in the doorway like she hadn’t expected him to become real again this soon.

“Stack…”

Her voice carried everything at once, confusion and recognition with something softer underneath it that she didn’t name.

He tipped his head just slightly, that same Mississippi ease settling into him like it belonged there. “Morning.”

She blinked once, breath catching just enough to notice, then stepped back, opening the door wider without thinking too hard about it. “Come in.”

He didn’t hesitate. Stack stepped inside like he had been there before, like the space had already made room for him. His eyes moved, slow and quiet, taking everything in without making it obvious he was doing it.

The house was bigger than he expected, four bedrooms easy, space that stretched without feeling empty, lived in and real. He stepped further inside, measured and controlled, his gaze catching small details: clean surfaces, things placed with intention, order without stiffness, a kind of quiet care that sat in everything.

Cherry closed the door behind him, her hands folding lightly in front of her like she wasn’t sure what to do with them yet. “I didn’t… I didn’t expect you.”

“I said I was gon’ see you again,” he replied simply.

She let out a small breath at that, something almost like a smile touching her mouth before she looked away, trying to hide it. “This is a nice place.”

Cherry nodded faintly. “My father built it. Left it to me when he passed some years ago.”

Stack’s gaze shifted slightly at that, something deeper settling behind his eyes. He nodded once, taking that in, not just hearing it but placing it somewhere permanent. “Mm. It’s good.”

But his mind didn’t stop there. It moved further, bigger, better. He didn’t say it out loud, but it formed anyway. He’d give her more than this, more space, more comfort, more than what she had learned to settle for. Him. Her. The baby, his baby. Something waiting back in Mississippi that he was already shaping in his head like it existed.

Cherry moved toward the table, adjusting something that didn’t need adjusting, grounding herself in small movement. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked softly.

Stack shook his head once. “I’m alright.”

That wasn’t true, but it wasn’t why he was there.

They talked. At first it came slow and careful, like both of them were testing where the edges were. Cherry kept her hands folded together as she stood near the table, her voice soft when she spoke. “You from Mississippi.”

Stack leaned back slightly where he stood, eyes on her, relaxed but focused. “Clarksdale.”

She nodded faintly, a small shift in her expression. “My husband got, had business there.”

A pause slipped between them. Stack studied her a little closer now, something clicking into place behind his eyes. “I remember,” he said, voice lower. He tilted his head just a little. “You used to walk behind him. Quiet. Didn’t say much. Just watched everything.”

Her breath caught softly, surprise settling deeper this time. “You noticed that?”

Stack’s mouth curved slightly. “I noticed you.”

That pulled a small, unsteady breath out of her, and she looked down for a second, trying to hide the way her mouth curved.

“You always talk like that?” she asked quietly.

“Like what.”

“Like…” she hesitated, searching for it, then gave up halfway through. “That.”

Stack’s mouth tilted, that gold catching faint in the light. “Only when I mean it.”

Her fingers tightened together just slightly. She shifted instead. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Business,” he said. “Got a place back home. Need supply steady.”

“A business?”

“Juke joint.”

Her brows lifted just a little. “Oh.”

Stack watched that reaction. “You don’t like that.”

“No,” she said quickly, then softened it. “I just… never been to one.”

He studied her for a second, something almost amused in it. “Yeah. I can tell.”

That made her glance at him again, a little more curious this time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You too quiet for it. Place like that loud. People loud. Music loud.”

“And you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Stack didn’t hesitate. “I’m all that.”

That earned a real smile from her, small but there, before she looked away again.

A small pause settled between them. “How long you staying?” she asked.

Stack didn’t answer right away. He looked at her instead, taking her in like the answer depended on her. “A while.”

Cherry nodded slowly, like she accepted that without asking anything more. Then he shifted just slightly, enough to change the direction of things. “What you eat this morning?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “I… had some fruit.”

“That it?”

“I wasn’t that hungry.”

“You should be. You eating for two.”

Her hand moved to her stomach without thinking, fingers resting there. “I know.”

Stack’s gaze dropped to it briefly, then came back up to her face. “You got a routine?”

“A routine?”

“Yeah. What your days look like.”

Cherry hesitated, not used to someone asking that like it mattered. “I wake up early. Tend to the garden before it gets too hot. Then I rest some. I go into town when I need to. Come back before evening.”

“You be out here by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Stack didn’t like that. It showed in the way his jaw shifted just slightly, even if his voice stayed even. “You shouldn’t be walking around alone like that.”

Cherry looked at him, a little surprised. “I’ve been fine.”

“Still.”

There wasn’t much room in that word, and she didn’t argue it, just lowered her gaze a little.

“What you eat besides fruit,” he asked.

She almost smiled again. “Whatever I make.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It is for me,” she said, softer this time, but there was a hint of something in it.

Stack caught that and let it sit for a second before nodding. “Alright.” Then quieter, but more certain, “I’ll make sure you eating right.”

Cherry looked at him again, really looked this time. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

That didn’t sound like he was going to stop.

A small silence passed, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable, just full. Cherry shifted again, gathering herself. “What about you? What do your days look like?”

Stack shrugged one shoulder. “Depends.”

“On what.”

“Money. People. What need handling.”

“That sounds… busy.”

“It is.”

“And you like that?”

Stack looked at her, a little more direct now. “I like what come with it.”

“And what is that?”

His gaze didn’t move. “Control.”

Cherry held his eyes for a second longer than she meant to before looking away again. “I see.”

Another pause settled in, quieter this time. Then Stack spoke again, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sleep alright?”

She blinked. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes ain’t good enough.”

“I manage.”

“You ain’t supposed to just manage.”

That sat with her. She didn’t have an answer for it.

Stack watched her for a second, then eased just a little, his voice lowering. “You get tired easy?”

“Yes. More than I used to.”

“Then you rest when you need to. Don’t push yourself.”

Cherry nodded, almost instinctively. It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it, like it was already decided, like someone was finally paying attention to her instead of expecting from her.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, without either of them naming it, the space between them shifted, closer and warmer. By the time the morning softened into something easier, it didn’t feel like he was a stranger in her home anymore. It felt like something had settled.

Before he left that day, she surprised herself. “If you and your brother need somewhere to stay, I have a guest room.”

Stack didn’t pause, didn’t question it, didn’t pretend to think about it. “Alright.” And just like that, it was decided.

Over the next few days, Stack didn’t visit. He stayed, and he didn’t ease into her life. He placed himself in it fully. Smoke came with that, not the same way. He didn’t move through her space like it belonged to him. He moved careful and aware, watching more than doing at first, but he was there, and his presence carried something different. He was quieter than Stack, but heavier in a way that made people notice anyway.

The first morning the three of them sat together at the table, it felt new. Cherry moved between them with a kind of quiet attentiveness, setting plates down, making sure everything was right. Stack watched her like he always did, eyes following every movement. Smoke watched both of them.

“You don’t gotta keep getting up,” Stack said, leaning back in his chair. “Sit down.”

“I’m alright,” Cherry replied softly.

“You not. You doing too much.”

Smoke glanced between them, then spoke, voice calm. “He mean it, sit down.”

Cherry hesitated, then slowly took a seat. Stack nodded once like that was settled.

Smoke picked up his fork, then paused, looking at Stack. “You gon’ let her eat before you start telling her what else to do?”

Stack shot him a look. “I ain’t telling her what to do.”

Smoke raised a brow. “You sure about that.”

Cherry looked between them, unsure whether to speak or stay quiet.

Stack leaned forward slightly. “I’m making sure she good.”

Smoke nodded slowly. “That’s what you calling it.”

A small silence passed, then Cherry spoke, soft but present. “It’s alright.” Both of them looked at her. She lowered her gaze just a little. “I don’t mind.”

Stack’s expression shifted, something satisfied settling in. Smoke saw that and said nothing.

Later that afternoon, Stack was outside, already moving through her yard like he had plans for it. “This need fixing,” he muttered, crouched near a loose board.

“It’s fine,” Cherry said gently from the porch.

“It ain’t,” he replied.

Smoke stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching. “You rebuilding her house now?”

Stack didn’t look up. “Improving it.”

“It been standing just fine before you got here.”

Stack tightened something with his hands. “It’ll stand better after.”

Smoke let out a small breath through his nose. “You hear yourself.”

Cherry stepped down slowly, careful, one hand on her stomach. “You don’t have to do all this.”

Stack stood then, turning toward her. “I know.”

Same answer, same certainty. Smoke watched her reaction more than him, the way she didn’t push back, the way she accepted it without agreeing.

That evening, they sat inside again, quieter this time. The light had softened, shadows stretching longer across the floor. Stack leaned back in his chair, watching Cherry move around the kitchen. Smoke leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes on his brother.

“You told her yet?” Smoke asked.

Stack didn’t look at him. “Told her what.”

Smoke’s gaze didn’t shift. “All that shit you was telling me.”

Cherry paused just slightly where she stood. Stack’s eyes flicked to Smoke, warning sitting there. “You always talking.”

“Somebody got to,” Smoke replied.

Cherry turned slowly, looking between them. “Told me what?”

A beat passed. Stack didn’t answer, so Smoke did. “He think he taking you back to Clarksdale with us.”

Silence settled thick in the room. Stack exhaled slowly. “Man—”

Smoke kept going, voice even. “He already decided it. House, baby, all of it.”

Cherry’s hand moved to her stomach again, her expression shifting, not scared, but processing. Stack leaned forward now. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I’m just repeating what you said,” Smoke replied.

Stack looked at Cherry then, something softer slipping into his tone. “I said I’m gon’ take care of you.”

“That’s not what you said,” Smoke added.

Stack shot him a look. “You gon’ be quiet.”

Smoke ignored it. He looked at Cherry instead. “What do you want?”

The question landed simple and direct, no pressure in his tone, just truth. Cherry blinked, caught off guard by it more than anything else. No one asked her that, not like that. Her lips parted slightly, but no answer came right away.

Stack watched her, something tight in his chest he didn’t name. Smoke didn’t rush her, didn’t fill the silence, just let it sit.

Cherry lowered her gaze, her fingers pressing lightly into her dress, into her stomach. “I…” she started, then stopped. Her voice came softer the second time. “I don’t know.”

That was the truth.

Stack leaned back slightly, but his eyes didn’t leave her. Smoke nodded once, like that answer mattered just as much as anything else. “That’s fair,” he said.

Stack exhaled through his nose, looking away for a second before coming back to her. “You ain’t gotta know right now.”

Cherry nodded faintly. The room settled into something quieter after that, not tense, just aware.

Smoke leaned back in his chair, watching both of them, something thoughtful sitting behind his expression now. He saw it clearly. His brother wasn’t playing, and Cherry wasn’t running. That was enough for him to keep watching all the way through.

That night settled slower than the day had, stretching out in a way that made everything feel heavier, like time itself had decided to linger with them instead of moving forward.

The air near the lake carried a softer kind of heat, the kind that didn’t press as hard but still clung to the skin, wrapping around it instead of bearing down. The water moved just enough to catch the last of the fading light, small ripples stretching outward and disappearing into the dark like something being swallowed whole.

Cherry sat beside Stack on the edge of the wooden dock with a plate resting in her lap, her fingers moving slower than they had earlier that day. Every movement felt more deliberate now, more thoughtful, like she was aware of herself in a way she hadn’t been before. She wasn’t as guarded, not the way she had been when he first walked into her house, and something in her had softened, or maybe just loosened enough to breathe.

Inside, the faint sound of water shifting in a tub echoed now and then, quiet but present.

Stack huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head slightly as he glanced back toward the house. “Man in there soaking like he the one pregnant.”

Cherry glanced at him, a small smile pulling at her mouth before she could stop it, the expression softer than it had been earlier. “Maybe he’s just tired.”

“He always tired,” Stack muttered, leaning back on his hands. “Ain’t did nothing but sit and watch me all day.”

That earned a soft, quiet laugh from her, the sound light but real, lingering just a second longer than it needed to.

For a moment, they just sat there side by side without speaking, and the quiet wasn’t empty. It held something steady, something growing, something that felt like it was settling between them without either of them naming it.

Stack glanced at her from the side, watching the way she moved, the way her hand rested on her stomach between bites like it had a mind of its own, like it was always checking, always aware.

“You ain’t eat enough,” he said.

Cherry sighed softly, already knowing this was coming. “I did.”

“That plate still half full.”

“I’ll finish it.”

“Finish it now.”

She looked at him, a little amused, a little something else sitting under it. “You always this bossy?”

Stack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

That made her shake her head slightly, but she took another bite anyway, slower this time, more aware of him watching.

The silence that followed felt softer now, less uncertain. Cherry’s gaze drifted out over the water and her expression changed slowly, the lightness from earlier fading into something quieter and heavier, something that sat deeper in her chest.

Stack noticed it immediately. “What,” he said, not asking, just pulling it forward like it already belonged in the open.

Cherry hesitated, her fingers pressing lightly into the edge of the plate as she grounded herself before speaking. “It’s just…” she started, then stopped, her voice catching on something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

Stack didn’t rush her or interrupt. He didn’t fill the silence. He just sat there watching her like he was waiting on something he already intended to take and hold onto.

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders lowering slightly with it. “I didn’t think I’d be here like this.”

“Like what.”

“Alone.”

The word sat heavier than anything else she had said. Stack’s jaw shifted slightly, something tightening behind his expression.

“You not alone.”

Cherry let out a small breath that almost sounded like a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I am.” Her hand moved over her stomach again, slower this time, more deliberate. “It’s just the baby and me.”

Stack’s gaze dropped to where her hand rested, then lifted back to her face. “That ain’t just you.”

Cherry swallowed, her voice softer now. “It feels like it.” She looked down, her shoulders pulling in slightly like she was trying to make herself smaller without realizing it. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The admission came out quiet and unprotected. “I don’t know how to raise a child by myself. I don’t… I don’t even know if I’m doing any of this right.” The words fell slowly, like they had been sitting inside her for too long.

Stack leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his attention locked onto her fully now. There was nothing casual about the way he looked at her. “You gon’ be fine,” he said.

Cherry shook her head again. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

She looked at him then, searching his face. “How.”

Stack didn’t hesitate. “Because I’m here.”

That sat between them, heavy and undeniable. Cherry didn’t correct it or question it. She just looked at him.

Her voice dropped softer. “He used to say I wasn’t fit for this.”

Stack’s expression sharpened instantly, something darker settling in. “He said I was too soft. That I wouldn’t know what to do. That I’d mess things up.” Each word landed heavier than the last.

Stack’s jaw tightened. “He don’t get to say that,” he muttered, voice low and edged.

Cherry’s gaze dropped again. “He said a lot of things.” There was no anger in her voice, just memory.

Stack leaned back slightly, tension building under the surface. “He don’t get to sit in there and leave you carrying all this by yourself. Don’t get to put all that on you and still have you out here dealing with it like it’s yours alone.”

Cherry didn’t respond right away because part of her had already accepted it, already shaped her life around it. Stack shook his head once. “That ain’t how that go.”

Cherry looked at him again, something fragile in her expression. “Then how does it go.”

Stack’s gaze locked onto hers, steady and unwavering. “You not doing this by yourself.” There was no hesitation in it, no softness, just certainty.

Cherry stilled slightly under that. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not offering,” he cut in.

Her words stopped. Stack leaned closer just enough to shift the space between them. “I’m telling you.”

The weight of that settled heavy. Cherry’s fingers tightened against her dress. “You don’t even know me like that.”

“I know enough.”

“You don’t.”

Stack’s mouth tilted slightly. “You sound like my brother.”

Cherry blinked. “What?”

“He been saying that since I saw you that first day in town. Same tone and everything.”

A small smile pulled at her lips. “I do not.”

“You do. That same ‘you don’t know me’ look too.”

Cherry shook her head softly. “I don’t look like that.”

Stack’s eyes stayed on her. “You do.”

That made her look away, that shy warmth creeping back into her face before he added quieter, “Still don’t change nothing.”

A quiet pause stretched between them before he said, softer but heavier, “I knew I was gone love you the first time I seen you.”

Cherry’s eyes lifted to his, slow and steady, like she was trying to read something deeper than what he was saying. She held his gaze longer than she meant to, longer than she ever had before.

“Been waiting to see you again,” he added.

The air between them shifted, closer and warmer, something deeper settling in. Cherry’s hand moved over her stomach again, but this time it wasn’t grounding. It was considering.

“You don’t know what you asking,” she said softly.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

Stack didn’t move back. “You coming back with me.”

It wasn’t loud or forceful. It was certain.

Cherry’s heart picked up, not in panic but in something unfamiliar. “You and the baby,” he continued, “y’all ain’t staying out here by yourselves.”

Cherry looked at him fully then, taking in the way he said it, the way he believed it. It didn’t sound like a possibility. It sounded like a decision.

Something inside her shifted. The fear, the uncertainty, the loneliness didn’t disappear, but they moved enough to make space for something else, something she didn’t understand yet but wanted.

“If I come with you…” she started.

“You will,” he said.

She should have corrected him. She didn’t. “What would that look like.”

“Easy,” he said. “You ain’t gotta worry about nothing.”

She searched his face for doubt and didn’t find any. “You rest. You eat. You take care of the baby. I handle the rest.”

“And you think it’s that simple.”

“It is.”

Then quieter, “I’ll take care of you the way you supposed to be took care of.”

Something in her chest tightened, not from fear but from how deeply it reached. “And the baby,” she said.

“Mine.”

He didn’t soften it or take it back. He let it sit there like truth.

The water moved beside them, the night stretching around them, and Cherry sat there looking at him as something settled into place inside her.

A decision.

She didn’t overthink it or pull it apart. She let it be what it was.

“I want to go,” she said softly.

Stack didn’t smile or celebrate. He just nodded once. “I know.”

Something in her loosened, something that had been tight for too long. Stack’s gaze stayed on her, steady and sure.

“You and my baby,” he said, voice low, “y’all gon’ have a soft life. You ain’t gotta struggle. You ain’t gotta wonder. I got you.”

Cherry closed her eyes briefly, letting that settle into her.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

The night didn’t break when her answer settled between them.

It deepened.

The lake moved quiet beside them, slow ripples catching what little light remained, and everything around them seemed to pull inward, closer, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them sitting there on the dock.

Cherry didn’t move right away after she said it.

I want to go.

The words stayed in the air, soft but heavy, and she felt them in her chest more than she heard them. Her hand still rested over her stomach, but her attention wasn’t there anymore.

It was on him.

On the way he looked at her.

Stack didn’t rush to fill the silence. He stayed where he was, watching her the same way he had been all night, steady, certain, like nothing about this surprised him.

Because it didn’t.

He had already decided this.

Cherry felt that in the way his presence settled around her, not pushing, not pulling, just there in a way that didn’t give her much space to doubt it.

Her eyes stayed on his longer than they should have, longer than she would have allowed before.

But she didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Something in her chest felt too full, too open, like everything she had been holding in had shifted all at once and left her standing there without anything to hide behind.

Stack leaned a little closer.

Not enough to crowd her.

Just enough to change the space between them.

“You sure?” he asked, but it didn’t sound like doubt. It sounded like confirmation.

Cherry nodded faintly, her voice quieter now, softer than before. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

His hand moved first.

Slow.

Deliberate.

It came to rest against her arm, just above her elbow, his touch warm and steady, not grabbing, not forcing, just there.

Cherry stilled under it.

Not pulling away.

Just feeling it.

The difference.

No one had ever touched her like that before.

Not like she had a choice in it.

Not like it was something to be given instead of taken.

Her eyes dropped briefly to where his hand rested, then lifted back to his face.

He was already watching her.

Waiting.

Not asking.

But not taking either.

And that…

That was new.

Cherry’s breath slowed, her shoulders loosening just slightly as something inside her gave way to that feeling instead of resisting it.

Stack’s hand moved again, sliding from her arm down to her hand, his fingers brushing against hers before closing around them, firm but careful.

He didn’t rush it.

Didn’t pull.

Just held her there like he had every right to.

Cherry let him.

Her fingers curled slightly against his without thinking, her body answering something before her mind could catch up.

Stack watched that happen.

Not missing a thing.

His thumb brushed slow against the back of her hand, a small movement, but it sent something quiet through her, something that settled low and unfamiliar.

“You been holding too much,” he said, voice low.

Cherry swallowed, her gaze dropping for a second before lifting again. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You do now.”

The way he said it didn’t leave much room for anything else.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Stack leaned closer.

Close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence of him, something grounding and overwhelming at the same time.

His hand lifted from hers, moving slow, giving her time to stop him if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

His fingers brushed along her jaw, light at first, then settling more fully as he tilted her face just enough to keep her eyes on him.

Cherry’s breath caught softly, but she didn’t pull away.

She couldn’t.

Not because she was trapped.

Because she didn’t want to move.

Stack’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes, like he was making sure she was still there with him.

She was.

Completely.

He closed the distance.

Slow.

Giving her time.

Letting her feel it coming instead of taking it from her.

When his lips met hers, it wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t rough.

It was steady.

Warm.

Certain.

Cherry stilled for half a second, the contact unfamiliar in a way that made her chest tighten, then soften all at once.

Then she leaned into it.

Just slightly.

But enough.

Stack felt it.

His hand shifted, moving from her jaw to the side of her neck, holding her there, not tight, just enough to keep her close.

The kiss deepened, not fast, not overwhelming, just building, like everything else between them had been.

Cherry’s fingers tightened slightly against his shirt, finding something to hold onto as the feeling settled deeper into her.

This wasn’t what she knew.

There was no sharpness.

No demand.

No pressure to keep up with something she didn’t understand.

This was…

Slow.

Attentive.

Like he was paying attention to every small way she responded.

Stack’s hand moved again, sliding from her neck down along her arm, then lower, settling at her waist, his touch firm now, grounding.

He pulled her just a little closer.

Cherry didn’t resist.

Her body followed the movement easily, like it had already decided before she did.

The world around them faded further.

The water.

The house.

Everything.

It all fell away until there was nothing left but the space between them and the way it kept closing.

Stack broke the kiss just enough to look at her again, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Cherry nodded, her eyes still on his, something softer, something more open sitting there now. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

His hand shifted again, slower now, more intentional, moving along her side, learning the shape of her without rushing it, without taking more than she was giving.

Cherry’s breath caught again, but she didn’t pull away.

Her fingers tightened slightly against him instead.

Stack watched her face more than anything, reading every small change, every reaction, every hesitation that never quite turned into resistance.

He adjusted to it.

Matched it.

Kept her there with him instead of pushing past her.

His touch grew more certain, but never careless, moving in a way that made her feel held instead of handled.

Cherry’s head tilted slightly, her eyes closing for a moment as the feeling settled deeper, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

Her hand came up slowly, resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of him under her palm.

He felt real.

Present.

Not distant.

Not unreachable.

Right there with her.

Stack’s voice dropped lower, closer. “You alright,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Cherry nodded again, her voice barely above a breath. “I am.”

And she was.

Even with everything she didn’t understand yet.

Even with everything moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

She didn’t feel alone.

Not anymore.

Stack pressed his forehead to hers again, his hand steady at her waist, holding her there like she belonged in that space.

Like she belonged with him.

And Cherry let herself stay there.

Didn’t question it.

Didn’t pull away.

Just felt it.

For the first time without fear attached to it.

Without doubt sitting behind it.

Just…

Wanted.

And held.

And chosen.

His hand moved again, a slow drift from her waist toward the curve of her hip. The fabric of her dress was thin, worn soft from years of use, and she could feel the heat of his palm right through it. He paused there, his thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle over the bone, giving her another chance. Another out.

Cherry didn’t take it.

Her own hand, still resting on his chest, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, holding on.

Stack took that as the permission it was.

His hand continued its path, down over the gentle swell of her belly, his touch reverent, possessive. He lingered there for a moment, his palm flat against her, a silent acknowledgment of the life growing inside her, a life he had already claimed as his own. The possessiveness in the gesture wasn't aggressive; it was a quiet, unshakeable fact.

Then his fingers moved lower, tracing the seam of her dress until they found the hem. He didn’t dive right in. He let his knuckles brush against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a feather-light touch that made her breath hitch and her legs part just a fraction of an inch on their own.

That was all the invitation he needed.

His hand slid beneath the fabric, warm and calloused against the soft, cool skin of her thigh. The air was thick with the scent of the lake and the clean, masculine smell of him. Cherry’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird, but she didn't move. She just waited.

His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on her skin, inching higher. He was watching her, his dark eyes never leaving her face, gauging every flutter of her eyelids, every parting of her lips. He was learning her, mapping her responses with an unnerving patience.

“Easy now,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into her hand. “Just feel it, Cherry. Let me feel you.”

His thumb found the edge of her cotton drawers, stroking along the line of it. The touch was so light, so teasing, it was almost worse than if he’d just grabbed her. A whimper caught in her throat, and she felt a flush creep up her neck.

Stack heard it. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Yeah,” he breathed. “There she is.”

He finally slipped his fingers past the barrier of her drawers, through the soft curls that guarded her sex. The first touch against her folds was electric. She jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. It was different. The sensitivity was heightened, a low-level thrum of awareness that had been dormant for months now, now roaring to life under his touch.

“Shhh, I got you,” he soothed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. His other hand came up to cup the back of her neck, holding her steady. “Just relax for me. Let Stack take care of you.”

His fingers explored her with a maddening gentleness. He wasn’t in a hurry. He parted her slick folds, his middle finger sliding through the wetness he found there. He groaned, a low, deep sound of pure male appreciation.

“Fuck, Cherry,” he breathed, his eyes darkening as he looked down at where his hand disappeared under her dress. “Look at you. So damn ready for me. Been waiting for this, haven’t you? For someone to touch you right.”

She couldn’t answer. All she could do was feel. Feel the slow, circling pressure of his thumb on her clit, a tight, sensitive bundle of nerves that sent sparks shooting up her spine. It was overwhelming, a pleasure so sharp and potent it was almost painful after so long with nothing.

He felt her tense, her thighs trying to clamp shut around his hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he rumbled, his voice firm but not unkind. He shifted, pressing his knee between her thighs, keeping them open. “Stay with me. Don’t you go hiding on me now. I wanna feel every little bit of this.”

He pushed a single finger inside her.

Cherry cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder. The sensation was intense. She was slick, soft, and the way she clenched around his finger was involuntary, a desperate spasm of pleasure. He let her adjust, letting her feel the fullness, the slow, deliberate intrusion.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his lips brushing against her temple. “Feel that? Feel how you’re taking me in?”

He began to move, slowly. He wasn’t just fingering her; he was staking a claim, learning every ridge, every sensitive spot inside her. He curled his finger, making her whole body arch.

“Right there, ain’t it?” he chuckled, the sound smug and utterly confident. He found the spot again, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles while his thumb continued its maddening work on her clit. “Yeah, that’s the spot. You’re gonna give it all to me, ain’t you, Cherry? All this sweet pussy, all for me.”

The words were filthy, but his touch was reverent. It was a dizzying combination that had her spiraling. The pleasure built, a slow, inexorable tide pulling her under. She could feel the baby, a faint, reassuring pressure deep inside, a strange and beautiful counterpoint to the sharp, demanding pleasure Stack was wringing from her body. This was new. This was feeling this while her body was not just her own, and the thought sent a fresh wave of arousal through her.

He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. The stretch was exquisite, a dull ache that bloomed into pure pleasure. He pumped them in and out, his pace steady, his knuckles brushing against her with every thrust.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. He was right there, his face inches from hers, his gaze burning with an intensity that stole her breath.

“Watch me make you come,” he whispered, and then he increased the pressure, his fingers stroking that perfect spot inside her while his thumb flicked her clit, fast and hard.

The world shattered.

A sob tore from her, a tsunami of an orgasm crashed over her, a violent wave of pleasure that coursed through her entire body. Her back arched, her nails digging into his shoulder as she rode it out, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers again and again, pulsing with the force of it.

Stack didn’t stop. He worked her through it, his movements slowing, gentling, drawing out every last aftershock until she was a boneless, trembling mess in his arms.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses to her damp forehead, her temple. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

He slowly withdrew his fingers, and she whimpered at the loss. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on hers as he tasted her, a slow, deliberate act of possession that made her blush all over again.

“Sweet as I imagined,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Now… you want a little more? Want to feel what it’s like to have my dick inside you?”

Cherry’s breath leaves her body. She could only nod, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Stack shifted, his movements sure and confident. He undid his belt, the soft metallic click loud in the quiet night. He freed himself, and her eyes widened slightly. He was big, thick, and heavy, the head already flushed and leaking. He took himself in his hand, stroking slowly.

“Never had a pregnant woman before,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Gonna be gentle. But I’m still gonna make you feel it. Gonna make you feel all of me.”

He positioned himself at her entrance, not pushing in, just letting the thick, blunt head of his dick rest against her slick, sensitive folds. The heat of him was incredible. He held her gaze, his hand on her hip, his thumb stroking her skin.

“You ready for me, Cherry?”

She took a shaky breath and nodded. “Yes.”

He pushed forward, just a little.

Just the tip.

The sensation stole the air from her lungs. He was thick, the stretch immediate and intense. It wasn’t painful, but it was overwhelming, a deep, grounding pressure that was completely different from his fingers. He held himself there, letting her get used to it, letting her body adjust to the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

He gave a shallow, experimental thrust, pushing in just a fraction deeper before pulling back to the head again. The slow drag of him against her sensitive tissues was exquisite. A low moan escaped her lips, her hands clutching at his arms.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “You like that. You like feeling my dick stretch you open.”

He did it again, a slow, deliberate stroke that was more of a promise than a fulfillment. He was letting her get used to the size and shape of him, letting her body learn the feel of him. Each small thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure through her, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to echo in the very core of her.

“Gonna fill you up so good when I finally get inside you for real,” he murmured against her skin, his words a dark, delicious promise. “Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll feel me for a week. But not tonight. Tonight, I just want you to feel this. Just the tip. Just enough to know what’s waiting for you.”

He gave her a few more of those maddeningly shallow strokes, each one a slow, deliberate act of possession. It was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced, the restraint, the control, the filthy praise whispered in her ear. He was teaching her body, teaching it to respond to him, to crave him, and she was learning fast.

After a few more strokes, he pulled away completely, leaving her feeling achingly empty.

He tucked himself back into his pants, his movements economical, then pulled her into his arms, settling her against his chest. He held her close, his hand stroking her back, her hair.

“You did so good,” he murmured into her hair. “So fuckin’ good for me, Cherry.”

She was still trembling, her body thrumming with a pleasure so profound it felt like a revelation. She rested her head on his shoulder, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

Morning came slow and quiet, like it didn’t want to interrupt what had settled in the night before, like even the day itself understood something had shifted and didn’t dare rush it.

Light slipped through the curtains in thin, patient lines, stretching across the room and settling over the bed where Cherry lay, still and warm, her body heavy with sleep and something deeper than rest. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was the kind of heaviness that came after something changed inside you and didn’t go back.

Stack was already awake, laid behind her with one arm draped low across her stomach, his hand spread there like it had found its place sometime in the night and decided not to leave. His palm rested firm and certain, fingers splayed just enough to feel the curve of her, the life under it, the quiet proof of something he had already claimed in his mind.

Cherry stirred under it, not pulling away, just becoming aware. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light before settling, her body going still for a second as she registered where she was, what had happened, what had changed. Then she felt him, the weight of his arm, the warmth of his chest at her back, the steady, unshaken presence of him, close and real, unmoving like he had no intention of going anywhere. Her breath shifted, softer now, slower, like it had found a different rhythm overnight.

Stack’s hand moved slightly against her stomach, not enough to wake her fully, just enough to adjust, his palm flattening a little more like he was grounding himself there, like he needed to feel it again. Cherry’s hand came down over his without thinking, small and careful but not uncertain.

Stack exhaled slow behind her, his chin dipping slightly toward her shoulder, his hand pressing a little more firmly against her stomach as something shifted under his palm. He stilled, then a quiet, almost surprised huff left him. “There it go,” he murmured.

Cherry’s hand tightened slightly over his. “You felt that?” Stack’s mouth curved, something satisfied settling into it. “Yeah.” His hand moved just a little, like he was trying to catch it again, like he already knew where it would be.

“That’s my son,” he said, voice low but sure.

Cherry let out a soft breath that turned into the faintest laugh, shaking her head against the pillow. “We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”

Stack didn’t hesitate. “It’s a boy.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Cherry shifted slightly, turning her head just enough to look back at him, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “You just decided that?”

Stack met her gaze without blinking, completely serious in a way that almost made it worse. “Yeah.”

That made her shake her head again, softer this time, that quiet amusement sitting in her expression. “You are…” she started, then stopped, not even finishing it.

The room stayed quiet around them for a moment, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty but full, like something was sitting there between them that didn’t need to be spoken out loud. Cherry lifted her head slightly, his eyes already on her, already watching like he had been before she even woke up, like he had been waiting for her to catch up to where he already was.

“You don’t ever ease into anything, do you,” she murmured.

Stack’s mouth tilted faintly, that hint of a grin sitting there without fully forming. “Ain’t no point.”

That earned the smallest shake of her head, but there was no resistance behind it, no push, just acceptance, maybe even understanding.

They stayed like that a little longer, neither of them rushing to move, neither of them breaking what had settled between them, and for a moment it felt like something already built. By the time they moved, it wasn’t sudden. It was slow and natural, like something already decided before either of them got out of bed.

Smoke was already up when they came out. Of course he was. He sat at the table with a cup in his hand, posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, lifting the moment he heard them. He didn’t say anything right away. He just looked from Stack to Cherry and back again, taking it in, not missing the shift, not missing the quiet difference in how they stood, how close they were without trying.

Stack didn’t wait. “She coming back with us,” he said, just like that, no build up, no hesitation.

Smoke leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along it as his eyes settled on Cherry now instead of his brother. “Yeah?” he asked, not surprised, not doubtful, just confirming what he already suspected.

Cherry hesitated, not the same way she would have before. This wasn’t fear trying to stop her. This was her thinking, grounding herself in what she was about to step into. Her hand rested against her stomach again, slower this time, more aware, like she was including the baby in the decision instead of separating it from herself.

“It’s fast,” she said quietly.

Stack didn’t respond. He watched her. Smoke did too.

“It’s a lot,” she continued, her voice steadier now. “I don’t… I don’t know what it looks like yet. I don’t know what I’m stepping into.” Her gaze lifted to Stack then, steady but searching, needing something real from him this time. “And the baby…”

Stack watched her.

Smoke let out a quiet breath, setting his cup down before leaning forward slightly, his attention on her now instead of his brother. “He ain’t wrong,” Smoke said calmly. “But he ain’t easy either.”

Stack glanced at him but didn’t interrupt.

Smoke kept going, voice even, grounded in a way Stack wasn’t. “Clarksdale ain’t soft. That life ain’t soft. What he got, what he built… it come with weight. People know him there, and they deal with him a certain way. You step into that, you stepping into all of it, not just him.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against her dress.

Smoke’s tone didn’t change. “But,” he said, quieter now, “he do take care of what he claim. I ain’t never seen him not do that.”

Stack’s jaw shifted just slightly at that, something unreadable passing through his expression, and Cherry noticed.

Smoke leaned back again, giving her space instead of pressing her, letting the weight of it sit where it needed to. “Just make sure you seeing it clear.”

No push, no pull, just truth.

Cherry stood there for a moment, her thoughts moving slower now, more deliberate, more grounded than they had been before. She looked at Stack, then at Smoke, then down at her stomach. Everything sat there at once, the fear, the unknown, the weight, and something else that had started the night before and hadn’t gone anywhere, something that felt steadier than everything else.

She exhaled slowly, like she was letting go of something she had been holding too tight, then lifted her head. “I am,” she said quietly. Her gaze settled back on Stack, steady, clearer now. “I know what I’m stepping into.”

Stack didn’t smile. He just looked at her like he already knew she would land there.

Cherry’s hand rested over her stomach again, her fingers spreading slightly this time, more sure. “I’m still going,” she said.

That was it. That was the decision, final in a way that didn’t need repeating.

Smoke nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear, like he respected it because she understood it.

Stack didn’t say anything right away. He stepped closer instead, not asking, not hesitating, just closing the distance like he always did.

And Cherry didn’t step back. She didn’t question it. She just stood there and let him come to her, like she already belonged in that space, like she had already made room for him there.

And this time, she chose it.

They left the next day.

There wasn’t much ceremony to it, nothing that lingered long enough to feel like an ending. There were no drawn-out goodbyes, no second-guessing, no one standing in the doorway trying to hold onto something already slipping away. Cherry moved through the house that morning with a quiet kind of focus, steady and deliberate, packing what she needed and nothing more. Clothes were folded neatly and careful, placed with intention. Small things were gathered without overthinking. What mattered. What could be carried. What could come with her into something she hadn’t seen yet but had already chosen.

She didn’t rush, but she didn’t hesitate either. Every movement felt decided. The house felt different as she moved through it, like it already knew she was leaving it behind, like it had settled into being something that used to belong to her instead of something that still did. Her fingers brushed over familiar surfaces without stopping, the table where she had sat alone too many times, the doorway she had stood in waiting, the edge of the window where she used to look out at the water and think without answers. Memories sat there, quiet and present, but they didn’t hold her anymore.

She had already sold the house and made that decision before the morning even began. The money was tucked away, saved not for herself but for the baby, something practical, something grounded, something that would follow her even if nothing else did. She hadn’t gone back to the jail and she hadn’t told her husband. There was no conversation waiting to be had, no explanation she owed him that she hadn’t already given in silence.

By the time she stepped outside, the air felt heavier than it had the day before, like Florida itself was pressing in one last time, like it was aware she was about to leave it behind. Stack was already by the car, waiting, of course he was. He watched her come down the steps, his eyes slow and steady, taking her in like he hadn’t seen her just minutes before, like every time she came into view it settled something in him again, something he didn’t question, something he had already decided was his. Smoke leaned against the car with his arms crossed, his gaze quieter but just as aware, taking in the same thing without saying it.

Cherry held a small case in one hand, the rest already packed away in the car, her grip light but sure. She didn’t look back at the house right away. When she finally did, it wasn’t long, just enough to acknowledge it, just enough to let it be what it was. Then she turned away, and that was it.

Stack stepped forward and reached for her case without asking, taking it from her hand like it belonged to him already, like it was part of what he had claimed without needing permission. She let him. She didn’t argue and she didn’t hold on. He placed it in the car with the rest of their things, moving like this had always been the plan, like this moment had been waiting on them instead of the other way around.

Cherry settled into the backseat, not because she was told to but because it felt like the right place to be. Her body moved into it naturally, like she understood her place in this without needing it explained. Her hand rested over her stomach again, fingers spreading slightly, steady and present, grounding herself in something that wasn’t changing even as everything else did.

Stack got in the front and didn’t start the car right away. He turned instead and looked at her, really looked at her, like he was making sure she was still there, still his. Cherry met his gaze and didn’t look away. There was no uncertainty in her expression now, just something quieter, something settled, something chosen. Something passed between them without words, something already decided long before this moment but finally sitting where it belonged. Then he faced forward and started the engine.

Smoke pushed himself off the car and slid into the driver’s seat, his movements easy but his attention still sharp. He glanced at them both through the mirror as the car pulled away from the house, from the lake, from everything Cherry had known before. He didn’t say anything, but he saw it, the difference, the way Stack carried himself now, heavier but more certain, the way Cherry sat in the back, quieter but not unsure, not drifting, grounded and present, part of it now.

The road stretched ahead of them, long and open, cutting through heat and distance, the kind of road that didn’t offer much except forward movement. Florida began to fall behind them, slow at first like it was reluctant, then faster with every mile, fading into something that no longer had a hold on her. Cherry watched it through the window, her gaze steady, not filled with regret, not heavy with longing, just awareness. It had been her life, and now it wasn’t. That was all there was to it.

Stack glanced back at her again, then again, and again, like he couldn’t help it, like he needed to keep seeing her there to believe it was real, like he had already won something he didn’t expect to lose but wasn’t willing to stop checking on. Cherry noticed every time, but she didn’t say anything. She just met his gaze when it found hers, calm and steady, not shrinking from it, not questioning it, certain.

Smoke caught it all in the mirror, the looks, the silence, the way something had shifted between them and settled into place without needing to be spoken out loud. His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel before going still again, the only sign that he was thinking about it more than he let on. He didn’t interrupt it, didn’t question it, didn’t step in the way he could have, but it sat with him, heavy in a different way, not wrong, just real.

The road stretched further, miles passing under them, time moving whether they marked it or not. Somewhere between where they had been and where they were going, between Florida and Clarksdale, between what was and what would be, something had already shifted into place. Something that wasn’t going back, something that didn’t need permission, something that had already decided how this was going to end. And for now, no one tried to stop it.

The road stretched long and quiet beneath them, cutting through heat and dust and winding its way back toward Mississippi like it had been waiting for them all along. It did not rush them or push them forward. It simply carried them, steady and unbroken, as if their arrival had already been accounted for.

The car moved at an even pace, tires humming low against the ground, the sound blending into the rhythm of everything else. The sky sat wide above them, pale and endless, pressing down in that quiet Southern way that made everything feel both open and contained at the same time.

Cherry sat in the backseat with one hand resting over her stomach and the other relaxed at her side. Her fingers were loose now, no tension left in them. She was not watching the road or the trees or the passing fields or the slow change in landscape as Florida faded behind them. She was not watching anything at all. She simply sat there, still but not empty, quiet but not distant.

For the first time since any of this had started, she looked settled. Not safe and not certain, but not drifting either, like something had finally given her a direction she could follow without needing to understand all of it yet.

Stack glanced back at her again, the way he always did, like he could not go too long without checking, like he needed to keep seeing her there to believe she had not disappeared on him. His hand came off the seat in front of him and reached back without turning his whole body, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested beside her, slow and deliberate.

Cherry felt it and did not pull away. Her fingers shifted slightly, just enough to meet his, just enough to let him know she was there with him and not somewhere else. That was all he needed.

Stack leaned back into his seat, one arm resting easy now, his posture relaxed in a way it had not been before, like something inside him had settled now that she was where he wanted her.

“When we get back,” he said, voice low but steady, “I’ma set you up right.”

Cherry’s eyes lifted slightly, not fully, just enough to show she was listening.

“I got a place already,” he continued. “A real home. Nice size. More than enough space. You ain’t gotta worry about nothing out there.”

He spoke like it was already built and already waiting, like the walls were standing and her name was already inside them, like she was just late arriving to something that had always been hers.

“I’m gon’ make sure you good,” he added, quieter now but heavier. “You and my baby. Ain’t nobody gon’ touch what’s mine.”

Cherry’s hand moved slightly over her stomach again, slower this time and more aware, her fingers spreading like she was holding onto something she could not see yet. She did not interrupt him or question him. She simply listened and let it settle.

Stack glanced back again and caught her eyes, holding them for a second longer. “I’m marrying you before that baby get here.”

It came out as easy as everything else he said, without pause or build up, like it had already been decided somewhere before this moment.

Smoke’s eyes flicked up in the mirror immediately, catching that, and a slow side eye slid toward his brother, long and judging, though he did not say anything yet.

Cherry blinked once and a small pause settled over her before the faintest smile touched her mouth, soft and quiet with something warm under it. She was not shocked or overwhelmed. She was simply accepting it the way she had accepted everything else from him.

“You are?” she asked softly.

Stack did not hesitate. “Yeah.”

It was simple and certain, like there was no other version of this where he did not.

Cherry’s smile stayed, small but real now, her eyes softer than they had been before. She did not question it or slow it down or ask how. She just nodded once and went along with it, like she had already decided that believing him was easier than fighting it.

Smoke let out a quiet breath through his nose and shook his head slightly as he looked back at the road. “Man,” he muttered, low and unimpressed.

Stack ignored him.

“And he gon’ have somebody watching him too,” Stack went on, like the thought had just come to him and made perfect sense. “Uncle Smokey Bear.”

Smoke’s head turned this time, slow and deliberate. “Don’t start that,” he said flatly.

Stack grinned faintly and glanced back at Cherry. “Go ahead. Say it.”

Cherry hesitated for a second, then looked toward the front seat with a soft smile pulling at her mouth, a little more comfortable this time. “Smokey Bear,” she said.

Smoke closed his eyes briefly and shook his head again. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

Cherry let out a small, quiet laugh, the sound light but real and easy in the space between them.

“You don’t have to go along with whatever crazy shit he saying,” Smoke added, glancing back at her through the mirror.

Cherry met his eyes for a second, then looked at Stack and back at Smoke. “I don’t mind,” she said softly, and she meant it.

Smoke huffed under his breath, but there was no real fight in it and no push to argue it further, just acceptance and watching.

The car kept moving, steady and unbothered, the road stretching further ahead as mile after mile folded into the next. Dust rose behind them in soft clouds, lifting and settling again, like the road was swallowing their tracks as fast as they made them.

Stack leaned back in his seat with one hand still reaching behind him, his fingers brushing Cherry’s again, not letting that connection go for long, like he needed to keep feeling her there, like he needed to remind himself she had not changed her mind.

Cherry let him. She did not pull away or question it. She just sat there with her hand in his and the other resting over her stomach, her gaze soft as the world moved past her without asking anything more from her.

Whatever this was and whatever it would become, it did not feel like an ending. It felt like something opening instead, something forming, something uncertain and heavy, something that could hold her or consume her. She did not know yet, but she did not turn away from it either, because for the first time in a long time she was not alone inside it.

The car disappeared further down the long Southern road as the dust trailing behind them slowly settled back into place and the heat swallowed the last signs of where they had been. Ahead of them, unseen but waiting, something new was already taking shape, something that felt like hope or something close enough to it that she chose to believe it anyway.

Saturday afternoons were sacred in the South, especially under the shimmer of sunlit bleachers and the high-pitched cheers of parents on the sidelines. It was more than just a little league game; it was a community ritual. The smell of concession stand hot dogs, the chatter of kids running wild, and parents clapping with half-empty iced coffees in hand. But Jordan wasn’t there for the thrill of the sport. Not entirely.

Her hoodie was pulled snug around her head, the early autumn sun still warm, but her eyes never left the sideline. Her son Kendrick was out there, eight years old, helmet slightly too big, darting across the grass with a determined frown. But her gaze kept drifting elsewhere, kept landing on the man who ran drills with calm authority and spoke to the kids with a low, commanding voice that felt entirely too grown for this playground.

Coach Elias "Stack" Moore didn’t just run practice—he ruled it. Clipboard in one hand, whistle hanging from his neck, his voice moved through the chaos with calm control.

Coach Elias "Stack" Moore didn’t just pace the sidelines—he prowled. Like the whole damn field belonged to him and he dared anyone to challenge that. Clipboard in one hand, headset settled low over his ears, his mouth moved with precision as he barked orders and called plays. It was the way he spoke, sharp and low, like every word had gravity. The players snapped to attention. The crowd leaned in without realizing.

Jordan swallowed hard every time he passed close enough to catch the scent of his cologne beneath the musk of the field. She’d never admit it out loud, but it was starting to feel less like a school crush and more like a full-blown obsession. There was a weight to him, an ease in how he moved, a quiet intensity that crept beneath her skin.

And when he looked at her? Lord.

It wasn’t constant, but it was enough. A glance between timeouts. A look during a water break. Once, when Kendrick made a perfect catch, he turned—not to the crowd—but to her. He smirked, slow and knowing, one dimple flashing like he knew exactly what he was doing. Jordan pressed her knees together without thinking.

But they weren’t alone in noticing.

"Coach Stack," a honey-dripping voice purred from behind him. Donna Purvis, all hips and hair, strutted toward the sideline like she was stepping into a club, not a little league football field. Her too-tight dress clung to every inch of her frame, and her heels clicked louder than the announcer.

"You always look so serious out here," she continued, placing a manicured hand on his bicep and not removing it. "You should let me take you out sometime, loosen up a little. I know all the good spots."

Stack’s jaw didn’t even twitch. “I’m good, Donna. Appreciate it, though.”

Donna’s smile tightened just a little, not enough for most to notice. But Jordan caught it. Especially when Donna’s eyes shifted, laser-focused on her in the stands.

"Raising Kendrick all by yourself can’t be easy," Donna said, voice lilting with fake concern. "Single parenting? Whew. Not everyone’s cut out for that kind of pressure."

Jordan blinked slowly, tilted her head, and smiled like she had a blade behind her teeth. "Luckily, I am, Kendrick’s thriving. Straight A’s, team captain, heart of gold. But thanks for the concern."

The two women stared at each other for a beat too long, the tension sizzling like wires about to snap. Stack’s eyes flicked between them, bemused and quiet, but the moment Donna flounced off in a huff, his gaze went right back to Jordan—and lingered.

Their eyes met. Jordan raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something. Stack just smirked again, something darker in his expression this time. Like he wasn’t just thinking about football anymore.

After the final whistle, the field began to clear, the kids swarming their juice boxes and parents gathering bags, folding chairs, and water bottles. Jordan made her way to the fence, waiting for Kendrick. She wasn’t alone for long.

Stack walked over, a towel slung over his shoulder, headset off now, sweat glistening along his temples. “He played like he already had a sneaker deal.”

“He better. He won’t shut up about LSU,” she said with a soft laugh.

“He’s got the fire for it. Natural hustle. And that spin move? That’s got your name all over it.”

Jordan chuckled, brushing her fingers through her braids. “You saying I used to play football?”

“I’m saying you move like someone who knows how to make a scene. And I’ve seen you watching me.”

The way he said it made her stomach flutter. Deep. Low. That command tone he couldn’t turn off, like even his compliments carried weight.

They stood like that, too close for just coach and parent, not close enough to be scandalous. But it simmered.

Kendrick came jogging over, breaking the moment. Jordan ruffled his hair, thankful for the distraction and the cool wind that masked the heat rising in her cheeks.

Stack leaned in just a little, voice pitched only for her.

"See you around, Jordan."

He didn’t look back. But she did.

The spark wasn’t just lit—it was spreading, slow and dangerous, like dry brush in heat. And neither of them was doing a damn thing to put it out. Not even for the sake of their kids. Not anymore.

Jordan’s girls had already pre-gamed half a bottle of tequila before she even walked through the door. The living room was a jungle of high heels, crushed velvet, throw pillows on the floor, and Black girl laughter that could’ve cracked glass. Someone was burning incense that didn’t match the vibe at all, and the Bluetooth speaker kept switching from Megan to Keyshia to Sexyy Red like it couldn’t decide if the night was for ratchetry, heartbreak, or absolute chaos. Lip gloss was flying, lashes were being applied on borrowed mirrors, and the gossip was flowing.

Jordan showed up looking exactly how a woman with a child-free weekend should look, skin glowing, lashes on, thighs oiled, and her curls piled into a high puff that made her look five years younger and twice as fine. Her crop top hugged every inch of her, and the high-waisted jeans were doing the Lord’s work. The second she stepped in, cheers went up.

“There she go!”

“Miss ‘I’m just coming out for one drink!’”

“You lying! That outfit ain’t for no one drink!”

Jordan grinned, biting her lip as she grabbed a red cup. “Y’all are loud.”

“And you look like you got a plan,” her best friend Tasha said, eyeing her up and down. "You waitin' on Coach Fine to pop up tonight or what?"

“Stack ain’t even gon’ be out. This a mama weekend. That man’s probably at home ironing game plans and listening to 90s R&B.”

“Bet he’d iron your ass out if you let him,” another friend quipped, and the room exploded into another fit of cackling laughter.

They went on for another thirty minutes, talking shit about men, debating who was getting laid tonight, who wasn’t, and how Jordan needed to stop playing and let Coach Stack rearrange her life. She played it off, sipping and side-eying them with that smile that said she wasn’t confirming anything, but she wasn’t denying it either.

When they finally made it to the bar, the night air was thick with music and city heat. Neon lights spilled out onto the sidewalk, and the line moved quickly. Inside, it was packed but not suffocating, shoulders brushing, drinks clinking, bodies swaying. The energy was high, and the DJ was deep in his throwback bag. Jordan’s crew moved like a unit straight to the bar, all hips and energy, ordering shots like they had no responsibilities in the morning.

And that’s when she saw him.

Stack.

At the back near the pool table, laughing with two other men, drink in hand, button-down stretched across his broad chest like it wanted to be unbuttoned. Clean lineup, chain glinting under the low light. He hadn’t spotted her yet, but the moment her eyes locked on him, her stomach flipped.

“Bitch,” Trina whispered, elbowing her. “Ain’t that Coach Fine from practice?”

Jordan didn’t answer right away. She just kept looking.

As if he felt it, Stack turned—and froze.

Their eyes met across the room. Something hot and heavy passed between them in that half-second. He looked her up and down with a slow drag of his eyes, like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. Then he smirked. One dimple. Subtle. Dangerous.

She looked away first, but barely. Her drink showed up in her hand, and she tossed it back faster than she meant to. Her girls caught the moment too, giggling and nudging her, but Jordan waved them off, trying to pretend her knees weren’t weak.

Mistakes were already being primed.

He didn’t approach right away. And she didn’t go to him. But they kept stealing glances, heat rising between them with every track the DJ dropped. Bodies pressed around her, hips swaying, but Jordan only felt the weight of his gaze.

Eventually, like fate was tired of waiting, they crossed paths by the edge of the bar. It wasn’t an accident. It was a collision.

“Didn’t know you came out on the weekends,” he said, low and smooth, lips near her ear.

Jordan smiled, cool as ever. “Didn’t know you owned jeans. Thought you were surgically attached to them coach shorts.”

He chuckled. “You out here looking dangerous.”

“You out here lookin’ like a liability.”

They were too close. Way too close. Voices barely above whispers, every glance heavier than the last.

The DJ switched tracks, something slower, bass low and rolling. Without thinking, she let her fingers graze his forearm.

“You dancing or you just standing around looking pretty?”

Stack raised a brow. “You asking or telling?”

Jordan just turned, walking toward the dance floor with a sway in her hips that could break a man.

He followed.

And when his hands found her waist, that was it.

The tension cracked open. Heat spilled out.

They moved like they’d done it before. Or like they’d been dreaming about it. His hands were strong, firm, gripping just enough to make her thighs clench. Her ass rolled against him with a rhythm that made him bite back a groan.

He leaned down, lips near her ear.

“Keep moving like that, and I’ma fuck around and risk my whole job.”

She smiled, wicked and breathless.

“That why you ain’t stopped?”

They stumbled out of the bar laughing, the cool air hitting their skin like a welcome jolt after the warmth of sweat, music, and too many shared glances. Jordan's heels clicked unevenly against the pavement as she leaned into Stack's shoulder, her hand gripping his forearm for balance, her laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-forgotten. Tipsy enough to be loose but not lost, she was grounded in every sensation, especially the way Stack kept glancing at her like he was starving.

His arm was solid beneath her fingers, muscles firm, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over him. She leaned closer, the scent of his cologne rising up in the cool night, mixing with the lingering taste of tequila on her tongue. Every time she glanced up, he was already looking down. Their steps slowed as they neared the parking lot, the sound of music and laughter from the bar fading behind them, replaced by the soft buzz of streetlamps and passing cars.

The glow of the streetlamp flickered above them, casting halos across cracked concrete and illuminating the steam of their breath. Jordan slowed in front of her car, keys dangling in her hand, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Stack’s eyes clung to her. His gaze traveled down her face, lingered at her mouth, then swept over the curve of her hips like he was memorizing it.

“You good to drive?” he asked, voice low, rough, just this side of gravel.

“I’m good,” she said, though her breath betrayed her, a little unsteady under the weight of his stare.

“You sure?”

“I didn’t drink that much,” she murmured, but her fingers toyed nervously with her keys.

He stepped in, just close enough for her to feel the heat of him. She didn’t move. Not even an inch.

His hand found her hip, palm wide and warm, thumb slipping just under the hem of her shirt to stroke bare skin. The contact was light but electric. She should’ve stepped away, played it off, climbed into her car with a flirty goodbye and a guilty conscience.

Instead, she leaned in, letting her chest brush his, letting her eyes fall half-lidded as her body tilted toward his. The space between them evaporated.

“You been looking at me all night,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear.

“You been looking back.”

Then there was no more talk. Just want. Just heat. Just mouths crashing together in a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.

Stack kissed her like he was making a promise with his mouth, owning every breath she gave him, marking the moment like it belonged to them. Greedy. Intense. Tongue deep, mouth open, hands firm and unapologetic. One slid up her back, the other gripped her jaw, keeping her there like he was afraid she’d vanish mid-kiss. Jordan melted into him with a soft moan, startled at how fast she unraveled in his hands.

The kiss turned dirty, quick, messy, and wet and starved. Her back hit the car with a gentle thud, his hips pressing into hers, hard and deliberate. She felt every inch of him, his dick hard and throbbing, pressing against her like it was begging to be let out, the thick weight of it grinding through layers that suddenly felt like too damn much.

Her hands roamed. Up his chest, around his neck, fingers in his hair. She tugged just to see if he’d growl, and he did. Deep in his throat. That sound rewired something in her. Her thighs pressed together, and her toes curled in her shoes.

She pulled back, breath ragged, lips swollen. “We can’t.”

Stack grinned like a man who already knew the ending. Slow. Dangerous. “We already are.”

Jordan stared at him, her gaze drifting to his mouth again like it had its own gravity. Her heart pounded in her chest. Logic kept whispering, but her body wasn’t listening.

He tilted his head, voice dropping to a soft command. “Come on. You too fine to be driving yourself home tonight.”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded slowly, handing him her keys without a word. The electricity between them sparked higher, tightening like a drawstring.

They didn’t let go of each other’s hands as they walked to his truck. His fingers wrapped around hers like they’d done it a hundred times. She climbed in first, the click of the door behind her sealing the moment in place.

Stack slid into the driver’s seat, closing the door behind him. The silence was thick. The truck smelled like leather, cologne, and danger.

This wasn’t going to stop here.

They both knew it.

The drive was quiet, but the kind of quiet where everything screamed underneath. Jordan sat in the passenger seat, thighs pressed tight, one hand curled in her lap while the other gripped the door like it might save her from whatever was about to happen. Stack kept glancing her way between stoplights, his jaw clenched, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, but he didn’t say a word. His silence spoke louder than anything—low, heavy, pulsing. Every stoplight felt like it took a lifetime, and the hum of the engine only added to the tension hanging between them.

She peeked over at him once, catching the way he was chewing the inside of his cheek like he was running plays in his head. She cracked a smile, nerves creeping up. "You look like you about to give a halftime speech."

He didn’t look away from the road. "Nah, just tryin’ to keep from pullin’ this truck over and fuckin’ up your makeup in the front seat."

Jordan blinked. Laughed. “Damn.”

Stack finally glanced her way again, lips twitching. "Told you I don’t play, Jordan. You hop in my truck, it comes with consequences."

She grinned, a little breathless. “You issuing warnings now?”

“Only ‘cause you special.”

When they pulled into his driveway, she didn’t hesitate. No questions. No second-guessing. The house was simple, brick and calm from the outside, the porch light casting a soft yellow glow. He killed the engine. They sat for one breath. Two. Then he got out and walked around to open her door. The gesture was smooth, practiced, but the way his eyes never left hers made her feel like this wasn’t routine. Like he’d been waiting on this moment longer than he’d ever admit.

Jordan stepped out slowly. Her heels hit the pavement. His hand caught hers. It was firm, steady, warm. Electric.

He led her inside.

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft finality. The lights were low, the air warm, the scent of whatever soap he used clinging to the walls like temptation and a dare. Jordan barely had time to take in the lived-in comfort of the space—the worn leather couch, the framed photos on the wall, the faint hum of a ceiling fan overhead—before he was behind her, close, too close. His breath skimmed the curve of her neck, sending a shiver straight down her spine.

His presence wrapped around her like a blanket soaked in gasoline—heavy, hot, and flammable.

"You sure you ain't gonna change your mind once I get started?" he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, tone low and teasing.

Jordan huffed a laugh, breathless. "You asking for permission now? That's new."

Stack chuckled behind her, deep and rich. "Trying to be a gentleman... for the next five seconds. After that? It's on God."

She smirked, heat creeping up her neck. "Clock's ticking, Coach."

His mouth hit hers like a match to gasoline.

The kiss was different this time. Deeper. Hungrier. It wasn’t just lust—it was everything they’d been biting back for weeks. He pressed her back against the door, hands sliding up her thighs, thumbs stroking skin like he’d been dying to do it. Her body arched into him, her fingers already tugging at his shirt. He groaned against her mouth, biting her lip just enough to make her gasp. Her nails scratched across his scalp, dragging moans from both their throats.

He scooped her up like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist. They didn’t break the kiss as he carried her down the hall, fingers digging into the backs of her thighs. Her back hit the wall, then the doorframe, then the edge of the bed. With a breathless grunt, he dropped her onto the mattress, stepping back to look at her.

He stood at the edge of the bed, breathing hard, eyes devouring her like he couldn’t decide where to start. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run ten miles, and still, he looked ready for more.

"Been waiting to do this since the first day of practice," he muttered, pulling his shirt off over his head. "You in those damn jeans, talkin’ slick, walkin’ past me like you ain’t know what you was doin’."

Jordan licked her lips, eyes dragging down his chest, his stomach, the thick line stretching beneath his waistband. Her thighs shifted involuntarily. He noticed.

“You talk too much,” she said, her voice low and teasing.

“You gon’ be the one talkin’ in a minute,” he shot back, grin crooked, eyes hungry.

He reached for her jeans and slid them down slow, dragging his palms across every inch of skin he revealed. Her breath caught as he kissed down the inside of her thighs, lips grazing, teeth nipping gently. He traced circles with his tongue, watching her twitch beneath his mouth, her hands gripping the sheets in anticipation.

He looked up at her, eyes dark and wild, voice low. “Don’t run from it. I want all of it.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

His hands pushed her thighs open wider, thumbs pressing into the crease where thigh met heat, spreading her like a feast he was more than ready to devour. His breath teased the glossy heat of her pussy, just a whisper of heat before his tongue dragged up the full length of her slit. And when his mouth landed—wet, warm, filthy—it wasn’t gentle. It was ravenous. He didn’t tease. He dove in like a man with a death wish, tongue flicking and swirling, then flattening to drag slow and deep from her entrance to her clit and back again.

He groaned into her pussy like she was feeding him life. The vibrations made her legs tremble.

Jordan gasped, her hips jerking up, back curling off the mattress. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching his scalp as she whimpered out his name. But Stack didn’t let up. He licked like he needed every drop, sucked on her clit until her thighs shook, then tongue-fucked her entrance with filthy precision, slurping and moaning like her pussy was the only thing that ever mattered. He kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of every nerve ending.

She was already close, already unraveling, and he hadn’t even used his fingers yet.

The storm hadn’t even started yet, but the air between them was already thick with promise.

He was about to put her through the damn mattress.

He could feel it, her body beginning to climb, her thighs twitching, her moans pitching higher, her fingers pulling at his hair like she needed something to keep her grounded. She was right there, seconds from crashing into her first orgasm. Her whole body tensed like a drawn bow.

So he stopped.

He pulled his mouth off her soaked pussy with a slick, sinful sound and looked up at her like he was proud of himself for being cruel. Her gasp was sharp, a raw sound of frustration, the sudden loss of his tongue a betrayal her entire body mourned. She tried to close her legs, desperate to chase the friction, but his hands were already gripping her thighs again, spreading her wide and holding her still like a man on a mission.

"Oh, you thought you was gettin' that nut already?" he muttered, voice thick with heat and a grin that bordered on wicked. "Nah, baby. That was the appetizer. I ain’t even started on you yet."

Jordan blinked down at him, dazed and breathless, her lips parted in protest, but the words never made it past her throat. He was already crawling up the bed. Slow. Big. Heavy. His presence poured over her like smoke—hot, dark, consuming.

She watched the muscles in his shoulders flex, the tattoos on his chest catching in the low light as he moved over her like a thunderstorm rolling in, slow, powerful, and inevitable. Each step closer had her heart pounding louder, breath catching in her throat. He settled between her legs with a lazy confidence that screamed he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was about to unleash. The thick, leaking head of his dick dragged through the slick mess he’d made, smearing himself in her slick, creamy heat, gliding slow like he was savoring the mess of her. He slapped it against her clit once, twice, making her jolt each time with a gasp.

Then he did it again, slower, grinding the head against that sensitive nub while watching her hips buck. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on hers. "This mine now. All this fuckin’ mess—you did that for me."

Her thighs twitched, breath stuttering.

"Don’t go gettin' shy on me now," he said with a filthy smirk. "I ain't even gotten deep yet."

Jordan opened her mouth again, but nothing came out but a breathy whimper.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, eyes locked on hers like a dare. The head of his dick pressed right against her entrance, hot and unrelenting. "You ever had a man fuck you like he mad at the pussy? 'Cause that’s what this about to be."

Then he pushed in.

One brutal, dragging stroke that split her open and stretched her wide, forcing a gasp from deep in her chest. Her pussy clung to him, fluttering around him with the kind of heat that made him groan low and deep in her ear. They moaned into each other’s mouths, caught between pleasure and disbelief, their lips brushing as they gasped for air. Her back arched hard off the mattress, heels digging into the sheets, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails raking his skin in desperation. Her eyes fluttered, rolling back, her breath catching as her walls adjusted to the sheer size of him. He filled her up inch by inch, deliberate and slow, watching every twitch of her face, every tremble of her thighs, until she was stuffed full and trembling beneath him, whimpering like she couldn’t take anymore—but not telling him to stop.

He didn’t give her a second to adjust.

He pulled back and slammed in again, harder, deeper. Her breath hitched. He did it again. And again. The headboard started to knock. The mattress creaked under them.

"That’s it," he groaned, fucking her like he had a point to prove. "Take that shit. Take all that dick, girl. You gon’ learn tonight."

Every thrust was punishing, fast and unforgiving. His hips slapped against her ass with slick, wet sounds that echoed off the walls. Her tits bounced with every impact. His mouth didn’t stop moving either, vulgar praise and filth spilling out like he couldn’t help himself.

"Pussy grippin' like it owe rent. So wet I could fuckin’ drown in it. Look at you—already tryna cum again. Ain’t even give you permission yet."

He leaned down, grabbed her jaw, and spat right onto her tongue, watching her swallow it with those lust-drunk eyes. His thumb dropped to her clit, circling it with slow, brutal precision that made her whole body seize up.

"Yeah, take that. That’s why you need a man with stamina, baby. Step daddy shit."

Jordan was a mess beneath him, sweaty, writhing, moaning his name. Her legs were locked tight around his waist, her voice breaking as she begged, cursed, and sobbed. Her face twisted in ecstasy and desperation, eyes rolling when he hit that spot just right. Her nails raked red marks down his back.

And Stack? Stack was grinning through every thrust, sweaty, glistening, lost in it. He watched her unravel like it fed something primal in him.

And he picked up the pace, ready to drag orgasm after orgasm from her until she forgot her own damn name.

But then—Jordan shoved at his chest.

He paused, panting, eyes narrowing with heat and confusion. She used the pause to shift, pushing him back with strength that came from pure need. He let her flip the script, sitting back on the edge of the bed with a growl of anticipation.

She climbed into his lap, straddling him, knees planted firm against the mattress, her hands splayed across his chest.

"You think you got all the control?" she said through clenched teeth, breathless but fired up. "Let me show you what this pussy really do."

Stack’s eyes darkened with a flash of heat, his hands gripping her hips as she lined him up and sank down slow. They moaned together, her head falling back, his grip bruising.

"Goddamn," he hissed. 

She rode him deep, both of them sitting up, mouths locked, her body grinding down with hard, fast circles, then slow, teasing lifts. Her hands cradled his face, nails raking his beard, her breath hot as she whispered filth into his mouth.

"You talk all that shit...but look at you now. Quiet. Moanin'. I’m ridin’ this dick like it owe me everything."

He growled low in his chest, smacking her ass once, twice, gripping tight.

Then she leaned in, breath brushing his ear. "You keep talkin’ that step daddy shit like it’s supposed to scare me."

He grinned, teeth flashing, thrusting up into her harder. "Nah, baby. It’s a promise. And you about to see why I’m the whole damn package."

The room was nothing but skin, sweat, and heat, Jordan riding him like she had something to prove, and Stack taking every stroke like it was the only thing keeping him alive. But then his grip shifted. With a growl in his throat, he stood up, lifting her effortlessly in his arms, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. She let out a startled gasp, her arms looping around his neck as he carried her to the full-length mirror on the opposite wall.

He didn’t break rhythm. He pressed her back against the wall beside the mirror, his hands gripping under her thighs, his dick still buried deep inside her as he rocked into her hard enough to make the mirror rattle. “Look,” he grunted, thrusting up into her, their reflections catching every slick, obscene thrust. “Look what I’m doin’ to you.”

She opened her eyes, locking on the mirror, and everything hit at once—the visual, the sound, the sheer force of what he was doing to her. Her mouth dropped open, lips trembling, breath hitching as she caught the raw sight of them in motion. Sweat slicked down his temple and neck, dripping onto her chest as her own body clung to him like she was afraid to let go, like her life depended on staying wrapped around him. Her nipples dragged against the firm muscle of his chest with every bounce, sensitive and aching, her moans louder and more desperate as she watched the curve of his back flex, his hips snap forward, his face twisted in focus and lust. She felt herself climbing, the mirror making her feel every stroke twice, once in her body and once in the reflection. And it pushed her closer, higher, right to the edge of shattering again.

His hand slid between them, two fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles. “See how you takin’ all this dick? How you can’t stop fuckin’ moanin’?  That pussy mine.”

She cried out, head dropping to his shoulder, her voice cracking into a sob of pleasure. She was overwhelmed, consumed, completely wrecked by the sensory overload, his voice rasping filth into her ear, his thick dick driving into her without mercy, the relentless pressure of his fingers stroking her clit with deadly precision. And the mirror—God, the mirror—showing her every inch of him slamming up into her, the flex of his ass, the grip of his hands, the dark hunger in his eyes.

She couldn’t escape the sight of her own mouth wide open in a silent scream, her tits bouncing with each brutal stroke, her body trembling like she was being played like an instrument. The heat, the sweat, the wet sounds of their fucking filled the room like music. It was too much, not enough, and everything all at once. Her body shook against him, and she didn’t know whether to run or beg for more. Her breath stuttered, her hands clutching at his back like lifelines as her climax hovered on the edge, begging to break loose.

They barely made it back to the bed, both of them breathless and drenched, skin flushed and buzzing, hearts still racing from what just went down in front of that mirror. Stack didn’t waste time. He flipped her, rough but careful, handling her like she was his and only his, guiding her down until she was face down, ass up, her body surrendering with practiced ease. The curve of her back arched deep, spine bowed, legs spread wide on instinct, presenting him with everything he wanted.

His eyes dropped, locking on the slick pink between her thighs, glistening and swollen, her pussy fluttering like it was calling him back in. He gave a low whistle and leaned in close, speaking to it like it was alive and had ears. "There you go, lil’ mama. Drippin’ for me again, huh? You missed me? Lookin’ all juicy and needy like that. Don’t worry—I’m ‘bout to give you what you beggin’ for."

He planted a kiss on her ass, then another right on the soaked lips between her legs.

He kneeled on one side of the bed, one knee digging into the mattress for leverage, the other foot planted firm on the floor like a man on a mission to break something. His hands slid up her waist, slow and claiming, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her lower back before dragging her back onto his dick in one long, slick, punishing stroke that made her whole body jolt.

"There she go," he muttered, the words thick with pride and hunger, that damn smirk curling on his lips as he looked down at the mess she already was. "My fuckin’ princess. My nasty-ass momma. Keep archin’ that back like that—shit, I might have to call you royalty."

He pulled back and slammed in deep, hips snapping forward like a whip. The bed jolted under them with a creak loud enough to wake the neighbors. Jordan let out a broken moan, her cheek smashed into the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets like they could anchor her to reality.

His hands gripped her hips like handles, dragging her back into every thrust with brutal precision. Then he bent forward, chest pressed to her back, gripped her hair at the base of her neck and tugged until she gasped, her back arching deeper into him.

"Say it," he growled into her ear, voice all gravel and heat. "Say who this pussy belong to."

"Y-you," she choked out, voice trembling, almost too breathless to speak.

"Louder."

"You, Stack—fuck, it’s yours!"

"Damn right it is," he grunted, picking up the pace like she’d just given him a green light. The slaps of skin-on-skin echoed through the room like applause. Sweat rolled down his spine, the smirk never leaving his face as he watched her take every inch like her body was made to worship his.

"This shit too good," he muttered, one hand slapping her ass before gripping it hard. "Got me actin’ crazy. Got me sayin’ wild shit."

Jordan’s body tensed, her moans climbing higher, turning into screams caught in her throat. Her thighs quivered, her ass rippling with each impact, her pussy clenching around him like a vice, wetness gushing with every brutal stroke. Her walls fluttered and sucked him in deeper, greedy and desperate, and he grunted at the feeling, dragging another curse through his teeth. She came hard, hips jerking as the orgasm took her, face buried in the sheets, hands clawing at the bed like she was trying to hold onto reality. The scream finally tore free, a cracked, raw cry that vibrated in her chest as her whole body convulsed, surrendering to the pleasure he dragged out of her without mercy.

And Stack didn’t stop.

He slowed just enough to give her a breath, then reached back, spat into his palm, and pressed his thumb against her tight, untouched hole. He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, teasing until her hips twitched, then eased it in, inch by inch, while still grinding inside her pussy.

"Take it," he growled. "You takin’ everything else, mama. Let me have it all."

She whimpered, overstimulated and raw, but gave him everything without holding back. He gripped her hips tighter and started fucking her with his thumb still buried deep in her ass, using the added pressure to make her squirm. Each thrust made her clench around him and his thumb, her cries turning into frantic gasps, her body shaking from the dual sensation. Stack watched her with that same wicked smirk, sweat dripping down his chest, eyes wild with lust.

"Takin’ me so damn good, princess," he groaned, thrusting deeper. "Got this pussy huggin’ me like she know who daddy is. Shit, and this tight lil’ ass? You tryna kill me."

He drove into her harder, faster, his rhythm turning feral as her walls fluttered around him, her body trembling beneath the weight of sensation. His thumb pressed deeper in tandem with every brutal stroke, stretching her open while his dick pounded into her soaked heat. Her cries grew frantic, higher, torn from her throat as he chased his release.

He leaned forward, lips brushing her ear, breath ragged. "One more stroke, baby. That’s all it’s gon’ take. Gonna let me paint you?"

And she could only moan, nodding frantically.

That did it.

He pulled out with a deep, guttural snarl, the sound vibrating in his chest as he rose up on the mattress, standing over her with his feet planted wide on either side of her trembling thighs. He gripped his thick, veiny shaft tight, spit-slick and pulsing in his fist, jerking it with slow, furious strokes as he stared down at the sight of her, wrecked, dripping, her ass arched high and trembling like she was still begging for more.

"You ready for this?" he growled down at her, and before she could answer, his climax hit. His body jerked forward slightly, abs flexing, thighs tensing as a low, broken groan crawled from his throat.

"Fuck," he hissed as hot, thick ropes of cum exploded from the tip, striping her ass and lower back like his name was written in white. It splashed across the arch of her spine, dripping down between her cheeks, seeping into the slick mess already there. He stroked himself through it, biting his lip as he watched each shot land, some even hitting the curve of her hip. It was messy, primal, exactly how he liked it.

"Damn," he muttered, eyes blown, still lazily stroking as the last drops spilled from his tip, pearling on her skin. "Look at that. My fuckin’ masterpiece."

They collapsed in silence for a moment, both of them gasping like they’d just run a marathon. Stack grabbed a towel from the edge of the bed, gently wiping her down, still muttering praises under his breath—shit like "perfect ass," "my pretty lil’ problem," and "gon’ fuckin’ marry you if you keep takin’ dick like this."

Then—three knocks at the door.

They both froze.

Stack frowned, tossing the towel aside. He threw on a pair of sweats and stalked toward the door, irritation written all over his face. He cracked it open, just enough to see Donna standing there in tight jeans and a fake smile, holding up his wallet between two fingers.

Her eyes flicked past him, right to the kitchen behind, where Jordan stood barefoot in his oversized T-shirt, curls wild, lips swollen, thighs trembling like they couldn’t hold her up much longer. She froze mid-step, caught like a deer in headlights.

Donna’s face fell.

Before she could say anything, Stack snatched the wallet from her hand, mumbled a quick, "Thanks," and slammed the door in her face without looking back.

Jordan raised her brows, smirking as she leaned against the counter. "If you tryna be step daddy material, you might wanna put your stalkers on a leash."

Stack turned around, his smirk returning tenfold. He walked up to her, slow and deliberate, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her flush against him. "Don’t worry, mama. Only leash I care about is the one I got on you."

She laughed, tossing her head back as his mouth found hers again—hot, messy, addictive. His tongue slid against hers like a promise. His hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, fingers spreading across her ass like he missed it already.

They didn’t make it to round two in bed.

The kitchen counter was already clearing its throat.

And Stack? He was already pulling his pants off again, grinning like he had all night to prove she wasn’t leaving that house walking straight.