#stack x black!reader

There could be a lot said about Elias “Stack” Moore. He was hardheaded, a slick talker, and dangerous. Keen on having all his suits tailored to perfection, he nevver stepped out without the matching tie and pocket square, tie clip, hat—every element meticulously chosen.

Some nights you’d finish your entire night routine, nestling yourself right into the covers ready to finally get some sleep after a long day, just for your husband—who’d probably had an even longer day—to keep you up with his antics.

“How you feel about this one baby?” He asks, stepping out of your shared closet with a silky red tie in his hands.

“Looks like the ten other ties you’ve shown me, Elias,” you huff, trying to keep your smirk down, knowing that’d get him a little frustrated. He took the little details very seriously. And right on schedule, he kisses his teeth and sends a pointed glare in your direction before retreating back into the closet.

“No vision,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“I should lock you and that vision of yours in the damn closet so I can get some sleep,” you grumble, just wishing he’d just get in the bed already.

“You know you can’t just lock all this pimpin’ in the closet, pretty girl,” sending a sly grin with a wink in your direction, he turns out all of the lights, finally putting his outfit planning antics to bed for the night.

Stack even made sure his brother, Smoke—who couldn’t care less about what he was wearing unless the job got done—was put together. Because in Stack’s words, “I have a reputation to uphold,” and “If you got my face you gotta look the part.” He practically considered it his “duty” to stay fly. So naturally, when you two got together, he did the same with you. Despite your countless objections, he was insistent on having some of your dresses custom made, making sure he had the best seamstress in town—who just so happened to be your mother—have a nice pocket square and tie made out of the extra fabric. In fact, Stack was your mama’s best customer—always insisting on damn near doubling whatever she asked for, which was already too low in his opinion. He was never one to turn down an opportunity to remind everyone that you were his, and most importantly, that he was all yours.

You had one more fitting for the dress Elias commissioned your mother to make over Sunday dinner a few weeks back, and he was more than willing to take you. Already heading into town to handle some business with Smoke, your husband brings you along to drop you off at your mother’s shop. But that plan was on the verge of falling apart since he practically held you hostage in the car. Trapping you with “just one more kiss baby” after every kiss. And even then, if you so much as thought about touching a door in his presence, he’d throw a fit. It wasn’t until you reminded your oh so affectionate husband that all the ladies in the shop, including your mother, along with everyone walking down the street could see you two and that his brother would come looking for him if he was late, that he stopped coming in for more kisses. And not to anyone’s surprise, only the threat of his brother got him moving right along.

You blissfully spent the next two hours in your mother’s shop. You’d gotten all the best gossip, taking a mental note of all the details and questions you’d bring back to Stack, who to his credit, always patiently listened and indulged in whatever gossip fell into your lap. You went back and forth with your mama, insisting she could bring the neckline down just a little, huffing and puffing that you were grown and married, until she begrudgingly gave in. You got to recount bits and pieces of your married bliss, the two younger girls in the room hanging onto your every word as if you were reciting the best fairytale ever written. And you even managed to successfully dodge any questions related to why you’d been married for a little over a year now with no baby Moore on the way. You’d consider the day a success.

“And I don’t know why I need a new dress. Elias said it’s for when he takes me dancin’, but we just went out last weekend,” you reason, trying to figure out what he was up to.

“You know that boy love to spoil you Y/n,” one woman pipes up, stopping her work on the garment in front of her to give you a knowing look.

“Maybe he wanna—,“ but before the young girl could even finish her starry-eyed guess the small bell above the front door rings, forcing everyone’s attention in that direction. And speaking of the devil, in walks your husband with a toothpick between his teeth and a smile brighter than all the stars combined.

“Well ain’t you just prettiest thing the Delta done ever seen,” Stack muses, pulling the toothpick from between his teeth and taking in your red clothed form. Your cheeks immediately warm up at the grandeur of his compliments. It didn’t help that you were front and center in the room, standing right on the small platform with the threefold mirror staring right back at you.

Walking further inside, he takes the structured hat off of his head and greets all the women, stopping to properly greet your mother with a hug and kiss on the cheek.

“Ain’t she so pretty,” he adds, stepping right up to your side, taking in the dress that was in his signature crimson, it hugged your body perfectly, the delicate pattern catching the light just right. The unanimous hum of approval from all the ladies only makes your cheeks hotter.

He then lifts your left hand in his and plants a delicate kiss to your jeweled ring finger as he admires you through the mirror in front of you.

“Hell, all of Mississippi ain’t got shit on you,” he breathes out, taking all of you in one more time.

“You better watch that mouth Elias,” Mrs. Bea grumbles from your right side, causing your mother to snicker behind you—already being somewhat used to his potty mouth.

“Now how you doin’ Ms. Bea,” Stack beams sweetly, peeking out from your side to flash the golds in his mouth to the older woman across from him.

“Doin’ fine. Would be better if you stopped all that cussin’,” she shoots back, causing you and everyone in the shop to erupt into laughter.

“Now I can’t make no promises ‘bout that ma’am,” Stack truthfully confesses.

“Plus ya girl right here love it when I cuss real good,” his eyes are locked squarely on yours, a sinful glint blooming behind them. By now, your husband is grinning from ear to ear, the dimple on his left cheek on full display. You were just itching to poke it if that meant he’d stop.

“Boy you better stop, you know this girl gon’ burst into flames,” your mother snickers, placing the last pin in place for alterations. Was everyone out to get you right now?!

“Alright baby, you can go take this off, should be done by the end of the week,” she adds, helping you down from the platform alongside Elias.

“Thanks mama,” you softly breathe out, the corners of your mouth curling up into a gracious smile as you squeeze her hand. She reciprocates with a soft smile and sends you off on your way to go change.

“Need some help Mrs. Moore?” He offers, his voice laced with nothing but sin and a smirk plastered across his face to match. Your head immediately whips in his direction, eyes screaming, begging for him to stop. You step in closer to him, palms planted on his chest, eyes searching his for any hint of sense.

“Can you wait outside for me, I’ll be right out. I promise,” you whisper sweetly, gripping onto his suit lapels, smoothing out the crisp edges. While you were trying to be firm, you couldn’t stop yourself from your senses being pleasantly overwhelmed with the scent of his cologne mixing with the tobacco from his cigarettes.

“Nah, I’m good right here babygirl,” Elias pokes back, enjoying the way he was making you blush.

“If you go wait in the car, I’ll be real sweet to ya when we get home,” you lean up to whisper right in his ear, softly and ever so slightly pressing your body against his, knowing his ultimate weakness was you.

“That’s all you had to say, woman,” your husband beams, lightly wrapping a hand around your forearm and planting a small kiss to your lips before stepping away from you. You send a wink his way before turning towards the changing rooms, Ms. Bea following behind you, giving Stack a pointed look—almost daring him to watch you walk away. And he still did anyway.

“And before you even ask, I already set aside some extra fabric for that tie and pocket square of yours,” your mother informs, cleaning up her workspace.

“You know you my favorite mother-in-law right?” He proudly asks, earning a couple laughs from some of the women in the room and earning an eye roll from your mother.

“Gotta be able to match my favorite lady,” he proudly states, his smile softening at the thought.

“I’m gon’ get out y’all’s way now. The missus wants me gone I suppose,” Stack continues, feigning hurt as he carefully places the hat back on his head.

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” he finishes, giving your mom one final hug and kiss to the cheek and making his way to the door, sending a small wave to the other women in the room.

“That mean I’ll see you at church too, right?” Your mom quips, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t know about all that now,” your husband laughs, shaking his head as he pushes the door open, stepping out into the hot Mississippi air.

You can hear the ladies chatting back and forth as you carefully take off the dress in progress and put your original outfit back on.

“He sure is some trouble, that Elias Moore,” one woman grumbles, eyes looking towards your mother as she gets her own alterations done.

“But ain’t he just so sweet to her?” A much younger seamstress sighs, completely entranced with yours and Elias’ love story.

“That he is,” your mom replies to them both.

“But they a perfect match, that’s for sure,” she continues, looking out of the window to see Stack leaning against the car puffing at a cigarette and a bright image of your smile whenever you’re with him etched into her mind.

And you in the dressing room, hearing all the chatter, were fighting back the widest smile—the kind that hurt a little if you smiled for too long. Because it was true—you and Elias were a perfect match.

The cutting Chicago wind was no match for the heat emanating from the basement beneath the old barbershop. Lena Pearl adjusted her string of fake pearls as she descended the wooden stairs that creaked under her careful steps. Her emerald-green dress – simple enough not to draw attention on the streets, yet elegant enough for the job – reflected the yellowish glow of the strategically placed lamps around the lounge.

"The princess has arrived," murmured Big Joe, the security guard stationed at the inner door. He was one of the few men Lena allowed to speak to her that way.

"Mr. Capone asked for you three times today."

Lena just nodded, without revealing the weight those words carried. Working for Al Capone was like dancing constantly on the edge of a cliff – dangerous, but impossible to walk away from. There was a strange vertigo in that routine, as if she lived suspended between the urge to disappear and the need to keep being seen.

The Green Mill was buzzing despite it being only Tuesday.

The economic crisis that ravaged the country seemed only to intensify people’s thirst. The saxophone wept on the small improvised stage while white men in expensive suits mingled with South Side workers – all equal in their pursuit of the oblivion only forbidden alcohol could provide. It was ironic – the deeper the country sank, the more vibrant that basement became as a refuge for broken lives.

"Bourbon for table three and a double whiskey for the man with the hat in the corner," said Gina, another waitress, hurrying by. "Oh, and watch out for that new guy. Stack, I think. He’s been watching you since you walked in."

Lena discreetly lifted her gaze toward the indicated direction. In the shadows, partially hidden by the haze of cigarette smoke, a Black man in a dark gray suit stared at her without disguising it. There was something in his eyes – not the usual lust or curiosity Lena was used to ignoring. It was as if he recognized her from somewhere impossible, from a life she had never lived.

She looked back. For the first time in a long while, Lena allowed herself to hold someone’s gaze. There was a restlessness sneaking under her skin – recognition, maybe? Or just loneliness? Elias “Stack” Moore wasn’t just a new man at the bar. He was a living question mark, a reminder that she could still be moved by something other than fear or cynicism.

As she served the tables, she felt the weight of that gaze on her back.

For the first time in ages, Lena felt the loneliness she carried like a second skin. Among so many, she was always alone – it was what kept her safe, what kept her alive in a world where women like her served only temporary, limited purposes. And now, there was a man who seemed to see beyond the role she performed every night.

"Miss Pearl." The deep, controlled voice surprised her as she turned from a freshly attended table. Elias was there, too close, too real. "Allow me to introduce myself, Stack."

"I know who you are," she replied, offering neither a hand nor a welcome. "And I’m working, Jack."

"Stack," he corrected, with a restrained smile. "Just wanted to say Mr. Capone speaks very highly of you. Says you’re the only honest person in the entire place."

Lena couldn’t suppress a half-laugh. “Mr. Capone has an interesting concept of honesty.”

“Maybe,” Stack stepped aside, allowing her to pass – a rare gesture of respect in that place. “But I’ve learned to trust his judgment when it comes to people.”

Before Lena could reply, the back door burst open violently. Two men in overcoats entered, followed by a blast of cold wind. One of them – short, round-faced, and wearing a dangerous smile – was unmistakable. Al Capone removed his hat, revealing his scarred face, and his eyes immediately found Lena.

“Pearl!” he called out, ignoring the bows and greetings around him. “Bring me my whiskey. The special one.”

Stack watched the subtle transformation in Lena, how her shoulders adjusted, how her expression closed off even more, how she became both more present and more absent at once. To him, it was like watching a butterfly retreat into its cocoon at the first sign of threat.

As she walked away, Stack felt a strange pang. Who was that woman, really? Why did she seem so profoundly alone, even in a crowded room? And why was he, a man used to staring death in the eyes – so unsettled by a simple waitress?

“Always on time, Mr. Capone,” she replied with rehearsed formality, already heading to the bar to fetch the bottle kept especially for the boss.

Elias watched her go, realizing in that instant what Big Joe had hinted at earlier. There was something about Lena Pearl that set her apart, not just her undeniable beauty or the dignified posture she maintained in a world that constantly tried to shrink her. It was something deeper, a quiet resistance that seemed to say:

“I’m here, but I don’t belong to this place. I never will.”

Lena returned with the special bottle of Scotch whisky – smuggled in recently from Canada, on a shipment that had cost three men their lives the week before, though no one spoke of it. She carried it on a silver tray, along with a single crystal glass. At Capone’s table, the men fell silent as she approached.

“Here it is, sir,” she said, placing the tray on the table and pouring the first drink with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much pleased him.

“Thank you, Pearl.” Capone looked up, his eyes lingering on her face for just a little too long. “I missed you last night.”

In the background, the piano began a melancholic melody, blues notes weaving through muffled conversations and thick smoke. The saxophonist – a middle-aged Black man with eyes that looked like they’d seen hell – joined in with a wail that made the hairs on the back of Lena’s neck stand on end.

“I wasn’t feeling well, sir. My apologies.”

Capone nodded slowly, not believing her, but willing to accept the lie – for now. He looked at her like a man who believes he owns everything he sees. And Stack saw it. He also saw the pride in Lena as she masked her contempt behind flawless professionalism. That was resistance in its purest form. And beauty. And pain.

Capone’s gaze drifted past her shoulder, noticing Stack watching the scene quietly.

“Stack!” Capone called, his voice shifting suddenly to a louder, more expansive tone. “Come meet the Green Mill’s crown jewel.”

Elias hesitated for just a second before approaching the table – but that brief pause seemed to stretch, as if he were deciding whether to dive or retreat from the edge of a cliff. His eyes met Lena’s, and in that brief exchange, there wasn’t just tension – there was memory. Not real, but instinctive. As if they recognized in each other something long forgotten, a shared pain disguised as strength.

“Mr. Capone,” Stack greeted with a nod. “We’ve already met.”

Capone raised his eyebrows, a smile with more teeth than joy. It was the kind of smile that served as a warning.

“Have you?” he asked. “My Pearl’s charmed you too? She has that effect on men.” He laughed, but the sound held no warmth – it was just noise, like ice cracking. “But she’s different. Not like the other girls around here.”

Lena remained still, like a painting of herself. Her face was neutral, expressionless, but her clenched jaw betrayed the tension underneath. Stack noticed and understood. Capone’s words, though wrapped in charm, were fences. A territorial warning.

“I can see that,” Stack replied, his voice even, but not his eyes. His eyes said something else. They said he truly saw Lena. “Some people carry their own light. Even in the dark.”

The saxophone, almost as if conspiring with the moment, let out a sharp note – nearly a wail. The music captured what words couldn’t: That something there was on the verge of breaking.

Capone took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes following Stack with measured interest. “Stack did us a big favor last night,” he said, his tone taking on a more performative flair.

“That issue with the Irish on the North Side? Taken care of.”

Lena’s stomach tightened at the violence in the memory. That morning’s newspaper headline returned like a punch:

Two bodies floating in the river,

Enough bullets to erase names, stories, families.

Now reduced to mere statistics – and silence.

“Stack has a steady hand,” Capone continued, his pride laced with provocation. “Not like those amateurs who make a lot of noise and do little else.”

Elias kept his expression unreadable, but his eyes sought Lena’s – for just a second too long. And she saw it. There was something there – a tremor, perhaps regret, or the shadow of doubt. Not something that could be said out loud. But it was there.

“I just did what needed to be done,” Stack replied. There was weight in his words and emptiness too. Like a man used to digging holes inside himself.

Capone laughed loudly, slapping the table with delight. “Modest! I like that in a man. Makes doing business easier.”

Then he turned to Lena with that look – the one that always reminded her of her place.

“Pearl, bring us another bottle. I want to properly celebrate Mr. Moore’s success.”

"Yes, sir," she repeated. But her thoughts remained tangled in the truth she couldn’t ignore.

Stack was like the others. A killer. A man who took lives for money, for loyalty to Capone, or for any excuse that helped him sleep through the night. And still… he had looked at her as if she were whole – as if both of them might find some kind of salvation in each other’s eyes. That hurt more than any lie. Because Lena didn’t want to feel that. She couldn’t afford to.

The music seemed to change, as if the room itself could hear her thoughts. It grew heavier, more oppressive.The bass throbbed like a broken heart, while the saxophone cried notes that clawed through the air, sharp with regret.

“Pearl?” Capone’s voice pulled her back. “The bottle?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Lena turned toward the storeroom where the special bottles were kept, suddenly suffocated by the heat and smoke in the room. She needed air, space to think. To process the disappointment she wasn’t supposed to feel – Because what had she expected? That in this nest of vipers, one man might be different?

“Stack, go with her,” Capone ordered, voice casual, but his eyes calculating. “Show her which bottles we brought back from the Jefferson Park stash.”

Stack nodded and followed Lena, keeping a respectful distance as they moved through the crowded room. The singer had taken the stage now, her husky voice rising above the instruments, singing a blues made famous by Ma Rainey:

“Trust no man, no further than your eyes can see… Trust no man, no further than your eyes can see… For a man’s got a heart full of jealousy...”

The lyrics hit like a warning, a painful truth that echoed in Lena’s ears as she walked, hyper-aware of Stack’s footsteps behind her. Every syllable a sting. Every note a reminder.

When they finally reached the hallway that led to the storeroom – away from Capone’s watchful eyes and his men – Lena stopped abruptly and turned to face Stack. There was fire in her eyes. But it wasn’t just anger. It was fear too. Of him. Of herself. Of all of it.

“The Irish,” she said, her voice low but laced with something trembling between disgust and necessity. “Was it you?”

Stack glanced around, making sure they were alone before answering. His eyes returned to her with the same intensity as before but now, there was a thread of exhaustion in them.

“Is that what matters to you?” he asked, his voice lower than usual. “Or is it just something to help you keep your distance?”

“Don’t answer a question with another question,” Lena snapped, anger rising in her like a rising tide. “Two families lost their sons yesterday. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Stack stepped closer – still composed, but his eyes betrayed a storm beneath. “Those men tried to kill three of ours last week. They were planning to raid this place tomorrow night.”

“Ours?” Lena let out a bitter laugh, but it came out like a blade. “So you're one of them now.”

“I don’t consider myself anything but what I am,” Stack replied, voice quieter now, as if speaking from the bottom of a well.“A man trying to survive in a city that only gives people like us certain paths.”

The music from the club reached them like a whisper, the blues seeping through the walls like the heartbeat of a wounded creature. It echoed everything they weren’t ready to say.

“And what path is that?” Lena asked, barely breathing.

“Killing for money? Doing the dirty work for men like Capone?”

“And what’s your path, Lena?” Stack shot back, eyes burning. “Pouring drinks for men who look at you like you’re for sale? Smiling while dying a little more inside every night? Pretending you don’t see the bodies being dragged out the back?”

Lena blinked, as if his words were wind throwing dust into open wounds. He was right and that hurt more than any lie.

"At least I don’t pull the trigger," she said, steady on the outside, but wavering within. Because she knew – even without blood on her hands, she was still part of that theater of horror.

"No," Stack murmured, his tone now more sorrowful than accusatory. "You just serve the drink that celebrates after the trigger’s been pulled."

The silence that settled between them was thicker than the stifling air of the corridor. It wasn’t just silence – it was the weight of everything they felt, and everything they wanted to deny.

The music outside seemed to swell, as if the saxophone understood the gravity of that moment. A melodic lament, like a warning that what was being said couldn’t be taken back.

"We need to get that bottle," Lena said finally, her voice slipping back into a practical tone. "Capone’s waiting."

"Capone’s always waiting," Stack muttered, more to himself than to her. "The question is: how long are we going to keep doing what he expects?"

Lena didn’t respond. The question echoed inside her like a prophecy. Then she turned and continued down the hall toward the storage room, her footsteps blending with the muffled rhythm of the blues that followed them like a ghost through the dimly lit corridor.

When they reached the door, Stack reached out and gently took her arm. It wasn’t force – it was an anchor.

"Lena," he said, a vulnerability trembling beneath the surface of his voice, "we’re not as different as you want to believe."

She looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. And what she saw there – honesty, doubt, fear – scared her more than any threat ever could. Because it was real. Because she was on the verge of believing it, too.

"That’s what scares me," she whispered, almost regretfully. And then she opened the door.

Stack followed her inside. He closed the door slowly, like someone closing a confessional. The sound of music became even more muffled.

The pantry was a narrow cubicle, barely larger than a closet. Shelves of worm-eaten wood supported rows of carefully organized bottles–some with legitimate labels, others with homemade seals, all containing the forbidden elixir that kept Chicago running like a drunken clock. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying gently, casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls.

Stack adjusted the red handkerchief in the breast pocket of his pinstripe suit–a touch of color in a man who seemed made of shadows and restraint. His presence there, in the tight space, was like an eclipse; he occupied no more physical space than necessary, but his aura filled the environment. He was the type of man who had learned to make the minimum seem impossible to ignore.

“Third shelf, second row,” he murmured, approaching Lena from behind. It was strange how he seemed to know the place better than she did, each word measured like expensive whiskey–warm, direct, impossible to forget. “The whiskey came from a shipment we received yesterday. Legitimate Scotch. A man died for it.”

“Just one?” Lena asked bitterly, stretching to reach the bottle. The movement drew attention to the scar on her right wrist, a thin, whitish line that extended across her exposed skin. Her sleeveless dress left her arms completely bare, revealing not only the scar but also the delicate strength of her shoulders.

Stack noticed, but didn’t comment. In his world, every scar had a story someone preferred to forget. He knew that kind of silence well.

“I like to know who I’m dealing with,” he said, his voice low like a confessional. “And so do you, right? That’s why you asked about the Irish.”

Lena reached for the bottle, her slender fingers closing around the amber glass. The liquid inside shimmered under the precarious light like melted gold. Gold with the taste of blood.

“I just want to know what kind of man I’m trapped in a pantry with,” she replied, without turning. “Self-preservation.”

Stack almost smiled. There was something in her calculated coldness that fascinated him–perhaps because it sounded exactly like the lies he told himself every morning when he woke up.

“You asked me if I pulled the trigger,” he said, advancing a step. The space was so tight that the heat from his body reached her back. “You want to know if I’m a killer or a man with principles?”

“Is there a difference in this place?” She finally turned, the bottle between them like a fragile barrier.

The proximity was dangerous. There, in the yellowish light, Lena could see the golden grillz that adorned his teeth, gleaming discreetly when he spoke, the way a vein pulsed almost imperceptibly at his temple, the texture of skin marked by years under the merciless sun. Too many human details for a man who should be just another customer, just another danger to avoid.

“In 1917, I enlisted in the 369th Infantry Regiment,” Stack said, his voice suddenly distant, as if he were reciting facts about someone else. “Harlem’s ‘Hellfighters,’ that’s what they called us. I spent 191 days on the front, without rest, without replacement. More than any other American unit.”

Lena wasn’t expecting a confession. Not there, not now. The entire Green Mill was waiting for them to return with a bottle of whiskey, not with war secrets.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with uncomfortable intensity. “I wasn’t a violent man before the war. Afterward… afterward, violence began to make sense. Something about surviving changes the way you see the world.”

The smell of old wood mixed with the subtle aroma of whiskey filled the air between them. Outside, muffled by the thick walls, the piano melody continued, an ironic soundtrack for that confession no one had asked for.

“The Irish were armed,” he continued, something trembling beneath the surface of his words. “They were going to kill everyone at the Miller’s Club on 35th Street. There were women there. Children in the back. Employees’ children.”

Lena felt a shiver run down her spine. Stack wasn’t justifying himself. He was sharing a burden with someone he sensed might understand. The burden of impossible choices.

“I’m no better than you, Lena. I’m no worse. We’re just two survivors caught in Capone’s web, trying not to be devoured.”

The light flickered for a moment, as if the building’s electricity felt the weight of that conversation. In the brief moment of dimness, both their faces seemed more vulnerable, stripped of the masks they wore in the hall.

“Your eyes recognized me when I entered that room,” Stack murmured, his voice now almost a caress. “Why?”

The question caught her off guard. It was true–something about him had awakened an instinctive recognition, like an echo from another life. Was it the way he carried his own pain without ostentation? Or perhaps it was just the loneliness she recognized, so similar to her own?

“I know your type,” Lena replied, trying to rebuild the wall he was, without realizing, tearing down. “Men who think they can save the world, or at least themselves, by working for the devil.”

Stack’s lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile–that rare smile Gina had mentioned, like the sun breaking through at the end of a cloudy day. It lasted only a second, but it was enough to completely transform his austere face, revealing the man behind the legend that Chicago was already building around him.

“And you?” he asked, leaning slightly. The space between them diminished with each breath. The perfectly adjusted tie at his neck seemed a contradiction to the controlled intensity in his eyes. “What do you think you’re saving by working here?”

She could feel the warmth of his breath–whiskey and cigarettes, but also something cleaner, like mint. A man who arrived without making noise, who made entire rooms fall silent by instinct, but who cared about insignificant details like his own breath, even in a world of chaos. This disturbed her more than any threat.

“I’m saving the only thing I have left,” she answered with a honesty that surprised her. “The illusion that I still have a choice.”

Stack raised his hand, hesitant. For an instant, Lena thought he would touch her face – a gesture she wouldn’t know how to receive. But he only adjusted a lock of hair that had escaped her careful hairdo, his finger lightly brushing the skin of her temple.

“We all have choices, Lena,” he said, his deep voice carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. “They’re just not the choices we’d like to have.”

The distant sound of breaking glass in the hall brought them back to reality. The world outside continued its course, indifferent to the secrets exchanged in the small pantry.

“Capone is waiting,” said Lena, resuming her professional posture like someone putting on armor.

Stack nodded, taking a step back. The space between them expanded again, but something had changed in the air. An invisible bridge had been built–fragile, perhaps temporary, but undeniably real.

“You know what the hardest part of the war was?” he asked, as she turned to leave. “It wasn’t the combat, the bodies, not even the constant fear. It was coming home and discovering there was no more home. That the place we return to is never the same as the one we left.”

Lena stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Her back was to him, but Stack could see the tension in her shoulders, the rigidity that betrayed that his words had reached some deep place.

“You know that feeling, don’t you?” he insisted. “Of belonging to a place that no longer exists.”

Lena closed her eyes for a brief moment. Images of a simple house in New Orleans, the smell of jambalaya on the stove, laughter of children playing in the yard. A world that had collapsed so long ago that sometimes it seemed to have been only a particularly vivid dream.

“We’re taking too long,” she said, her firm voice contradicting the tremor in her hands. “And that’s dangerous for both of us.”

When she turned, bottle in hand, her eyes avoided his. Stack understood the retreat. He knew that dance too well–the cautious approach, the mutual recognition, and then the strategic withdrawal. It was the only way to survive when you carried more scars inside than out.

“What do you think Capone is really celebrating with this whiskey?” he asked, deliberately changing the tone of the conversation, offering her the exit she silently requested.

“Something none of us wants to know,” replied Lena, grateful for the change. “Ignorance is sometimes the only protection we have.”

Stack held the door for her – an anachronistic gesture of chivalry that seemed almost comical in that setting of criminality and survival. But Lena noticed how he positioned himself strategically, so that he would be the first to enter the dark corridor. Protection, not courtesy. The difference mattered.

As they walked back through the corridor, the sound of jazz grew progressively, like a tide rising to engulf them. The smell of sweat and cheap perfume mixed with tobacco announced their return to the real world– a world of masks and well-rehearsed roles.

“I know you don’t trust me,” murmured Stack, leaning slightly so that only she could hear. “And you’re right. But if you ever need help…”

“I won’t,” Lena cut in, but without the coldness from before. There was something almost like gratitude in her tone.

When they were about to emerge back into the hall, Stack stopped abruptly. Lena almost collided with his broad back.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

“I saw something in the back of the storage room,” he replied, his voice suddenly tense. “Boxes that shouldn’t be there. With military markings.”

Lena felt a chill. Weapons. They could only be weapons. Capone was planning something bigger than the usual territorial disputes.

“Forget what you saw,” she whispered urgently. “For your own good.”

Stack stared at her, the dim light of the corridor creating shadows on his angular face. “Is that what you do? Forget what you see?”

The question hit Lena like a slap. For a moment, the air between them seemed too heavy to breathe.

“I survive,” she finally responded. “It’s what we all do.”

The music in the hall changed to something more lively, as if mocking the tension between them. A loud, fake laugh from Capone crossed the stuffy air, a timely reminder of what awaited them.

Stack held her arm gently, his warm fingers against her cold skin. “There’s a difference between surviving and living, Lena. At some point, we’ll have to choose.”

Before she could respond, he released her and went ahead, emerging into the golden light of the hall like a man without weight on his shoulders, his face already wearing the mask of efficiency that Capone appreciated.

Lena breathed deeply and followed him, the bottle of whiskey in her hands weighing like lead. As she approached Capone’s table, where Stack had already resumed his place, she realized something disturbing–for the first time in years, she felt fear. Not the familiar fear of Capone, of violence or poverty.

It was the fear of possibilities. The fear that perhaps, just perhaps, there were more paths than she had allowed herself to see.

When she placed the bottle before Capone, her eyes briefly crossed with Stack’s. In that silent look, there was an unspoken promise–or perhaps a warning. His eyes, which normally seemed always distant, trapped in a past he never talked about, were now firmly anchored in the present. In Lena. In possibilities too dangerous to name.

“Stack!” Capone’s voice cut through the air. “Where’s your brother tonight? We need the best for tomorrow’s job.”

“Smoke is taking care of that business in the South Side,” Stack replied, his voice returning to its usual formality. “He’ll be here early tomorrow.”

Lena noticed how Stack transformed near Capone–every movement calculated, every expression a perfect mask. It was as if he stacked layers of protection between his true self and the world. Stack. The man who always had something stacked: money, marked cards, too many secrets.

The future was as uncertain as Chicago on a foggy night. But one thing was certain: that meeting in the pantry had planted a seed of doubt that, like the weeds in the city’s abandoned lots, would be difficult to eradicate.

And as Capone raised his glass in a toast, celebrating some bloody victory, Lena knew that something had changed inside her–something silent, dangerous, and irreversible like the tick-tock of a time bomb hidden in the city’s basements.

Nobody knew for sure where Stack had come from, only that he appeared in Chicago–along with his brother–on a night of heavy rain, with a worn suitcase and a look that said he had left more than memories behind. Now, Lena wondered what else he hid behind that gaze which, for a brief moment in the pantry, had lowered its guard only for her.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

-

Heyyyyyyyy,

There's no tag list, I just had to launch something that was burning in my mind as soon as I left the cinema. Feel free to show your love. Until next time 🥹❤️

thinking about stack shoving his hand down your shorts as soon as he comes home from work and sees you. you in your cute little pajama set, red with a black bow on the waist. he walks into your room to see your smile as soon as he says, "hi, baby" and instead he's the one smiling at the sight of your ass hanging out of your shorts. all he wants to do is turn the lightwash fabric dark with all of your slick.

⭑ definitely has a sleeve tattoo.

⭑ he loooves r&b. definitely has a vinyl player in his house. he listens to sade, d'angelo, musiq soulchild, brandy, lauryn hill. on occasion, he'll put on some j. cole or kendrick. he listens to the type of music where you're like "whatchu know about this?"

⭑ looooves it when you hang onto his arm in public. he be trying to hide his smirk.

⭑ enjoys taking down your braids with you and washing your hair. he finds the intimacy of it so peaceful.

⭑ very intuitive to your needs. he can sense when your mood shifts on a dime.

⭑ he's a person who adores acts of service even though he would never admit it to you. his frown deepens when he gives you a black card of his, and he gets no notification of it being used.

⭑ he realized that you were the one the day he opened up to you frfr. he was talking about his father and other people that have hurt him, and you kissed his chest because "it was the closest i'll get to kissing your heart." that day he knew he wanted to take care of you the same way you adore him forever.

stack. ⭑ he tries out an assortment of nicknames on you to see which ones make you flounder a little, let out a small sigh of contentment. he settles on angel, pretty girl, and the occasional drawl of baby. if you send him a selfie of you that's particularly striking, he'll call you his dime piece.

⭑ loves a brat. ohhhhh, he adores the chase. the eye rolls, the lash flutters, the teasing— it excites him. the more you pout and sass, the wider he grins. he likes it when you yell at him (playfully.) when your glossed lips start to move a bit faster and there's a fire in your eyes.... his dick twitches a little.

⭑ y'all have matching grillz.

⭑ this nigga loves physical affection. always has a hand on you, whether it's your lower back when you're wearing a sundress or your ass in the jeans he bought you. when you two are cuddling at night, he would literally climb into your skin if he could.

⭑ y'all be weird as hell together... when he's in the privacy of his own home, stack's weird as fuck. he lets you "bite" him. the better phrase for it would be lightly sinking your teeth into his bicep, but his ass will narrow his eyes and stare at you as if he didn't shove you off of him. "my girl a freaky lil' shit..."

⭑ he has the music taste of a whore. i'm talking partynextdoor, brent faiyaz, smino, don toliver, dvsn, and miguel. he kisses his teeth whenever you put your playlist on in the car, but you can see him vibing to it regardless. (he will never ask you the artist name himself though.)

⭑ loves to text you the most dirtiest things. i will not be providing further context.

⭑ he looks away when you ask him for something, because if he looks directly at you and your soft, glowy skin, he will in fact cave immediately.