"BURN IT ALL!"

Annie’s breath caught, a smile spreading across her face. 

The box was deep blue, clearly expensive. She opened it with careful fingers.

A necklace. Diamonds arranged in an intricate pattern, delicate but striking. The kind of thing that cost more money than most people saw in months.

“Elijah,” she breathed. “This is—it’s beautiful.” 

“It’s gon’ match your dress.” He picked it up, the gems catching the light. “Here. I got it.”

Annie lifted her chin as he draped the necklace around her throat, his fingers brushing her skin as he worked the clasp.

“There,” he murmured, his hands resting on her shoulders as they both looked at her reflection. “Perfect.”

It was perfect. The stones gleamed against her dark skin, elegant and striking.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Mm.” His hands slid down her arms slowly, then back up. “Speaking of… I heard somethin’ real interesting today.”

Annie’s stomach tightened at his tone. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” His fingers traced along her collarbones, just above the necklace. “Ran into Marcus Webb. He mentioned you was by his shop last week.”

Her heart started pounding. “I—yes, I stopped by—”

“Said you was bartering with him.” Smoke’s voice was casual, but his hands had stilled on her shoulders. 

“Something about your herbal remedies in exchange for… what was it? Some fabric? Some special buttons?”

Annie swallowed hard. “It was just—I wanted some lace. For a project. And Marcus said his wife’s been having trouble sleeping, so I offered to make her some of my chamomile blend in exchang—”

“Now why…” His hands slid back up to her neck, fingers playing along the edge of the necklace. “Why would you need to do that?”

“It was just—”

“When you have a husband,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, his breath warm against her ear, “who can pay for it?”

“I didn’t think—”

“When your husband has given you money for it?” He continued. His fingers traced along her throat, not tight, just… there. 

Present. 

“I give you an allowance every month, don’t I?”

“Yes—”

“You got access to all the accounts,” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and despite everything, Annie felt heat pool in her stomach.

“So explain to me, angel. Why you bartering like some woman whose man can’t provide for her?”

“It wasn’t about the money—” Her voice came out breathier than she intended.

“No?” His hands slid down, fingers trailing along the neckline of her dress, the tops of her breasts. “Then what was it about?”

Annie’s eyes fluttered closed. “I just… I liked the idea of trading. Of using something I made to get something I wanted.”

“Something you made.” His hands continued their slow exploration—along her sides, her waist, back up. “Like those folks are worthy of the things you make with your own two hands.”

“Elijah—”

“You see how that looks?” His mouth was at her neck now, lips brushing her skin between words. “My woman. Trading her goods like she ain’t got a man taking care of her. Like she gotta hustle for fabric and buttons.”

“That’s not—” She gasped as his teeth grazed her pulse point. “That’s not how it was—”

“How was it then?” His hands splayed across her stomach, pulling her back against him. “Explain it to me, sugar.”

“I just wanted—” Her breath hitched as one of his hands slid higher, thumb brushing just below her breast. “I wanted to make something. To trade something I created—”

“Mm.” The sound was almost a growl against her throat. “And how you think that makes me look? When people see my wife trading herbs for notions? What they gon’ think about the kind of man I am?”

“Nobody thinks—”

“Everybody thinks, baby. You know that.” His hand cupped her breast through the fabric of her dress, and she bit back a moan. 

“Everybody watching. Everybody talking. And now they’ll be talking about how Elijah Moore’s woman out there bartering.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Are you?” He turned her around to face him, and the look in his eyes made her thighs clench. “Are you really?”

“Yes—”

“Then tomorrow,” he said, his voice firm despite the heat in his gaze, “we goin’ to Marcus Webb’s shop. Together.”

Annie’s eyes widened. “Elijah—”

“You gon’ cancel whatever deal you got with him. And I’m gon’ pay for whatever it is you wanted.” 

His hand came up to cup her face. “In front of everybody. So they can see that you don’t need to trade nothin’. Because your husband provides.”

“Please,” Annie whispered, mortified. “Don’t—don’t make me do that—”

“Ain’t making you do nothing.” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “Just correcting a misunderstanding. Making sure everybody knows you taken care of.”

“That’s gon’ to be so embarrassing—”

“Good.” He leaned in, kissed her slowly, deeply, until she was breathless. “Maybe the embarrassment will help you remember next time. Will help you think before you go making deals behind my back.”

“I wasn’t—it wasn’t behind your back—”

“You ain’t tell me about it, did you?”

She couldn’t argue with that.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, pulling back. “Ten o’clock. We goin’ together. Wear something nice.”

“Elijah—”

“That’s the end of it, Annie.” But his voice was softer now, and he kissed her forehead. “Now finish getting ready. We got a gala to get to.”

He walked out, and Annie sat there, staring at her reflection.

At the expensive necklace around her throat.

At the desire in her body from his touch.

At the trapped look in her own eyes.

~The Next Day ~

Annie wore a dove gray dress with white gloves, hair pinned up neat, looking every inch the respectable wife of a successful man.

She felt sick the entire drive to Marcus Webb’s shop.

“Smile, angel,” Smoke murmured as they walked up to the door. “You look like you headin’ to a funeral.”

The bell chimed as they entered, and Marcus looked up from behind the counter, his expression shifting when he saw who it was.

“Mr. Moore,” he said, straightening immediately. “Mrs. Moore. Good morning.”

“Morning, Marcus.” Smoke’s hand was firm on Annie’s lower back. “We here about that arrangement my wife made with you.”

Marcus’s eyes flicked to Annie, then back to Smoke. “Oh. Yes, sir. The chamomile blend for some lace and—”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Smoke cut in smoothly. “My wife won’t be trading her remedies. Instead, I’ll be purchasing whatever she needs. Cash.”

“Oh.” Marcus cleared his throat. “Of course, sir. That’s—that’s no problem at all.”

“Good.” Smoke looked at Annie. “Show him what you wanted, baby.”

Annie wanted to die. Two other women were in the shop, pretending to browse but clearly listening to every word. She recognized one of them—Judith Hayes, known for spreading gossip faster than wildfire.

“The ivory lace,” Annie said quietly. “And the pearl buttons.”

“Excellent choices,” Marcus said, moving to get them. 

“Your wife has wonderful taste, Mr. Moore.”

“I know she does.” Smoke’s hand stayed on Annie’s back, possessive and warm. “That’s why I make sure she has access to the best. Don’t I, angel?”

“Yes,” Annie whispered.

Marcus wrapped the items carefully while Smoke pulled out his billfold—thick with cash, more than necessary, making a point.

“How much?”

“Oh, it’s—let me see—” Marcus calculated quickly. “Twelve dollars total.”

Smoke pulled out a twenty, set it on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Sir, that’s too much—”

“For the inconvenience,” Smoke said smoothly. “And to make sure we all understand—my wife don’t need to trade for nothing. Anything she wants, I provide.”

“Yes, sir. It’s very clear.”

“Good.” Smoke picked up the wrapped package, handed it to Annie. “Anything else you need while we’re here, baby?”

Annie shook her head, neck hot.

“Then let’s go.” He nodded to Marcus. “Good doing business with you.”

As they left, Annie could feel Judith’s eyes on her back. Could practically hear the story being formed—how Elijah Moore had come in to pay for his wife’s purchases, how he’d made it clear she was taken care of, how he’d shown everyone who was in charge.

In the car, Smoke’s hand found hers.

“See?” he said quietly. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Annie stared out the window, the package in her lap feeling heavier than it should.

“You understand now?” he continued. “Why I needed to do that?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good girl.” He squeezed her hand. “Next time you want something, you buy it. Because your husband makes sure you got the money for it. You understand?”

“I understand.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. “That’s my girl.”

And Annie sat there, the expensive necklace from last night still around her throat, and wondered why being taken care of felt so much like being owned.

By the time they got home, Smoke’s mood had shifted—satisfied, pleased. He pulled her into the kitchen, pressed her against the counter, kissed her until she was breathless.

“You looked so pretty in that shop,” he murmured against her mouth. “Standing there in that dress, wearing my necklace. Everybody knowing you mine.”

And despite everything—despite the embarrassment, despite the control, despite the way her independence seemed to slip further away every day—Annie’s body responded to him.

Because that was the most confusing part.

She hated what he did.

But she loved him when he did it.

—-

Annie’s fingers twisted in her lap uselessly. As they always did when Smoke fed her.

“What’d you get into today, doll?”

“Spent some time working on my cinnamon rolls.”

His mouth ticked up.

“You likin’ that good cinnamon I got you then?”

She smiled and hit him on his chest.

“It’s real nice. Smells—different than the normal one.”

“Mhm. I’ll have to keep picking it up for you then.” As if cinnamon from across the seas was plenty. Like flour or sugar.

“Another expensive thing you’ll keep spoiling me with.” She said with disapproval. 

“You deserve it. You worth every penny and more.” He had that look in his eyes. The one that scared Annie a bit. That deep devotion.

Then he held the fork to her lips once more.

Annie had long given up fighting Smoke’s obsessive tendencies. He was always… intense. She knew that. But the longer they stayed together, the worse it got. 

Yet still she tried. 

“Was thinking… of goin’ to the beach with the girls this weekend.”

She watched him grip the fork tighter.

“No.”

“Elijah you —“

“I said no.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.” She deadpanned. 

“Don’t need to. I look like the type of man that lets his woman run around in public half naked?”

“Smoke, it’s just a bathing suit—”

“Exactly.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “And every man on that beach gon’ be looking at you in it.”

“They not gonna—”

“Annie.” He set the fork down, turned to face her fully. 

“You think I’m stupid? You know how men think. You know what they see when they look at you.”

Her stomach twisted. “So I’m just supposed to stay here? Never go anywhere?”

“You can go plenty of places. Just not half-dressed in front of strangers.”

“Pearl and them are going—”

“Pearl and them ain’t my concern. You are.”

“This ain’t fair.”

“Life ain’t fair, angel.” He picked up the fork again, held it to her lips. “Eat.”

She turned her head away. “I’m not hungry anymore.” Crossing her arms. 

His hand caught her chin—not rough, but firm. Turned her face back to him.

“Don’t be childish,” he said quietly. “You need to eat.”

“I said I’m not—”

“And I said eat.” His thumb stroked her jaw, gentle despite the steel in his voice. “I ain’t gon’ ask again.”

Annie’s eyes filled with tears, but she opened her mouth.

He fed her the bite, watching her chew, his expression softening slightly.

“There you are,” he murmured. “See? That ain’t so hard.”

The humiliation burned in her chest. 

Later that night, Annie tried again.

“What if we compromised?” she said as they got ready for bed. “What if I wore something more… modest? A swimming dress instead of—”

Smoke didn’t even look up from unbuttoning his shirt. “We already talked about this.”

“No, you talked. I ain’t get to—”

“Because there ain’t nothing more to discuss.” He turned to her now, and something in his expression made her step back. 

“You think I’m bein’ unreasonable? You think I’m too controlling?”

“Yes.” She hissed. 

“You rather be with a man that don’t give a damn?”

“I ain’t say that—”

“You ain’t have to.” He moved closer, and Annie’s back hit the vanity. “But let me explain something to you, angel. Every day, I make sure you safe, make sure you provided for, make sure nobody even thinks about disrespecting you.”

His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek.

“And you wanna go parade around in front of strangers? In a bathing suit? Where I can’t protect you? Where any man can look at you, think about you, want you?”

“Smoke, it’s not like that—”

“It’s exactly like that.” His voice was soft now, almost tender. “And the fact that you don’t see it? That’s exactly why I gotta be strict with you. Because you too sweet, too trusting. You don’t understand how men are. How the world is...”

“I understand—”

“No, baby, you don’t.” He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “But that’s alright. That’s what I’m here for. To understand for both of us. To keep you safe even when you don’t realize you need keeping safe.”

Annie’s throat was tight, eyes shinning with tears. “I just wanted one day. One day with my friends.”

“And I gave you an alternative.” His hands moved to her shoulders, rubbing gently. “I already told you. Why they can’t come here? I got you a creek on the property. It’s private. Quiet. And it’s safe.”

“Smoke, it ain’t the same!”

“It’s gon’ have to be the same.” His voice hardened. “You ain’t goin’ to no public beach ass naked.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can and I am.” He pulled back, started finishing unbuttoning his shirt. “Discussion’s over. You wanna invite your friends here for a swim day, that’s fine. But you ain’t goin’ out there half-dressed where I can’t see you.”

“So I’m a prisoner now?”

He turned sharply, and the look on his face made her flinch.

“A prisoner?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “A prisoner. In a house I built for you? Wearing clothes I bought you? Eating food I provide? That’s what you think this is?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, you said it. So let’s talk about it.” He moved closer, and Annie pressed back against the vanity. “A prisoner don’t got her own house. Don’t got her own bank account with money in it every month. Don’t got a man who worships the ground she walks on and would kill for her without thinking twice.”

“Smoke, please—”

“A prisoner don’t got choices, Annie. But you got choices. You can invite your friends here, swim in private, be safe. Or you can pout about not getting your way like a child.”

Tears spilled over. “Stop it. Please.” 

His expression shifted immediately, softening. “Don’t cry.”

“Then stop making me cry!” She snapped annoyed at herself for showing weakness. 

“Then stop workin’ my nerves!” His voice rose, and she sobbed harder. He ran a hand over his face, exhaled hard.

“Ion like making you cry, angel. You know that.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” She whispered. 

“Why you keep pushin’?”He cupped her face in both hands, made her look at him. “You keep trying to do things that ain’t safe, Then I try to protect you, you act like I’m the villain.”

“You are smothering me,” she whispered.

Something flickered across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger. Then it was gone, replaced by that calm, controlled expression.

“I’m goin’ to bed, Annie.”

“Smoke—”

“I’m goin’ to bed.” He stepped back, turned away. “I’ll sleeping in my study tonight. Wouldn’t want to… smother.”

He walked out, and Annie was left standing there, crying in their bedroom, feeling like she’d done something wrong even though she wasn’t sure what.

Chapter 2 >>> Coming Soon. _________

A/N This is part 1 of 3 chapters. You know me, working and posting everything but what I'm supposed to be posting. I do want to say, I promise, I will write every submission, nudge or recommendation ya'll send my way. It may take me a little time, but I'll defintely do them. I don't take ya'll for granted. Thank you for your patience with me <3 If you want to know how this story will go check out the original post HERE. ___

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He didn’t need to know what was said.

Didn’t even need to know who said it.

Smoke drove with both hands on the wheel, grip steady on the leather. The door of the Colored schoolhouse swung open in its hinges before fitting into its frame, and he walked through the threshold with a quiet determination. He wasn’t there to argue. He was there to be clear; to shut an old door he never meant to leave cracked open in the first place.

The kids were long gone. All that remained was the ghost of their feet shuffling against the floorboards and the echo of high-pitched laughter. And her. She sat at the desk at the front of the classroom with a stack of papers and a thick red pencil, making straight lines across words with clean, even strokes, and just the right amount of pressure. 

Sunlight cut across the empty desks, catching the chalk dust that still hovered in the air. The classroom was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. History, resentment, and two different versions of the truth hung between the two of them like a physical weight that made the room feel smaller. It pressed against the walls and the lone window on the side of the building like it could feel the tension brewing and wanted out.

Smoke cleared his throat. 

She scoffed. A quiet, annoyed expulsion of breath. Then she looked up, and when her eyes met his they held his gaze, then went up and down his form slowly. Canvassing, maybe. Taking in the seriousness in his posture. Taking notice of the cold calm he carried.

“Demetria.” Smoke’s voice was cold too, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. It usually was. But this kind of cold was more resolve than anything. 

“Smoke,” she said back. 

“We need to talk.”

“Well, hello to you too,” she said sharply.

“Hey,” he said. “We need to talk,” he repeated, tone flat.

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “About?” she asked with a challenge in her tone.

“Us.”

The word made her lean forward on her elbows. 

“I just came to say we’re done. For good this time,” he said firmly. He opened his mouth, then closed it, like he had something more to say but decided against it. 

“That’s it?” The look on her face went from amusement to surprise to something else in the span of a few seconds. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry it took so long for me to say out loud. I should have said it sooner. That’s on me. But we been done a while. You know that.”

“You always did think silence was kinder than the truth,” she fired back. 

Smoke hung his head. Because she wasn’t wrong. Her anger, he could take on the chest. He at least owed her that. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s been said or who you been sayin’ it to,” he started. “But whatever’s been said, I’m here to put it to rest.” 

Something flashed across her face and left just as quickly. Recognition. And the sinking feeling of dread. “You must got somebody you care about a whole lot, to come all the way over here just so you could say it plain,” she said. “She know about me?” 

“I’m sayin’ it now,” he said, voice low. 

“Does she know about me?” She asked again. A little louder this time.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. 

“So there is somebody else,” she said carefully.

Smoke didn’t answer. 

She studied his face for anything— regret, sadness, anything. She closed her eyes to keep her composure and shook her head like it would somehow make the sting go away. It didn’t. But she put her dignity back on anyway.

“Well,” she said, almost breathless. “There it is.”

Smoke nodded once. Demetria looked at him like she couldn’t recognize the shape of the man standing in front of her anymore, then she went back to her papers with the same measured carefulness she always used. The force of her pen made the paper crackle on the desk. Her corrections felt more personal now. Like she was trying to cross him out of her life one red line at a time.

“You take care.”

“Or not,” she snapped.

Smoke nodded like he accepted the ire, then he turned towards the entrance. He walked into the cool Mississippi air outside and away from the tension that sat between them, ready to snap like a rubber band pulled taut. And when he closed the door to the schoolhouse behind him, he made sure it shut all the way.

“Mwen kontan.” 

She said it in such a sultry, whispery tone. Not on purpose, that’s just how Annie’s voice sounded to Smoke. Alluring and fragrant, like the scent of the magnolia blossoms scattered around them on the ground. 

It was an early Sunday evening in November. The magnolia tree that stood tall on the side of the boarding house was changing. Its delicate, white petals drifted loose from the branches overhead and fell soft into the yard like the last bit of summer was shedding itself, piece by piece.

They sat on her patchwork quilt under the remaining shade of the tree. Annie had her knees tucked beneath her, her new sketchbook open on her lap. Smoke was across from her, one knee up, forearm casually resting over it. His eyes were anything but casual, narrowed with a fierce concentration. A lantern sat close by the edge of the quilt. Its flame burned low and steady, painting gold shadows over the pages of Annie’s sketchbook and the tips of her fingers.

“Hold on,” Smoke fussed. “You gotta say it slower.” 

Annie chuckled. “Mweh con-tan,” she sounded out slowly.

Smoke was staring at her lips, trying to mimic the way she formed the words when she spoke. She was amused by his focus. Impressed. He had it in everything he did. That bitter resolve. 

“What that mean?” 

“It means I’m happy.”

“Mwen-kun-tin,” he tried.

Annie winced. “Close, but…just try it again,” she urged.

“No,” Smoke said flatly.

“Why not?”

“I said it just how you said it.”

“No,” Annie shook her head. “You didn’t.” 

Smoke’s mouth twitched. He looked away before it could fully turn into a smile. “Sounded close enough to me,” he grumbled. 

“Mweh con-tan,” she said slower.

“Mwen kun-tan,” he repeated.

Annie bit the inside of her cheek. He was doing it on purpose, with his stubborn self. 

“You laughin’ at me?” Smoke asked bitterly.

“No.”

“Yeah…you are.”

“Am not.”

A magnolia petal landed on the page. Smoke picked it up without thinking, turned it once in his hand, then placed it on the quilt like he was afraid to hold it too long for fear he’d crush it in his hands. 

“Say it again.”

“You’re enjoyin’ this too much,” he huffed.

“And you bein’ difficult on purpose.”

“Mm.”

“Mm,” she said louder. She laughed softly and shaded something with her pencil near the corner of the page. It was a sketch of the shape of his mouth. Just the corner and how it curved around the sound he kept getting wrong. How he’d pushed a nasal sound outward instead of dropping it down.

Smoke shifted closer by a fraction, looking down to the sketchbook curiously. “Can I see?”

Her fingers tightened around it out of instinct. 

“You ain’t got to.”

The gentleness in his words made her look up. Made her grip loosen. She turned the sketchbook towards him, setting it between them. On the page wasn’t just one drawing. There were several spread across the paper. The curve of a leaf. The twist of a root. The slope of a hand pouring tea. Felix curled up on the porch. Halfway tucked in the pages was a loose leaf drawing of the inside of a small house. Smoke stared at that one the longest. He knew instantly what it was. He’d seen her sketch of the outside of her shop before. But this one was different.  She pulled it out from where it was wedged and placed it in her lap. 

Bundles hanging from the ceiling on one side. 

A long counter in front. 

A curtain that led to other rooms. 

Small jars lined up neatly on shelves. 

He took in every section, every detail. 

“Your shop,” he said finally.

“One day,” Annie replied shyly. 

“One day, when?” 

Annie looked up. “When I got enough saved. When I know enough,” she listed off. “When Aunt Della thinks I’m ready. When…” she huffed out a breath softly. “When the world lets me, I guess.”

Smoke’s jaw worked. 

“It wouldn’t just be remedies,” she said, rushing to fill the quiet before it got too loud. “I’d sell teas, salves, tonics, food, too. It wouldn’t just be a shop,” she continued, searching for words that would land. “It’d be somewhere people can come when they got things they ain’t ready to say out loud, but they ready to stop lettin’ it hurt them.” 

Smoke kept quiet beside her. 

Annie took a deep breath. “My grandma had an apothecary. Nothin’ fancy,” she said softly. “Just a place where people came in whisperin’ and left breathin’ easier.”

Smoke watched her. Her eyes, the way they softened around certain words. Her hands, and how they fidgeted on the edge of the paper. He looked at the page again while she ran her finger lightly over the built-in shelves she drew. 

“I want that. Somethin’ with my name on it. Somethin’ I know how to keep.” 

He looked at her again. “You will,” he said firmly. 

The certainty in his voice made her go still. “You sound sure.”

“I am.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

Annie tucked the drawing away and closed her sketchbook halfway, her hand smoothing over its cover. “You know some of me.”

Smoke nodded once. “I know enough.”

Silence settled between them again. Easy. Annie watched him for a moment, trying to read what had changed in his face. He looked the same mostly. Quiet. Steady. Shoulders still carrying that heaviness. But his eyes looked different.

He sat up straight and faced her. “Annie.” He said her name and she felt her heart thump hard in her chest. She couldn’t figure out why. He’d said her name a million times, but he’d never said it quite like this.

“Yes?” she replied. 

“I talked to your aunt.”

“About what?”

“You.”

The night moved around them. Crickets chirping in the trees, distant voices from a house down the street. Dogs barking, chickens roosting. It all seemed to quiet around this very moment.

“I told her I wanna court you. Proper.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“And now?” she asked quietly.

“Now I’m comin’ to you.” 

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes piercing. “I ain’t askin’ you for nothin’ you don’t wanna give,” he said. “And I ain’t askin’ you to stop what you been showin’ me.” 

Annie’s throat tightened. “That matter to you?”

Smoke’s eyes moved to the sketchbook, then back to her. “It matters to you,” he said plainly. “It matters to me.”

“I thought you ain’t believe in all that stuff,” she said. “Hoodoo.” 

“I don’t.” He shrugged. “I believe in you.” 

Annie drew in a small breath, tilting her chin up a little. “What does courtin’ mean to you?”

Smoke took his time to answer.  

“It means I come correct. I don’t sneak around corners with you. Don’t have folks guessin’ what you mean to me.  It means if I spend time with you, it’s cause I’m serious about you.” 

“You are?” 

“I am.”

She looked at him— a silent urge to keep talking, like he wasn’t already undoing her under this magnolia tree.

“I ain’t sayin’ I got everything figured out. I don’t. I got work that ain’t clean. I got Stack.” His mouth tightened faintly. “And I got things I still need to make right before I can ask for more than this.”

He sighed. “But I know what I mean,” he said. “And I don’t mean to waste your time.” 

Annie looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. This man, whose words always held weight, had looked closely at her dreams sketched in graphite and smudged lines and simply said —he wanted to be part of them. 

She looked back at him. “If I say yes,” she said slowly. “I want my shop. I want my work. I want…I wanna be somebody outside of who I’m with.” 

“You already are,” he said, voice low.

Annie blinked.

His voice stayed low. “I ain’t askin’ to make you smaller.”

Annie’s breath caught. “Then what you askin’?”

He paused for a moment, then— “To walk beside you while you grow.” 

The silence that sat between them wasn’t empty. It was so full that Annie had to look away just so she could breathe. 

That’s when she felt it.

A nervous laugh.

It rose up in her throat— not because anything was funny, but because the weight of this moment was so heavy, she had to lighten it somehow before it swallowed her whole. She tried to suppress it, but the corners of her mouth had already turned up.

“You laughin’ at me?”

He noticed. Of course he did.

“No!”

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

“You a bad liar.”

“I'm not lyin'...you just...makin’ me nervous right now,” she admitted softly.

His eyes softened. “You can take your time to think about it.”

Annie shook her head immediately. “No,” she said. “I don’t need time,” she assured him. 

His eyes got serious again.

“I’ll let you court me.”

Something moved across his face. Not quite a smile. Something much more dangerous to her composure. “Yeah?”

Annie’s lips curved into a fully encompassing smile that spread gently across her face. “Yeah.” 

He held out his hand for her. A question. She put her hand in his and they laced their fingers together carefully, palms warm and steady against each other. The answer.

The tree shed another petal. It drifted down between them and landed on their intertwined hands. They didn’t move it. The lantern burned low. They sat like that beneath the magnolia tree as the last of summer continued to fall around them.

The next morning was a blur. Between the demands of empty stomachs and the nervous tremor of her own hands, a nagging anxiety sat on her shoulders and butterflies fluttered violently in the pit of her belly. A sigh of relief left her lips as the last lodger headed out the door, leaving her and Aunt Della to at least be able to clean up the kitchen and dining room in a tempered silence. 

The wind chimes on the porch fluttered in the breeze, whistling a throaty, breathless jingle that did nothing to calm her nerves. Aunt Della glanced her way a few times, but said nothing. Even Felix tried to soothe her, his purrs doing little to bring her any real solace. 

Annie shoved a biscuit in her mouth to give herself something to do. The warm fluffiness filled her mouth and the butter satisfied her tastebuds with its rich, melty goodness. She sighed then took another bite, closing her eyes as the sustenance moved through her body.

Maybe she was just hungry. And maybe her anxiousness had nothing to do with him.

She moved quicker, stacking, sweeping, wiping, scraping until the house smelled like eucalyptus, lavender, and bleach.

Annie collapsed on the couch in the front room, but not from exhaustion. From adrenaline that had nowhere else to go. Her heart beat rapidly and she fingered her ileke beads like that could somehow calm it. Morning light cut warm and light through the front windows like a balm on her skin. She tilted her head back and let her eyes close, basking in the quiet after the chaos of breakfast. 

The scent of tobacco, peppermint, and bay rum floated through the screen door. Slowly—like the rich, layered smells that arrive in a kitchen when meat, butter and herbs fold into each other on the stove.

Then the screen door cracked open and Smoke stepped through. 

Annie’s mouth went dry.

The first thing she noticed was the way he darkened the doorway once he stepped past the threshold. He was tall, well over six feet. Large and imposing frame, and even though she was a tall woman herself, it felt like he towered over her. The muscles on his arms and shoulders filled out every inch of his white collared shirt, pressing against the starched fabric with a powerful, restrained strength. His suspenders held up trousers that sat comfortably around his hips. His boots were heavy on his feet even though his steps were light. It was a subtle contradiction that made her tongue feel like cotton in her mouth. 

The second thing she noticed were the flowers in his hand. Two separate arrangements— one a mixture of white, cream, and greenery. The other was a mixture of vivid colors that looked like a rainbow painted the petals. Each was wrapped in brown paper and tied gently with twine.

Smoke removed his hat and turned to see Annie spread lazily across the couch. Apron halfway untied, scarf to the side, legs hanging off the edge, dress tracing the curve of her hips. She looked beautiful with her feet dangling in the air, bent nickel hanging loosely off a string around her left ankle, shoulders relaxed like she didn’t have a care in the world. He liked that look. Wanted to see more of it.

He was doing that staring thing again, Annie thought to herself. The way his eyes slowly swept up and down her body gave her goosebumps, and she suddenly became very aware of how she was presenting. Worn dress, apron smudged with stains, hair fuzzy in her cornrows, barefoot and lounging on the couch. But the heat in his eyes turned a casual glance-over into a smoldering glare that pinned her in place. The paper around the bouquets crinkled under his grasp as he adjusted them in his hand. When his voice finally broke the loaded silence that had overtaken the front room of the boarding house, it was rough with something that made her spine snap straight. Her legs followed, then her hands, dragging her upwards until she was sitting up completely.

“Good mornin’.” 

Annie smiled up at him, a sight that beamed brighter than the morning sun. “Good mornin’.”

Smoke took a step closer, then two, and with one hand grabbed the white bouquet out of his other and extended them towards Annie. “For you.”

“Thank you,” she said, inhaling their scent. 

Smoke nodded once, then looked around the room. “Where’s your aunt?”

“Somewhere out back,” she said breathily, taking another sniff of the flowers. 

“These for her.”

“Awww, ain’t you sweet?”

“Don’t tell nobody,” he said in that low register that made her skin tingle, with a timbre that told her he wasn’t joking even though the corner of his mouth lifted when he said it. 

He proceeded into the kitchen then out the back door, leaving Annie with her own thoughts and the absence of…him. His presence stayed in the room even though he was gone, and it wasn’t just because the smell of his cologne lingered behind. Her head tilted when she realized what day it was. Monday. What was he doing here?

“What we doin’ today?” He asked as he stepped back into her space.

Annie’s breath stuttered.

Aunt Della listened in from the kitchen, looking entirely pleased with herself. 

Annie cleared her throat and shut her mouth that had opened at Smoke’s words. Not because she wasn’t used to him being forward. But because the look in his eye told her he was dead serious when he asked her that question.

“I gotta stop by Chow’s,” she started, to which he acknowledged with a nod. “Then the drugstore,” she continued. She listed things off until she stopped to look down at what she needed to do before anything else. “I gotta wash up first. Change.” 

“I’ma be right here,” he assured her, sinking deep into the couch, putting his head back, and spreading his legs. 

Annie took one more look at him and darted up the stairs.

Thirty minutes later she was in front of the mirror, blouse tucked into a halfway-fastened skirt. Her hair was taken down from her cornrows, oiled, greased, parted down the middle, and pulled back. 

Except one piece that just wouldn’t lay flat. 

She brushed it once, then brushed it again. It refused to lay right, refused to stay right. Her hairbrush clattered on the dresser where she dropped it. 

“What am I doing?” she asked like the walls could talk back. 

She gripped the edge of the dresser, then touched the open edge of her blouse still unbuttoned at the throat. Her fingers rested there a moment before she remembered to button it. 

Her fingers weren’t steady. She cursed under her breath, buttoning it with trembling hands. She smoothed the front down, turning to the side to make sure it was tucked all the way in. 

Then she picked up her hairbrush again. Went over the same spot. Got the same result. 

She threw her hairbrush down with frustration, flustered. 

All of a sudden she felt very alone. More alone than she’d felt since she got to Clarksdale. She tried to blink away the tears but one escaped her eye. It rolled down her cheek, dropping onto her dresser. 

She missed her friends from home. 

She missed her family.  

She didn't expect this. Didn’t expect him. 

And now she was standing in the middle of something new surrounded by people who barely knew her. No mama who always knew what to say. No brothers teasing. No daddy who would pretend it wasn’t making him emotional seeing his little girl stepping into her role as a woman.

Maybe it was a sign. 

She didn’t know what she was doing. She couldn’t even get her hair right without falling apart.

What did she know about being courted?

The word felt strange in her throat. New. Like a dress made out of fine fabric that she hadn’t yet learned how to move in. Like something she wanted to be careful with, to not wrinkle. Something she wanted to spin in front of the mirror just to see how it caught the light. 

And maybe, just maybe….if it fit just right, she could keep it.

Her stomach fluttered. 

She didn’t know what came after she said yes.

She’d heard stories from her friends back home, but she was never in the thick of it to look around and see how it felt. 

She didn’t know how close she was supposed to stand beside him, what folks would hear if he said her name too soft. Didn’t know if holding his hand would feel natural or if she’d overthink every step. She didn’t know what part of herself was meant to stay guarded and what part was allowed to lean.

But between the frustration, and the fear, and the homesickness that had a vice grip on her nerves…she still wanted to try.

That was the part that kept resurfacing.

She wanted it. Wanted him beside her. Wanted to be beside him. And she wanted folks to see.

The truth of it rose up so plainly, it didn’t leave room for her to argue with herself about it.

She wanted to know what Smoke looked like when he didn’t hold himself back so much. Wanted to learn what his quiet felt like when it belonged to her. Wanted to see if walking beside him in the daylight felt like sitting beside him under the magnolia tree in the backyard.

She rubbed her ileke beads and let the touch ground her. Then she put some oil on her fingers, the special blend her mama made that halfway leaked out in her trunk, and brushed the worrisome part of her hair the way her mama always did when she got too frustrated to do it herself. Rub, smooth, brush, set. 

She looked in the small, age-spotted mirror again, and her mouth curved up into a small, winsome smile.

Maybe she didn't know what she was doing.

But maybe the only thing she needed to do today was walk downstairs, meet his eyes, and take it one step at a time.

The floorboards upstairs groaned and Smoke’s head snapped towards the sound. He rose slowly from his spot on the couch, keeping his eyes trained on Annie as she walked down the stairs with a hand on the banister. 

His gaze moved over her. 

She wore a deep mustard-colored blouse tucked into a navy blue ankle-length skirt and high button leather boots. Her purse was slung over her shoulder and her skin still looked warm from her bath.

“You look nice.” 

“Thank you.”

“Real nice.”

Annie’s cheeks warmed. 

“Ready?” he asked.

Annie smiled once she got to the bottom of the staircase. “I’m ready.” 

Aunt Della stood in the threshold between the kitchen and the front room, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes went from Smoke to Annie and back. “Y’all don’t have too much fun out there,” she smirked. “And watch my baby,” she said to Smoke.

“I will,” Smoke said as he put his hat back. He opened the door for Annie and stepped back to turn to Aunt Della. “Always.” 

Aunt Della shook her head playfully and turned back to the kitchen, arms still folded but a grin on her lips. 

The ride over to Fourth Street was quick—just two short blocks. People in front of Chow’s Grocery were few and far between, but the sidewalk was far from empty. Outside, business moved as usual. A vendor restocked produce while a worker inspected their freshness. A few customers left the store with items wrapped tightly in brown paper while their children skipped alongside them with peppermint sticks and molasses chews in hand. Wagons trekked by slowly with mounds of cotton in the back, and the constant hammering of picks chipping ice blocks apart echoed in the street.

Smoke rounded the front of his truck to open the door for Annie. He held up a hand for her to balance herself on and took care to make sure she was steady once she stepped out. He followed behind her as they walked to the entrance, his hand on the small of her back as he held the door for her.

The inside held the sweet pungency of chicory in burlap sacks being hauled from the back and piled high by the windows. Charles and Bo Chow stood behind the front counter, Charles weighing something on the scale while Bo wrote an entry in the ledger. A smirk spread across Bo’s face when he saw Smoke and Annie at the door and clocked their closeness. He nodded at Smoke, then slid his eyes over to Annie and waved at her, drawn by the warmth that always seemed to radiate off her. 

“Baby,” Smoke started, exchanging a look with Bo. “I need to go holler at Bo real quick.”

“Okay,” Annie responded in that sweet, syrupy Louisiana drawl of hers.

She drifted across the store looking at her list, then made her way down one of the aisles in search of something else entirely. Smoke watched her go, watched her disappear, replayed it in his head. Then he turned to Bo. He was wiping down a display as Charles rang up a customer at the till.

“How you been, man?” Bo asked.

“Good, good,” Smoke said. He greeted him with a firm handshake, then pulled back to get a good look at him. “Damn, fatherhood huh?”

“I look that bad?”

“You look like shit.”

Bo laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling with it. He looked tired, but content in a way that made his eyes twinkle. Like he was at peace despite it all. “Tired as hell. But I’m happy,” he nodded. “We happy.” 

“I’m happy for you, Bo.”

“Thanks man,” Bo replied, shaking Smoke’s shoulder. His eyes flicked over the store. “Della’s girl…that’s you?”

“You mean Annie,” Smoke corrected. 

Surprise overtook Bo’s face and he raised an eyebrow. A question. “Yeah, I mean Annie.”

“Yeah,” he answered. Firm. “She mine.”

Bo clapped Smoke on the shoulder, looking at him with a sense of shock and awe. “Oh shit,” he exclaimed, putting a fist in front of his mouth. “Look at you, fixin’ to be in my shoes soon, Smoke.”

Smoke shot him a look as he walked away, but something in him got quiet when the thought crossed his mind. Then it got warm.

Annie, a mother.

Him. 

A father.

He shook the thought away just as quickly when they became poisoned by thoughts of his own father. 

That felt like a metaphor for his own life— innocence being corrupted by its own blood.

The thought of being a father after putting his own in the ground felt devastatingly ironic, but hope flickered somewhere that maybe it could rewrite whatever went wrong with his own.

He shook his head and kept walking through the store, his legs carrying him past the aisles in slow, measured steps. He didn’t rush. He knew exactly where Annie was. 

Annie was still reeling. 

From him calling her baby. From the way he said it with that deep Mississippi drawl. Her cheeks were warm, skin flushed, and all of a sudden, everything felt hot despite the store being cool.

She stood in the aisle, humming under her breath, half bent over as she flipped through a wire basket on a shelf filled with seed packets. 

“Why she want this when we got it in the backyard?” She fussed. 

She shook her head, plucked the seed packet from the stack, and stood up. They dropped into her shopping basket as she walked further down the aisle. She picked up the small bag of feed and saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye. She ignored it and went about her business crossing items off her list when she heard it.

“Hey stranger.”

She turned around.

Reverend Carter stepped around the corner.

Red button up, brown tweed waistcoat, gold pocket watch hanging. And that silver signet ring that he rubbed with the pad of his thumb. She looked down in his shopping basket and her brows knit at the contents inside. 

Her lips tightened into a line, that same odd sense of familiarity crept up on her again and made her insides tumble with unease. 

“Hey.” She adjusted the strap of her purse around her shoulder.

A grin spread across his face. “How you been?”

“Good,” she nodded. “You?”

Carter nodded like he was choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been doin’ just fine,” he said slowly.

Annie shifted her weight. “So you’re back?”

“For a little.” 

She blinked. “Where you speakin’ at this time?”

“Church off Yazoo,” he said quickly.

She frowned for a second, then relaxed her face. 

Carter chuckled under his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You stayin’ at the house?”

He smirked to the side then looked back. “I’m stayin’ with the pastor.”

“Makes sense.” 

“Yeah…makes perfect sense.”

His eyes dropped to her ileke beads, then back up. The glance was quick, barely even noticeable. But she did. The hand that wasn’t holding her basket rose to touch her beads protectively. 

Smoke noticed it too. 

He was at the top of the aisle, watching.

He saw Carter’s eyes dip to her chest. It was just a brief second, but the flicker made his chest tighten. 

He crossed the aisle in three long strides. He kept his eyes forward, locked on Carter who had sensed him looming and had since looked up from Annie. 

Smoke stepped behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, the motion tucking her into his side. The gesture was smooth, natural, like her body had no business not being there all along.

Annie let out a quiet exhale. It was a short, controlled breath that made her shoulders relax.

Then she moved—but she didn’t move so much as melt. She relaxed back into Smoke’s touch, folding easily into him. His fingers curled around her hip, but his eyes didn’t leave Carter’s.

“Afternoon,” Carter said politely to Smoke.

Smoke just stared at him, his dark hooded eyes like black orbs piercing into the depths of whatever lay behind Carter’s. No nod. No acknowledgement. Just a cold, tactical assessment.

Carter blinked. “Y’all goin’ to the Harvest Party next month?”

“Yeah,” Annie replied quickly. She felt Smoke’s grip tighten on her hip.“We—”

“What business a preacher got at a juke joint?” Smoke asked, voice flat.

“I ain’t goin’,” Carter said, rubbing his signet ring. He looked down at it, then looked back up at them. “Just tryna make conversation.”

Smoke and Annie glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes. 

“Well,” he said, tipping his hat. “Y’all have a good rest of your day.” 

Then he walked away.

The bustle of Chow’s went on around them but they didn’t hear it— like they only existed now in their own little bubble. Then Smoke dipped his head to her ear and pressed his lips there.

Three short kisses. Soft despite the intensity of the feeling behind them. Warm, from the closeness and something else entirely. They felt less like a kiss and more like a claim.

One right behind the ear, one lower on the skin right above the neck, and one right on the shell. His nose nuzzled there for a second before he opened his mouth and hummed right into her ear. Low, deep, right into the part of her ear that made his voice vibrate right down her spine. 

“You good?” 

“Mhmm,” she hummed.

She looked over her shoulder at him and his eyes were closed at the sound of her voice. She stroked his beard and his eyes opened to find hers darker. Her fingers grazed the shell of his ear. A gentle touch that made him fight off a shiver. 

“Behave,” he said, squeezing her hip gently.

Annie grinned. She turned away from his grasp and slinked out of the aisle like nothing happened. Then she glanced over her shoulder at him once more to bat her eyes at him before slipping completely out of his sight. Smoke stood there watching her walk away, his body still warm from where she rested against it. He flexed his hands at his sides to subdue the fire she stoked in him, then followed behind her.

Outside, the air smelled like spice and the bite of the chilly November air. Annie adjusted the paper-wrapped bundle from Chow’s against her hip and slipped it into her purse. Smoke stepped out behind her with the chicken feed sack tucked under his arm and the rest of Aunt Della’s order in his other hand like it weighed nothing. He watched a shiver run down Annie’s spine that she tried to hide.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“Here.”

Smoke shrugged off his jacket and laid it over Annie’s shoulders as they walked towards his truck. The smell wafting from King’s Tamales Stand next door stopped Annie in her tracks as a man working the booth shouted his prices to folks passing by and wrapped hot tamales in paper. Warm masa, spice, meat steamed softly inside of corn husks. Steam curled up from a heavy pot blackened by use and hit the inside of the tin roof of the stand that had a crooked hand-painted sign attached to the front.

Smoke glanced at Annie. “Hungry?” 

Annie looked at him with those wide brown eyes of hers. Then her stomach answered before she got the chance. She scoffed, looking down at it like it betrayed her thoughts, then back up at Smoke. 

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Come on.” He shifted the sack higher beneath his arm and stepped towards the stand. “How many you want?” 

“One.”

“Just one?”

Smoke looked towards the tamale man. “We’ll take four.”

Annie blinked. “Four?”

Smoke looked back at Annie. “I’m hungry, too.” 

The man behind the stand grinned like he’d seen this before. “Two for the gentleman, one for the lady now, and one for when she gets hungry later.”

“Exactly,” Smoke agreed.

Annie scoffed, looking away before a smile broke out on her face.

“Hot?” the man asked.

Smoke looked back at Annie again. She lifted her chin, offended despite herself. “Hot.”

Smoke looked back to the grinning man and nodded once. “Hot.”

“You think I wouldn’t like hot?”

“I didn’t know that’s why I asked.”

“You forget where I’m from?”

“I remember.”

The tamales came wrapped in paper, steam rising as the man passed them over to Smoke. He paid, coins dropping clean in the man’s palm. “Enjoy,” he said as they turned down the sidewalk. 

They walked a little ways down the side of the building, stopping by a patch of shade where the street noise softened around them. Smoke set Aunt Della’s things carefully by his feet, then handed Annie her tamales. He unwrapped his own with easy hands. Annie watched him without meaning to. The way he carefully peeled back the husk. The way the steam curled around his fingers. The way he took the first bite and let it sit in his mouth before he started chewing. He chewed once, twice, then nodded faintly to himself. 

“That good?”

“Mhmm.” He took another bite. 

Annie unwrapped hers, holding it carefully between her fingers as the heat bled through the paper. The first bite was soft and smoky. The cornmeal was tender, but not enough to fall through her fingers. The meat was rich with salt, pepper, and something earthy underneath. She chewed thoughtfully, her mouth analyzing every flavor. Smoke was already on his second tamale, but was chewing slower now, watching her. 

“What?” she asked.

“You makin’ a face.”

“I’m thinkin’.”

Smoke’s brows knit together. “About a tamale?”

“Mhmm.”

His mouth curved. “That so?”

“Absolutely.”

She took another bite, slower this time. “It’s good.”

Smoke nodded but kept his eyes trained on her for the—

“But.”

“I knew it.”

Annie smiled faintly. “It could use a lil’ more depth.”

“Depth?”

She nodded. “Depth.”

Smoke looked down at his half-eaten tamale then back up at Annie. “It’s a tamale.”

“And?”

Smoke looked amused now. He tilted his head. “What would you do to it?”

Annie shifted her weight. “I’d give it somethin’ to round out the pepper,” she said. “So it don’t just sit on top.”

Smoke just looked at her. “You always this particular?”

“With food? Yes.”

“And everything else?”

Annie opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked down at her tamale, then back at him. And when she spoke, her words came out softer than she expected them. “I know what I like.”

Smoke’s gaze hadn’t left her. “Good.” He took another bite, slowly. The cornmeal broke apart clean between his teeth. A long chunk of saucy meat landed on his tongue and he slurped it down his mouth without breaking eye contact.

“You starin’.”

Annie blinked. “Am not.”

“What you lookin’ at then?”

“You got somethin’ on your face.”

He ran a hand through his beard. “For real?” 

“It’s gone now.”

He couldn’t ignore the mirth in her eyes. She looked away, unwrapping the last tamale with more attention than it needed. The corner of Smoke’s mouth lifted. 

“Where I’m from, folks put more life into they food,” she said, turning back to him.

“More life?”

“Yep.”

“What that mean?”

“It means…” she said, looking towards the street like she could find the words there. “Food should taste like somebody remembered where they came from when they made it.”

“You sayin’ the people who made this…forgot where they came from?”

“No.” She smiled into her food. “They just knew wherever they was goin’ didn’t like it hot!”

Smoke huffed a laugh. Fourth Street moved around them, unconcerned. And the tension from inside of Chow’s softened into something easier. Something with steam, spice, and a little more kick. 

“I’ll make sure to let King know.”

Annie swatted his chest. “Smoke, don’t you dare!” 

When they were done eating, Smoke gathered Aunt Della’s order again and Annie threw the empty wrappers into a nearby waste barrel. She wiped her fingers against her handkerchief, the taste of pepper and cornmeal still heavy on her tongue. 

They left their items from Chow’s locked in Smoke’s truck, which he left in front of the grocery store at Annie’s insistence. Annie enjoyed the scenery as they walked leisurely towards the next stop on her list of errands. Smoke enjoyed the scenery too— her. Her hair, tucked into a thick bun, had tendrils hanging down the sides of her face that blew with the wind. One kept sticking to the shell of her ear, tickling her when it hit just right. The beads tucked under the neckline of her dress rattled if she moved a certain way. And she still had his jacket on to shield her from the wind. The sight of her walking around with his suit jacket draped over her shoulders did something to him that he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to. 

They neared the crossroad where Fourth Street met Issaquena, the street lined with shops for personal and grooming services. Luella’s Dressing Room & Alterations, Ritzy’s Beauty Salon, Brown’s Barbershop, and others sat along a row of close-knit brick and wooden storefronts with mended awnings and handmade signs.

The noise of the street got louder as they approached the block where Luella’s and Ritzy’s stood across from the barbershop. Or maybe it was just the noise in Annie’s head. She walked closest to the sidewalk with Smoke right beside her, watching her closely. His hand would find her lower back if he saw her steps falter or slow. They dodged some kids roughhousing, a stand or a low hanging sign, a crack in the sidewalk.

The area in front of the barbershop was full of men standing on lampposts smoking cigarettes, people watching, and chatting each other up. Suspenders loose or off, hats sitting low, legs bent, feet on the brick barbershop building while they waited their turn. The striped pole outside spun slowly with the wind. The smell of shaving soap, pomade, and hot comb smoke drifted upwards from the barbershop and the beauty salon across the street. The men outside let their eyes wander when Annie approached them on the sidewalk— and froze when they saw Smoke right next to her. Conversations paused, necks craned slowly. Smoke guided her through the crowd that parted for them with his hand at her back. The men acknowledged him, some giving him daps, others giving a firm nod. Some said a few polite words, tipping their hats and greeting them both as they walked by. But Smoke kept his hands on Annie. Always on her. 

Sunflower Music was painted in gold lettering on a black wooden sign that hung perpendicular to the sidewalk. The awning was a muted red, the color faded by the sun and wear, and stuck out of a narrow brick storefront with tall display windows in the front. Folks walking by would just stop and stare at what was inside— sheet music, instruments, phonographs, a lone Columbia Graphophone. Stacks of records displayed like treasure. Once the shop bell guided them through the door, the smell of paper, varnished wood, and cigars turned the crisp winter air to something with more bite. The space was long and spread out. Wooden floors. Pressed-tin ceiling. Ceiling fans turning slowly overhead. Most of the displays were spread out across the walls except a few items that were secured behind glass cases and oak cabinets shined to a mirror finish. 

A musician tested out strings by the wall where the instruments were displayed. A few church mothers Annie recognized from First Baptist Missionary were flipping carefully through church hymn sheet music displayed in stands on the other side of the shop. 

The owner stood by one of many phonographs with a record in his hands. He placed it in one, cranked the machine, and dropped the needle, all in one smooth, practiced motion. The customer standing next to him waited for the beat to drop. The record spun, the sound cracked slightly, then the smooth sound of a brass band spread throughout the room. Annie paused. The customer bopped his head to the fast-paced, soulful music coming from the phonograph speakers. 

Then the cornet solo hit.

Annie stilled entirely. 

The sound of conversation faded away, even the pointed looks of the church mothers who recognized her walking hand-in-hand with Smoke, she paid no mind. The familiarity of the music made her chest twist painfully. It sounded like home. Felt like it too. Like street musicians, second line parades, and rain hitting tin roofs during summer storms. 

“Annie?” he asked, voice low. He touched the small of her back.

Once she caught her breath, she whispered, “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, blinking back the tear that threatened to drop from her left eye. “Just reminds me of home.” She blinked and she could see it clearly. A rickety old shack. The fierce, stubborn, woman who lived inside who felt more like a spirit than a memory. “My great-grandmama,” she said a little softer. “Before she passed…she loved listening to the cornet. I don’t know why but that was the only instrument that made her face light up no matter how out of it she was.”

Smoke rubbed her lower back and they moved deeper in the store but Annie felt like she was walking through water. They ended up by the stack of records which stood close to the instruments along the wall. 

“That’s the thing about music,” he said. “It has a way of bringin’ you back to somebody, even after they long gone.”

Annie exhaled sharply. She went through the Vaudeville records but she wasn’t really looking. Smoke stood by her side, facing her, waiting. 

“We lost her to the hurricane. Back in ‘15.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“She wouldn’t leave.” Her voice cracked. 

“What you mean?”

Annie took a deep breath.

“She lived deep in the bayou. Water filled with gators,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “She knew the storm was comin’ before it did. Said if the water’s fixin’ to take her she ain’t gon’ run.” 

Annie looked towards the window like the memory called her there for some reason. “She said she had somebody on the other side waitin’ on her.” 

Smoke nodded once, eyes patient. “You know who?”

“No,” she said. “She was sold downriver ‘fo she could remember anyone.”

“Damn,” Smoke whispered. 

She smiled. It was faint, like it was pushing through the grief. “She was alone her whole life…’til she started having babies.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen.”

Smoke whistled low.

Annie hummed. “She was somethin’ else.”

The memory of her great-grandmother flashed quickly through her mind like a blur. Eyes that looked different…older than her age, and much younger at the same time. Her frail hands dragging a stick through swamp mud, leaving marks that looked less drawn than remembered.

“What was her name?”

Annie blinked and it was gone. Her hand rose to her ileke beads again, then she looked up at Smoke with the softest, widest, brown eyes, and the tenderness in them made him sigh. 

“Antoinette,” she said finally. Like the name pulled something out of her that made her hesitate to say it out loud.

Smoke rubbed her shoulder, pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. 

Annie put a hand on his chest, leaning into his touch. 

They let the silence sit between them for a few moments. Let the quiet ache until it dulled into something easier to move on from.

“Anyway,” she said finally, pulling herself together. “Let’s get what I came here for.” Her fingers walked the records in search of the ragtime one Aunt Della wanted.

“What kinda music they listen to, over there in France?”

“They liked a lot of the stuff we brought over.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Our regiment had a band and everything.” 

“Were you in it?” She teased.

His mouth twitched. “Nah.” 

The musician testing out guitars hit a chord with a slider that made Smoke’s hand tap once against the record box before he caught himself. He looked at Annie and she was already looking at him. 

“What?” he asked.

Annie arched her brow. “You like that?”

“It’s nice.”

“Why?”

Smoke exhaled. “It’s slow. Got a little ache to it.”

Annie chuckled low.

The guitar player took his slider off and played something a little louder, a little faster, a deep Blues riff.

“You like this one, too?” 

“This more Stack’s style.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“What?”

“It’s more Stack’s style but your hand been tappin’ away since he started playin’.” 

Smoke looked down at his hand then back to Annie. “Don’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”

“You right,” she smirked. “But you tappin’ along like you know this song by heart.”

“I do.” 

Annie frowned. “From where?”

“My daddy.” He paused. Looked down. Sighed. “He played the guitar.”

“Oh,” she mouthed. She heard something in his words even though his voice was steady. Pain. Shame. Guilt. Loss. Whatever it was, it weighed heavy.

His jaw tightened. “Back then…” he drifted off. “The music felt kinder than the man.” His eyes found her again.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Annie rubbed his arm, then pulled it around her. The gesture made his shoulders relax, and she wrapped her arms around his chest. “Elijah,” she whispered up to him.

His name on her lips felt as warm as her hand on his chest. 

“Hmm,” he answered, looking off into the distance.

She rubbed his back. “You alright?” she asked quietly.

He looked down at her, then wrapped his arms around her tighter. 

“Yeah,” he said into her hair. He inhaled her scent—jasmine, rosewater, and vanilla.

Annie didn't push. Just let him stay in the moment a little longer, with her to hold onto.

Across the room, one of the church mothers cleared her throat entirely too loud, and just like that the tenderness snapped. Smoke and Annie both frowned, then looked over with expectant gazes. One cold, one more curious but still annoyed. The church mother’s mouth snapped shut and she scoffed, turning back around. Smoke and Annie both laughed as they walked towards the register, his arm around her shoulder.

“I’ma get an earful on Sunday ‘cause of you,” Annie joked, lacing her fingers with the ones hanging over her shoulder.

“They need to mind they own business,” Smoke said. Loudly. Right towards where they were congregating off to the side by the sheet music.

Their heads snapped over immediately.

Annie swatted his chest.

“What?”

“Lord,” she mumbled. “You was just tellin’ me to behave and you out here talkin’ crazy.”

“Tell the truth, shame the devil. Ain’t that what they say?”

“Smoke!” She tried swatting at him again. This time he caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. Annie rolled her eyes but she couldn’t stop a grin from spreading on her face.

“Nuh-uh,” his voice dropped low, right by her ear again. “You know my name.”

Her breath hitched.

“Mhmm,” he drawled.

They stepped to the register. 

“Find everything you were lookin’ for?” The clerk asked. 

The words sat between them. Smoke looked at Annie.

“Yeah,” Annie said. “Just this.”

“This a good record,” he remarked. “Classic.” He set the W.C. Handy record in its sleeve, then wrapped it twice in newspaper.

Annie listened.

“His band still play around town, in Tutwiler, and down in Mound Bayou.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched, then unclenched. Annie saw it. Saved it for later.

“Bayou?” she asked.

“Mound Bayou. All black town, just a little ways south of here,” the clerk remarked. 

Annie nodded curiously.

The clerk slipped the record in a brown paper bag. “That’ll be 75 cent.” 

Smoke had it in the man’s hand before Annie could pull out her pocketbook. He watched her hesitate and shot her a look that dared her to pull her own money out. That’s all she needed to see to keep her hand right where it was— wrapped tightly in his. 

Smoke kissed her hand again before grabbing the bag.

“Y’all have a nice day,” the clerk said.

They turned to leave a few minutes later, bags between them as they fell in step beside each other. They didn’t talk much, but their hands stayed laced, like they both needed to touch the piece of themselves they just shared. When they stepped out of the building and the noise of the street came back, the moment didn’t disappear. It just followed them out into the cold. The chilly air whipped wildly across their faces, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising between them, or the thrum that sat underneath all the tension.

A month went by, but not quietly.

The air got colder. November flew by like a gust of wind off the gulf where Annie used to catch crabs with her brothers when she was a little girl. The house got louder. Out of towners, people trying to get up North before the snow up there delayed the trains. Blackbird got busier. Annie kept storing her money in the tea tin that fit perfectly under the floorboard in her room. Soon she’d have to get a bigger one, she thought to herself. And find another hiding place.

Annie’s lessons with Aunt Della continued behind padlocked doors. 

Dress fittings at Luella’s became less frequent as her Harvest Party look came together. 

Smoke got busy, too. Quiet meetings on the outskirts of town. Trips to Memphis and business at Moon Lake. He came around the boarding house even more. This time he didn’t need to feign usefulness.

Meetings under the magnolia tree became their ritual. Every Sunday when the afternoon stretched its arms out into evening he’d come around back. Like clockwork, he’d show up, the side fence creaking open before he stepped through. They’d sit outside and talk until the mosquitos got too bad.

It became a place where they shared pieces of themselves. 

A place where ordinary conversation became sacred. 

Nellie, Pearline and Gigi squealed when she finally told them about Smoke. And time with them became more frequent too — nights, afternoons, or mornings in town before the roads got too crowded. 

As long as it didn’t touch Sunday night. 

Those belonged to Smoke.

“Louisiana,” Gigi started. Casual, like she was just asking about the weather. “You ain’t mounted that horse yet?” 

The words cut through the laughter, the sound of peas dropping in a bowl, even the phonograph that played soft jazz from the corner. Somebody choked mid-chuckle. Everybody turned to look at Annie, then froze. Three sets of eyes stared at her with a glittering curiosity that made her palms feel clammy in that moment. Gigi tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. Pearline fiddled with her hands. Nellie looked at Annie like she could read the answer in her face. But Annie wasn’t bothered. In fact, she was a little amused. This wasn’t a new question.

The four of them were sitting around the kitchen table after congregating at Nellie's house following their weekday bible study. Nellie’s mother took one long look at the four of them lounging around the front room and put them to work. She set a bowl and some peas on the kitchen table and walked out the room without another word. A pot of greens soaked on the counter. Pepper and onion sat chopped in a cast iron for later. Flour still sat in the cracks of the table from breakfast. 

She sighed softly. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“She said she ain’t ready, y’all,” Pearline chimed in for her. “She say this every time y’all ask this question.” Then quieter. “It ain’t always like what them singers be goin’ on about.”

“Maybe not for you,” Gigi rebutted. “But you ain’t mountin’ a stallion.”

“More like a donkey,” Nellie joked.

Annie snorted. Even Pearline laughed under her breath. 

“So y’all just been kissin’?” Gigi probed.

“Mhmm.”

“You let him…touch you?” The question came from Nellie.

Her body flushed warm at the thought. Annie looked over to Nellie. “No.”

“Shame,” she sighed. “He look like he know what to do with his hands.” 

“Mhmm,” Gigi agreed.

“He should know,” Pearline said matter-of-factly. “Him and his brother done ran through half the town.”

“More than half,” Nellie muttered.

Annie sighed. Rolled her eyes.

“Stack more than Smoke,” Nellie confirmed. 

“Don’t I know it,” Annie replied.

“I heard Stack got a mean appetite,” Gigi said slyly.

That made Pearline gasp. “Gigi!” 

“What?” Gigi asked incredulously. 

“Please,” Pearline insisted in a hushed tone.

Annie shook her head. “Oh my God,” she protested. “I don’t need to hear this about my man’s brother.”

“Your maaaan,” Pearline teased playfully. Annie smiled.

“I heard Smoke manhood so big, it touches your soul,” Nellie said.

Annie’s head turned towards Nellie. “Who told you that?”

Nellie shrugged. “Is it true?” 

Annie shrugged.

“Every woman in town want a piece of them twins, I’m just surprised you ain’t took a bite yet.” 

“Not even a nibble?” Gigi asked. She looked shocked.

Annie chuckled low. “Not even a nibble.”

“But you seen it, though? Felt it? Backed up on him and let it poke you a little?”

“No,” she said. “I ain’t seen it.”

“But you felt it.” Gigi’s eyes grew wide. “It’s big ain’t it?” 

“He walk around like it’s big,” Nellie said plainly.

The room exploded with laughter, squeals, and giggles. Annie fumbled with a pea. 

“What’s big?” A voice rang out from the other room.

Nellie froze, then groaned and rolled her eyes when she realized who was talking.

“Awww don’t sound too happy to see me lil’ sis,” she continued. She stepped into the kitchen, t-strap heels clacking against the floorboards. Nice dress, nicer stockings, hair styled differently than Annie had seen in Clarksdale or New Orleans. Baby on her hip and another child at her waist, vice grip on his shirt like she was trying to keep him from running off or touching something he wasn’t supposed to.

Nellie rolled her eyes again and kept on shelling peas. “Hey Verity,” she said flatly. She looked up and her eyes softened when she saw her niece and nephew. “Look at how big you are!” she exclaimed. 

“Aunt Nellie!” 

Verity released the little boy and he ran over to give his aunt a hug. She adjusted her grip on her daughter, bouncing the babbling toddler on her hip. 

“Baby,” Verity said calmly with that mom warning underneath, “gon’ and help your daddy outside.”

The little boy rushed out the front door, leaving just the girls in an awkward silence before they quickly changed the subject. 

“Hey Verity,” Gigi and Pearline said together. Verity greeted them back, staring curiously at the stranger sitting at her mother’s kitchen table. 

“Verity,” Nellie started. “This is Annie, she’s new, from Louisiana. Annie, this is my sister Verity. She’s in town from Chicago.” 

Annie wiped off her hands on her apron and held out her hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Verity.”

“Nice to meet you too, Verity. My goodness, you’re so pretty.” 

“Thank you,” Annie beamed.

Verity looked around the room. At each woman’s face individually. “What was y’all in here talkin’ about?” She asked like she’d already heard too much.

“Nothing,” Nellie said firmly.

Verity’s eyes narrowed.

“Men,” Gigi admitted bluntly.

Nellie shot her a look, to which she just shrugged and kept shelling her peas.

“What about ‘em?” Verity asked as her baby grabbed the collar of her dress. She untangled her fingers carefully while waiting for someone to say something.

“Annie here got herself a suitor already,” Nellie called out. “Smoke Moore.”

The look on Verity’s face said that she was busy putting a name to a face before it finally clicked. “Oh, one of the twins!” She wiped drool off her baby’s lips before it dripped on her clothes. “So they both came back from the war,” she remarked. “That’s good.”

Nellie rolled her eyes. “She done forgot about everybody she grew up with.” 

“Did not! They’re both so much younger than me.”

“You’re only 27.”

“And I been in Chicago for the past seven years,” she quipped. “How old are they now?”

“21,” Gigi answered.

“Babies,” she whispered, pinching her daughter’s cheek.

“Anyway, do you mind? Us babies,” Nellie said sarcastically, “tryna talk here. About somethin’ you don’t need to know nothin’ about.”  

Verity sighed. She was older, but still young enough to remember being where they were. Young and unmarried. Always being in a position to be told or met with judgment. Mostly from the women closest to her. 

She’d moved to Chicago and was met with a different type of perspective. The social scene was different, much different, probably something that’d make her mother clutch her pearls if she heard the lasciviousness that was considered normal, and that she had a taste of it before she met her husband. 

So, she knew all about flirtation and temptation. About men who only knew how to talk pretty, men who knew how to be tender, and men who confused possession with care. And behind the venom in her words, she could hear something more vulnerable in her little sister’s tone. So, she pulled up a chair at the table, put her baby between her legs, and went to work shelling peas. They worked together in silence for a while. Nothing except the occasional sigh, the sound of the baby hitting the table with her palms, and the house creaking and settling around them.

“Anyone else seein’ anybody new?” Verity asked.

Nobody replied. The air in the tiny kitchen held an uncomfortable type of tension. But it wasn’t anything unique. It was generational. A hesitance that usually exists in the gap between women just becoming and women who’d already been in their shoes. 

“How’s your husband, Pea?” 

Pearline cleared her throat. “He good,” she responded. She kept her head down while Verity looked at her knowingly. 

The front door practically flew open with all the energy of a hyper five-year-old boy. He took his shoes off by the door then ran down the hallway. 

Another person stepped in. His steps were much slower, but his energy was just as powerful in a measured, grown man kind of way. All six heads in the kitchen turned at once. Skin the color of chestnuts, bulky shoulders, broad chest, piercing light brown eyes that could stop a woman mid-sentence. He took off his hat to reveal a head full of low-cut slicked down hair. His three-piece suit matched the sharpness of Verity’s dress like a lid to a pot. He flashed a smile and damn near every woman at the table gulped hard. 

He waved his hand to greet everyone. “Hey y’all.” His voice was deep and gruff. A hint of southern twang in it, like the South had somehow rubbed off on him but he wasn’t born and bred here. 

“Hey,” everybody said back. 

Verity smiled, clearly unshaken by his presence because this was her husband. 

“Can you take the baby? She gettin’ fussy and I’m tryna help the girls with supper.”

“Sure.” He crossed the room to the kitchen and planted a kiss on her waiting forehead, then grabbed his daughter from her lap. 

“Thank you.”

“Hey sugar plum,” he cooed. He spoke softly to his daughter. She giggled and rested her head in the crook of his neck as he took her down the hallway.

Once they heard the click of a door shutting in the distance, the kitchen could finally exhale.

“That’s your husband?” Gigi asked breathlessly, looking towards the hallway like she needed him to reappear out of thin air. “Girl he is too fine!”

Verity grinned. “That’s my man,” she said proudly.

“Where you find him at?” Gigi continued. “And do he have any brothers?”

Annie kept her thoughts to herself as she snapped a pea under her thumb. While they sized him up her thoughts drifted over to Smoke. How his smile was easy when he showed it. How he didn’t show it to anybody but her. The way he’d walk in and suck the air out the room. The way his muscles filled out his clothing. Her breath sped up at the thought. She felt flushed. Hot all of a sudden, all over again.

Verity laughed at Gigi’s remarks and shook her head. “He do, but he’s the only good apple in the bunch.”

“Lord,” Annie chuckled.

Verity looked over at her expectantly.

“I got nothin’ but brothers,” she explained. “Got one, maybe two of them decent. The rest ain’t got the sense God gave a goose.” 

Everyone at the table laughed, the tension easing into something more relaxed. 

“It would take God and all his disciples to drill some decency into ‘em,” Pearline let slip out.

“Pearlie!” Nellie gasped at the revelation. Sweet little Pearline with her lace gloves, quiet eyes and her perfect posture like she was afraid that if she didn’t stand up perfectly straight someone would come behind her with a ruler to put her back in line. 

She shrugged casually, clearly pleased with herself. 

“Gigi,” Annie kept on shelling peas. “You ever see Will again?”

Gigi made a sound like she was vomiting and Annie broke out in laughter. 

“Verity,” she looked at her. “This man had the worst smelling feet I’ve ever smelled in my life!”

“Not smelly feet.”

“A horse’s hoof smells better than that man’s feet,” she grimaced. “Besides,” she smirked like her face held a secret she’d been dying to tell. Her voice got low. “I’ve been keepin’ company with Rodney again.”

“Not surprised,” Nellie mumbled.

“Who’s Rodney?” Annie asked.

Nellie answered for her. “Just the man she been stuck on since we was kids.”

“Ohh….” 

“I ain’t stuck. He’s just familiar.”

“More like that hmmhmm” she gave the table a knowing look, “is familiar.”

“Hush!” Gigi swatted Nellie’s shoulder. “It’s reliable.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with goin’ back to an ol’ reliable.” Annie whipped her head around. The voice came from Verity.

“That’s right,” Gigi agreed smugly.

“Annie ain’t even done nothin’ with that twin of hers yet.” 

Annie rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“Why not?” Verity asked.

She huffed a small breath out her nose. “Just waitin’ for the right time.” 

“You waitin’ til the party huh?” Gigi asked with a grin. “All that liquor runnin’ through you will loosen you right on up,” she teased.

Annie shook her head, laughing.

Pearline spoke up quietly. “Don’t let the liquor make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“I ain’t,” Annie said.

“You keep it for yourself until you good and ready to give it away.”

“Exactly,” Pearline said. “And if he really cares, he won’t mind. Not one bit.”

“My husband waited a whole year for me to let him in. Didn’t pressure me. Didn’t make me feel bad. Didn’t make it ‘bout his needs,” Verity recalled. “What matters is what he does when wantin’ you, means he gotta take it slow.”

Her words landed. 

“Do he know?” Her voice was small. Pearline’s. “That you a virgin?”

Annie exhaled sharply. “I ain’t told him,” she confessed. 

Pearline spoke again. “And…he ain’t tried nothin’?” 

“We ain’t been alone like that,” she said softly while fumbling with the hem of her apron. “And I ain’t found the right time to tell him yet.”

“He gon’ wear you out once he get his hands on you,” Gigi said dramatically. “You know that right?”

“I believe it.” And she did.

“Whew, chile,” Nellie drawled. “I’ma say a prayer for you. And for your—” 

“Eleanor!” Verity snapped.

Annie snorted.

Verity looked over at Annie, eyes warm. “You’ll find the right time,” she assured.

The kitchen was a little quieter after that. Just the sound of knuckles cracking, shells snapping open, peas hitting the bottom of the bowl, throaty jazz still coming from the corner. And a glaring question that hummed underneath the noise. 

“Do you want to…you know, with him?” Pearline asked.

Annie stopped shelling for a moment and looked to the side to collect the whirlwind of thoughts that spun around in her head. 

Her and Smoke had been having outings. Not running into each other by chance, not catching a glimpse across the sidewalk. Together. In public. On purpose. It was mostly whatever it was she wanted to do. Smoke liked it that way.

They tucked into their own little routine as what was blossoming between them slowly became familiar. Since her conversation with Aunt Della she hadn’t taken the time to sit down and think about what exactly it was or where it was going to go. All she knew is that in this new rhythm with him…it felt right. 

He’d touch her gently. Carefully. Like he was holding onto something fragile. But even the slightest contact sent shivers down her spine. 

A hand at the small of her back.

He’d lean in close when he needed to say something to her. Always did.

But sometimes he’d drop his mouth right by her ear just to hear her gasp under her breath.

He’d wrap his hands around her waist and she swore she forgot how to breathe. 

But she didn’t move away.

His desire for her was palpable. 

He was hungry. 

She could see it in his eyes and feel it in his restraint. 

But he was tender with her, like he was dousing his own desire until she was ready to cross that bridge, and that ignited her curiosity for more like a spark lit in a dry room.

She knew she was in trouble when she started to notice the absence of certain things. His closeness. His touch. The feeling that came from it.

She thought about his mouth a lot. What it felt like pressed against hers. The way his tongue would trace the seam of her lips like a man standing at a threshold, waiting to be invited in. 

Her thoughts usually stopped there because they were too overwhelming. 

Kissing wasn’t new to her. Desire wasn’t either. Not entirely. 

She’d heard things. Sensed them. She wasn’t naive in an ignorant way. 

But as the baby of the family, and the only girl, she’d been crowded. She was always loved and protected. But love and protection always felt like being watched and managed by people who assumed they knew what was best for her.  

Then Smoke came along. He unsettled her because he didn’t hover. He waited. With his quiet attention and something deeper that sat underneath the surface. 

He listened.

He chose her. 

He made space for her to choose herself. 

And for a girl who spent her whole life being guarded, space felt dangerous. 

It felt like freedom. 

Freedom to be held but not held back.

She wanted to step into it, the new version of herself that was emerging from sheltered beginnings.

Craved it.

Craved him.

Badly. 

Even though she didn't fully know what that meant, she wanted to be close. Wanted to experience everything that came along with that closeness.

And it wasn’t just a physical thing. It was a primal, desperate ache that rose from the depths and swept through her body, hitting every single nerve ending along the way.

She even started dreaming about him. It was always the same one. She’d wake up in a mess of her own making—nightgown clinging to her curves, sheets damp. Then she’d spend the rest of the day feeling a dizzying pulse between her legs, like her heart had found a new home there.

It was like his soul had floated to hers while she was sleeping, and wanted to make sure she was ready for the day she finally just...let go. 

“Look Daedae, we only security guards, okay? Ghetto security guards at that. We ain’t Cops, we ain’t America’s Most Wanted, NYPD Blue, none of that shit you watch.”

“We somethin’ like them.” - Friday After Next

—

“—usually calm. Make sure ain’t nobody fighting, stealing, or parking where they not supposed to be. That’s it and that’s all.”

“Why you look at me when you say that??” 

“Because,” Delilah placed a hand on her hip. Pointed one long red fingernail across the counter at the 23 year old that was basically her nephew. “You act like God ain’t gave you no sense most days.” 

“Awe it’s like that auntie?” Stack pulled his toothpick from his mouth, glint in his brown eyes playful, as a grin stretched across his face. One that was too damn big for Delilah’s liking. 

“I’m not playing with you, boy.”  Her eyes jumped from the right to the left. “Either of y’all.” 

Smoke hadn’t been paying them any attention. The older Moore’s mind was elsewhere, focus split between the rent him and his brother were always short on and the french toast with blueberry compote Delilah placed in front of him 10 minutes prior. On another day, there wouldn’t be anything but crumbs left, but it was hard to have an appetite when money wasn’t right. 

At her words, his fork paused, head coming up and eyes squinting in the corners like, ‘what she say fuck me for?’ 

“You heard me,” Delilah raised her brows pointedly. “None of that Smoke and Stack nonsense today. Y’all are Elias and Elijah. Security guards. Secure my plaza, get paid, and go home. That’s all y’all gotta do.”  

That was all Smoke planned to do. It was easy money. Not the most money, but it’d add up all the same eventually.  

“You know we got you auntie,” Stack was seated on the stool next to his twin, plate clean, hand moving in the air like he was waving Delilah off. “We gon’ have this bit- this place locked down. Ain’t nun’ movin’ witout us knowing about it. Ain’t that right, Smoke?” 

Smoke glanced at him, “We gon’ sit in that booth and watch the parking lot, like we getting paid to.” 

Stack waved him off next. “Auntie D —” He placed his hand over his heart. “We ready to die behind this shi– stuff.” 

She couldn’t laugh at Elias, because all that did was encourage him, so Delilah shook her head instead, “You heard what I said Elias. Don’t be playin’ in my plaza, cause I will fire y’all, family or not. It’s bad enough I lost my last security guards.”

“You ain’t ever tell us what happened to them.” Smoke pushed his plate to the side, deciding he was done with breakfast. Then he checked the clock on the wall, like he wanted to make sure they were out of here before people started piling in. 

Delilah paused her wiping down of the already clean counter. And then she continued. It happened so fast, anybody else would have missed the break in motion.  

Smoke wasn’t anybody though. 

“You ain’t ever ask,” Delilah glanced up at him and then back down. “And it don’t matter anyways. Like I said, watch the plaza, make the money, and go home.” 

Smoke’s eyes narrowed, “Nah, what happened to the last —”

“Nigga come on,” Stack was sliding off his stool. “I ain’t get up at 9 in the morning to play 20 questions.” 

“You didn’t get up at all,” Smoke frowned. “I had to drag you outta bed.” 

“That ain’t the point,” Stack was already walking towards the door, only stopped to turn around after he’d reached it. “We got ‘dis auntie. Watch.” He saluted Delilah as if that was supposed to be reassuring and then used his back to push the glass open. “Chop chop nigga,” He clapped at his brother. “World ain’t gon’ save itself.” 

A ding went off as the door closed behind him and Smoke frowned harder. 

This was gon’ be a long ass day. 

“Stop lookin’ like that,” Delilah brought him out of his thoughts, leaning forward over the counter and hitting his arm playfully. “It’s gon’ be fine. If anything it’ll be boring. Just…watch yo’ brother.” 

He was gon’ do that anyways. Had been, since he could hold his head up damn near. 

Smoke wiped his mouth, dropped the napkin on the plate, and stood up from the counter. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“And Elijah…” Delilah hesitated. Knew he wouldn’t like what she had to say, but tried anyways. “You know I don’t mind just giving y’all –” 

“Nah, D —” Smoke’s words were sharp and he fixed his tone immediately, fingers twitching at his sides like he was irritated. With himself. Her. The situation. “Me and Stack ain’t lazy. We don’t mind workin’. And I’m gon’ make sure things run smooth today. You ain’t gotta worry.” 

Delilah didn’t push. Never pushed. She just nodded her head and smiled softly. “I know you will, baby. I ain’t worried at all.” 

Outside, Stack was busy ‘fixing’ his clothes. He’d already untucked the grey uniform shirt from his black pants and had seemingly pulled a sharpie out of his ass to cross out ‘Elias’ on his name tag and write ‘Stack’. 

He’d moved on to undoing the first couple buttons of the shirt when Smoke stepped out of the diner.

“‘Bout time,” Stack started towards his brother. “Come here.” His hands reached for Smoke’s shirt then and the older Moore promptly stepped back, slapping the hell out of Stack’s hands in the process. 

“Nigga, stop touching me.” 

Stack screwed his face up, looking at his brother like Smoke was the one tripping. “I’m tryna help yo’ ass. She got us walking around in these stiff ass uniforms. You frowning like the world coming to an end. We gotta’ come better than that, we top flight security of the world now Smoke.” 

“Only thing we securing is this months rent. Don’t nothing in this plaza require you to have all that energy.” Smoke was already walking past Stack, moving from in front of his aunties diner and across the parking lot. 

Clarkdale’s “plaza” wasn’t anything more than 5 odd businesses with the same location. There were two clothing boutiques, Delilah’s diner, Slim’s music store, and a random ass gift shop that Smoke didn’t expect to stay open long because who was really stopping here for souvenirs? 

As he headed for the security booth that looked more like a phone booth, the sun beat down on his back, that Mississippi heat unrelenting as always.

“‘Dat’s yo’ problem,” Stack followed behind his brother, easy swagger nothing like Smoke’s steady gait. “You ain’t got no vision. You need to be thinking big nigga.” 

“And you jus’ need to think,” Smoke cut his eyes to the right. “We short on rent and you playin’.” 

Stack shrugged, “Cause it’s gon’ work itself out. It always do.”

That was true. Odd jobs, a missed meal here and there, a little scheming on the side — whatever paid the bills, is what they did. 

Hence the ‘stiff ass uniforms’ their late mothers best friend had them wearing. Smoke didn’t feel no particular way about the job — it was just another way to make ends meet. The only thing wearing on him, bothering him, was that his constant grind never quite produced enough. 

“Besides,” Stack continued as they maneuvered around cars. “I already told you what we could be doing to make some real mo—”

“And I told you we wasn’t doing it.” Smoke stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot. “Stop bringing it up.” 

Stack didn’t blink at the edge in his brothers tone. “I only brought it up, cause you stomping around, ‘bout to pop that damn vein that’s in the middle of yo’ forehead. I’m coo’ with being top flight.” Stack spread his arms wide. “Shit — this plaza need a nigga like me. Ima fuck around and get a key to the city the way ima have this bitch running.” 

And he was so serious. 

Smoke looked at his twin smirking and felt it — that same vein in the middle of his forehead throbbing again. 

“Stack, we ain’t here to play no fuckin’ cops and robbers. We gon’ stay out the way and make this easy money.” 

It was the only easy money Smoke would allow himself to entertain, because that shit Stack kept talking about? They wasn’t doing that. Was gon’ be better than that. 

Stack shrugged, “If a nigga jump stupid in my aunties plaza, Ima have to show him somethin’ Smoke. I ‘ont care nothing ‘bout it getting out of hand. We run this shit now.” 

Smoke squinted, “You hear yoself? You get a whistle around yo’ neck and go on a power trip.” 

Stack blinked like he was saying ‘so’ and Smoke decided he was done with the conversation. 

“You heard what I said Stack,” He gave his brother a look and then started walking again, “Come on.” 

“Man I swear, niggas be born a few minutes early and think they the boss of errybody —” as Stack talked his shit, he made sure he was moving though, loud voice carrying through the air. 

“– and we ain’t little no more! You ‘ont intimidate me, nigga! I’m top flight of the world, Smoke!”

“This boring. Ain’t nun top flight about this shit.” 

Stack tugged at the collar of his shirt, shifting for what had to be the tenth time in the last ten minutes. 

Next to him, Smoke snorted quietly, never taking his eyes off the legal pad he was currently scribbling on. It had been in the booth, along with a #2 pencil, and was probably intended for note taking. There were no ‘notes’ to take though, so Smoke was working on a budget instead. 

“That’s how it’s gon’ stay.” The older Moore crossed out one number and replaced it with another as he spoke. “What chu’ think gon’ pop off at the gift shop, nigga? Just sit back.” 

The plaza had woken up. Closed signs flipped to open, cars pulling in and out, the hum of conversation gradually getting louder and creeping through the booths window. 

It had Stack restless and they’d only been ‘on duty’ for about an hour. 

In the younger Moore’s defense, it wasn’t in his dna to sit still. To watch the world move around him and not be at the center of it. To stand by, waiting for something to happen. And that’s all this job was — a whole bunch of waiting. In a hot ass, cramped ass booth, that was barely big enough to fit the two metal chairs they were seated in. 

Stack shifted again, “Man, if I knew all I was gon’ be doing was sitting here in silence wit’ yo’ ass —”

“It ain’t sitting in silence if you keep talking.” Smoke crossed out another number, brows furrowing in the middle. 

Stack sucked his teeth, mumbled something that sounded like, “Yeah ight,” and then graced Smoke with three blissful beats of silence before — 

Yeahhh, we finna set it off in this mufucka’ ya heard me?

Boosie’s voice came out of nowhere. 

Correction. It came from Stack’s phone. The same phone that currently had Apple Music on display and it’s volume turned all the way up.

You wonna talk shit? You wonna run yo’ mouth? You want some gangsta’s front yo- motherfuckin’ hou–

Stack was bobbing his head, the whistle around his neck slapping against his chest as his arm bumped Smoke’s every other second. He had three blissful seconds of chaos before —

“Turn that shit off,” Smoke snapped, head turning in his direction. “Got that loud ass music all in my ear.” 

Stack just grinned at first, shoulders jumping with the beat, southern drawl thick as he rapped.

“We’ll set this bitch off, yeah, set this bitch off!” 

And then Smoke sat up. 

And Stack stopped the music.

“Ight nigga, calm down.” Stack laughed as he held his hands up in surrender. “You need to lighten up damn. You don’t want me talk. Don’t wonna vibe out wit’ a nigga. What I’m ‘sposed to do?” 

Smoke…Smoke had to take a deep, deep breath before he spoke again, lids closing and opening slowly, like he was gathering patience. “All you gotta do Stack, is Watch. The. Parking lot.” 

So, Stack watched. Gaze focused on cars backing in and out and people moving from store to store for five whole minutes. 

And then he spotted two specific people, two strangers in one car that made him sit up straight. That made that bored expression on his face completely transform. 

“Awe shit,” Stack was already half way out his seat. “We got action!” 

“What??” Smoke looked up from his budget in confusion. Was met with nothing but the sight of Stack’s back as his twin damn near speed walked out of the booth. 

If Smoke was the type, he would have thrown his whole damn head back.

Instead, he let out a breath that sounded like it took every ounce of patience he had with it, mumbled “This nigga,” as he threw the legal pad down in front of him, and got up to follow behind his brother 

“Aye, y’all can’t park right here.” 

Annie was already parked. Had just pulled into the spot actually, when a loud voice coming from her left made her and Pearline look over. 

Both girls blinked, Annie’s brow furrowing in the middle while Pearline’s whole head cocked. 

It looked like…a security guard approaching them? One with a whistle around his neck, pants hanging low on his hips and a smirk on his face that screamed unserious. 

“Excuse me?” Annie’s doors were off of her jeep today, so her voice and that incredulous tone reached Stack’s ears clearly. 

“Y’all can’t park here,” He repeated himself as he stepped up to the side of the jeep. 

“And who are you supposed to be exactly?”Pearline jumped in and Stack’s eyes darted over to her. Smirk on his face growing before his head jerked back, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Now I know you see ‘dis,” He patted his chest, right over the crest in his shirt that was shaped like a badge. “I’m security, baby.” 

Annie rolled her eyes. Could already tell he wasn’t securing a damn thing. 

“Stack —” Another voice joined the conversation then. It was deep. Low. Sounded irritated. And it caught Annie’s attention immediately. 

Her eyes left the fake ass rent-a-cop, to look over his shoulder instead. There was another ‘security guard’ approaching them and his uniform was fitted to his body. Shirt tucked in, buttons done up, pants sitting correctly on his frame. 

He had brown skin, stiff shoulders, and thick brows that were pulled together in the middle. For a second, Annie felt like she wanted to take her thumb and smooth them out. 

“Awe now you wonna patrol wit’ me??” Security guard one had glanced over his shoulder when he heard the voice. “Nigga I got this covered, I already let ‘em know they can’t park here.” 

“What chu’ talking about?” Security guard 2 reached them, still looking disgruntled, and not even sparing Annie and Pearline a glance. “This spot ain’t reserved. Nigga come on.” His eyes flicked to the jeep then, gaze jumping from Annie to Pearline and back again. “I’m sorry ‘bout him. Y’all can park here.” 

His voice was completely flat. He truthfully didn’t sound apologetic and all. 

And for whatever reason,  Annie was intrigued. 

Both girls spoke at once. 

“Y’all brothers? Twins?” That was Pearline, leaning up in her seat, eyes jumping from one Moore to the next. 

“How you work with the public, when you can’t manage to even sound sorry?” That was Annie. Lips quirked playfully, eyes focused on one Moore and one Moore alone. 

Both brothers blinked, before Stack grinned wider, while that scowl on Smoke’s face?  Deepened. While his eyes really focused in on Annie for the first time. 

“Nah, baby,” Stack winked at Pearline. Watched her damn near melt into the seat. “We cousins.” 

Smoke wasn’t saying shit. He was just looking. At dark skin and big curls and full lips. Looking at a solid build, that was sitting up high in that jeep. Looking at big eyes that felt like they could see through him.

He felt…hot. Like he wanted to fidget. And Elijah didn’t fidget.

“I’m Stack,” The younger Moore was still talking, because one glance at his brother had told him Smoke wasn’t gon’ be no help. “And this Smoke.” Stack moved a step closer to the car. “We keep eerbody safe around here and as fine as y’all is, I know y’all gon’ cause a commotion when y’all get out this jeep. I can’t allow no disruption like that beautiful’s. It’s dangerous. That’s why y’all gotta go.” 

Pearline’s ass started giggling. 

Smoke didn’t give Annie anything to laugh at though. He still hadn’t even responded to her question actually.

That smile that’d been on her lips lessened, one brow raising when she asked, “I got something on my face?” 

Smoke frowned deeper and for a reason he couldn’t explain, that irritation Stack had been causing all morning grew. His fingers twitched at his sides, arms came up as he crossed them. Like he needed to ground himself or something. 

“Nah.” 

Annie’s brow rose higher at the word. At the one dry word and sharp glare being aimed her way. 

Okay then. 

She’d been intrigued, for like a minute, but she wasn’t in the habit of forcing conversation — nor did she appreciate him mugging her, like he was offended she’d even spoken to him at all.

Her lips pursed as she broke their stare, gaze drifting back to security guard number one. 

Can’t get ‘em all girl. Shake it off. Finer niggas exist. 

Stack was talking as Annie tuned back into the world around her.

“How ‘bout ‘dis,” Stack pulled his phone out. “We let y’all park here, but y’all give us y’all numbers, so if sumn happen, you can reach us.” 

He was saying y’all, but really was just looking at Pearline. 

“Promise we’ll come runnin’ to y’all rescue.” 

Annie didn’t know if Pearline would hand her number over or not. Half of the time, her friend flirted just to flirt — not because she was actually interested in getting to know anybody. 

What Annie did know was that she wouldn’t be handing over a damn thing. Not that Smoke wanted a number from her anyways. 

When Annie’s lips pursed harder, it wasn’t due to the sting of rejection. It was because even though she’d looked away, his glare was still boring into the side of her head. She could feel it and it was starting to get on her nerves because the fuck was his problem? 

As if he heard her thoughts, his voice suddenly rang out.

“You don’t gotta give him nothin’.” 

All eyes went to Smoke. Stack frowning and opening his mouth, getting ready to rebuttal. Pearline blinking, like she’d just remembered there was another twin standing there. Annie’s head turning, stare locking with his for a long millisecond before he looked away and directed his gaze to Pearline. 

Annie found it funny how that glare suddenly lessened. How his mouth opened and magically created more than one word now that he wasn’t looking at her. 

Clearly I did something to him in the past life. Fuck it. Not my problem. 

That’s what Annie told herself as irritation thrummed in her chest. 

Meanwhile, Smoke was reaching for his brother as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the girl in the passenger seat. 

Forcing his eyes to stay on the girl in the passenger seat. Because the one in the drivers seat? He ain’t like her. 

Ain’t like how she talked to him all casual and soft when he walked up. How she pressed him, when he didn’t respond. ‘Cause strangers didn’t do that with Smoke; joke, press, hell — make conversation at all really. Most people gave him a wide berth and reserved the talking for Stack.

He ain’t like how she looked at him either; like she was curious. Like she already knew some shit about him he’d never revealed.

And he definitely ain’t like when she looked away from him — like she was writing him off. How most people did. 

Smoke decided right then and there, that he ain’t like nothing ‘bout her. She, whoeva’ she was, made him feel too fuckin’ big for his skin and he was ready to get back to the booth. 

Where he would have been in the first place, if not for Stack. 

When Smoke continued speaking it was abrupt and short. Voice still flat as he looked at Pearline — 

“He sorry ‘bout holdin’ you up. Enjoy ‘da plaza.” 

And then he turned. Hand wrapped firmly around Stack’s shoulder to pull his brother with him and gaze pointedly not looking back at that baby blue jeep in the process. 

Even if some part of him, deep deep down, felt like he wanted to. 

“Damn Smoke, let me go! She like me! Aye — I’m tryna do my job and secure some shit and you fuckin’ it up! Ima write yo’ ass up for insubordination!” 

Stack’s voice travelled across the parking lot as Annie and Pearline watched the brothers retreat.

The older Moore had Stack gripped up tight, long gait bringing both of them towards a small booth Annie had never paid much attention to.

He wasn’t rushing away, but he didn’t slow down. Nor did he bother responding to Stack.

Annie’s lips twisted, the annoyance she’d felt in her chest curling up and settling in as she watched them. 

He hadn’t looked over his shoulder once. Hadn’t spared her them a glance after he cut into the conversation and then retreated. 

He was…rude. Annie didn’t like that. Ain’t like him.

Ain’t like how he’d managed to capture her attention without trying. 

Ain’t like that he didn’t do anything with it when he had it. That he hadn’t bothered to throw more than one word in her direction, like he was to good to talk to her or something. Too good to be polite.

And she definitely ain’t like how he looked at her. Face frowned up. Eyes unreadable, like she’d committed some offense against him she knew nothing about. 

Yeah. She ain’t like nothing about him actually. 

“They were coo’.” 

Pearline’s words had Annie pulling her eyes away from the security guards to look over at her best friend incredulously. 

“Uh no. They weren’t.” 

Pearline had pulled the visor down to touch up her gloss. Was currently popping her lips together as her gaze darted towards Annie and then back to the small mirror. “Well my twin was. He was cute too — in a goofy fuckboy kinda way.” 

She said it like that made sense, popping her lips once more before shutting the visor and giving Annie her full attention. “Yours a little rude though. How he gon’ pull my man away before he could get my number?” 

“Pearline —” Annie said it like ‘please stop playing’ “—you were not about to give that boy yo’ number.” 

“And was.” Pearline crossed her arms, charms from the bracelet wrapped around her wrist jingling in time with the movement. “Security guards need love too, Annie. Besides — he look like he can eat the fuck outta some pus-”

“Alright.” Annie stopped her before she got started. “Give that man yo’ number if you want to.”

“And you need to give his brother yours. Then we can double date.” Her friends eyes lit up before Annie snuffed that light right on out. 

“It ain’t gon’ ever happen.” She shook her head. Nose wrinkling. Eyes almost drifting back across the lot before she caught herself. “Like you said, he’s rude. Can’t speak, but was lookin’ at me like he wanted to fight or something —”

“Or like he wanted to fuck.” 

“That literally wouldn’t be any better Pearline,” Annie’s voice was dry. Skin a little hot. “You do whateva’ you want with the rent-a-cop, but don’t include me.” 

“Mmhm,” Pearline watched as Annie gathered her purse, like she was ready to get out of the car and end this conversation. “You ain’t gotta front. I saw you looking at him, friend.” 

“Lapse in judgment,” Annie’s response was quick. A little too quick, maybe. “I don’t like nothing that’s mean and you already know that.”

It was true. She didn’t do rude. Nonchalant. Or disrespectful. And she’d decided Smoke was all of that. 

“Now let’s go, before ain’t nothing good left in here.” 

Just like that, Pearline switched gears, remembering the reason they’d come out in the first place. The summer sale at D Lady’s Boutique. The name could use some work but the clothes? All sizes, all styles, and the prices hit every time. 

“Awe shit, you right.” Pearline damn near jumped down from the jeep. “Let’s go, because I need them shoes I saw on their site, and I will sling a hoe for ‘em.” 

Annie was only too glad that they were finally directing their attention away from any and everything security related. 

“So, what if that was my future wife? How you gon’ sleep at night, knowing you fucked that up?” 

“She wasn’t yo’ future nothin’ Stack.”

Smoke was back in the booth, arms crossed, lips pinched, stare directed straight out at the parking lot. 

He was doing his job. Watching. And if a lot of that watching was directed towards D Lady’s boutique, so the fuck what? 

“You ‘ont know that, though,” Stack insisted, leaning in like he was really proving a point. 

“I do know that.” Smoke cut his eyes sharply to the side. “Didn’t you meet yo’ future wife already last week? Wasn’t one of yo’ future wives tryna’ key our car yesterday?” 

Stack frowned, “You always wonna bring up old shit.” 

Smoke didn’t respond. Just directed his gaze back across the parking lot. 

He’d seen her hop out the jeep and go into the shop 15 minutes ago and Smoke thought it was stupid — how she left her car open and unattended like that. If it came with doors, fuck was the point of taking them off? 

He added it to the list of shit he didn’t like about her — the one he’d been silently compiling in his head. 

“You know what I think?” 

“Don’t care.” 

“I think you jus’ hatin’ nigga,” Stack continued anyways. “My smooth ass was ‘bout to get ‘dat number, while you was fumblin’.” 

“Fumblin’?” Smoke’s whole head turned. “I ain’t fumble shit. Ain’t want shit either.” 

“Righttttt.” 

Smoke blinked at his brother. And then turned forward again. 

“You ain’t gotta lie, Smoke.” Stack was grinning now. “I think she was fuckin’ wit’ you, actually.” 

Smoke grunted, eyes narrowing just barely in the corners. 

He didn’t care who was or wasn’t ‘fuckin’ wit’ him’. Wasn’t concerned with most of the trivial shit other 23 year olds were. Since he’d been a teen, the older Moore had only three priorities: staying alive, keeping his brother alive, and making enough money so him and Stack didn’t end up somewhere out on their asses. 

His twin hustled with him, always. Understood the grind to a certain extent, but Stack wasn’t the oldest. Ain’t feel the weight of responsibility like Smoke did. Ain’t understand how nothing could derail Elijah from his mission. 

He was focused. 

How you work with the public, when you can’t manage to even sound sorry?

Smoke’s jaw clenched. Not hard. Just enough. 

I got something on my face?

He shifted his weight. Blamed the movement on the hard ass chair he was sitting in. 

“So you ‘ont like her? The thick one?” 

The older Moore’s face didn’t change. That didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the irritation crawling under his skin at Stack’s words. 

“I don’t know her. Don’t wonna know her. Seem like she got a attitude problem anyways.” Smoke felt like he was talking too much, so he shut up. 

“Man that girl ain’t have no attitude,” Stack smacked his lips. “She was tryna flirt wit’ yo’ uptight ass. But whateva’, stay sleep if you want to, ima get her friend regardless. That’s wifey nigga, I’m telling you.”

Smoke just shook his head, stare still on that jeep, mind flashing back to when she’d looked away from him. Like she was dismissing him. Like she couldn’t be bothered. 

She probably stuck up as fuck. 

Smoke added it to his list of dislikes, right along with her eyes, her mouth, her clear lack of awareness when it came to safety, and the way she’d made him feel. 

Slow. Awkward.

His jaw clenched again. 

“On a serious note though,” Smoke looked over as Stack started speaking. Was almost grateful for the distraction, until Stack kept speaking. “Listen to ‘dis and tell me if this shit hot or not. I been working on it for like…the past three minutes.” 

The younger Moore sat up in his seat, shoulder hitting Smoke’s in the process. And then he started banging on the ‘desk’ in front of them, whistle slapping against his chest, head nodding along with the beat he was creating as his mouth opened. 

“Me and my brotha’ bitch,

 We top flight for sho’ —” 

It was loud. The sigh Smoke let out through his nose. 

“— but he gotta get some game

 Cause he, scarin’ the hoesss, ” 

Smoke’s eyes closed, the same vein from earlier throbbing on que. 

Stack just grinned at his brother’s reaction,  nodding his head harder and rapping louder to his beat. 

“I just met my future wife and we gon’ be couple goalsss,

Smoke can’t relate, cause my brotha’ a lil slowwww…”

*picture the scene fading to black* 

A/n ~ If you made it to the end, I hope you enjoyeddd! I think this is the first thing I’ve written where I actually really like my execution of Smoke lmao so yay for me ☺️ Anywaysss, Happy Thursdayyyyy 🫶🏾 my results on the poll will determine what I drop next 👀

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@saradika-graphics on dividers 🫶🏾

Visionaries: @lizbehave @thebumblebeesworld @shereeluvssinners @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @bananajoeclone @aellesa @atpeaceinthestars @underated345-blog @hotebonynearby @hdfen2474 @chromexbarbie @honeytoffee @mmbee675 @waitingtobreatheagain @mikaelsonharem7 @cocochannelmoi

Smoke Visionaries: @brownskincheyenne @meannaim @blue4everrsworld @thedutifulone @partylikemajima @ladychzzcake @shamansha @og-goddesstrill @naibaby

the halls of the golden city no longer sounded like home. they echoed now. not with the ancient rhythms passed down by your foremothers. not with the low, ancestral chants that once settled over the palace like fog at dawn. no — they echoed with the weight of new boots on sacred stone. boots that did not belong to a king.

they belonged to a conqueror.

erik stevens — no, he called himself n’jadaka now — had taken the throne barely two weeks ago. the blood from the ritual combat had not yet fully dried in the sacred pool, and yet the council already bowed their heads to him, lips tight with fear. there had been no second trial. no challenge. the mountain tribe stood down. t’challa’s body had vanished with the river.

you’d known t’challa since you were children. you used to spar with him beneath the shade of the elder tree, both of you too proud to admit when you’d bruised. he trusted you to hold the long-view strategy for wakanda in your hands — one of the few civilians allowed in the high council chambers. strategist. advisor. loyalist. and now… traitor, by some mouths. prisoner, by others.

but erik hadn’t thrown you to the dungeons.

instead, he kept you close.

“a mind like yours shouldn’t rot in a cell,” he’d said, the day after the coronation. he’d spoken it low in your ear, like a secret only you were worthy of. “nah… i want you right where i can see you.”

and now here you were — standing in the war room, your thick frame wrapped in deep blue and gold robes, tension stiff across your shoulders. the rich fabric clung to the slope of your hips, accentuating the body that no uniform could hide. you could feel his gaze on you before you even turned around.

“what you think, strategist?” erik’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. deep, deliberate, heavy with that oakland-born bite. “we hit london first? or new york?”

you didn’t look at him right away. instead, you traced the holographic map glowing across the table with your fingers, watching the borders pulse with potential violence. cities were marked in red. colonizer capitals. your jaw tensed.

“wakanda does not conquer,” you said, carefully. not too soft. not too sharp. “that is not our way.”

“yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “and where that get y’all? watchin’ while your brothers and sisters got they necks stepped on. wakanda been hiding.”

he circled behind you like a panther. not quite touching. but close enough that your skin prickled where his heat brushed you. you refused to flinch. he wanted to see you rattle. it was the game, now. every day — the game.

“this ain’t about revenge,” he said, lowering his voice. “this about balance. and power.”

“power built on blood doesn’t last,” you replied, turning finally to face him. your eyes locked. his were molten — dark and unreadable, but sparking with something cruel and magnetic. “and what you’re building… it’s made of bones.”

he didn’t blink. just smiled slow, head tilting.

“so?” he asked, tongue dragging across the edge of his teeth. “that bother you?”

he was too close now. tall, broad, shirt open at the chest. gold fangs flashing beneath full lips. skin dusted in the faintest sheen of sweat and sun, each raised kill mark down his chest a monument to pain — and victory. you hated how magnetic he was. how his presence filled the air so fully it pushed everything else out. his scent was warm metal and cedar. his voice was gravity.

“you loyal to t’challa,” he said, voice dipped low again. “i know that. but you still here. still breathin’. still dressin’ like you got somewhere to be.”

his eyes dragged down your figure — from the tight fold of your waist wrap, across the swell of your hips, to where your thighs brushed under soft fabric. you shifted. not out of discomfort — but because you could feel how intently he watched you.

“you tryna prove somethin’?” he murmured. “or you just don’t know where else you fit now?”

you straightened, spine like steel.

“i serve wakanda,” you said. “not the man who sits on the throne.”

his laugh was soft, almost amused. but there was no kindness in it.

“sound like you tryna convince yourself.”

each day after that followed a pattern. you studied maps, advised on diplomatic approaches you didn’t believe in, and fed him half-truths through clenched teeth. still, he kept you near. always asking for your perspective, always testing your loyalty. his soldiers looked at you with suspicion, but they didn’t touch you. not without his permission.

he was possessive like that. even when he didn’t say it out loud.

and slowly — sickeningly — you started to understand him.

not agree. never that. but understand.

how anger had carved itself into him, root-deep. how power was the only language he’d ever been taught. he wielded it like a weapon, sharp and beautiful. and when he wasn’t using it to dominate a room, he used it on you — with whispers, glances, and challenges he knew you’d rise to.

he never tried to force you. he didn’t need to. erik killmonger was more dangerous than that — because he made you want to play his game.

he’d lean close during briefings, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured critiques. he’d stand at the top of the royal steps while you debated councilmen, watching your every word like a test. and when you succeeded — when your voice swayed the elders just enough — he’d nod, slow and proud, like he was claiming you for it.

“look at you,” he’d say, later, while passing you alone in the garden corridors. “still tryna save people who would’ve let you die with the old king.”

you hated how deep those words burrowed. hated how you still walked the halls after dark, pulse racing at the sound of his voice in the distance.

one night, weeks in, you found yourself summoned.

not by a guard. not by a formal scroll.

just a voice in the corridor. soft. direct. one word.

“come.”

when you stepped into the throne room, it was empty but for him. torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the black stone floor. the panther statue loomed silent behind the throne.

erik sat on it like he was born there. legs spread. arms relaxed. gaze dark and direct.

you didn’t bow.

you didn’t speak.

he studied you in silence for a long moment, then motioned you forward with two fingers.

“you believe i don’t deserve this,” he said, voice level. “say it.”

your throat tightened. but you forced yourself steady.

“i believe your rule is built on a lie,” you said. “wakanda’s legacy is not yours to twist.”

he didn’t move. didn’t blink. but his voice dropped, slow and rough.

“and yet here you stand.”

your lips parted — to argue, maybe. or to defend yourself. but no words came.

“i ain’t stupid,” he said, rising from the throne. “i know what this is.”

he stepped toward you again, each stride deliberate.

“you hate me,” he said, stopping just inches away. “but you watch me. every time. you listen. you fight back.”

his hand didn’t touch you. but it hovered just near your jaw. his heat was a weight. your breath quickened.

“ain’t no loyalty in that,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “that’s desire.”

you said nothing.

but you didn’t step back.

he smiled. slow. teeth sharp.

“loyal little queen’s dog,” he said, voice dripping heat. “you ever wonder how it’d feel to break?”

your pulse thudded between your thighs.

but your voice stayed even.

“never,” you whispered.

his eyes dropped — from your lips, to your chest, to the curve of your hips.

“we’ll see.”

his fingers ghosted along your jawline, calloused and hot, but still not touching. erik didn’t rush. no — he never did. dominance for him was earned in slow, suffocating inches. he wanted to watch you squirm under your own restraint. test the shape of your resistance until it shattered on him.

“ain’t gotta say yes,” he murmured, voice low and thick like honey-drenched smoke. “but you ain’t leavin’ either. so what that tell me, hm?”

his thumb dragged — barely — across the curve of your lower lip. your breath hitched. he felt it.

you hated him.

but you wanted him more.

you turned your head just enough to break the spell, stepping back one pace. but that inch was his permission — and he followed, advancing like he owned the ground beneath your feet. your back met the edge of the throne before you realized he’d corralled you there. trapped between carved stone and muscle-thick heat, your body buzzed like war drums. your thighs clenched without command.

“mm,” he laughed, low in his chest. “there she go. wakanda’s finest. thick as the land itself, still actin’ like she ain’t dyin’ to break for me.”

you didn’t respond.

not with words.

you reached for him instead — finally, with fingers curling into the front of his open vest. not a surrender. not exactly. just… the beginning of something too old for language.

his mouth met yours like fire. brutal, claiming. teeth clashing, lips hot. it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was a fight dressed in heat, breath on breath, until you moaned into his mouth and he groaned against your teeth. the taste of him was sweat, blood, and something darker — control.

his hand came down on your ass with a sharp, open slap.

you gasped, clinging harder.

“yeah,” he growled, sliding one thick thigh between yours, forcing them open. “you like that, huh? all that royal pride, but this fat lil pussy tryna talk to me different.”

you rocked against his leg before you even realized it — heat pooling deep between your thighs, clit desperate for friction. the throne room was silent but for your breath and the echo of his voice wrapping around your moans.

“what would t’challa say, huh?” he teased, hand curling around your hip as he pulled you harder against his leg. “his loyal strategist grindin’ on a nigga she swore to kill.”

you bit your lip, tried to turn your face — but he caught your chin in one hand and held you there.

“nah,” he said, low. “you look at me.”

his eyes pinned you in place, molten and unmoving. you couldn’t look away if you tried. not now. not when his fingers slipped beneath your wrap and found your bare skin, dragging slow up the inside of your thigh.

“this what you been hidin’ under all them robes?” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “this fat-ass pussy been waitin’ on me, huh?”

you whined — not in surrender, but need.

he chuckled deep.

“bend over.”

you hesitated.

his gaze sharpened. darkened.

“ngenze njalo.”

the words hit your core like a flame. do as i say.

you obeyed.

hands braced against the throne, you bent for him — thick ass high, legs wide. you heard the hitch in his breath as he stepped back to take in the sight.

then—

smack.

his palm cracked across your cheek again. not too hard. but enough.

“keep that arch,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through your folds from behind. “mm… this shit wet as fuck. and i ain’t even fucked you yet.”

you moaned, low and shivering.

he knelt behind you, breathing hot over your inner thigh. his mouth pressed to your pussy — not kissing, tasting. tongue flat and deliberate, slapping your clit before sucking it with slow precision.

“fuck—!” you gasped, knuckles white on stone.

he didn’t rush. took his time. tongue moving like he owned the rhythm of your body. your thighs trembled, fat and soft against his jaw. he moaned into you like the taste alone was divine.

“you ridin’ me tonight,” he said, rising behind you again, voice thick with hunger. “on my throne. i want them pretty titties bouncin’ while i watch you fall apart.”

you turned as he shed the rest of his vest — then his pants.

his dick hung heavy, thick, the kind of size that made you pause. covered in veins, head dark and already leaking. he stroked it slow while he stared you down.

“come on, queen,” he murmured. “show me what loyalty look like now.”

you climbed onto the throne — his throne — hands braced on his chest, thick thighs spreading over him as you straddled his lap. his hands found your hips, pulling you down so the head of his cock teased your entrance. you both breathed ragged.

then — you sank down.

inch by inch.

his mouth dropped open, teeth grit.

“god damn,” he hissed. “this pussy heavy as fuck.”

you rode him slow at first — adjusting to his size, your walls clenching tight. his eyes never left your face. not once. his hands guided you, rhythm building with every bounce of your thick ass. you bounced harder. louder.

smack.

his palm slapped your ass again. then again. red prints bloomed.

“take that dick,” he growled. “look at you — thick lil loyalist, takin’ a real king’s cock.”

you whimpered, rolling your hips faster, sweat sliding down your throat. your tits bounced, full and heavy, catching his eyes with every thrust.

“say who this pussy belong to,” he demanded.

you moaned, too far gone to think, riding him like salvation. like war. like you hated him — and loved the way he destroyed you.

he grabbed your throat.

“say it.”

you whispered it.

“…you.”

his eyes lit with fire.

he flipped you in one swift motion — your back now against the cold stone of the throne, legs spread as he pounded into you, harder, deeper, cock hitting every spot like he knew you already.

you were nothing now. just gasps. heat. slick. sweat.

he grunted, one hand pressing on your lower belly as he fucked you deeper.

“you feel that?” he rasped. “i’m in there. ain’t no goin’ back now, mama.”

you clawed at him, body coiling tight.

your climax ripped through you like thunder — back arching, mouth open in a silent cry.

he followed seconds later, spilling deep inside you with a growl, hands fisting in your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

you laid there afterward — still on the throne, legs sprawled, his breath heavy on your neck.

he kissed your shoulder once.

then again.

not gentle. not soft.

just… his.

✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.