Untitled

The Wing Incident

The day had started with a hangover and ended with his boss, Mr. Henderson, looking at him over the rim of his glasses like Elias was something he'd scraped off his shoe. "Elias," he'd said, his voice tired and disappointed, "you can't keep showing up late because you were out 'networking' until 3 AM. This is a bar, not a nightclub. And you can't tell the new waitress her ass looks 'good enough to bite' in her first hour. We talked about this."

Elias had just nodded, jaw tight, knowing Mr. Henderson was right but hating him for it anyway. He loved his job as manager at The Southern Pour, loved the music and the energy and the way he could work a room like a politician, but sometimes his mouth moved faster than his brain. Today was one of those days.

By the time he pulled his truck onto his ten acres of land, the old farmhouse silhouetted against the setting sun, Elias was ready to burn the whole town down. All he wanted was peace, quiet, and the one thing that could fix any bad day: chicken wings from Wing Dynasty. Not just any wings—their signature "Delta Heat" wings, spicy enough to make you sweat and cry in the best way, expensive enough to feel like a real treat after a shit day like today.

He ordered them through the app, adding extra napkins and a side of ranch like a civilized man, then flopped onto his leather sofa to wait. The house was too quiet, too big for just him, but he liked it that way. Space to breathe, space to be loud without pissing anyone off, space to exist without Elijah's judgy cat eyes watching his every move.

Forty-five minutes later, his phone buzzed. "Your DoorDash order has arrived." Elias grabbed some cash from the jar on the counter—always tip in cash, his mama taught him that—and headed for the door.

The kid on his porch couldn't have been more than nineteen, skinny in that way that suggested he lived on energy drinks and regret. He was holding the Wing Dynasty bag, but something was off. It looked... light. Too light for the twenty wings Elias had ordered.

"'Sup," Elias said, holding out the cash. "Everything good in there?"

The kid shrugged, already reaching for the money. "Yeah, man. All here."

Elias's eyes narrowed. He'd managed enough restaurants to know when something wasn't right. "Nah, hold up. Let me check."

The kid's shoulders tightened. "It's fine, dude. I just delivered it."

"Dude?" Elias's voice dropped, that Sippi' accent thickening with irritation. "I ain't your 'dude.' And I said let me check the bag."

"It's fine," the kid insisted, backing away slightly. "I gotta go."

Elias stepped forward, blocking his path to the car. "You ain't going nowhere until I check my damn wings."

The kid's eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at Elias. "Look, man, I don't want any trouble—"

"Then open the bag," Elias said, his voice low now, dangerous. "Before I open it for you."

For a moment, they stood there, tension thick as Mississippi humidity in July. Then the kid sighed and held out the bag. "Fine. Whatever. But they're all there."

Elias snatched the bag and opened it. One look inside and his blood started to boil. There were maybe fifteen wings in there, not twenty. And one of them—oh, hell no—one of them had a bite taken out of it.

"You motherfucker," Elias breathed, holding up the half-eaten wing. "You ate my goddamn wings?"

The kid's face went pale. "It was an accident! I dropped one and—"

"You dropped one and decided to taste test it?" Elias stepped forward, backing the kid up against his own car. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know what a half-eaten wing looks like?"

"It was just one!" the kid squeaked. "I'll pay you back!"

"I don't want your damn money!" Elias roared, grabbing the kid by the front of his shirt. "I want my wings! I want my evening back! I want you to not be a thieving little shit who thinks he can just help himself to other people's food!"

The kid started crying, which somehow made Elias even angrier. "Please, man, I'm sorry—"

"Sorry don't put wings on my plate!" Elias shoved him against the car, hard. "Sorry don't fix the fact that I had a shit day and the one thing I was looking forward to—THE ONE THING—you decided to help yourself to like it was yours!"

That's when he threw the first punch. It wasn't his best work—he was too angry for proper form—but it connected with the kid's jaw, sending his head snapping back against the car door. The second punch was better, more controlled, landing right in the kid's stomach. He doubled over, gasping, and Elias might have gone for a third if Mrs. Johnson from next door hadn't appeared on her porch with her phone out.

"Elias Moore, you stop that right now!" she yelled. "I'm calling the police!"

Elias froze, fist still raised, breathing heavy. The kid was sobbing on the ground, holding his stomach, and suddenly Elias felt like the biggest asshole in the world. "Shit," he muttered, stepping back. "Shit."

But it was too late. Within ten minutes, Jackson's finest were pulling up his driveway, lights flashing but no sirens (thank God for small mercies). The cops who arrived knew him—they knew all the Moores, really—but their faces were grim as they handcuffed him and read him his rights.

"Really, Elias?" Officer Davis said, shaking his head as he led Elias to the squad car. "Over some chicken wings?"

"He stole them!" Elias insisted, his Delta accent thick with indignation. "Ate one right in the bag! You can't let people get away with that kinda shit!"

Officer Davis just sighed, like he'd heard it all before. And maybe he had. This wasn't Elias's first ride in the back of a squad car, though it was the first time the offense involved poultry.

The booking process was a special kind of hell. They took his belt, his shoelaces, his dignity. They fingerprinted him like he was some kind of real criminal, not just a man defending the sanctity of his dinner. The holding cell smelled like piss and desperation, and Elias sat there on the metal bench, head in his hands, wondering how his life had gotten so off track.

When they finally let him make his call, he debated who to dial. Elijah would lecture him for an hour straight. His mama would cry. His aunt would probably say he had it coming. In the end, he called no one, just posted his own bail and slunk out of the station at 3 AM like a criminal.

Two weeks later, he was standing before Judge Martinez, a woman who'd seen Elias in her courtroom more times than she cared to count. She looked at him over her glasses, her expression weary.

"Mr. Moore," she said, shuffling through his file. "Assault. Over a food delivery. Is there anything you'd like to say for yourself?"

"He stole my wings, Your Honor," Elias said, knowing even as he said it how pathetic it sounded.

Judge Martinez sighed. "Mr. Moore, I've had you in here for fighting at bars, for disturbing the peace, for reckless driving... but this might just be the most ridiculous offense yet. You assaulted a nineteen-year-old kid over chicken wings?"

"He ate them!" Elias insisted, his voice rising. "Right in the bag! Like he thought I wouldn't notice!"

The judge rubbed her temples. "I'm sentencing you to twelve months of probation, fifty hours of community service, and"—she paused, looking at him over her glasses—"mandatory anger management classes. Twice a week. Starting tomorrow."

Elias's jaw dropped. "Anger management? For what? Defending my dinner?"

"For punching a teenager who may or may not have eaten one of your chicken wings," Judge Martinez said firmly. "And if I see you in my courtroom again during those twelve months, you'll be spending some quality time in the county jail. Are we clear?"

"Yeah," Elias muttered, already plotting how he'd get out of it.

The first anger management class was everything Elias had expected and worse. It was held in a community center room that smelled like stale coffee and desperation, filled with people who looked just as miserable as he felt. There was a guy who'd beaten up his girlfriend's dog, a woman who'd thrown a brick through her ex's car window, and a kid who kept setting fires in trash cans. Elias sat in the back, arms crossed, radiating "don't talk to me" energy like it was his job.

And then there was Dr. Robinson. She wasn't what Elias expected at all. A Black woman in her late forties, dressed in a sharp pantsuit and looking like she could kill him with her stare, she stood at the front of the room with a clipboard and an expression that said she'd seen it all and wasn't impressed.

"Welcome," she said, her voice cutting through the room's low murmur. "I'm Dr. Robinson, and I'll be facilitating your anger management journey."

Elias snorted. Journey. Like this was some kind of spiritual quest instead of court-ordered bullshit.

Dr. Robinson's eyes landed on him immediately. "Something you'd like to share with the class?"

"Nah," Elias said, sinking lower in his chair. "I'm good."

"Good," she said, but her eyes stayed on him. "Because we're here to do some real work. Anger isn't just an emotion—it's a choice. A response. And you can learn to make different choices."

The class dragged on forever, with people sharing their feelings and Dr. Robinson nodding like she actually gave a shit. Elias tuned most of it out, just counting the minutes until he could escape back to his house and his peace and quiet.

At the end of class, as everyone was filing out, Dr. Robinson called his name. "Elias. A word."

Elias considered pretending he didn't hear her, but something in her tone made him stop. "Yeah?"

"I read your file," she said, leaning against her desk. "The wing incident."

Elias felt his face flush. "Man, fuck this. He stole my wings! You can't just let people get away with that shit!"

Dr. Robinson raised an eyebrow. "And your response was to assault him?"

"He was stealing! What was I supposed to do, let him walk away with my dinner?"

"You could have called the company. You could have requested a refund. You could have chosen not to let a minor incident ruin your evening and land you back in court."

Elias shrugged, defensive. "Different people handle things different ways."

"True," Dr. Robinson said, studying him. "But your ways keep landing you in my courtroom. So we're going to try something different. Something outside these walls."

"I'm good," Elias said immediately. "I'll just... come to class. Do my time."

"I'm assigning you some homework," Dr. Robinson continued, ignoring him completely. "There's a place about twenty minutes outside of town that offers goat yoga. Every Saturday morning. I want you to go."

Elias stared at her. "Goat what?"

"Goat yoga," she repeated, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Yoga with goats. It's supposed to be very calming. Very grounding."

"You want me to do yoga? With goats?" Elias couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Is this a joke?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Dr. Robinson asked, her expression dead serious. "You need to find a way to manage your anger that doesn't involve your fists. If traditional therapy isn't working, maybe something... unconventional will."

"This is bullshit," Elias muttered, already heading for the door. "I ain't doing no damn goat yoga."

"Either you go to goat yoga," Dr. Robinson called after him, "or I recommend to Judge Martinez that your probation be revoked. Your choice."

Elias stopped, hand on the doorknob, and considered his options. Jail or goat yoga. It wasn't even a choice, really.

"Fine," he said, turning back to face her. "I'll go. But you better believe I'm gonna hate every minute of it."

"I don't care if you hate it," Dr. Robinson said, smiling now. "I just care if you go."

As Elias walked out to his truck, already planning how he could fake an illness or find some other way out of goat yoga, he had no idea that his life was about to change in ways he never saw coming. All he could think about was the injustice of it all—the ridiculousness of being punished for defending what was his, and now being forced to do yoga with farm animals like some kind of city slicker who didn't know better.

"Goat yoga," he muttered, starting his truck. "What kind of bullshit is that?"

—

The First Encounter

Saturday morning arrived with the kind of oppressive heat that made Elias want to strip naked and sit in his freezer until October. Instead, he was pulling on a pair of $150 Lululemon pants he'd bought specifically to spite Dr. Robinson and this whole ridiculous situation. If he was gonna be forced to do goat yoga, he was damn sure gonna look good doing it.

The farm was exactly what Elias expected—a white picket fence, a red barn that looked like it belonged on a postcard, and a sign painted in cheerful letters that read "Sunny Meadows Farm: Home of Happy Goats & Yoga!" Elias parked his truck, killed the engine, and sat there for a minute, seriously considering just driving away and taking his chances with Dr. Robinson and Judge Martinez.

"Nah," he muttered, running a hand over his fade. "Might as well get this shit over with."

The yoga area was set up in a grassy field behind the barn, mats arranged in neat rows with a small platform at the front for the instructor. Most of the participants were women—white women, mostly, dressed in expensive athletic wear and chatting excitedly like this was some kind of adventure instead of a court-ordered punishment.

"Hi! Welcome!" A bubbly blonde woman with a ponytail that bounced when she walked approached him immediately. "I'm Brittany! I'll be your instructor today. Is this your first time?"

Elias looked her up and down, unimpressed. "What gave it away?"

Brittany's smile didn't falter. "Just a guess! We're so excited to have you. The goats love new energy."

"I bet they do," Elias said, finding a mat at the back of the group. "Don't get too excited. I'm just here for the court order."

Brittany's eyes widened slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Well, whatever brings you here, we're glad to have you. Just find a spot, and we'll get started in a few minutes."

Elias spread out his designer mat—black, of course, with a subtle logo that cost way too much, and stood with his arms crossed, watching the other participants stretch and chat. They all seemed so genuine, so earnest, like they actually wanted to be here stretching with goats instead of sleeping in on a Saturday morning like normal people.

"Alright, everyone!" Brittany called from the platform. "Find your mats and let's begin with some deep breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

Elias rolled his eyes but did as she said, mostly because he didn't want to draw attention to himself. The breathing part wasn't so bad, actually. Kinda calming, in a way. But then the goats came.

They poured out of the barn like a furry flood of chaos, big goats and small goats, spotted goats and solid-colored goats, all of them moving with that weird combination of grace and clumsiness that goats have. They immediately started causing trouble, jumping on mats, nibbling on yoga blocks, and generally making a mess of Brittany's carefully planned session.

"And remember," Brittany said, as if nothing unusual was happening, "goats are very intuitive. They'll come to you if you're open to their energy."

Elias snorted. "Ain't no energy here to be open to."

But as if summoned by his skepticism, one goat broke away from the herd. He was smaller than the others, with scruffy brown fur and horns that curved slightly backward, giving him a permanent look of mischief. His eyes were bright and intelligent, and he moved with a confidence that belied his size.

The goat made a beeline for Elias's mat.

"Oh no," Elias muttered. "Don't even think about it."

The goat ignored him completely, immediately trying to eat the corner of Elias's expensive yoga mat.

"Hey!" Elias shoved the goat away, gently at first. "Get off that. That cost more than your whole damn family at the meat market."

The goat—later revealed to be named Billy—just blinked slowly, then tried again, this time with more determination. Elias shoved him away again, a little harder this time.

"Man, what is wrong with you?" Elias asked, genuinely baffled. "Can't you see I'm trying to be miserable over here?"

Billy responded by headbutting Elias's shin, hard enough to make him grunt.

"Alright, that's it," Elias said, reaching down to grab the goat by whatever part he could reach. "You and me are gonna have a little talk."

But Billy was quick, darting away just as Elias's fingers closed around empty air. The goat trotted a few feet away, turned, and gave Elias a look that was pure sass before trotting back and trying to eat his mat again.

This went on for the entire session. Every time Elias tried to follow Brittany's instructions—downward dog, warrior pose, whatever the hell that twisting thing was called—Billy would be there, harassing him specifically. Eating his mat. Headbutting his legs. Trying to climb his back when he was in child's pose. The other participants were giggling and cooing over their goat interactions, but Elias? Elias was getting targeted.

"Man, get the hell away from me," Elias muttered, trying to hold a plank position while Billy attempted to climb onto his back. "You want me to cook you?"

Billy just bleated and tried harder, his little hooves finding purchase in the expensive fabric of Elias's Lullemon pants.

"I'm not playing with you," Elias warned, dropping to his knees to avoid being mounted. "I will dropkick you across this field. Don't think I won't."

The goat responded by licking Elias's face with a tongue that felt like sandpaper.

"Ugh! That's disgusting!" Elias wiped his face with the back of his hand, but he was laughing despite himself. "You nasty little nigga."

By the end of the session, Elias had interacted with Billy more than with any human there. He'd shoved the goat away at least a dozen times, dodged three headbutts, and narrowly avoided having his expensive yoga mat eaten. And through it all, Billy kept coming back for more, like Elias was some kind of Dr. Dolittle.

"And that's our time for today!" Brittany called, clapping her hands together. "Thank you all for coming! Don't forget to sign the guest book on your way out!"

Elias rolled up his mat—thankfully mostly intact—and headed for his truck, eager to get back to his house and his life without goats. But as he reached his truck, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Wait up!" It was one of the farm workers, a teenager with a face full of freckles and a panicked expression. "Have you seen Billy? He got out of his enclosure again."

Elias turned, searching the lot, and sure enough, there was Billy, trotting toward him like they were old friends. "This him?"

The farm worker nodded. "Yeah. He's always escaping. Mrs. Henderson says he's got Houdini blood in him."

"Well, he's right here," Elias said, gesturing to the goat who was now trying to eat his truck's tire. "Come get him before I change my mind about not dropkicking him."

The farm worker approached Billy cautiously, but the goat wasn't having it. He darted away, circling Elias's truck like he was casing it.

"Come on, Billy," the farm worker pleaded. "Time to go back."

Billy responded by jumping into Elias's backseat through the open door.

"Oh, fuck no," Elias muttered, peering into his truck at the goat who was now making himself comfortable on the expensive leather seats. "Get outta there."

Billy just blinked at him, then settled in like he planned to stay forever.

The farm worker sighed. "I'm so sorry. He does this sometimes. Just... let me get Mrs. Henderson. She'll know what to do."

Five minutes later, a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and dirt under her fingernails appeared beside Elias's truck. "I hear Billy's found himself a new home."

Elias gestured to his backseat, where Billy was now chewing on a discarded fast food bag. "He's not staying. I don't care how cute he is."

Mrs. Henderson smiled, like this was the most normal thing in the world. "Billy does what he wants. Always has. When he decides he likes someone, that's it. He's chosen you."

"Chosen me for what?" Elias asked, already dreading the answer. "To ruin my upholstery?"

"To be his person," Mrs. Henderson said. "Goats are like that. They pick who they pick."

"Well, he picked wrong," Elias said, reaching into the backseat to grab the goat. "I'm not a goat person. I'm not even a pet person."

Billy dodged his grasp, then headbutted his hand hard enough to make Elias yelp.

"See?" Mrs. Henderson said, smiling. "He likes you."

"He's got a funny way of showing it," Elias muttered, rubbing his hand.

Twenty minutes later, after much chasing and grabbing and dodging of headbutts, Billy was finally back in his enclosure. Elias climbed into his truck, exhausted and smelling like goat, he started the engine.

As he drove away, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Billy ( or he thought ) standing at the fence, watching him go. For a moment, Elias felt some regret, which was ridiculous because it was just a goat, and goats were stupid, and he was never coming back to Sunny Meadows Farm again.

"Good riddance," Elias muttered, turning onto the highway. "Hope you find some other sucker to harass."

But even as he said it, he knew he'd be back next Saturday. Court orders were a bitch like that.

Elias was halfway home when he heard it—a strange bleating sound coming from somewhere in his truck. He turned down the music, listening, and there it was again, clearer this time.

"No way," he said, glancing in his rearview mirror. "No fucking way."

But there he was, curled up on the floor behind the passenger seat like he'd been there the whole time: Billy, the escape artist goat, looking up at Elias with eyes that said, "What? You thought I'd actually stay there?"

Elias pulled over in a gas station parking lot and killed the engine, and just stared at the goat who had somehow, against all odds, been hiding in his truck.

"You got to be kidding me," Elias said, running a hand over his face. "This is some bullshit."

Billy bleated again, then jumped onto the passenger seat and tried to eat the dashboard.

As Elias sat there, goat in his truck, questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment, he had no idea that this was just the beginning. That this scrappy little goat with attitude problems and a talent for escape would change his life in ways he never saw coming.

All he could think was: "Judge Martinez is gonna love this."

—

The Unexpected Houseguest

The drive back home was a special kind of hell. Billy, having exhausted himself with his great escape, had curled up on the passenger seat and fallen asleep, occasionally letting out little bleats in his dreams. Every time Elias glanced over, the goat would twitch or kick his little legs, like he was chasing something in his sleep.

"You lucky you cute," Elias muttered, taking the exit toward his house. "And that I don't feel like explaining to Judge Martinez why I returned a goat with tire tracks on his back."

The sun was setting by the time he pulled into his driveway, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that would have been beautiful if Elias wasn't so damn annoyed. His house, old but solid, with a wraparound porch and more space than one man really needed, stood silhouetted against the fading light.

"Alright, little dude," Elias said, cutting the engine. "Let's get you back where you belong before you destroy my life."

But as Billy hopped out of the truck and started exploring the yard with the curiosity of a toddler who'd just discovered the word "no," Elias's phone rang. It was the farm.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual. "I have your escape artist."

"Oh, thank God!" It was Mrs. Henderson, and she sounded relieved. "We've been looking everywhere. Did you have any trouble catching him?"

"Not really," Elias lied, thinking of the twenty minutes he'd spent chasing Billy around a gas station parking lot. "He was just hiding in my truck."

"Well, bring him on back," Mrs. Henderson said. "We'll be here until dark."

"Actually," Elias said, glancing at Billy, who was now attempting to eat his mailbox, "I was thinking I could just bring him back tomorrow morning. Save y'all the trouble of staying open late."

There was a pause on the other end. "Oh. Well, we close at six on Saturdays. And we're not open on Sundays."

Elias checked his watch. 5:57 PM.

"Shit," he muttered. "You serious?"

"Afraid so," Mrs. Henderson said. "But if you just leave him in the barn, he'll be fine. We'll find him in the morning."

Elias looked at Billy, who had moved on from the mailbox to the decorative bushes beside his porch. "Yeah, I don't think so. He'll probably escape again and end up mayor of Jackson by morning."

Mrs. Henderson laughed. "He's something, isn't he? Well, I suppose he can stay with you tonight. Just make sure he doesn't get into anything he shouldn't."

"Yeah," Elias said dryly. "I'll do my best."

After hanging up, Elias stood there for a moment, watching Billy systematically destroy his landscaping. "Well," he said to the goat, "guess you're staying the night. But we got rules, you hear me? Rule number one: don't touch shit. Rule number two: don't eat shit. Rule number three: don't break shit. You think you can handle that?"

Billy responded by eating a rose bush.

"That's a no, then," Elias sighed, scooping up the goat before he could do any more damage. "Come on, you little demolition expert. Let's get you inside."

The moment Elias set Billy down in his entryway, chaos erupted. The goat, apparently energized by his brief nap, took off like a shot, exploring every room with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just been given the keys to the kingdom.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Elias chased after him. "This ain't the damn White House tour. Stay in one room."

Billy ignored him completely, making a beeline for the living room and immediately jumping onto Elias's expensive leather sofa with the grace of a gymnast.

"Oh, hell no," Elias said, rushing over. "Get off that."

Billy responded by prancing across the sofa, his little hooves leaving scuff marks on the leather, then jumping onto the coffee table and knocking over a stack of magazines.

"That's it," Elias said, scooping the goat up again. "You're going in time-out."

He carried Billy to the guest bathroom—the one with the tile floor and nothing expensive to destroy—and set him down inside. "Stay," he commanded, pointing a finger. "Don't move."

Billy blinked at him, then immediately started eating the bath mat.

"What the fuck," Elias muttered, closing the door and leaning against it. "What is wrong with you?"

He lasted about five minutes before guilt started to creep in. What if the goat got lonely? What if he hurt himself? What if he ate the entire bath mat and died of intestinal blockage?

"Damn it," Elias said, opening the door to find Billy standing on the toilet, trying to eat the toilet paper holder.

"That's it," Elias said, grabbing the goat again. "You're just gonna have to stay where I can see you."

For the next hour, Elias tried to go about his evening routine, checking emails, scrolling through social media, pretending he didn't have a goat in his house, but Billy made it impossible. The goat was everywhere at once, eating his houseplants, chewing on his shoes, and somehow getting his head stuck in a decorative vase that had been a housewarming gift from his mama.

"Jesus Christ," Elias said while holding Billy in a headlock, wrestling the vase off Billy's head. "How did you even—never mind. I don't wanna know."

By 8 PM, Elias was ready to admit defeat. He'd tried containment, he'd tried supervision, he'd tried pleading with a goat who clearly didn't speak English. Nothing worked. Billy was a force of nature, a furry four-legged natural disaster with a particular talent for destruction.

That's when he called Elijah.

"Yo," Elijah answered, his voice calm and measured as always. "What's up?"

"I need help," Elias said, watching Billy attempt to climb his curtains. "And don't you dare laugh."

"I'm already laughing," Elijah said, and Elias could hear it in his voice. "What kind of trouble you gotten yourself into this time?"

"I got a goat in my house."

Silence. Then, "You what?"

"A goat," Elias repeated, as if that explained everything. "From the goat yoga place. He escaped and hid in my truck, and now he's destroying my house, and I don't know what to do."

More silence, followed by what sounded like Elijah trying not to laugh. "You. Stack. The man who once threatened to blow up a restaurant for using stale grease on your fish. You're asking for help with a goat?"

"It's not funny, nigga!" Elias said as Billy knocked over a lamp. "This little bitch is like a furry wrecking ball. He's already broken three things and eaten my favorite plant."

"I'm on my way," Elijah said, still laughing. "Don't let him near anything expensive."

"Too late," Elias muttered, ending the call.

Twenty minutes later, Elijah pulled up, carrying what looked like a pet store in his arms. "I brought supplies," he said, setting down bags filled with... stuff.

"What the hell is all this?" Elias asked, trying to catch Billy before he could eat the corner of the sofa again.

"Goat food, goat toys, goat treats," Elijah said, unpacking. "And some advice from your friendly neighborhood cat dad."

Elias raised an eyebrow. "You still have Marmalade?"

"Yeah, I gave in to being his personal servant," Elijah said, pulling out what looked like a small harness. "Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. Animals are all the same—stubborn, destructive, and secretly plotting to take over the world."

As if to prove Elijah's point, Billy made a run for the kitchen, knocking over a floor lamp on his way.

"See?" Elias said, gesturing to the chaos. "He's possessed."

"Or he's just a goat," Elijah said calmly, following the goat into the kitchen. "They're like that. High energy, curious, and prone to eating things they shouldn't."

They spent the next hour trying to corral Billy, who seemed to be enjoying the attention. He darted under tables, behind chairs, and at one point, somehow got onto the kitchen counter, where he proceeded to knock over everything in sight.

"Got him!" Elijah said finally, managing to scoop up the goat while Billy was distracted by a jar of pickles.

"Thank God," Elias said, leaning against the counter. "Now what?"

"Now we find him something to eat that isn't your house," Elijah said, setting Billy down. "And then we figure out how to tire him out."

That's when Billy discovered Elias's weed stash.

The goat had been exploring the lower cabinets when he found the baggie Elias kept hidden behind some cookbooks. Before either of the twins could stop him, Billy had torn open the bag and was happily munching away on what was supposed to be Elias's weekend supply.

"Oh, hell no," Elias said, lunging for the bag, but it was too late. Billy had already eaten at least half an ounce of premium-grade marijuana.

"Well," Elijah said, watching the goat chew thoughtfully. "This just got interesting."

For the next hour, Billy the goat was officially stoned. His eyes were red and glassy, his movements slow and deliberate, and he kept stopping to stare at things that weren't there with an intensity that suggested he was having some kind of spiritual revelation.

"Man," Elias said, watching Billy stare at a wall for ten solid minutes. "I didn't even know goats could get high."

"Apparently they can," Elijah said, trying not to laugh. "And apparently they really enjoy it."

The high goat chaos that followed was something Elias would never forget. Billy, now completely without inhibitions, jumped onto every surface in the kitchen, knocking over utensils, appliances, and anything else that wasn't nailed down. He tried to eat a banana peel, got his head stuck in a cereal box, and at one point, just stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, bleating softly to himself like he was having a deep conversation with the universe.

"This is your fault," Elias said, as Billy tried to climb into the refrigerator. "You and your damn cat dad advice."

"I didn't tell him to eat your weed," Elijah said calmly, pulling the goat away from the fridge. "Though I have to admit, he seems pretty chill now."

"He's not chill, he's high as a kite," Elias said, but he was laughing despite himself. "Look at him. He's having a religious experience."

By midnight, Billy had finally crashed, passing out on the kitchen floor on his back with his little goat legs in the air, surrounded by the destruction he'd caused. Elias and Elijah stood there, looking at the mess and the sleeping goat, and then at each other.

"Well," Elijah said, breaking the silence. "Could be worse."

"How?" Elias asked, gesturing to his destroyed kitchen. "How could this possibly be worse?"

"He could have eaten your entire stash," Elijah said, then laughed at Elias's expression. "Come on. Let's get this cleaned up before you wake up to find he's destroyed your living room too."

They spent the next hour cleaning up, Elias grumbling the whole time but secretly enjoying having his brother there. It had been a while since they'd just hung out, without the bar or family drama or women getting in the way.

"You know," Elijah said, as they were finishing up, "he's kinda cute when he's not destroying your house."

Elias looked at Billy, who was now snoring softly on the floor, and his heart gave an odd, unexpected tug. It wasn't annoyance or anger or even resignation. It was... fondness. Which was ridiculous because it was a goat, and goats were..... goats, and he was definitely not getting attached.

"He's alright," Elias said, which was as close as he'd get to admitting he actually liked the little bastard. "For a destructive, weed-eating menace."

The next morning, Elias woke up to find Billy curled up at the foot of his bed like a dog, watching him with those intelligent goat eyes. For a moment, Elias just stared back, caught somewhere between annoyance and curiosity.

"Morning, little dude," he said, his voice rough with sleep. "You sleep okay?"

Billy bleated softly, then jumped off the bed and trotted to the kitchen, presumably looking for breakfast.

As Elias followed him, stepping over the remnants of last night's chaos, he knew he should call the farm. He should arrange to return Billy immediately, before he got any more attached, before the goat destroyed anything else. He should end this madness before it really began.

But as he watched Billy attempt to open the refrigerator with his head, Elias hesitated. This little goat, with his attitude problems and talent for destruction, had somehow wormed his way into Elias's life—and maybe, just maybe, into his heart.

"I'll call them later," Elias told himself, opening the fridge to get Billy some actual food. "After I make sure he's okay."

But later never came. Instead, Elias found himself at the pet store, buying goat supplies "just in case." A proper feeding trough. Some goat toys. A collar with a little bell, because what if he got lost again?

"Just temporary," Elias told himself as he paid for the supplies. "Until I can take him back."

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Billy wasn't temporary anymore. He was... something else. Something more.

And as Elias drove home with a car full of goat supplies and a heart full of denial, he had no idea that this scrappy little goat with attitude problems was exactly what he needed to tame the wildness inside himself. That sometimes, the most unexpected friendships are the ones that change us the most.

All he knew was that his life had gotten a lot more complicated, and a lot more interesting, since the day a goat decided to adopt him.

—

The Reluctant Guardian

Monday morning arrived with the kind of clarity that only comes after a weekend of chaos and three hours of sleep. Elias stood in his kitchen, surveying the damage like a general surveying a battlefield. The vase was a total loss, his favorite houseplant looked like it had been attacked by a lawnmower, and there were goat hoof prints on his leather sofa that would probably never come out.

"Alright, little dude," Elias said, finding Billy asleep in a laundry basket he'd dragged into the living room. "Time to go home."

The goat opened one eye, bleated softly, and went back to sleep.

"No, none of that," Elias said, scooping him up. "You've overstayed your welcome. Big time."

The drive to Sunny Meadows Farm was quiet, Billy curled up on the passenger seat, like the passenger prince he was. Elias kept telling himself this was the right thing to do—return the goat, reclaim his life, get back to normal. But every time he glanced over at Billy, a quiet warmth spread through his chest.

Mrs. Henderson was waiting for them at the barn, her expression a mixture of relief and amusement. "I was wondering when you'd bring him back," she said, taking Billy from Elias. "He cause much trouble?"

"You could say that," Elias said dryly, thinking of the destroyed vase and the weed incident. "He's... memorable."

"He is that," Mrs. Henderson said, scratching Billy behind the ears. "Well, thank you for bringing him home. We'll keep a closer eye on him."

As Elias walked back to his truck, Billy watched him go with those big goat eyes, and for a moment, Elias considered turning around. But he didn't. He got in his truck, started the engine, and drove away without looking back.

That should have been the end of it. Back to normal. No more goats, no more chaos, no more unexpected houseguests. But as the days passed, Elias found himself thinking about Billy constantly. Wondering if he was okay, if he'd escaped again, if he missed Elias as much as Elias missed him.

"This is ridiculous," Elias muttered to himself on Wednesday, scrolling through goat photos on his phone like some kind of creep. "He's a goat. Not a person."

But Thursday found him driving toward Sunny Meadows Farm, telling himself he was just "fulfilling his court order" by checking on the therapy animals. It had nothing to do with Billy specifically. Nothing at all.

The farm was busy with a school group when Elias arrived, kids screaming and laughing as they chased chickens and petted goats. Billy was in the middle of it all, holding court like a furry little king, letting kids pet him and occasionally headbutting the ones who got too rough.

"Hey," Elias said, approaching the pen where Billy was holding court.

Billy looked up, his eyes lighting up when he saw Elias. He trotted over immediately, pressing his head against the fence like he was greeting a long-lost friend.

"Miss me?" Elias asked, reaching through the fence to scratch the goat's head. "Or do you just want treats?"

Billy bleated and nudged his hand, demanding more attention.

"Yeah, I missed you too," Elias murmured, then caught himself. "I mean, whatever."

He stayed for an hour, watching Billy interact with the kids. This was better than anger management. Better than talking about his feelings or learning breathing techniques. This was... real.

Friday found Elias back at the farm, this time with goat treats he'd bought "just in case." Billy practically knocked him over with enthusiasm when he saw the treats, following Elias around the pen like a puppy.

"You're ridiculous," Elias said, but he was laughing as he said it. "You know that, right?"

Billy responded by trying to eat Elias's shoelaces.

Saturday, during goat yoga, Billy was on his best behavior—relatively speaking. He still harassed Elias specifically, but there was a playful quality to it now, like they were sharing a joke nobody else understood. Elias found himself looking forward to the goat's antics, even secretly enjoying them.

And then, during the chaos of packing up, Billy escaped again. One moment he was in his pen, the next he was trotting toward Elias's truck like he'd done it a hundred times before.

"Oh no," Mrs. Henderson said, rushing over. "Not again!"

But Elias just sighed. "It's fine. I'll take him back tonight."

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Henderson asked, looking skeptical.

"Yeah," Elias said, opening the truck door for Billy. "Just for the night. To teach him a lesson."

The "just for the night" became a weekend, then a week. Elias told himself he was just helping out, that Billy needed a break from the farm, that he was doing Mrs. Henderson a favor. But as the days passed and Billy made himself more and more at home, Elias knew he was lying to himself.

He started making accommodations—goat-proofing his house by moving anything breakable or edible out of reach, buying proper goat food instead of just feeding Billy whatever was in the fridge, even building a small outdoor enclosure with Elijah's help.

"You're really doing this," Elijah said as they worked on the enclosure. "You're becoming a goat dad."

"Shut up," Elias muttered, hammering a nail into a fence post. "I'm just temporary housing. Until he can behave himself."

"Right," Elijah said, smiling. "Temporary. Like how Marmalade was temporary?"

"That's different," Elias insisted, but they both knew it wasn't.

The anger management sessions got easier too. Instead of sitting there silently, Elias found himself sharing stories about Billy—how he'd eaten an entire roll of paper towels, how he'd figured out how to open the refrigerator, how he'd somehow gotten his head stuck in a bucket and walked around like that for ten minutes before Elias noticed.

Dr. Robinson noticed the change immediately. "Seems like you've found your anger management strategy," she said during one session, her expression knowing.

"It's a goat," Elias said defensively. "I'm just temporary housing until he can go back to the farm."

"Right," Dr. Robinson said, but her eyes said she knew better. "And how's that temporary housing going?"

"Fine," Elias said, thinking of the goat-shaped cookie cutters he'd bought yesterday. "It's fine."

But it was more than fine. It was... good. Waking up to Billy curled up at the foot of his bed. Coming home to a goat who was genuinely excited to see him. Having someone—something—to talk to who didn't judge or interrupt or offer unwanted advice.

Elijah kept teasing him about his "goat son," but he also helped Elias build a proper outdoor enclosure, complete with a shelter and toys and everything a goat could want. They worked together in the hot sun, hammering and measuring and occasionally arguing about the best way to secure a fence post, and Elias felt something like peace settle over him.

"You know," Elijah said, as they finished the enclosure, "you've been a lot less... explosive lately."

"I'm always explosive," Elias said, but he knew it wasn't true. Since Billy had come into his life, he'd been calmer, more centered. Less likely to fly off the handle over small stuff.

"It's the goat," Elijah said, like he could read Elias's mind.

As the weeks passed, Elias started taking Billy to the park, mostly because the goat needed exercise but also because Elias enjoyed the attention. Women were drawn to the man with the goat, stopping to pet Billy and ask Elias questions, their eyes lingering just a little too long on Elias's arms, his smile, the way he talked to the goat like he was a person.

"Is he yours?" a woman with locs and a big smile that made Elias's stomach flip asked one afternoon.

"Just temporary," Elias said, but he was smiling back. "Until he can go back home."

"He seems to like you," she said, scratching Billy behind the ears. "Goats are picky like that. They don't just warm up to anyone."

"Yeah, well," Elias said, grinning. "I'm special like that."

She laughed, and Elias found himself asking for her number, which she gave him without hesitation. They went out the next Friday, and Elias spent the whole dinner talking about Billy like a proud parent.

"You're really into this goat thing, aren't you?" she asked over dessert.

"He's alright," Elias said, but he was smiling as he said it. "For a little nigga with attitude problems."

He began to see Billy as an asset rather than a liability, though he'd never admit it out loud. The goat was a conversation starter, a way to meet people, a reason to smile when he felt like scowling. Billy was... his. And that thought comforted him.

One night, a month after Billy had first "temporarily" moved in, Elias fell asleep on the couch watching TV. He woke up hours later to find Billy curled up beside him, head resting on Elias's chest like he was a dog instead of a goat.

For a long moment, Elias just lay there, staring at the ceiling while the goat snored against his side. He scrubbed a hand over his face. Of all the things he’d expected to get emotionally attached to in his lifetime, a foul-mouthed little menace with horns hadn’t even cracked the top hundred.

Billy had eaten three pairs of shoes, headbutted a mailman, tried to square up with a Roomba, and once somehow got stuck in the laundry room for six hours despite the door being wide the hell open. And yet… The goat had become his best friend. The goat just showed up, demanded snacks, invaded his personal space, and looked at him like he hung the damn moon.

"Guess you're staying, huh?" Elias murmured, stroking Billy's back. "Can't get rid of you now."

Billy bleated softly in his sleep, like he agreed.

As Elias drifted back to sleep, goat on his chest and house in disarray around him, he knew he was in trouble. He was attached. Completely and irrevocably attached to a goat who'd probably eat his favorite shoes if given half a chance.

—

Goat Dad

Two months later, Elias's morning routine had transformed into something he never would have recognized. The alarm still went off at 6:30 AM, but instead of hitting snooze three times and dragging himself out of bed, Elias was up immediately, listening for the familiar sounds of his houseguest stirring.

"Mornin', little dude," Elias murmured, swinging his legs out of bed and immediately stepping into something warm and squishy. "Aw, hell. Billy, we talked about this. No shitting in the house."

Billy, who was standing by the door with an expression that could only be described as guilty, bleated softly and nudged Elias's hand with his head.

"Yeah, yeah, I know you're sorry," Elias said, grabbing paper towels and cleaning supplies. "But we got rules, remember? Rule number one: no shitting in the house. Rule number two: no eating my shoes. Rule number three: no headbutting the mailman. We been over this."

As he cleaned up the mess, Elias glanced around his house, noticing for the first time how much had changed. There was a goat-shaped cookie jar on the counter (a gag gift from Elijah that he'd actually started using), a small herd of goat figurines on the bookshelf (collected during his "I'm not attached" phase), and even a goat-themed welcome mat that read "Welcome to the Goat Farm" (another joke gift that had somehow become permanent).

His house had goat-themed elements he didn't even notice anymore, like how he'd started referring to the spare bedroom as "Billy's room" or how he always bought extra carrots at the grocery store. This was his life now—goat poop, goat toys, goat everything—and somehow, it felt right.

After cleaning up the mess and feeding Billy his breakfast of special goat pellets and apple slices, Elias let him out into the backyard enclosure. The goat trotted around happily, checking his territory and occasionally headbutting the fence to remind it who was boss.

"Be good," Elias called, grabbing his keys. "I'll be back after class."

Billy bleated in response.

At anger management, Elias found himself participating, sharing stories about Billy's latest antics with a grudging affection that surprised even him.

"So then," Elias was saying, gesturing animatedly, "the little dude figured out how to open the refrigerator, right? And he's in there, just eating everything he can reach—leftovers, vegetables, a whole stick of butter. And I'm standing there watching him, like, how is this my life? How did I become the guy whose goat eats butter out of the fridge?"

The group laughed, even the guy who'd beaten up his girlfriend's dog, which was saying something.

"Sounds like he keeps you on your toes," one of the women said, smiling.

"Tell me about it," Elias said, grinning. "But you know what? I haven't wanted to punch anybody in weeks. So I guess there's that."

Another participant raised his hand. "You said you got him from goat yoga, right? Like, as part of the therapy?"

"Yeah," Elias said, suddenly feeling defensive. "But it's not like that. He's not my therapy animal or whatever. I'm just... temporary housing."

"Right," the guy said, but he was smiling like he didn't believe Elias for a second. "Temporary."

After class, as everyone was filing out, Dr. Robinson pulled Elias aside. "You've made remarkable progress," she said, her expression warm and genuine. "I don't think I've ever seen someone transform so completely in such a short time."

"It's just Billy," Elias said, shrugging like it was nothing. "Nothing special."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" Dr. Robinson asked, her eyes knowing. "That this Billy who's completely changed your life is 'nothing special'?"

Elias looked away, suddenly feeling exposed. "I mean, he's alright."

Dr. Robinson leaned forward slightly, her gaze softening with an understanding that made Elias's defenses waver. "You know, we spend so much time looking for the big answers," she said, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "We think healing has to come from some grand revelation, some earth-shattering moment that changes everything. But that's not how it works, not really."

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "Sometimes the most healing relationships are the ones that ambush you. They show up when you're not looking, when you're too busy being angry or too proud to admit you need anything at all. They don't come with instructions or warning labels. They just... arrive. And they teach you what you need to learn without you even realizing you're being taught—until one day you wake up and you're not the same person you used to be, and you can't even pinpoint exactly when the change happened."

She smiled then, a genuine, knowing smile that made Elias feel like she could see right through all his bullshit. "That goat? He didn't just wander into your house, Elias. He wandered into your life and rearranged the furniture while you weren't paying attention. And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, you found the one thing you'd been looking for all along."

"Yeah, well," Elias said, already heading for the door. "Whatever. I'll see you next week."

That weekend, Elias decided it was time for Billy to meet his cousin. Marmalade. The idea had been brewing for weeks—what would happen if the goat met the cat? Would they fight? Would they ignore each other? Would they form some interspecies alliance to take over the world?

"Alright, little dude," Elias said, struggling to get Billy into the harness he'd bought "just in case" they ever needed to go anywhere. "We're gonna go visit your uncle Elijah and your cousin Marmalade. Try not to embarrass me."

Billy responded by trying to eat the harness.

"Right," Elias said, finally getting it secured. "No pressure or anything."

The drive to Elijah's apartment was chaos, with Billy attempting to climb into the front seat, bleating at other cars, and generally making a nuisance of himself. By the time they arrived, Elias was sweating and regretting his decision to ever leave the house.

"Please behave," Elias said, unbuckling the goat. "Just for like, an hour. Can you do that?"

Billy responded by immediately trying to eat Elijah's doormat.

"Of course you can't," Elias sighed, knocking on the door.

Elijah answered, looking impossibly calm and put-together, until he saw the goat.

"You brought him here?" Elijah asked, raising an eyebrow. "To my apartment?"

"He's family," Elias said, pushing past him into the apartment. "Billy, this is your cousin Marmalade. Marmalade, this is your cousin Billy. Try not to kill each other."

Marmalade, who had been sleeping on the sofa, lifted his head and regarded the goat with what looked like disdain. Billy, for his part, trotted over to the cat and sniffed him curiously. For a moment, it seemed like they might ignore each other. But then Billy headbutted Marmalade, and Marmalade responded by hissing and swatting at the goat's nose.

"Oh, here we go," Elijah said, already reaching for the cat.

But before he could intervene, something unexpected happened. Marmalade stopped hissing and started rubbing against Billy's legs, purring like a motorboat. Billy, in turn, stopped headbutting and started licking the cat's head with that sandpaper tongue of his.

"Well," Elias said, watching the unlikely friendship blossom. "Would you look at that."

"They're plotting something," Elijah said, but he was smiling as he said it. "I can feel it."

For the next hour, the twins watched their "sons" interact, sharing a rare moment of brotherly bonding as the animals caused chaos together. Billy and Marmalade knocked over a lamp, ate a plant, and somehow managed to get tangled in the curtains together, all while looking like they were having the time of their lives.

"I never thought I'd say this," Elijah admitted as they worked together to untangle goat and cat from the curtains, “That demon with hooves has somehow made you a better person.”

Elias looked at Billy, who was now attempting to ride Marmalade like a horse. "Same goes for that orange devil of yours," he said, grinning. "Never thought I'd see the day when Smoke became a cat dad."

"Stranger things have happened," Elijah said, finally freeing Marmalade from the curtains. "Like my brother becoming a goat dad, for instance."

"Shut up," Elias said, but he was laughing as he said it.

That night, after they'd returned home and Elias had cleaned up yet another mess, he lay in bed watching Billy chew on a toy he'd bought "because it was on sale." The goat had his own bed now—a fancy orthopedic dog bed Elias had splurged on after Billy complained (by headbutting Elias's shins at 3 AM) about the floor being too hard. He had his own toys, his own treats, even a small sweater Elias had bought "because it was cold" (it was 75 degrees outside).

As Elias watched Billy play, he found himself reflecting on how much his life had changed since "the wing incident." That day—just a few months ago, though it felt like a lifetime—he'd been a man ruled by his temper, by his impulses, by the chaos that always seemed to swirl around him. He'd been angry, defensive, always ready for a fight.

Now? Now he was a man who talked to goats, who cleaned up poop without complaining (much), who found joy in the simple act of watching a goat play with a squeaky toy. He was calmer, more centered, somehow... softer. Not weak, not exactly, but more open, more willing to let people—and animals—in.

And it was all because of this scrappy little goat with attitude problems and a talent for finding trouble.

"Come here, little dude," Elias murmured, patting the bed beside him.

Billy immediately abandoned his toy and jumped onto the bed, curling up at Elias's feet like he'd been doing it his whole life. Elias reached down and stroked the goat's head, feeling the rough texture of his horns, the softness of his fur. "Best damn thing that ever happened to me, you know that?"

As Elias drifted off to sleep with the weight of his son at his feet, he knew this was it. This was what he'd been searching for through all the noise and fights and empty nights, not the quiet peace Elijah had found, but a purpose that roared. Something to pour his chaotic energy into, something to love fiercely and unapologetically, something that needed him as much as he needed it.

The wildest Moore twin hadn't been tamed. He'd been claimed. By the most unlikely of companions, a goat with more attitude than the whole Jackson police department and a talent for finding trouble that rivaled Elias's own. And as Billy snored softly at his feet, a little earthquake of snores and farts, Elias knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

The Florida sun bled orange and violent across the Gulf, painting the floor-to-ceiling windows of their high-rise condo in liquid gold. Three years they'd been up in this glass box overlooking Clearwater Beach, and the view still fucked with Elijah's head every single time. He stood there now, barefoot on the cool travertine, a Black & Mild burning slow between his fingers, watching the waves roll in like they had somewhere important to be.

Behind him, the shower cut off.

"Smoke, you gonna smoke out my whole damn house?" Paris called, her voice warm and teasing, echoing off the walls.

He grinned, taking one last long drag before crushing the cigar out in the crystal ashtray on the kitchen island. "House? Nah, baby. This ain't a house. This is your kingdom. I just pay taxes and look pretty next to you."

The bathroom door swung open, releasing a cloud of steam that smelled of her coconut-and-shea-butter body wash. Paris stepped out, wrapped in a thick white towel that did little to hide the curves of her body. Her skin, the color of warm honey, glistened with moisture, and her micro braids, dark as midnight, were piled high on her head in a messy bun. She was five-foot-nine of pure woman—thick in all the right places, with hips that could make a man forget his own name and a smile that had knocked him on his ass the first time he'd seen it three years ago at that dive bar in Ybor.

"Pretty?" She arched a brow, padding toward him. "Nigga, you know you more than pretty. You know damn well you fine."

Elijah's laugh rumbled in his chest. He opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace like she'd been made to fit there. Her damp skin pressed against his bare chest, and he rested his chin on top of her head, breathing her in. She smelled like home.

"Aight, aight. I'm fine as hell," he conceded, his hands roaming down her back to rest on the towel just above her ass. "But you the one who should be on a magazine cover somewhere."

Paris tilted her head back, her dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, searching his. "You just tryna get some."

"I already had some this morning," he countered, his voice dropping lower. "Tryna get some again."

"Greedy." But she was already rising on her toes, her lips finding his.

The kiss started slow, just the soft press of mouths, but it didn't stay that way. It never did with them. Three years in, and the chemistry between them still sparked like a live wire. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting mint and the sweet remnants of the juice she'd been drinking. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers tracing the muscles of his shoulders before tangling in the low fade of his hair. He deepened the kiss, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other sliding down to grip her ass through the towel, pulling her flush against him.

He groaned as he felt himself start to harden. Paris laughed against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. "See? Greedy."

"You the one who came out here lookin' like a five-course meal," he shot back, nipping at her full bottom lip. "What you expect?"

She grinned, that bright, infectious smile that still made his chest feel tight. "I expect you to control yourself."

"Never been good at that when it comes to you."

Their moment was shattered by the buzz of his phone on the granite counter. Elijah ignored it. The buzzing stopped, then started again immediately. With a sigh, he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.

"Stack," they said in unison.

Paris rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat in it. "That boy needs to learn patience."

"He needs to learn a lot of shit," Elijah agreed, grabbing his phone. The screen lit up with a picture of his twin brother—same face, different vibe. Where Elijah was calm and observant,   

Stack was pure chaos and restless energy. "What, nigga?"

"Where you at?" Stack's voice came through the speaker, loud and obnoxious as always. "I been calling you for twenty minutes."

"I'm at home with my woman, living life. What you want?"

"We got that thing tonight. That big thing. You 'member?"

Elijah's jaw tightened slightly. "I 'member."

"Well, get your ass ready. We gotta move by midnight."

"I'll be there."

"Aight, bet. And tell Paris I said hey."

"Will do."

Elijah hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He looked at Paris, whose smile had dimmed slightly. She knew what "that thing" meant. It meant drugs, and money, and risk. It meant late nights and the constant, low-grade fear that came with their chosen profession.

"You gotta go tonight?" she asked, her voice softer now.

"Yeah, baby. It's the last one for a while. Stack promised."

She nodded, tracing the intricate patterns of the gold chain around his neck. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"Always am."

"No, you're not," she countered gently. "You're careful enough, but you're not always careful. You and Stack... y'all move like nothing can touch you."

Elijah cupped her face in his hands, his dark eyes serious. "Nothing gonna touch me. I got too much to come home to."

That's what he did—made promises with his eyes, his voice, his whole presence. That's what made him Smoke. He moved through life like he already knew how it would play out, confident and unhurried, even when everything around him was moving at a hundred miles an hour. He was a man's man, dominant without being overbearing, protective without being suffocating. He knew how to take care of a woman, how to make her feel safe even when he was walking into danger.

Paris leaned into his touch, her eyes closing. "I love you."

"Love you more."

"Impossible."

He chuckled, kissing her forehead. "Nah. I just love you better."

She laughed, swatting at his chest.

The rest of the day moved in the comfortable rhythm they'd established over three years together. Paris got dressed, pulling on a pair of designer jeans and a cropped top that showed off the flat expanse of her stomach and the delicate butterfly tattooed just above her hip bone. Elijah watched her move around their bedroom, admiring the way she carried herself—all confidence and grace. She was the one thing that made sense when everything else was chaos.

They ate dinner on the balcony, watching the sun disappear completely and the city lights of Clearwater Beach spring to life across the water. Elijah told her about his day—the boring shit, the business details he knew she pretended to care about but didn't really. Paris listened, nodding in all the right places, her mind clearly somewhere else.

"What's wrong?" he asked finally, setting his fork down.

She shook her head, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"Bout what?"

"Us. This." She waved a hand, encompassing the condo, the view, the life they'd built together. "Sometimes it feels like a dream."

"A good dream, though, right?"

"The best," she agreed, but her smile was weak.

Elijah reached across the table, taking her hand. "Hey. Look at me." She did, her gaze searching his. "We good. Whatever you thinking about, we good. We always gonna be good."

"I know," she whispered, but there was a tremor in her voice.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Just... hormonal, I guess."

That's when he noticed it, the slight puffiness around her eyes that hadn't been there that morning, the way she kept picking at her food, the faint line of tension between her brows. He'd seen it before, the subtle shifts in her mood and behavior that signaled something was off. Paris was usually warm, open, quick to laugh and even quicker to speak her mind. Lately, though... lately she'd been quieter, more reserved. Snappy, sometimes, over small shit that wouldn't normally bother her.

"You been feeling sick?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Just tired," she said, pulling her hand back. "It's this heat, I think."

It was more than the heat, and they both knew it. But Elijah let it go, for now. He knew how to read Paris, knew when to push and when to give her space. Right now, she needed space.

Later that night, after he'd dressed in his usual uniform—designer jeans, a fitted black tee, his gold chains, and a varsity-style leather jacket—he found her in the living room, staring out at the water. The moonlight caught the waves, turning them silver.

"I gotta go," he said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She leaned back against him, her body tense. "Be safe."

"Always."

"Smoke?"

"Yeah, baby?"

She turned in his arms, her eyes wide and serious in the dim light. "If... if something happened to you..."

"Nothing gonna happen to me."

"But if it did... would you want me to wait?"

He frowned, confused by the question. "Wait for what?"

"For you. If you were gone. Would you want me to move on someday?"

Elijah's heart did a strange little flip in his chest. This wasn't like Paris. She didn't talk like this, didn't dwell on the what-ifs. She was here, now, present and alive.

"Where this coming from?" he asked, his hands tightening on her waist.

"Just thinking," she said again, but this time her voice was thin, brittle. "About life. About how fast it can change."

"Paris, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, forcing a smile that didn't fool him for a second. "Nothing. I'm being silly. Go. Stack's waiting."

He searched her face, his observant eyes taking in every detail—the slight tremor in her bottom lip, the way she wouldn't quite meet his gaze, the frantic pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Paris."

"Smoke, please. Just... go. We'll talk when you get back."

He wanted to push, wanted to demand that she tell him what was going on in that head of hers. But the buzz of his phone in his pocket reminded him that Stack was waiting, that business called. With a sigh, he leaned down and kissed her—deep and slow, trying to pour all the things he couldn't say into the press of his lips.

"I love you," he murmured against her mouth.

"I love you too," she whispered, but when he pulled back, he saw the tears shining in her eyes before she quickly blinked them away.

He left with a heavy feeling in his chest, a sense that something was shifting between them, something fundamental and terrifying. But he pushed it down, buried it under the layers of focus and determination he always summoned when it was time to work. Stack was waiting. The night was calling. And whatever was wrong with Paris, whatever storm was brewing in her mind, they'd face it together when he got home.

They always did.

The clinic was sterile, cold, everything their warm, beachfront condo was not. Paris sat in the waiting room, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap. The air conditioning hummed overhead, pumping out frigid air that raised goosebumps on her bare arms. She'd worn a hoodie—Elijah's hoodie, the one he always threw on after a shower when the condo got too cold, but it wasn't helping. Nothing could help.

The other women in the waiting room kept their eyes down, their bodies hunched in on themselves as if to make themselves smaller, less noticeable. Paris watched them, wondering about their stories, their reasons for being here on a Tuesday morning when the sun was shining, and the world outside was moving on as if nothing was wrong.

"Paris Miller?"

A nurse in blue scrubs stood in the doorway, a clipboard in her hand. Paris stood, her legs shaking so badly she almost had to grab the chair for support. The other women didn't look up. They knew why she was here. They all knew why they were all here.

The procedure room was even colder than the waiting room. Paris lay back on the table, the paper crinkling beneath her, loud in the quiet room. The doctor—a kind-faced woman with graying hair and tired eyes—explained the procedure one more time, her voice gentle but clinical.

"You're sure about this?" the doctor asked, her eyes searching Paris's.

Paris nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

"It's okay to be scared," the doctor said softly. "It's okay to change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind," Paris managed to say, her voice hoarse. "I can't... I can't do this. Not now. Not with his life... the way it is."

The doctor nodded, as if that was reason enough. Maybe it was. Maybe the fear that gripped Paris's heart every time Elijah walked out the door to handle "business" with Stack was reason enough. Maybe the knowledge that their life, as beautiful as it was, was built on a foundation of risk and illegality was reason enough. Maybe the certainty that bringing a child into that world would be the cruelest thing she could do to anyone, let alone someone she loved enough to die for, was reason enough.

The procedure itself was a blur of sensation—the cold instruments, the sharp cramping, the muffled sounds of the medical staff moving around her. Paris stared at the ceiling, at the fluorescent lights that seemed too bright, too harsh, and she thought about Elijah. She thought about his hands, strong and calloused but gentle when they touched her. She thought about his voice, low and rumbling, the way it sounded when he whispered her name in the dark. She thought about his eyes, dark and observant, the way they saw right through her, even when she thought she was hiding everything.

She thought about the life growing inside her, a life she'd only known about for two weeks but had already loved with a ferocity that scared her. A life that would have had his eyes, his smile, his calm, confident way of moving through the world.

A life she was ending.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, tracing paths down her temples and into her hair. She didn't wipe them away. She let them fall, silent and hot, mourning a future that would never be.

When it was over, the doctor helped her sit up, her hands gentle on Paris's arms. "Take it easy for the next few days," she said, pressing a pamphlet into Paris's hands. "Physically and emotionally."

Paris nodded, her body aching with a hollow sort of pain. She dressed slowly, her movements stiff and uncoordinated. The hoodie she'd worn felt heavier now, saturated with grief.

In the recovery room, she sat with a cup of lukewarm tea, watching other women come and go. Some cried openly, their faces blotchy and red. Others sat stoic, like her, their faces masks of composure. They all had their reasons, their stories, their heartbreaks. They were all alone together in this sterile, quiet room.

When she was finally released, Paris stepped out into the bright Florida sun, blinking against the glare. The world outside hadn't changed. The sky was still blue, the palm trees still swayed in the breeze, people still laughed and talked and lived their lives as if nothing had happened. As if a part of her soul hadn't just been carved out and left behind in that cold room.

She drove home with the windows down, the wind whipping through her hair, trying to blow away the feeling of emptiness that settled deep in her bones. But it was no use. The emptiness was a part of her now, a hollow space where something precious used to be.

Their condo was just as they'd left it—the remains of their dinner on the balcony, Elijah's cigar crushed out in the ashtray, his scent still lingering in the air. Paris walked through the rooms, touching things—a book on the coffee table, a throw pillow on the couch, the cool glass of the window overlooking the beach. Everything was the same, but everything was different.

She stood in their bedroom, looking at the king-sized bed where they'd slept together for three years, where they'd made love and fought and made up again a hundred times. She thought about the last time he'd touched her, the last time he'd looked at her with those dark eyes that saw too much. Had he known? Had he sensed the change in her, the shift in her body, the secret she was carrying?

She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over his name. She could call him. She could tell him. He would come home. He would hold her and tell her it was okay, that they would figure it out together.

But then she thought about his life, the risks he took every day, the danger that followed him like a shadow. She thought about bringing a child into that world, a child who would always be looking over its shoulder, always wondering if its father was coming home. She thought about the fear that lived in her heart every time he walked out that door, a fear that would only multiply a thousand times if a baby was waiting for him too.

No. This was better. This was cleaner. This was the only choice she could make.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and walked into the bathroom. She turned on the shower, as hot as she could stand it, and stepped under the spray, letting the water beat against her skin, trying to wash away the memory of cold instruments and sterile rooms and the sound of her own heart breaking.

She walked out of that clinic empty and decided to keep it that way.

The heavy oak door of their condo clicked shut behind Elijah, the sound swallowed by the vast expanse of the living room. Three in the morning. The Gulf was a black mirror outside the windows. He was tired down to his bones, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that settled in after a twelve-hour run with Stack, moving product, collecting debts, and cleaning up messes that weren't theirs to begin with. All he wanted was to peel off these sweat-stained clothes, crawl into bed next to his woman, and forget the world existed for a few hours.

But the condo was too quiet.

Too still.

Paris wasn't curled up on the couch waiting for him like she usually was, wrapped in a blanket with some reality show playing low on the TV. She wasn't in the kitchen, leaving him a plate of food in the microwave. Her car was in its designated spot in the underground garage, so she was home. But the air felt different. Colder.

He found her in their bedroom, sitting on the edge of their king-sized bed, staring at nothing. The moonlight cut across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the two weeks since he'd first noticed them. She was wearing one of his old college hoodies, the big gray one that swallowed her frame, and her bare legs were drawn up to her chest.

"Paris?" he said, his voice low so as not to startle her.

She jumped anyway, her head whipping around like she'd been caught doing something wrong. "Smoke. You're back."

"Yeah, baby. Just got in." He shrugged off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the armchair in the corner. "Everything good? You aight?"

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice was flat, devoid of its usual warmth. "Just tired."

He crossed the room, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. He'd been noticing it more and more lately, the subtle shifts in her behavior. The way she flinched when he touched her sometimes, the way she pulled away when he tried to hold her. The way she'd started sleeping on the far side of the bed, creating a chasm between them that hadn't existed before.

He knelt in front of her, his hands resting on her knees. "You don't look fine, Paris. You look like you ain't slept in a week."

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "I told you. Just tired."

"Talk to me," he pressed, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her knees. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing," she said, pulling her legs away from his touch and standing up. "I'm gonna go get some water. You want some?"

He watched her walk away, his jaw tight. This wasn't his Paris. His Paris was warm, open, quick to laugh and even quicker to speak her mind. She didn't hide things from him. They didn't do secrets. But this woman... this woman was a stranger wearing his girlfriend's skin.

The last two weeks had been a slow, agonizing descent into this strangeness. It had started small, the way she'd stopped waiting up for him when he was out with Stack, the way she'd started picking at her food until he finally asked if she was sick. She'd said no, just stressed about work, but he knew better. Paris loved her job as a third-grade teacher; stress didn't make her lose weight, didn't make the light dim in her eyes.

Then there were the nights. Nights when he'd come home to find her already asleep, or nights like this, when she was awake but a million miles away. Nights when he'd reach for her in the dark and she'd tense up, her body rigid against his until he gave up and rolled onto his other side, staring at the ceiling until the sun came up.

He stood up, stripping off his clothes and tossing them into the hamper. He could hear her in the kitchen, the clink of a glass, the hum of the refrigerator. When she came back, she handed him a bottle of water without looking at him.

"Thanks," he said, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink. "You gonna come to bed?"

"In a minute," she said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. "I just need to... think."

"Think about what?"

"Things, Smoke. Just things."

He sighed, running a hand over his low fade. "Aight. I'm gonna shower. Don't wait up for me."

But he knew she would. Or at least, she'd lie there awake until he came out, pretending to be asleep when he slid into bed beside her.

The hot water did little to wash away the feeling of dread that settled heavy in his chest. He rested his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, letting the water pound against his back. He thought about the last time things had felt right between them, the last time she'd looked at him with that fire in her eyes, that hunger that still made him feel like the luckiest man on earth. It had been weeks, maybe a month, since he'd seen that look. Since she'd initiated anything, since she'd melted into his touch instead of stiffening at it.

When he came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, she was in bed, turned away from him, her breathing even and steady. Too steady. Fake.

He slid in beside her, the cool sheets a shock against his heated skin. He reached out, his hand resting on her hip, and felt her flinch.

"Paris," he whispered into the darkness.

"What?"

"Look at me."

Slowly, she rolled over, her face a pale oval in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, but they weren't seeing him. They were looking through him, at something he couldn't see.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, his voice soft. "For real this time. No bullshit."

She shook her head, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye and tracing a path down her temple. "I can't, Smoke."

"Can't what?"

"Can't talk about it. Not yet."

"Then when?"

"Soon," she promised, but her voice was thin, brittle. "I just need some time."

He wanted to push, wanted to demand that she tell him what was eating her alive from the inside out. But he knew Paris. Knew that pushing would only make her retreat further into herself. So he nodded, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I'm here," he murmured against her skin. "Whatever it is, I'm here."

She didn't respond, just turned back over, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the growing chasm between them.

The next morning, he woke up to an empty bed. The spot beside him was cold, telling him she'd been up for a while. He found her in the kitchen, standing at the counter, staring at the coffee maker like it held the secrets to the universe. She was wearing a pair of leggings and a sports bra, her workout clothes, but he knew she hadn't been to the gym. She hadn't been to the gym in weeks.

"Morning," he said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She tensed immediately. "Morning."

"You sleep aight?"

"Fine."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, trying to ignore the way she was holding herself away from him. "You got work today?"

"Yeah. And then I'm meeting Gia for dinner."

Gia. Stack's girl. The two of them had been thick as thieves since Paris and Gia had met two years ago at a cookout Stack had dragged Elijah to. Gia was loud and wild and everything Paris wasn't, but somehow they worked. They balanced each other out.

"That's good," he said, releasing her and moving to the coffee maker. "Y'all been hanging out a lot lately."

"We needed to catch up," she said, her voice guarded.

He nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You want me to come with? To dinner?"

The look of panic that flashed across her face was so brief he almost missed it. "No. That's aight. It's just... girl time. You know how it is."

"Aight," he said slowly, watching her. "But you and me... we need to talk soon, Paris. For real."

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the countertop. "I know."

He left it at that, but the feeling of wrongness followed him all day. At the warehouse where he and Stack conducted their business, he was distracted, his mind constantly drifting back to the haunted look in Paris's eyes, the way she'd flinched away from his touch.

"You good, nigga?" Stack asked, slapping him on the back. "You been spacey all day."

"I'm good," Elijah said, but they both knew it was a lie.

"Bullshit. You thinking about that girl of yours?" Stack grinned, but his eyes were sharp, observant. "She finally get tired of your boring ass?"

"Fuck you," Elijah shot back. "She's just... going through some shit."

"Women always going through some shit," Stack said dismissively. "That's what they do. You just gotta let 'em do it and be there when they come out the other side. Unless they cheating on you. Then you gotta cut they ass."

Elijah shot him a look. "She ain't cheating."

"How you know?"

"Cause I know."

Stack shrugged, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. "If you say so. But if she is, I got a friend who knows a guy who can tap her phone. Real discreet-like."

"Nah," Elijah said immediately. "We don't do that. We don't cross that line."

"The fuck we don't?" Stack countered. "We sell drugs, Eli. We ain't exactly saints."

"That's different," Elijah said, his voice firm. "That's business. This is Paris. This is us. We don't cross that line."

Stack held up his hands in surrender. "Aight, aight. Damn. Just trying to look out for my brother."

"I know," Elijah sighed. "But I got this."

But did he? As the day wore on, he found himself second-guessing everything. The way Paris had been acting, the distance between them, the secrets she was keeping... was it possible? Was she seeing someone else? The thought was like a knife to his gut, sharp and twisting. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it. Paris wouldn't do that. They wouldn't do that.

But the doubt lingered.

When he got home that evening, the condo was empty. Paris's car was gone, her purse missing from the hook by the door. She'd left a note on the kitchen counter, her handwriting neat and precise.

Went to Gia's. Be back late. Don't wait up.

He crumpled the note in his fist, a surge of frustration rising in his chest. This wasn't like them. They didn't leave notes. They didn't do "be back late." They were a team, a unit. They talked.

He was in the middle of making himself a sandwich when his phone buzzed. It was Paris.

"Hey," she said, her voice tight. "Just checking in."

"Hey," he said, trying to keep his own voice neutral. "You at Gia's?"

"Yeah. We're about to grab dinner."

"Aight. Have fun."

There was a pause, long enough to be uncomfortable. "Smoke?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too," he said, but the words felt hollow, empty.

She hung up, and he was alone again with his thoughts and the gnawing feeling that something was fundamentally broken between them.

He finished his sandwich, but it tasted like cardboard in his mouth. He was cleaning up when he noticed it—a small piece of paper sticking out from under the stack of mail on the counter. He pulled it out, his brow furrowed. It was a receipt from a pharmacy. CVS. Dated two weeks ago.

His eyes scanned the items, his heart starting to pound in his chest. Prenatal vitamins. Pregnancy test. Antibiotics. Pain medication.

The blood drained from his face. Pregnancy test. Prenatal vitamins. Antibiotics. Pain medication.

What the fuck?

He was still staring at the receipt, his mind racing, when he heard the key in the lock. He quickly folded the receipt, shoving it into his pocket just as Paris walked in.

"Hey," she said, her smile forced. "You're still up."

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Just waiting up for you."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

She crossed the room, dropping her purse onto the counter. "You hungry? I could make you something."

"Nah, I'm good," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "How was dinner?"

"It was aight," she said, avoiding his gaze. "Gia's being... Gia. You know how she is."

"I do," he said slowly. "She ask about me?"

Paris laughed, but it was a hollow, brittle sound. "Yeah. She wanted to know if you'd finally sold me to a sheik in Dubai."

Elijah smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Tell her I'm working on it."

He watched her move around the kitchen, her movements stiff, unnatural. She was hiding something. He knew it with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut. The receipt burned a hole in his pocket, a silent accusation.

"You okay?" she asked, finally looking at him. "You're being quiet."

"Just tired," he said, echoing her words from the night before. "Long day."

"Yeah," she agreed, her eyes dropping to the counter. "Me too."

He wanted to ask her about the receipt. Wanted to demand answers, to shake the truth out of her if he had to. But the fear in her eyes, the way she held herself like she was bracing for a blow, stopped him.

"I'm gonna head to bed," he said, pushing away from the counter. "You coming?"

"In a bit," she said, her voice soft. "I just need to... clean up a little."

He nodded, turning to leave the room. But at the doorway, he stopped, turning back to look at her. The moonlight caught the tense set of his shoulders, the way his hand hovered near his pocket like he was reaching for a weapon. And in a way, he was.

She stood there, silhouetted against the moonlight, a beautiful, heartbreaking mystery he was no longer sure he knew how to solve. And that was the problem. He'd always known how to solve her. He knew her tells, her triggers, the exact way to hold her when she was sad or the precise words to say when she was doubting herself. But this woman? This was a stranger. And Elijah Moore didn't like mysteries, not when it came to his own fucking house.

His hand moved from his pocket to his waist, then back again, a restless, agitated motion. He took a step back into the kitchen, his movements deliberate, heavy. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and the weight of secrets.

"Actually, nah," he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "We ain't doing this. We ain't doing the 'I'll wait up for you' and 'I'm just tired' bullshit no more."

"Smoke, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about this," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small, crumpled piece of paper. He pulled it out, the receipt crackling in the tense silence. He held it up, the moonlight glinting off the CVS logo.

Her eyes widened, her breath catching in a sharp, audible gasp. "Where did you...?"

"Where you think I got it, Paris? It was on the counter. With the rest of the mail." He took another step closer, his presence filling the room, sucking all the air out of it. "You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?"

She stared at the receipt in his hand, her face pale in the dim light. "It's... nothing."

"Don't lie to me," he growled, his voice a low rumble of warning. "Not tonight. Not in our house. You wanna tell me why you bought a pregnancy test two weeks ago? Why you needed prenatal vitamins? Antibiotics? Pain medication?" His voice rose with each question, the calm, observant man she knew giving way to something raw and wounded. "You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, her chin lifting in defiance. "It's private, Smoke."

"Private?" he repeated, his voice incredulous, dangerous. "The woman I love, the woman I share my bed with, buys a pregnancy test and a pharmacy full of drugs, and that shit is private? Nah, Paris. That ain't how this works. That ain't how we work."

He was right in front of her now, his big body blocking out the moonlight, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and fury. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat and grime of a long night's work.

"Talk to me," he demanded, his voice a low, intense command. "Now."

She shook her head, her whole body trembling. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," he insisted, his hands coming up to grip her upper arms, his fingers pressing into her skin. "You can, and you will. What did you do, Paris? What the fuck did you do?"

The dam broke. The tears she'd been fighting back for weeks spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. A sob tore from her throat.

"I did it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I did it, Smoke."

His grip on her arms tightened, his heart seizing in his chest. "Did what?"

Her eyes met his, and in that moment, he saw everything—the pain, the fear, the devastating secret she'd been carrying all alone.

"The test," she choked out, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. "It was positive. I was pregnant."

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and terrible. I was pregnant.

For a full ten seconds, the world stopped. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant crash of waves against the shore, the frantic beating of Elijah's own heart—all of it ceased to exist. There was only Paris's face, pale and streaked with tears, and the three words she had just unleashed into the quiet of their home.

Then, the world rushed back in, louder and more violent than before.

His hands dropped from her arms like they'd been burned. He took a step back, his body recoiling from the impact of her confession. "Pregnant?" The word was a foreign object in his mouth, sharp and ugly. "You were... what?"

His eyes, dark and observant, scanned her face, her body, searching for the truth he could feel in his bones but couldn't comprehend. His gaze dropped to her stomach, flat and perfect under the thin fabric of her shirt. A life. A whole life had been there. Their life.

"When?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "When did you know?"

"The day you left for that run with Stack," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The morning after... the morning you asked me if I was happy."

He remembered that morning. The sun on the balcony, the taste of her lips, the strange, melancholy look in her eyes he'd dismissed as moodiness. He'd kissed her goodbye, told her he loved her, and walked out the door while their world was quietly ending.

"And you didn't tell me?" The question was a low growl, a wounded animal sound. "You didn't think to call me? To text me? To say, 'Hey Smoke, your whole life is about to change, you might wanna come home'?"

"I couldn't!" she cried, her voice rising with panic. "You were in the middle of something dangerous! I wasn't gonna call you and distract you over something like that!"

"Something like that?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief and fury. "Paris, that ain't 'something like that'! That's everything! That's us! That's the future we been building!"

"Building on what?" she shot back, her own anger rising to meet his. "On drug money and late nights and the constant fear that you're not gonna come home? What kind of life is that for a baby, Smoke? What kind of father can you be when you're always looking over your shoulder?"

"So you made the decision for me?" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "You took my child—our child—and you decided what was best for me without ever giving me the chance to decide for myself?"

"I did what was best for us!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "I did what was best for that baby! I wasn't gonna bring a child into this world just to watch it grow up without a father because you got shot in some alley over a fucking kilo of coke!"

The accusation hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at her, his mind reeling. She wasn't just angry. She was terrified. She'd been terrified all along, and he hadn't seen it. He hadn't seen anything.

"That's what you think of me?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "That I'd get myself killed and leave you alone? That I wouldn't do whatever it took to be there for my family?"

"I don't know what to think!" she cried, her hands flying up in frustration. "All I know is that every time you walk out that door, a part of me dies a little! All I know is that I can't breathe until I hear your key in the lock again! All I know is that I love you so much it scares me, and the thought of loving something that much, of having a baby that looked like you, that had your eyes... I couldn't do it. I couldn't survive that."

Her words were a confession, a declaration of love and fear so profound it stole the anger from his lungs, replacing it with a hollow, aching emptiness. He understood her fear. He lived with it every day—the fear that this life they'd chosen would one day demand the ultimate price. But he never imagined she'd let that fear dictate their future. Never imagined she'd make a choice this monumental, this devastating, without him.

"So what happened?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "The test was positive... and then what?"

She looked away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I went to the doctor."

"And?"

"And I was eight weeks along," she whispered, the words barely audible. "They gave me... options."

He closed his eyes, the image of her in some doctor's office, alone and scared, flashing through his mind. He should have been there. He should have been holding her hand, asking the questions, making the plans. He should have been her partner, her rock, the man she trusted enough to face anything with.

"And you chose... this?" he asked, his voice breaking on the last word.

She nodded, her face crumpling. "I made an appointment."

"At the clinic?"

Another nod.

"And you went... alone?"

She didn't answer, just stood there, her body shaking with silent sobs.

The full weight of her betrayal crashed down on him then. It wasn't just the decision. It was the secrecy. The solitude. The fact that she had faced the most terrifying, life-altering moment of their lives alone, without him. Without a single word.

"Paris," he said, his voice hollow, dead. "Look at me."

Slowly, she raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears.

"Did you do it?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Did you go through with it?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She just stood there, her mouth working like a fish out of water, her eyes wide with panic.

"Did you do it?" he asked again, his voice rising, cracking with the force of his pain. "Did you kill my baby, Paris?"

The words were ugly, cruel, a weapon designed to inflict maximum pain. And they did. She flinched as if he'd slapped her, a strangled sob tearing from her throat.

"It wasn't like that," she choked out.

"Then what was it like?" he demanded, his voice rising to a roar. "Tell me what it was like! Tell me how you walked into that clinic alone! Tell me how you lay down on that table and let them... and let them..." He couldn't finish the sentence, the words catching in his throat, strangling him.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever done," she sobbed, her body wracked with tremors. "I cried the whole time. I thought about you, about us, about what could have been. But I did it because I love you! Because I couldn't watch this life destroy you, and I couldn't bring a child into it knowing that might happen!"

"You didn't give me a choice!" he bellowed, his fists clenching at his sides, the need to hit something, to break something, overwhelming him. "You didn't trust me enough to let me be part of that decision! You didn't trust me enough to believe that I could protect you, that I could protect us!"

"I was trying to protect you!"

"By lying to me? By keeping this from me? By letting me walk around here like an idiot, talking about the future, talking about 'we' and 'us' when there was no 'us' anymore? When you'd already chosen to end it?"

"I was going to tell you!" she cried. "I was! I just... I needed time. I needed to process it. I needed to figure out how to tell you without breaking you."

"Breaking me?" he laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Paris, you already broke me. You took something from me, something I didn't even know I had, and you ripped it away. You took my choice, my voice, my child. You took it all."

He turned away from her then, unable to look at her face another second. He walked to the window, staring out at the black water, at the city lights that had once seemed like a promise but now felt like a mockery. Everything they had, everything they were, was built on a foundation of lies. Or maybe just one lie. One big, devastating lie that had hollowed out their relationship from the inside out.

"I can't," he said, his voice low, rough. "I can't even look at you right now."

"Smoke, please," she begged, her voice ragged with tears. "Please try to understand."

"I understand," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I understand that you didn't trust me. I understand that you didn't think I was strong enough to handle it. I understand that when faced with the biggest decision of our lives, you chose to face it alone. I understand all of that, Paris. And it's killing me."

He rested his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes closing, the image of her in that clinic, alone and afraid, burned into his brain. He should have been there. He should have known. He should have seen the signs, felt the shift in her, sensed the secret she was carrying. But he hadn't. He'd been too wrapped up in his own world, too focused on the money, the power, the game, to see that the woman he loved more than life itself was drowning right in front of him.

"When?" he asked, his voice muffled by the glass. "When did you do it?"

"Two weeks ago," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The day after I bought the test. I went in that afternoon."

Two weeks. For two weeks, she'd been walking around with this secret, with this pain, with the ghost of their child, and he hadn't known. He hadn't seen a thing.

He turned back to face her then. "There's nothing to fix," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. "It's already done. It's already broken."

He didn't say another word. He didn't look at her again. He just turned, his movements stiff, robotic, and walked toward the door. He grabbed his leather jacket from the chair, his keys from the bowl, his movements devoid of their usual fluid grace. He was a man acting on instinct, a man running from a pain so profound it threatened to swallow him whole.

"Smoke, where are you going?" she cried, her voice ragged with tears. "Don't leave. Please don't leave like this."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was tight, his tongue thick and useless. Words were meaningless now. Everything was meaningless.

He opened the front door, stepping out into the cool night air, leaving her standing in the middle of their living room, a lone figure bathed in moonlight and heartbreak.

And then he was gone.

The click of the door echoed in the vast, empty spaces of their home, the sound of it sealing her in, sealing him out. Alone in the silence, with nothing but the ghost of a child she'd never know and the devastating weight of a choice made in fear. 

The pier stretched out into the black water of the Gulf, a skeletal finger of wood and light pointing at a moonless sky. Elijah walked it like a man condemned, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, the night air cool against his face. He'd been walking for hours, ever since he'd fled the condo, the roar of the ocean a poor substitute for the silence that had followed Paris's confession.

He stopped at the end of the pier, leaning against the weathered railing, staring out at the endless dark. The waves crashed against the pilings below, a rhythmic, percussive sound that usually calmed him, but tonight it just sounded like chaos. Like the chaos in his head.

Her words echoed there, a relentless refrain. I was pregnant. I did it. I was trying to protect you.

He closed his eyes, the image of her face streaked with tears, burned into his brain. The way she'd flinched when he'd asked if she'd killed his baby. The raw, gut-wrenching pain in her voice when she'd admitted it. The fear. Always the fear.

He'd been so focused on his own anger, his own sense of betrayal, that he hadn't really seen hers. Not until it was too late. Not until he'd already unleashed the cruelest words he could think of, words designed to wound, to punish, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain he was feeling.

Did you kill my baby, Paris?

The words came back to him now, ugly and vicious, and he flinched, a wave of shame washing over him. That wasn't him. That wasn't them. They didn't do that. They didn't weaponize their pain, not against each other. But tonight... tonight he'd been a different man. A man driven by a hurt so profound it had stripped him of his reason, his compassion, his love.

He thought about the life she'd been carrying. Their life. A child with her smile and his eyes. A little girl or a little boy who would have grown up in that condo, who would have run barefoot on the beach, who would have known the sound of the waves as their lullaby. A child he hadn't even known existed until it was already gone.

And she'd faced it alone.

That was the part that kept coming back to him, the part that lodged in his throat like a fish bone. She'd walked into that clinic alone, had faced that decision alone, had endured that procedure alone, all while he was out there playing kingpin, moving product, collecting debts, living a life that had ultimately cost them everything.

He'd failed her. Not just as a partner, but as a man. He'd been so caught up in the game, in the money, in the power, that he hadn't seen what was right in front of him. He hadn't seen the fear in her eyes, the distance in her touch, the subtle shifts in her behavior that screamed that something was wrong. He'd seen it, but he hadn't seen it. Not until it was too late.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. He wanted to call her, to hear her voice, to tell her he was sorry, that he was coming home. But he couldn't. He didn't know how. How do you come back from something like this? How do you rebuild a foundation that's been so thoroughly shattered?

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his gaze drifting back to the condo. It was a dark silhouette against the lighter sky, a monument to a life that no longer existed. A life he'd taken for granted, a love he'd assumed would always be there, waiting for him when he came home.

But not tonight. Tonight, there was no one waiting for him. No warm embrace, no soft kiss, no whispered "I love you." Just an empty house, a broken heart, and the devastating weight of a choice made in fear.

Back in the condo, Paris sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, her knees pulled up to her chest, her body wracked with tremors. The moonlight streamed through the large windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room, shadows that seemed to mock her, to mirror the darkness in her own soul.

She'd been sitting there for hours, ever since he'd left, ever since the click of the door had sealed her in, sealed him out. She'd cried until there were no tears left, until her eyes were dry and burning, until her throat was raw from the force of her sobs. But the pain remained, a dull, persistent ache that radiated through her entire body, a constant reminder of what she'd done, what she'd lost.

She thought about the baby. Their baby. A tiny, perfect life that had existed for a brief, shining moment, a life she had ended. She'd tried to tell herself it was for the best, that she was protecting them, protecting him, from the harsh realities of their world. But in the quiet of the night, with only the sound of her own ragged breathing for company, the excuses rang hollow.

She'd been scared. Not just of the life they were living, not just of the danger that followed them, but of him. Of his reaction. Of the possibility that he wouldn't want this, wouldn't want them, wouldn't want the complication of a child in the middle of their dangerously volatile world.

She'd seen the way he was with kids, the way he softened, the way his whole demeanor changed. She knew he'd be a good father, a great father. But she also knew the life he'd chosen, the risks he took, the enemies he made. And she couldn't bear the thought of bringing a child into that, of loving something that much only to lose it, of facing a future without him because his past had finally caught up with him.

So she'd made the choice. The hardest choice of her life. She'd chosen him over their child, chosen their present over a future that might never exist. And in doing so, she had destroyed the very thing she was trying to protect.

She thought about his face when he'd found out, the way the color had drained from his skin, the way his eyes had darkened with pain, and how it had taken her breath away. She'd expected anger, disappointment, even resentment. But she hadn't expected... devastation. She hadn't expected the look of a man who'd lost everything, a man who'd been betrayed by the one person he'd trusted above all others.

And the words he'd said... Did you kill my baby, Paris? They echoed in her mind, a vicious, cruel refrain that made her shrink even now. He'd been trying to hurt her, to punish her, and he'd succeeded. He'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

But she understood. She understood the pain, the sense of betrayal, the feeling of being shut out, of not being trusted enough to be part of such a monumental decision. She'd taken that from him, taken his voice, his choice, his right to be a part of it. And she could never, ever get that back.

She rose slowly, her body stiff and sore, and walked to the window, staring out at the dark water. She wondered where he was, if he was okay, if he was thinking of her. She hoped he was. She hoped he was hurting as much as she was, not out of spite, but out of a desperate, selfish need to know that she wasn't alone in this pain, that this loss, this devastation, was something they shared, even in their separation.

The first hint of dawn was just beginning to paint the eastern sky, a soft, pale pink that promised a new day, a new beginning. But for Paris, there was no beginning, only an endless, aching middle. A long, dark night of the soul with no end in sight.

The sun was just beginning to rise when Elijah pulled his car into the underground garage, the engine's low rumble echoing in the concrete cavern. He'd slept in the driver's seat, his body cramped and stiff, his mind a jumble of fragmented thoughts and painful memories. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, hadn't meant to stay away all night, but the exhaustion had been too much, the weight of his grief too heavy to bear.

He rode the elevator up to their floor, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and anticipation. He didn't know what he would find when he opened that door, didn't know how she would react, how he would react. All he knew was that they couldn't go on like this. They couldn't live in this silence, this separation, this brokenness.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out, his footsteps soft on the plush carpet. He approached the door, his hand hovering over the keypad, his breath catching in his throat. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and keyed in the code.

The door swung open, and the first thing he saw was her.

She was sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, exactly where he'd left her, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face tear-streaked in the early morning light. She looked up as he entered, her eyes wide, uncertain, a flicker of hope warring with the fear in their depths.

He closed the door softly behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the vast, empty spaces of their home. He didn't say anything, just stood there for a moment, his eyes taking in every detail of her face, every line of pain and exhaustion, every shadow of regret.

Then he crossed the room, his movements slow, deliberate, and knelt in front of her, his hands resting on his knees. He didn't touch her, not yet. He just looked at her, really looked at her, and in that moment, he saw everything. The fear, the pain, the regret, the love. He saw it all.

"I'm not mad about the choice," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm devastated that you didn't trust me enough to share it."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't look away. "I was scared," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I was so scared, Smoke. Not just of the life, not just of the danger... but of you. Of your reaction. Of the possibility that you wouldn't want this, that you wouldn't want us, that you'd see it as a complication, a problem to be solved."

He shook his head, his heart aching with the weight of her fear. "Never," he said, his voice firm, intense. "I would never have seen you or our child as a problem. I would have seen it as a blessing. As a reason to change, to be better, to be the man you already believed I was."

"I didn't know that," she cried, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "I couldn't know that. All I could see was the risk, the danger, the possibility of losing you. I couldn't... I couldn't build a life without you. I couldn't raise a child without its father."

"And you thought I would let that happen?" he asked, his voice gentle now, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You thought I wouldn't do whatever it took to protect you, to protect our family?"

"I didn't know," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "I was so lost in my own fear that I couldn't see anything else."

He reached out then, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin, wiping away her tears. She leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips, the first sound of peace she'd made all night.

"We're a family, Paris," he said, his voice low, intense. "Whatever we face, we face together. That's the deal. That's what we signed up for. You don't get to make decisions like this alone. You don't get to carry burdens like this by yourself. You don't get to protect me by hurting us."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes closing, her body relaxing into his touch. "I'm so sorry, Smoke."

"I know," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "I know you are. And I'm sorry too. Sorry for the things I said, for the way I reacted. I was hurt, and I lashed out, and I said things I can never take back."

"We can get past this," she said, her eyes opening, a flicker of hope in their depths. "We can fix this."

"We can," he agreed, his thumb still stroking her cheek. "But it's gonna take time. It's gonna take work. It's gonna take a level of honesty and communication we've never had before. You gotta promise me you'll never do something like this again. You gotta promise me you'll trust me enough to let me in, no matter how scared you are."

"I promise," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I promise I'll try."

"That's all I can ask," he said, leaning in to press another soft kiss to her lips, a gentle, reassuring touch that spoke of forgiveness, of healing, of a future they would build together, one painful, honest step at a time.

He helped her to her feet, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. She rested her head on his chest, her arms circling his waist, her body fitting against his like it was made to be there. They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other's arms, the early morning light streaming through the windows, bathing them in its soft, golden glow.

The path forward wouldn't be easy. There would be more tears, more pain, more difficult conversations. But they would face it together. As a team. As partners. As the two halves of a whole that had been shattered but could, with time and love and trust, be made whole again.

The bass from the club downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of the VIP lounge, a deep thump that matched the frantic rhythm of Elias "Stack" Moore's heart. He was sprawled on a velvet couch, one arm draped along the back, the other wrapped possessively around Gia's waist. She was curled into him, laughing at something his boy Ace had just said, her head thrown back, her throat long and brown and perfect. The strobe lights painted her in flashes of neon—pink, then blue, then green—making her look like a goddess in a technicolor dream.

This was their life. Loud. Chaotic. Unapologetic. Two years of this shit, and Stack still woke up every morning feeling like he'd won the fucking lottery. Gia was his match in every way, wild as hell, loyal to a fault, and just as reckless as he was. She didn't try to tame him. She ran with him, her hand in his, her middle finger raised to the world.

"Aight, aight, enough of that shit," Stack growled, pulling her closer, his lips brushing against her ear. "You laugh too hard at another nigga's jokes, I'mma start thinking you wanna leave a real one."

Gia rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. "Please, Stack. You know I only got eyes for your ugly ass."

"That's what I'm talking 'bout," he said, his voice thick with pride and liquor. He grabbed her chin, turning her face to his, and kissed her hard, a messy, possessive kiss that tasted of Hennessy and want. She kissed him back just as hard, her hands tangling in the thick gold chain around his neck, her body arching against his in a way that promised the night was far from over.

They were the king and queen of their fucked-up little kingdom, he and his twin brother Smoke. While Smoke was the calm, calculating force behind their operation, Stack was the wild, unpredictable energy that kept things interesting. He was the face, the muscle, the one who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, to fuck someone up just for looking at him wrong. He wore his reputation like a badge of honor, a heavy gold chain that announced his presence before he even stepped into a room.

But lately, things had been... different. Not bad, just different. Smoke and Paris were going through some shit, some quiet, heavy thing that had settled over them like a cloud. They were still together, still solid, but the easy laughter had been replaced by long, meaningful glances, the playful banter by soft, whispered conversations. They were healing; Stack knew that, but healing was boring. Healing was quiet. Healing was the opposite of everything he and Gia were.

"You good?" Gia asked, pulling back from the kiss, her dark eyes searching his. "You been spacey all night."

"I'm good," he said, forcing a grin. "Just thinking 'bout all this money we 'bout to make."

"Is that all you ever think about?" she teased, but there was an edge to her voice, a flicker of something he couldn't quite read.

"Nah," he said, his hand sliding down from her waist to cup her ass, squeezing it hard. "I think about this too. All the damn time."

She laughed, but it was a little too loud, a little too bright. "You're so full of shit."

"And you love it," he shot back, his grin widening. "Now, you wanna get out of here? I'm tryna see what that mouth do when it ain't running."

"Stack," she said, swatting at his chest, but she was already standing up, grabbing her purse from the table. "You're so romantic."

"I'm romantic as hell," he called after her as she walked away, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the way her dress clung to her curves. "Romantic enough to give you this dick till you can't walk straight!"

She flipped him off over her shoulder, but she was smiling, and that was all that mattered. As long as she was smiling, everything was good. As long as she was his, everything was right with the world.

One week later, they were sitting in a booth at the back of a hole-in-the-wall Italian place, the air thick with the smell of garlic and bread and secrets. Paris was across from her, pushing a meatball around her plate with a fork, her eyes shadowed with a pain she was still trying to hide.

"You sure you're good?" Gia asked, her voice softer than it usually was. "You been MIA for a minute."

"I'm good," Paris said, but they both knew it was a lie. She and Smoke were trying, Gia knew that, but trying was hard. Trying was messy. Trying left scars. "Just... taking it one day at a time, you know?"

Gia nodded. She didn't know, not really. She and Stack didn't do "one day at a time." They did "one night at a time," one party, one high, one fuck at a time. They did fast and loud and messy, and they'd been doing it for two years without any signs of slowing down.

But something had been slowing her down. Something had been weighing on her, a secret so heavy it was starting to crush her from the inside out. She looked at Paris, at the fragile strength in her eyes, the quiet determination in her posture, and she knew she had to tell someone. She had to say it out loud before it ate her alive.

"I'm late," she said, the words barely a whisper.

Paris's fork clattered against her plate. "Late how?"

"Late late," Gia said, her heart pounding in her chest. "Like, two weeks late. And I've been sick every morning. And my boobs hurt like a motherfucker."

Paris's eyes widened, her fork forgotten. "Gia... are you...?"

"I don't know," Gia said, her voice trembling. "I haven't taken a test yet. I'm scared to."

"Scared of what?" Paris asked, her voice gentle, understanding. "Scared of what Stack will say?"

Gia laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. "Hell no. I'm not scared of what Stack will say. I'm scared of what he'll do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Stack's a child, Paris," Gia said, her voice rising with a frustration that had been building for months. "A big, loud, reckless child who thinks the world revolves around his dick. He can't even handle his own life, let alone be responsible for another one. You think he's gonna give up the clubs, the parties, the random strippers he swears he doesn't fuck anymore? You think he's gonna suddenly grow up and be a father just 'cause I'm pregnant?"

She thought about the last time she'd found lipstick on his collar, the faint scent of cheap perfume clinging to his clothes. She thought about the lies he told so easily, the way he twisted the truth to fit his narrative, the way he made her feel like she was crazy for questioning him, for wanting more, for wanting better.

"He loves you," Paris said softly.

"He loves the idea of me," Gia countered. "He loves having someone to come home to, someone to warm his bed, someone who looks good on his arm. But he doesn't love me. Not enough. Not enough to change. Not enough to be the man I need him to be."

She thought about the life they were living, the danger that followed them, the constant, low-grade fear that lived in the back of her mind. She thought about bringing a child into that world, a child who would have Stack for a father, a child who would grow up watching his mother's heart break over and over again.

"I can't do it," she whispered, the tears she'd been fighting back for weeks finally spilling over. "I can't bring a baby into this. I can't let him be a father. I can't let myself be a mother in a world like this."

Paris reached across the table, her hand covering Gia's. "I understand," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "More than you know."

Gia looked up, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Paris took a deep breath, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. "Smoke and I... we were pregnant too."

Gia's breath caught in her throat. "What? When?"

"About a month ago," Paris said, her voice barely audible. "I found out the morning he left for that run with Stack. I went to the doctor. I was eight weeks along."

"Oh my god," Gia breathed, her mind reeling. "Paris... what did you do?"

What she didn't say was, I did it too. What she didn't say was, I know exactly how you feel. What she didn't say was, It's the hardest thing you'll ever do, but sometimes it's the only thing you can do.

But Gia heard it all. She heard it in the tremor of Paris's voice, in the shadows in her eyes, in the way her hand tightened around hers, a silent acknowledgment of a shared pain, a shared secret, a shared choice.

"I'm so sorry," Gia whispered, her own tears falling now. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Me too," Paris said, her voice cracking. "But we made the right choice. For us. For them. We have to believe that."

And in that moment, Gia did believe it. She believed it, and that quieted the fear in her heart, that gave her the strength she needed to do what she knew she had to do.

The clinic was colder than she'd expected, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and regret. Gia sat in the waiting room. The other women in the room kept their eyes down, their bodies hunched in on themselves as if to make themselves smaller, less noticeable. 

A nurse in bright yellow scrubs, her name tag reading 'CHLOE,' popped her head into the crowded waiting room. "Gia Martinez?" Her voice was too cheerful for the grim reality of the place.

Gia shot up from her chair, a jolt of adrenaline making her heart hammer against her ribs. She didn't look at the other women, didn't need to. She could feel their collective sigh, their shared understanding. This wasn't a place of judgment; it was a place of consequence. And she was here to face hers.

The hallway was a blur of beige walls and motivational posters that felt like a sick joke. Chloe led her to a small, sterile room and handed her a paper gown and a plastic cup. "The doctor will be in shortly. Just need you to pee in this for a quick confirmation test first."

The bathroom was tiny, the fan humming loudly, doing nothing to drown out the sound of her own ragged breathing. She stared at the plastic cup in her hand, her stomach churning. She'd known. She'd known. But a part of her, a stupid, hopeful part, had prayed for a false alarm, for a miracle, for anything but this. She sat on the toilet, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold the cup, and when she was done, she placed it on the little shelf outside the door like it was a bomb.

Back in the room, she sat on the edge of the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath her, loud in the silence. She didn't lie down. She couldn't. She felt like she needed to be ready to run, to fight, to do something. But there was nothing to do. Nothing but wait.

The doctor who came in was young, no older than thirty, with a kind smile and tired eyes. "Gia? I'm Dr. Evans. We got the results back, and... it's positive. So we need to talk about your options."

Gia just nodded, her throat tight. She'd already made her choice. The rest of this was just... procedure.

"Have you considered what you'd like to do?" Dr. Evans asked, her voice gentle.

"I want it gone," Gia said, the words harsh, blunt, final. "Today. If you can do it today."

Dr. Evans just nodded, her expression empathetic. "Okay. We can do that. I'm going to have you take this pill now, and then you'll come back tomorrow for the second part of the process. It's called a medical abortion. It's less invasive than a surgical procedure, but it will be... intense. You'll experience cramping and bleeding, similar to a heavy period. You'll want to be somewhere comfortable, somewhere you can rest."

She handed Gia a small white pill and a cup of water. Gia stared at it, her mind racing. This was it. The point of no return. She thought about Stack, about his loud laugh and his reckless charm, about the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in his world that mattered. She thought about the life growing inside her, a life that would have had his wild, untamable spirit. A life she was ending with a single swallow.

She popped the pill into her mouth, chasing it with a sip of water, the pill feeling like a stone in her throat. "Now what?" she asked, her voice rough.

"Now you go home," Dr. Evans said, her voice soft. "And you rest. And you come back tomorrow at the same time. We'll take care of the rest."

The drive home was a blur. The sun was high in the sky, the Florida heat oppressive, but Gia felt cold, a deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the air conditioning blasting in her car. She stopped at a red light, her hands gripping the steering wheel, and watched a young mother push a stroller across the crosswalk, the baby inside cooing and kicking its little feet. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she had to fight the urge to throw up.

When she got back to their apartment, the silence was deafening. It was usually never this quiet. Usually, there was music blasting from the speakers, or the TV was on, or Stack was on the phone, his loud, boisterous voice echoing through the rooms. But today, there was nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, frantic beating of her own heart.

She walked into their bedroom, stripping off her clothes as she went, leaving a trail of discarded garments on the floor. She pulled on one of Stack's oversized hoodies, the fabric soft and worn, his scent clinging to it—cologne and weed. She buried her face in the hood, inhaling deeply, a sob catching in her throat.

She crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes. She tried to sleep, to escape into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but sleep wouldn't come. Her mind was racing, replaying every conversation, every fight, every moment of their two years together. She thought about the good times—the laughter, the adventures, the mind-blowing sex, the way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. And she thought about the bad times—the lies, the cheating, the broken promises, the way he made her feel like she was crazy for wanting more, for wanting better.

The cramps started around midnight, a dull ache in her lower back that gradually intensified into sharp, stabbing pains that stole her breath. She curled into a ball, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her face pressed into the pillow to muffle her cries. It was worse than she'd imagined, a physical manifestation of the emotional pain that had been consuming her for weeks.

She thought about calling Paris, about reaching out to the one person who understood, but she couldn't. She didn't want to burden her, didn't want to be the reason Paris's own fragile peace was shattered. So she suffered alone, in the dark, her body wracked with tremors, her heart broken into a million pieces.

When it was finally over, she lay there in a pool of her own blood and tears, her body aching, her soul hollowed out. She stared at the ceiling, at the shadows dancing in the dim light, and she knew that she had made the right choice. But knowing it was right didn't make it hurt any less. It didn't make the emptiness go away. It didn't make the fear of telling him, of facing his reaction, any less terrifying.

The bass from Stack's new subs hit Gia right in the chest, a physical assault that made her already tender uterus clench in protest. He burst through the door of their apartment, his energy a chaotic whirlwind of expensive cologne, weed smoke, and ego. Fresh pair of black and red Jordans, baggy denim shorts hanging low enough to show the band of his Calvin Kleins, and a white tee that stretched tight across his chest. His gold Cuban link swung against his sternum, catching the light from the city skyline visible through their large seamless windows.

"Gia! Where you at, girl?" he boomed, kicking off his kicks and leaving them in the middle of the floor like he always did. "Brought you back some of that good-good from that new spot downtown. That pineapple express got my dick hard as a motherfucker."

He found her curled up on the couch, a throw blanket wrapped around her despite the Florida heat, staring at some reality TV show with the volume turned down low. She didn't turn, didn't even flinch at his entrance.

"The fuck?" he muttered, his good mood starting to curdle. He plopped down on the couch beside her, making the cushions dip, and slung his arm around her shoulders. "Aight, what's wrong with you? You ain't even happy to see daddy."

"I'm tired, Stack."

"Tired? You been 'tired' for two days," he said, his voice losing its playful edge. He tried to pull her closer, to nuzzle her neck like he usually did, but she stiffened, pulling away just enough to create a sliver of space between them. "You mad at me or something? 'Cause I swear to God, if this 'bout them hoes at the club last night, I ain't even do nothin'. I was just talking."

"I'm not mad," she said, her voice flat, monotone. "I just don't feel good."

"You been saying that," he pressed, his brow furrowing. He leaned in, trying to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze fixed on the TV. "What's wrong with you? You sick or something?"

"It's just cramps," she mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

"Cramps?" he scoffed, sitting back, his arm dropping from her shoulders. "Man, you been on your period for a week. That shit ain't normal."

And it wasn't. Gia's cycle was usually as regular as clockwork, a three-day affair of mild bitchiness and a surprisingly high sex drive. But this... this was different. She'd been quiet, withdrawn, her appetite nonexistent. She'd snapped at him that morning for leaving a wet towel on the bed, a transgression she usually ignored or at most rolled her eyes at. She was a ghost in their apartment, a pale imitation of the vibrant, fiery woman he'd been living with for two years.

He watched her, his eyes taking in every detail. The dark circles under her eyes, the way her skin seemed to have a grayish cast to it, the faint tremor in her hands as she reached for her glass of water on the coffee table. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"You ain't been eaten shit all day," he said, his voice low, concerned. "I brought you back some tacos from that place you like. You want one?"

She shook her head, her eyes still glued to the screen. "Not hungry."

"Gia," he said, his voice firm now, a warning. "Look at me."

Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes meeting his. And what he saw in them made his stomach clench. They were dull, lifeless, the fire he loved, the spark that made her her, extinguished. They were the eyes of a stranger.

"What?" she asked, her voice defensive. "What do you want, Stack?"

"I want you to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you," he shot back, his frustration rising. "You been acting weird for days. You ain't laughing, you ain't fucking, you ain't even talking to me. What's up?"

"Nothing," she said, turning back to the TV. "I just need some space."

"Space?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. "We live in a two-bedroom apartment with a balcony overlooking the whole damn city. How much more space you need?"

She didn't answer, just stared at the TV, her jaw tight. He could feel the anger radiating off her, a cold, silent fury that was more terrifying than any of their usual blow-out fights. At least with those, he knew what he was dealing with. This... this was unknown territory.

He stood up, running a hand over his low fade, his mind racing. He thought about the last time they'd had sex, a week ago. It had been good, great even, but there had been a distance to her, a sadness in her eyes that he'd dismissed as her being in her feelings about something or other. He thought about the last time they'd really talked, really connected, and he couldn't remember. It had been too long.

"Where's your purse?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm looking for my damn keys," he lied, his eyes scanning the room. "I think I left 'em in here somewhere."

She pointed toward the kitchen, her movements stiff. "On the counter."

He walked into the kitchen, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew her purse was on the counter. He'd seen it when he came in. But he needed to know. He needed to see if his suspicions were right, if the fear that had been gnawing at him for the last two days was founded in reality.

He found her purse, a big, black leather tote with gold hardware. He unzipped it slowly, his hands shaking slightly, his breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what he was looking for, not exactly. A receipt? A text message? A note from another man? He didn't know, but he knew he'd know it when he saw it.

He rummaged through her purse, his fingers brushing against her wallet, her keys, a half-empty pack of gum. And then he felt it. A small, stiff piece of cardboard, tucked into a side pocket. He pulled it out, his heart seizing in his chest.

It was a clinic card. Not just any clinic, but a women's health clinic. The name was printed in a soothing, feminine font—"Women's Wellness Center of Tampa Bay." Underneath the name was a list of services: OB/GYN, Prenatal Care, Family Planning, Termination Services.

Termination Services.

The words hit him, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at the card, his mind reeling, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of fear and confusion and a dawning, horrifying realization.

Termination Services.

What the fuck did that mean? Was she sick? Did she have cancer? Some kind of female shit he didn't even know about? Or... or was it something else? Something worse?

His mind raced, leaping to the most paranoid, the most painful conclusion. She'd been cheating on him. That had to be it. She'd been fucking some other nigga, gotten pregnant, and gone to this clinic to take care of it. To get rid of the evidence. That's why she'd been so distant, so defensive. That's why she wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't touch him. She was hiding something. Hiding someone.

He felt a surge of hot rage; he was seeing red, and that made him want to punch a hole in the wall. But underneath the rage was betrayal.

He walked back into the living room, the card clutched in his hand, his face a mask of confusion and growing anger. She was still on the couch, still staring at the TV, but he could feel her awareness of him, the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding her breath.

"Gia," he said, his voice low, dangerous.

She turned slowly, her eyes widening as they landed on the card in his hand. He saw the panic flash across her face. He knew whatever it was, it was bad.

"What's this?" he asked, holding up the card, his voice tight with emotion. "What the fuck is this, Gia?"

The card trembled in Stack's hand, a flimsy piece of cardboard that suddenly felt heavier than a block of gold. His eyes darted from the soothing blue font to Gia's face, which had gone from pale to ashen. The panic in her eyes was all the confirmation he needed. This wasn't about a yeast infection. This was about something else. Something worse.

"What. Is. This?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a low. He took a step closer. "You been cheating on me? That what this is? You out there fucking some other nigga, get knocked up, and decide to handle it on the low? Is that the kind of bitch you are?"

Gia stiffened. "No! Stack, it's not like that—"

"Then what is it like?" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He threw the card at her, it fluttering to the floor between them like a dying bird. "'Family Planning'? 'Termination Services'? What the fuck you terminating, Gia? Your conscience? Or the evidence?"

"It's not what you think!" she cried, scrambling to her feet, the blanket pooling around her ankles. She looked small, fragile, compared to the fiery woman who'd been cursing him out just last week for leaving the toilet seat up.

"Then tell me what to think!" he shot back, his hands flying up in exasperation. "I come home, try to show my girl a good time, and you sitting here looking like you just seen a ghost. You ain't touched me in a week. You ain't ate in two days. And now I find this shit in your purse? What the fuck am I supposed to think?"

He was in her face now, his tall frame towering over her, his presence overwhelming. He could smell the fear on her, sharp and acrid, and it only fueled his rage. He felt trapped, cornered, and his instinct was to lash out, to hurt before he could be hurt.

"You trying to get back at me?" he accused, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Is that what this is? 'Cause of them strippers? I told you that shit was nothing! I told you I was just out there having fun with my brothers! You gonna kill my baby 'cause your feelings got hurt?"

Gia's head snapped up, her eyes blazing with a fire he hadn't seen in days. "Don't you dare," she hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "Don't you dare stand there and make this about your ego. This ain't about you or your strippers or your fun. This is about me. This is about my body. My choice."

"Your choice?" he scoffed, his laugh harsh and bitter. "What about my choice? What about our choice? We a team, Gia! Or at least, I thought we was. But you been keeping secrets. You been making decisions that affect both of us without even saying a word!"

"I was scared!" she cried, tears of frustration and anger welling in her eyes. "I was scared of what you would do! I was scared of how you would react! I was scared of you!"

The words hung in the air between them, a confession and an accusation all at once. And they hit him harder than any punch, sharper than any knife. He, who had sworn to protect her, to provide for her, to be her rock, was the thing she feared most.

"Scared of me?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "Why you scared of me, Gia? I never put my hands on you. I never..."

"It's not that," she interrupted, her voice cracking. "It's... everything. Your temper. Your recklessness. The way you live your life like there's no tomorrow. The way you can't see past your own dick. I'm scared of bringing a child into that, Stack. I'm scared of having a baby with a man who's still a boy himself."

The accusation was a low blow, a direct hit to the heart of his insecurities. He'd always known he was the wild twin, the reckless one, the one who acted first and thought later. But to hear her say it, to hear her use it as a reason to... to what? To kill his child? It was unforgivable.

"So that's it?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "You decided I wasn't good enough to be a father, so you just... what? You took care of it? You erased me? Erased us?"

"I didn't erase you," she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "I was trying to protect you! From me! From a life you're not ready for!"

"I'm not ready?" he roared, his control finally snapping. He grabbed her by the arms, his fingers digging into her skin, shaking her hard. "I'm out here risking my life every fucking day to provide for you! To give you this life! This apartment, these cars, these clothes! And you're gonna stand there and tell me I'm not ready to be a father? I'm more man than any of these other niggas out here, and you know it!"

"Let go of me!" she cried, trying to pull away from his grip.

"Not until you tell me the truth!" he demanded, his face inches from hers. "You went to that clinic, didn't you? You went there, and you... you did something. What did you do, Gia? What did you do to my baby?"

The question hung in the air. And in that moment, she saw the hurt beneath the anger, the vulnerability beneath the bravado. She saw the man she loved, the man she'd been trying to protect, the man she'd just destroyed.

And she broke.

"I did it," she whispered, "Stack... I did it. I had the abortion."

The world stopped. The air left his lungs. His grip on her arms loosened, his hands dropping to his sides as if they'd been severed from his body. He stared at her, his mind refusing to process the words, his heart refusing to accept the truth.

"No," he said, his voice flat, dead. "No, you didn't."

"I did," she sobbed, her body collapsing in on itself. "I went yesterday. I took the pills. It's... it's gone."

The cramps. The blood. It all clicked into place, a horrifying, heartbreaking puzzle. He'd been so wrapped up in his own world, his own ego, his own suspicions, that he hadn't even seen. He hadn't even known.

"You... you killed my baby," he said, his voice a choked whisper. "You killed my kid without even talking to me? Without even giving me a chance? What kind of cold-hearted bitch does that?"

"I didn't know how to tell you!" she cried. "I didn't know what to say!"

"You could have said something!" he roared, his rage returning with a vengeance, hotter and more destructive than before. "You could have said, 'Hey Stack, I'm pregnant.' You could have said, 'Hey Stack, I'm scared.' You could have said, 'Hey Stack, I need you.' But you didn't! You just... you just made a choice. You took my child, my future, my everything, and you threw it away like it was nothing!"

He was in her face again, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his body vibrating with a rage so pure, so potent, it scared him. He wanted to hit something, to break something, to hurt her the way she'd hurt him, to make her feel the emptiness, the devastation, the soul-crushing loss that was consuming him.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice thick with venom. "I swear to god, Gia, I hate you."

And then he turned and walked away. He didn't look back. He didn't say another word. He just walked to the door, his hand closing around the knob, his heart shattered into a million pieces.

"Stack, please," she begged, her voice ragged with tears. "Please don't leave. Not like this."

But he didn't listen. He couldn't. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, leaving her standing in the middle of their living room.

The bass from the strip club's sound system was a deep, gut-rattling thump that Stack welcomed like an old friend. He was three bottles of Dom deep, his vision blurry, his anger a hot, simmering stew of betrayal and pain. He threw a wad of cash at the stage, the bills raining down on a dancer whose name he didn't know and wouldn't remember. Her ass was fat, her smile was fake, and for a moment, for a brief, blissful second, she was enough to make him forget.

"Another round!" he roared at the waitress, his voice slurred, his arm slung around the shoulders of a bottle-blonde bimbo who'd been grinding on him for the last hour. Her name was... something. Candy? Candi? It didn't matter. All that mattered was the warmth of her body against his, the way she laughed at his jokes, the way she looked at him like he was a king.

He was trying to forget. Trying to forget the look on Gia's face when he'd called her a cold-hearted bitch. Trying to forget the way his heart had seized in his chest when she'd said the words, "I had the abortion." Trying to forget the emptiness, the hollow ache in his gut that felt like he'd swallowed a hole.

"You okay, baby?" Candi-Whatever asked, her hand sliding up his thigh, her voice a syrupy-sweet purr in his ear.

"I'm great," he lied. "I'm better than great."

He led her out of the club, into the cool night air, his arm around her waist, his body moving with the liquid confidence of a man who had nothing left to lose. They ended up at his place, their place, the apartment he shared with Gia. The thought of her, of what he was about to do, flickered through his drug-and-booze-addled brain, but he pushed it aside. She'd done it first. She'd killed his baby. She'd broken his heart. This was just... payback. This was just... consequence.

He fucked Candi-Whatever on their couch, the same couch where he and Gia had curled up and watched movies a hundred times. He fucked her from behind, his eyes squeezed shut, pretending she was someone else, anyone else, a warm body to sink into, a temporary distraction from the pain that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn't kiss her. He didn't say her name. He just took what he wanted, a selfish, soulless act that left him feeling more empty than before.

When it was over, he sent her away with a wad of cash and a dismissive wave of his hand. He stumbled into their bedroom, the smell of Gia's perfume still clinging to the pillows, and passed out, a drunk, angry, broken man in a bed that was no longer his.

The sun was just beginning to rise when he woke up, his head pounding, his mouth dry, his body aching. He was alone. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. He sat up, his eyes scanning the room, his heart sinking when he saw her suitcase by the door, packed and ready.

She was gone.

He stumbled out of bed, his bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor, and walked into the living room. She was there, sitting on the couch, fully dressed, her purse in her lap. She looked like she hadn't slept, her eyes red and swollen, her face pale and drawn.

"You came back," he said, his voice rough with sleep and hangover.

"I was waiting for you," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "What you talking 'bout? You ain't going nowhere."

"Yes, I am," she said, standing up. "I can't... I can't do this anymore, Stack. I can't be here. I can't look at you. I can't... I just can't."

She took a step toward him, and he saw it then. The way her nose wrinkled in disgust, the way her eyes narrowed, the way she flinched away from him as if he'd struck her. He looked down at himself, at the hickeys on his chest, the faint scent of another woman's perfume clinging to his skin.

"You smell like a stripper," she said, her voice laced with fury. "And cheap liquor. And regret."

He didn't deny it. He couldn't. He just stood there, his head held high, his jaw tight, a silent admission of his guilt.

"I hope she was worth it," she said, her voice cracking. "I hope she was worth throwing away everything we had."

"She was," he lied, his voice hard, defensive. "She was worth more than you, apparently. At least she didn't kill my fucking kid."

The words were a vicious, cruel attack designed to inflict maximum pain. And they did.

"You're a monster," she whispered, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrifying realization. "You're not just a boy, Stack. You're a monster."

"I'm a monster?" he shot back, his voice rising with a self-righteous fury that was as transparent as it was pathetic. "You're the one who went behind my back, who made a choice that affected both of us without even saying a word! You're the one who killed my baby! And I'm the monster?"

"You're the one who cheated on me!" she screamed, her composure finally shattering. "You're the one who came home smelling like another woman after I told you the most painful thing I've ever had to say! You're the one who proved me right! You proved I was right to be scared, right to not trust you, right to not want to bring a child into this world with you!"

"It's not the same!" he roared, his fists clenching at his sides. "It's not the fucking same!"

"It is!" she cried, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. "It's exactly the same! It's you being selfish! It's you thinking only about yourself! It's you destroying everything good in your life because you're too scared, too immature, too fucking broken to handle it!"

He wanted to argue, to deny it, to defend himself, but he couldn't. Because she was right. He was selfish. He was immature. He was broken. And he had destroyed everything good in his life.

"I'm done," she said, her voice quiet now, resigned. "I'm done with you. I'm done with this life. I'm done with all of it."

She picked up her suitcase and walked to the door, her steps heavy, final. He wanted to stop her, to beg her to stay, to promise her he'd change, he'd be better, he'd be the man she needed him to be. But the words wouldn't come. The pride, the ego, the stubborn refusal to admit he was wrong, it was all too strong.

She paused at the door, her hand on the knob, and turned back to look at him. For a moment, he saw it all—the love, the pain, the regret, the life they could have had, the future they'd just thrown away.

"I loved you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I really, really loved you."

And then she was gone.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door, his mind reeling, his heart shattered into a million pieces. He was alone. Truly, completely, utterly alone.

He sank to the floor, his back against the wall, his head in his hands. The tears he'd been fighting back all night finally broke free, hot and heavy, streaming down his face. He cried for the baby he'd never know, for the woman he'd just lost, for the man he knew he'd never be.

He was so lost in his own grief, so consumed by his own pain, that he almost didn't hear it. The buzz of his phone on the coffee table, a frantic, insistent sound that cut through the silence. He wiped his eyes, his hands shaking as he reached for the phone, his heart pounding in his chest.

It was a text message. From a number he didn't recognize. But he knew who it was. The girl from down the hall from Smoke and Paris. The one he'd been fucking on and off for the last six months. The one he'd forgotten about in the chaos of the last few days.

The message was short, simple, and utterly devastating.

We need to talk. I'm pregnant.

He stared at the words, his mind refusing to process them, his heart refusing to accept them. Not again. Not this. Anything but this.

He threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that was more sob than smile. It was a joke. A cosmic, cruel joke. And he was the punchline. Alone in his empty apartment, with a broken heart and a shattered future, and the ghost of a second chance he knew he didn't deserve.

She dried her hands on the small towel hanging next to her, grinning up at his scrumptious reflection. “You missed me?”

“Mhm. So bad, baby.”

A bigger smile was creeping onto her face as he sat his hat and glasses down by the sink, but then she realized something. Her brows scrunched in confusion. “Why are we talking so low?”

“Tink is sleep.”

“Oh, ok. That must’ve just happened.”

“Which means we got 'bout fifteen minutes, give or take,” he said, hurrying out of his t-shirt and tossing it to the floor.

Her head jerked forward, lips pursed, but she was only partially confused now. “Um, to do what?”

Ignoring her completely, he curved his arms around her waist and licked his lips, trailing wet kisses at the crook of her neck.

“Nope.” She whipped around to face him, throwing her hands up to his bare chest before he could wrap her up too tightly. Or get her too loose.

“Why not?”

He was frowning like she was the one not making any sense. So, naturally, she frowned back, aware that he was the actual crazy person.

“Baby, what if she wakes up? What if she walks in here?”

He shrugged. “Lock the door.”

“But, then, what if she needs one of us and we’re in here with the door locked? Being nasty.”

“Baby, I need you.”

“Mike, you gotta focus, boo,” she instructed, snapping her fingers near his face. “Focus.”

He sighed and dropped his head in defeat. He knew she was right, but his hunger was outpacing all of his good sense right now. “If she needs one of us, I can move quickly.”

“Ok, but she’s right in our bed. What if she hears something? She could be scarred for the rest of her little life.”

“Simple. You the loud one. Just be quiet.”

Her eyes widened as her jaw fell slack, into a smile. “Not ‘Mr. huff and puff, moan and groan’ tryna play me--” They both ducked into near-silent laughter, throwing their hands up to catch the noise before it could go too far. “You be quiet, too, shit.”

“Ok, ok. I will. So, come ooon.” He pressed his body against her plushness, allowing her to feel all the frustration he'd been carrying around with him. Her stomach did a violent flip.

“Mike… I don’t know about this.” She bit her bottom lip, carefully sliding her hands down to his abs, knowing she was very close to giving in. He knew it, too.

“Mama… please," he whispered right against her ear, grazing it lightly with his soft lips. "You know you love the way I make you feel.”

He raised one of her legs and pushed himself even closer, sinking his starving fingers into the suppleness of her thigh. The desperation in his words as well as his unsteady movements had her soaking her panties.

“Baby,” she released a frustrated sigh, “...we can’t. Not while Tink’s in here.”

“But she’s asleep, Crys. Come on, we wastin' precious time.”

She stared at him for a second, just to see how serious he was. He stared back with the eyes of a man who didn’t have a playing bone in his body. Without warning, he grabbed her waist and lifted her up onto the sink, sending more than a few of her products tumbling. One even rolled onto the floor.

“Michael!” she whispered, intensely.

“Just let me…” he begged, going straight for her lips. She dodged his kiss, but his hand was caressing her thigh and slowly creeping up her shorts. “Let me make that pussy feel good.”

She gasped when his lips touched her neck right as those filthy words entered her ears. He was talking to her like their baby wasn’t right in the next room. His brain wasn’t in full control and hers was about to follow, her glossy walls clenching around nothing, begging to be touched. 

"But, babe, you know it's just a cat nap. She ain't even sleep for real," she breathed, eyes closed, neck stretched out and giving him more space.

"We got 'bout ten minutes now."

He was relentless. In the moment, there was only one logical thing she could think to do. She knew she would pay handsomely for it later, but that was a problem for future Crystal. “…Tink, baby, daddy’s home!” she suddenly yelled, covering her face right after.

She watched through her fingers as he backed away, blinking slowly, eyes wide. “Crys…” he whispered. She licked her tongue out at him, laughing uncontrollably at the genuine shock in his expression. He shook his head, unable to hold his laughs seeing her lose it. "I can't believe you, girl.”

"I'm sorryyyy! I didn't know what else to doooo!"

His head slumped back and he huffed toward the ceiling, so dramatically. Of course, she just laughed harder. About two seconds later, Tink ran into the bathroom with a huge smile, rubbing the residual sleep from her eyes. “Daddyyyy!”

“Tiiiiiink!” He scooped his baby girl up, peppering kisses onto her cute little face through her giggles. Then he turned back to Crys swinging her legs up on the sink, and cupped his hand over Tink's ear. “That ass gettin' put smoove through the mattress tonight. Believe that.” Crys' mouth dropped. He'd spoken softly, but he didn't want that to curb the severity of his statement. “And I'm not playin'.”

"Oop!" She pulled her lips in and bit them, letting her head fall. She knew she was in trouble, but it was undoubtedly her favorite kind. She couldn't wait for the sun to go down. "Well, put me through it then."

He chuckled, nodding his head. "...Aight."

tags: @blackerthings @judymfmoody @lyrarodriguez @fendionmyfeet @fadingbelieverexpert @chaneajoyyy @astoldbychae @hotgrlcece @daddiespamm @lovethecheri @xo-goldengirl @miyuhpapayuh @silkhoneyy @jiminie-08 @queengodiva619 @soufcakmistress @shiania @motheroffae @savagemickey03 @bigjh @infinity2 @uhhh-nunyabidniz-heaux @deepinmydaydream @queenofklonnie22 @irefusetobeacasualty @honestlyurslol @margepimpson

You wake up on a Monday morning after enjoying your short weekend to start another 9-5 workweek. Even though a part of you wished that you could work from home another part of you wanted to go into the office so you could see Erik. Your work boyfriend. On Saturday you got your hair done in some knotless box braids, went to the spa, and did a little bit of shopping for some new office attire. Today you decided to wear some of that office attire. Nude wrap skirt, a mauve colored wrap top with bell sleeves and some So Kate pumps in a nude color. Your boyfriend and Erik shared the same name but instead, your boyfriend’s name was spelled with a “C”, not a “K”. That boyfriend in question was a personal trainer and vlogger who traveled to try different restaurants mainly in Cali and NYC. He took a two week trip to NYC with a group of his guy friends. You were used to it and grew not to care so much about it. He was living his life to the fullest.

But were you living your life?

Working as a Secretary for an Environmental Technology company that makes billions of dollars gave excellent pay. The money is good but the only thing to look forward to is your gossiping friend Regina who sat in a cubicle directly next to you and Erik, the Lead Environmental Engineer who was also a Biomedical Engineer. He’s charming, witty, mesmerizing, attractive, hardworking, can be very headstrong at times, loves ramen, and has a cat named Paws. Erik with the “K” has you blushing whenever he locked eyes with you, stuttering while you both have random conversations during tea and coffee breaks, texted you funny memes during meetings when you were supposed to be taking notes, instant messages you from his cubicle computer to bug you saying things like:

-Wyd big head?

-Did Eric with the “C” see you leave the house today in that short ass skirt?

-Connie keeps talking to me with her funky ass breath. Help me 🥺.

-So, when are you going to boss up and get an office? I wanna be next to my work bae.

-You wanna get lunch together? My treat. It’s a surprise.

-I know you and Regina are gossiping about me 😌.

-I missed you after work yesterday. 

He’s also the reason why you stayed later on Wednesday and Thursday nights. You would help him brainstorm ideas about improving pollution and what he should say in his speech about global issues such as climate change. He even asked you if you wanted to come with him to Alaska to test the water there but you hadn’t given him an answer yet. You really really wanted to but being alone with Erik wasn’t such a good idea. You were afraid to be in another location besides LA with him for reasons you’d rather not admit to.

After making Erik and yourself an egg white and veggie omelet with a Belgian waffle you headed out the door and to your Prius. Arriving at the office on time, you badge in and take the lobby elevators up to the fifth floor. Stepping off of the crowded elevator, you walk towards the newly decorated staff lounge to put away the food. It was 8:25 am and Erik wouldn’t be in for another ten to fifteen minutes. The lounge had Dunkin Donuts laid out and freshly brewed coffee. You fought the temptation of grabbing a chocolate glazed donut to go to your cubicle and boot your Mac desktop computer so you could check your company email. You said Goodmorning as you walked by. Regina was playing Candy Crush on her cell when you arrived.

“Goodmorning, Gina.” You placed your Chanel bag behind the desktop computer in your cubicle.

“Morning, sis,” Regina tapped away on her phone, “Did you sleep okay?”

“Better this time around, yes,” You flipped your box braids over your shoulder while leaning back in your office chair to talk to Regina, “I haven’t heard from Eric all weekend.”

“Which one?”

You pursed your lips, “You know which one.”

She laughs, “Erik with the C. What’s up with that?”

You shrug, “Don’t know and don’t care. He acts like he can’t answer my calls or texts so I can check up on him so I’ll act like he doesn’t exist.”

Regina gave you a knowing look, “I’m sure you and Erik with the K, aka Captain Planet, texted his work bae, Miss Y/N, all weekend long.”

You bite your bottom lip to fight a goofy smile.

“See,” Regina crosses her dark chocolate legs, “he’s not just your work bae. He’s Daddy.”

“Stop!” You throw a pen at her chest, before lowering your voice, “Erik and I are not having sex, Gina. We may flirt and text outside of work-“

“And during work hours,” Regina interjected.

“Like I said, we are not having sex-“

“Who’s not having sex?”

Regina and your head turned to stare up at Erik Stevens. He had his briefcase in one hand and a black coffee with extra brown sugar in his other hand. Tailored suit colored navy blue with gold cuff links. Burberry dress shoes on his feet. Vintage gold-plated oval eyeglasses over his onyx eyes. He gave Regina and you a teasing smile. The smile where he raised one corner of his mouth to reveal a single deep dimple.

“Y/N,” Regina answered with wide playful eyes.

“Oh?” Erik gave Y/N a mournful look, “Damn, ma. That’s too bad.”

You glare at them both, “I will ignore both of y’all the rest of the day if you keep fucking with me.”

You got up from your seat, pushing in your chair, and tried your best to ignore the snickering from them both. Walking away, Erik was right on your tail, his hand reaching out to grab your shoulder to stop you.

“Calm down, it’s all jokes,” he licks his full lips, “But seriously…no sex between you and your man?”

Groaning, you walk into the lounge to grab the food.

“Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because I’m concerned,” Erik turned his back to lean against the counter with his arms folded over his chest, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You place his food inside the microwave to heat, “I know. It’s just embarrassing, Erik.”

Erik grabs your chin to make you stare at him instead of the microwave, “Don’t even give me that excuse. Remember, we shared a lot of embarrassing stories in this office after hours.”

How could you forget?

“Yeah…it’s boring, Erik. I’m sure you’re having the best sex of your life in your fancy penthouse. Probably having orgies with models and actresses. They love a sweet and caring guy,” Y/N said sarcastically.

Erik’s tongue grazes the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling, “Why orgies specifically?”

“Is that all you focused on?!!” You shove him before taking his food out, “gosh, I hate you.”

Erik takes a swig of his coffee, “which is girl code for gosh, I love you,”

You shook your head with a grin, “leave me alone.”

“Which means, give me attention,” Erik grabs both of your shoulders, before bringing his head around to plant a kiss on your cheek, “I know y’all female dictionary like the back of my hand.”

Your head turned to face him after his lips caressed your cheek. Now, that area was warm and ticklish. Erik grabs his food and walks over to one of the tables. That gave you some time to breathe and heat your food as a distraction. Why did he have to kiss you? It’s not like he’s never done it before but every time he did it, Erik made you melt and wish it were your lips instead.

“You make some bomb food, girl. I think I’m jealous of Eric with a C.”

“Says the guy who makes the best shrimp and grits I have ever tasted besides my grandma,” you take a seat in front of him. While you ate you watched him cut into his waffle covered in syrup. His long lashes curled each time he blinked and his lips were so pouty and kissable whenever he concentrates the way he does. You felt like a schoolgirl watching him eat.

“So,” Erik chews his food some more before talking, “Alaska.”

“What about it?” You play it off by cutting your omelet up.

“Y/N,” Erik raised his brow at you, “You know about Alaska this is my fourth time bringing it up.”

“When is it?”

“In a month,” Erik takes a swig of his coffee to wash down his food before leaning forward on his elbows to make you look at him, “it’s gonna be for a week, all paid for, a mini-vacay with skiing, Matanuska Glacier walk, and lunch, helicopter tour, cozy cabin…”

Erik tilted his head at you and smiled. You looked down at your food bashfully. It all sounded so tempting. You would love to go…

“I don’t know, Erik,” you shake your head, “Eric will be home and-“

“How many trips does he take leaving you home?”

“More than I can count,” you reply shamefully.

“Exactly. I ain’t tryna overstep but…” Erik left it at that and went back to his food. You slouch in your chair deep in thought. Erik has a point. Your boyfriend traveled whenever he pleased and didn’t even ask how you felt about it once. You respected that he wanted to drop his career as a teacher to travel, eat, and vlog. Not once did he suggest taking you on one of his food journeys. You honestly felt left out.

You deserve some fun too.

Moving your food around with your fork, you finally come to a decision.

“I’ll go.” You spoke softly as if you couldn’t believe you’d just agreed to it.

“Seriously?” Erik asked with his eyes unblinking and on yours.

“Yes,” you let out a breath, “I’ll go to Alaska and have some fun for once. I haven’t been out of town in so long it’ll feel good to go.”

Alaska with Erik Stevens. For an entire week. Just you and him. Your knees shook under the table.

“See,” he smirked while stabbing a piece of omelet with his fork, “It’s crazy how I had to ask your ass four times total to come with me.”

“Why is that crazy?” You asked with a laugh.

“Because it never takes a woman this long to say yes to me,” he says in a very boastful manner.

“I’m not your woman though,” you say before you could even stop yourself.

“You are my woman,” Erik rested his tongue on his upper lip before grinning, “just at work and without the sex, kissing, taking showers together-“

“Okay, you made your point, boyfriend.” You stop him before he continued.

“Does Eric know about me?”

“A little,” you look towards the ceiling, “ he’d probably cancel all his travel plans if he knew how you looked.”

Erik bit into his bottom lip, “how do I look, Y/N?”

“Fine as hell,” you giggle as if you were drunk, “He already thinks he’s the finest thing walking.”

“That’s your man though,” Erik chuckles, “You think he’s fine, right?”

“I mean, yeah, of course.”

Both of you laugh.

“I swear,” you wave him away, “you play too much.”

“Don’t make me steal you away from him.” Erik laughed. His laugh made your stomach do summer salts.

“Okay, Erik,” you speak in a dismissive tone.

“I mean, I could though.”

“Why do you insist on playing?! If I was single-“

“You would be mine,” Erik finished.

“You can have any woman you want. Why me?”

Erik scanned your body at that table, “Really? What you mean? Have you seen yourself, ma?”

“Stop,” you giggle. He can’t be serious. Erik is a flirt but why on earth would he play like this?

“You always think a nigga playing when I say that shit.” He sounded offended. You didn’t have a reply for that. Avoiding his intense eyes you finished your food while Erik closed his empty container and placed it on the counter next to the thermal lunch bag you brought the food in.

“Aight let me get to my desk,” he grabs his coffee and walked up towards you. Erik moves your box braids from your shoulder before grabbing the back of your neck gently. The feel of his smooth fingertips on your skin made the hairs on the back of your neck and arms rise.

“I’ll see you later, babe.”

You blush with a mouth full of food, “Okay, I’ll see you later too, baby.”

His fingers left your neck and combed through your box braids before he walked away and out of the lounge. You were so preoccupied with his fingers on the back of your neck and in your hair that you lost your appetite.

——

You stood at Regina’s cubicle halfway listening to her speak and the other half focusing on Erik in his office. He looked bored as hell. Your eyes watched him ball up random printer paper from his fax machine to shoot into his document waste basketball hoop that he had in the corner near the door. He made it perfectly every time. Erik had the coolest office out of all the other Environmental Engineers. Besides the typical Newton’s Cradle pendulum balls that’s a famous desk accessory, he had a tropical tabletop fountain, stress relief visual illusion toys, stainless steel pin art hand mold, darts, a Rubik’s cube, Nintendo switch, and many other cool and fun shit.

“Girl,” Regina said chewing on a granola bar, “You’re not even paying attention to me.”

“I am,” You allow your eyes to fall on her accusatory ones, “I’m just…looking around.”

“No,” Regina puts up a hand to stop you, “You’re looking at Erik.”

Both Regina and yourself look over at him, spotting Erik walking back and forth now with his suit jacket removed and the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up. He was finger juggling a pen with his right hand while speaking into a Bluetooth in his ear.

“You might as well let him ruin you, Y/N,” Regina says with a whisper.

“Oh my God, Gina,” you stomp across the carpeted floor in your pumps before taking your seat again to finish organizing in Microsoft Excel.

“He could flirt with any other woman in here. Connie, Demetria, Anita, Nicole, any of those chicks, but he chooses you. Why is that, Y/N?”

“I don’t know, Gina, enlighten me,” You roll your eyes.

“No need. You already know. Erik is feeling you, heavy baby. Heavy like that ass in that skirt that we both know you purposefully wore today to make him look.”

“OKAY.” You stop her with an abrupt tone, “Fine. Yes, Gina. Yes, I know Erik is feeling me. But I am in a relationship and I can’t just-“

“Heffa, please,” Regina laughs, “don’t even try that shit with me. You are feeling him just the same. You and Eric with the C don’t even exist when you walk in here. It’s obvious you don’t want to be with that man anymore and I wouldn’t be surprised if he is fucking some chick in NYC and secretly taking her on his little food quests. You can look at me like that all you want but deep down you know I’m speaking facts.”

“Gina,” you speak with a warning, “I will throw this stapler at your head next.”

“Won’t. Change. The. Truth,” Regina flips her long ponytail.

A part of you did believe that Eric was cheating on you. It was so obvious at times but you didn’t want it to come to that. You and Eric have been together for about five years. But then again, that shit doesn’t matter. If it did, he would be worried about fixing the relationship instead of traveling for views.

Ping Ping

-Here comes Connie. Let me take a big gulp of air before she walks in here.

Erik instant messaged you. You snicker like a child doing some sneaky shit. He was so damn goofy.

-Damn. Why don’t you just offer her some gum?

-If I do that she’ll know I think her breath stink.

-Just play it cool. Have some sitting out, grab a piece, and offer her a stick. It’s that simple.

-she talks too damn much. Just talk to me about the Alaska job so I can be prepared. That’s why I’m glad you’re coming with me.

You looked up over your cubicle to watch Connie talking animatedly while Erik swivels in his chair from side to side.

Catch my eye.

Onyx met chestnut.

Erik covered his mouth with his fist to hold in his laughter before placing his hand up at Connie, from what it looked like, to reassure her that he wasn’t laughing at what she’d said.

-want me to drag her out of there by that takky blouse?

-Why are you such a gangsta, girl? LOL aight, come handle my light work, ma

-not before I get a hospital mask so I don’t breathe in her toxic fumes. Llab

-😂😂😂😂😂 straight stupid.

You snicker again.

“What is so damn funny?” Regina peered over at you with curious eyes.

“Just IM with Erik,” you bite the gel acrylic on your thumb nail to smother your giggles, “He can’t stand Connie.”

“Mhm,” Regina smiles, “y’all so damn cute just get married already.”

-she’s gone 😁

-let’s celebrate lol.

Erik sends fireworks through the IM. You send balloons.

-enough about her. I see you 👀

-what’s that?

-you showing off. That attire is hella tight. What you doing with all of that?

-nothing. Lol, why do I have to be doing something?

-I know you wore that for my eyes only. I feel special.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. He was going down that lane. You weren’t prepared but still, you typed away.

-I figured you would appreciate it since my man wasn’t home to admire it before I left.

-Yo’ nigga got some screws loose because I wouldn’t be away letting my girl walk out the house like that.

-like what?

-with all that ass sitting in that skirt.

-can’t help that I have a lot to work with.

-ain’t no problem for me. If you were fucking with me Y/N I’d make you forget your name. Real talk.

You crossed your legs under the desk and rubbed the back of your neck. If he fucking bitches to make them forget their identities then that means his dick really ain’t nothing to play with.

-nothing to say huh?

-I’m just thinking.

-about what? Talk to me.

-why you really want me to come to Alaska with you.

-😌

-well? You’re gonna tell me why?

-Because I want you to myself.

-So I can show you something you’ve been missing.

-Eric ain’t putting it down on my work bae like he should be.

You were so damn nervous. Day by day Erik would grow more frustrated with Eric and your situation. Like Regina said, just let Erik ruin you. It’s a shame to say that you haven’t had sex in about a month. It was just you, your fingers, and your favorite vibrator. It could be Erik, his fingers, his dick, his mouth, and multiple orgasms.

-He’s not. It’s been too long. ☹️

-You ain’t gotta tell me how long. I can see it in your body language.

You twirl a braid in your hand. Looking away from your computer, you try to be discreet, bringing your eyes to peer over the top of your cubicle into Erik’s office. He was drinking a bottle of water while his eyes concentrated on the computer screen with knitted brows. He placed his bottle on the desk and leaned in, typing again.

Ping ping

-Don’t ignore me before I walk over there.

-ooooo I’m scared.

-Aight, bet. I’m coming.

-I want you to think long and hard about that, Stevens.

You were flustered, wet, shaken up that he wanted to “show you” what you’ve been missing, and willing to risk it all if he left his office space to come to talk to you.

-that’s what she said. 😈

You chuckle. He could turn any topic into sex.

“Hey, Erik,”

You look up to find him standing next to your cubicle while Regina looked at the both of you with interest. You stand from your seat, ready to get yourself some water but Erik has your shoulders.

“Where you going?” His husky voice tickled your ear.

“For some water.”

Erik starts massaging your shoulders lightly.

“Can I come with you? I need to stretch my legs.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” You lead the way.

But you did care. You wondered what he was up to. Now that you walked ahead of him with that very tight wrap skirt on you felt exposed like he has x-ray vision and can see your phat dimpled cheeks bounce and sway. Thank God for an empty lounge. You walk over to the fountain, grabbing a cup, and Erik was right on your side, holding the tap down for you. Your cheeks poke out to hide your blush.

“Thank you,” you speak softly. His eyes were intent on you. Not once did you give in and look his way while drinking that ice-cold water. Suddenly unable to breathe you back up a little to make some space between you two. Erik followed with his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“Don’t you have a ton of work to do?” You ask to try and divert the attention away from you. Too late. Erik was determined to make you weak in front of him.

“I do but we have a long day, ma. I’ll get it done. I just couldn’t stand being away from my work bae.”

You rub your fingers along the wet cup, “I’m convinced now that you only come to work to be near me.”

“I’m cool with that,” He shrugs, “I could be a whole lot of things if it wasn’t for your man who’s supposed to be home with you.”

“He’ll be back-“

“And then he’ll be gone again,” Erik let’s out a sigh, “We’re playing too many games, Y/N. I’m tired of the flirting back and forth when I know you really want me. Stop coming in here to impress me with these bomb-ass outfits. I’ve been impressed for over a year now.”

Erik closed the space between you both, pressing his chest against your fuller one. You look over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming and when the coast was clear you focused your heated gaze on him.

“I’m tryna undress you with my fucking hands, not my eyes.” Erik takes his fingers to play with the bow of your wrap skirt, “You feel what I’m saying?”

You couldn’t speak. Your eyes were to busy admiring this gorgeous man who wanted to fuck you. His inviting eyes saw exactly what you wanted. A long, hard, fuck. Taking his fingers, Erik grabs your chin delicately to stroke. He made you feel so precious and desired.

“So, can I do that?” Erik asked with his lips kissing along your jawline. Your eyes landed on the door to check it and still, no one was there.

“Can I take care of you, ma?”

Yes.

You had this look in your eyes, this look that said, please, Daddy, come fuck me. He smelled so damn good. So invigorating and moisturizing. You could make out a hint of exotic arabica coffee and coconut oil on the skin of his neck.

“No,” you lick your upper lip, “No, you can’t.”

His lips found yours. He swallowed that no with his full lips and tongue. Both of you knew that your answer was disbelieving when your hands came up to wrap around his neck. That was a green light for Erik. His hands came around your waist, and then down to cup your ass. He would alternate between rubbing your spine and making your cheeks bounce in his hands. Erik rests his chin on your shoulder so he could peer behind you to watch his hands squeezing all that ass on you. He would let it go and watch it bounce before slapping it lightly so he wouldn’t make a lot of noise. You felt your heart in your throat. Now, his crotch was pressed into yours. Long and hard indeed. Let’s not forget thick.

“You free tonight?” He whispered in your ear.

“Yeah,” you could feel him lifting you from the floor to sit your bottom on the counter. He was between your legs while your hands reach for his tie to tug on. It distracted you from being so nervous. His hands rested on your exposed upper thighs rubbing your warm skin in slow circles to sooth you. All he was doing was killing you. His touch was so soft and gentle but under all of that was a rough dominating grasp that you yearned for

You weren’t sure which throbbing you wanted to quiet more—the throbbing between your legs or the throbbing from your heartbeat against your chest. All those daydreams about rubbing your swollen pussy lips all over Erik’s face until you came. Now that the both of you crossed yet another line——the touching and kissing line, there was no telling what would happen next. Sex after hours in the office on his desk? Walks to the parking lot only to fuck in the back seat of his car? Happy hour on Friday evenings only to get drunk and have sex at his penthouse? 

“Can I come over to keep you company?” 

“I don’t know, E. This office fling situation can fuck with both of our jobs.” You nibble on your bottom lip the second his lips came into contact with your throat. 

“Nobody gotta know,” his plush lips sought out yours again, “It can be our little secret, baby.” 

“But what if someone does find out?”

“It won’t happen like that, trust me,” Erik grabs your hand to rest against his crotch. Erik was swelled to cum-inspiring proportions, making you want to finger-fuck yourself with mounting enthusiasm. 

“Damn, Erik.” Now you were thinking about this office fling as a carnal delight after hours. 

“I know, right? Imagine me walking around all day, watching you with these big titties…shapely legs…and round ass…”

You had the body, beauty, and brains. That meant that you seldom went unnoticed; especially not by Erik, your work bae. Your slant eyes and supple body reminded him of a jungle cat that, when tamed, purred like a kitten. He wanted to hear you mewl and whimper in his ear while his dick that was currently twisted and curved in his briefs bounced off the walls of your pussy. He could see the lust in your feline eyes how quickly you noticed his arched appendage. You were probably fantasizing about what wonderful things it could do for your G-spot. 

“Keep looking at me like that and watch I finger-fuck this pussy right here,” Erik’s eyes went down to look at the Apple watch on his wrist, “It’s almost that time to eat. I’m tryna eat something else though…”

“Eat me?” You couldn’t control that slipping from your mouth. 

“Slob on this yummy pussy,” his hand was between your legs now, caressing the outside of your saturated panties, “You gonna feed me?”

“Where?” You whisper.

“Shit, we can go to my car for lunch. I got tinted windows.” Erik was desperate to slide his tongue inside you. 

“Erik, this is crazy.” You laugh faintly before he took your face into his hands, gazed into your eyes, and kissed you so urgently it felt as if you were floating away. You could think of nothing else but how good he made you feel. Erik explores your mouth with his tongue, not wanting you to miss an inch of how skilled he was using his mouth. 

“You’ll be begging me to make this pussy feel good in a minute.”

You were relentless with your hands squeezing the weight of Erik’s curved erection in his black slacks. You really wanted to untuck his dress shirt, get down on your knees, and suck him with a wide-open mouth. Keep your mouth as wide-open as was physically possible—anxiously awaiting your reward. 

“Don’t worry babe,” Erik gently pulls your hand away from his crotch, “wait for lunch and you can have me all to yourself, okay?”

———

You waited and waited. As soon as Erik left that lounge to go back to his desk a last-minute meeting was called and of course, you had to attend as well. Everyone got up from their designated spots to head to the conference room. You squeezed into the same elevator cart as Erik, moving to the back so you could be near him. On purpose, you settle in front of him. Erik’s hand reached out to play with your thick ass while you focused on your phone. That only lasted for about ten seconds because now you were on the 6th floor. Hungry for his touch again you allow everyone else to leave so he could slap your ass. 

During the hour-long meeting, both of your eyes would meet and knowing smiles would appear on both of your faces. You didn’t like the fact that Demetria was seated next to him with her cleavage hanging out from her black blazer. She tried her best to make Erik notice her but he didn’t give a fuck about her thirsty actions. 

It was well past lunchtime and most of the office had gone to either the food court in the building or outside to find something different to eat for a change. Your stomach was rumbling waiting for Erik. Groaning, you put your computer to sleep before grabbing your Chanel bag to leave for lunch by yourself. It wasn’t Erik’s fault, you knew that, but you couldn’t help being upset and sexually frustrated. No pussy eating or dick sucking in his G Wagon 550 SUV in a desert silver metallic color. 

Eating alone was boring and lonely. You played with your Caesar salad and hardly even toughed the veggie lasagna. How were you supposed to feed your appetite when it was salivating for dick? You were so excited to finally hook up with Erik. Checking the time on your phone, you had about two hours left in your shift. You pack away the food and decide to save it for dinner tonight. Standing up, you push in the silver chair at the food court table, walking away with a click-clack of your So Kate pumps. You thumb the elevator button before slipping a piece of gum into your mouth. The doors open up and you enter, turning to watch them shut as your reflection appeared. 

Ping ping

Erik -where did you go?

-To lunch. I was hungry.

Erik- Really? Why didn’t you wait for me?

-Because I was STARVING. Plus, you were busy.

Erik- I’m not busy anymore. Where are you now?

-Heading back upstairs.

Erik- I’ll wait for you.

-Erik, I have to go back to work!

Erik- fuck that you know what I want.

DING. Fifth Floor.

“Told you I’ll wait for you,” He smiles at you dangerously. 

You almost swallow your gum the way he approached you. You and him, alone in that elevator. Erik kisses your lips, savoring the minty taste from the gum. He pulled back, taking his thumb to wipe the spit from his bottom lip. He turns around to press the 4th-floor button since that’s were the garage entrance was. Suddenly you were shaking in your pumps. It was really going to happen. Finally, your pussy wouldn’t feel painfully neglected. Finally, you could have the touch of a man on your body after an entire month. 

“Are you okay?” Erik asked while looking down at you. 

“Yeah, I’m cool,” you give him a reassuring smile.

DING. Fourth Floor.

Down a hallway and through the garage door you both went with your hand in Erik’s. You walk along the concrete ground as your ears took in the sounds of sirens and car horns honking in the middle of traffic. His G-Wagon was parked in a private spot. Erik took his keys out of his suit jacket and unlocked it with a click of a button, even started it up as well. You could hear the engine rumble. The large SUV vibrates as the sound of his radio playing blasted through the speakers. Erik opened the back door, reclining the backseats to lay flat like a bed. He takes off his suit jacket, tossing it in the passenger seat before turning to you, lifting you up, and sitting you in the back. 

Once there, you take off your heels and place them far enough away so Erik and you could have plenty of space. Erik sat down, leaning forward to remove his shoes. After that, he unbuttoned his dress shirt before pulling it off and balling it up to toss at the front with his suit jacket. He finally turns, crawling his large chiseled body towards you with playful eyes.

“Is that pussy still as wet as it was earlier today? Can I taste that kitty?”

Erik pulled your legs, laying you down on your back. He was on his knees between your legs, opening them wide causing your skirt to lift and bunch around your waist. He came face to face with that phat puss covered in wet fabric. Your voice was stuck in your throat. Erik takes both of his masculine hands to pull down your already saturated panties, spreading open your legs further, and staring at that pink pussy coated with cream. He could smell your scent. His car smelling like your wet pussy. 

“Yeah, this pussy still sloppy,” Erik listened to you purr as he flicked your clit with his thumb. Erik continues to do this while slapping your pussy with his fingers. Each time he slapped your pussy, your juices would build and build to the point of making puddles beneath your ass in his car. 

“Can I stuff this pussy with my fingers now,” Erik licked his thick fingers clean, “I wanna squeeze in there deep, baby girl.” 

“Yes,” Your cunt was starving.

“Good, girl.” 

He plunged first one, then two, then three fingers deep inside your pussy, flickering at your clit at the same time. He was directly over your G spot with the pads of his fingers repeatedly rubbing you there. Your legs went wider and wider. The sound of your succulent pussy increased in such severity that it was almost deafening. Your moans mixed with the sound of The palm of Erik’s hand slapping your cunt each time he finger-fucked you had him grunting and groaning.

“Faster, faster,” You called out while gyrating your hips to fuck his fingers. 

“There you go, fuck my fingers, just like that, get it, baby,” Erik bites his lip, “look at you ready to bust a nut on my hand, mmm, get that shit, baby.”

A rush of juices flooded the back seat. Erik’s eyes grew wide as your fingers tightened around him. That liquid poured each time he moved his fingers inside of you. All you could do was moan and shake beneath him. Your ass was glued to that surface. 

“Damn, Y/N.” Erik takes his fingers out slowly before licking them clean. He got up on his knees to reach into his trunk, bringing a Puma gym bag over towards him. He opened it with his wet hands, pulling out a thick black towel that was wrapped in a body wash. Erik places that towel beneath your ass to soak up your mess. 

“Making a mess in my fucking car.” 

“I’m sorry,” You cover your face with embarrassment, “I do that a lot.”

“Don’t apologize about that, ma, I don’t give a fuck. Keep doing it like that on these fingers. Better yet…do it like that on my tongue,” Erik laid flat on his stomach, “You can squirt in Daddy’s mouth too.” 

Erik began lapping away at your pussy with such zeal that you were squirming and squealing within minutes. With the flat of his tongue, Erik assaulted your pussy with such a lashing that your legs turned to jello. Erik then probed ever so deeply inside your dripping wet pussy with his pointed tongue, tongue-fucking your slot until your eyes rolled up into your head. He found your throbbing, erect clit and tortured you sweetly with licks and nibbles that sent electric charges throughout your entire body. Grabbing your thighs to squeeze, feasting on that syrupy pussy, Erik’s dick dripped pre-cum in anticipation of your walls capturing his dick and holding tight, while he thrust himself deeper and deeper inside of you. 

“Damn, ma, I’m literally drinking this pussy dry.” 

“You make me feel so good! Make me feel good, Erik.”

Erik’s tongue circled around your pussy. Each time he did that your hips would jerk. He was fighting that pussy back with his lips and tongue each time you pumped your hips. You gazed into his dark, sexy eyes and increased the movement of your hips. 

“Oh, fuck!” Erik wrapped his whole mouth around your pussy and started slurping. All Erik could think about was how good you tasted and the heat radiating from your pussy. 

“Shit tastes so good, girl,” He licked his plate clean, “fuck, look at my dick.”

His shit was twisted and curved to the right in those pants. Erik got on his knees to undo his pants. He let out a long sigh of relief the minute his pants and briefs made it down his thighs, resting at his knees. He sat down and pulled the rest of his clothes off, now he was naked from the waist down. You watch his thick dick jerk in his hand. That dick looked like it could bench press a barbell with how hard he was as Erik slid his hand up and down his burgeoning erection. His dick skyrocketed to its highest capacity causing your mouth to drool. Erik pointed out that dick at your mouth. Doing that caused his slit to open and show you his pre-cum waiting to be sucked out. 

“Come suck me, baby,” His grip was so tight on his dick.

You obeyed every word and sucked him up into your mouth. Damn, Erik was a big boy. So girthy and veiny. Intimidating for sure. His tip blossomed so thickly your lips had a hard time wrapping around it to suck. Erik with a C ain’t have nothing on this dick. A beautiful slab of tasty meat gliding across your tongue and poking the back of your throat. 

“Damn, this is how you do it, ma? You should have warned a nigga first.”

He held the back of your head to guide your mouth lower. Each time he did that, he would grunt and whisper oh, my God, which made you super wet. All you wanted him to do was splatter your mouth with his cum. He was already so close to detonation so you opened up as wide as you could stretch to fill him all the way in. 

“DAYUM!!!” Erik bellowed, “Good girl, don’t waste a fucking drop when I bust in this pretty mouth. Never.”

You graduated from plain old hungry to ravenous. That cum of his sputtering and spurting forth was your reward. The suctioning noise of your hand jerking him empty into your throat mixed with Erik’s deep moans made your pussy convulse around nothing even though you could feel it dripping. You slapped his ever-expanding dick against your tongue. 

“Shit,” Erik looked from his wet dick to your face, “Baby girl, I ain’t cum this hard in a minute from getting head.” 

You plant kisses all over his dick, working yourself up to more sucking, “I can give you more, Daddy.”

“Give me more of that mouth,” Erik played with your braids, “Swallow my shit and lick my balls.”

“Mmm, okay, Daddy.”

Erik’s eyes rolled back when your lips would suck and then pop off his sack. He had to control himself from cumming in your hair. 

“Shit doesn’t make no sense,” Erik looked at you with disbelief before a strangled look filled with passion overtook his features. 

“Fffuckkk!!!” He groaned as he blasted inside your mouth with his sweet, sticky offering. You ran your index finger over your bottom lip to retrieve a dollop of cum. That only left you more famished than before causing you to enthusiastically slurp on his rigid pipe again until it was damn near raw and your pussy was sopping wet. 

“Y/N,” Erik’s fingers were tight in your hair. You tasted a bit of leftover cum from his slit with your hungry tongue. 

Ring Ring 

Erik’s cell was going off. 

“Shit,” He reached into his pants pockets while you jerked his dick. He answered his phone with an annoyed expression. 

“What’s going on, Greg,” Greg was a fellow Environmental Engineer, “What? Right now?” Erik closed his eyes before tossing his head back, “Okay, give me ten minutes.” 

Erik hung up his phone. 

“We gotta go, ma,” You could hear the disappointment in his voice, “Supposedly it’s something urgent about Alaska.” 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “Should I be worried about the trip?”

Erik gave you a soft smile, “Nah, Alaska is happening regardless. Don’t worry, bae, we good.” 

You pulled your skirt down and placed your wet panties in your bag. You watched Erik fasten his belt in place before he opened the back door to let some air in. You rose from the car, Erik helping you put on your pumps before placing you on your feet. Digging into your bag you sprayed yourself with a little of your Chanel No.5, hoping to camouflage the lingering scent of sex. 

Looking in Erik’s rearview mirror, you fix your lipgloss and clothes, everything else good to go. Erik was currently spraying himself down with some Gucci cologne from his Puma gym bag and buttoning his suit jacket. He looked just as crisp as he did when he came in this morning. 

“You still ain’t answer my question, beautiful.” 

“What question,” Erik grabs your hand while the both of you walked back inside.

“Can I keep you company later?” 

You chew on your bottom lip in thought. Eric with the C, your actual boyfriend, might call you later and you didn’t want Erik with the K to be around to raise suspicion. Still, no word from Eric and the longer that happened the more you didn’t give a fuck. 

“Am I pressing too much?” Erik asks with soft eyes.

“No, no,” you reassured him, “I just think it would be better to come to your place instead. That’s all.”

“We can do that,” Erik walked towards you with his body pressed into yours, “Bring an overnight bag. You’re not going back home.”

His lips attacked your throat again, sucking and licking you there.

“I ain’t give my work bae some dick yet so you know I gotta take care of you,” His hands found their way back between your legs and on your sensitive pussy, “You gonna let me do that for you?” He asked huskily.

“Oh, Daddy, please do,” you responded.

————

You got home around 6:30 PM. You showered, finished the rest of your lunch since your appetite for dick was satisfied and drank a little bit of red wine. 

Surprised, shocked, nervous, you decided to wear a black velour tracksuit with your Fenty slides to Erik’s place and packed away everything else you needed on a faux fur tote bag. Phone sitting on the charger, you go to check it since you received a few notifications since coming home.

Eric with the C.

Eric- I’m alright. Sorry for the lack of communication. Really busy.

-that’s okay. Be safe.

He didn’t respond back. 

No I love you, I miss you, I’m thinking about you, nothing. 

Luckily the picture Erik sent to you made up for that. It was a shower picture. From his broad shoulders down to his well-knit waist with that v cut covered in soap and water. You had the urge to satisfy the cries leaking from your pussy at the moment. You had half the mind to pull your pants down and finger-fuck your pussy into multiple orgasms leaving your slit covered in sticky cum for him to find. How dare he tease you like that? Since you were spending the night you can look forward to shower with him. This entire fling had your skin tingling. Your fingers scrolled down to read the texts he left you. You really wished you hadn’t because now you were whimpering. 

Erik- Can’t wait for you to put that work in for Daddy.

Erik- where you at? I’m tryna put this thang in your gut.

Erik- want me to come to get you?

He was blowing you up. Eric with the C never did this.

-Hey, sorry, I was getting my things together. You don’t have to pick me up.

HONK HONK. 

Erik- too late. 

You walk to your living room to find Erik parked outside. He was typing away on his phone. 

Ping Ping 

Erik- Stop making me wait, girl. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“E-Elias”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elias, P-please!” she whined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“will you protect me always?” she whispered.

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

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