Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

now playing:  Integra by Dedekind Cut

main

beyoncé knowles (25)

"In the face of a world that overlooked me, I want to become impossible to ignore."

aaliyah haughton (27)

"Is love, in all its forms and complexities, worth the inevitable goodbye?"

robyn fenty (25)

"Outspoken in my desires, there is one affirmation I could never grasp."

kelly rowland (26)

"They say money can't buy happiness, but its absence can buy me misery."

solange knowles (21)

"Is perfection, without risk, the sole path to success?"

joseph "skepta" adenuga jr. (27)

"In my relentless pursuit of the right shot, I lost sight of the masterpiece before my lens."

...

supporting

paul walker (28)
nicole beharie (35)
lori harvey (25)
stephen "static major" garrett jr. (27)

rashad haughton (30)
raven tracy (26)
kofi siriboe (26)
kidada jones (28)

kimberly "lil kim" jones (33)
o'ryan browner (24)
laura harrier (27)
uncle johnny (52)

...and more

Chapter Text

now playing : "You" by Janet Jackson

You've been told a lie.

A big, fat one, with juicy details and all. The first time you heard it, you believed every word of it. Days, months, and even years passed by, and you still believed it, even though the evidence had been piling up for some time that what you were told was not true.

The lie was so good, and your trust in the source of the information was so solid, that the truth never penetrated your consciousness. It couldn't. If you'd recognized the lie, you would have been forced to face the consequences of what it meant about the world you lived in. You would have had to question how much of the rest of your life would have been built on falsehoods, and how you'd been exploited and misled into believing them.

It was blind obedience.

Filial piety. Or Xiao, as one of my old flatmates in Hoxton would've called it. She explained it to me once over a bowl of jjajangmyeon noodles and a bottle of soju in a Korean joint just over in South Bank.

I didn't fully understand her, given the drunken nature of the explanation, but I remembered her words. 'My dad's a piece of shit,' she said. 'A fucking wanker. My mum's the same, a real bitch. But when the old bastards come round, I'll be nice and smile and offer them tea. Because that's what we do. We pretend and do as they say just to make them shut up and stay happy.'

That's what I had done my whole life.

But there was no tea.

Just good grades, several degrees, and the promise that I would then make something of myself. I had played the role mapped out for me by my parents, having been told it was the only way I could have a good, worthy, meaningful life.

I would make the family look good and pretend to be someone they could be proud of. I would be the first to make it to the top, the first of all the cousins. That would impress the uncles and aunts. My neighbors. Even the random woman at the supermarket whose only concern was which pack of strawberries wouldn't spoil before the end of the week.

And, if I were really lucky, I would marry a man who was as well connected as he was wealthy. A man who could take my family out of Third Ward, Houston, a man who could give my father and mother the kind of life they dreamed about but never thought they'd have.

Because I was a good daughter, and I was brought up to make the right choices.

It's not like I was given the freedom to do so. My parents weren't staunch Confucianists, but the core tenet of Xiao still applied. The family was paramount. The individual was secondary at best.

It never registered in my brain until much, much later that the lack of a choice was not normal. I needed to prioritize my personal desires and carve my own path.

Of course, not everyone had the means to do exactly that. Some were trapped. Physically. Financially. Mentally. They were too scared or too indebted to leave, or their situation was simply not sustainable and they didn't know how to make the leap from the comfort of what they had, to the discomfort and risk of the unknown.

I chose to take that risk, and I regretted it almost instantly.

Almost.

I was too proud and too stubborn to return to my family with my tail between my legs, so instead, I chose the struggle, still learning how to scrap by. I had to. I was on my own in Los Angeles, a city that was designed to grind you down, and make sure that your efforts, and the sacrifices you made, added up to nothing.

The constant, nagging banging drum in my head that said, 'You failed. You're worthless, you should just go home and ask forgiveness', was still there, the volume rising and falling. Sometimes, it was just a gentle background hum.

At other times, it was a thunderclap so loud that I couldn't think, or hear, or do anything else except curl up in a corner and cry. The latter was the case as I stared up at the ceiling, clinging onto my stuffed whale, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

The noise had taken over again, but it was more than just an internal voice. It was a physical sound, and a moment later, I realized that the banging was coming from the other side, a rhythmic pounding against the wall of my room that went on and on.

It was a steady, slow beat, and then suddenly it went into overdrive, the pounding and thumping intensifying as the squeak of a mattress and the soft, throaty moans of the couple joined in. Someone was having a good time, and from the way they were hammering away, they were not going to stop for a very long time.

I rolled off the bed, feeling like my brain was about to explode, and staggered to my fortress of solitude — my desk — to distract myself.

It was an island in a sea of creativity. Piles of unfinished work – design sketches, art commission briefs – stood in neat, sharp-edged stacks. Art history textbooks and peer reviewed scholarly journals, brimming with bookmarks, lay opened to pages of obscure and mundane research. Yet, even in their multitude, they maintained an orderly presence, meticulously aligned by their corners.

In the rare quiet moments where I created for my own pleasure, the desk morphed into an art studio. Tubes of paint, caps perfectly replaced, were nestled next to an array of brushes that graduated in size — their bristles cleaned to a pristine state, waiting patiently for the next creative outburst.

On either side of the desk, dual monitors stood guard on an elevated shelf. The left screen painted a serene landscape in soft, ambient hues that reminded me of a walk through the Amazonian forest after a gentle rainfall, while the right was a digital canvas of typography styles and kinetic instructions for an interactive projection intended for a client's upcoming launch party.

Despite the whirlwind of activity on display, there was a sense of order. Even in its busiest state, the desk hinted at precise organization, a single eraser's width out of place being the only concession to the chaos of a busy schedule.

Pulling my worn-out Koss Porta Pros over my ears, I hit play on an old trip-hop playlist shared by a classmate from grad school. The smooth melodies poured into my ears, a soothing balm that drowned out the world. A symphony of ethereal beats and electronic echoes soothed my senses, a counterpoint to the discord outside. The pounding drum retreated, replaced by the symphony of my chosen solitude.

My iPad was already set up, stylus in hand as I began to fill the blank canvas that awaited my touch. The smooth surface soon transformed, the tip of the stylus leaving a trail of color and form behind it. I drew what I felt. No thought, no plan. Just a free flow of creativity and emotions that found their way onto the tablet. This was my escape, my refuge. Each stroke was a release, an expression of the turmoil within.

Just as I was beginning to lose myself in the process, a notification popped up, interrupting my flow as I unintentionally opened it.

It was an Instagram live.

I groaned, irritated by the intrusion, and was about to dismiss it, when I noticed the username:

@staticmajor

I admired his style and accent that had a twang, but wasn't quite Southern. Still it reminded me of old friends and peers back home. Maybe that's why I followed him. His entertaining and authentic personality kept me hooked every other week as he posted his process of working on an album for an up-and-coming artist.

Intrigued, I decided to stay.

"Aye, can y'all see me? Can't tell if this shit is workin'."

It wasn't him, but rather, another man of his holding the phone, trying to adjust the focus and get Static into the frame. Footage showed a tight shot of Static tinkling away at the keys of a piano in his living room. He was the only man I knew who could sport cornrows without seeming like he was in a mid-life crisis.

The melody that flowed was lighthearted and playful, an improvisation that seemed effortless, but was clearly the result of years of study and practice.

The walls behind him appeared to be painted a light gray and the lower half was obscured by the piano itself. A vintage-looking pendant light hung down above the piano, putting the musician's hands in a warm glow.

Behind him, two minimalist cream-colored couches could be partially seen, though most of the furniture was out of frame. A view of the US Bank Tower through a window revealed the house was probably located high up in the Hollywood Hills.

"What y'all want me to play? Y'all name it and I'm gonna play it for y'all right now."

There was a pause as a few suggestions were offered up in the chat box. Static squinted his eyes to read each comment and laughed, then said, "Someone asked 'what kinda cologne do you wear, Bud'da? he look like he smell good' with some heart eye emojis."

The man who'd set up the phone appeared again with a cocky grin.

"JPG."

"Nigga, stop lyin'. You wear Bod," Static replied, grinning at the camera.

Jokes and laughter erupted from the chat box and his living room, indicating that there were others present in the background.

But there was one particular laugh that stood out despite the general commotion.

It was a sound that was almost music in its own right; a rich, melodious cascade of mirth that filled my headphones, even through the digital divide. It was a laugh that bubbled up like a spring, effervescent and infectious, a sound that was both soothing and invigorating, a paradox that somehow made perfect sense.

It was a sound I wanted to hear again.

"Man, you buggin'. I ain't gotta lie," Bud'da said, shaking his head and laughing. "You gon' play somethin' for 'em or not?"

"A'ight, a'ight. Lemme think for a minute."

Static leaned forward on the piano seat, deep in thought as the chat window was flooded with suggestions for the next piece. He tapped out a quick run on the keys, and then began to play.

It was a simple tune, and one that I recognized instantly, and yet, as Static played, his hands dancing across the keyboard with ease, the notes and the melody took on a life of their own. It was no longer just a song, but an experience. His skill and talent was evident, but what set him apart from many other skilled players was the emotion he was able to convey with each note.

His rendition of Mariah's "We Belong Together" was an impromptu reimagining, a reinterpretation that was both tender and soulful. The chat box was inundated with messages of people singing along and other reactions, and Static seemed oblivious to them all, lost in his own world as he played. He began to sing, his voice an effortless blend of strength and softness, a combination that was uniquely his.

And then, from off-screen, came a harmony.

Her voice was as velvety as the night sky, a rich, smooth timbre that effortlessly wove itself around Static's own. It was a voice that brought to mind the glow of moonlight on a calm sea, the hush that falls over the world in the moment before dawn. It was a voice that had a life, an energy of its own, and the song came alive in a way it hadn't before.

The two voices intertwined, creating a tapestry of sound and feeling that was simply breathtaking. Static's gaze never left the keys, but there was a small smile on his lips, and the bond between him and the person singing was palpable.

Stepping into frame to sit next to him, the source of the voice revealed herself, her smile as radiant as the melody that had just graced our ears. But for those of us watching, her introduction was hardly needed. She was well-known. Envied. Adored.

Her presence was electric, and the chat box exploded with excitement, fans gushing and fawning over her appearance. But she too paid no attention, her focus entirely on Static and the song. Her voice enveloped him, wrapping him in a cocoon of sound and emotion, and the chemistry between them was clear.

The song reached its crescendo, the final notes butchered by Bud'da's strained vocals as he attempted to join in, much to the amusement of the singers and the livestream audience alike.

"What?" he protested, amid fits of laughter. "Y'all wasn't killin' it, so I had to try and add a little somethin'."

The three continued to joke and banter, teasing each other good-naturedly before the connection was severed, prematurely cutting the livestream off.

But as usual, it was enough.

Enough to leave me wanting more, more of her.

More of her voice. More of her smile. More of everything that she had to offer.

In the stark silence that followed, I continued to browse the app.

Instagram was a curious thing, a window into the lives and personalities of people, some real, some imaginary. It was a place where we could connect, and share, and be exposed to things we would never otherwise have a chance to experience. I never cared to broadcast my personal life, preferring to keep the curtain drawn and only share my work, but I had always been fascinated by the glimpses that others allowed.

So much was shared by others, and yet, so much was also kept hidden.

I scrolled through the feeds, taking in the carefully curated images posted by celebrities I'd never met, artists and creatives who were masters of their craft, and the countless ordinary friends and family who were sharing their own stories and journeys. It was a treasure trove of humanity, a glimpse into the minds and hearts of a diverse group of individuals.

One profile remained elusive, the photos just out of my reach only.

'No Posts Yet'

I lingered on my sister's icon, the smiling face both familiar and unknown.

Sighing, I reverted back to drawing, the hours passing quickly, the darkness giving way to the first light of the day as dawn broke as my eyes began to droop. A welcome relief.

✮✮✮

With a jolt, I woke up, my body aching as I found myself slumped over my desk. But, sleep was sleep, and any momentary discomfort was a price worth paying to escape my reality, even if only for a few hours. The iPad was in front of me, the pencil still in my hand. The room was filled with the soft light of dawn, casting long shadows around me. I rubbed my bleary eyes, trying to banish the last remnants of sleep, and glanced at the time on one of the monitors.

I was up earlier than usual, but my body was already begging for a warm, tranquil shower.

Pulling off the headphones, I stood up and stretched, feeling the stiffness in my muscles and joints. With a groan, I turned off all of the electronics and I gathered a fresh towel and change of clothes before stepping into the hallway.

On my way to the bathroom, I heard a voice coming from the kitchen, slightly muffled, but distinctly male. A boisterous laughter followed, and it didn't take long for me to recognize it was Robyn's.

Peering in, I saw them, her sitting at the breakfast table with her favorite robe loosely wrapped around her. And he was standing next to the stove, wearing nothing but a pair of tight boxer briefs that hugged his muscular thighs and butt.

Robyn was an early riser, and even on her worst days, she could be found sitting at the breakfast nook, a steaming cup of tea or coffee in hand, reading debates about dinner dates on Twitter like it were a morning newspaper.

The scent of coffee beans wafted through the air, mixing with the delicious aroma of pancakes sizzling on the pan. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I had barely eaten the night before. I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt, but the sight and smells were too tempting to resist.

As I entered, they looked over, surprised by my presence as their conversation came to a halt.

"Bey? Hey..." Her brows furrowed in confusion. "I thought you were stayin' over at Kelly's place."

"Change of plans," I replied. "Senior partner at her firm gave her a last-minute assignment, so I was forced to stay home. Sorry, didn't mean to disturb y'all."

She gestured towards the empty chair beside her, a subtle invitation. "No, no, It's cool. C'mon and sit down. Kofi, baby, fix Bey a plate."

"Morning Beyoncé," he said, flashing me a friendly grin.

He was tall, well-groomed, and had a warmth and charisma that was impossible to ignore. It was no wonder Robyn had fallen for him. With the physique he had honed as a former shooting guard on our college basketball team, he moved through many rooms with a swagger that exuded power and control. But, it was his genuine kindness and genuine affection for her, which had won my respect.

"Actually, I was gonna go shower," I said, backing away. "I'm a lil' ripe."

"A'ight," Robyn chuckled.

I hurried out and closed the bathroom door, eager to wash the fatigue away. The hot water felt amazing, soothing my aching muscles and chasing away the fogginess from my mind. After a few minutes, I reluctantly turned the water off and toweled myself dry.

By the time I returned to the kitchen with my work bag and shoes in hand, a steaming stack of fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon were waiting for me. Kofi was noticeably absent, likely attending to one of his clients at the gym.

"Dig in," Robyn said, grinning as she stood next to the counter, nursing her second cup. "My baby's pancakes ain't half bad, but the best part is the maple syrup I bought. Canadian shit right here, none of that fake American bullshit."

"As if they shit ain't processed too," I laughed, tucking into the food. "Damn, these are good," I muttered, swallowing a bite. "You not eatin'?" I asked, noticing that there was no plate for her.

"Already had mine," Robyn said, sliding the mug of coffee my way. I nodded and continued eating, enjoying every bite.

"Kofi's helpin' me with this diet plan — high protein, low carbs. I'm tryna get dumb thick like you. None of these niggas would ever resist me then," She continued, smacking my ass playfully. I walked over to the fridge to grab some creamer, and added a generous pour.

"Bitch, you already fine as hell," I smirked, stirring the creamer into my mug. "And I thought your eyes were only for your man, who is head over heels in love with you," I laughed, finishing the last bite.

Robyn rolled her eyes and smiled, blushing slightly. "Ah yes, my man, my man. I love him so much," she admitted, a gleaming look in her eyes. "I don't know what I did to deserve him, but he's been so good to me. To both of us. And the way he put it down last..."

Her bright face transformed into a state of shock and embarrassment.

"Oh shit! I just realized...I am so sorry, was I...was I too loud? We really thought you weren't home," she apologized.

"He had you howlin' at the moon, but it's all good," I shrugged, hiding my own amusement. "I had headphones on and was too focused on drawin' to pay much attention."

"Ooh, speakin' of drawing, how did the meeting go on Monday?"

I paused, searching her eyes. Robyn was one of the few who'd shown unwavering support and encouragement towards my decision to pursue my creative passions, convincing me to switch majors halfway through our sophomore year of college. Without her persuasion, I might have been stuck in my first year of residency, tempted to self-medicate with my patient's Zoloft.

"It was whatever," I sighed, recalling the exchange. "They liked my portfolio but they felt like my submissions weren't appropriate for the museum. 'Too risky', they said."

"Fuck 'em," Robyn spat, her tone laced with disdain. "That's just code for 'too Black'. Don't trip. You'll find someone. One that actually appreciates your art."

"Maybe," I replied, unconvinced.

"C'mon girl, you're too damn talented to let a bunch of stale old fucks hold you back. If they won't take your work, someone else will. Just keep pushin' forward, you'll make it big, mark my words. I know you will. If I had my own museum, I'd fill that shit up with all your paintings and sculptures, throw in a big Bajan flag at de entrance, and mek it a big bash wid some rum punch flowin'-"

"Stop, Rob," I cut her off, laughing. "I know you're tryna make me feel better, but it's nothin' serious. I'm not exactly Banksy. No biggie, just a bump in the road."

"I hate when you do that. ​​I just wish you could see yourself how I see you," she huffed, downing the rest of her coffee. "Anyway, you done? I wanna clean these dishes before I'm late for work."

"Don't you work from home today?"

"I do. But that doesn't mean I can slack off," She smiled, picking up the dirty plates and cups. "Gotta set a good example for the team. Plus, they all stay fuckin' up each sprint when they think I'm not watchin'."

I began to pack my work bag, mentally preparing for another long day ahead.

"Hey, before you leave, Kofi's cousin invited us to Drake's Halloween party this weekend," Robyn interrupted, drying her hands on the towel. "And no, you're going, no excuses. I can't have you mopin' around at home while I'm shakin' ass elsewhere and I spot your future husband."

"I don't even have a costume yet," I reminded her, slinging the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

"I know," Robyn replied confidently. "That's why you're goin' shoppin' with me when you get back later. We'll find somethin' sexy and cute. Leave that to me, a'ight?"

"Fine," I relented, prompting her to glee. "Can you just make sure to water my plants for me please? You have to water them at exactly noon. Last time, you forgot and they started shoulder leanin'," I warned as I grabbed my keys.

"Yes ma'am, will do," She responded, saluting me.

"Robyn!"

"Ok, damn!"

Shaking my head, I made for the door.

"Oh, and Bey?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll work out," she assured me. "Trust."

Chapter Text

now playing: “Capable of love” by PinkPantheress

Campus was alive with activity as students hurried between classes on a sunny fall day. Parents mingled with their teens, snapping photos as overly enthusiastic tour guides presented them with information about the school.

Leaves of vibrant amber, crimson and gold blanketed the lawn, crunching underfoot as students relaxed in small groups, backpacks and notebooks spread around them. A light breeze carried the briny scent of the nearby Pacific Ocean.

In the outdoor commons area, a student band played acoustic covers of pop songs, while classmates lounged on the grass listening or grabbed coffee and snacks from the busy campus cafe. Flyers for upcoming club events, concerts and guest lectures covered the bulletin boards.

The pathways were filled with students riding bikes and skateboards to class, many clad in jeans, sweatshirts — some of which bore SANTA MONICA COLLEGE printed on the front in some variation — and sneakers to combat the autumn chill.

I navigated through the crowds, making my way towards my classroom, located in one of the newer academic buildings. The architecture was a beautiful space, bright and airy, with plenty of natural light and open-air classrooms.

I pushed the doors open, walking past a group of chatting students waiting outside of my classroom, greeting me as I approached.

"Hey, you Professor Knowles?" they chirped, moving aside.

"Hi y'all," I smiled, unlocking the door. "That's me. How are y'all doin'?"

"Good," one of the girls answered. "Looking forward to the lecture. We've heard so many good things about your class. Nice Telfar by the way."

"Aw, thank you," I replied, touched. "I appreciate that. Feel free to come inside now, we'll be startin' in a few."

The students filed into the room, taking their seats. As the last few stragglers entered, I took a moment to gather my thoughts and prepare for the lesson. Scanning over the small, intimate room, I took note of the students' varying backgrounds, many of which were Black. There were young, fresh-faced freshmen, eager to explore the copious amount of options the school had to offer, though it was obvious some had only chosen this class as it counted towards their course credits.

There were also a few older students, who had probably decided to pursue their creative passions after a life-altering event, or had a long-harbored desire to learn about the intersectionality of intellectualism and the arts.

Whatever the reason, it was heartening to see such a variety of ages and backgrounds coming together in pursuit of a common goal of learning.

I'd been teaching part-time for a year and a half and each new semester still felt strange standing on the opposite side, no longer the student, but now the teacher. My memories of being in their seats were still fresh. I'd only graduated from grad school two years prior, and was still adjusting.

"Alright y'all, good afternoon," I beamed. Most of them remained silent, focused on pulling out their laptops, notepads, and tablets. A few however, replied, eager to begin. One of them even waved at me.

"I said good afternoon y'all," I repeated, holding my ear, raising my voice slightly.

A chorus of greetings finally met me, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

"Thank you. Y'all L.A. folk are too laid back for me. Back in Houston, my mama would've been yellin' from the back porch if she caught y'all actin' like this," I joked, eliciting laughter. "As you already know, I am Professor Knowles. But y'all can call me Beyoncé. Since we're gonna be workin' closely together all semester, no need for formalities, I am not much older than many of you."

There were a few stifled giggles, a couple nods, and a random, 'Okay, Beyoncé.'

"Welcome to the Idea of Black Art, an interdisciplinary course that will provide an overview of Black history through the lens of visual media to assert and question the personal, racial, and national identity of Black Americans and those living in the African diaspora."

My voice reverberated through the room, the rich timbre reaching every corner and crevice as I began my introduction.

"Art is not just about pretty pictures on a gallery wall, or a sculpture sitting alone in a museum, untouched by the world around it. Art is a medium through which we can create a dialogue, a conversation about the issues that affect our communities, and this particular course pays specific attention to themes of African American life, including migration, notions of home, citizenship, social segregation, expatriation, gender norms..."

I continued, outlining the syllabus and expectations, pausing occasionally to gauge their reactions. They were attentive, taking notes and nodding as I spoke, and it was clear that they were excited about the course.

As the class drew to a close, I reminded them to complete the first assignment due by next Monday's lecture and bid them farewell, watching as they hurried off to whatever was next on their agendas. I began to pack my belongings and turn off the projector when a soft, hesitant voice called from behind me.

"Excuse me, miss."

I turned, and was met with a young man approaching me.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Hi, my name's Trevor," he replied, extending his hand.

"Beyoncé." I accepted his handshake, noting the gentle, but firm grip.

Trevor nodded, shifting his weight. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding my gaze.

"Is there somethin' you need, Trevor?"

"Umm, yeah. Actually, I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed today's session," he smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up shyly. "I...uh hope this doesn't come off as weird, but I've seen your personal work online and I'm a huge fan."

"Oh, wow. Thank you so much," I grinned, flattered. "That means a lot. So, what are you hopin' to get out of this class?"

"Honestly, I'm not too sure," Trevor replied, rubbing his neck. "But I know that you're one of the best, so I'm looking forward to learning more from you."

His honesty was refreshing, and the compliment warmed my heart.

"Well, hopefully I can live up to your expectations," I chuckled. "Nice meetin' you Trevor. I'll see you on Monday."

"Yeah-yeah, of course," he stuttered, adjusting the strap of his backpack. "Thanks again, Miss Knowles."

"You can call me Beyoncé, remember?" I smiled.

"Oh. Right, my bad," he grinned. He stumbled on his way out, nearly falling back on the desks behind him and quickly rushed out the door, a deep blush painting his cheeks.

Men. They were all the same to me.

Trevor didn't seem like the type to be so flustered, his low fade, pierced ears, and full beard giving him a mature appearance. But, it was a bit endearing.

Robyn would always tease me endlessly whenever some poor guy would work up the nerve to talk to me, stumbling over his words in an attempt to impress me. She said I must've been using some kind of Creole voodoo to ensnare the hearts and minds of unsuspecting men.

It had been so long since anyone had shown genuine interest in me and not been off-putting. Most guys were intimidated by my presence, not sure how to approach, and I never understood why. The few that did have confidence were either taken or too immature for my liking, only interested in sex, and their desperation disgusted me. I refused to be reduced to a warm body, a vessel for their pleasure and nothing more.

The times I did date in college, I never found what I was looking for. Despite Robyn's insistence, those relationships never felt like they were worth the time. There were only so many times that a guy could take me to 901 for drinks or Holbox for dinner because they were the closest hot spots near campus.

I couldn't settle for less than the full package, the one that would leave me breathless and wanton, the one who would take a glimpse of every flaw and imperfection, and still choose me, again and again.

Someone like the man I once loved.

✮✮✮

"Let's see...ooh, this one," Robyn said as she stifled back laughter. She was holding up a bodysuit made entirely of a clash of neon pink and lime green faux fur, adorned with sparkly black sequins and feathers. "What you think?"

"Don't play with me. You know that shit looks hideous," I shook my head, pushing the hanger back.

"C'mon now," Robyn pleaded. "Don't act like you can't pull this off. Besides, ain't like you got a choice, you promised."

"But who the fuck am I supposed to be?"

"Ion know, you're the creative one. Think of somethin','' Robyn shrugged.

I sighed, flipping through the rack. Nothing jumped out at me, and the selection wasn't promising. Robyn had dragged me to the most expensive costume shop she could find, insisting that it probably had better quality and more unique options than at Spirit Halloween.

After trying on several costumes, and shooting down Robyn's ideas, I was becoming increasingly frustrated. "I give up," I groaned, flopping down on a nearby couch.

"Relax, mmcht. We'll find somethin'."

Robyn continued to hastily dig through the racks, muttering to herself as she pulled out potential choices, discarding most of them.

"What are you wearin'?" I asked, watching her.

"It's a surprise," Her eyes never left the stacks of clothes, her facial expression shifting with each piece she looked at. "You'll see it when you see it."

"Well can you at least give me a hint? Somethin' to inspire me?"

"You got Google and Pinterest on your phone," Robyn grinned. I stuck my middle finger up, rolling my eyes. She continued her hunt, until finally, I stopped her, a satisfied expression spreading across my face.

Robyn raised a brow. "Seriously Bey? This?"

"Yeah. Pass it over, I wanna see how it looks on me."

"You are so fuckin' country," she laughed, shaking her head. "It is cute though."

After trying it on, Robyn headed towards the cash register, the outfit in tow. I trailed behind, amused by her reaction, and looking forward to a quick night out.

We hadn't hung out in a while, between work and her relationship, Robyn had been busier than usual, leaving little time for us to enjoy each other's company outside of the apartment. Dinner was an easy affair, settling on Honey's Kettle for chicken sandwiches, blueberry mint lemonade and a shared piece of apple pie before heading home.

After a quick shower, I lay in Robyn's bed, reading one of her books from her bookshelf crammed with an eclectic mix of books, ranging from Mieko Kawakami to Kwame Ture. I stumbled upon a worn copy of Black Skin, White Masks, by Frantz Fanon, dog-eared and filled with post-it notes. She had raved about it, and while I wasn't familiar with his writings, Robyn insisted that it was required reading for my course.

Fanon's voice was thoughtful and passionate, his words describing the struggles and realities of racism and colonialism in the Caribbean, and I found myself lost in his pages.

"Ooh, you readin' one of my faves," Robyn interrupted, stepping out of the shower. She emerged from the bathroom topless, clad only in a pair of panties and socks as she began applying lotion on her chest. I was used to the sight, having shared a dorm and now an apartment with her, but it never failed to amuse me how nonchalant she was about her body, about her sexuality.

Robyn had a body and allure that would make even the most confident woman envious. She had tattoos adorned on her body in a sporadic manner — some typical, others unconventional — and a brand new septum piercing, adding an element of intrigue and individuality to her appearance. Her skin was smooth and supple, and she took great care of it, religiously using her expensive Korean skincare products. She was toned and firm, thanks to her rigorous workout routine and apparent diet, yet soft in all the right places.

She continued to inspire the same awe I experienced the day she first said hello. Since that initial encounter, I'd been privy to quite a few versions of her.

There was this uber confident, sharply outspoken, no-nonsense gal.

Then, I encountered the passionately sexual, intellectual Pan-Africanist with a razor-sharp perspective on the world.

I sometimes wondered if anyone else who knew Robyn had truly seen all these facets of her like I have — it's something I deeply cherished. It's often simpler to pigeonhole her as one thing, a digestible persona.

Her economics classmates tagged her as an off-the-wall feminist. Grown women uneasy with her bold sexual aura labeled her promiscuous. Physicians dubbed her broken. Therapists found her fascinating. Many of these strangers were White.

Her brothers deemed her an outsider, and her mother, a sinful heathen.

Her intimidating backstory spanned the seductive arts and the shadowy realms of sadomasochism, earning her the title of a contemporary Jezebel. It's somewhat paradoxical that she also happened to be the kindest, most empathetic woman I've ever met. This gentleness of hers was a hidden gem, more elusive and valuable than any physical intimacy she offered.

I always wondered what drew her to me, the reserved, introverted freshman who preferred solitude and quiet to parties and people. But she took an immediate shine to me, dragging me out and introducing me to a world that was so foreign. I often thought our friendship would've fizzled out by sophomore year, when she had been preoccupied with Kofi's basketball games and study abroad programs, and I had become absorbed with painting and schoolwork.

But, she surprised me, refusing to let distance come between us. She'd insist that we study together for our Black studies courses, and she'd join me for studio time, offering feedback and critique.

She, along with Kelly, became the closest thing I had to feeling loved and cared for.

She caught me staring, and attempted to wink, posing dramatically. "See somethin' you like?" She teased.

"Shut up," I chuckled, tossing a pillow her way.

Robyn dodged it effortlessly and plopped down next to me, nudging me gently.

"Can you read it to me? You know how much I love the sound of your voice," she said, resting her head on my shoulder. The sweet fragrance of marshmallow and vanilla on her skin was a comforting scent.

"No, because you'll fall asleep and snore in my ear like last time. Plus, I can't focus with your titties hangin' out like that."

Robyn kissed her teeth and got back up, rummaging through her drawer before slipping a crop top over her head. She laid next to me once more, propping herself up on her side.

"Better?"

"Yes," I giggled. I put the book down and grabbed the remote, getting up to turn on her Playstation 5.

"It Takes Two?" Robyn asked, grabbing the second controller. She made her way over towards the light switch and dimmed it, just enough to be cozy, but dark enough to feel immersed in the game, before heading over to one of her windows to open it. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Go 'head."

Robyn grabbed her stash of weed from her nightstand, rolling a joint while sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed. Her tongue flicked out, licking the paper slowly, before twisting the ends. Lighting it, she took a deep drag, the cherry glowing red in the dark light. A thick cloud of smoke drifted towards the ceiling as she exhaled and dissipated as the game loaded, and the screen shifted into a colorful, whimsical world.

"So, I was talkin' to Kofi earlier," Robyn began, taking another hit. "And he told me that his cousin Miriam got a friend who's a painter. Real talented too. I think he said his name was Paul."

"Uh-huh," I replied, focused on the cutscene playing in front of us.

"His friend is lookin' for some creatives to link up with and get to know since he just moved out here. Said he lives in Culver City too, he probably lives a few blocks away."

I hummed absently, eyes glued to the TV as we battled through the game, working as a team, solving puzzles and completing tasks.

"Anyway, from what he told me he sounds cool. I'm sure you two would hit it off-"

"Rob, please...," I warned, exasperated.

She ignored me. "When was the last time you even went out, Bey? Or had a lil' fun?"

I sighed, not wanting to continue this conversation.

"Listen, all I'm sayin' is, maybe it'll do you some good. And he's a single professional artist, just like you. Y'all would be cute together. All cooped up in your studios, paintin' and drawin' and shit. At least you'd have someone with the same interests to kick it with. And like I said, he's single."

"I have you and Kelly. And others."

"Beyoncé, we both love you, but we don't know shit about Van Gogh, you know that. C'mon, Miriam and Kofi said he seemed excited about meetin' you," Robyn insisted.

"So y'all basically planned a meetin' for us? Without askin' me? Really, Rob? And you know how I feel about dating other 'so called creatives' or whatever the fuck they callin' themselves nowadays."

Every last one of them was a jobless fuckboy with an ego the size of Texas while claiming to be an aspiring 'creative director' for SSENSE or the next Virgil Abloh. They'd claim that they understood me, that we had a connection, all while using me as a sounding board or their muse for their mediocre ideas.

"I'm not askin' you to marry him, just hang out with him one time, okay? Kofi says he's a good dude. And if you have a shitty time, you're welcome to smack the shit outta me," Robyn bargained.

"I'd smack you right now just to get ahead of schedule," I muttered, earning a laugh from her. "I'll think about it. What does he look like?"

"I forgot to ask, but hold on," she said, pausing the game to scroll through her phone. Her investigative skills were somewhat impressive, always managing to dig up whatever information she needed, and this was no exception as she tapped the screen rapidly. She handed me the device. "Here, his Instagram."

It was a private account, and I would've had to send a request in order to view the profile.

@paulwalker

He had a moderate following, and his bio was minimal. His profile picture also didn't offer much insight, a small realistic watercolor painting of a metallic spider with a white backdrop.

"This isn't gonna help me. Do you even know if this is him?"

"Both of them follow this page," Robyn shrugged. "Maybe he's a private person."

"Hmm, seems like we have that in common," I chuckled.

"Exactly. It's perfect."

"Let's just finish playin'."

Robyn returned the phone to her nightstand and we resumed the game, finishing the last level before deciding to call it a night.

As I crawled into her bed, I couldn't help but replay our conversation, my mind wandering. Robyn's suggestion wasn't completely unappealing, but I still fell asleep, feeling conflicted. I just hoped for the best.

✮✮✮

***

He was a man with the world in his hands, a man whose confidence knew no bounds. He oozed a type of charisma that demanded attention, a power that could not be ignored, the type of man who could've been born a prince, who could've had any woman in the world.

He chose me.

A smile graced his lips, a flash of white teeth, and a crinkle around his eyes that were the color of rich, fertile soil. Dark brows furrowed playfully, the hair cropped neatly and groomed. His beard was well trimmed, sculpting his handsome face. His tattoos were intricately designed and covered both muscular arms, continuing onto his chest, and disappearing underneath his plain white tee. My favorite was the one that ran across the front of his neck, the letters bold and simple. I could spend hours mapping them, discovering each and every story they told.

He approached, moving closer, his face drawing nearer, and I could make out the faintest spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. The smell of his cologne, woodsy and sweet, filled my senses.

"Hey..."

His voice was deep, a rasp that sent a shiver down my spine, and I was intoxicated, hypnotized. My fingertips traced along his jaw, down his neck, brushing against the word that would serve as a reminder, a promise.

'Forever'.

His lips connected with mine, his body pressed against me, the weight welcome and comforting. The kiss was gentle and sweet, a familiar, chaste exploration.

"Mmm," he groaned softly, cupping my face. His fingers caressed my cheek, feather-light, trailing a path of heat.

"Missed you," he murmured against my lips. His breath was warm, sweet with the remnants of peppermint and his signature cinnamon gum. The scent clung to him, and the smell was intoxicating.

"Baby," he whispered, nibbling at my bottom lip.

"Baby," he repeated, his voice fading.

***

"Bey!" Robyn softly hissed, shaking me. "Bey, wake up. We got pilates, remember?"

"Huh? Wha-" I mumbled, opening my eyes.

Robyn stared at me, her expression a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Why were you moanin' like that?"

"I...was havin' a dream," I replied groggily, sitting up. My pulse was racing, a warmth spreading across my skin.

"Mhmm, I bet. What were y'all doin'? It sounded like y'all were really puttin' in work."

"Stop," I scolded, my cheeks warming.

"Shit, maybe you should get back in there and finish. You was droolin' all over my pillows too."

"Sorry. When are we leavin'?"

"Whenever you hurry up and get ready. Kelly booked us an early session so we can squeeze in breakfast after."

"Okay, gimme a minute," I replied, climbing out of her bed.

"Better make it quick," Robyn said, following me down the hallway. "You know how impatient she is."

And impatient she was. Whether it were waiting for her Amazon packages or getting a table at her favorite restaurants, Kelly was relentless. She wouldn't hesitate to call and threaten restaurant management or the UPS delivery drivers and didn't care if her behavior was deemed rude or inappropriate, she would get her way.

Spoiled was an understatement, and judging from the novel sound of the blaring horns outside the building, I was certain she had a new toy to show off.

In the car, Robyn and Kelly gossiped about the latest celebrity drama while I stared out the window, observing the city streets. Since moving back to the States, I never cared to truly soak in Culver City and see what the neighborhood had to offer. Trips into this part of Los Angeles were few and far between in undergrad as I spent most of my time Downtown, or in Santa Monica if I wanted to soak up the sun with a coastal breeze. But the area was growing on me.

We pulled up to the studio and greeted our usual instructor, a Black woman who looked to be in her late 30's, with a petite frame and a bubbly, infectious personality. She was dressed in a black sports bra and matching leggings, her short honey blonde hair pulled into a mid, tight ponytail.

The three of us made our way towards the back of the moderately sized class, stretching and chatting amongst ourselves. Kelly was the only one of us who practiced pilates regularly, and was determined to incorporate it more into her fitness routine. Robyn tagged along on occasion, whenever she grew bored of CrossFit, and I simply showed up because it was paid for by Kelly's membership.

Yoga and recreational pole dancing were more of my preferred exercises, never feeling like an uphill battle between gravity and my body. Each pilates session, however, would leave me cursing under my breath as the instructor led us through a series of challenging, intense poses on the reformer that left me huffing and puffing. My ass was numb, my body sore from the grueling, hour-long class. Robyn and Kelly hadn't fared much better, sweat coating their skin, and their faces flushed.

"Fuck, Kelly, why do you keep comin' here?" Robyn groaned, gulping down water.

"Because I need to look good for tonight," Kelly replied, dabbing her forehead with a towel. "Besides, didn't you say this would be good for your back, Bey? All that stoopin' and crouchin' over your desk and whatnot."

"Yeah," I muttered, wincing as a dull ache pulsed in my arms. Kelly was right, the exercises did wonders for my posture, and helped stretch my limbs and improve my flexibility. But, that didn't mean I enjoyed it.

Kelly's phone rang, her ringtone interrupting our conversation. She glanced at the screen, a sly grin creeping across her face as she excused herself, answering the call.

"Who do you think that is?" Robyn asked, watching Kelly saunter away, her hips swinging, voice low as she spoke.

"Probably one of her latest flings," I shrugged.

"Always new dick, never the same nigga twice."

We snickered at her comment, still stretching, grateful for the reprieve. Kelly eventually ended the call and rejoined us, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"New sugar daddy?" Robyn teased.

"Not exactly," Kelly smirked. "That was an old flame. He wants to see me."

"Your ex?" I questioned, my interest piqued.

"Which one?" Robyn asked, equally curious. "The model or the rapper?"

"Neither." Kelly clarified. "Just some guy I fucked around with while I was in law school. We cut things off but he's visiting from New York and wants to catch up. I doubt we'll hook up but stranger things have happened."

"Must be some fuck, if you're actually considerin' it and you never blocked his number," Robyn said. Kelly shrugged.

"So what's his deal?" I asked.

"He's an investment banker or something now," Kelly said, waving her hand dismissively. "Nothing exciting. But, he was a nice escape from school."

"Then why'd y'all stop talkin'?" Robyn probed.

"I didn't want anything serious and he did. He's a sweet guy, just not my type. But, enough about him," Kelly said, a smirk tugging at her lips as she focused her attention on me. "What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Robyn told me about her brilliant plan," Kelly chuckled. "There's this guy she's trying to set you up with. Some artist named Paul."

"It's not a set up, or at least I hope not. I only agreed to meet him," I corrected. "Honesty, if he really was interested, he would've reached out first by now."

"Trust me, he's interested," Robyn insisted. "He's probably scared to reach out because he thinks you're outta his league."

"Robyn, that's ridiculous. Why would he think that?"

"Bey, sometimes confidence doesn't always translate well in your presence," Kelly pointed out. "Robyn's right, men can be intimidated by smart, beautiful women."

"I'm not-"

"Bitch, yes you are," they responded simultaneously, earning a frown.

"Okay, and if it doesn't work out?"

"Then y'all can chill and become friends. Or, y'all fuck and forget about each other," Robyn shrugged. "Either way, sounds like a win to me."

"Sounds like a disaster," I mumbled.

"You'll never know until you try," Kelly countered.

"So, are y'all done grillin' me, or do I have to listen to more reasons on why y'all should matchmake me?"

"For now," Kelly said as she grabbed her duffle bag. "We're gonna get ready at my place tonight, by the way."

"What's wrong with our apartment?" Robyn frowned.

"Nothing...It's just that, you know, we'd be closer to his house," Kelly explained. "Y'all can also sleep over afterwards."

"Mhmm. Sure..."

"I can't wait to show out tonight. I still have to pick up my costume from the tailor later, but y'all are gonna love it when y'all see it," Kelly said.

Robyn and I exchanged a glance, both intrigued. Kelly loved making a statement, and was never one to shy away from attention. Whatever costume she'd chosen was surely going to have men and women alike wondering who she was, and where they could find her.

"Same," Robyn grinned.

"So are y'all finally gonna tell me who y'all are goin' as?" I asked.

"Nope," They replied simultaneously.

Chapter Text

now playing: "p angels" by Gunna

This damn party.

My nerves were a jumbled, tangled mess, and I was a ball of tense energy. There was no reason for it, I reminded myself. Just a few drinks, some laughs with the girls, and then home.

Easy.

My eyes scanned my reflection for the tenth time, intrigued with the result. After many last minute alterations made by Kelly's tailor, my cowgirl costume was transformed from an H&M bargain to a high fashion, couture piece.

The main body of the costume was a mixed fabric of stretch denim and vegan suede, the two textures creating a rich combination that was both visually captivating and tactilely inviting. The denim was dyed a deep navy, a stark contrast to the warm, earthy brown of the suede. The flared chaps clung to my legs, the star-studded trim sparkling with every movement, catching the light in a mesmerizing dance of glint and gleam.

The top was a daring sleeveless front tie crop tank with a collar, adorned with a mix of the denim and suede on the straps and a red bandana print on the rest of the top that added a vibrant splash of color. The tie-front straps were adjustable, ensuring a perfect fit.

Adding even more drama were the matching arm cuffs, cut from the same brown suede and festooned with fringe detail. They swished and swayed with each gesture, an expressive and playful addition that perfectly echoed the movement of the chaps.

The final touch was a traditional cowboy hat. It was a perfect shade of chestnut, matching the suede parts of the costume. Its wide brim cast a tantalizing shadow over my eyes, adding an air of mystery and intrigue.

As I turned and posed the hallway mirror, peeking out from beneath the chaps was the provocative detail that truly pushed the costume into bold territory: a pair of red bandana print underwear. They were cut high enough in the back to show off the fullness of my ass and framed by the fringed chaps, a mouthwatering juxtaposition.

The ensemble was bold, and not my usual style. But, Robyn and Kelly encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone. Just for tonight, they promised.

"How do you expect us to pregame if all you got is cabernet and prosecco?" Robyn complained, rummaging through Kelly's wine collection. Kelly was still upstairs, touching up her mystery look. Robyn and I had already finished getting ready, taking full advantage of Kelly's massive pantry to kill time.

Robyn's request to add brown loc extensions into her hair seemed random. But once we arrived at Kelly's and she changed into her costume, everything clicked. She revealed a photo of Gunna on her phone and the absurdity of it all took hold. Kelly had doubled over, clutching her stomach as if the laughter was a physical blow. I gasped for breath, tears streaming down my face, while someone pounded the table in rhythm with their uncontrollable laughter.

Robyn stood there, a triumphantly hilarious figure in her black Dior mesh netting top and coordinating leather waistcoat. The knee-high leather — unmistakably Rick Owens — shoes, chains, a pre rolled joint, and the mysterious allure of her black shades was undeniable. And then there was the pose — an added touch that sent us into another round of hysteria.

"Where's the Patrón? D'usse? Henny?"

"Hennessy? Robyn, have some couth," Kelly shouted from her room.

"Since when were you too good for some dark liquor?" Robyn retorted, pouring herself a glass of wine.

"I'm not, but tonight calls for something a bit classier," Kelly called back.

Robyn kissed her teeth. "Damn, remind me to never come over here without my own bottle. Might as well be a tea party with all this bougie shit."

She made her way over to the living room, plopping down on the couch and grabbed the remote to scroll through Youtube, looking for music. Nursing my own glass, I ambled over to a peculiar metallic disk that was resting in the corner of the kitchen, a newcomer in her home. The wine, slightly too good for my usual taste, was making its presence known, a warm fuzziness spreading through my veins, prompting my usual curiosity.

I squinted at the object and noticed a small, raised button on its surface. It was an oddly pleasing shade of green, a stark contrast to the sterile silver of the disk. It was inviting, teasing me to press it.

So I did. A series of soft, almost musical, beeps erupted from the disk as it sprung to life. Startled, I jumped back, nearly dropping my glass, as it began to slide across the floor, before gliding effortlessly towards me, halting at my feet.

"Ayy, what was that?" Robyn called out, peering her head around the couch.

"I think I activated somethin'," I replied. "Should I-?"

Before I could finish, the disk moved towards the living room, leading me behind. I followed it cautiously, curious and somewhat concerned. Robyn watched, amused as it continued its world tour.

"Is this a toy?" I asked, perplexed. "Why does she have a toy roamin' her house like this? Wait, is this a vacuum?"

"I'm not sure, maybe. Let's ask her," Robyn suggested. "Kelly, what's this robot thing down here?"

"Ion know what y'all doin', but don't break my shit," came Kelly's muffled response. Robyn snickered and resumed scrolling through Youtube, settling on "fukumean" by Gunna, the music and her voice filling the room.

I continued to follow the machine as it made its journey around the house, gazing around the space. Visiting Kelly's home was a treat for us, not just because of the stunning views, the beautiful decor, and free food, but because we got to spend time with our dear friend to provide comfort and laughter after her long days. Her house was stunning, her modern aesthetic evident in her choices. It was a spacious, two story romantic mid century post & beam style house placed on a cul-de-sac, complete with a large backyard balcony that overlooked Brentwood and the Los Angeles skyline.

One could say she had a passion for design and architecture, with the knowledge to go along with it, despite having studied philosophy in college. Her artistic eye was a welcome addition to Robyn and I's dorm. Whenever she made the rare trip to our campus to visit or called us over Facetime, she'd offer suggestions and ideas — though unwarranted at times, her input still proving to be invaluable. She had an eye for unique pieces, her eclectic style a reflection of her travels.

Her taste was reflected in her home, the neutral tones a clean backdrop that allowed her decor to speak volumes. The walls were adorned with paintings she commissioned from myself and other local artists, and her shelves were lined with photographs and trinkets that were acquired during her numerous trips.

As the mysterious device came to a full stop, my eyes traveled the expanse of her geometric, king-sized bookshelf, a mosaic of family photos, crisp tort law volumes, and well-thumbed book club selections came into view. But one item stood out, jarringly out of place. It was a familiar book, her photo album, its once vibrant magenta leather cover now weathered to soft blush, adorned with the ghostly echoes of stickers long vanished. Patches of rose-salmon, stalwart remnants of its original hue, speckled the surface in a sporadic dance.

Placing my glass on the shelf, I reached out to grab it, grazing the cover. My fingers skimmed across the worn cover, tracing the indistinct outlines of the stickers, their words blurred into oblivion, their images only spectral imprints.

As I opened the worn relic, the opening page welcomed me with the delicate, curling script of 'Moments With Me'. The following pages unfolded a visual chronology of Kelly's life. Each photo was a freeze-frame of her evolution, from wide-eyed child, to blooming teenager, to the radiant young woman she was now. Each snapshot was a testament to her spirit, preserved and eternal.

There she was, standing alongside her father on the set of one of his acclaimed films, smiling and wearing his headset and gear, her navy blue braced grin mirroring his.

Another was a photo from her sweet 16, a grand occasion made even more memorable by a performance from Jodeci. Kelly was seen warmly embracing Devante Swing, the singer planting a kiss on her cheek. She made a bold choice that year, opting to rock a short pixie cut with indigo tips that accentuated her features. The next day at school, all of the guys were raving about her look, the girls asking if she got her hair done by Nia Long's stylist, oblivious to the fact that it was my mother's handiwork.

Flip.

Then, images from our trip to Thailand with her parents, both of us standing beside a majestic elephant, our eyes wide and mouths open in laughter, captured at the moment we heard a loud fart rip from its hind. Our underwater escapades in Zanzibar were captured next. We had to have been no older than ten, my hair styled in Fulani braids adorned with wooden African beads. It was the first time I let someone else touch my hair besides my mother, and the experience was an absolute nightmare as I prayed my hair and edges would remain intact after the plaits were removed.

The vibrant colors of the sea life contrasted with my aghast expression as a whale pod swam directly towards us, their massive bodies casting shadows on our faces. I remember watching in awe as they moved with a grace and strength that belied their size, their close-knit family dynamics mirroring Kelly's. They looked so happy and free as they navigated the vast expanses of the ocean. It was oddly calming, their serene presence a balm to my scarred soul.

I still wanted to touch one one day.

"That's a cute hairstyle," Robyn murmured softly, breaking me away from the album. I jumped and turned, surprised by the intrusion.

"Damn, why you always sneakin' up on me like that?" I frowned, shutting the album.

"Boo."

"How long have you been standin' there?"

Robyn shrugged as she took off her glasses. "I just got here. I came over to tell you that Kofi's there already. Said it's a bit packed and security is lettin' less people in, but I think we'll be good. He sent me a video."

"Oh yeah? What's the vibe like?"

Robyn tapped the screen and handed me the phone, Drake's iconic "Headlines" blasting, and the camera shifting to an aerial view of the pool. Kofi's phone captured a bird's eye view of the crowd, the pool illuminated with an aquatic array of purples and blues. People were dancing, drinking, and smoking, all clad in costumes, the scene lively and energetic. He flipped the camera, giving a selfie view, rapping along to the lyrics with some friends and his cousin by the railing of a balcony. All but Miriam and one other were dressed as a Stormtrooper.

"Who's that white boy?" Robyn asked, her eyes glued to the phone. I was taken aback by how she subtly bit her lip, her fingers pinching the screen to zoom in for a better view. I couldn't blame her. He was attractive.

"What white boy?"

After nearly two hours of waiting, Kelly finally emerged from her room and our mouth hung open, no words coming out. She made her way down the stairs, descending slowly, her hips swinging seductively, the sound of her stilettos clicking against the hardwood floor, her presence commanding the space.

"Damn, Kels," Robyn whistled appreciatively. Kelly strutted towards the middle of the room, posing. Her outfit was a provocative spectacle, crafted from the most sinful latex that clung to her form from head to toe like a second skin. The glossy material gleamed, an eerie glow that matched the dangerously sharp claws, painted metallic silver, and the pointy, cat-like ears perched atop her mask.

"You like?" Kelly purred, a Cheshire grin stretched across her lips as she cranked her whip.

I grinned.

"Let's go, little kitty cat."

✮✮✮

The throbbing bassline hit us like a shockwave as we rolled up to the wrought iron gates of Drake's sprawling mansion. Bright lights danced across the night sky, giving the scene a surreal, movie-like quality. A restless line of costumed party goers snaked down the driveway, angling for entrance to the exclusive event. We bypassed the desperate clout-chasers and made our way to the front, Kelly bribing the stubborn security officers to swiftly escort us inside.

We were immediately hit with a sensory overload. The mansion was awash with a symphony of kaleidoscopic light, flashing from hidden projectors, bouncing off opulent chandeliers and providing an ethereal glow to the luxurious decor. Giant cobwebs draped from chandeliers glistening with a thousand lights, while skeletal figures lurked in shadowy corners. The air was heavy with a mix of high-end cologne, a hint of weed, and the warm, inviting scent of pumpkin spice, the signature aroma of the season.

Within the grand hall, a sea of Hollywood's finest bobbed and weaved to the rhythm of the pulsating beat that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the estate. The DJ, stationed on a raised platform, was a silhouette against a backdrop of technicolor lasers, spinning a mix of the latest in hip-hop and R&B, inducing an infectious head-bob from everyone present.

Costumes ranged from the terrifyingly realistic to the outrageously humorous. A crowd of zombies, witches, and werewolves mingled effortlessly with pop culture icons and superheroes, all of them caught in the spell of the evening. Drake, the host, was unmistakable in his elaborate King Tut ensemble, surrounded by a gaggle of groupies in his section, eagerly fawning over him.

"This nigga...," Robyn scoffed.

Kelly laughed. "C'mon, let's get some drinks."

We made our way to the bar, all eyes gazing and gawking at us as we maneuvered our way through the crowd. It was an elaborate setup, the marble counter gleaming from the overhead lights. Shirtless men, dressed as construction workers, worked seamlessly behind the counter, mixing drinks with skill and precision.

A man at the bar, conveniently dressed as Batman, eyed us. His stare lingered, shamelessly focused on Kelly, and his body language exuded interest. Even with the limited view, it was obvious he was handsome, a combination of rugged and pretty boy. He seemed fit and tall, his chiseled frame highlighted by the custom-fit suit, and his face was clean shaven, revealing a pair of dimpled cheeks.

Kelly convinced him to buy us drinks, her tactics a lethal combination of subtle flirtation and charm, and he eagerly obliged. As I glanced around the room, scanning the crowd, Robyn nudged me and pointed.

"It's him again. From the video. Is he even wearin' a costume?"

Taking her cue, my eyes landed on the man comfortably ensconced in Drake's section. While others around him were swept up in the bubbly energy, chattering and guffawing, he was different. His laughter was there, yes, but it was tempered, carrying a chilled undertone. He engaged in the animated conversation, yet his demeanor exuded a distinctive tranquility.

"Damn ma, you look sexy. Can I get you somethin' to drink?" a sudden deep voice asked, catching our attention.

"Yuh betta move out mi face 'fore I-," Robyn began, irritated, but stopped upon realizing the voice belonged to Kofi as he removed his Stormtrooper mask.

"Ha, you thought, you still fine as hell though baby," he teased as he kissed Robyn's cheek, causing her to kiss her teeth. "Happy Halloween, ladies."

"Hey, Kofi," we smiled, giving him a hug.

"Where's Mimi and the rest of 'em?" Robyn asked.

"They chillin' upstairs. But Mimi's around here somewhere," he replied, glancing around the room. "Y'all costumes on point. Bey, I didn't even recognize you."

"Thanks," I replied. "Robyn and Kelly helped. It's...different." I looked back at the section where the man was previously seated, only to see that he was gone. Robyn and Kelly were deep in conversation with Kofi, discussing the antics that occurred earlier at the party, when sudden commotion rippled throughout the room. Glancing around, the source soon became clear.

She was Moses, the sea of people parting just for her as she moved through the crowd. I couldn't take my eyes off the subtle sway of her hips or the swing of her raven hair. She wore an intricate gold and purple strapless breastplate, cupping only her breasts, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her toned stomach. Her lower half showcased deep eggplant skirt that billowed softly around her succulent legs with a waistline cut so daringly low. The colors complemented her flawless complexion and made her bright green eye contacts shine even brighter.

Delicate jewelry adorned her head, arms, and neck, each piece meticulously crafted to accentuate her graceful form. Everything about her seemed hypnotic - the rhythm of her movement, the intensity of her gaze, the allure of her smile. My heart raced wildly in my chest when our eyes finally met. I was her prey, frozen in her emerald stare, and she was a predator ready to strike.

At that moment, no one else existed. I was transfixed, overwhelmed. It was like tunnel vision - the crowd and noise fading to a blur while she stood in sharp focus, radiant.

She smiled at me and bit her lip — a smooth gesture, revealing her fanged incisors and canines as her eyes hungrily roamed my body. She tore her gaze, turning her attention back towards Drake, greeting him. He rose, engulfing her in a tight embrace, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Oooh," Kelly murmured, her eyes glued. "Now that's a costume." She turned to me. "Bey, is everything alright?"

"Yeah," I responded too quickly, swallowing hard. "Just...I'm fine."

I was no better than any man, losing my breath at the sight of a beautiful woman. But this was no ordinary woman, she was famous, and my mind was reeling. Still, it felt...odd.

"Aaliyah is so damn sexy," Robyn sighed, fanning herself. "I wonder what she's doin' with him though."

"I doubt there's anything going on between them," Kelly countered. "Everyone knows they're just friends. Plus, Drake is corny as hell, she could do so much better than him."

"Yeah."

My response was barely above a whisper, the word escaping my lips before I could even process the thought. My mind was too occupied with thoughts of her, unable to shake the feeling, the allure, the pull. Lost in reverie, Mimi's sudden appearance broke me free.

"Hey y'all," she grinned, giving us a hug. Her costume was an exact replica of Janet's iconic "If," video look. "Y'all look amazing." She was accompanied by someone else. It was him. That white boy.

"So do you," Kelly complimented. "Who's your friend?"

"Everyone, this is Paul. Paul, these are my friends and of course you've already met Kofi."

Finally, a face to the name. He was even more beautiful up close in person. His sandy blonde hair, short and textured with waves, showed off his defined features and he stood about 6'2", his frame lean, but not without muscle. He was a blue-eyed golden boy, and as he smiled at us, there was a warmth and charm radiating from him, but I was too distracted and careless to fully notice.

"Nice to meet you guys," he said, shaking our hands, holding onto mine for a few seconds longer.

"This is Robyn, Kelly," Mimi chimed, pointing at each one. "And Beyoncé."

Paul's eyes sparkled, his smile growing wider. "Beyoncé? I've heard a lot about you."

"Hopefully all good things," I responded.

"Of course. So, you're a portrait artist right?"

"Yes, among other...things. I mostly, uh, do installations now though." My eyes shifted back to Aaliyah. She was still sitting with Drake, his arm wrapped over her shoulder. They were in their own little world, laughing, sharing a drink, and completely oblivious to everyone else.

Robyn and Kelly watched the exchange, their eyes flicking between us, confused by my aloof demeanor. Robyn cleared her throat, "So what's your costume anyways? Bay Area tech bro?"

Paul laughed, his amusement contagious as everyone else joined in, "No, it's Marty McFly. Back to the Future."

"Ah," Robyn said. "Bey, isn't that your favorite movie? You had a crush on Michael J. Fox, didn't you?"

"I did?" I asked, extremely confused and a tad bit too harshly.

"Ok maybe you didn't, but you did say you've always wanted to get a picture with him," Robyn continued, her eyes shifting between Paul and I, a slight smirk playing on her lips. "He's got a look-a-like right here. Well, kinda. I mean, I'd say you're better lookin'-"

"Robyn..." Kelly stopped her, the two engaging in a heated, silent conversation.

Paul and I exchanged a glance, his expression a mirror of mine, an uncertain shyness. He looked at me, a hopeful look in his eyes, as if he was asking permission. I noticed the slight dimples, the bright color of his eyes, how perfectly symmetrical his face was.

"I-," he began, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh, you don't have to," I blurted.

"No, no, it's cool," he responded. "Let's do it. We can make it a group thing, eh?"

He motioned towards the rest of the group, who quickly agreed. Mimi, being the most enthusiastic, pulled out her phone and handed it over to the man in the Batman suit and as he directed us, we posed for the camera. As the shutter clicked, the sound of glass breaking caught our attention. Turning, my stomach dropped, my eyes falling on two men, clearly drunk and belligerent, shouting in a foreign language. They were standing near Drake's table, the contents of a glass shattered across the floor, a large shard in the hand of one of the men.

Drake stood, his demeanor calm as he tried to reason with the men. But the one holding the glass was having none of it. He continued his shouting, the veins in his neck and forehead protruding, the volume of his voice rising.

As the situation escalated, security guards approached and intervened. The man, clearly agitated, shoved them, a loud, "Fuck you!" erupting from his lips. Before the guards could subdue him, he lunged at one of them, sending the guard flying into a table.

The sound of shattering glass and wood echoed throughout the room. A few people screamed as they scrambled for cover. Others ran. And some stayed and watched, their phones capturing every moment.

"Yo, it's gettin' a little crazy. We should go," Kofi suggested, concern in his voice.

As I scanned Drake's section, my eyes met hers. And for a brief second, her fear was evident, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape. A security guard rushed her, urging her to safety, but her gaze remained locked on mine.

It was fleeting, lasting for a mere moment, before the crowd swallowed her whole.

✮✮✮

A heavy blanket of silence fell over the car, the mood somber as the events of the night played on a loop in our minds. The party was certainly unforgettable, living on only in the photos and videos circulating online that captured the unexpected event of the night.

We needed to de-stress.

The neon lights of Thunderbird cut through the darkness, a beacon in the West L.A. night. As we stepped in, the smell of sizzling Tex-Mex and the hum of the patrons' conversation washed over us, a nice welcome to our frayed nerves. We found a long table at the back, large enough to accommodate us all. The rest of the group began placing orders, their voices slowly regaining some semblance of normalcy amid the clinking of margarita glasses and the rustle of nacho plates.

Kelly and Robyn, as if on cue, moved towards the other end of the table, guiding the others along with them, leaving me sitting at the opposite end with Paul. Both of us shared a soft chuckle as we realized their subtle ploy.

"Looks like we've been set up," he mused, a wry smile on his lips.

"Seems like an ongoing theme lately," I muttered, my fingers picking at a hangnail, my eyes shifting around the room.

An awkward silence followed, neither of us knowing how to navigate the situation. The only noise was the faint rambling of the group, the scraping of chairs and the clatter of cutlery, a chaotic blend of sound and sensation. I was about to offer an excuse to join them when his soft, warm voice cut through the deafening quiet.

"Is that Michael J. Fox?"

His question pulled me back, breaking me away from my thoughts. A slight frown knit my brow, puzzled by his question, until he nodded his head towards the medium sized photo on the wall beside our booth. It was framed with his signature, a classic shot of the actor in front of the iconic DeLorean, posing with the owners, a proud smile on his face.

"Yeah. Seems like they get a lot of celebrities here," I replied as I spotted more star studded photos on the walls.

"Bet you're a regular then," he suggested.

I blushed slightly at his teasing tone, taken off guard by the comment. "Actually, I've never been here before. I don't really go out a lot," I admitted.

"Really? What do you like to do instead?"

"Aside from painting, I just read or watch TV, water my bonsai, or I might roller skate around the neighborhood. I'm a total homebody."

"That's pretty cool. Home is the best place to be. Though, it can get lonely sometimes."

"Yeah. Sometimes."

The conversation died and the uncomfortable silence returned, the distance between us palpable. The server brought us our drinks and appetizers, and my eyes flitted around the room, searching for anything to fill the space.

Paul persisted, refusing to give up. He cleared his throat. "Tonight hasn't been the greatest, has it? Are you feeling okay?"

I sighed. "Honestly...not really. I think I'm still a bit shaken up by what happened and I've just got a lot on my mind."

"You wanna talk about it? I'd say I'm a good listener."

The earnestness in his voice was gentle and comforting. I smiled and he returned the gesture, the same, dimpled grin, his blue eyes sparkling. I hated how easy it was to be charmed by him, that damn smile.

"You sure you wanna hear about my problems, Paul? I'm an artist, remember? Emo shit is kinda part of our brand."

After we shared a chuckle over my comment, the tension that had been hanging in the air like a heavy curtain finally lifted. I noticed Robyn's subtle, yet painfully obvious, glances from the corner of my eye. She was observing our interaction, her curiosity barely veiled despite Kelly's consistent elbow nudges to her side, probably asking about our conversation. They were as transparent as glass.

Smiling, I focused my attention back on Paul. "Listen...I know I've been a bit distant tonight, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that," I began. "I'm not the best at conversation, especially with people I've just met. I'm not normally like this, especially once you get to know me, so please don't take it personally. It's the first time I've been out like this in a while, and there's a lot happening..." I gestured at my costume.

"Hey, no need to apologize," he reassured. "How about this? We forget tonight, forget the craziness and start over. Just the two of us."

"Yeah...yeah, I'd like that."

"Great," he continued, his hand extending towards me. "Hey, I'm Paul."

The name seemed to hang in the air between us, a testament to my decision to finally let my guard down. To let someone in. To take a chance on someone. I looked into Paul's eyes, saw the patience, the understanding, the acceptance. He wanted to know me, wanted me to feel comfortable. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted that too. Robyn lucked out tonight.

I smiled, taking his hand and shaking it.

"Beyoncé."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Cross My Mind" by Jill Scott

There was an intoxicating scent of rain, the aroma of wet cobblestones and the faint trace of the Thames intertwining into an intoxicating perfume.

A shadowy figure stood tall in the distance.

As I journeyed towards them, the world around me undulated, mirroring the rhythm of my quickening heartbeat. Rain-slick streets transformed into paths lined with dew-kissed roses blooming in secret London gardens, their velvety petals whispering tales of forbidden pleasures. The city's usual glow morphed into the sultry luminescence of the moon, its silver light painting it with a seductive enchantment.

The silhouette in the distance began to take form, but remained elusive, their features obscured by the veil of night. Still, their presence beckoned me, the magnetic pull a familiar force, a nostalgic reminder.

Almost there...

My heart pounded in anticipation as I reached out to touch the ghost of a love that once was.

But then, the figure turned, and my breath hitched.

It wasn't him. It was her. Bathed in the sensual glow of the moon, she was a vision of desire, a siren calling me to uncharted waters.

A wave of realization washed over me, leaving me breathless and yearning. It wasn't him I had been longing for this time; it was her. My heart pounded a different beat, a rhythm woven from threads of newfound desire.

Her fingers reached out, yearning to trace the contours of my face, to explore the landscape of my body. Her lips parted, a sensuous whisper spilling from her lips, drawing me closer. My skin tingled and my senses were on high alert, a fluttering anticipation coursing through my veins. Her proximity left me drunk, lightheaded and dizzy, and as she leaned in, her lips hovering dangerously close to mine, the world faded away, nothing else existing but the two of us, a tempest brewing between us, threatening to consume us both.

So close...

And then...

"Shit."

One of my hands lay softly on my chest, a cold reality instead of the warmth of her presence. The other clutched my dead vibrator tightly, clicking the button multiple times to no avail. Panting, I stared blankly at the ceiling, frustrated and unsatisfied as I pulled my yoga pants back up. My heart was still racing, my skin was still hot, and the dull ache between my legs persisted, the daydream having left me on the edge.

This was the fourth time this week.

Groaning, I covered my eyes, sighing heavily. There was no doubt my dreams were haunted by her, an entity both welcome and unwelcome. Since the party, she'd been a constant in my thoughts, my dreams, and now—strangely enough—my more intimate fantasies. Her image had replaced his in my mind, her touch replacing his. The dreams had become more explicit, more enticing, more...real.

Why? Why her, though? I barely knew her and vice versa. She was a celebrity, our worlds were distinctly different. We had only shared two brief glances at the party, one electrifying moment of intense eye contact. Yet, there she was, the central figure of my thoughts, the woman who left me breathless and yearning for more.

I tried to shake off the lingering sensation of the dream, the phantom feeling of her skin against mine, the taste of her lips just out of reach. But it clung to me, a seductive ghost that refused to be banished. It was as if my subconscious was trying to tell me something, reveal a truth that my conscious mind was hesitant to accept. I just wished it had chosen a less intrusive way to do so.

As the rain pattered against my window, as the city settled into the rhythm of another weekend, I lay there without a clear answer, dazed and confused. And nonetheless still horny.

I rolled off the bed and I padded barefoot over to my desk to start rifling through it, my fingers sliding over various trinkets, old letters, and miscellaneous items. But no batteries. I cursed under my breath, frustration mounting. I'd never felt this desperate before, this...needy.

I continued my search, opening up every drawer, every cupboard, every box. The room was soon littered with the contents of my search - no spot was left unturned. Still, no batteries.

I knew my hands alone wouldn't satisfy, my imagination wouldn't cut it this time and unlike Robyn, I didn't have extra toys laying around at my disposal. There was an insatiable, gnawing hunger that needed to be satiated, a burning ache that required a partner, a tool to bring me release.

I flopped back onto the bed with a huff. It seemed my only options were to either run out into the increasingly drizzling weather for batteries, or suffer the rest of the day with blue balls.

Neither option seemed appealing.

As the minutes ticked by, and the sky grew darker, I debated my two choices, weighing the pros and cons. Finally, with a determined sigh, I rose, grabbing my puffer jacket and umbrella.

Robyn was in the kitchen with an apron, setting up a tripod, her phone in hand, when I emerged. She looked up from her phone and turned to greet me, pausing midway. She took one look at the coat in my hand and the determined furrow of my brows and immediately furrowed her own.

"Where you goin'?"

"To the store."

Robyn's eyebrows shot up. "In this weather?" She looked towards the window, her nose scrunched. "You crazy."

"I need some...stuff."

"What, did you run out of toilet paper or somethin'? I just bought some."

"No, it's..." I stammered, feeling my cheeks heat up. "It's not that."

Robyn's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me, "Well, can you get me some peaches for my cobbler? I would've asked Kelly, but she just texted me that she's already here, so..."

"Yeah, sure."

I grabbed the keys and opened the door, only to be hit with the sight of Kelly in a lavish coat and rain boots walking down the hall, towards the door, her car keys dangling from her hand.

"Bey," she greeted, surprised. She motioned to my jacket and umbrella.

"Oh. I need to pick up a few things. You here to help Rob?"

"Yeah, she called and told me she needed to borrow my camera to film some content. Free food is always a plus and you know her audience can't resist this face. You need a ride? It looks like it's gettin' pretty nasty out there."

"No, I'm good."

"You sure? I can just tell her—"

"Y'all go ahead and get started. I'll be back real soon." I rushed past her.

Kelly shrugged, "O...kay. Drive safely."

As the rain picked up, I headed towards the nearest convenience store, eager to finish my task. Thankfully, the parking lot was scarce, so it was an easy find. Ducking in, the familiar scent of processed foods, cleaning supplies, and air freshener enveloped me, an odd mix. As I walked down the aisles, my pace quickened, my desperation growing.

It seemed, however, that the universe was intent on making me suffer. No batteries. Not a single one in stock. Not anywhere.

Disgruntled, I purchased a pack of gum, a plastic spoon, and a pint of Ben and Jerry's and headed back out into the rain, which had begun to fall harder, the sound of droplets tapping the roof of the car echoing loudly.

"Seriously?" I grumbled, annoyed as the downpour made visibility difficult, and the streets somewhat flooded. Traffic crawled along at a snail's pace, the blaring horns and the flashing lights a cacophony. The clouds continued their barrage, the heavy, dark mass stretching across the skyline, threatening.

My phone buzzed, Robyn's name flashing across the screen.

Robyn

where u at?

Beyoncé

still driving

Robyn

🍑?

Beyoncé

sorry forgot 😔

Robyn

k well speed it up

Beyoncé

k

I made a U-turn, heading back in the opposite direction towards the nearest supermarket or store I could find. I drummed my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, willing traffic to move faster, hoping the storm wouldn't worsen. With a broken aux cord and nothing good playing on the radio, the drive felt endless, a prolonged, painful trek. My agitation was reaching a boiling point.

"Finally," I huffed, spotting a Target, a beacon of hope — or so I thought.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," I groaned. The parking lot was packed, and the line inside for self-checkout reached the aisles. I knew I would have to resign myself to the inevitable, tedious wait.

After leaving the electronics section with a few batteries, I made a beeline for the produce on the lower level. The store was bustling, the aisles filled with harried mothers and their children, the rain forcing families and friends inside to shop.

The Starbucks nestled in the corner of the store was a flurry of activity, with baristas in their black aprons deftly spinning from cash register to espresso machine to pastry display. Their movements were practiced, a rhythm honed over countless hours of service. Despite the line of customers that stretched almost to the adjacent aisle, they worked with a calm efficiency that was mesmerizing.

A man and his toddler stood in front of me, and as I waited patiently on the escalator, he attempted to teach him how to count, much to his son's delight. It was sweet, an amusing moment, and a small smile played on my lips.

But as the escalator descended, something caught my eye, and that smile quickly faded, the batteries nearly falling from my hands.

It was her.

She was headed in the direction of the produce section, dressed casually yet stylishly in a fuzzy cardigan, boyfriend jeans, and a pair of shoes that seemed to be ASICS. Her eyes were intently focused on her phone in one hand, an umbrella and basket in her other. There was a faint frown knitting her brow, her lips pursed together, and she appeared deep in thought. Her hair was neatly coiffed into a low ponytail and a side swept bang, showcasing her striking side profile.

She was completely unaware, oblivious to the attention she was drawing, the heads turning, the stares, and the whispers. The escalator deposited me on the ground floor, and my feet moved of their own accord towards our shared destination.

As I took my time examining each peach, an elderly lady hobbled up to me, her basket straining under the weight of groceries and whatever else was in there. "Excuse me," she croaked, "Can you please..." But the rest of her request faded into the background as I apologized quickly, offering no further acknowledgement, my mind elsewhere.

The old lady muttered something under her breath as she stomped away, but I didn't care. I had bigger problems to deal with. Robyn's texts were piling up, each message more impatient than the last. I needed to pick out some damn peaches and leave.

However, fate had other plans.

"I don't think you'll find any good ones this time of year," a velvet voice said behind me, the statement a soft melody.

My stomach dropped.

I was finally face-to-face with her, her eyes no longer green, but a shade of brown, and the reality was far more thrilling than any dream could ever be.

"I know," I breathed, nervous. "A friend of mine really wants some, though. So I'm stuck buyin' them right now."

Aaliyah smiled, a gentle upturning of her full lips, and my heart skipped a beat.

"Do they at least have a recipe planned?"

"She's planning to livestream later this evening. Said something about makin' peach cobbler," I responded, captivated by the smooth cadence of her voice.

"Nice. Sounds delicious."

"Yeah. Her TikTok is @badgalriri if you're interested."

"I'll have to check it out, if I can."

Time seemed to stand still as we stood, locked in an intense exchange.

"Have we met? You seem...familiar," she asked after a beat. "You were at Drake's Halloween party, weren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah I was."

"I had a feeling," she continued.

"You remember me or somethin'?"

"Of course. Cowgirl outfit. Hard not to. It was a hot look," she grinned, causing my stomach to flip. "Everyone there was feignin' for you."

"Oh, really? I didn't notice." I lied. "I guess it was a memorable night."

"Wasn't it? Crazy how shit turned out. But at least we're still here."

"Right," I chuckled.

There was a comfortable silence that followed, and we stood, basking in the moment, smiling softly.

"So...do you shop here a lot? I mean, not that you would or wouldn't actually shop here normally. It's just...this probably isn't really the kind of place someone famous like you would go. But it is L.A. so you never know."

I winced. Of all the possible icebreakers, that's the best I could do?

"Sorry, that's...probably a weird question," I backtracked, embarrassed.

She shook her head and giggled.

God, her laugh. I would've melted on the spot if I could.

"I do love Target, but I only came here since I was in the area. I'm meeting up with a friend." She pointed to her basket, the contents ranging from a bottle of wine and various fruits and snacks.

And a bouquet.

My eyes landed on the pristine arrangement. A sophisticated presentation of white orchids, their delicate petals — subtle touches of yellow at the heart of each bloom — and slender stems exuding a sense of tranquility and grace. They sat snugly within a lavish plant box, its intricate design and opulent finish adding an additional layer of elegance to the ensemble. Aaliyah's eyes followed mine, and as she glanced down, a light flush spread across her cheeks.

"Seems like someone special," I remarked, a strange pang hitting my chest.

"Someone very special, yeah," Aaliyah agreed, her smile widening. "It's just a housewarming gift, though. I'm hoping others show up too, despite the weather."

"That's sweet. Well, hopefully they like them. You should make sure they keep them in a cool, bright location, but out of direct sunlight. Orchids also prefer high humidity, so a tray with water placed nearby can help. And you should be careful not to overwater them directly, they need to dry out between watering. I would...hate for them to wilt."

I gave a weak smile and wasted not a second longer, hurrying away towards the checkout line, my head lowered, avoiding any eye contact.

The checkout process was painstakingly slow, but thankfully, no further delays occurred. As the cashier rang up my items, I noticed Aaliyah standing a few registers away, scrolling through her phone. She was frowning again, her nose slightly scrunched, a sight that was oddly adorable. She was so immersed, she didn't see me, and her absence allowed me to study her, observing the way she bit her lip, the subtle tilt of her head.

I wondered what had caused such an expression.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, that'll be $7.48."

The voice yanked me back to reality. I looked back to find the young cashier, a teenage girl with a head of frizzy hair pulled back into a messy bun, staring at me through a pair of thick glasses.

Her eyes, a dull shade of brown, were devoid of any enthusiasm. The usual sparkle that one might expect from someone her age was replaced with an air of resignation, the kind that comes from the mundane repetitiveness of scanning barcodes and making small talk with strangers. Her lips were pursed in a line, the corners of her mouth slightly downturned from the strain of forced smiles.

She glanced at her phone discreetly hidden from her supervisors for what must have been the tenth time in the last few minutes. It was clear that she was counting the time to the end of her shift, probably wishing she was anywhere else but there.

"Sorry. Ooh, I love your glasses," I said, hastily pulling out my wallet. As I tapped my card on the reader, I couldn't help but sympathize with the young cashier. "I swear Target is gettin' more and more expensive," I commented, hoping to brighten her spirits. "You walk in here expecting to only buy a bottle of lotion, and end up spendin' $40, but I bet y'all get discounts."

The girl stared at me blankly, her gaze empty and indifferent. The words seemed to float past her, the sound fading into the background.

"Yo card didn't go through," she droned, a monotone, disinterested drawl.

"Huh? Oh, let me try again," I replied, a slight flush spreading across my cheeks, taken aback by her curtness. I swiped the card this time, same result.

"Card declined." She raised her voice.

"Hold on, gimme a minute."

Frustration bubbled, my mind frantically racking itself trying to remember if I'd spent any money recently, or even have enough for the purchase. My savings were beginning to dwindle, and with all the last minute canceled commissions and new art supplies, I had to watch my spending. I checked my emails, notifications, the recent transactions in my bank statement, praying it wasn't what I feared.

"No," I whispered, horrified.

Student loans.

The notification sat, ominous and glaring on the screen, taunting me. My eyes darted back and forth, rereading the words repeatedly, as if it would change.

Amount Due: $0

Amount Paid: $441.09

Payment Due: Today

Thank you for your payment :) Please allow 3-5 business days for processing.

A quivering breath escaped my lips, my hand instinctively gliding over my face as if to wipe away the hopelessness beginning to settle like a heavy fog. The lifeline of payment from my part-time job and the final payment for my latest commission were days away.

"Can you hurry up?" an older gentleman huffed from behind. "Some of us have things to do."

"I said, hold on."

"Look lady, if you can't pay, just put the stuff back," the cashier responded, her voice raising. "You wastin' everybody's time."

"You gettin' a real kick outta embarassin' me, aren't you? This how they train y'all nowadays? You need a refresher course on customer service or somethin'?" I retorted, annoyed.

A few customers glanced our way, their eyes wide, curious, and waiting for a scene.

The cashier, her brow raised and her lips pursed, looked at me, her gaze a challenge. "Not my fault you broke, bitch," she sneered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

"What did you say? I don't care how cute those glasses are, you better watch yourself before I knock them shits off your face."

"Try me," she responded, her eyes narrowed, a slight smirk playing on her lips, enjoying her power. "What you finna do?"

"Hey, let me take care of this," a familiar voice said.

Aaliyah was at the register next to me, her bag already packed, her card out. Her brows were slightly furrowed, an empathetic expression on her face, her eyes filled with concern. The cashier and I both looked over, eyes wide.

"Uh-no, that's okay. I can—" I started.

"Just let her pay, damn," the older man cut me off, his arms crossed. His eyes flicked back and forth between Aaliyah and me, the vexation in his eyes evident.

The cashier rolled her eyes and shrugged, "Whatever. Don't matter to me."

Aaliyah smiled warmly, tapping her card.

"Thanks," I murmured, sheepish, avoiding her gaze.

"No problem. Hey, you might wanna fix that shitty attitude. I would've said you were too cute for that but...." she whispered to the cashier. The girl's cheeks flushed, and her mouth fell open, stunned.

As we exited the store, the rain was still pouring, the parking lot a murky grey, the sky a mixture of dark, foreboding clouds and a slight tinge of blue.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't mind. Plus, she was acting like a little bitch. Thought she needed to be checked."

We shared a soft laugh, the tension dissipating.

"And, uh, thanks for the tip about the orchids," she continued, her umbrella shielding her from the rain.

"Mhmm. Happy someone will enjoy them," I mumbled. "Well, thanks again for the save. Have a good one."

I rushed towards my car, ignoring her calls, desperate to avoid any further interaction, to be reminded of not only the embarrassment and humiliation, but also the possibility that those flowers were meant for someone who was more than just a 'friend'.

But why did I care?

The ride home was thankfully uneventful, the rain letting up slightly. As I parked and gathered my belongings, Kelly and Robyn's voices could be heard faintly from the door as I walked through the hall, along with the sounds of chopping and blending.

"Took you long enough." Robyn called as the door swung open.

"My bad." I shed my jacket and hung it on the rack.

Kelly, her apron covered in flour and a dabble of sauce, was busy mixing a bowl. Robyn stood beside her, a hand on her waist, instructing.

"We just got started, so we should have a livestream goin' in a few. But first, you gonna help us with the potatoes, please don't mess this up like last time," Robyn ordered, handing me an apron, a knife, and a masher, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I put my melted ice cream in the freezer and went to work, mindlessly peeling and chopping. I didn't know why they would trust me with such an important task.

As Kelly set up her camera, Robyn began streaming, her infectious smile and her contagious energy radiating through the camera.

"Hello, bad bitches and beautiful people. Welcome to Fenty Kitchen," she exclaimed, her arms outstretched, the large 'FK' apron a perfect match. "Today, Kelly and Bey are joinin' me for a Southern meal and peach cobbler for dessert, courtesy of yours truly," she continued, pointing a thumb at herself.

"Hey everyone," Kelly greeted with a kiss, waving, her dimpled grin a warm welcome.

"Hey y'all," I chimed.

For the next half hour, Kelly, Robyn, and I cooked, laughed, joked, and talked, the camera rolling. The comments below were a mix of questions, encouragement, praise, and the occasional thirst.

"Wait, wait, wait," Kelly said, suddenly pausing in her task. She looked down at her phone, her face lighting up with excitement. "Guess who just joined the live?"

Robyn looked over, not missing a beat as she stirred the greens in the pot. "Who?"

"Aaliyah!"

Robyn let out a delighted laugh, dismissively shaking her head. "No she didn't. Let me see," she replied, motioning for the phone.

Aaliyah was, indeed, watching the livestream. Her username, and her profile pic was unmistakable, the blue checkmark a testament.

"No shit," Robyn chuckled, impressed. "Well, ain't that somethin'? Famous people even tunin' in to watch we lil' cook-up show," Robyn exclaimed, her accent thickening in her astonishment. "Welcome, baby girl, hope you're enjoyin' the madness. Don't be judgin' my cookin' too hard, eh? My specialty is Caribbean food, but I can switch it up every now and then." She flashed a cheeky grin at the camera, her eyes twinkling with delight.

As the girls continued with their cooking and their commentary, and the viewers began sending hearts and gifts, I smiled to myself, amazed that Aaliyah had actually tuned in, watching our silly livestream. Kelly and Robyn were in their element, the duo wondering how she found out about the stream and why she later sent Robyn such a large donation, their faces lit with disbelief.

If only they knew.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Time" by Free Nationals ft. Mac Miller, Kali Uchis

"Your accent's kinda trippin' me up, like it's not quite American...you not from here, are you?"

"I could ask the same about you. You mentioned you were from Texas, but your accent sounds like it's mixed with something else too."

We found ourselves in the heart of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, amidst a special exhibit dedicated to centuries of Black history and culture. The museum space was an expansive, open area, bathed in natural light from the large skylights overhead. The light bounced off the polished floors and illuminated the art pieces, making the colors appear even more vibrant.

On one wall, an abstract composition, a dynamic interplay of textures and colors. The piece seemed to be constructed from a myriad of materials – fragments of newspapers, pieces of worn-out denim, shards of colored glass, and even what seemed to be rusted chains. These elements were layered and intertwined in a chaotic yet harmonious dance.

The piece was thought-provoking, confronting even. It was as if the artist was challenging the viewer to see the beauty in the broken, to acknowledge the resilience that comes from overcoming adversity.

Around us, a diverse collection of art told stories of resilience, resistance, and revolution. There were paintings and sculptures, multimedia installations, and photographs, each piece a unique voice in the chorus of the Black experience.

Paul's usual laid-back personality transformed into something different as we navigated the exhibit. With every artwork we approached, he'd pause thoughtfully, his eyes studying the piece before launching into a detailed explanation about the artist's background, the symbolism in the work, and the historical context that shaped it.

His profound understanding of Black artists and their work surprised and impressed me. His knowledge was vast and nuanced, extending beyond surface-level appreciation to a deeper understanding of the struggles, victories, and narratives embodied in the art.

This was not the superficial knowledge of someone who had merely read a few articles or attended a couple of college lectures; it was the insight of someone who had genuinely immersed himself in the culture, history, and artistic expression of another race.

"I lived in London for about two and a half years. I actually moved back here over a year ago," I replied.

He seemed genuinely interested, his attention fixed on me as I continued observing the painting in front of us.

"What brought you to London?"

"Grad school. Just wanted to try something new, I guess. Explore. Plus it was cheaper to study abroad."

"How was the experience?"

"Eye-opening," I said.

"Good or bad?"

"Bittersweet."

There was a brief pause, a moment where neither of us spoke. He was waiting for me to elaborate, but I didn't, the memories both nostalgic and painful. I finally turned and looked at him, a soft smile playing on my lips.

"I think it's your turn," I redirected.

Paul nodded, returning the smile. We continued moving throughout the museum, weaving in and out of the crowds.

"Toronto," he finally said. "I was born in Mozambique, but my family emigrated when I was nine."

I stopped and looked at him, intrigued, my brow raised.

"Wait a minute, Mozambique? Not tryna sound ignorant, but I mean...you know."

Paul chuckled. "I know. Most people are shocked when they find out. But yeah."

"So technically you're African?"

He nodded. The passion in his storytelling. The way he wasn't just looking at each piece; he was seeing, understanding, absorbing. It was starting to make sense.

"And you can speak the language, then? Portuguese, right?"

"Sim, assim como suaíli e francês," he responded, a wide grin.

"Okay. Donc tu es comme un paquet entier. Handsome, creative, and multilingual."

His eyes widened at my French and his cheeks darkened, looking towards the sculpture in front of us. "I'll admit, not a lot of people seem to care, so it's refreshing to have someone interested. Have you been? To Africa, I mean."

"I've been to Zanzibar, which I believe isn't too far from Mozambique. It's been so long since I've visited though. It's a gorgeous island."

"Right, it's beautiful," Paul agreed. "I haven't been back, but I plan to someday. See the rest of the continent too. I think you should too whenever you can."

"I do have a few countries on my bucket list, I'll make sure I add Mozambique."

"Would you go back to London?"

"I'm actually leaving for a trip in a few weeks. The client I told you about earlier requested an installation, so I'm headin' there for a bit to work on the final parts."

"Business and pleasure?"

"Hopefully."

We continued touring, the conversations ranging from our travels, our favorite artists and musicians, and more. It was surprisingly easy, the flow of conversation effortless and smooth. We were engrossed, the time and the space slipping away.

"What made you want to move back?"

"Hm?"

"You said you moved back here over a year ago. Why'd you come back?"

"Oh. My, um..."

I faltered, my voice catching in my throat. There was a tightening in my chest, an aching sensation, the familiar stab piercing, unrelenting.

Paul's face fell, a knowing look passing over his features. "Sorry. Didn't mean to pry," he quickly apologized.

"It's okay. I..."

"You don't have to explain," he replied gently. I smiled weakly.

"This one is nice," he commented, eager to change the subject.

I followed his gaze, my eyes settling on a painting of a vibrant portrait of a young Black man in modern streetwear seated confidently on a decorative chair against a lush, colorful background.

The subject stared back intensely at us, one hand holding an ornate scepter while the other rested on his knee. The intricate details of his clothing and jewelry were rendered with painstaking realism in radiant hues.

Though modern in style, the pose and props evoked trappings of royalty, elevating the ordinary individual to a princely status through the artist's deft hand. There was simultaneously an air of intimacy in the direct stare and distance imposed by the opulent aesthetics and setting. Overall, a visually striking commentary on power, status and identity.

"Kehinde Wiley," Paul commented, studying the artwork. "One of my favorites."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely. His work is incredible."

"You really like portraiture?"

"Mhmm, it's amazing when done well and I'm not talking about photorealism. Capturing a moment, a person's essence, and interpreting it into something timeless. Connecting people, bringing them together. That takes raw talent. I honestly don't know how you do it. You capture every detail, every emotion, every mood. Every time."

"Thank you, that means a lot. Some days it feels like a struggle. Like the images in my head just won't translate, and I'm left wonderin' if it's worth it."

"It's always worth it. Trust yourself. Sometimes the process is the journey. And if you ever doubt yourself, just know that the work is impactful, and I'm sure countless people have been touched by it. Including me."

A soft smile spread across my face. "Are you always this nice?"

"I can't help it, Canada's rubbed off on me."

Before we realized, an announcement sounded, indicating the museum would be closing soon. We were disappointed the day had gone by so quickly, both of us not quite ready for the day to end.

As we exited, the sun was starting to set, the sky bathed in hues of purple, orange and red. The lamp fixtures outside the building, painted a pristine white, that reached up to the sky in a regimented grid were now lit, their glow casting an ethereal light that seemed to soften the space around them.

People milled around us, their faces illuminated by the light. The installation was a popular spot for photos, and as I watched, several groups took turns posing and snapping pictures, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Amidst the gathering crowd, two children, a girl and boy, were darting between the lamps, their infectious laughter rising above the buzz of conversation.

They were playing a game of tag, their small bodies disappearing and reappearing among the tall, ghostly lampposts. Their energy and joy were contagious, illuminating the space around them with a different kind of light—one that was pure, vibrant, and alive.

Paul had been quietly observing the scene unfold, a wide grin on his face. It reflected the soft light from the lamps, giving his icy blue eyes a greenish, more muted tint. Although we barely knew each other, something about the innocence and playfulness of the children reminded me of us—two individuals from different walks of life, still finding their way to each other.

"We should take a picture over by the lamps," he suggested, my thoughts returning to the present.

"L.A. seems to be rubbing off on you too. All this picture-taking. I never took you for the selfie type. You barely have any on Instagram," I teased, following him over to the installation.

"Just wanted to keep the personal stuff personal. Didn't want my professional life and personal life to get too tangled, ya know? I'd prefer to stay off the radar."

"With 292,000 followers? People definitely know about you. I'm not one for the whole social media thing either. It's kinda nice keeping the focus on the work, not the person behind it."

"Exactly," he agreed, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his phone.

"Actually, do you mind if I take the photo?" I offered, reaching for my film camera in my bag.

He handed his phone over. "Go for it. What's the occasion?"

"I'm testing out some new camera settings, and you make a pretty good subject."

"Does this mean I get a free portrait?"

"Maybe. But only if you pose right. C'mere," I laughed, gesturing for him to come closer.

"Don't worry, I know a thing or two about posing," he joked, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me closer.

The scent of his cologne hit me as soon as he did, the smell familiar, earthy, and intoxicating. I inhaled, savoring the scent. His body was warm against mine, the soft fabric of his sweater grazing me. My pulse quickened, a shiver running through my body. I tried to ignore it, shifting the camera so we were both in the frame.

"Smile," I instructed.

We posed, the camera capturing our moment, some of the most carefree, genuine smiles and laughter I've had with a stranger in a long time.

"Wait," I responded, moving away from him and adjusting the shutter speed, focusing the lens on him. "Lemme try something else."

I lined up another shot, this one of just him. He posed slightly, effortlessly striking the right angle, the lamplight highlighting his best features with the fading sunset and darkening sky serving as the backdrop. He was relaxed, confident and there was a serene look on his face, his expression calm and at ease. "Smile."

The camera was a perfect tool to capture him, and as I snapped the picture, I wondered how many other women had the opportunity to do what I was doing. How many people got to see him like this? How many had the privilege of witnessing this side of him, this intimate, vulnerable part?

The way he looked at me when I lowered the camera was different, too. He didn't look away, not even for a second. And I didn't want to, either.

"For the portrait," I murmured to myself.

Paul looked at me questioningly. "What was that?"

"Nothin'," I replied, shaking my head.

"Can I see them?"

"I have to develop them first, but yeah. I'll let you know how they turn out."

"I didn't know you shoot film too."

"Just one of my other hobbies."

"You're full of surprises."

"I guess you could say that. You're not so predictable yourself," I said.

"Good or bad?"

"Good."

A pleasant breeze began to flow as we continued to take in our surroundings.

"This was fun," Paul started, turning to me. "I'd always thought L.A. was all about the glamor, the fancy clubs, the parties, but this was a good change of pace. Thanks for suggesting this."

"I'm glad I could be your tour guide."

He cleared his throat. "Listen. I was wondering if maybe-"

But before he could finish, a loud, familiar ringtone cut him off.

"Sorry, gimme a sec," I apologized, pulling the ringing phone from my pocket. Robyn's name flashed across the screen, a photo of her and I from a selfie booth we took months prior. "I should probably get this."

"Take your time."

I gave a half smile, answering the call. "Hey Rob, what's up?"

"Hey," she greeted, her tone urgent. I could tell I was on speaker. "Where are you right now?"

"In front of LACMA. Why?"

"Perfect! Kelly and I are on our way over towards that area, we're tryin' to grab something to eat."

"Oh, I'm actually with a friend."

"Ooooh, a friend, huh?" Kelly's voice perked with intrigue. "Is it him? Tell him we said hi."

"Yeah, it is. And he says hello."

"Bring him! We want to get to know him better, and this is perfect timing."

"Lemme run it by him and see what he thinks. Where are y'all headed?"

"Merkato."

"Okay. Lemme see what he says and I'll text you."

"A'ight. Love ya."

"Love y'all too." I said, hanging up the phone.

"Everything alright?" Paul asked.

"Oh, everything's good. My friends are nearby and invited us out for dinner."

"Us? They want me to join?"

"Yeah. If you're comfortable, that is. If not, no worries."

"No, no, no. I'm totally fine with it. I just don't wanna intrude."

"You wouldn't be, don't worry. They love gettin' to know new people, and they'll definitely interrogate you," I giggled. "But it'll be fun. And you can see what I have to deal with everyday."

Paul smiled, "Sounds good, then."

✮✮✮

As we approached the heart of Little Ethiopia, Merkato's exterior was a vibrant sight, a far cry from any ordinary city restaurant. The building was splashed with the bold colors of the Ethiopian flag—green, yellow, and red—a beacon of cultural pride amidst the cityscape. A simple, bold sign hung above the entrance, the restaurant's name written in both English and Amharic script.

Upon stepping inside, the atmosphere was an immediate shift. The restaurant was a dizzying blend of colors and textures, mirroring the vibrant culture it represented. The walls were painted in warm terracotta, adorned with traditional Ethiopian art pieces and photographs depicting life back home. A variety of woven baskets and clay pots added an authentic touch, while the latticed wooden screens partitioning the space gave a sense of privacy and coziness.

The scent of spices hanging in the air was tantalizing, a mix of berbere, cardamom, garlic, ginger, and something else that was distinctly Ethiopian. A low buzz of conversation and soft music playing in the background added to the lively yet relaxed ambiance.

Upon our arrival, Kelly and Robyn were already seated at a table, their faces lighting up as they spotted us.

"Hey y'all," they greeted, rising from their seats and enveloping me in a warm embrace.

"Hey," I smiled.

"Paul," Kelly chimed, her eyes twinkling. "Nice to see you again. Glad you could join us."

"Nice to see you guys, thank you for inviting me," Paul replied, returning the smile.

"It's no problem, the more the merrier," Robyn insisted, her eyes flicking back and forth between us.

Paul pulled out a chair, offering it to me. "After you."

"Thank you," I smiled, settling in.

As Paul sat, Kelly and Robyn exchanged a knowing look, their brows raised, their interest piqued.

"How was the museum?" Kelly inquired, her elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm. Her eyes were expectant, her curiosity evident.

"Really nice. They had a great exhibit going on, lots of great pieces," Paul chimed.

"Yeah, y'all should've joined us. We had a great time," I chimed, sharing a smile.

The girls cooed, their eyes bright and curious.

"Enough about us, what y'all been up to today?"

"Not much," Kelly shrugged. "Got some work done, ran some errands, the usual. Rob and I were just chillin' until we got hungry."

"Hungry for spice, apparently," Robyn added, motioning for a waiter.

We placed our order, the server scribbling down the details and swiftly disappearing into the kitchen. As we waited, Kelly and Robyn grilled Paul, their inquisitive nature shining through.

"So, Paul," Robyn began, folding her arms on the table. "You seem like a cool guy. What brought you out here, to L.A.?"

"Work. Started working on a freelance project, and ended up sticking around. Can't really complain though, the weather's nice."

"True, true. What is it that you do, again?"

"I'm an art director for a production company, but lately, I've been trying to open up my own studio. Work on my own personal stuff, create art that matters," he explained, his eyes brightening. "Still figuring out the details, but it's slowly coming together."

"Nice," Kelly chimed. "Can't wait to see what you come up with."

"Hopefully when I'm done, I'll have the chance to show you guys," he responded, his cheeks darkening. "So, what about you girls? How did you all meet? You seem like an interesting bunch."

"Through Bey," Robyn started. "She and Kelly grew up together, and I met Kelly through Bey, and we've all been close ever since."

"Oh wow. So you two are like childhood friends, then?"

"Pretty much," Kelly added. "Bey and I met back in Houston when we were little, and she and Rob met at USC as roommates."

"And then I basically became the third wheel," Robyn joked, nudging Kelly.

"Aw, don't sell yourself short, babe," Kelly retorted, nudging her back. "You've been the glue, really."

Robyn rolled her eyes, amused, but a smile tugged at her lips.

"We're just a mismatched crew that works," I added, smiling at their banter. "Kelly keeps us grounded and Robyn, well, she just keeps us laughing."

"I do more than make people laugh." Robyn protested.

"Of course you do," I replied. "You also make the best playlist for car rides."

"Now you lyin'," Robyn said. "I still remember the time I put on some E-40 on our way to Vegas and y'all said that shit sounded like he had hot food fallin' out of his mouth."

Laughter bubbled from us, filling the air, warm and infectious. Paul watched us, a soft smile on his face. "Sounds like a fun road trip," he commented.

"Oh, it was," Kelly agreed. "We should do it again soon."

As our food arrived, conversation flowed easily, moving from college memories to current events. I looked at Kelly and Robyn, their faces animated and bright, and felt a wave of gratitude. Despite my initial fears years ago, they hadn't clashed – they'd bonded, the differences in their personalities making our collective friendship richer, more layered. Each added something unique, creating a dynamic that was truly special.

As we ate, the aromatic flavors of the food were an explosion in my mouth. The injera was light and fluffy. The meat was perfectly tender, and the stews were flavorful, the mixture of onions, tomatoes, and spices melding together perfectly.

"What do you think, Paul?" Kelly inquired, mid-bite. "I hope it's not too hot for you."

"I'm sure he's fine," I said, glancing over at Paul.

"Definitely not. I've had this plenty of times before," Paul assured, tearing off a piece of injera and scooping up a mouthful.

"And? How is it? Better than the other places?" Robyn prodded.

"Hands down. It reminds me of home, actually," Paul commented, his expression wistful.

"Home? Where's home?" Kelly piped, intrigued.

"Toronto, where I was raised. But home is also Mozambique."

The women shared a glance. Internally, I was praying that this wouldn't lead to the inevitable, especially from Robyn.

"Mozambique? Wow. That's...wow," Kelly trailed.

"Yup," Paul replied, popping the 'p'. He seemed unfazed, unfaltering, not at all defensive as he continued eating.

Robyn didn't miss a beat, her eyes narrowing. "Hmm."

"What?," Paul asked, his mouth full.

"Nothing. Just...you don't look Mozambican," she replied, her expression deadpan.

I stifled a groan, inwardly cursing at Robyn's straightforwardness.

"Look Mozambican?" Paul repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yeah, like...you don't look Mozambican. It doesn't...fit you."

Kelly shot Robyn a warning glare, her eyes widening.

"Am I wrong?" Robyn insisted, her gaze unmoving. "It's true. He doesn't. No offense, Paul."

"None taken, honestly," Paul replied, swallowing his food. "But what exactly does a Mozambican look like?"

I could see the wheels turning in Robyn's brain, searching for an appropriate answer, her face contemplative.

"Browner. Tanner," she concluded. "A little more, ya know..."

She paused, pretending to struggle to find the right word. Her mind was still churning, the gears turning, her hands gesticulating vaguely.

"Black," she settled, shrugging nonchalantly.

Paul raised a brow, his expression unreadable.

"Robyn!" Kelly reprimanded, her hand slapping her arm, her eyes wide. Robyn scoffed, rubbing her arm and glaring, the two engaging in a mini, hushed argument.

I sunk further in my seat, silently wishing for the ground to swallow me whole, to disappear, anything to avoid this awkward, disastrous conversation.

"You still consider yourself African though?" Robyn asked, her tone probing.

"Yes, I do," Paul responded. "Mozambique is where I was born."

"Marcus Garvey must be rollin' in his grave right now," she muttered, shaking her head.

Paul shifted in his seat, his expression tight.

"Robyn, please," Kelly sighed—almost laughing at the ludicrousness of the situation, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Just...shut. Up."

Paul paused, choosing his words carefully. "I totally get it. It's a complex issue. I can't deny the privileges that come with my race, nor the history of colonization and exploitation on the continent. But at the same time, I can't deny who I am or where I'm from. Because Africa, Mozambique, is a part of who I am, even if it doesn't always appear that way. Just like Canada was and just like Los Angeles is now."

Robyn was quiet, her expression contemplative, absorbing Paul's words.

"I guess. I can respect you for standin' your ground," she finally responded, her features softening. "At least you not pretendin' or deflectin'. That's more than a lot of people can say," she conceded, her expression thoughtful, her tone softer.

"Honestly, Paul, she means well," Kelly continued, shooting Robyn a look. "Sometimes she just doesn't realize when she crosses the line, but she really does mean well."

"No hard feelings. Water under the bridge," he said, flashing a reassuring smile.

Robyn nodded, a small smile. "And just know, if Bey fucks with you, then you got our blessing, no matter where you're from," she said, her tone playful. "Because we look out for her, and she's our number one priority. Always."

The night continued, and thankfully, the rest of dinner was smooth sailing, Robyn's interrogations and bluntness put on the back-burner. Paul proved to be an engaging conversationalist, and the conversation flowed smoothly, his intelligence and wit adding a dynamic layer.

As we wrapped up our dinner and the bill was paid, we left the restaurant, our bellies full and spirits high. The girls headed back to Kelly's house, leaving Paul and I to stroll down the busy streets.

The night air was crisp, the faint smell of exhaust mingling with the coffee and tea drifting from the surrounding shops. The restaurants and bars were alive, the noise and chatter spilling onto the sidewalks, the lively hum of the city buzzing.

"I think it went well," Paul commented, his voice low.

We looked at each other for a brief moment before laughing, the tension dissipating.

"Don't worry, I think they liked you," I chuckled.

"What's not to like?" he teased.

"Keep inflatin' that head of yours and you gon' tip over," I laughed, nudging him gently.

"No, but seriously. They seem great, and it was fun getting to know them a bit more. Kinda reminded me of my mates back home."

"I'm glad. They can be a lot sometimes, but they're the best. I'm lucky to have them in my life," I murmured.

Paul paused, looking at me, his expression soft. "And they're lucky to have you, too," he said quietly. "I've only known you for a short time, but...you're something special Beyoncé. It shows in the way they talked about you tonight."

I stopped, staring up at him. Why did he have this effect on me? How could he effortlessly make me feel like I was the most important person in the world, like I was the only person that mattered?

It was a déjà vu that was unsettling.

"Paul," I started. "Do you...do you ever regret it? Leaving Toronto for L.A.?"

He turned and looked at me, his expression puzzled.

"At times, yeah. It can be a bit lonely," he admitted. "But then I think back and I realize, I just got here and if I hadn't left, we wouldn't have met. And that's something I don't regret at all."

I looked away for a brief moment, my mind reeling, the familiar ache resurfacing, my breath catching in my throat.

"You alright?" Paul asked gently.

"Um..."

My voice was a whisper, my chest heavy, the emotions weighing, unrelenting.

We stood, facing each other on the sidewalk, the sounds and lights blurring, fading away. The world around us was moving, pedestrians passing by, the bustling city continuing its movement. But there, in the moment, we were standing still. The space was suspended, suspended in a delicate, fragile balance.

"Beyoncé," Paul started, his voice low.

"Wait. Before you say anything else," I interrupted, the words spilling. "I wanna be honest with you, too. About...about why I moved back."

I exhaled, the memories flooding, vivid and raw.

"When I lived in London, I was in a relationship. And it was good for a while. It was great, actually. We were happy, and we supported each other in our passions. He was a creative, too, and things were going well, we were making it work. And then, things changed."

Paul's expression was attentive, his gaze fixed on me.

"He was offered a job, an opportunity of a lifetime. One that was amazing, really, but it was far. The farthest place I could think of. And he took it in a heartbeat, and I understood. I told him to go, because he deserved it. But...it took him farther away. Not just geographically, but emotionally, too. And I tried, for so long. Tried to make it work, tried to convince myself that distance didn't matter, tried to be understanding. But it didn't work, and so, I left. Packed up my entire life and moved back here. And not a day goes by that I don't think about him, that I don't wonder if I did the right thing or if I messed up somewhere."

Tears were beginning to spill, the emotions overwhelming, the weight on my chest crushing.

"Here I go cryin' again," I sniffed, laughing awkwardly as I wiped away each tear. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just dump that all on you."

"It's okay, it's natural. Really. And for the record, I think you did," he murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"I think you made the decision that was best for you. At the end of the day, you have to put yourself first, Beyoncé, and it's not selfish or wrong. You can't force yourself to stay if it's not what's right for you. You can't force yourself to sacrifice your happiness for them. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. Doesn't mean you didn't love him, doesn't mean you were wrong for loving him and it doesn't mean he loved you any less, either. You've got so much potential, so much ahead of you. I think you should focus on that."

As I drove to Kelly's that night, the city lights blurring into a cascade of colors, I couldn't help but replay the day's events. The art, the laughter, the food, the tears, the honesty, the vulnerability. It was a lot, a whirlwind of emotions, a series of moments that seemed too surreal, too perfect, too...right.

But as I remembered Paul's words, his reassurance, his understanding, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. A sense of acceptance, a sense of closure, a sense of...hope.

He had left a place that he had called home, traversed continents, shifted his world, all in pursuit of... what? A dream? A feeling of belonging? Or was it an escape, a way to shed a past and start anew?

Maybe I was still becoming, still unraveling, still discovering. Maybe I was more than my past, more than my heartbreak, more than my pain. After all, life was complex. Love was complex. Everything and everyone was complex. But maybe, just maybe, the decision to leave was, in the end, as simple as black and white. Maybe it was worth it.

I hoped he was right.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Everyday" by Jamiroquai

I'd crossed the pond for a second time.

This time, however, there was no promise of love, no blind hope, no naivety. My visit was a business one—a transactional one. Cold, calculated, pragmatic.

In the days leading up to my departure, I'd felt numb and detached from everything I had loved doing. My students were oblivious to my mental absence in the class and never questioned the lack of a final assignment before the end of the semester. My flight was set and the itinerary was laid out. The preparations were seamless, and before I knew it, I was seated first class on a plane, flying across the Atlantic.

Being in first class was new and different. The seats were bigger, the food was fancier, and the service was on another level. It was a nice change from the usual hustle of economy, although the upgrade wasn't a result of my own doing. Robyn and Kelly were worried about me, concerned at how withdrawn and tense I'd been up until the day I was scheduled to leave. As a gift, they'd surprised me with the ticket, wanting to ensure that the journey was comfortable.

I tried to object, but the girls were persistent, insisting that they wanted to treat me. Ultimately, they were able to convince me, and while the upgrade was an appreciated gesture, the anxiety and uncertainty hadn't subsided, and the tension in my body remained constant. I found myself drawing on my iPad at times when I grew tired of watching the in-flight movie or reading. Anything to distract myself, really.

Detailed portraits were usually reserved for clients, and I opted to draw more simplified silhouettes in my spare time. Faceless. Anonymous. Impermanent. It was safer that way, less distracting and stress-inducing, allowing me to focus solely on emotion and expression.

The silhouettes started to take shape, mirroring my thoughts, my emotions, my fears. Some were dark and brooding, others light and hopeful.

"Excuse me, miss? Miss?"

I glanced up, my eyes adjusting to the darkness of the cabin.

"Would you like a beverage?"

"Um, yeah. A glass of red, please."

The stewardess reached into the service trolley, producing a wine glass and pouring a generous amount.

"Thank you," I murmured, taking the glass from her.

"Can I get anything else for you?"

"No, this is all. Thank you." I was tempted to take the entire bottle, but my rationality kicked in, knowing the last thing I needed was to be drunk while navigating Heathrow.

"Alright, enjoy," she smiled, her eyes kind.

As she walked off, the cabin fell silent again. Around me, passengers were fast asleep, the even, steady rise and fall of their chests signaling a peaceful slumber.

I envied them. Their tranquility.

My eyes returned to the window to view the midnight sky, the inky blackness dotted by stars, the lights twinkling. It was breathtaking—the vast stretch of nothingness below us—a mix of wonder and fear.

If only life was like this, I mused. If only we could move through space, floating, gliding, completely unaware. Untethered, unburdened, unshackled. Free.

The flight dragged, each moment longer than the last.

A soft, dinging sound echoed in the cabin, alerting the passengers to the fasten seat belt sign and signaling the final descent. As the plane began to lower, the view outside the window came into focus, with some familiar landmarks appearing.

London.

I didn't even know if I could consider this a second home anymore. Home was a loaded term, and the place hadn't brought me much luck or happiness in my final days there.

"Welcome to London," a voice announced, the words muffled by the static. "Local time is 2:30 a.m., and the temperature is currently 10 degrees Celsius. A bit too warm for the holidays for me," the pilot joked, soft chuckles from a small group of passengers subtly rippling through the plane. We landed and began to taxi, the aircraft slowing as it approached the gate.

"On behalf of British Airways, we would like to thank you for choosing to fly with us, and we hope that you've enjoyed your flight. Happy Christmas Eve, everyone," the pilot concluded.

As I departed, the airport was mostly empty, the hallways echoing as I made my way through customs. The area was devoid of any holiday cheer, the festive decorations absent, and the typical cheery airport staff grouchier. I didn't blame them, though. London skies and drafty weather could make even the most peaceful monks irritable and sullen.

"Welcome back," the airport security agent droned, my U.K. passport sliding back across the counter.

I grabbed my bag from baggage claim, the wheels squeaking as they followed suit.

Outside, the cold air was biting, a sharp contrast from the balmy breeze of Los Angeles. The city unfolded before me, a tapestry of memories woven into its cobblestone streets and towering structures. London had a familiar scent of sleet-soaked pavements and spice-rich air, its bustling pubs and cozy cafes, its sights and sounds.

I waited for a friend who'd graciously agreed to pick me up at such a late hour. A friend I hadn't seen or at least spoken to in months.

The honk of a car horn caught my attention, the headlights flashing.

"Beyoncé!" a cheerful voice exclaimed as a figure approached me, enveloping me in a tight, warm embrace.

"Hey Laura," I smiled.

"Oh, Bey, I'm so happy to see you!" she chimed, pulling away.

"It's been a minute, hasn't it? How've you been?"

"Oh, you know how it is. Same old, same old," she sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "And you? How've you been?"

Her tone was sympathetic, and her eyes were soft.

"Good," I lied. "Work's been keepin' me busy."

"I'm excited to see what you've been workin' on tomorrow. You're always blowin' me away."

"I'm just hoping that it works out," I responded, feeling a rush of warmth. Laura was always a breath of fresh air. Unpredictably vibrant, with her colorful personality and boundless positivity, she was like a splash of watercolor against the gray backdrop of this dreadful city. Her British accent was crisp, laced with a distinct South London twang, a testament to her roots.

She had a unique way of looking at the world, a perspective shaped by her current job and studies as a UX designer. Everything was about people for her—understanding their needs, their thoughts, and their feelings. She had a knack for finding patterns in chaos, for turning complexity into simplicity. And that skill didn't just apply to her work—it was a part of who she was. She read people, understood them, empathized with them. And when it came to me, she'd become a sounding board, a confidant.

"Well, c'mon then. Let's get going. You must be exhausted," Laura said, grabbing my luggage and putting it into the trunk.

The ride was smooth, the roads empty, the streets shrouded in darkness. The interior was warm, the heaters were blasting, and the music was a soft hum, a mix of garage and soul.

"So," Laura started, her hands drumming on the steering wheel. "How's L.A. treating you?"

"It's good," I replied. "There's always somethin' to do. Although the traffic's a bitch."

Laura giggled, her voice melodic. "I can imagine. Los Angeles is a cool city, though. From what I've seen. Nice weather...and nice women," she noted, her voice tinged with a hint of longing.

"Yeah. But you would probably have better luck in London."

"Me? Doubt it," Laura sighed. "None of the girls here stick out to me. Only good for a hookup, and that's it."

I smiled sympathetically, understanding all too well. At least with men.

"And they're either already taken, 'straight but curious' so they'll just use me, or have some weird fetish."

"Fetish?" I questioned, raising a brow.

"Yeah. One girl asked if I'd tie her up like a ham hock. On the first date. Like, what the fuck? If you want ham hocks, go to Tesco, love," she laughed, the humor infectious.

I giggled, the sound warm and foreign, the lightheartedness welcome.

"And then there are the ones who don't wanna put in the effort during sex," Laura added, her expression dejected. "Pillow princesses. A waste of my time," she sighed, her voice exasperated.

"I'm sorry, Laura. That sucks."

"It does. But hey, at least you're doin' well,'' Laura continued, her tone bright. "Happily single and hopefully hoeing around. My dream," she joked, nudging me.

"You sound like Robyn," I chuckled.

"Your loudmouth American friend? Sounds like my kinda gal," Laura grinned. "We should meet up sometime. And your lawyer friend too, she's cute. Really cute."

"I don't think she swings that way."

"I'm getting a different vibe from her. She seems like the type to experiment, and she'd be the only exception to my rule," Laura smirked.

"Well, good luck with that," I laughed. "She's tough, though. I'm not sure you could easily charm her."

"Challenge accepted," Laura stated, her voice confident.

Laura turned into a quieter residential area of Putney, her car gliding smoothly along the tree-lined street. Victorian and Edwardian terraced houses stood in uniform rows, their brick facades reflecting the soft, warm glow of the street lamps.

"We're here," Laura announced, parking the car in front of a charming terraced house. Even in the dim light, the house's distinctive features were visible: its stock brick exterior, the large bay windows, and the bold, vibrant front door.

The house was modest in size, but the interior was smartly designed and efficiently utilized. The living room was an open-plan space with a comfortable, worn-in sectional in earthy shades of avocado green and burnt orange. A vintage teak coffee table sat at the center, with various massive books and a sketchpad neatly stacked on top. A shag pile rug, in a riot of vibrant colors, covered the hardwood floor, and the walls were adorned with abstract pieces that were as intriguing as they were colorful.

The workspace was a testament to Laura's profession and love for 70s fashion and aesthetics. A sleek, adjustable desk housed her high-end laptop, a large monitor, and an assortment of design tools. A corkboard hung on the wall, covered in colorful Post-it notes, wireframe sketches, and user personas. A comfortable, ergonomic chair was tucked neatly under the desk, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf held an impressive collection of design books and various knick-knacks.

The kitchen was a perfect blend of old and new. Classic Shaker-style cabinets painted in a pastel shade contrast with colorful, retro appliances. A small breakfast nook by the window seemed like the perfect spot for morning musings.

"Was able to snag a good deal on this place," Laura noted, her face glowing with pride. "Most people pass up terraced houses 'cause of the limited space, but I think it has potential," she shrugged.

"Laura, it's gorgeous. I wish I had your sense of style."

"Thanks, Bey." Laura smiled. "Make yourself comfortable," she added, her hand motioning.

I sat on the plush fabric of the sectional. Laura disappeared into the kitchen, the stove turned on with the clinking and clattering sounds drifting. She reappeared, two hot mugs in hand.

"I know it's late, but I figured we could have some tea. Just a little somethin' to warm us up," she chirped, placing the mugs on the coffee table.

"What are these?" I asked, pointing to a stack of large boxes on the floor near the table.

"These," Laura started, picking up a box. "are Legos."

"Legos? Really?" I chuckled, my brow raised.

"Yeah. Fun little project I'm working on," she grinned. "Custom, 3-D printed Lego blocks. I'm making a custom car model for someone."

"Who? Is it for Kojo? He likes cars, right?"

"No, they're anonymous," Laura shrugged. "Client requested it, they're paying handsomely, too. I'm definitely gonna use the money to update my workspace, and then some," she said, her eyes bright.

"That's cool. Really," I replied, a swell of admiration rising. Laura was incredibly talented and determined. Once she set her mind to something, she worked tirelessly and relentlessly until she achieved the desired result.

We sat, chatting and sipping, until the mugs were drained. The night was catching up, and my eyelids were growing heavy.

"Think it's time to turn in," Laura murmured, yawning.

"Yeah, I've got stuff to do in a few hours."

We ascended the stairs, the oak steps creaking, the hallway illuminated by a soft, yellow light. Laura's guest bedroom was different from the rest of the house, a calming oasis, the color palette consisting of serene neutrals and cool, muted tones.

"Here ya go," Laura murmured, handing me a plush, colored towel. "For after your shower."

"Thank you," I murmured gratefully.

"And if you need anything else, let me know," Laura added, stifling another yawn.

The shower was refreshing, the steam relaxing, the warmth loosening the tension. I dried myself and slipped into a cozy pair of sweatpants and a pullover sweater, the material soft against my skin.

As I lay, the blankets heavy, sleep seemed to fight its way to the surface, the weariness winning, the exhaustion taking over.

I gave up, reaching over and turning off the nightstand lamp.

✮✮✮

Later that afternoon, I headed over to the venue in South Bank to check on the final details of the installation, before meeting up with Laura again at the braiding salon in Peckham.

The salon was in the middle of Peckham's bustling high street, the lively neighborhood filled with hip, independent shops and cafes.

It was a diverse community, one that reflected the rich history of migration, the area having once been a hub for Caribbean and African immigrants. The salon sat in a city center between a nail bar and a hair supply store. A pink, neon sign, mounted above the entrance, glowed, the bright lettering a beacon. Inside, the atmosphere was bright and welcoming with gossip and laughter filling the space. Large posters of braided hairstyles and smaller posters that said 'CASH ONLY', 'WALK-INS WELCOME' were pinned on the walls.

Five women, all in varying stages of their braiding session, were seated, their chairs facing a TV screen, the volume on high as a Nollywood film played, the poor audio quality jarring.

"Hello, welcome!" I turned, seeing an older woman, her hair braided in an intricate style. Her voice was thick with a Nigerian accent. "Here for braids?"

"No, not today," I murmured, scanning the room. "Is Laura here?"

"Laura? Oh, she's over there, third station," she pointed.

"Thank you."

I walked over, weaving my way through the stations and greeting the stylists, their hands preoccupied, weaving and twisting.

Laura was engrossed in a conversation with her stylist, visibly annoyed and her hands were gesticulating wildly. As she caught sight of me, her face lit up, a grin spreading.

"Hey, glad you were able to find your way over here," she chirped.

"Wasn't too hard. And it looks like you're almost done," I commented, nodding at the stylist.

"Yeah. This is Bisi by the way. She's one of the best," Laura complimented, her voice full of praise.

"Na so," the stylist murmured modestly, her concentration fixed on the braid in her hand. She moved at lightning speed, her hands never pausing, her fingers never faltering.

Laura's phone vibrated, the sound piercing, its intensity amplified. She paused, the look on her face shifting, the lightness replaced with annoyance again.

"What now?" she sighed, glancing at the screen before answering. "Hello..." she started, her tone clipped.

As I sat next to her, watching the movie play on the television, I could feel Bisi's eyes burning holes in the side of my head. Somewhat annoyed by the staring, I looked up, turning and meeting her. Her eyes narrowed, her expression perplexed and inquiring.

"This your hair, e be like doll baby. Na your real hair?"

"My hair? Yeah, it's mine," I chuckled. Before leaving L.A., I dyed my dark brown hair to a honey blonde with caramel highlights. The silk press had smoothed my curls, rendering them perfectly straight and glossy, revealing long, healthy strands cascading down my back.

"Hmm, na lie, o," she mused. "Na wig you dey put, e no be like hair wey don grow out."

"Yeah, I, uh, I get that a lot," I murmured.

Bisi's eyes roamed, scrutinizing. She kissed her teeth before returning her attention back to her work.

"You wan be like oyinbo, abi?" she muttered under her breath.

Bisi's words were a reality, a reminder of the scrutiny I faced on a daily basis. The stares, the comments, the judgements. It was exhausting, and although I was used to it, it never got easier. It's why I hated taking risks, why I played it safe with my looks, why I opted for subtle styles that garnered the least amount of attention. But I did make a few exceptions at times, my eclectic taste occasionally leading me to try a new trend, a bold color, or a daring cut.

"What'd I miss?" Laura exclaimed, hanging up the phone and exhaling.

"Nothing. Just havin' a wonderful...conversation with your friend here," I forced a smile.

"Bisi, I swear you dey vex. Bey, just ignore her," Laura chuckled, circling her index finger by her temple.

Bisi rolled her eyes, continuing with her work.

"So, who was that on the phone?"

"My mum," Laura sighed.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, she's just being...her," Laura muttered, her frustration surfacing.

"Parents, right?" I mused, a sympathetic smile.

"I'm going to visit them for Christmas tomorrow before your event, she says it's been a while, and she wants to know how I've been. But really, she just wants to tell me I should be settling down, doing something other than design, something stable and 'sensible'," Laura explained, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "African parents, I swear. Can't just trust their child's judgment. Gotta be so controlling," Laura lamented.

"It's understandable, though," I murmured. "They just want the best for you."

"It's still annoying."

Laura paused, her expression contemplative, lost in her thoughts.

"At the end of the day, I'm doing what I love. And I'm fortunate enough to be able to make a decent living at it. Not everyone is so lucky," Laura remarked, her tone serious. "But that's not good enough for her. They have to constantly remind me that I'm not married, not having kids, not doing 'traditional' things, blah blah. As if marriage and children are the be-all-end-all. Not in this economy. Like, give it a rest. Just let me be," she sighed.

"She probably just wants you to be in a position where you're secure and well taken care of."

Laura glanced over, turning her head as far as Bisi would let her. She looked at me as if I had two heads.

"I thought you would've taken my side, Beyoncé," she teased. "Your parents aren't any different from mine. They're always pushing you to do certain things, trying to tell you how to live," Laura countered.

"I guess so. I don't know. Maybe I'm just sayin' it because I feel guilty," I confessed. "So I'm tryin' to justify their actions."

"Doesn't make it right though," Laura argued.

"No...no, it doesn't."

✮✮✮

"I don't understand the hype behind these boots. They look like hooves."

Alcohol was flowing, the atmosphere lively, and the bass pulsing. South Bank was a spectacle at night, with the Wheel of Brisbane spinning and standing tall against the city skyline, its vibrant lights adding to the festive glow. The event was a hit. The attendees—a diverse crowd, a mix of creatives, professionals, and philanthropists—dressed in their best holiday attire, the festive outfits a sea of bright colors and patterns.

My piece was prominently displayed, and the installation— which took me several all nighters to complete—was a blend of typography and digital technology, engaging the audience in a novel way.

In a lit space, paragraphs of text would be projected onto the floor and an inserted wall. The illuminating words, contrasting against the darkness, invited the audience to step into the narrative. The text explored themes of unity, love, dreams, the joy of human connections, and the beauty of diversity. As attendees moved through the space, their movements would interact with the projected text, the words responding to their presence, swirling around their feet, following their steps.

The kinetic interaction turned the audience into an integral part of the installation, their movements shaping the narrative. This interaction sparked conversations among the attendees, encouraging them to share their thoughts, experiences, and hopes related to the themes in the installation. It wasn't just about observing art—it was about being part of it.

"It's my style, O'Ryan," I retorted, champagne flute in hand. "Stop hatin'."

"Just 'cause it's Margiela doesn't mean it's good," O'Ryan joked. "Just sayin'."

O'Ryan's wardrobe, a stylish amalgamation of high-end and affordable pieces, attested to his fashion studies at UAL and his deep love and appreciation for structured silhouettes. His thrifting prowess unearthed unique finds that added a unique touch to his style, a fusion of New York streetwear, Japanese tailoring, and a touch of Los Angeles flair. His penchant for vintage sneakers, a nose ring, and the occasional loc retwist became his signature style.

We first crossed paths at a campus film festival, a chance meeting that was made memorable by the fact that we were seemingly the only Americans in attendance. This initial commonality sparked our friendship, but we soon discovered a shared world of diverse interests.

Our shared love extended beyond fashion and art, delving into the realms of music and avant-garde films. We spent numerous hours exploring local record stores and independent film festivals, dissecting lyrics and narratives, and sharing interpretations. Our shared experiences and interests not only deepened our friendship but also enriched our creative perspectives.

"I think they look cute," Laura chimed. "Although, they don't look very comfortable," she noted, scrunching her face.

"They are," I corrected, adjusting the knee-high boots under the slit of my long skirt. "The inside is lined and cushioned."

"If you say so," Laura shrugged.

"Your installation is dope, by the way," O'Ryan complimented. "Forreal, it's beautiful. I didn't know you knew how to code," he added, his expression impressed.

"Oh, it wasn't easy," I admitted. "I had help from some developers, and they taught me the basics and stuff. I had an idea of what I wanted, but coding, it's...it's a whole different language."

"How about you, Laura? How'd it go with your moms?"

"It was a fuckin' mess. My cousin, Mary, was there, too, and she was all up in my mum's ear, telling her all this bullshit. 'Oh, Laura's wasting her life', 'What kind of life is she gonna lead?'" Laura mimicked, her expression annoyed. "Meanwhile, she's still leeching off of my mum's support, freeloading, and shit. Giving the money away to her useless boyfriend."

"Damn," O'Ryan winced, his brows furrowed. "She still with that nigga?"

"Unfortunately. Never learns, that one," Laura shook her head, her expression solemn. "I have half a mind to call my mum and tell her about all the shit she's done."

"What's stoppin' you?" I asked.

Laura shrugged, her expression unsure. "Dunno. Guess I just feel pity for her."

"Ay, don't waste your energy worryin' about that shit. It'll catch up to her eventually," O'Ryan encouraged.

"I'm prayin' on it," Laura murmured, taking a sip of her cocktail.

"I thought I recognized that ranting voice," a voice chuckled.

Turning around, my heart skipped a beat. She stood there, champagne glass in hand, a smirk playing on her lips. The wave of unease that washed over me was unexpected, the knot in my stomach tightening again. It was almost physically painful.

My ex's chatterbox cousin.

I wasn't sure how she got the invitation to something so exclusive, but she always knew how to find the right people to gain access to such events. Or maybe they believed it would force her to leave them alone eventually.

"Always on about something or another, aren't you?" She babbled, her gaze darting from Laura to me. "Didn't think I'd run into you here!" Her tone was high and cheerful, completely non-threatening, but somehow it still made me shift in my shoes.

"Beyoncé actually designed that art piece right behind you," Laura said, trying to distract from the awkwardness. "The one everyone's ogling over? Taking selfies with? Yeah, that's her work," she boasted, her voice filled with pride.

"Oh!" Ziwe turned to look, her eyes wide with interest. "That's some really good stuff," she said, her voice sincere, if a little too loud.

"Ziwe, nice to see you too."

"Ryan, hey," Ziwe acknowledged, her eyes fixed. "Sometimes I wonder why you keep this one around," she sighed, tilting her head toward Laura.

"O'Ryan. And, I don't know, maybe because she's actually fun and pleasant to hang out with," O'Ryan chuckled, draping an arm around Laura. She pushed him off playfully, giggling.

Ziwe turned her attention back towards me, "Beyoncé, you've been awfully quiet. Not that I'd expect you to be jumping for joy to see me, but we haven't seen each other in a while."

Taken aback, I cleared my throat, gearing up to respond. The last thing I wanted was to engage, but I couldn't walk away without stirring up drama.

"Just...takin' it easy tonight," I managed, forcing a smile.

"Ah." Ziwe's eyes were probing, her stare unnerving. "So," she started, her tone casual. "How's L.A.? I heard you're living there now."

"Uh, yeah. It's good," I responded, my voice unsteady, a crack.

"Must be exciting. Lots going on."

"Yeah," I nodded.

"And your Instagram's blown up!" Ziwe announced. "So many followers."

"People seem to like what I post," I said, trying to hide my confusion. Why the fuck was she talking about my Instagram?

"Seems like it," Ziwe chuckled.

Laura interjected, "Uh, Ziwe, your friends are over there. Maybe you should go and, I don't know, join them?"

"You are too funny. You know what, I think I will. Oh and Ryan, we should catch up sometime," Ziwe offered, her voice still too loud.

O'Ryan looked uncomfortable. "That's not—" he responded.

Ziwe began to walk off, but not before turning back to me, her smirk returning. "Oh, Beyoncé, I'll be seeing Joseph soon. He's always talking about you, you know? He really misses you. Anyway, I'll say hi for you!" she blurted out.

Her words felt like tiny daggers, each one seeming to twist into the wound that had never fully healed. I forced a head nod and another smile, swallowing the lump in my throat. Ziwe departed, the crowd enveloping her, her form disappearing.

"Why is she here?" Laura murmured, her tone baffled.

"Don't even worry about it," O'Ryan sighed, his voice weary.

"Ughh, I swear she's a lot," Laura scoffed. "Like a lot," she repeated, her voice firm.

Reflecting on my conversation with Paul, I realized the wisdom in his words applied just as much to this moment with Ziwe. That sense of surprise, unease, and the resurgence of old emotions were natural. But like before, I needed to prioritize my peace, knowing that confrontation would do more harm than good.

I was healing, learning, moving forward. And the last thing I needed was to regress, falling back into old habits, old routines, old pains.

"I'm feelin' a bit bored from all of this standing around. Let's go dance," Laura proposed, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the dance floor.

"But Laura, no one is danc—"

"Doesn't matter. Let's have some fun," Laura countered, her expression playful.

We stepped onto the dance floor, the rhythm pulsing, the bass reverberating. Laura moved with fluidity, her body flowing with the music, her movements effortless. As the melody transitioned, she beckoned me, her expression inviting, her hands motioning.

Relaxing, I let loose, my body swaying, the music guiding my movements. The three of us danced, laughing, spinning, twirling, and losing ourselves until the space became barren, the crowds thinned, and the night came to a close.

As O'Ryan, Laura, and I continued our conversation, my gaze drifted towards my installation. A lone figure was still interacting with the piece, even as the event was winding down. She was trying to balance on one foot; her other foot stretched out as if she were trying to 'kick' the projected words. It was a simple, childlike joy that warmed my heart, making me softly chuckle. As the words swirled around her foot, her laughter echoed through the room.

A laughter I knew all too well.

"I'll meet you guys outside," I told O'Ryan and Laura, my eyes still fixed on the woman. They looked puzzled, following my gaze and noticing what I was staring at. Laura shot me a questioning look, her brows raised.

"You know where the car's parked," O'Ryan responded. His hand patted my shoulder as the two headed out the building.

Making my way across the floor, the heels of my boots echoing, the air was tense, and the atmosphere becoming increasingly charged. My steps were slow and measured, and my hesitation apparent.

Standing in front of her, her back towards me, her silhouette was achingly familiar. Her hair was still raven black, but with subtle ombré highlights added at the ends, the color gradient, reminding me of a peacock's tail. The full Japanese denim look felt outdated—an oversized dark denim jacket with baggy jeans, cuffed at the bottom, revealing Timberlands—but on her, it was effortlessly cool.

Timeless.

I steadied myself, the apprehension rising.

"Hey," I called out softly. The woman turned around, her laughter dying down as she recognized my voice. As she turned, I saw her face illuminated by the projected words. She was striking, the soft lighting accentuating her delicate features. Her large, brown eyes widened, her brown-lined lips forming a perfect 'o' shape.

She stood still, her gaze roving over me, as if she were trying to commit every detail to memory. Her eyes held an intensity I had almost forgotten, her inspection thorough, almost disbelieving. A whisper escaped her lips, a name that left me reeling.

And taken aback.

"Peaches?"

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Little Things" by Jorja Smith

Peaches?

The name was unexpected, and yet, hearing it come from her lips, it felt right.

It fit.

She spoke it with a hint of awe, a hint of reverence, and a hint of uncertainty, her inflection lilting.

It was almost surreal, standing before her once again in a different setting, in a different country. Here she was: the woman who had captivated me, whose presence had consumed me, had taken residence in my mind, and she refused to leave. She stood there, inches away from me, her image clearer than the projections surrounding us.

Her eyes were the same, warm and welcoming, the corners creased with a deep dimpled smile. A grilled smile. Each meticulously crafted silver piece followed the contour of her front bottom row teeth perfectly, creating a gleaming metallic armor that was both eye-catching and sophisticated.

On her upper left incisor, nestled above the silver grill, was a tiny star-shaped gem. It was a delicate yet radiant accent that twinkled like a distant star in a silver night sky.

And another new addition that was unexpected.

A red tattoo on her right cheekbone, just below her eye, of an outline of a heart. It was somewhat tiny, it could've easily been overlooked, but I couldn't miss it. I couldn't tell if it was a real tattoo, painted on with makeup, or simply a temporary one, but the sight of it made my pulse spike.

Everything about her seemed soft, yet edgy...and sexy.

So sexy.

"Wow," she almost whispered, as if she thought she was dreaming. "I...almost didn't recognize you. You look so different."

"Yeah. I...uh, it's probably the hair," I nervously chuckled, my fingers instinctively running through my hair.

"I love it," she said, her eyes fixated.

My face heated. "Thanks. I'm still surprised you remember me."

"I don't forget people easily. Especially when they're memorable. I never did get your name, though, since you ran off twice before I could ask," she smiled.

I winced as I recalled that day, hoping to put it behind us. "Beyoncé."

"Beyoncé?" she repeated, her voice filled with wonder.

"Yeah. That's my name," I laughed. "It's not a nickname or anythin'."

"Huh."

"Is...there somethin' wrong?" I questioned, the nerves returning.

"Nothing. That's a beautiful name," she complimented, her expression thoughtful.

"Really? Most people think it sounds too...out there, and weird," I admitted, the vulnerability surfacing.

"No, it suits you, rolls off the tongue nicely. Unique," she responded, her expression earnest. "I'm Aaliyah, by the way."

It was incredible to see someone as powerful and prominent as her humbly introduce herself. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. She was genuine, down to earth, her authenticity had a rare, refreshing quality.

"I kinda knew that already," I confessed, sheepishly grinning.

"Oh?" Aaliyah chuckled, her brows raised, with a slight smirk.

"Yeah. I've, um, been following your career for a few years," I admitted, my voice a bit shaky. "Big fan."

Aaliyah's eyes crinkled, her dimpled grin breaking through. "I'm flattered," she mused. "That's nice to hear."

"So...I see you're enjoying the installation?" I asked, hoping to continue the conversation.

"Oh, it's hot," Aaliyah remarked, her admiration clear. "I've been tryin' to figure out who came up with it," she wondered, her eyes roaming. "Seems like a lot of work went into making this."

"Yup. Took a very, very long time," I answered, sighing.

"Did you design this?" Aaliyah asked, her gaze inquiring, her brow raised.

"Yeah," I nodded.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously." I chuckled at her state of shock.

"Sorry, didn't mean to sound like I didn't believe you. But wow...that's amazing. I love the message, too. It's relatable and thought-provoking," Aaliyah acknowledged. "London is a long way from home for us, huh? Never thought I'd run into you here." she added.

"Yeah, I didn't either. Definitely wasn't expectin' this," I confessed, chuckling nervously. I hated how jittery I felt, laughing at almost everything she said. It was like I was back in middle school, trying to impress someone.

But why was I acting this way? Was it because she was famous? Did her status intimidate me? In L.A., if you've seen one celebrity, you've seen them all. There were so many famous faces, so many famous personalities, that the novelty always faded in an instant. But not with her.

"I'm came here for this project," I gestured at the installation, "but I'm also spendin' the rest of the holidays here. What about you?"

"I'm performing at the Boiler Room after tomorrow," she explained, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "I'm only here tonight because I knew the host of the gala and I had nothin' better to do, but I'm glad I came."

"Boiler Room? Sounds like fun," I said, genuinely excited for her.

"You should come if you have time tomorrow. I'll hook you up with an invite," she offered.

"Thanks, but don't worry about it," I replied, shaking my head.

"You sure? I would love for you to come. We could hang out afterwards, have a drink or something," Aaliyah suggested, her voice hopeful.

"You barely know me," I countered.

"True, but we could get to know each other," Aaliyah replied, her tone teasing. "I could use the company. Traveling solo gets tiring after a while," she admitted.

"Well, in that case, maybe."

"Maybe?" Aaliyah arched a brow, her expression amused.

"Probably," I amended, a soft chuckle escaping.

Aaliyah's lips curled, her grin widening. The invitation was tempting. It was an opportunity to spend more time with her, an opportunity to explore a connection, and a chance to move forward.

"Okay, I'll be there," I resolved, succumbing to her wishes.

"It's gonna be great, I promise."

"Listen though, I gotta get goin', my friends are probably wonderin' where I am," I explained, reluctantly.

"Hope I didn't keep you for too long," Aaliyah apologized.

"I'm sure they're fine," I joked.

"Here, put your number in. I'll text you the details," Aaliyah proposed, unlocking and handing me her phone.

"Sure," I replied, typing in my digits.

"Great. Talk to you soon, 'Peaches'," Aaliyah murmured, her voice warm.

"Oh, it's Beyoncé," I corrected, smirking.

"I know."

Aaliyah winked with a playful smirk, her eyes twinkling in the room's soft light. She was so close, the faint scent of her perfume filling my senses. It smelled like Coco Mademoiselle, with the fresh, feminine ambery fragrance lingering.

Her fingers brushed against mine as she took back her phone—a simple touch that set off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. She bit her lip subtly, her teeth catching the soft flesh, before slowly releasing it. It was such a small, innocuous act, yet it felt incredibly intimate.

"See ya," she said, maintaining eye contact as she started to walk backwards, her hands fitted inside the pockets of her jacket.

"Bye," I managed, my voice soft.

Watching her walk away, her strides were purposeful, her hips swaying. Her Timberlands clicked against the marble floors, the sound echoing. As her silhouette disappeared, I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I found myself feeling hot and bothered, a strange mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through me. As I rushed outside to rejoin Laura and O'Ryan, the two were engaging in an animated discussion that could be heard from outside the car.

"Finally! I thought you got lost," Laura teased, her gaze shifting, her eyes scanning me. "And why do you look so flushed?" Laura questioned, her gaze curious.

"Oh, um, I had to use the bathroom...real bad," I improvised as I settled into the backseat.

"You ain't gotta go into too much detail," O'Ryan sighed, his expression disgusted.

"I'll give you some Imodium when we get back to the house." Laura said before starting up the car.

The ride back was quiet, the three of us drained as the evening had taken its toll. As Laura drove, O'Ryan leaned his seat back, the sound of his snores filling the car.

"So...you and Aaliyah..." Laura prompted, her tone mischievous.

"Me and Aaliyah what?"

"I know she was there tonight. You guys were talking before we left," Laura continued. Her eyes never lost focus of the road.

"What? No, I told you—"

"You really think I was going to believe you had the runs?" Laura playfully scoffed. "The bathroom was on the other side of the venue."

"She complimented my work, if that's what you were about to ask me."

"That's it?" Laura challenged, her eyes narrowing, her skepticism apparent.

"Yes."

"Hmm, okay," Laura mused, her tone doubtful.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, now you're the one that's lyin'," I accused, the disbelief rising. "What's up with the suspicious attitude?"

"What were y'all really talkin' about?" Laura asked. "I know you've always been a fan, and she's pretty attractive. Don't think I didn't catch those glances before you walked over to her."

"We were just talking. That's it," I affirmed. "Honestly, nothin' else."

"Alright...," Laura surrendered. "But just so you know, Kelly isn't the only person I've been gettin' a certain vibe from."

"What are you talkin' about now?" I sighed, my patience thinning.

"All of those times in uni when you talked about your girl crushes—sometimes unprovoked—and they were good picks, not some generic, corny shit like Jennifer Aniston. You seemed to have a preference, a type," Laura recalled, her tone contemplative. "Always had something interesting to say about them too," Laura recalled.

"Laura, don't go off on one of your tangents. Puh-lease," I groaned, my head throbbing.

"Just sayin'. It seems like Aaliyah ticks all your boxes. Smart, confident, talented, and beautiful," Laura summarized. "Sounds like the perfect package."

"I mean, yeah, she's cool. But she's not my 'type' or whatever," I contested, rolling my eyes. "I'm not into women like that."

"Mhmm," Laura hummed, the skepticism still apparent.

"Don't 'mhm' me. I'm not," I repeated firmly.

"Whatever you say," Laura teased, her tone mocking.

"Can we stop talkin' about me already? This ain't an intervention. And please, just drive," I huffed.

"Excuse me? I am not your chauffeur."

"And turn off the music."

"Why? Afraid one of her songs will play and she'll sing her way into your heart?" Laura goaded, her voice playful.

"Laura, if you don't—"

"Chill, chill. Just kidding," Laura surrendered, her hands raising briefly off the steering wheel. "Geesh, maybe you do have IBS."

✮✮✮

Christmas came and went, a day I spent with friends—both in person and online, FaceTiming both Kelly and Robyn. Spending the holidays away from family, in a foreign land, the strong presence of snow, the biting cold, and the Christmas markets was something I'd never grown accustomed to, but I was excited for the following night ahead.

The line for Boiler Room was long, a mass of partygoers bundled in jackets and coats, their expressions expectant. Scanning the line, the crowd was diverse, ranging from hipsters to fashion trailblazers, underground music enthusiasts to grunge enthusiasts, and everything in between.

The entrance was nondescript, fitting the Boiler Room's reputation for maintaining a low-key, intimate setting. According to Robyn, who had frequently attended their events back home, in Atlanta, and New York, there was an unspoken rule at Boiler Room sets—the focus was on the music, not the hype, a stark contrast to the red carpets and flashing lights of club promos and concerts.

At the door, my name was checked, and I was guided into a small corridor, the space dark and narrow. The entry was a small staircase, steep and narrow, with steps leading into a spacious warehouse. The industrial decor was minimal, the aesthetic was raw, the brick walls illuminated by neon signs and vivid graffiti. The ceiling was high with hanging bulbs and wires exposed, the metal fixtures illuminating.

There were many stages scattered across the warehouse, but I found myself in one area with a large dance floor, a bar, and a stage larger than the others at the center.

Walking past the crowd, the energy was electric, the anticipation building. Finding a spot near the bar, I texted Aaliyah, telling her where I was, and soon after, her response came.

Aaliyah
im headin over there in a bit

Moments passed, and the crowd's energy shifted, their cheers and whistles erupting. Aaliyah emerged, her bodyguard following closely behind, his imposing build acting as a barrier between her and a few rabid fans.

Her outfit was sleek, a black and white leather moto jacket with jeans to match, a funky pair of oversized rose-tinted glasses, and a pair of pointed toe boots. Her hair was in a high ponytail, highlighting her gorgeous cheekbones.

As she approached me, a grin spread across her face, exposing her grill, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses. "I'm glad you came," she said, her voice barely audible over the music.

"Wouldn't miss it," I replied, feeling a thrill at her genuine delight.

She led me to a more secluded spot, where the noise reduced to a thrumming pulse. We made small talk as the current DJ warmed up the crowd, the techno bass vibrating through the floor. "You look great tonight, by the way," Aaliyah complimented.

"Thanks," I blushed. "I thought my outfit was a bit much, but apparently, everyone here's dressed up," I remarked, noting the diversity of looks, from casual to avant-garde.

"It's the underground scene here in London," Aaliyah chuckled. "Style is everything," she mused. "I'm gonna do a soundcheck real quick. Hang here, and I'll be right back," she instructed, her voice calm.

"Okay," I nodded, my tone unsure.

After Aaliyah walked off, her guard following, a sense of unease began to surface. I was in a sea of strangers, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and the crowd was becoming increasingly intoxicated.

Something didn't feel right.

I noticed a group of young men whose demeanor was suggestive and predatory, their eyes roving about the room as if the crowd were their personal hunting ground.

Each leer, each wolfish grin, felt like an unwanted touch. Their blatant disregard for my discomfort was highly unsettling. It felt like I was being reduced to a toy, something to be ogled at, chewed up, and later discarded when it was no longer of use.

The atmosphere, which had once been so exhilarating and inviting, now seemed hostile. The men moved about the room like a pack of wolves, their primitive instincts shining through. This no longer felt like the inclusive environment that had initially been described to me.

One of the men approached me with confident strides, albeit slightly staggering, and my unease gave way to a sense of panic. My heart began to beat erratically as my fight-or-flight response kicked in.

"Hey, babe," he slurred with a lewd expression. "I've got a back seat with your name on it." His tone was dark.

"Not interested," I responded, turning my body away from him and looking around for Aaliyah.

"Don't...lie to me," he asked, edging closer to me; the smell of alcohol from him was overwhelming. "You...you look like you wanna have a good time," he continued, reaching out his hand.

His fingertips lightly brushed my shoulder, which I found unwelcome as I quickly pulled away. His gaze was probing. "Don't fuckin' touch me," I said.

"Feisty," he chuckled. "I like it when they resist," he added with a vulgar smirk.

My panic transformed into rage and fury as I felt him move closer behind me. Without thinking, I turned and slapped him, my hand making a loud, resonating contact with his cheek. The sound startled the crowd, and the nearby guests turned their heads to see what was happening.

The man lost his smirk, his expression changed, and his features contorted. "You bitch," he spat out venomously.

He grabbed my arm roughly, his grip tightening. As he did so, the man's friends gathered around him, too drunk to do much to intervene.

"Let go of me," I demanded, struggling to break free. The crowd surrounding us grew, their voices murmuring, their expressions confused.

"Bruv, just let her go," one said.

"No, fuck that. This cunt is gonna pay," he threatened.

"What the hell is going on?" Aaliyah's voice was loud and firm as she returned, pushing through the crowd. She sprang into action with fluid movements, her fist connecting with the man's jaw once she got the slightest glimpse of him squeezing my arm.

The force, along with the collection of rings on her fingers, were enough to knock him out, his body falling limp. She delivered several kicks to his body on the ground.

"Fuckin' bitch ass nigga," Aaliyah cursed as she caught her breath. "Get this piece of shit outta here," she instructed her bodyguard, her voice laced with disdain. "And all of y'all are wack as fuck for not stepping in," she admonished the crowd, her gaze scornful.

The crowd dispersed, the commotion subsiding.

"You good?" Aaliyah turned to me, her expression concerned.

"Yeah," I exhaled, the adrenaline fading, the emotions surfacing. "Fuck," I cursed, my voice shaky.

"I can cancel my set if you wanna leave," Aaliyah comforted, her voice soothing.

"No, no," I objected, shaking my head. "You don't have to. You worked hard on it," I reassured, the appreciation clear. "Don't let me be the one to waste your time or your money."

"I could care less about all that. You sure?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Won't let some idiot ruin the night, he got what was comin'," I joked to ease the tension. "Besides, I actually...really want to see you perform," I admitted, my tone bashful.

A hint of Aaliyah's dimpled grin reappeared, her expression relieved. "You gonna be cool hangin' with me on the platform? It's a bit high, but you get the best view of the show," she proposed, gesturing from head to toe.

"Sure."

Making our way to the main stage, out of the blue, Aaliyah held my hand, guiding me through the crowd. Her touch was so soft and delicate, her fingers weaving with mine, and her palms smooth. She held my hand as if it was the most natural thing, as if it was second nature, making me feel both comforted and secure amidst the chaos.

We ascended the platform steps, joining a small group of select notable guests, local artists, and lucky fans. The larger crowd now a sea of excitement below us. Her grip tightened slightly, a silent reassurance that she was there, that I was safe.

The music ceased as the announcer intoned, "This next act, quite honestly, needs no introduction..."

"Ready?" My voice was barely audible over the announcement, a playful glint in my eyes as she glanced at me.

"You know it," she responded. She gave my hand a final squeeze before releasing it, moving to take her place at the front of the platform once her name was called.

The crowd exploded into cheers, their collective voice echoing throughout the venue.

"Ay, Ay, Ay. London. How y'all doin' tonight?" Aaliyah greeted, her voice amplified. The cheers erupted, the volume deafening. "Glad to see a few familiar faces, and a lot of new ones too," Aaliyah continued. "London has always been good to me, and tonight, I wanted to celebrate with you," Aaliyah declared, her expression grateful.

She stepped back, taking her position behind the turntables. The beat dropped, and the music started, the bass reverberating, the melody flowing.

The energy was incredible.

The crowd swayed in unison, their bodies moving rhythmically, the dance floor teeming with life. As one song transitioned smoothly into the next, the rhythm was fluid and the tempo steadily escalated.

Aaliyah's DJ skills were nothing short of extraordinary; her seamless transitions, the eclectic, innovative mixes, and the perfectly timed cuts were a testament to her unmatched prowess in the industry. Her unique ability to sing along to a few songs while spinning was a spectacle that set her apart, making her a highly sought-after artist.

She was a master at creating a symphony of sounds that maintained the energy and kept the crowd enthralled. Her talent was not just in her voice but in her skill to shape the entire musical experience. It was no wonder she was a standout in the industry.

Watching her perform, her passion was apparent. It was in the way her eyes lit up, the way her smile widened, the way her body moved, and the way she gave herself over to the music while engaging with us and the crowd below. Her performance was a form of art, and seeing it unfold before me, she was a true performer, the essence of the word embodied.

As the set continued, Aaliyah would often steal a glance as I danced and mingled with others on the stage. Each time, her expression would shift, the corners of her eyes creasing, her dimpled grin returning.

After a while, Aaliyah gestured for me to join her. Hesitant to disturb her flow, I made my way over, her arm wrapping around my lower back as I stood beside her. She smiled and leaned towards me, her lips inches from my ear.

"Havin' fun?"

I nodded enthusiastically, a chuckle escaping. "How are you not tired yet?" I asked.

"I think my body's used to it and I pace myself," she replied, her smile widening. "It's kinda addictive, being up here, giving the crowd something to dance to," she reflected. "You never really get tired of being able to do what you love."

"Yeah, it's like a high, isn't it?"

"Definitely."

As the set neared its end, she transitioned effortlessly into the final song, the crowd roared, their cheers infectious.

"Thank you, London, for making me feel right at home. Y'all are incredible. Thank you so much for coming out tonight," Aaliyah thanked, her voice sincere. "Let's do it one more time and go out with a proper bang."

Aaliyah spun a familiar tune, the opening notes ringing in my ears.

"Is this—?"

Aaliyah grinned, her eyes dancing.

It was "No Scrubs" by TLC, and the crowd went wild, their reactions visceral. Their energy was electric, their collective voices were growing, and their enthusiasm was rising.

As the intro played, Aaliyah handed me a mic. "You wanna join me? Give them a performance they'll never forget?"

"Wait, you want me to sing?"

"Yeah," Aaliyah nodded, her expression expectant.

"I've never sung in public before," I confessed, the nerves rising.

"It's easy. Just pretend like you're singing in the shower," Aaliyah coaxed, her voice encouraging.

"What—no, not gonna happen."

"Just the hook. C'mon," Aaliyah encouraged, her expression earnest. "Unless you're scared."

"Fine," Despite my initial reluctance, I was eventually swayed by Aaliyah's earnestness. "I ain't scared," I announced, accepting the mic with a smile.

Aaliyah grabbed another.

She began with the opening line, "A scrub is a guy who thinks he's fly," her vocals sultry and commanding. I followed with "And is also known as a busta," my voice clear and steady. The audience exploded into a frenzy of cheers and whistles, their enthusiasm providing an adrenaline rush.

We continued our duet, their voices harmonizing beautifully, and the crowd sang along. The ambiance was electric, with the audience's collective voices creating a powerful resonance.

As the song concluded, Aaliyah and I exchanged a look, a silent celebration of the amazing performance we had just delivered. The crowd roared their approval, their cheers echoing throughout the venue.

"Thank you, London!" Aaliyah yelled into the mic, her voice brimming with gratitude. "And let's hear it for our surprise guest!"

The crowd erupted into applause once again, their cheers deafening. I felt a surge of pride amidst the overwhelming waves of applause washing over us. Aaliyah's playful nudges egged me on, and I basked in the moment, feeling energized and elated.

What a night.

✮✮✮

"So you can paint like Picasso and you can sing like Whitney?" Aaliyah listed, her gaze appreciative. "Got quite the talent," she remarked.

Moments after our performance at the Boiler Room, we found ourselves in the comfortable confines of a jazz bar nearby. The VIP lounge offered a sanctuary from the hustle and bustle outside.

Despite being relative strangers, conversation with Aaliyah flowed seamlessly. We traversed an array of topics, from the mundane to the profound. At one point, we were laughing about our shared experience of getting lost in the city, though her story was a bit more harrowing than mine.

"Thanks," I mumbled, my nerves making a sudden resurgence. The mocktail in Aaliyah's hand was half empty; she sipped it with an air of amusement, her grills now placed in its container in her bag. "But compared to you, that was nothin'," I added, trying not to appear too boastful.

"Don't sell yourself short," Aaliyah scolded, her brow furrowed. "You can blow," she praised, her voice earnest.

"You really think so?"

"Hell yeah," she breathed. "With a voice like that, you'd be sellin' out stadiums. Gave me chills."

Our easy exchange continued to wrap us up in this sweet bubble, where time seemed to stand still. But time was on the move. A quick peek at my phone showed the stark digits glaring back at me, each second ticking away in merciless mockery. The end of our evening was approaching with unnerving speed and knocking on our door, ready to bust it open.

"I had a really good time tonight," I sighed as I took a sip of my drink.

"Why did that seem like such a heavy confession?" Aaliyah chuckled.

I scrambled for a response. "Didn't mean it to," I managed, my voice a bashful whisper. "It's just that it's been a while since I've enjoyed myself like this," I added, hoping to explain the weightiness of my confession.

"Me too."

"Really? Seems like you're always having a good time," I challenged.

"What you see on social media is half the story," Aaliyah revealed.

Her words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the gap between perception and reality. The carefree persona she presented to the world was but a façade, a stark contrast to the real Aaliyah who sat before me, honest and human. The gravity of this revelation lingered between us, a silent testament to the depth of our connection.

We dove deeper into the conversation, discussing the pressures and expectations of her career, the constant scrutiny, and the toll it took on her personal life. Aaliyah admitted the lifestyle could be lonely, and the constant travel was exhausting. But in the same breath, she confessed that the music made it all worthwhile, reminding her of why she had chosen this path.

"What happened back at the Boiler Room...are you okay?" Aaliyah's expression shifted, her concern evident.

"I'm fine now," I reassured. "Thanks for steppin' in though. That was really sweet."

"He deserved worse," Aaliyah grimaced. "I'm so sorry that happened."

"It's not your fault, he was just some creep," I dismissed, shaking my head.

The evening wore on, the dimly lit lounge enveloping us in a comfortable silence. My curiosity got the better of me and I found myself asking, "Why'd you invite me out tonight?"

Why would someone like her want to spend time with me?

"Why'd you accept my invitation?" Aaliyah countered, her lips pursed, her expression amused.

"Answer mine first."

"Something about you intrigues me, the way your eyes light up when you speak about the things you love. You're also like a puzzle, and I haven't figured out how all the pieces fit," Aaliyah contemplated. I watched as she placed her empty drink down.

"And your goal is to put the puzzle together?"

"Yup." Aaliyah replied.

"Why though?"

"Why not?"

"Aaliyah..."

We both laughed at the exchange, our voices intermingling as we dissolved into a small fit of banter.

"Okay, okay," Aaliyah surrendered, her hands raised. "Truth is, when I met you at Target that day, it felt like déjà vu. You seemed so familiar, like we had met before," Aaliyah recalled, her expression thoughtful.

She continued. "When we reconnected at the gala, that feeling came back, and I just wanted to learn more about you, to get to know the real you. I couldn't let that opportunity go to waste."

"Sounds familiar."

"How?"

"In a way, I've had the same feelin'," I divulged. My admission was surprising.

"So you admit there's a vibe?" Aaliyah prodded, her expression smug.

"I wouldn't call it a vibe, but yeah, there's somethin'," I replied, a chuckle escaping.

"Then," Aaliyah cleared her throat, her eyes soft, "you wouldn't be opposed to hanging out more, would you?"

"Nope."

Aaliyah beamed, a blinding smile lighting her face, her dimpled grin returning, the happiness radiating.

"Cool," Aaliyah chirped, her voice cheerful. "Because I've got questions to ask," Aaliyah teased, her voice coy.

"Okay, so what's your top three?" I crossed my arms, arching a brow.

"Hmm, we've got time for a lot more than just three." I could tell from the glimmer in her eyes and her playful tone that there was definitely more on her mind. "And I'm gonna need reciprocity," Aaliyah added, her gaze challenging.

"Like what?"

"Well, I'd love for you to ask me any questions too," Aaliyah suggested.

"About anything?" I asked, a smirk forming.

"Anything."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Unpretty" by TLC

The body is a temple created in the image of the divine: God. It is a holy vessel, and when we inhabit it, we do so with the understanding that we are stewards of this divine creation, and all the power and wisdom it possesses.

We honor this vessel. We don't mark it. We don't modify it. We don't alter the body with the assumption that we are free to do so, because this body does not belong to us.

From the time I was small, my mother had always insisted on this belief, that our bodies were sacred, created in the divine image. They were not our own property, but rather, God's holy vessels, and we were entrusted with their care. We were not to mark or alter them in any way. This belief was her personal creed, reiterated like a prayer, a pledge she would uphold until her last breath.

Whenever she voiced these words, they weren't fully directed at me. Instead, she'd be facing the mirror, ensuring her face was flawlessly made-up and her hair impeccably styled for another Sunday service.

In speaking these words, she wasn't merely sharing her belief; she was denying the reality. For she didn't live in her body, rather, she lived for others and the church. The church dictated that to honor her body, she had to deny herself, suppress her desires, and conceal her true self.

She could adorn herself with beautiful clothes, makeup, and hairstyles, but not for her own pleasure. She did them to glorify the church. And my father.

This was the path my mother chose. A life of subjugation. And she instilled this very ideology in my sister and myself.

We were forbidden from tattoos and piercings, except for earrings. We had to remain pure, untouched by sin. Immaculate. Even though I rejected her teachings, a part of me was still intimidated by them.

That's why I kept the tattoo on my right ring finger concealed. Why I never dared to add a piercing or color my hair until I left home. Why even after my college years, I felt I hadn't fully asserted my independence.

I was haunted by the fear that breaking my mother's imposed code would incur her eternal disappointment. That she might curse me or that God would.

Ironically, the very things I'd feared for so long became my source of comfort, love, and empowerment.

I found myself attached to those who defied conventions. Those who expressed their individuality. Those who embraced their authentic selves.

I yearned for that authenticity. I wanted to emulate them.

I wanted to live, not merely exist.

As I stood in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around myself, a torrent of thoughts churned in my mind. My left hand instinctively traced the tattoo on my right ring finger, three tiny yet profound dots.

Each dot represented myself and my two soulmates, each of whom was a pillar of strength in my life. This matching tattoo was our testament, a symbol of our union and unending support for one another.

But in the quiet solitude of my reflection, the three dots held another secret meaning for me.

I was still a work in progress.

As I stared at the tattoo, a gentle knock on the door broke my concentration; the intrusion unwelcome.

"You almost done in there? Kelly's gonna be here soon," Robyn's muffled voice sounded through the door.

"Yeah," I answered, adjusting my towel. "Be out in a second."

I walked into my bedroom, finding Robyn lying on the bed, her attention focused on her phone. "Hey," Robyn greeted, her gaze shifting.

"Hey," I returned, rummaging through my drawers to find suitable clothes for the day. "How was date night last night?"

"It was fun," Robyn smiled, her expression content as she scrolled through Twitter. "Kofi took me out for a nice dinner, and then we went to one of those chill bars downtown."

"That's all y'all did? Nothing else?" I teased, my expression suggestive. I began to put on my outfit, dropping the towel and dressing quickly with my back towards her.

"What? You wanted to know if we fucked? Of course we did," Robyn chuckled.

"No, I meant that was it? Dinner and clubbing? Seemed kinda tame, especially since y'all always do somethin' different for y'all's anniversary," I remarked, jumping to adjusting my jeans.

"To be fair, I did try to drag him to a strip club," Robyn joked. She got off the bed and walked towards my newly installed dance pole.

"And he wasn't down?"

"Yeah," Robyn rolled her eyes, slowly circling around the pole. "Said he'd rather have dinner and chill, than go somewhere with overpriced, watered-down drinks and a bunch of horny ass niggas, but damn. I would have loved to see some ass, watch him get a lap dance or something," she lamented.

Turning around, I shook my head, a chuckle escaping as I held my top in my hand. "He's not as freaky as you. What a shame," I quipped, my tone mocking.

Robyn snickered. "Me? A freak? Bitch please. You got this big ass pole installed, and you're gonna lecture me?" Robyn pointed out, gesturing towards my exposed chest. "Plus, the artsy ones be the biggest closeted freaks."

"It's for dancin', ain't nothing sexual about it," I corrected. "You know I've been takin' classes, don't do me like that."

"Mhmm. It's for dancing, just like the cheesecake I had yesterday was for nutrition," She returned to the bed, pulling out her phone once again.

"Whatever," I dismissed, slipping on my top and sweater and sitting at my vanity mirror. As I unwrapped and fixed my hair, Robyn continued scrolling, the occasional hums and chuckles filling the air. The familiar sound of heavy bass, hip-hop beats and dancehall infused with house music soon emanated from her phone, and as it progressed, I heard her voice and sultry lyrics loud and clear.

"Wait, wait, wait," Robyn perked up from the bed, her attention snapping. "I know this ain't who I think it is. Is this—?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. A smile threatened to surface. I attempted to discreetly hide it by rustling through my makeup bag.

"Bitch! When were you gonna tell us?" Robyn inquired, her eyes widening as we held eye contact through the mirror. "You go to one Boiler Room and suddenly you all famous, dancin' by the booth with Aaliyah. Spill."

"First of all, nobody's famous. Second, Aaliyah invited me, that's it," I clarified.

"Since when did you two become friends, huh? What the hell happened in London, it seems like you barely told us shit," Robyn accused, her expression feigned.

"I got lucky," I lied.

"Uh-huh," she snorted, not convinced.

"She was at the gala, liked my work, and gave me an invite. And then they brought me on stage right before her set," I explained, omitting the Target interaction and the subsequent reunion at the gala. "I don't know why she singled me out both times."

"Really now? So what was it like? Tell me everything," She tossed her phone to the side. "Damn, I knew I should've gone," she grumbled.

"Nothin' much really. There was a good crowd, and the energy was high. Her set was amazin', and she seemed like a real cool person," I offered, the inevitable smirk forming as I finished applying my lipgloss.

I thought back to the post-Boiler Room night and the limited hours spent with Aaliyah, and the easy, seamless conversations about her music, her career, and her aspirations. We talked about her experiences growing up, the early struggles, and the successes. I found myself engrossed, captivated by her stories, and her voice, and her presence. When she said I could ask her anything and vice versa, she truly meant it. It was liberating, to speak openly and freely, about everything and nothing at all.

It was unlike any conversation I'd ever had.

"And?" Robyn interrupted, her brows raised.

"And what?"

She kissed her teeth, her eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Did anything else happen?" Robyn asked. "How come I can't probe you for more questions, but you can?"

"Besides the performance? Nothin' else happened. I thanked her for a great time, gave her two thumbs up, then I went right back to Laura's place."

"You're not tellin' the truth'."

"I am."

"You aren't."

"Robyn, I swear," I sighed.

"I know when you're lyin', and right now, you are," Robyn countered, her gaze firm. "You got all flustered and shit just talkin' about her. C'mon, something happened."

"Who wouldn't get like that talkin' about Aaliyah? She's literally the hottest artist right now," I dismissed, trying my best not to give anything away.

"No, this is different," Robyn asserted, her tone persistent. Her phone began to buzz, an incoming call notification appearing.

"See, look, that's Kelly. Time to leave." I shooed her off the bed and towards the door.

"This ain't over. We're gonna talk about this later," Robyn warned, turning with her finger pointed at me. She pressed the answer button and greeted Kelly, quickly exiting the room to find her shoes.

As she left, a wave of relief washed over me.

The last thing I needed was Robyn playing detective, delving into my ambiguous relationship with Aaliyah. Especially when my emotions were a swirling vortex of discombobulation.

I didn't want to have to explain myself or justify my actions.

I didn't want to think about what had transpired since that night and the lingering emotions.

Or the fact that the calls and texts between us had grown more frequent and more enticing.

Or that an unacknowledged part of me was subtly drawn to this new dynamic.

The bond between Aaliyah and me was evolving, and the pace was startlingly swift. Yet it was harmless, and it was invigorating.

Sure, there was no harm in adding another name to my list of friends. Right?

✮✮✮

"You guys like it? It was either this or the Aquarius constellation."

The three of us spent the afternoon at a tattoo and piercing parlor in Fairfax. It was a two-story building of brick and metal, hinting at its industrial roots.

The interior was a stark contrast to the rugged exterior. Walls were painted in dark hues, adorned with sketches and photos of various tattoos and piercings, a testament to the talent contained within. The atmosphere was a bit cold, with bright, cool lighting, but the seating was comfortable.

The main floor was where the magic happened. Tattoo stations were set up in a semi-open concept, each artist's area marked by their unique style and flair. Behind a frosted glass partition, the piercing station resided, offering a modicum of privacy for those more intimate adornments.

Robyn, a loyal customer, was one of the shop's most beloved. The owner had done several pieces for her, and their relationship was akin to family. Robyn would sometimes bring us along whenever she was looking for a new piece, though she opted for a new piercing this time, and not a tattoo.

"I love it," Robyn gushed, her hand gingerly reaching out to touch the plastic wrap protecting the ink. Kelly had turned to her side towards us to better show the elegant script that graced her rib.

The word 'evergreen' was etched in a flowing, delicate cursive font, small but distinct against her skin. It was fresh, the lines still a bit red, but it was undeniably beautiful.

"That's so pretty, Kels," I praised.

"Yeah, it really is. Great placement too," Robyn agreed.

"I'm glad you guys like it. I was debating between this and somethin' on my forearm, but decided this was a safer option," Kelly revealed.

"Not gonna lie, it would have been dope to see some ink on your arm," Robyn shrugged, her lips pursed.

"I know, but I wasn't tryin' to hear shit from those old, stuffy ass attorneys," Kelly sighed, her expression resigned.

"They still givin' you trouble?" I asked.

"Nah, not too bad. Just some snide, passively aggressive comments every now and then, but that's about it," Kelly clarified as she pulled her top back down. "Guess they still haven't gotten used to seeing someone like me dominating at the firm," Kelly remarked.

The memory of the incident was as fresh as the ink on Kelly's skin. She had recently successfully defended a series of popular rappers in a copyright infringement case that had threatened to derail their careers. When she took over the case, many in the firm doubted her ability to handle it. But she had proved them all wrong, winning the case and earning the rapper's gratitude and the begrudging respect of her colleagues.

Yet, despite her success, she was not immune to the microaggressions that often came her way, subtle reminders of the systemic prejudices that persisted. The surprised reactions whenever she revealed that she was the lead attorney on a case. The way some of her colleagues would talk over her in meetings, as if her voice did not matter.

"Why are you even workin' there if they treat you like that?" Robyn asked.

"Because their clients pay the bills, plus more," Kelly replied.

Robyn kissed her teeth. "Money ain't everything," she chastised, her tone disapproving. "You got a whole trust fund anyway. Why do you have a job? You could just chill and do your own thing."

"Just 'cause I have the money doesn't mean I should 'just chill and do my own thing'," Kelly countered. "I like the career and want to use my degrees. It gives me purpose, and it's a good challenge." Kelly added.

"You ever thought about, hmm, I don't know, joinin' a Black-owned firm?" I suggested.

"Uh, yeah," Kelly revealed in a patronizing tone. "But for now, this is what I gotta put up with, but it's nothin' I can't handle," she added, her smile confident.

"Hey Robyn," the tattoo artist interrupted. "You here for another tat?" The artist had finished sanitizing the equipment, and the station was ready to go.

"Nah, just wanted a piercing today," Robyn replied, walking towards him. "Lani's in today, right? They're the only one I can trust not to fuck up my titties."

"Yeah, upstairs. Let me tell 'em you're comin'," the artist confirmed, grabbing his phone and sending a text.

Kelly and I both stared at Robyn. "You're gettin' your nips pierced?" Kelly asked, the disbelief clear. "I thought it was just gonna be another ear piercing or somethin'."

"When did I say that? Didn't y'all hear me earlier?" Robyn returned, her brow arched.

"I wasn't payin' attention," I shrugged.

The tattoo artist then signaled for Robyn to follow, and the three of us made our way upstairs, Kelly and I trailing behind.

The second floor was an oasis of glittering gems, a gallery of sorts, showcasing an array of body jewelry. From simple studs to intricate dangling pieces, the selection was vast and versatile. It catered to all styles, whether someone was looking for something subtle and delicate or bold and dramatic.

As we approached the piercer's station, the door was already open, and the piercer was waiting for Robyn with an inviting smile.

"'Bout time you came back," Lani greeted. Their hair was pulled up in a tight bun, and their face, neck, and full-sleeve tattoos were on full display—a masterpiece of color and artistry.

"Yeah, I finally found the time today," Robyn returned, a mischievous smile emerging. "These are my girls, by the way, Kelly and Beyoncé," Robyn introduced.

"Nice to meet y'all. Name's Kehlani," they offered, their hand extended.

We exchanged pleasantries, and as Kelly and I sat to the side, Robyn and Kehlani conversed, going over the piercing process, the risks, and the aftercare instructions.

As Robyn started to undress and Kehlani began to sanitize themselves and their station, the echo of thoughts from earlier began to resonate in my mind, taking on a new intensity. When was I going to take that leap of faith? When was I going to explore new options and embrace my desires, my curiosities, and my yearnings?

Observing Robyn, her chest bare and vulnerable, her body relaxed despite the anticipation on the leather chair, I felt a mixed sense of envy and admiration. She was always doing exactly that. Embracing her desires and not allowing anyone or anything to stifle her.

Even Kelly was embracing her desires; her latest tattoo was a testament to her growth and willingness to try new things.

Where did that leave me—the one who was still hesitant and apprehensive, who was still scared?

When would it be my turn?

Robyn's yelp jolted me out of the reverie, a hiss escaping as the needle pierced through her skin.

"Shit," Robyn hissed, her hands clenching the armrests. "Yuh neva tell meh yuh wudda do it before count ah one, two, tree," Robyn admonished, her gaze narrowed.

"If I did, you'd tense up," Kehlani giggled as Robyn continued to curse them out.

An impulsive force, as sudden as her squeal, surged within me. It was as if a dormant part of me had awakened, responding to the call of transformation. This unexpected wave of determination was so potent, that it seemed to reverberate through the room, catching us all off guard.

"Hey, Kehlani, right? Would you mind doin' one more piercing?"

Kehlani stopped their work momentarily and looked at me, a warm smile forming.

"Fo'sho," they nodded. "What were you thinkin'?"

"I'll get the same as her," I gestured towards Robyn.

Robyn's mouth fell open, her expression bewildered yet intrigued. I could feel Kelly's gaze boring into me, her shock mirroring Robyn's—albeit more subdued.

"Word?" Kehlani arched a brow. "A'ight, lemme finish this, and then we can get you situated. You want it on the left or right?" Kehlani inquired, their focus turning back to Robyn.

My adrenaline was pumping. My nerves were ablaze. My heart was racing.

I was about to do something completely out of character. Though this temple was a gift, it was mine to redesign.

It was time to turn this temple into a working canvas.

"Let's do both."

✮✮✮

The first thing I often noticed when Aaliyah would answer the FaceTime call was her smile, and tonight was no different. It was wide and inviting, her dimpled grin lighting up her features, her eyes glowing. She was tucked in bed, the fluffy duvet covering her up to her shoulders, her hair wrapped nicely in a silk scarf.

"Hey, sorry, did I wake you up? It's kinda late," I apologized, my voice soft.

"Nah, you good," Aaliyah reassured, her voice groggy.

I was also curled up in bed, a blanket draped over me. My MacBook was perched on my lap, a few pillows propped behind my head and back for maximum comfort. Aftercare was crucial following my piercings, so I had to be careful with the way I laid.

"You sure? 'Cause if you're tired, I can call tomorrow."

"Seriously, it's okay. You woke me up a little, but it's fine," Aaliyah reiterated, her gaze encouraging. "I love hearin' your voice anyway, so any time is a good time," she added.

"Okay," I surrendered, her words causing heat to rise, a blush threatening.

"So," Aaliyah hummed, her interest apparent. "Whatchu doin'?"

"Checkin' in on you," I replied, a smirk forming. "It's been a few days since we last spoke."

"Someone missed me," Aaliyah teased, her expression smug.

"Ha."

"What, you don't miss me? Not even a lil bit?" Aaliyah pleaded, the mock disappointment clear.

"Well," I started, my lips pursed, the response intentional.

"Ouch," Aaliyah grimaced, feigning hurt. "I thought we were becoming friends, and you out here playin' me," she admonished, her gaze playful.

"Friends, huh? Never had a famous friend before," I shrugged.

"Girl," Aaliyah sighed, her expression amused. "You still on that?"

"It ain't like I know that many celebrities," I justified. "This is all new to me."

"Trust me, once you get past that, celebs ain't that special," Aaliyah remarked, the resignation clear. "We're just regular boring ass people who happen to have fame and a lotta money."

"Even you?"

"Yes, even me," Aaliyah rolled her eyes. "You know, sometimes I wish I was a normal person, livin' a normal ass life, in a normal ass city. Like Charlotte or Mount Vernon or something. Somewhere simple, where nobody knows who the hell I am. But, I don't care about that right now," Aaliyah yawned. "How was your day, hmm? What'd you do?" Aaliyah pressed, her gaze expectant.

"It was chill. Hung out with my girls," I summarized. "Then I started preparin' some coursework and the syllabus for next semester."

"Can I sit in on your next class?" Aaliyah quipped.

"Uhhh, no," I replied playfully. "I don't need my students to get distracted, too busy droolin' or fangirlin'," I cautioned.

"Are you sure it's just your students you're worried about? Miss 'I've-never-had-a famous-friend'." Aaliyah teased.

I rolled my eyes, avoiding the comment altogether. She was definitely enjoying herself, a giggle escaping as she watched my reaction. I could see her adjusting, her blanket dropping slightly, the thin straps of her tank top becoming visible. I'd seen more skin before, from figure drawing courses to even her Halloween costume, but there was something about the way her collarbone peeked out—the smooth, unblemished skin—that caught my attention, holding it hostage.

There was something intimate about this—the way she was in bed, seemingly comfortable with herself, her face bare, the natural look working wonders. Maybe it was the vulnerability—the way she had lowered her guard and allowed me access to this private, sacred version of her. As my eyes roamed, taking in the exposed skin, I noticed a series of lines on her right shoulder and collarbone that appeared to form a sunburst pattern. It was minimalist in its design and execution; the tattoo was simple and clean, yet it was captivating, a striking addition.

"You look like you're thinkin' about somethin'," Aaliyah teased. "Why are you starin' at me like that? Damn, should I put another shirt on?" Aaliyah joked, a smirk forming.

"I'm thinkin' about hangin' up on you," I deflected, my tone coy.

"Please. You would've been done that already," she joked. "Tell me what you're really thinkin' about."

"I noticed your tattoo and thought it was pretty. You got another one?" I inquired, my curiosity rising. Her first tattoo, the small red heart that graced her face, was indeed a real tattoo, though she did mention it was semi-permanent and would eventually fade away within a year. She glanced over to her shoulder, her hand reaching to touch the new ink.

"Ah, yeah. Got this one done a few days ago," she revealed. "I've been meanin' to start gettin' some work done for years, but just never got around to it. Then a couple weeks ago, I was thinkin' about how much time has passed, how much shit has changed."

"And you felt like now was the right moment?"

"Yup," Aaliyah mused, her expression nostalgic. "Feels like I'm in a whole new era right now, so I figured it was only right. That's the beauty of bein' an artist, isn't it? That freedom of self-expression and creativity? That ability to transform yourself, your appearance, your essence, and recreate yourself whenever," Aaliyah remarked.

"Yeah. Definitely."

"I see the inspiration in your work. The way you express yourself...," Aaliyah admired. "I could watch you paint and draw for hours."

"I wish I could do that right now," I revealed.

"You haven't had any motivation lately, have you?" Aaliyah presumed, her expression empathetic.

"Been goin' through an art block, so no, not really. I haven't felt that connection, that spark, that creative flow," I divulged, the admission difficult.

"Is there anything helping the block?" Aaliyah inquired.

"Honestly, not much," I sighed, the frustration rising. "It's weird, because the inspiration used to hit, and would usually do so in the most unexpected ways, at the most random times. And the ideas would come out really easily, but lately, nothin'."

"What's the last piece you worked on? Maybe revisiting that, or revisiting other pieces from the past can help," Aaliyah suggested.

"I got a paintin' startin', but it's hard to continue. It feels like somethin' is missin'," I disclosed.

"Lemme see it." Aaliyah beamed and nodded her head up, her enthusiasm clear.

Grabbing my laptop, I flipped and angled the device, showing the unfinished painting that resided in my room, the whites of the canvas still exposed.

"Woah," Aaliyah exclaimed.

"Yeah. It's been like this for a while," I confirmed.

"You know, maybe instead of tryin' to force any kind of intention or meaning, you should just let it be. Exist. Naturally, the flow will happen, even if that spark of inspiration isn't there," Aaliyah reasoned.

"That's what my old professor would say and I could never understand why," I joked. I moved towards the end of the bed, kneeling on the floor to position the computer, ensuring that I was fully in frame. I laid my head on the side on my folded arms, which rested on the bed, and watched as Aaliyah analyzed the canvas.

"Maybe because it's sound advice," Aaliyah returned.

"I know, but sometimes, that can be hard," I countered.

"When is creating ever easy? It doesn't have to be perfect," Aaliyah remarked. I noticed she paused momentarily, her eyes narrowly focused on the screen, her gaze distant. "Move the camera to the left a lil' bit," Aaliyah requested, her voice soft.

I complied, shifting the computer further left and adjusting the angle.

"A lil' more," she encouraged. "You got a nice room, plants and all, and everything is so organized. Very Zen."

Aaliyah was silent when her point of interest came into focus, her expression contemplative, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Oh wow...I knew I wasn't trippin'. You got a whole pole in your room. Say, how much you chargin' niggas for private dances?"

"You got jokes, huh? I've already told you, it ain't like that," I retorted.

"Lemme see somethin' real quick."

"Absolutely not."

"Aww, why? Give me a lil spin," Aaliyah pouted. "You know my birthday's comin' up soon."

"Well, congratulations; happy early birthday," I returned.

"I guess I'll have to request something different for my birthday present."

"I'll make a portrait of you," I offered.

"Hmm." Aaliyah considered the proposal, her expression thoughtful. "That would be dope," Aaliyah conceded. "But I think I'd rather have that painting. It just seems like it would be a cool piece," she finalized.

"Really?"

"Mhmm," Aaliyah hummed, her voice gentle. "The colors so far are beautiful, and there's so much texture. I'm drawn to the blues, especially. Sometimes, when a piece seems like it has the potential to be great, you should just let it," Aaliyah emphasized.

"What if it ends up bein' crap?"

"Then it's crap," Aaliyah concluded, laughing. "At least you put somethin' out there. That's a start, and you gotta make a ton of crap before you can make one masterpiece. Somethin' is better than nothin'."

"Hm."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Bey. I'll be grateful for anything you create."

We held eye contact for a few moments, the silence settling, before she yawned again.

"I don't wanna keep you up too late, so I'mma let you go," I decided.

"Yeah, I should probably sleep. Gotta get up in a few hours," Aaliyah remarked.

"Let me guess: studio session?"

"It's like I'm so predictable. I've got an interview and photoshoot for a car magazine, too actually. The Grammys comin' up..."

"Busy lady," I teased. "Good luck. Hopefully, it's fun, and not too chaotic. And congrats again on the nominations, I'll be rootin' for you from my couch."

"Thanks," Aaliyah laughed. "A'ight. Goodnight, Peaches."

"Night. You gon' have to stop callin' me that," I cackled.

We shared one final, lingering smile before I ended the call, the screen returning to my wallpaper. Closing the laptop and setting it aside, my body collapsed onto the bed, a soft sigh escaping.

As I lay in bed, sheepishly grinning with my eyes closed and reflecting on our conversation, the intrusive buzz of my phone shattered the tranquility. An unknown number flashed urgently across the screen. I declined the call, relegating it to voicemail's realm.

Moments later, my phone sprung to life again, the same unknown number demanding attention. Then again. And again. Four missed calls from the same persistent unknown caller.

Finally, with a grumble of irritation, I picked up on the fifth attempt. "Hello?"

"Beyoncé?" The voice on the other end was hesitant, almost breakable, with a rawness that spoke of heartache and sorrow.

I froze.

It had been over three years since I last heard that voice. Three long years since our last encounter before she left for college.

I didn't know what to do.

"It's me," she said, breaking the silence that had settled over me. "I know it's midnight and I'm sorry to call so many times. I just...I didn't know who else to turn to."

"What happened?" I asked, my irritation melting into a pool of concern.

She drew a shaky breath on the other end. When she spoke again, her voice wavered with tears shedding.

"I need your help...please."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Who Can I Run To?" By The Jones Girls

I'd always wanted to be a mother.

Not in the sense of bearing my own children, per se. I wasn't sure if I'd be fit to be an actual mother. To this day, the residual effects of the dysfunction and the trauma from childhood were still very much present, and I was still navigating the aftermath.

No, what I envisioned was guiding a young soul to nurture and protect, offer them comfort and support. It was a trait I'd honed in on as a child, watching my sister grow under the watchful eyes of my mother. How attentive she was, how dedicated she was. She, and sometimes my father, would drop everything for her. Whether it was helping her with homework, or coddling her when she had a nightmare, or taking her to an audition or an event, or simply sitting her down to talk about her day, my mother would move mountains for her. She was loved, cherished, and protected because she was the baby.

In contrast, I was met with indifference.

Over time, I'd learned to take solace in what they considered to be my small 'acts of rebellion', moments of defiance that opened up an opportunity for freedom in the future and lessened the blow of disappointment. A poorly made bed, a missed curfew, a 'B' on a paper because I was too tired to do hour-long study binges. 'Small victories' is what Kelly called them.

Our parents pushed us, nurtured our talents, but also relentlessly highlighted our flaws. They compared us, subtly pinning us against each other, fostering a toxic rivalry that ate away at our sisterly bond. As we grew older and our relationship strained, it became increasingly difficult to coexist in a house filled with tension and animosity, with words so sharp that they could cut skin. The resentment had festered and grown until the cracks became irreparable, the damage too great.

Eventually, I'd grown and gone, and our lives had diverged. She stayed in Houston, and I left for New York for a year before heading towards L.A. for school, desperate for distance. We never spoke—no birthday wishes, no holiday greetings. We were strangers.

And now, her desperate voice, her plea, had echoed through my phone.

I'd initially taken some time to digest her words before calling her back, and as the line rang, I couldn't deny the apprehension that simmered beneath the surface.

"You're what?" I sat up immediately. The words slipped from my lips before I could rein them in, as incredulous as they were blunt.

"I'm pregnant," she repeated, her voice trembling over the phone line. It was a whisper, a confession, a single note of vulnerability in the symphony of her life.

I looked around my room, the light and darkness mixing to create cast shadows along the walls as I hadn't had the chance to turn off my lamp. I was supposed to be sleeping and relaxing the week before classes started, but instead, here I was, wide awake, listening to this bombshell.

My fingers drummed the edge of my stuffed whale that sat comfortably on my lap as my mind reeled, her words resonating and the news sinking in. It was satisfying, in a twisted way, to hear her so broken, a ghost of the confident, arrogant woman she once was. Yet, it pained me. It pained me to hear her helpless, to know she was trapped in a mess she didn't know how to navigate. I couldn't revel in her downfall. It just wasn't in my nature.

"Beyoncé?" she repeated. "Are you still there? Please don't hang up again."

"You're pregnant." It wasn't a question, but a statement. A realization that hit me with the force of a thunderbolt. Silence filled the line, followed by a faint sob. "How far along are you?"

"I don't know yet. I just found out today. I haven't called the doctor or nothin'," she sniffled. "They not pickin' up this late."

"Does Daniel know?"

"He's the father."

"That ain't what I asked."

"I can't reach him," she explained. "His phone is off, and he's not answerin' his door or any of his DMs on his accounts. It's like he's disappeared, and I don't know where else to look."

"When's the last time y'all spoke or hung out?"

"Last night. He was visitin' family for the holidays and said that he'd be back today. He was supposed to swing by my place after he landed, and his flight was supposed to land an hour or so ago," she recalled, her voice frantic. "So, when he didn't show up, I got worried. I took the train to his place, but the lights he placed on the front door of his apartment were still off, and it didn't look like anyone was home. So, I texted and called, but nothin'. And that's not like him, Bey. He wouldn't do that."

"Have you talked to his friends? Family? Or any of the guys he works with?"

"Tried all of 'em. None of 'em have heard from him. All of 'em thought he was with me," she relayed.

"Shit," I cursed.

"What do I do, Beyoncé?" The despair dripped from her words. I could hear wind blowing against the receiver, the rustling a clear indication of her outside, the weather being cold.

"First, you need to get inside, outta the cold," I instructed, my voice calm and reassuring.

"I'm near a cafe."

"Go back home and get some rest. If you haven't eaten yet, make somethin' light or grab somethin' before you leave. Then call the doctor's office and set up an appointment first thing tomorrow mornin'."

"Can you fly out here?"

"Tonight? Solange, I don't think I can just do something like this at the last minute. What about Angie? She's closer to you. Have her fly in from Atlanta," I proposed.

"She's busy. It's Aunty Flo's birthday weekend, and she's hostin'," Solange explained. "I can't do this alone. I don't have anyone else."

I glanced at my phone, noting the late hour. 12:27am. I was right. It was late, and a last-minute, cross-country trip would be hell. I still barely had a grip on my finances, as rent was due soon, and more student loan payments were looming. But, the desperation in her voice, the uncharacteristic display, compelled me.

"Hold on," I muttered, muting her.

After a quick scroll on Google Flights, the first airline to pop up was American Airlines, and I tapped to search for flights. The cheapest fare, which was for a 6:00am flight to JFK, was $375, and a layover was required. I didn't have the patience for the delay, nor did Solange seem to have the time to wait.

I scrolled until Delta Airlines popped up, their direct flights cheaper at $278. A departure time of 6:30am would land me in Newark at 2:50pm, with a train ride into Manhattan adding an extra 45 minutes. It wasn't ideal, but it was manageable.

"Solange," I unmuted.

"Yes," her voice quivered.

"Text me your address. I'll book a ticket and text you the details as soon as I can."

"Okay...okay," she replied, the sigh of relief audible.

"Mhmm," the confirmation tersely said. I waited and waited and waited for that one word, show of gratitude, a modicum of appreciation. There was nothing. Only silence. I let the phone drop after ending the call for the second time, my head falling into my hands.

What did I just get myself into?

After a deep inhale and exhale, I grabbed my phone again and called Kelly, her phone ringing a few times before she picked up.

"Bey? Hey, whas'up," she responded. Her voice was more chirpy than usual and a bag of chips crinkled in the background, a clear indication that she gulped down half a can of Yerba Mate with some Ruffles.

"Solange just called me."

"...What?!" Kelly was silent, but I could hear her chair creaking, as if she had just stood up to give me her undivided attention. "Wait, let me take you off speakerphone."

"Kelly, are you seriously at work right now? I thought you had the day off. That's why you came with us to the tattoo shop."

"I was about to finish up some things here before you called. What happened with Solange? What'd she want?" Kelly probed. I heard the door softly shut in the background.

"You remember Daniel, her boyfriend from high school?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but he knocked her up."

"Oh...shit."

"Yeah, shit is right," I concurred, my voice deadpan.

"How does she feel about it? Is she keepin' the baby?" Kelly questioned.

"Ion know. But, she said Daniel hasn't answered her calls or texts."

"Maybe he's scared and if that's the case, then he's a real piece of shit," Kelly reasoned. "How you not gon' man up and take responsibility for your actions?"

"But I don't know if he's too scared to commit to bein' a father. I think somethin' bad probably happened. She seemed kinda shook over the phone," I divulged.

"Shook, huh? How?"

"She called me cryin', Kelly, and askin' for help," I emphasized. "And she wants me to fly out now."

"Fly out to New York? Now? At this hour? Forreal?"

"Mhmm."

"Beyoncé," Kelly laughed. "You are in way over your head. You sure about this?" She wasn't wrong to question my altruism. Kelly had been a witness to our interactions growing up, had seen the disdain and the animosity, the hostility and the passive aggressiveness. She'd been an audience member to the theatrics and the dramatics, the insults and the attacks, the blows to my self-esteem masked as 'constructive criticism' from Solange.

I remembered the tears I shed, the nights I spent questioning myself. Kelly was there through it all, offering a comforting hug, a listening ear, an occasional shoulder to cry on when I spent many nights at her parent's place for sleepovers.

"I know, Kels. I know." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I know it sounds crazy. But I can't just ignore her."

"But Bey, think about it," Kelly implored. "She's never been there for you. She's always looked down on you, made you feel like you were less. And now, when she's in trouble, she suddenly remembers that she has a sister? None of her friends wanna help her? Or does she not have any? I wouldn't even be surprised, honestly."

"Solange was a bitch to me. Ain't no denyin' that. I'll never forget all the shitty things she's done. But, Kelly, this is my blood" I argued, my resolve evident. "And whether we get along or not-"

"You're a better person than me. If Solange called me, she'd get cursed out. Shit, I might even fly out there just to curse her ass out in person," Kelly cut me off. Her chip eating became increasingly aggressive as she munched furiously.

"Kelly-."

"I think I need to remind you that you're human. Yes, you have the right to feel, to hurt, to love, to forgive or whatever. But you also have the right to protect yourself, to set boundaries. Don't lose sight of that, Beyoncé. Don't lose yourself in the process of helping others, especially if they've shitted on you for years."

Being a year older, Kelly was always ahead of me in school, always a step further in life's journey. In many ways, she was my guide, my mentor, my protector. She held my hand through the treacherous path of adolescence, guiding me through the maze of 4th grade to junior year of high school. She was there for my first heartbreak, my first real moment of joy, my first brush with rebellion.

My parents thought she would be a good influence, especially given how well connected her family was. They hoped the friendship would carry me further, propel me to greater heights, give me an advantage, a shortcut, a 'cheat code'. Their ambitions were reflected in the way they treated her, the way they treated our relationship, their favoritism clear. But Kelly never viewed our friendship through the lens of obligation.

She loved me for me naturally, flaws and all, and she was a good influence, just not in the ways my parents anticipated.

She was the one who snuck me out late at night, her convertible cruising the streets of Houston, the top down, and the music blasting.

She was the one who pulled me away when the arguments would spiral, her car parked a few houses down, the engine running, waiting for me to sprint out the backdoor and jump in to have deep, intimate car conversations.

She was the one who nursed me through hangovers, the Advil, water bottles, and Gatorade hidden on my nightstand when my parents were none the wiser.

She was the one who convinced me not to quit figure drawing, staying up with me late at night during our sleepovers to practice, modeling for me in some of the most obscure, hilarious poses imaginable.

She was the one who never gave up, no matter how stubborn and pigheaded I was, no matter how often I pushed her away.

We had a bond that was rooted in kinship and trust, an intimate connection that transcended friendship. We were family. She was the faux sibling who supported me, who saw the best in me, the 'sister' I knew would always have my back. Her advice was sage, her perspective invaluable.

But tonight, I would have to challenge it.

"She's carryin' a child. She's vulnerable. Scared. Nervous. And she has nobody, not a single person, besides me," I rationalized.

"God bless your heart. If this what you wanna do, then I guess so," Kelly surrendered, her exasperation clear. She balled up the empty bag, presumingly throwing it in the waste bin. "Do you want me to drive you to the airport?"

"Actually...I need a bigger favor, if you can. Would it be possible for you to buy the ticket? Just temporarily, until payday," I asked, my voice soft. "I can cover the cost for a hotel."

"Bey, come on, you know you don't have to ask. Of course, I got you. And don't worry about the hotel. I think my dad still has that condo in Greenwich Village. If not, I'll get somethin' booked for you."

"Thank you so much, Kelly. Appreciate you. Seriously. You're an angel."

"I know. I know," Kelly teased. "I'll send you everything once I get to my car."

"I love you, and I owe you," I affirmed.

"Love you, too, and no, you don't," Kelly clarified.

"Yes, I do."

"Beyoncé."

"Kelly."

"Girl, just hurry up and pack," Kelly scolded, her voice amused. "Keep me updated, okay? And let me know if you need anything else."

I assured her that I would, and thanked her a few more times, Kelly brushing off my gratitude. Hanging up, I began packing, the carry-on bag quickly filling with essentials. I told Robyn I'd be gone for a couple of days, and she was understanding, wishing me luck, and hoping that Solange would be alright. As the suitcase closed and clicked, the notification came through, and a glance at the screen revealed the details, the ticket booked, and the itinerary sent, along with a funny gif of Nene Leakes to brighten my mood.

In six hours, I would be on a plane, en route to the city that never sleeps, facing a mess I wasn't sure I was equipped to handle.

✮✮✮

The indicator on the elevator to Solange's floor was frozen on P1. A makeshift sign with misspellings and poor grammar had been taped haphazardly, its yellow hue blending in with the walls.

'OUT OF ODER. PLEASE STAIRS.'

For a brand new apartment building near a campus as prestigious as Columbia, this was an unfortunate oversight.

Solange's residence was relatively high up, leaving me no choice but to follow the wonky directions and lug my thick winter coat up the stairs.

As the number of flights increased, the weariness began to seep in and the bags were forming under my eyes. The flight was rough. Between the turbulence and the restless passenger sitting next to me, sleep had been sparse and near impossible.

By the time the climb ended and I reached her floor slightly heaving over the staircase, my patience was wearing thin.

'Room 422'.

Three sharp knocks.

It was a Saturday, and many student residents were likely running errands or sleeping in. I knew Solange had a roommate, and hoped she'd be a decent enough person to alert them of my arrival.

A few minutes passed and the hallway remained silent. I knocked again, the sound echoing against the walls, the impact vibrating against the wood.

"Coming!" A faint shout was heard, followed by footsteps.

When the door finally swung open, I was met with a yawn and an apologetic smile.

"Baby, I told you-".

The sentence was abruptly cut off, and her eyes widened, the surprise evident.

"You not Isaiah. Sorry."

The young woman was barefaced, her hair pulled into a loose, messy bun. Her silk pajama set was a soft pink, a cozy look that was paired with fuzzy slippers.

"Solange's sister. I texted her an hour ago, lettin' her know I was close. I was hopin' she'd be awake by the time I got here," I explained.

"Oh. Hi. Yeah, she in the bathroom. She's been needin' to pee like crazy lately, always wakin' me up in the middle of the night with her footsteps. I think she tripped on somethin' one time and almost fell," the young woman revealed, her laughter airy.

I caught myself before a gasp dared escape, learning about the potential harm to the unborn baby.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, yeah," the young woman gestured, her arm gesturing.

The young woman rushed forward, gathering some hoodies that resided on the floor in the hallway as she directed me to Solange's bedroom. "I hope I'm not disturbin'," I apologized, surveying the space.

"No, not at all," she replied, tossing the clothes onto the couch and opening the fridge. "I was just chillin' before I needed to head out. It's my turn to buy essentials for the apartment. Do you want anything to drink? We got orange juice, milk, and...uh, looks like some leftover coffee."

"No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though," I responded, my gaze still settling on Solange's bedroom door.

The door was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of the space within. Her bed was centered, her sheets disheveled, the comforter half hanging off the bed. Stepping inside, I closed the door, granting myself some privacy as I waited.

The large window by the bed offered a view of the Hudson River. I could imagine myself spending hours admiring the skyline, watching the boats and the sailboats sail past, the water reflecting the sun. The winter clouds, however, obscured much of the scenery.

Scattered sheets of origami paper covered her desk nearby, half-folded cranes and flowers resting atop textbooks and graphic novels. Her tennis racket leaned in the corner near a small TV, game controllers strewn haphazardly on the carpet. Next to it sat an impressive gaming PC, decked out with RGB lighting and top-of-the-line components, sticky notes with reminders plastered across the monitor.

Her room was a mix of her, unapologetically Houston, proudly Southern, and a worldly curiosity. The walls were lined with study abroad travel photos, photos from back home, a dreamboard of places she planned to visit, maps of fictional worlds, and posters of musicians like UGK and Outkast decorating the space. The closet was still open, a few shirts carelessly thrown inside, while a small olive book spilled out from the bottom.

Curiosity piqued, I knelt down, carefully reaching in to grab the book. Upon closer examination, it wasn't a regular novel, but a journal, and a worn-down one at that. The spine was torn, the binding broken, the cover nearly peeling, the pages fraying. It was clear the journal had been well used and thoroughly loved, its contents valuable.

With my back pressed against the closet door, my eyes scanned the pages, my intrusion a temptation.

'May 16, 2015'

_Mama took me to a fashion show today. She said it was a charity event, but I don't think it was. It was cool. She had us get our nails and hair done, and let me choose the outfit. It was so pretty, and everyone kept askin' me who made the dress. That's when I found out it was her. Mama was so proud. She was walkin' around, smilin', and talkin' to all these fancy people. It felt really good to see her so happy. I know she's been stressin' over some things, and she and Daddy ain't been gettin' along well._

'March 2, 2017'

_Houston Rodeo is borin' as fuck now. Daddy still forced us to go, sayin' it's 'part of the culture'.  Uncle Johnny took us and  I had to go with B and Kelly. I don't know why Kelly likes hanging out with her. Swear on my mama, she's gotta be under some kinda blackmail. Or her folks are. B is so fuckin' lame. She brought a sketch pad and pencils, drawin' the whole time 'cause she's too chicken-shit to hop on any of the rides with us. I saw some cute boys, but B drove 'em away cuz she kept stutterin' and makin' a fool out of herself. Ew. Embarrassin'. I still remember the first time we went as little kids. She was cryin' 'cuz she thought I was gonna get funnel cake on that stupid whale she won at the booth. I shoulda cut flippers off once we got home._

'June 25, 2020'

_It was a bad bitch's b-day yesterday! Finally 18. Mama made red velvet cupcakes, and daddy took me out shopping. It was so fun. Mama didn't want him spoilin' me too much, but she was there, too, pickin' out some clothes for herself and my debutante ball. Ty came over later to pick me up, and we drove to his place instead of the movies like I told them. He got me a cute necklace with my birthstone and some retro games. We smoked and listened to some music. He's so sweet. I swear, the way he looks at me, the way he holds me, the way he touches me, it just-'_

The journal slipped from my fingertips, falling towards the ground as the door swung open, startling me.

"Don't be touchin' my stuff," Solange chastised, her eyes narrowed. She grabbed the journal off the floor and tucked it underneath her pillow.

Her attire was modest, a simple oversized Columbia sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair, once known for its voluminous curls, was now much shorter and styled into a malt shop bob, a shade of warm brown. The natural light streaming from the window highlighted the subtle hues of her tresses. Her face, which had always been pretty, had matured. The button nose and baby fat were gone, replaced with a refined structure that emanated a quiet strength, but would soon return in a few weeks' time. Her eyes, a dark, rich brown, were focused, alert, and the slightest bit weary.

She'd always been one to opt for makeup, but her bare face allowed the faint freckles that dusted her cheeks and nose, and the faint acne scars, to come through. Despite her imperfections, the pregnancy glow exuded.

It rattled me that someone so beautiful could also be so cold, so cruel, and so selfish.

"I don't need you to be mean muggin' me," I defended.

"I'mma need you to stay outta my business then," Solange retorted. She fixed her bed, folding the blankets neatly and adjusting the pillows. Just like Mama taught her. Fold the blanket a certain way, stack the pillows just right. 'Everything has a place, Solange. Make sure everything is nice and neat'.

"Anyway, you asked for my help?" I pointed out.

"Yeah, help. I ain't ask you to be nosein' around," Solange clarified.

"Did you schedule the doctor's appointment like I told you to?"

"Monday at 9 was the best I could do," Solange divulged, flopping onto her bed. She propped herself up, leaning against the wall, and gestured for me to sit on the gaming chair by her desk.

"Any updates on Daniel?"

"He was at the hospital this whole time," Solange revealed, her voice defeated.

"What?! Is he okay?"

"Yeah. Turns out he got robbed outside his apartment building yesterday after he landed," Solange informed.

"Oh my god."

"They took everything he had and took off. He's got no ID, no money, no phone, no nothin'." Solange's body sunk, her shoulders slumping forward, the weight of the news hitting her. "He called me from a landline at the hospital, and I went down to visit him. And oh...when I saw him...when I saw him...I...I...".

Solange's voice faltered, the emotions bubbling, the tears threatening to spill. She wiped them away furiously, biting her lips to stifle a sob.

She was never one to cry and I hated that. I hated how she kept it together, refused to break, refused to show her vulnerability. She was always a tough cookie. As kids, she used to stand up to the bullies at school. They'd taunt her for liking niche shows, for reading manga, for spending lunch periods on the computer with other friends, seeing who could code the fastest. They'd throw paper balls, call her names, and laugh and tease.

I tried to step up for her at times, but it was futile, Solange telling me to back off, claiming she didn't need my protection. Instead, she'd fire back with a quick-witted comeback that occasionally included a fist or two, a defense mechanism that somehow never earned her a visit to the principal's office. Kids left her alone after that, and those who didn't regretted it.

She was unshakeable. But even the strongest were bound to crack, their armor stripped, their emotions laid bare. I had never seen her this way before. In less than 24 hours, I'd witness her cry twice.

I felt the urge to reach out, but she must have read my mind, subtly recoiling away, and averting her gaze.

"His parents are flyin' out here later today. They're gonna stay until he's discharged, which should be a day or two. He's gonna be fine," Solange brushed off, regaining her composure. "Physically, at least."

The room fell silent, the only sound was her roommate's music and the shower being turned on leaking through the door. A 90's R&B playlist, if the melody was any indication.

"How did you tell him?" I finally questioned.

"He doesn't know yet."

"What? Why not?"

"I didn't wanna add more stress. He was already hurt and tired," Solange excused, the reasoning weak. "I didn't wanna overwhelm him."

"You'll have to tell him eventually."

"I will."

She pursed her lips, her fingers drumming against her thigh as she contemplated.

"Solange...are you keepin' the baby?" I asked in a hushed tone.

Her drumming stopped, her gaze shifting towards mine.

"I...I don't know yet. It's not what I planned."

"Everythin' in life rarely is."

"I wasn't expectin' this. I'm still in school. Daniel is, too. Our lives are busy, and we're not married. Mama and Daddy gon' kill me." She chuckled, the irony evident.

"Mama and Daddy ain't here."

"But this ain't what they want."

"Ok, but what do you want, Solange? Forget about them and focus on you. What do you want?"

"I'm tryna figure it out."

"I know, I get it. It's scary," I said softly.

She sighed, a heavy, world-weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of her apprehensions. "I just...I don't wanna make a mistake."

"There are no right or wrong choices here, Solange—just the choice that's right for you."

"But Beyoncé-".

"You're an adult now," I interjected. "I can't make this choice for you. Only you can."

Her eyes returned to the view outside her window.

"I need to think," she murmured. "I need to clear my head."

The afternoon light had finally filled the room, as if to remind us that with each new day comes the promise of something different. A fresh start.

"Let's go for a walk," I suggested, standing up. I crossed the room, grabbed a coat and her boots from the closet, and handed them over. A walk might not solve her problems immediately, but it could offer her a moment of peace and a chance to breathe. And sometimes, that's all we need.

"Where?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere," I urged. "This is New York City. There's always somethin' to do."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Grey Area" by KAYTRANADA

"Did you love him?"

Love. What a strange feeling. It's warm, like basking in the morning sun, but it makes you want to cry. It's like drinking honey—so sweet that you can taste it on your tongue, but there is a bitter aftertaste. Love is painful. Love is lonely. I felt all of that. I didn't know if what I felt was right or necessary, but it was all I knew.

"I did." That was my honest answer.

I could see her eyes flick back and forth between me and her notepad as she listened to me elaborate. She no longer had a calculating look in her eyes but one of sympathy and, understandably, pity. She removed her glasses and set them down on the table.

I paused mid-sentence and swallowed hard, my throat dry and constricted, and shifted in my seat. The couch creaked under me, but it offered no relief from the tension in the room. My therapist sighed and placed her notepad on the side table, leaning forward slightly. Her voice was gentle and soft, almost a whisper.

"Beyoncé, sweetheart...everything you've described to me is textbook abuse."

"But he never put his hands on me," I defended. "He knew better than that. He loved me."

"Just because he never laid a hand on you doesn't make it any less abusive. It's the small things, Beyoncé. Things you don't recognize at first. Leaving you alone for hours on end without contacting you or returning your calls, gaslighting you into thinking you were paranoid when you confronted him, using tit-for-tat to justify his actions. They may not seem like anything, but they build up over time and destroy your self-worth."

My stomach dropped.

"These are not qualities that show he cared. Sure, he may have bought you Gucci or flown you to St. Lucia for the weekend, but what about your actual needs? Did he actively listen to you when you spoke? Make time for you, even if he was busy? Acknowledge your concerns and acknowledge how you feel?"

She paused and waited for me to say something. But my words were stuck, and my tongue was frozen in my mouth.

"Have you heard of love bombing, Beyoncé? It's when someone shows an excessive amount of attention and affection in the beginning stages of a relationship. They are trying to win you over, get you to like them, and fall in love. But after a while, this affection fades, and they don't treat you the same. Love bombing makes a person feel special, loved, wanted. But it is often done with the intention of manipulation."

"What are you tryna say?"

"I just want you to think about what makes a good, healthy relationship. And whether or not what you had qualifies as such."

I would often leave her office feeling lost and confused. Every session always left me with a whirlwind of emotions, and this one was no different. She had a way of challenging me, getting me to think deeper and more critically, to question myself. But I didn't know if I was ready for the answers.

Therapy had been going on for almost two months now, and it took every ounce of my being to not give up on the first day. Sometimes, I would cancel appointments at the last minute or show up five minutes late and ask to leave early. I never wanted to go in the first place.

Therapy was for crazy people. Therapy was a sign of failure. Therapy was for depressed and broken people. And I couldn't possibly be any of those things, according to my parents, because 'that was unnatural'. All I needed was bible scripture from the Old Testament and prayers from the deaconesses in mama's prayer circle, who had no business being in my life, and all would be right with the world.

Robyn kept telling me therapy was the way to go. Kelly would often echo the same sentiments. The stress from dealing with Solange's affairs was the tipping point, leading to my decision to look up therapists in the area that accepted Medi-Cal.

I scrolled through a list of providers on Alma and mistakenly settled for the cheapest option, a woman in her 60's. I figured she would be a decent fit, considering her age as she could carry wisdom and the fact that she was a veteran in her field. But when I walked into her office for our first session, the stale, musty smell of mothballs and bleach hit and clogged my nose, reminding me too much of the church basement during the muggy summer afternoons.

We only made it halfway through our session before I felt like I was suffocating and lied about needing to use the restroom. The next therapist was a man in his mid-20s. I figured he would be the perfect person to talk to because of the things we had in common, as I looked through his bio on his website. But our first meeting was unbelievably uncomfortable and banal. He was too homey and performative, trying way too hard to make me comfortable.

All it took was for him to use the word 'chile' twice and call me 'girlfriend' for me to book my Uber and dispute the charge on my credit card as he continued to ramble on about some episode of Black-ish he watched the night prior.

Robyn had a field day when I told her the story. Kelly was just as amused, though a little more sympathetic, knowing this was something important for me. So, she suggested I search for a therapist closer to her side of town, since she knew the area better.

I continued looking, though I avoided any male therapists, figuring I'd be more comfortable with a woman. By chance, I ran into someone special while waiting to meet with a different counselor. She came into the office that afternoon, sat down cross legged with a plush to support her bottom, and was reading a book in the lobby.

I caught a glimpse of the cover and noticed it was the same Fanon book that Robyn had given me, so I struck up a conversation. The moment she opened her mouth, I was instantly intrigued by how cultured and knowledgeable she was. She told me about her travels to Martinique and Senegal and how she grew up in Harlem with her hippie, artsy parents who taught her the importance of storytelling and community.

Before I knew it, we were talking about all of the ills of society and her love for free verse poetry, and I realized she was exactly who I was looking for. Speaking with her was nourishing, like basking in the warmth of a dear friend. She had a calming, soothing aura, and a gentle, melodic voice: you instinctively paid attention, wanting to hear every single word. Her eyes were welcoming and comforting, the type of brown that put you at ease.

Only when the secretary told Dr. Beharie that she had a phone call did I realize I had been talking to a therapist for half an hour and was practically given a free session. She shook my hand before leaving, and I canceled my appointment with whoever I had booked to schedule one with her.

One session a week eventually became twice a week, and four to five times if you included phone conversations where we'd talk. Just talk. Dr. Beharie told me therapy could only help if I wanted to better myself. Did I want that? I guess that's why I was still showing up.

I sat in the waiting room and glanced at the ticking clock that hovered over the hallway entrance. Her last session had ended ten minutes early, but the receptionist said she would still be another five minutes or so, finishing up some paperwork. I tapped my fingers against the armrests, my eyes darting around the room as I waited. My leg bounced, and I was beginning to regret not taking up smoking weed like Robyn.

"Beyoncé?"

A familiar, comforting voice called my name, and I looked to my left. A warm, open smile greeted me, and she motioned for me to follow her back.

"How are you doing today?"

"I'm okay."

She closed the door behind us softly, and I plopped down on the couch in my usual spot.

The room was a soft symphony of muted colors, walls washed in a gentle cream that never quite seemed to touch the corners, leaving them shrouded in tender shadows. A lone bundle of plants, zinnias and aloe, sat tall in the corner. I often looked at them during sessions, admiring the soft orange petals and jagged green leaves.

Her favorite color had to be orange. Each session, she wore a different shade, whether it was a coral sweater or a soft tangerine scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. It complimented her bra-length hair, which was dyed chestnut blonde with caramel highlights and was always parted to the side.

I always thought the color suited her.

Her desk was always organized, with just a few pens lined up precisely parallel and sticky notes stacked evenly in the center. The surface was spotless, as if it were merely for show rather than actual work. Her sleek black desk chair was pushed in neatly against the edge, without a hint of ever having been sat in. I sometimes wondered if she even used the computer that sat dormant next to her, its dark screen collecting dust.

She would sit across from me in a deep, mossy green leather armchair that seemed to envelop her small frame, notepad in her lap and glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

"I see you've got braids now. Who does your hair? I've been trying to find a new stylist, but the girls out here are charging an arm and a leg. No wash included." She motioned to my fresh ginger braids and flipped to a new page in her notebook.

"I actually did it myself. My mom taught me a lot about hair when I was younger."

"She was a hairdresser?"

"No. Fashion designer. She loved all things beauty, though."

"That's probably where you got your love for drawing. Seeing her design sketches."

She crossed her legs, and I felt her eyes watching me, patiently waiting for me to continue.

"My mom was so creative. She had this eye for detail, and she could make the simplest thing look like art."

"Sounds like you." Dr. Beharie smiled encouragingly and gestured with her pen. "Tell me more about her. What was she like growing up?"

I paused, and I could feel my throat tighten as the words refused to leave. Dr. Beharie noticed the hesitation and set the notepad down.

"Actually, how about we start with something different? We didn't get a chance to finish our conversation from last time. Romantic relationships. You said you've been developing feelings for someone lately?"

"Yes."

My mind wandered toward him. Blue eyes, curly hair. His smile, his voice. But my mind also wandered to her. Black hair, warm eyes. Her smile, her voice. Her touch. It'd been so long since we'd seen each other in person.

"They seem to make you happy, judging by your smile. Am I right?"

"Yes, ma'am. They do."

"But something is holding you back from pursuing them."

"Not something."

My mouth went dry, and I licked my lips nervously. Dr. Beharie could sense the change and leaned forward slightly.

"Beyoncé-"

"Is it...wrong to want both?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like..."

I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably, tugging at my fingernails.

"Is it bad that I want two people at the same time?"

"So it's not just him anymore?"

Her tone was gentle and curious. She never judged or prodded, simply asking questions and guiding me towards the right answers.

"It was. But then...her. I don't know. Things have been feelin' different with her."

"Her...interesting. Have you ever dated women before?"

"N-no. Never." I answered too quickly, my voice rising in pitch slightly. Dr. Beharie caught it and raised her eyebrow. "No, no, my bad. I don't mean it like that. It's not like I have anything against that, or that it's gross, or, weird, or-or somethin'. Because it's not. It's just that, in my family, stuff like that is off limits."

"I didn't think you had anything against it. For the short time we've known each other, you seem to be an open-minded person. But it's obvious you grew up in an extremely religious household, and you were forced to conform to certain standards and rules."

"But I just wanna clarify that I ain't gay. At all."

"Beyoncé." Dr. Beharie paused and set the notepad down. As if on cue, she removed her glasses after. "I'm not here to tell you what you are. Or aren't. This is your journey. I'm here to help you navigate the path you want to take and answer the questions you have. But we can't move forward if we're not being completely honest with ourselves."

My eyes focused on the wooden floor, covered with a patchwork, floral rug, and I idly plucked at a stray fiber.

"Your fingers...I've noticed with each session you seem to play with your hands more."

She nodded and reached for her notepad.

"Okay. Let's try a grounding exercise, shall we? Tell me five things you can see."

I looked around the room, taking a deep breath.

"Um. The plant. Your chair. The rug. The bookshelf. The computer."

"Four things you can touch."

"The couch. My, uh, pants, I guess." She encouraged me to continue. "My jacket. This...the stress ball."

"Three things you can hear."

"Your scribblin' as you write on the notepad. Your voice. My shoe tappin' the floor." I stopped immediately.

"Two things you can smell."

"Your perfume."

She cocked her eyebrow and looked up from the notepad.

"It's pretty strong, isn't it? Sorry. My daughter bought it for me, and I ran out of my usual scent. I'll tone it down next time."

"No, no. It smells nice. It's...almost citrus-y."

Dr. Beharie chuckled lightly, and her cheeks flushed. She wrote something down quickly and straightened her posture.

"And I can smell the coffee on the side table."

"And one thing you can taste."

"The mint gum I had earlier."

Dr. Beharie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and lifted her leg, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. She hummed in acknowledgement and continued writing, tapping the tip of her pen against the notepad on occasion. She then stopped abruptly and set the notepad down and took a sip of her coffee before clearing her throat.

"Feel better?"

"Mhm."

"Good. Let's continue."

✮✮✮

Paul

Hey, Beyoncé! How are you? I just got back from my trip earlier this week and wanted to know if you were free this weekend?

Beyoncé

im good, thnx. hope you had fun w the guys :) this weekend is full unfortunately. can we meet up next week?

I set the phone back down, the screen facing the countertop. Robyn raised her brows, the corners of her lips curled upwards.

"Who was that?"

"Just Paul." I mumbled the response, my gaze fixed on my nails as I picked at them.

We shared an impromptu Thursday night dinner to celebrate her promotion to associate director of inclusive product. Robyn worked at Pinterest, job-hopping from company to company every six months. It was a game she liked to play, testing out different positions and bosses, and seeing how desperate companies were to keep her by offering competitive salaries and perks.

This was her longest position at any company, and her highest-paying role yet. Robyn had invited Kelly out, but her meeting with a new client was holding her back for some time.

She ordered shots of tequila and an assortment of appetizers, which were now laid out between us. A half-eaten order of cannellini dip and parmigiano pita chips sat on the edge, the dip pooling into itself. Robyn licked the salt off the rim of her shot glass and knocked the drink back.

"Oooh." She cooed, sucking on a lime wedge. "What does Oluwamark want?"

"Robyn. Stop callin' him that."

"You've been talking to him a lot lately."

Robyn grabbed another shot and offered it to me, but I shook my head. She shrugged and took it for herself.

"He asked if I was free to hang out. But I told him I was busy."

"Oh, are you? Last time I checked, you had no plans. You should go out with your lil' boyfriend for Valentine's Day. It's this weekend."

I scooped a spoonful of dip with a pita chip and shoved it into her mouth. "Shut up. We're just friends."

She chewed slowly and swallowed, a smirk forming on her lips. "Friends that go out on dates."

"We went out for coffee."

"Three times. And brunch. And karaoke. And a Janet concert."

"One of his clients hooked us up with tickets."

Robyn rolled her eyes and snatched a chip, dipping it into the remaining dip.

"You said he put his arm around your back."

"I started cryin' while she sang 'Again' and he probably wanted to comfort me. Anyone would have. You cried at the last tour."

"Damn right, I did. Them vocals were impeccable. And it didn't seem like you minded him doing that. Didn't he take you out to eat beforehand?"

"Because I wasn't 'bout to pay $20 for no hot dog. Plus, he offered, and I didn't wanna be rude."

"Rightttt."

My phone vibrated again, and Robyn lunged for it before I could stop her.

"Bitch, gimme my-."

Robyn's light giggles echoed through the confines of the booth, a stark contrast to my growing irritation. With a dismissive flick, she unlocked my phone, hovering it inches from my face to trigger the facial recognition. As she scanned the incoming notification, her amusement swiftly morphed into a puzzled frown. Her eyes darted between the screen's glow and my expectant gaze, her expression a tangle of disbelief and confusion. I rolled my eyes and smiled. "What? Why are you lookin' like that?"

She handed the phone back to me softly and clasped her hands together with her elbows on the table, slightly tilting her head to the side. When the name came into view, I spit out my drink, coughing loudly. An old couple turned around from their table and gave me a disapproving glance. Robyn snickered quietly, handing me a napkin and reached over to pat my back.

"Shit. I'm fine." I coughed a few more times and wiped the corners of my mouth, picking my phone back up and staring at the message.

Aaliyah

hey peaches! thanks for the painting, i told u i'd love it ;) its been a minute, im free this weekend if u wanna grab lunch and chill? lmk. 😚

"'Nothing happened.'" She popped a jalapeño popper into her mouth, chewing dramatically. "Remember that? 'Cause I do."

"Okay, fine. Fuck." I scrolled through the messages, reminiscing about our text thread. She had a knack for kick-starting our days with a 'good morning' message. Throughout the day, a stream of giggles would bubble up from the funny TikToks and tweets she'd send my way, or we'd trade updates on our days. Our conversations meandered, touching on this and that, yet they never dove back into the depths of our first exchange while overseas. I thought about Dr. Beharie's words and swallowed hard.

"What was the painting she mentioned?"

"I had this piece I was 'bout to scrape, but she wanted me to finish it. So, I did and sent it to her."

"When was that?"

"Like last month."

Robyn raised her brow, an amused grin creeping up the side of her cheek.

"You gave her your number, and she's texted you every single day since y'all met at Boiler Room."

"Well...actually, remember that day I went to Target?"

"You go to Target every day. How would I remember one specific time you went there?"

"The day Kelly came over for the stream, it was rainin' and shit; we made that cobbler..."

A look of realization flashed across Robyn's face once she connected the dots.

"Wuhloss! I fuckin knew it! For the longest time, I was tryna figure out why she dash out $5000 worth a gift dem on de live. So, now she's payin' our rent too?!"

"Bitch, hush!" My eyes widened, and I looked around the restaurant frantically. Robyn laughed and leaned back, her arms spread across the backrest as she mouthed the word 'wow'.

"Now, you're keeping secrets from Kelly and me?"

"That's 'cause you nosey as hell."

"We're one and the same. So, what's the deal with her?"

"There's no 'deal'."

"Is it because she's taken now? I seen some Tweets about her and this girl she was spotted with."

"Huh? She told me she wasn't seein' anyone."

My hastiness slipped out, and Robyn was taken aback, cocking her eyebrow. "Well, the internet says differently. Here, lemme try to find her Insta. Man, I wish Kelly was here, bet she'd get a kick outta this."

She whipped out her phone, and a shrill ringtone cut through the chatter, and both our heads snapped to the phone. Kelly's contact picture stared back—a photo of her in an oversized neon yellow hoodie, eyes squinted shut mid-laugh. "Speaking of which."

"Y'all." Kelly's hoarse voice crackled through the receiver, a loud rustling noise following.

"Damn, what happened with you tonight? Sounds like shit went left."

"Girl, don't even get me started. That's why I'm callin'. I need drinks and an excuse to leave. Now."

"Well, we—and when I say we, I mean just me—are already 5 shots and a few apps deep. You better hurry before Bey runs out the door."

"Why she runnin'?"

I threatened to throw a garlic knot at Robyn, and she ducked, shielding herself as Kelly giggled.

"I'll explain once you get your ass down here."

"Where is here again?"

"The Doughroom. On Overland. We got the corner booth."

"Alright, I'll catch an Uber and be there in 20."

Robyn gave Kelly a full rundown of the situation by the time she arrived, and she was hanging on the edge of her seat.

"Hold on, so, you've been talkin' to her this entire time? Y'all really gossip like little church heifers when I'm not around. Why was I the last to know everythin'?"

"It's not my fault, Kels. Beyoncé's been hidin' things."

"You was gon' find out eventually," I rolled my eyes and waved the waiter over, ordering more food and a bottle of wine for Kelly. At this rate, we would have the server's salary as our bill by the end of the night. "Y'all both-"

"We know. So, who's she with?" Kelly's nose crinkled as she nudged the lemon slice off the rim of her glass of water with her straw. It plopped unceremoniously onto one of the plates. "You find her page yet?"

"That's what I'm doin' right now. Hold up...lemme get..." Robyn's brows knit together, and her jaw dropped.

Kelly peered over Robyn's shoulder. "I know her. We went to school together in Atlanta before I moved."

"Wait, seriously?" Robyn's eyes grew wide, and she slid the phone across the table to me.

"Yeah, her name's Raven. But everybody called her Ray. Never really knew what happened to her until we ran into each other at Howard in undergrad. She was there for Homecoming."

Raven Tracy. 26. ATL->NY->LA. @soooraven

My chest tightened as I swiped through the photos, scanning the various images. Raven was an attractive woman; tall, thick thighs and thin waist. Long, silky, pin-straight black hair. Plump, pillowy lips and breasts, and almond-shaped eyes. Every part of her was perfectly in place. The most recent post was a carousel of photos and videos tagged in Bali, appearing to have been taken with a professional camera and enhanced with a vintage filter. Both were clad in matching surfing gear, positioned on a surfboard amidst the ocean waves—Raven sat behind Aaliyah, her arms wrapped protectively around her.

As I scrolled, the carousel revealed group shots from various day parties and nightlife events, with Aaliyah hanging out with Raven and a few other girls, likely friends. However, amidst this stream of happy images, one particular photo made my heart skip a beat.

They were at a lounge, seated on a loveseat, her long legs draped over Aaliyah's lap. Raven's head was nestled in the crook of her neck, her eyes shut softly. Aaliyah seemed to be excitedly engaging in conversation with someone in the background, though her hand was placed gently on Raven's bare inner thigh. So dangerously close to the apex, teasing, almost.

I could feel my stomach twist, and a lump formed in the back of my throat while reading the caption:

'birthday weekend with the homies + more ❤'

I set the phone down, and Robyn snatched it. Both of them stared at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something, anything.

"What? I mean she's a lil regula."

"Regu-" Robyn's mouth fell open and she scoffed, and Kelly stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. "Bey, you gotta be kiddin'."

"What?! I'm not hatin'. She's cute."

Robyn scrolled through the phone, reading the captions and zooming in on certain photos. "You see what's missin' from all these posts of them together, though? They not kissin'."

"Aaliyah probably doesn't like PDA," Kelly chimed.

"Or maybe, just maybe, they're just friends," I shot back, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Okay, so even if they weren't fuckin', it's obvious there's somethin' there."

"She's just naturally affectionate and alluring, Robyn. Don't read into it."

"Have y'all talked about her?" Kelly interrupted. "Like, has she brought her up at all?"

"Not explicitly, no. Just said she wasn't datin' anybody."

Outside of the videos and memes she would send my way, our regular texts had been like shooting stars—infrequent but bright—over the past few weeks. There were times when I'd stare at the phone, anxiously awaiting a response, only for the conversation to die down moments later. Even our FaceTimes became rare gems, sparkling for an hour at most.

Though I had chalked it up to our schedules being busy, the encounter at Target lingered, scratching an itch in the back of my mind. The orchids, chocolate, and wine in her basket. Her widening smile when I acknowledged the sweet gesture. The simple fact that it was all for 'someone special'.

She told me to ask her about anything. Everything. Did I slip up somewhere? Ask the right questions? Miss something? Maybe she did mention her, and subconsciously, I had chosen to remain ignorant, not wanting to ruin the delicate balance we had.

I glanced down at my phone, and the screen lit up. Another message.

Paul

🫡 Sounds good, Bey. LMK what day next week. Hope you're doing okay.

I looked back up, and Robyn and Kelly were engaged in another conversation, laughing and giggling, lost in their own world. I cracked a smile and watched Kelly dramatically re-enact one of the moments in her meeting, Robyn's laughter echoing off the walls. Seeing their easy camaraderie stirred something in me.

Maybe it was the single glass of lemon drop martini finally getting to me or the fact that I was tired of suppressing certain feelings. Watching Robyn and Kelly joke so effortlessly made me realize how much I wanted that kind of connection in my own non-platonic relationships. I was at a point where I needed definitive answers to quell the uncertainty that had me guessing and clinging to futile hopes.

The possibilities still lingered on the horizon, maybe for another day.

But for now, my gut led me to believe this was the right thing to do.

Beyoncé

hey! actually why don't we do something this sunday? 🤔

"Wait a damn minute...Beyoncé, who the fuck is Peaches?"

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Velvet Blue" by Ray Lozano

bonus track:  "Virgo's Groove" by Beyoncé

(a/n: very long chapter)

(This chapter contains explicit content. Reader discretion advised.)

The freeway was a parking lot, backed up for miles on either side of the 405. Rush hour never ended in L.A., yet the bumper to bumper traffic on a Sunday afternoon was a new level of gridlock, even for Southern California. A minor fender bender a few miles back and road construction at just the right point had effectively snarled traffic for as far as the eye could see.

"Maybe you can take surface streets," I said as I looked at my phone again. Waze, Google, Maps. None of them saw a reasonable path to our destination. "You can exit on Sawtelle just up there, make a right, then take Venice to hit the 10. It's longer, but it'll get us there faster than this."

Paul sighed and gripped the steering wheel, drumming his fingers against the leather. He had been unusually quiet since we met up, barely saying two words throughout the 30-minute standstill.

"Is everythin' okay?"

"Yes. Sorry, Bey. Just a bit stressed."

"Work?"

"It's always work." Paul softly chuckled and shook his head, signaling before glancing in the side mirror to switch lanes. "Always feels like everyone wants a piece of me. Bigger projects, more responsibilities. More responsibility means more pressure. And the cycle never ends. They expect more out of me, so much so that it's hard not to disappoint, but I need some free time for myself and to spend time with others. I practically had to beg to go to Brazil with my guys."

"Would you think about leavin'?"

Paul hesitated and released a slow, steady breath. "I have, especially after this last project; it's tempting, honestly. I just need a break so I can focus on fleshing out the studio."

"What's stoppin' you?"

He glanced over and smiled, though his eyes didn't match the mirth, clouded by an unseen doubt.

"I don't know. Scared, maybe? Like what if I make the wrong choice? To give up a stable job for the dream. And fail."

"Paul, don't say that. You're amazin' at what you do and I can't see you failing on your first try. I mean, Drake is a loyal customer, and I seen some of your work in Pharrell's new video. You're bringin' in a huge commission for each piece. That's just scratchin' the surface."

He remained quiet and focused his attention back on the road.

Paul had a gift for ceramic art that he indulged in as a personal passion outside of his corporate gig. His Instagram was no longer private; he took the time to clean his feed and open it up again to the general public. And it didn't take long for the pieces to become an even hotter commodity, especially after Drake posted a photo of Paul's sculptures in his mansion on his own Instagram.

We drove in silence; the dull rumble of cars and the soft R&B playing through the speakers filled the gap. Paul exited the freeway and merged onto Sawtelle, weaving his way through the narrow side street.

"Do you want me to put on another playlist or sum?"

"No, this is good. You've got great taste, Bey."

"Thanks, I listen to a lotta music. Any kinda music, really. Well, except country. I can't stand country."

Paul laughed and nodded. "I would've thought the complete opposite, considering where you're from."

"It was never my thing. I grew up listenin' to a lotta Southern hip hop, though. DJ Screw, Lil' Keke, UGK, Big Moe. That's all I ever listened to until middle school."

"Ah, I've heard some of their songs before. Especially UGK."

I shifted to the side in my seat, a reaction that was as involuntary as it was telling. His casual acknowledgment of underground artists, names I had grown up with and held as regional treasures, seemed as out of place as a snowstorm in July. The 'Houston sound' had somehow crossed past the Canadian border and landed on his doorstep, and I wondered how many other surprising interests and hobbies he had welcomed in before.

The look on my face must have been something, because Paul chuckled once he glanced my way. "My older brother went to Rice. He'd bring a lot of knowledge and stuff home with him and we'd listen to the music in his room. Our parents hated it, but he and I would sit in there and talk about what album was the best or anything random for hours. He kind of shaped my music taste, honestly. Made sure we always had an eclectic mix, from house to rap to jazz."

Paul slowed down as we approached a red light, and his voice softened as the memories flooded through.

"I still listen to the bootleg CD mixes he made me from time to time. Sometimes I'll be going about my day and hear a song, and I'll instantly go back to sitting on the floor of his bedroom, playing NBA Live or Need for Speed on his PS2. I would listen to him tell me all the crazy things he got up to when he was away at university. Hearing those songs...brings back a lot of good memories. He's the one person I could truly be myself with. Aside from you. I'd think you two would get along well."

"I'd love to meet him sometime. Where's he livin' now?"

"Back in Toronto. He's got a family, and a few kids. We try to visit each other a few times a year."

"So, you're close, then?"

"As close as we could be, considering the distance. But he's usually around for the big moments, and that's what matters most."

Paul merged onto Venice, and the bustling boulevard came into view. The sun was shining, a welcome change from the overcast skies that blanketed the city. Light rain and heavy winds had been in abundance earlier in the week, the latest bout catching everyone off guard.

"Ohhh. Well, you should give me a playlist. I'd love to hear what else y'all listened to, and we can listen together sometime."

"Sure." Paul smiled and nodded.

"If he's listenin' to some chopped n' screwed, then I gotta know what he's like."

"I'd say he's a lot like me. But more outspoken. Funny, and a smartass. Always had a quick comeback and knew how to piss people off when they couldn't get a reaction out of him. But also, really caring and always there if you needed him. He's the one who pushed me to go after my dreams and leave the city."

"Sounds like he gave you some good advice."

"He did. I just hope I'm making him proud."

"Paul, I know for a fact he's proud of you. Trust me."

I reached out and placed a hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. Paul placed his hand on top of mine, holding it firmly as his thumb stroked against my skin, sending a tingling sensation throughout. His grip was stronger and firmer than hers, yet his touch was somehow just as gentle and delicate.

Paul hummed softly, and the music continued to fade into the background. We drove in comfortable silence, passing boutiques and restaurants, which soon turned into miles of suburbia, industrial warehouses, and storage facilities. I caught a glimpse of Disneyland during the car ride, indicating we were getting closer to our destination.

"I think I underestimated how far of a drive this would be."

"Yeah, L.A. is huge, but according to this address you gave me, where we're headed is actually in Orange County. San Juan Capistrano. Is this your first time going down here?" I asked.

"Yes. I've never really been south of LAX since I moved here. It's a bit of a surprise for us both, so..."

"Oh, okay."

As I leaned back in the seat, the suburban landscape gradually morphed into an idyllic canvas of undulating hills peppered with verdant palm trees and untamed shrubbery. My window was rolled down, and the breeze wafted through the car, bringing with it the subtle scent of Pacific sea salt and blooming wildflowers as it whispered through the foliage.

Paul navigated the car with ease, signaling before taking a gentle right off the main highway. The tract house suburban backdrop receded, giving way to the tranquil embrace of a tree-lined drive and rustic charm of the coastal town.

With each turn, our anticipation grew, and after a short journey cradled by greenery, we approached the estate's grand entrance. The driveway was heralded by an imposing metal gate that stood guard. Paul rolled down his window to press down on the keypad as he looked at his phone for the passcode; the gates responded, parting gracefully to welcome us in.

The estate unfolded before us like a regal tapestry at the end of a secluded cul-de-sac. Perched majestically atop a rolling hill, the house commanded an awe-inspiring view of the surrounding verdurous mountains, standing as a testament to the beauty of the region's coastal topography. The driveway, paved with sun-kissed cobblestones, snaked its way up the incline, flanked by an orchestra of native foliage that swayed to the rhythm of the gentle oceanic gusts.

We parked alongside a sleek black Escalade and a pristine white Tesla, and took our time getting out of the car. We were greeted by an array of Mediterranean cypress trees, their slender forms reaching skyward like verdant flames. The estate's white-washed stucco exterior, kissed by the golden hues of the California sun, provided a stark yet inviting contrast against the lush greenery. Bougainvillea, in vibrant bursts of fuchsia and purple, cascaded down stone walls, and terracotta roof tiles glowed warmly above us.

The air was fragrant, with the nearby ocean's briny tang and the sweet perfume of citrus trees dotting the landscape. A cobblestone path invited us towards the entrance, weaving through an immaculate garden where lavender and rosemary thrived alongside blooming roses. The sound of a distant fountain serenaded our approach, its crystal waters dancing merrily in a mosaic-tiled basin.

"Whoa. This is...wow." I turned to Paul, his expression mirroring my own wonder.

I took out my film camera and snapped a few photos, wanting to capture the estate's natural splendor and charm. The shutter's soft click blended with the melody of the birdsong and the wind whispering through the nearby trees.

"You should take a picture of all three of us in front of the house."

A man emerged from the side yard, the gravel crunching under his steps, and strode toward us with a slight limp, yet still maintained an easy confidence. He was dressed in dark denim jeans paired with a black cotton tee that slightly draped off his frame. His hair was cut very low, almost a shadow on his scalp, and his face was clean-shaven, revealing a strong jawline that flexed as he smiled.

"Hey, guys. Glad y'all could make it. Oh shit, whose Beamer is this? Hold up, is that the M4 coupe?!"

He walked over and slowly bent down, looking the car up and down. He whistled, tracing his fingers along the body's contours.

"Man, this is gorgeous. Looks brand new."

"It is," Paul chuckled and walked over, pulling our host up by his hand. "Brian, this is Beyoncé." Paul gestured towards me, and Brian smiled, extending his hand.

"Nice to finally meet you, Beyoncé. Beautiful name. Love the accent too."

"Thank you. Nice to meet you too, Brian," I replied, taking his hand. His grip was firm, yet there was a gentleness to it that matched the smooth timbre of his voice. As we released our handshake, I allowed myself a moment to really look at him.

Oddly enough, the resemblance to Paul was uncanny—the dimples that appeared on Brian's cheeks were deeper set than Paul's, yet they bore the same placement. The curve of his nose had the same arch, though on him, it seemed more pronounced, as if time had etched away any youthful softness. And then there were the light freckles, a constellation of tiny specks that dusted over his nose and under his eyes, less pronounced than one might expect, but there nonetheless. Paul didn't have any.

Nor did they share the exact same accent. The subtle drawl threw me for a loop. Though his diction was crisp and articulate, his voice held the slightest hint of a lilt. Not enough to be considered a full Southern accent, but more like a faint memory.

Brian's frame was a quieter echo of Paul's—the same height and shape, but where Paul's silhouette spoke of strength and mass, Brian's told a different story. His body carried a leanness that wasn't just the absence of muscle, but the subtle testament of a body conserving its resources. Of energy directed elsewhere.

Brian and Paul dapped and embraced, their hands clasping each other's shoulders. It was all too easy to draw a line between the two, to see how one could be the mirror of the other, aged by years and circumstance, a reflection of who Paul could look like at a certain point in the future.

Yet as I stood there, a part of me hesitated to jump to conclusions. Not every set of blue eyes and blond hair had to be related, and it was entirely possible that they were both simply blessed with the same genetic good fortune.

"Been a while. How are you doing, man?" Brian asked.

"Good. Yeah, it has. Sorry for not keeping in touch more."

"No worries. I know you've been busy, Mr. Hollywood. Come on in, let's catch up."

He unlocked the door and led us inside. I was immensely thunderstruck by the grandeur that unfolded before us as I took in the interior. The space was reminiscent of a villa in Spain or Italy with dark hardwood floors and a vaulted ceiling with a chandelier hanging overhead.

Light streamed in generously through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the area in natural radiance. The living room, dining room, and kitchen seamlessly flowed into one another, decorated in the same Mediterranean theme as the exterior, with splashes of muted blues, ivories, and terra cottas. A spiral staircase sat directly across from us, and we walked past, making our way into the kitchen.

The granite counters were lined with a stainless-steel double oven, gas range, and built-in wine cooler. White cabinets accented the modern, yet rustic design, and the kitchen overlooked the saltwater pool, accompanying jacuzzi, and sprawling nature, with an ocean and mountain view that stretched for miles.

"What do you think, Beyoncé?"

"This is crazy." I walked around the counter and admired the appliances. My hands skimmed over the surface, and the granite's coolness seeped into my fingertips.

"I've got an entire chef's kitchen here. 6 burner gas range, two ovens, warming drawers, and a full-size subzero fridge. There's a butler's pantry and walk-in pantry too, and the dishwasher is built-in. So, plenty of room for storage. The island seats 6, and it's made with 100 percent ground natural quartz too, not that fake shit."

Brian pointed out the details, the subtle features and nuances that I wouldn't have picked up on.

"There's an open concept for the kitchen, dining, and living rooms. Plenty of space for entertaining and even more space outside by the stable."

"Stable? As in horses?" I asked, excitedly.

"Oh, yes. Paul didn't tell you we'd be riding?" Brian raised his eyebrow and smirked.

"He told me to wear somethin' very comfortable, so I was assumin' it was a hike."

I was at a loss for words, unable to fathom the level of detail and effort Paul put into planning this outing.

"I hope it's okay. If not, we can do something else." Paul looked worried, his brows pinching together.

"No, no, no. Are you kiddin' me? It's perfect." I smiled and shook my head, still processing the information.

Paul gave a shy smile, and Brian chuckled and nodded.

"I've got a few horses here. 2 quarter horses, a Tennessee walking horse, an Arabian, and a draft. We can take them out for a ride on the trail by the creek. That way you'll get a chance to experience Southern California without the traffic, pollution, and crowds."

We continued walking through the house and finished the tour outside, touring the stable and seeing the horses freely roam around the massive backyard. They were a gorgeous set of breeds, their coats glistening, reflecting the sun.

I took more photos, framing shots through the lens, capturing their majestic forms and the surrounding scenery.

"We can saddle them up and head out after lunch. Are you two hungry? I've got some food prepared and ready to cook."

"Yeah, I could eat. What about you, Bey?" Paul asked.

"Starvin'. And thank you so much for havin' us over."

"No problem. I love hosting."

Brian smiled, and the three of us made our way back to the house and congregated in the kitchen.

He instructed Paul on the task at hand, and the two of them worked seamlessly, moving around each other and chatting effortlessly, discussing the latest project Paul had worked on.

"So, Beyoncé. You're not from California, are you?"

"Naw. I went to school here, moved away, then moved back here about two and a half years ago."

"And what do you do?"

Brian opened the fridge and pulled coconut milk and two whole marinated chickens placed in a glass baking dish with saran wrap covering the top. Paul placed a Dutch oven pot on the stove and began preheating the oven. "I work at Santa Monica College. I was a part-time art professor, but I'm finally full-time now."

"Wow, you seem so young. That's impressive." Brian added a splash of olive oil into the bottom of the pot before placing the birds in, breast side up. "Paul said you're an artist, too. I'm curious why you'd choose teaching over being a full-time creative."

"I don't see it as a choice. Art is a passion, but teachin' is a vocation. L.A. is an expensive city to live in, and I can't really survive solely off of the income from my art." I shrugged and watched him chop fresh herbs and place them in the pan alongside the chicken. "I've tried freelancin' for the past year and it's been hard. No consistent clients and some weren't even payin' up on time. And I've tried to get my paintings in galleries too, but no luck so far."

"It's not easy for creatives to make a living, eh? Especially artists. But from what Paul has shown me, you got drive and a vision. I think you and Paul should collaborate. Showcase your work together. I'd love to see that in the future."

I chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, that'd be somethin'. I don't know why we never thought of doin' that."

Paul was still by the stove and his focus remained on the rice he was preparing. His body was stiff and I could feel the tension emanating off of him. I reached for his arm and gave him a gentle squeeze, hoping to ease the pressure. He glanced over, offering a reassuring smile.

"I have a feeling it'd be a pretty successful show. Maybe we can plan it for the summer, do a pop up somewhere. I've got a few properties downtown I'm currently looking at that'd probably be ideal for a gallery. I'll let you know if I'm able to get anything."

"Yeah, that would be great. Seriously."

Brian turned on the gas stove, lighting the flame, and poured a splash of cooking wine and the remaining marinade in the pan. The sizzle of the flesh and the aromatic scent of the herbs and spices wafted through the air, the fragrance beckoning my senses.

"Did Paul tell you about the storefront space he just bought?"

"Yes, he did, and I'm very excited for him." I glanced over at Paul, and he was grinning from ear to ear. The first genuine smile of the day.

"It's a little overwhelming. There's a lot to do if I want to start this as soon as possible. I still need to hire some help for my social media, and handling the sales, and-"

"Whoa, slow down. We'll get to that. Let's cross that bridge when we get there. Today is about having fun and getting away from the noise. So, why don't we all go relax and take a load off. You two are the guests, and it's a Sunday. We can worry about the details later."

Brian playfully shooed us away from the kitchen, and we settled down at the dining table, watching him finish cooking. After a few minutes, we were all digging in, the savory flavors and tender chicken dancing along our palates.

"Oh wow, you definitely put your foot in this," I said between mouthfuls.

"Thanks. It's a common dish back home. We call it galinha asada."

That's when I had to ask.

"Y'all two are brothers, huh? I ain't wanna assume at first, but everythin' was too much of a coincidence."

They laughed, their chest reverberating with mirth. "I was hoping you would pick up on that as soon as you saw him." Paul placed his fork down and wiped his face with a napkin.

"I guess it wasn't that obvious, eh?" Brian asked. "Yes, he's my baby brother."

"Baby?"

"Only by a few years," Paul replied.

"Ten to be exact."

"Damn, y'all are ten years apart? That's huge."

"Yeah, it is. People thought he was my son because of the age gap. Mom was about 28 when she got pregnant with Paul. Our sister and I were oopsies. I am the more handsome one though, right?"

Paul snorted and rolled his eyes. "Fuck you, Brian."

Brian laughed and leaned back in his chair. "See? He's the baby."

"You have a sister? What's her name?"

"Brie," Paul replied.

"Ooh. Like cheese. She must be a sweetheart." I smiled and took a sip of water.

"She's...a firecracker. A wild child. Like Brian, actually. They're two years apart."

"Don't compare me to her. She's reckless as fuck."

"She's just got a big personality. It's not a bad deal."

"No, it's dangerous. She's impulsive and does shit without thinking."

"Like what?" I asked.

Brian sighed and shook his head. "Let's just say she's always been trouble, and I've had to be the one to clean up the mess."

Brian's tone shifted; the playful energy was replaced with an icy frost. Paul remained quiet, his gaze falling on the food on his plate and his fork scraped against the porcelain in a feeble attempt to distract himself.

"Well, I've been told I can be a handful by my folks, so y'all not alone." I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

Brian chuckled and his demeanor changed again, though the warmth and welcoming disposition I had first encountered hadn't fully returned as we finished our meal. As promised, Brian took us on a ride, and the three of us spent the rest of the evening exploring the trails, immersed in the serenity of nature.

The moment my feet found their place in the stirrups, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, transporting me back to a time when life was simpler and joy could be found atop a horse, galloping through my uncle's massive acreage.

We trotted, weaving our way through the narrow footpath, and the gentle rocking motion, paired with the scent of sun-kissed chaparral and citrus blossoms, eased the stresses of the past week away.

"Hey. Can I get a pic of y'all?" I asked.

"Sure," they replied, bringing their horses next to each other.

I held the camera in front of me, my thumb resting against the shutter button, and pressed down. Paul looked at peace, and his smile was as radiant as the sunlight. I hoped that the photo captured his happiness, an expression I wanted to hold onto and remember.

We took more photos, capturing the picturesque scenery, the surrounding landscape, and the horses. I hadn't ridden since middle school, and despite the undeniable soreness in my legs and lower back, each ache was a testament to a joy I thought I'd lost.

Once we returned to the villa, the sunset painted the sky in strokes of orange and purple, wrapping around us like a warm, familiar blanket, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of homecoming. It was a moment of pure, childlike bliss—carefree and safe—and Paul had no clue just how grateful I was to be experiencing it again.

"No fucking way! Your uncle is the Johnny Dupont? No wonder you were a natural at riding."

We were back inside, and after Brian cleaned the stables and fed the horses, we relaxed in the living room. Brian was seated on the couch, and Paul was perched next to him. I sat in the lounge chair opposite them, curled up on the plush cushion.

"Yep, he's the one who introduced me to it. I loved goin' over to his ranch and ridin' horses. He'd always take me out on the open field and teach me how to do tricks and stuff."

"He trained you?" Brian gleamed as he leaned back on the couch.

"I wouldn't really say 'train'. More like showed me how to ride properly. And he'd take me backstage at the Rodeo when he'd perform and introduce me to all the other cowboys and ranchers and stuff. He was so loved by everyone."

"I'd love to meet him." Paul chimed in. "I always wondered what happened to him."

Ironically, so did I.

✮✮✮

"Your brother is so much like you, and yet completely different," I said once we were back in Paul's car.

Brian insisted on helping us bring the leftovers home, loading the Tupperware containers into the car and exchanging hugs and farewells. He promised to set up a dinner at his place soon to properly meet his family.

"He's...yeah. He's a good guy. A really, really great brother."

Paul's voice trailed, and his expression was guarded. His focus was fixed on the road ahead, the streetlights illuminating his face in a warm orange glow.

"Sorry."

"Anythin' you wanna talk about?"

Paul shook his head and sighed. I didn't push any further. The ride back to my apartment felt longer despite the absence of traffic, the lack of conversation creating a noticeably uneasy tension.

But I had questions, and it was only a matter of time until they spilled out, begging for a chance to be heard.

Paul parked next to my car in the lot and helped carry the leftovers up to the apartment. As soon as we stepped inside the dark empty space, I turned on the lights and locked the front door behind me. He placed the containers down on the counter and turned to the sink to wash his hands, his posture, stooped, shoulders tense, and his lips pressed together. I walked over to join him.

"Bey, I'm really sorry. For today. For everything," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I messed up. Soured the mood." He sighed, drying his hands with a paper towel.

"How? Everything was perfect. I had a real fun time." His depressed demeanor had me thinking back on what Brian told me in private before we left:

'I like you, Beyoncé. You've got a good spirit about you. Keep an eye on him for me, eh? Please...'

"You did?"

"Yes, Paul. Really."

His face softened, and he exhaled, the air flowing out slowly and steadily, but the tension refused to leave his body.

"You ever feel like...no matter what you do, things will never matter? Like, you can't change anything, no matter how hard you try. Like the outcome will always be the same. No matter what."

I hesitated and considered his sudden ambiguous question, recalling the memories, the painful truths that had become a part of me, seared into my soul like an unwanted tattoo. I wondered what he was alluding to.

"Yes. Every day."

"Me too." Paul ran a hand through his hair and frowned. "There's just a lot I want to change, Bey. I wish...I could go back and do things differently. Spend more time with the people that I love. Make everything right. Tell them how much they mean to me. Make more memories with them. Be present. Stop being so fucking stupid. Before it's too late."

"It's not too late, Paul. You're here now, present here with me. You've got so much ahead of you, remember, you told me that. You gave me that advice. You still have time."

"Time isn't a guarantee, though. Time doesn't do shit. Time isn't kind. And nothing, no amount of money or success, can stop time." Paul's voice began to rise, his breath quickening as he paced around the nook.

"Hey, Paul, hey, look at me. Breathe..." I rushed over, my hands still wet, and grabbed his hand, hoping that would ground him.

Dr. Beharie had advised me on coping techniques for when I was struggling, and physical touch was often a helpful outlet for me, using it more times than I could count. But as his palm met mine, a different realization dawned on me.

The gesture meant more than what I intended, a tender moment filled with an emotion that remained unnamed. Paul squeezed my hand, and a thousand unspoken thoughts floated between us, tethered by an invisible thread, and we stood there, staring at each other.

"Breathe with me, okay?"

"Beyoncé, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I...I'm scared. And confused. And frustrated. And a mess. And it's not fair to you. To drag you into this."

"Paul, c'mere. Come sit with me."

I led him into the living room and we settled on the couch. Paul stared at the floor, his lips parted and his brows furrowed.

"Look, Paul. You don't gotta explain anythin' if you don't want to. But if somethin' is botherin' you, just know I'm here. Whenever you're ready. No pressure."

I placed my other hand on his, and his eyes flickered up, the pain evident in his gaze. He closed his eyes, and his lashes fluttered as his Adam's apple bobbed, his jaw clenching.

"I opened myself up to you, you gave me advice that has helped me tremendously and I wanna return the same kindness. I could tell there's a lot goin' on today, and you don't have to put up a front or act a certain way for me. You can be vulnerable, Paul. And let me take care of you for a change."

Paul's eyes fluttered open, the blues flecked with a shimmering gloss. He sucked in a deep breath and released it, his gaze unwavering and his fingers grasping mine tightly. A single tear streamed down his cheek, and he lifted my hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing them against my knuckles. The sensation of his breath and the brush of his skin sent a tingle along my skin.

"Beyoncé, thank you. For today. And for everything. You mean so much more than you realize. I swear hanging out with you is the highlight of my week. Even if it's just going on a car ride and listening to music. Or walking the pier. Or sitting here and talking shit, watching TV. I..."

Paul faltered, his voice trailing. A few moments passed, and my heart drummed in my chest.

"I feel safe with you, Bey. And happy. And that scares me. Because I don't know how long this will last."

"Paul, I'm not goin' anywhere."

"You can't promise that."

"I know I can't. All I can do is be here, as much as I can. For as long as we can. No guarantees, but I'll try to give you whatever you need. Even if that means right now."

My hand was still in his, his thumb caressed the back, the rhythmic motion soothing. The crease between his brows softened and his shoulders slackened, the weight lifted. He released my hand and moved closer, wrapping his arms around me, his embrace enveloping me in a protective cocoon. I held him and kissed his temple, and he exhaled, the air dancing along my shoulder, his body relaxing against mine.

Paul pulled away to study my face, an electric charge crackling between us. His intense gaze seared my skin as his hand cradled my cheek, his thumb stroking gently.

"Is it ok if..."

His whisper was soft, his eyes half-lidded with a warmth that beckoned me closer. A fluttering sensation danced in my stomach, and my breath caught in a moment thick with suspense.

I straddled him, wrapping my arms around his neck as our lips met without hesitation. The kiss was soft, a cautious exploration of new territory. His hand traced the curve of my neck, eventually resting at the small of my back. His other hand cradled my head, his thumb's gentle caress below my ear sparking fireworks.

His taste, a delicate balance of espresso and chocolate from the tiramisu we shared earlier, spread warmth through my body. His arms tightened around my body, drawing me closer. The faint scent of his cologne—a complex blend of cedarwood, leather, and light cinnamon—surrounded us.

In that moment, we surrendered to a tenderness that was long neglected, a shared craving for connection that had gone hungry for affection. As we melted into one another, the line between desire and love blurred into obscurity.

Pulling back eventually, I rested my forehead against his with our noses brushing lightly and our mingled breaths filling the space between us. His eyes fluttered open, searching mine, perhaps seeking confirmation or understanding in the silent language of my expression.

I grabbed his hand and guided him towards the bedroom, and his steps matched mine, our pace unhurried and intentional. Once we arrived, I turned the knob of the dimmer switch to set the mood and we stood by the foot of the bed. Paul's palms skimmed over my sides before resting on my hips.

I let my fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble against my skin. He drew me in, his hands exploring the contours of my backside.

His kisses found a home along the gentle slope of my neck, each one sending tremors through me as he lavished attention on the delicate hollow. My hands ventured beneath his shirt, encountering the firm terrain of his abdomen. As he raised his arms, I peeled away the fabric, revealing a landscape of smooth skin etched with defined lines.

The kisses continued, with an occasional tender graze of his teeth that shot sparks through my being. His hands slipped beneath my top to meet the warmth of my skin, stirring a shiver that raised the fine hairs at my nape. With a gentle tug, he removed my top, his eyes sweeping over me, filled with admiration and a hint of awe.

Cradling the back of my head, his fingers intertwined with my braids, gently angling my face toward his. His breath was warm and his tongue teased the seam of my lips as the anticipation built. We gradually reclined onto the bed, its fabric as cool and welcoming as his body that pressed against mine.

We let the minutes stretch, peeling away each other's clothes with a leisure that heightened the intimacy. Each touch and whisper was a note in the symphony of our deliberate undressing. I felt his hand ventured further south, his fingertips slipping past the barrier of elastic. My underwear offered no defense. His gentle caress drew a moan from deep within me, quickly hushed by his kiss.

"Bey..." His voice was a low rumble, thick with desire, his fingers pressing in a rhythmic dance against me, fanning the flames in my belly. As he explored further, the new sensation rippled through me, a mix of unfamiliarity and profound satisfaction.

It had been so long.

Far too long.

It was almost painful.

He was the first, and only man, who had touched me so intimately since...

My heart clenched, and I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears threatened to overflow. I felt his movement slow, then stop. His gaze, heavy with concern, searched mine, and his thumb stroked my cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

"Hey..." He was quiet, his expression soft.

I swallowed, trying to regain composure.

"Should we stop?"

"No." I shook my head slightly, "...I want this."

He withdrew his hand from inside me, and the slickness coated his fingers. He brought them to his lips, and the sight ignited a blaze in my core. Paul took his time, the muscles rippling and flexing as he removed the final pieces of clothing separating him.

I closed my eyes and opened them once more as I tried to reassure myself that I was not dreaming. I nearly screamed at the sight before me, the fullness, the girth, the length...

"Do...you have a condom?"

I was so enraptured by the specimen that stood before me, his body carved from marble and his confidence unshakeable, that his hushed question barely snapped me out of the trance.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Lemme go check Robyn's room. She might have one."

"Robyn's room? Is she-"

"Oh, no. No. It's cool. She would probably throw one at us if she was here."

Paul smirked and shook his head, a slight chuckle escaping between the both of us, and he watched me leave.

Once inside Robyn's room, I opened her nightstand drawer, rifling through the various trinkets and baubles, until my hand grazed a bundle of foil packets. Relief surged, and I returned triumphant with a few in hand.

Paul was already situated on the bed, one arm folded behind his head as he stared at the pole on the other side of the room with curiosity. His eyes flickered once he noticed my presence, following my movements as I climbed on the bed and slowly crawled towards him.

My hand carefully grasped the base of his shaft, and a soft hiss left his lips, his mouth parting. My hand calmly stroked him, and gauged his reaction as a low groan rumbled from his chest. I was hesitant, nervous to proceed, the last time being so long ago that the memories were a distant haze.

'Too sloppy, too aggressive, too gentle.'

Paul's hand came to rest atop my own, and his grip guided me, showing me the right amount of pressure, the correct pace, and the ideal technique. My confidence grew as the sounds leaving his lips increased in volume and fervor.

The praise fueled me, and I took him in my mouth, the warmth and saltiness coating my tongue, the fullness and girth pushing at the corners of my lips as I moaned. Paul moved his hand to the top of my head and his grip tightened. A primal growl escaped, his body stiffening. His free hand grabbed a fistful of the sheets, twisting them.

"Bey...wait-"

But I didn't listen. I wanted him. I wanted to make him come, and I doubled down, applying more suction and hollowed my cheeks. With his chest and neck turning tomato red and hips bucking, he let out a guttural moan, the deepest I've heard from him yet.

"Wait..." he laughed, his hand moving to my shoulder. "If you keep going like that...fuck...it'll be over...too soon."

I paused, releasing him, a thin trail of saliva still connecting us.

"Was that okay?"

"...putain incroyable," he murmured. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, wiping the excess away.

He reached for a packet and rolled the condom on. I stood by the edge of the bed to remove my underwear, and Paul's hands encircled my waist, drawing me close, his lips leaving a burning trail of kisses along my navel and downwards.

His hands slid over my thighs and he guided me toward him, positioning me above his lap, his arousal resting against my slick folds. With a gentle tug, he coaxed me into lowering, and he penetrated inch by inch, stretching and filling me, the pain and pleasure mingling into one. I had to ease myself down, taking the time to acclimate to his size.

When I was fully seated, we paused, gazing into each other's eyes, our shared desire evident and intense. Paul's hands glided along the slope of my back to unclasp my bra, and his lips grazed my collarbone before he moved back to allow the garment to fall away.

"Holy...shit."

The look on his face, the reverence and wonder, caused the heat in my core to simmer. He hesitated at the sight of the barbells lining my nipples, and his brow quirked up.

"You can touch them...they won't hurt."

His eyes darted to mine, a flash of mischievousness crossing before his hands cupped the fullness of my breasts, his thumbs rubbing and teasing the piercings. He lowered his head, and his mouth closed around the sensitive flesh. A sharp, shaky moan bubbled from me.

It was by far the best impulsive decision I had made.

Paul's hands migrated further south as he leaned back onto the bed, and my hips started to roll, creating a rhythm. His motions were fluid and measured, each upward thrust calculated and precise, an art form in its own way.

Our moans and gasps, mingled and staccato, echoed off the walls and bounced along the surfaces. The scent of sweat and sex filled the air, the moisture beading, then trickling. My fingernails dug into the taut muscles of his shoulders and chest, and his hands clutched desperately at the globes of my ass, pulling and kneading.

In one swift and sudden motion, Paul lifted me and led us to the wall across the bed. I gasped, clinging tightly, the abrupt change bringing a new wave of sensations. My arms and legs wrapped around him, his body pinning me as he resumed.

My hands ventured, scratching over his defined back and clutching at the corded ropes of muscle and the back of his head. Each thrust was a jolt, and the force reverberated through the wall, some of my picture frames rattling nearby. It became impossible to stay quiet, and with each snap of his hips, my cries grew louder and sharper.

"Paul...oh-please!"

Begging. Pleading.

It was so desperate. So uncouth.

I didn't care.

He slowed and stilled, and the whine that escaped me had him chuckling lightly. He carried me back to the bed and repositioned me on my back with one of my legs draped over his shoulder. Paul leaned forward, his weight resting on his forearm, and he was once again fully sheathed.

The new position introduced a deepness that was unlike anything I'd experienced, and each time Paul filled me, I was getting closer towards the finish line.

"Shit...I...I'm 'bout to—". My breath hitched with each moan and gasp becoming shorter and shorter, and Paul's free hand found mine, our fingers intertwined and holding tightly. I had never been in this position, never held hands while having sex. It was an small and simple gesture, but the emotional intimacy was enough to send me over the edge.

"Let go for me..."

Paul's lips grazed the shell of my ear, whispering a litany of praises as my release tore through me. My back arched, my nails digging into his firm grip on my hand. A string of curses and his name spilled from my lips, the ecstasy so potent.

His pace came to a gradual halt, and his forehead rested against mine, our breathless and shaky pants filling the silence. His eyes searched mine, the blue hues still dark with lust that had me melting.

"We've got all night," he said between ragged breaths, "I've got so much more to give you."

I fought hard to regain my breath and what was left of my consciousness before asking, "Is that...a promise?"

He placed soft pecks starting from my forehead and left a trail of wet kisses until he found himself between my legs. No part was left untouched.

"Yes."

✮✮✮

My limbs were leaden, the exhaustion permeating every fiber of my being. Paul's chest rose and fell beneath me, the gentle and even rhythm lulling me closer to sleep. His hand lazily fell against my hip and his breathing was steady and deep. A gentle smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and I snuggled closer, relishing the warmth that radiated from him, the familiar scent of french vanilla body wash clinging to his body, and the softness of the comforter against my skin. Paul's other arm was tucked beneath his head serving as an extra pillow, and his face was relaxed, a content and satisfied expression resting.

After our evening of passion, the hours spent discovering each other's bodies, we showered and he eventually drifted off to sleep. He stirred and mumbled, his voice husky and groggy, and he pulled me even closer, before relaxing once again.

I wanted this, a simple moment of comfort, a normalcy that I yearned for.

But a nagging thought lingered.

As if it were sensing my internal struggle, my phone chimed.

I stretched, reaching towards the nightstand, careful not to move too much and wake Paul. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the screen, a message caught my attention, and all traces of relaxation vanished.

Aaliyah

hey, sucks we couldn't hang out this weekend. i know u were probably busy earlier this week and i know u probably have work tomorrow so u can't really talk rn. but i was hoping u could stop by or i meet up with u sometime this week. i really miss seeing u and i know our schedules been crazy lately. i wanna fix that. text or call me when u can. <3

Fuck.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Pressure" by Blxst

bonus track:  "Giving You More" by Aaliyah

(a/n: chapter 12 and 13 will take place concurrently, each from different perspectives)

Aaliyah

Solace.

Retreat.

Sanctuary.

Home.

Each night, the tub's spout would release its solitary tear. A slow crescendo of droplets marched into the freestanding soaking tub, and I tallied each and every one.

I sought solace in the count. Ten drops. Twenty. A hundred. The ritual proved Sisyphean—never satiating, yet perpetually overwhelming. Droplets swelled, coalescing, then cascading over the brim in a mimicry of the tears that cascaded down my cheeks.

There were moments, so overwhelming that biting down on my own tongue became a desperate bid for reality. The tang of iron, pungent and warm, was comforting in a way. Anything that reminded me I was still alive was better than the void of numbness.

The tub was half full when the door creaked open behind me. My body remained still. I wanted to be left alone.

"I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Her voice, tender yet piercing, cut through the silence. I flinched. Her footsteps reverberated against the cold tile—a stark contrast to the soft whisper of the door swinging shut once more.

My eyes were still fixed on the porcelain spout.

"It's okay. I wanted to check on you. Can't sleep?"

I didn't want to try.

At times when I closed my eyes, I would see his face. That was all I saw anymore. At times where I blinked, his face was there, a macabre smile etched into his skin. It was a ghastly grin stretched unnaturally across his lips, as if mocking me from beyond the grave.

It was an ill-fitting mask imposed on his familiar features, transforming his once-warm visage into a taunting death's-head rictus. I shuddered at the thought that this forced, lifeless smile was what had become of him, this parody leering out from my memories.

She was close enough that I could see the faintest outline of her form, backlit by the bathroom sconces. She paused for a moment, waiting for a response. I offered none.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

I shook my head.

She turned off the faucet and sat on the edge of the tub, her hand gingerly reaching out and grazing my shoulder. The water rippled in concentric circles, expanding and dissipating just as quickly as they came.

Neither of us spoke.

Her shadowy silhouette shifted as she stripped her clothing, layer by layer. First, a loose, oversized T-shirt—one of mine. Then, a pair of shorts. Finally, a pair of lace underwear. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, still avoiding eye contact.

As she stepped in, I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. She settled behind me, her thighs framing mine. My entire body tensed at her proximity. It was an involuntary response. Every muscle, every synapse, every nerve was hypervigilant.

"Relax, Aaliyah. I'm not going to bite."

Her words were kind, but the hint of sadness in them betrayed a deeper hurt.

"You know I don't mean to—" I began, only to be cut short by her hands running up the expanse of my back, her fingers trailing gently along the ridge of my spine.

"Shh. I know. Just let me help."

I closed my eyes, releasing a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

"I don't need you babysittin' me," I muttered, even as my shoulders eased under her ministrations.

She chuckled, her thumbs digging into the rigid flesh at my shoulders. "This isn't babysitting, baby girl. This is taking care of you."

"What's the difference?"

"Babysitting is telling you to get some sleep. Taking care of you is making sure you can."

I opened my mouth to reply, a witty quip ready on the tip of my tongue, but it died on my lips. Her deft fingers continued to work their way down my back, seeking out every knot and sore spot. Her touch was soothing, almost hypnotic, and I couldn't will myself to speak.

A part of me craved her attention, and a small voice in the recesses of my mind whispered, 'You deserve this. Let her take care of you'.

When was the last time I allowed myself to be cared for?

"Is this okay?" she whispered, her hands gliding over my bare skin.

I nodded, biting back the sob welling within.

"You're still tense, relax for me."

I didn't want to cry. But her gentle coaxing, the warmth of her touch, the weight of the grief that had built up...all of it was too much. Her hand snaked around my waist, pulling me into her embrace. The steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath my ear was a comfort.

She pressed her lips against my shoulder, a chaste kiss—so tender, so sweet. Yet, no tears came. Only a single, shuddering breath as I relaxed further into her. After a moment, her hands moved lower. Gently, she kneaded the tender flesh of my inner thighs, working her way upwards. I squirmed slightly.

"Victoria—"

She didn't stop. Instead, her hands cupped my breasts, her fingers brushing against the hardened peaks. I gasped, arching into her touch. Her teeth grazed the shell of my ear.

"I know what you need, Aaliyah," she murmured, her breath hot against my skin. "You just need to trust me."

And I did.

Every touch, every kiss was like a lifeline, and I followed her every cue, letting Victoria pull me under. I wanted to drown in pleasure. I wanted to allow myself to be swept away by the waves, carried along by the current, losing myself in the hopes of blissful ecstasy.

For a few hours, I could forget.

For a few hours, I could pretend I was whole again.

But I would still be broken and hollow come sunrise, hungry for more. Because I felt nothing at all.

✮✮✮

"Liyah, this shit is ass. Just wastin' our time and money with this nigga."

The "read" receipt sat under the message, taunting me. Three little dots danced in the chat window, indicating a response was being typed, then promptly deleted.

My nails tapped against the screen, the sound muffled by the blaring bass emanating from the studio's speakers. It was a mind-numbing drone that vibrated through the soles of my shoes, a reverberation that hummed in my chest. I swirled the glass tumbler in my other hand, ice clinking as the liquid sloshed about.

"Come on, don't ghost me." I whispered. I watched as those three dots cycled, paused, and cycled again.

Exasperated, I gulped down the rest of the apple juice, welcoming the soothing sensation that washed over my throat, comforting my insides. I had no intentions of indulging in anything strong, and even if the thought crossed my mind, it was off the table—a simple, sweet refreshment was all I could allow myself.

"Fuck this," I muttered, shoving the phone back into the pocket of my jeans. I raked my hand through my hair, letting out an exasperated sigh.

The message thread had been dead for days. No texts. No calls. Not even our routine FaceTimes.

Not that I could blame her.

Schedules were tight. Life was busy.

And she deserved better. Someone less fucked up.

I couldn't stand the thought of her worrying, or worse, knowing the extent of the hell I was experiencing. The nightmares. The panic attacks. The utter detachment.

There was a fine line between wanting help and needing help. I knew I needed help, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for it. There were already so many expectations. So many eyes watching my every move. I couldn't give them another reason to pray for my downfall.

If they sensed a weakness, they would feast.

"Aye, cut this shit off!" I barked, the sharp cadence of my voice cutting through the music.

The track immediately stopped.

"The fuck you do that for, Static? We was just gettin' to the good part."

Guap's adenoidal rasp was heavy with irritation, each word tinged with the distinct sound of vexation. His small, sharp eyes, narrowed to slits, glared at me from beneath the shadow of disproportionately large Oakleys, which perched precariously on the bridge of his nose.

Even the studio microphone had to stoop, adjusted to accommodate his stature. There he was—a perpetual adolescent masquerading in the frame of a 26-year-old man. He fancied himself a 'gangster' poised for the spotlight, but his dreams hung by a thread. And I was the only one keeping him afloat.

"We been in here for the last seven hours. All this shit is startin' to sound the same." My tone was flat as I addressed the room.

I had spent the better part of the day hunkered down in the studio with Guap, laboring over a fresh crop of tracks. But as the hours ticked by, our initial burst of creativity fizzled out. The beats? Impeccable. Guap's lyrics, however? They lacked the spark, the bite of raw inspiration we were desperate for. Even the haze of weed smoke that hung in the air couldn't lift the words from their mediocrity.

He kissed his teeth. "If you can't appreciate my art, then we don't need you. Take yo funky ass somewhere else. Shit. You fuckin' up my flow." Guap's voice was a sudden snarl, his frustration boiling over as he riffled through his notebook, now seemingly full of dead ends.

I raised an eyebrow at him, taken aback. This was a side of Guap I hadn't seen before. Usually, he hung on my every critique, eager to please like a puppy chasing approval. The sort who would grovel at my feet and worship the ground I walked on, if it meant getting a nod of recognition. But here he was, shedding his usual subservience, standing defiant before me with a newfound audacity that was as surprising as it was intriguing.

"I'mma need you to reel it the fuck in before you find yourself eatin' through a straw, nigga."

I swiveled in my chair to face Static, who was sitting with his arms folded across his broad chest. A puff of smoke escaped his lips, shrouding his head in a hazy cloud. His dark eyes glittered dangerously, the whites tinged a telltale red.

He was leaning back, his posture relaxed with his headphones resting around his neck. Yet, his dark gaze was alert, sharp. A solitary beam of light dared to pierce the gloom, glinting off the silver Kentucky state pendant that adorned his chest. It swung with a hypnotic rhythm, a metallic heartbeat that echoed the pulse of the streets he called home.

His threat rumbled low and smooth, belying the violence promised beneath. It was a familiar cadence—one I had heard countless times before from him, as he had seen things no child should, horrors that would fuel anyone's nightmares. Anyone but his - he seemed immune to the terrors that plagued others.

Static was a chronicle of the streets personified. His ethos was simple, etched in the school of hard knocks – there were no games here, only the stark reality that clemency was a currency too rich for his blood-soaked economy.

"Static, chill. I ain't mean nothin' by it." Guap's voice wavered, his bravado evaporating.

I couldn't hold back the smirk that tugged at the corner of my lips. Seeing Static put fear into Guap's heart was mildly entertaining.

I stood, stretching my arms above my head. The stiff muscles in my shoulders and lower back ached from being hunched over the soundboard. I rolled my neck, releasing a series of loud, satisfying pops.

"It's one in the morning. I'm not tryna hear this shit and I need you out of my house. I'm going upstairs. We'll pick this up later." I grabbed the empty tumbler off the console and my jacket from one of the sofas on my way out.

I didn't bother looking back as I left the studio, climbing the winding staircase that led to the foyer. My footsteps echoed softly against the marble flooring. As I passed the kitchen, I considered grabbing a pint of Ben and Jerry's from the freezer. Another sweet treat, a reward for an otherwise unsatisfactory day.

A quick glance at the clock on the microwave dissuaded me of the notion and instead, I opted to head towards the balcony overlooking the sprawling backyard and Los Angeles skyline.

A cool breeze greeted me as I slid the door open, stepping out onto the terrace. My breath was visible—little clouds of condensation forming and dissipating as I exhaled. I settled onto the railing, wrapping my hoodie tighter around myself, glaring out at the city below.

New York, by contrast, was a collage of hazy memories, more a collection of family tales than lived experiences. My infant years there were spent nestled in the cradle of dreams spun by millions, each one vying for a chance to leave their mark amidst the ceaseless thrum of ambition.

In Detroit, the rhythm of my childhood was scored by weekly rituals and the kind of steadfast routine that could only be found within the warm, familiar walls of neighborhood haunts. Every Tuesday evening, after the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor had faded and the last basketball thumped its goodbye, my older brother and I would make our pilgrimage to grab a coney. It was our comfort, where greasy paper plates and the sweet, syrupy scent of Pink Hi-C hung in the air like the smooth sounds of The Commodores spinning on a well-worn vinyl.

But here in Los Angeles, I couldn't shake the feeling of illusion. This city, with its perpetual sunshine and manicured beauty, seemed to be playing a part—one that didn't quite fit. The performing arts high school I attended years ago was a testament to this, filled with kids from every walk of life vying for a shot at a better life.

Fame and fortune.

Dreams.

Hopes.

Promises.

The school promised to be a haven for talent, a place to soar, yet I soon learned that even the most harmonious notes could be drowned out by the cacophony of falsity.

It began with the auditions that felt more like cattle calls, where your uniqueness was measured against a template of expected perfection. I remembered the hushed hallways, lined with portraits of alumni whose smiles didn't quite reach their eyes, as if the camera had captured their moment of realization—that fame was just another word for surrender.

Classes were a mix of genuine instruction and veiled competition, where every pirouette or high note was dissected under the scrutiny of expectation. I learned to wear my confidence like a costume, to blend in with the sea of faces that sparkled under stage lights but dimmed in the shadows of their own insecurities.

The city itself was a stage, and we, its performers, played our parts—some of us too well. L.A.'s embrace was selective, reserved for those who could navigate its intricate dance of appearances. Parties were less about celebration and more about strategic alliances, each handshake or air-kiss a calculated move in a game with ever-changing rules.

Fame, when it finally came, was a double-edged sword, its weight heavier than any crown. I had imagined it as the pinnacle of success, but it was more of a pedestal—isolated and unforgiving. My every move was a headline, my every word a quote out of context, my privacy a currency I hadn't realized I'd spent.

The door slid open again, then closed, footsteps approaching from behind. I didn't need to look to know who was joining me. He was always right behind me. My shadow. My keeper.

"You good?" Static's voice was gentle, his concern genuine.

"Yeah. Just thinkin'." I offered a half-smile, hoping to ease his worry.

He leaned against the railing beside me, the moonlight casting a silvery glow across his bronzed skin. The stress of the past weeks bunkered down in the studio was etched in the lines of his face. Shadows danced beneath his eyes. His lips were tugged down into a frown. The undergrowth from his cornrows had begun to peek through, faint wisps of dark brown curling above his ears.

"Uh-oh. What's on your mind?"

"Guap and his stupid ass. Got the nerve to be talkin' shit when he can't even string together a halfway decent lyric." I scoffed and shook my head, the irritation from the evening's session resurfacing. "I should've slapped the shit outta him when he got smart. Nigga was beggin' to get his shit rocked."

"Nah. Don't waste your energy on him. He'll learn his lesson." Static's tone was nonchalant, his words carrying a sense of finality.

"Learn what lesson?"

Static shrugged, the motion fluid, his arms draped across his chest.

"That he ain't ready for this. This industry'll chew him up and spit him out like he's nothin'."

The harsh truth of his words lingered between us for a moment. Silence settled over the balcony, the distant hum of the city mingling with our breaths.

"I hate this shit, Static. I'm tired." My admission came out in a whisper.

"Shit's gon' change, Liyah. Soon. Once the album drops—"

"This ain't about the music, Static...and you know it."

I sighed, rubbing at my temples. The dull ache from earlier had morphed into a throbbing pain, radiating outwards until it reached the base of my skull.

His expression softened once he realized what I meant.

"C'mere," he murmured, opening his arms wide.

I obliged, leaning into his embrace. His arms wrapped around me, a blanket of security, and I nestled into his warmth. My head fit perfectly into the crook of his neck, and I inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of his cologne grounding me.

"Talk to me, Liyah. What's goin' on in there?"

I closed my eyes, contemplating the question. "I miss him," I whispered, tears prickling the corners of my eyes.

"I know."

Those two simple words were all it took for the dam to break, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. Static's hand rubbed soothing circles along my back, comforting me as the first wave of light sobs wracked my body.

My chest heaved with each breath, ragged and painful. My body trembled, tremors rolling through my limbs. It was a hurricane, all-consuming and destructive, and there was nothing I could do but weather the storm.

Static remained silent, holding me close.

"I'm tired, Static. I'm so fucking tired," I rasped.

Composing myself soon after, I pulled away, wiping the tears from my face.

"Let's head back inside. I want you to get some rest." He extended his hand, and I took it.

"I need a joint or somethin' to help me wind down, at least. Shit." I lightly chuckled through my tears.

Static gave a shy smile. "Already ahead of you."

He led me back into the house, closing the sliding door behind us. As we headed towards the living room, I settled onto the couch, snuggling into the plush cushions. He rummaged through the stash box under the glass coffee table, retrieving a pre-rolled blunt. The smell of fresh cannabis filled the air as he lit the tip, inhaling deeply. The orange embers glowed as he passed the joint, and I took a long drag, allowing the smoke to fill my lungs.

"This a new strain?" I asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. The potent, earthy aroma was unlike any other strain we had tried before.

Static nodded, taking the joint back.

"Yeah, some Sativa shit Kidada recommended. Said it was supposed to have a calming effect, help you relax. Shit's imported from Thailand."

"Is that even legal?"

Static shrugged, chuckling. "This is Kidada we talkin' 'bout. Her mellow ass don't give a fuck about nothin'. So, what we watchin'?"

"I don't care. You pick."

The familiar jingle of Netflix filled the room as Static scrolled through the movies and shows.

"Ooh. Wait. Go back," I said, shifting onto my side to get a better view of the TV. "That one."

"Hell no, we not watchin' The Parkers."

"Come on. Please? Just one episode. Don't act like you don't love this show."

Static groaned, but relented, queuing the first episode.

"Thank you." I smiled. I let him finish the rest of the blunt and I repositioned myself, throwing a nearby blanket over me to settle in.

The light from the television flickered across our faces as we settled in and the laugh track from the show filled the room, but it wasn't long before our own laughter mingled with it.

Static's laughter was infectious, and I was right there laughing along with him, not just at the show but at his commentary. He had a knack for quick one-liners and humor, and I found myself tearing up as the episode wore on.

It was the most relaxed and comfortable I'd felt in weeks.

Halfway through the episode, my phone buzzed. My heart leaped, but when I checked, it was just a notification from an app, not the message I was hoping for. My smile waned, and I set the phone face-down, ignoring the next set of notifications that rolled in.

Static nudged me with his hand, and I looked up to see his furrowed brow.

"Still trippin' over her?" he asked, a knowing tone lacing his words.

I sighed and picked at the lint on the blanket. I didn't want to admit that I was, but he already knew the answer.

"Am I that obvious?"

He chuckled and shook his head, focusing his attention back on the screen. "All I'mma say is, I ain't never seen you this hung up over nobody. She must be somethin' special."

"She is."

Static moved to the other end of the couch, adjusting the pillow behind him to rest on the arm of the sofa.

"You ready to drop all them other bitches you been runnin' through?" His eyebrow raised as a grin split his lips.

"Man, shut yo ass up," I mumbled, a flush creeping up the back of my neck.

"I'm serious. You seem like you done changed. Ain't goin' to too many parties or out late at night everyday unless you need to. I even found you readin' a book last week," he added.

"Ok and? You thought I was stupid before? Or didn't want to learn shit?"

"You was readin' Carmichael, man. Like that's some casual shit. We ain't talked about him since high school."

I shrugged. "I'm just trying to keep my mind busy."

"If this girl's makin' you clean up yo act, she must be the real deal."

I thought about his words, mulling them over. I hadn't realized just how much I had changed until he pointed it out. Only three physical encounters, one of which lasted no more than a mere fifteen seconds, and she had already impacted my lifestyle.

"She's different, Static. She's raw, and she's humble, real down to earth. And she's smart as hell. Got two degrees from top schools and is teaching Black art history and fine art at the same time. She's so passionate about her work. You know, last time we're Facetiming, she was tellin' me about this exhibit she went to at MoMA with her sister. I think she said it was about 'the enormity and banality of everyday life' or somethin' like that. She was so hype, man. It was so cute..."

I rambled on, unable to contain my excitement as I looked at pictures and videos from that conversation. Photos of her next to her favorite paintings and sculptures. Videos of her excitedly explaining the symbolism behind a piece. Her bright smile, contagious laughter, and inquisitive nature.

The mere thought of her brought a smile to my face.

Static's laughter and accompanying coughing fit cut me off, and I looked over at him, confused.

"What?"

"Nothin'. It's just crazy seeing you all lovesick and shit. You really whipped, huh?"

His teasing didn't faze me.

"I guess I am," I replied, unable to hold back my grin. "I just wish she'd text me back, though. I ain't heard from her since I left on that girl's trip for Raven's birthday."

Static gave me a knowing look.

"You and Raven been gettin' pretty close lately. Had me thinkin' you didn't see her like that at first."

"Raven's cool. She's a good friend, that's all."

Static's brow rose slightly, unconvinced. "Y'all seem more than just 'good friends'. You sure you ain't tryna keep yo options open? Been hearin' all these rumors—"

"What? That I'm fuckin' her? Nope. Ain't nothin' like that going on between us."

"Bet. Whatever you say, girl." He paused the episode and stood on his feet to stretch, his shirt lifting just enough that the waistband of his Calvin Klein briefs were visible. The blunt was nearly burnt out, and he stubbed the roach into the nearby ashtray, the embers going dark.

"Fuck. I'm tired as a mug. You mind if I crash in one of the guest rooms?"

"Go for it, I don't want you driving home while high anyway. The one upstairs is already made up."

"Cool. Let's go upstairs then."

Reluctantly, I turned off the TV and peeled myself off the couch, leaving the warmth of the blanket and comfort of the cushions. The joint had taken full effect, and my movements were sluggish as Static ushered me upstairs to my bedroom.

Once in the room, I tossed my clothes into the hamper by the bathroom, leaving me in just my underwear, and flopped onto the bare section of mattress. Static handed me a bottle of Ambien and a half-full bottle of water.

"Don't forget to take this."

I did as instructed, downing the pills with a swig of water. He tucked me in, pulling the comforter up to my chin.

"Get some rest, baby girl."

"Can you do me a favor and check on my dogs real quick? They should be sleep, but make sure—"

"Aaliyah, chill. I'll make sure they good. They in good hands. Now, sleep."

He patted the top of my head before heading towards the door. The soft click of the door signaled his departure, and I rolled over, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. The lights of the city twinkled brightly, an array of colors dotting the landscape.

I wondered if she was still awake, if she was thinking of me.

The effects of the drugs kicked in, and my eyelids grew heavy, my consciousness ebbing. My vision blurred, and the lights morphed into a collage of stars, a starry sky mirroring the one outside.

In that moment, I hoped she was looking up at the same night sky, wondering if I was thinking of her too.

I smiled softly.

"What are you doing to me, Beyoncé?"

✮✮✮

"Damn, papi that was so good."

Her voice, a sultry murmur, reverberated through the stillness of the room as her lips gently explored the landscape of my back. Each kiss was a deliberate punctuation, her tongue tracing the contours of my spine with a tender audacity.

"I hate it when you call me that," I murmured, an edge of discomfort coloring my tone.

Her laughter, light and teasing, danced across my skin, her breath warm against the expanse of my shoulder blades. "Come on, baby. You know it turns you on." The playful squeeze of her thighs around my waist betrayed her teasing nature even as her fingernails sketched a light, almost ticklish path down my back.

I exhaled sharply. "I'm serious, Christina. You know I don't like that. That shit is weird."

With a softness that contrasted our earlier passion, she relented and shifted away, the bed shifting beneath her weight. As she came to rest beside me, the moon's silver glow spilled onto her form, draping her in an ethereal light that traced the curves and hollows of her body. The sheen of perspiration on her skin made her appear as if sculpted from the night itself.

"What crawled up your ass and died? I was just playin', shit," she retorted with a hint of mock indignation, turning to face me, her gaze piercing. Her fingers resumed their journey across my skin, now following the fading red welts left in the wake of her earlier ardor.

It was an all too familiar dance, this need to leave a trace, a signature upon my skin. Marks of possession—some subtle, others blatant—were common souvenirs of my various and often fleeting encounters with women, and occasionally men. Love bites, scratches; they were clandestine whispers of intimacy, some concealed with ease, others a testament to passion that defied concealment.

"When are you gonna finish this tattoo? I can't wait to see how it turns out, like the sleeve on your right arm," she cooed, admiration lacing her words. Her gaze was fixed on the canvas of my back, where ink had begun to etch a story yet to be completed.

As her fingertips delicately navigated the incomplete masterpiece that stretched from shoulder to hip, teasing the divide of my lower back, I could feel the promise of artistry itching to be fulfilled.

"My girl Kidada said she'd have it done by the end of the week," I replied, the anticipation evident in my own voice.

Sitting up, I allowed a smile to play upon my lips. Christina's proximity was a magnetic pull I couldn't resist, and as she drew nearer, her lips met mine in a kiss that held the softness of the night and the remnants of the fire we'd shared earlier.

Our lips lingered, savoring the taste and the tenderness, only separating as my phone chimed, signaling an incoming call.

"Ignore it," Christina whispered, her hand snaking across my behind, pulling me closer, her grip possessive.

The kiss deepened, the taste of her lips sweet, intoxicating. The ringing stopped, only to start again a few seconds later.

Reluctantly, I pulled away, reaching for it.

"Hold on," I murmured, pressing another kiss to her swollen lips. The ringing ceased once again as I grabbed the phone. My heart fluttered as the name and missed calls lit up the screen.

"Who is it? It betta not be Jhene or one of ya other little perritas," Christina muttered, a hint of irritation coloring her words. "You think you slick, but I saw how they were eyein' you at the party. Bitches always got they eyes on what's mine and I'll be damned if..."

Ignoring her was best for my sanity. And for her emotions.

I quickly tossed on my clothes and grabbed my purse, heading towards the door to my car for privacy. I called her back, nervously awaiting her voice.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Finally, she answered.

"Aaliyah, hey..."

Her voice was softer than usual.

And oddly hesitant. I climbed into the driver's seat, closing and locking the door behind me, and glanced at the time.

10:28pm.

I could hear the rustle of fabric through the receiver. She was probably tucked away in her apartment, snuggled under the covers, a hardcover copy of Cairo Circles or her laptop in her lap. Maybe wearing those cute, rectangular glasses she sometimes wore when grading papers during our video calls.

"Hey," I greeted. "This is a surprise. What's up?"

"I know we haven't heard from each other in a minute. Things have just been so busy...right? I just wanted to talk—I'm not interrupting anythin', am I?"

"Oh, no, no, no. Just chillin'. I was about to leave the studio." I lied, fumbling with the keys.

"Oh."

Silence. Followed by a faint sniffle.

"Are you okay?"

Another sniffle.

"Yeah, yeah. Allergies been kickin' my ass lately." I could still hear the hesitation in her voice despite her attempt at feigned confidence. I had known her for less than four months, but even over the phone, I could read the tension, the uncertainty, the cracks in her voice.

"Beyoncé...it's fine. You know you can talk to me about anything."

My brows furrowed as she continued.

"I mean...I guess there's just been a lot going on, and I—I could use a friend right now. Anyone really. I know things are weird and complicated and that's on me and I haven't responded to your messages, but—"

Her voice broke again, a hitch in her breath that had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

Something was wrong.

"Are you at home right now? I'll stop by," I interrupted, starting up the car. Christina came out of her house, confusion etched into her features.

'Where are you going?' she mouthed, knocking on the window.

I ignored her again.

"Aaliyah, no...please...that's not necessary. I'm not in L.A., and—"

"It's not an issue for me. I will fly to Mars if that's what you need. Just tell me where you are."

"You don't have to do that...it's...fine...no—just...please..."

"Beyoncé," I warned. "I haven't heard from you in weeks and the first time I do, you sound like you've been crying."

The line was silent, save for the soft static of the connection that seemed to amplify the tension. Time stretched thin, each second a taut wire between us.

Then...

The dam broke.

Her breath hitched, not once but repeatedly, as if her lungs were grasping for air through a sea of grief. The sound was distant, muffled—perhaps the phone had tumbled from her hand, cushioned by the duvet. But still, when her sobs followed after and pierced through the quiet of the room—wrenching, body-shaking cries that seemed to rip through her—each one was a devastating cannonade that hit me square in the chest.

Her anguish was raw and uninhibited, the kind that spoke of a pain so profound it defied consolation. It was the sort of crying that leaves you hollowed out, the sobs so ragged and so relentless they threaten to tear the very fabric of your being.

It was a sound that bore the rawness of her strife, a splintering so jarring it seemed to echo, leaving a haunting silence in its wake. It was the kind of breakdown that felt almost physical, as if the phone line itself might splinter under the weight of her distress.

"Beyoncé, sweetheart. Talk to me. Please. I gotta know what's going on."

She didn't respond, the sounds of her crying growing louder. My stomach dropped, anxiety twisting it into a knot. I felt helpless, powerless, and anger coursed through me. Anger at whoever or whatever had caused her such immense suffering. Anger at myself for not being able to provide the solace and support she needed.

"...Peaches...please..."

The term of endearment slipped from my lips in the form of a whisper as a last resort. It was a risk, a gamble, a hope that maybe, just maybe, the tenderness would reach her. Or at least me, as tears pricked the corners of my own eyes.

I waited with bated breath, listening to the steady rise and fall of her sobs. Her breathing finally slowed, hiccups and sniffles filling the line.

"I'm on my way, okay? Are you safe? Please, Bey, please tell me you're safe. Wherever you are, just—just tell me. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I'm home. Houston," she managed to choke out, a strangled whimper escaping.

The knot loosened slightly, but not by much.

Houston was a several-hour flight. There was no way I'd get there anytime soon, and the thought of her being in pain and alone for too long—it killed me.

"Text me the address. Please. Let me be there for you."

"It's not—it's not that serious, Aaliyah. You don't have to fly here. It's stupid—it's nothin'."

"It's not nothin'. Come on. You wouldn't be callin' me if it was. And you're clearly not okay. Just let me come. I'm really worried about you and your safety. I don't wanna wake up to a news story talking about you missing' or dead or something. Please."

The line fell silent once again. This time, the quiet was more pronounced, filled with an unspoken heaviness. Christina knocked on the window again, a scowl marring her features, and I placed myself on mute before I rolled down the window, a rush of cool air greeting me.

"Where the fuck you goin', Liyah? We had more plans tonight." Her irritation was clear, her eyes narrowing as her glare bore into me. "And are you cryin'?"

"Christina. Not now. Go back inside."

"Nah. Fuck dat. Tell whoever the fuck you talkin' to goodbye and get yo ass outta the car. Who is this bitch anyway?"

"Leave. Me. The fuck. Alone," I replied, my voice dropping low. "And you can forget about that song with Wayne if you keep runnin' your fucking mouth. I will blacklist your ass in a heartbeat if you so much as breathe wrong in front of me. Trust."

Christina's eyes widened, the shock registering across her face.

"Liyah, you ain't have to—"

"Christina. Get the fuck away from my car. Ion even know why I was fuckin' with you."

Before she could reply, I rolled up the window and unmuted myself.

After a few more seconds, Beyoncé's weary voice came through the receiver, cracking with emotion.

"Okay," she sighed, resignation evident in her words. "Just text me when you land. Okay?"

"Of course, of course. Promise me you'll be okay. At least until I get there."

"...I will."

I could still hear her sniffling and whimpers.

"Everything's gonna be alright, Peaches. Just hang tight."

As I ended the call, a tumult of thoughts began to sprint through my mind. The knots returned with a vengeance. I was reeling from Beyoncé's emotional breakdown—a stark departure from her usual unflappable demeanor.

It was foreign territory, unfamiliar waters. We were getting closer, but after weeks of radio silence, were we close enough for this?

"Someone pick up, pick up. Shit," I pleaded, calling everyone that came to mind as I drove out of Christina's driveway. The phone rang. Once. Twice.

"Wassup, Liyah? Everything good?"

"Not really. Rashad, listen, I need you to house sit and watch my dogs while I'm gone, please. Something came up."

"Aye, aye. Hold on. Slow down. What happened? Where you goin'?"

"I got some shit to handle down south."

Chapter Text

now playing: "Repercussions" by Odeal

(This chapter contains explicit content. Reader discretion advised.)

(a/n: chapter 12 and 13 will take place concurrently, each from different perspectives)

Beyoncé

Therapy was teaching me how to cope.

Yoga taught me how to breathe.

But within the mirrored walls of a pole dancing studio, I was learning how to embrace my inner strength.

How to own it.

How to wield it.

Most importantly, learn how to have fun with it.

Starting as a quest for confidence and a break from monotony, my first pole class began with nerves. Despite the encouraging instructor and friendly classmates, I felt exposed and judged. Yet, as the music started, my perspective shifted. The pole, once a cold, alien object, transformed into an anchor for my newfound grace.

In every spin and climb, I danced past my demons, no longer their captive. My scars, once defining, faded as my body twined around the metal, fluid like a breeze through live oaks. This dance was my silent soliloquy, painting my story with the strength and surrender of my movements.

Here, in the dance, I found pure bliss and escape, a release from the aches etched into my bones. The world fell away until only I remained.

But there was always an end to the music—a final breath to an exhilarating song. As the melody faded, so did the spell, with the truth of my reality creeping in. Each class ended the same way, with the bittersweet taste of liberation on my tongue as I grabbed my water bottle, duffle bag, and keys, leaving it all behind.

But one day, I chose to bring the dance home.

On a whim, I purchased a pole, and with it, the knowledge that a new chapter of self-discovery had begun. I set up the space for my new toy and tried again, but this time it was different.

Surrounded not by acquaintances but by friends, I danced freely, each spin and climb cleansing my spirit. Robyn and Kelly cheered me on, their laughter and applause—and Robyn's dollar bills—fueling my courage. With their support, I shed an ample amount of my insecurities, my heart and soul soaring in a way they hadn't since my gymnast days.

The studio's air was crisp and scented with lemon from the recent cleaning. My bare feet left the slightest prints across the wood floor as I walked to the pole. Before placing my water bottle on the nearby chair, I took a long sip, letting the cool liquid soothe my dry throat, and then turned to face the pole. My fingers wrapped around the metal, feeling the comforting chill.

I rolled my shoulders back, feeling the familiar pull of muscles waking from their slumber. The floor was cool, a stark contrast to the warmth enveloping me as I moved through my stretches. The mirrors threw back an image of focus and determination; I hardly recognized myself.

The instructor leaned against the stereo as she scrolled through her phone, her playlist queued up with pulsing beats that promised to pulsate through bones and soul alike. She caught my eye and silently encouraged me to go on.

I started with a basic walk, with each step a deliberate orbit around my axis. The pole was a familiar partner now, one that knew my weight, my grip, and my style. I transitioned into a spin, letting momentum carry me as I surrendered to the centrifugal force, my body a petal in the wind.

The door creaked open, and I didn't have to look to know Robyn and Kelly had arrived. Their hushed whispers and stifled laughter were a telltale sign, but they fell silent as I executed a climb, ascending the pole with a practiced ease that came from months of dedication. I locked my legs, suspended upside down for a moment in a showcase of strength, before spiraling down in a controlled descent that felt like flying.

The music swelled, the beat matching the rhythm of my heart as I let instinct take over, improvising a dance borne from passion. In the mirrors, I saw Robyn and Kelly, who had taken a seat on the floor, their faces alight with joy as they watched my performance.

I finished the routine with a flourish, sinking into a split on the floor, breathless and exhilarated. Robyn and Kelly clapped in approval, and I smiled with a radiant beam of contentment. The rest of the class filtered in, but I barely noticed, still riding the high of my dance.

The ladies made their way over, helping me to my feet. "Don't hurt yourself, now," Robyn teased, handing me my water bottle.

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. "Like you wouldn't catch me if I fell."

The instructor clasped her hands together in a jarringly loud clap, calling our attention. "Alright y'all, since everyone is here, we finna start the class, so let's get into some stretches first."

Her presence was as commanding as her voice, a deep, resonant timber that was both warm and authoritative. She had a physique that could only come naturally. The kind of curves that defied gravity, sculpted by the hands of God himself, and the grace of a dancer born of years of training.

She was no stranger to pole, having spent years in the industry, dancing for a slew of prominent stars at Magic City. Rappers. Moguls. Kingpins. Any hotshot in Atlanta with enough money to line her pockets could call her name, but she wasn't a mere pawn, subservient to the whims of others. She was a master of her craft, holding her cards close to her chest and her bank account even closer.

But she grew tired of the lifestyle, opting to move away from the bottle service and lap dances to pursue a career that was just as fulfilling.

Teaching.

So, she opened a studio in a relatively unassuming building just outside of Fox Hills, transforming it into a haven for aspiring dancers. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where inhibitions were cast aside and vulnerability was met with encouragement.

The room was a mosaic of individuals, each with their own reasons for being there. There were those like Kelly, with her lululemon jacket and leggings, and freshly painted Russian manicure, whose motivations stemmed from a need to fulfill her undercover fantasies. Her nervous giggle as the instructor adjusted her posture betrayed her inexperience, and yet she was eager to try something new.

Then, there were the students like Robyn, a powerhouse of confidence. She had the natural build and athleticism that would make her a shoe-in for any stripper or acrobat troupe worth their salt, and the sultry gait in her shorts-clad strut only emphasized her potential. Despite her best efforts to blend in, it was clear her skillset far exceeded the average beginner, and the instructor took note, giving her extra pointers that Robyn absorbed like a sponge.

Amidst them were the regulars, from the corporate consultant whose high-powered suits were swapped for shorts and tank tops to the stay-at-home mom who relished the break from her daily routine.

There was the college student who danced to pay tuition, and there was the retiree who was there to prove age was just a number.

Each person brought their own story, their own insecurities, and their own aspirations.

The instructor surveyed the class with an eagle's eye behind her thick lashes, critiquing postures and offering gentle guidance and encouragement. As she walked around the room, making adjustments, she waltzed over, lingering on me for a moment longer than the others.

"I think you might be ready for my intermediate class," she noted, appraising my form.

I smiled bashfully. "You think so? I haven't been comin' here for that long."

"I do. Shit, you more than capable if we bein' honest. And you been practicin' a lil bit more on the side too?"

I blushed. "Maybe..."

"I could see it in your form," she replied, her tone lighthearted and teasing. "You got good control of your body."

"Then I guess I'll have to consider that class," I said, feeling a swell of pride.

"You do that," she winked, moving on to the next student.

After an hour and a half of warmups and drills, the class was dismissed, and many still lingered around the studio, chatting amiably. Robyn and Kelly approached and sat beside me on the ground, eager to discuss our past weekend adventures.

"I don't think it was smart for me to do this," Kelly groaned, massaging her calf. "My shit's fuckin' achin'."

Robyn snorted as she squirted an ample amount of water from her Gatorade bottle into her mouth. "Why? Ya investment banker finally made his lil pillow princess put some work in?"

"Robyn, don't forget I can roundhouse kick yo' ass into next week," Kelly warned, though her threatening glare was undermined by her amused smirk.

"With that fucked-up leg?" Robyn shot back.

I rolled my eyes fondly at their antics. "Kelly, you'll be fine. You'll adjust."

"It's not because of the class," Kelly huffed. "I had another Muay Thai session yesterday, and the shit was intense."

"I still can't believe you've been 'Crouching Tiger' since you were six," Robyn mused. "How the fuck you learn Muay Thai and not something normal like ice skating or whatever else bougie-ass rich kids do?"

"I did that too. Muay Thai just seemed like fun," Kelly shrugged, adjusting her ponytail. "My dad enrolled me in classes so I wouldn't be under his feet all the time, and I was always watching that one movie with JLo-"

"Enough?" Robyn supplied.

"Yeah, that one. My mama wasn't havin' that shit; she thought I would've gotten brain damage or killed somebody. Not even my dad could convince her otherwise, but I was able to come up with a compromise and start with only one martial arts class a week. Still, that was enough for me, and I stuck with it."

"And now look at you," Robyn quipped, shadow boxing Kelly playfully. "You be puttin' niggas in headlocks when they start actin' up? Slap 'em around and shit?"

Kelly's eyes flashed, a glimmer of mischief gleaming from their depths. "I might have a few stories to share. And speaking of stories, I was told that 'The Color of Friendship' stayed the night this past weekend," she teased, turning to face me.

Robyn snickered at the nickname, earning her my glare.

"It wasn't planned," I admitted, my cheeks flushing.

"Did y'all...?"

"Was it...?"

I sheepishly nodded.

"Is he...?"

I bit my lip as I recalled the events that transpired the prior weekend, an involuntary shudder racing up my spine as a thrill coursed through me. "Yeah. I had to pray internally once I saw...everythin'."

The ladies whooped and hollered, the others casting curious glances our way, but I paid them no mind, laughing along with my friends.

"He got a brother?" Kelly piped in.

"You already limpin', Kels. You gon' need crutches by the end of the week if you keep this shit up," I taunted.

"I'm dead serious," Kelly countered. "Answer the question."

"He has one brother who is much older," I answered. "And married. And I know you ain't the type to fuck with an already-taken man. Besides, he's got his own problems."

"Something happen?" Robyn chimed in, her brow furrowing with concern.

"I think so, but Ion know, honestly," I confessed. "When Paul came by to pick me up that day, he seemed down from the start, kinda moody. Like something was botherin' him."

"Did you ask what was wrong?"

I nodded. "He wouldn't say though, but I have a feelin' it had to do with his brother. There were moments where he looked relaxed bondin' with him, but he had this, like...faraway look in his eyes every time his brother would mention somethin' about his future plans. It was like he was disappointed in himself."

"Damn," Robyn muttered.

"Yeah. He tried to mask it, but it was there," I sighed. "Anyone can tell that his brother is very proud of him. Yet, it felt like Paul just wasn't happy with his current situation. Like he's stuck, and I can't really help him. I...I felt like I took advantage of him too, bein' his distraction for the night. We were both high on emotions, and then one thing led to another..."

"Well, did you tell him how you felt? Express your concerns?" Kelly inquired.

"I called him on Monday after work and he assured me that wasn't the case and that he enjoyed our time together. That he enjoyed me and it felt like more than just a 'fling'."

"You like him?" Robyn asked, her voice soft.

The cold, wooden floor was suddenly fascinating, and I grazed the polished surface with my fingertips, trying to gather my thoughts. "I do," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what's the issue? What are you so worried about?" Kelly pressed gently.

"I don't wanna hurt him. He deserves someone who can give him their full attention, and my mind is so fucked up right now. My anxiety is constantly running wild, and I still haven't even begun to process everythin' that happened," I said, raking a hand through my hair. "The timin' just ain't right and I just can't see myself committin' to anyone right now. At least not emotionally."

"Then why not physically?" Robyn stated. "Just fuck on the reg and vibe. No strings attached."

"Robyn, you need to be thinking with your head and not with your pussy sometimes," Kelly chastised. She wiped some lint off her sleeve before fixing Robyn with a pointed stare. "You can't approach everything with that mindset. Relationships ain't always black and white, especially when you're dealing with creative folk." She turned to me briefly. "No shade Bey, but you know how y'all are."

"You not lyin'." I scoffed.

"And sometimes you can't help but catch feelings. Trust me, been there, done that, and I don't plan on repeating that shit."

Robyn rolled her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall. "Y'all always complicating things. I'm just tryna keep it as simple as possible. That's how Kofi and I started out and we good. Just be upfront and set boundaries."

The instructor approached us with keys jingling from her hand. A small duffle bag was slung over her shoulder. "I love that y'all havin y'all lil 'Real Housewives' moment here, but I gotta lock up soon."

I chuckled. "My bad, Mina. We was just gettin' ready to bounce."

We scrambled to collect our belongings, bidding her a quick goodbye. She lingered by the door, waiting for us to exit. As the last one out, I thanked her and waved, but paused as she called my name.

"Lemme know if you interested in takin' that intermediate class. I can send you the link to the schedule and the sign-up form."

"Will do."

The late-evening sun was bright, nearly blinding. Squinting, we crossed over to the parking lot, with Robyn and Kelly continuing their debate on relationships. I half-listened, distracted by the text messages gnawing at the periphery of my consciousness.

My phone was burning a hole in my pocket each day that passed without my response. Her unanswered calls were met with the professional voice message I set during grad school. Each subsequent text was a knife digging deeper and deeper into an already festering wound.

I hated myself for letting those photos affect me so deeply, as though she had somehow betrayed my trust and left me questioning the validity of our entire friendship. She hadn't done anything wrong. She was free to live her life however she wanted. She was allowed to see people. She was allowed to have other 'friends'. She didn't owe me any answers or explanations.

It was all on me for reading into something that probably wasn't there.

She deserved more from me, more than the silence that I was subjecting her to. I had no reason to treat her the way I had, ignoring her as though her existence was a potential mustard stain on my psyche.

Foolishly, a part of me hoped she would call or text again soon.

Maybe I would answer this time.

"Y'all still comin' over tomorrow for dinner, right? I was gonna make those shawarma tacos and farro salad y'all liked last time." Kelly's voice cut through my thoughts, and I glanced at her, feigning interest.

Robyn nodded enthusiastically, tossing her gym bag into her backseat. "Hell yeah. We might be early, though. Got some weed and we finna smoke before."

"Fine with me. It might help me relax some," Kelly sighed, fishing her keys from her bag. "Alright y'all, drive safe."

Robyn and I watched her pull out of the parking spot, honking twice as she exited the parking lot, and then drove off down the road.

"Guess that leaves us," Robyn drawled.

"Guess so."

Robyn slid behind the wheel and started the ignition, the engine roaring to life. The radio flared, and she turned the volume down until it was background noise. "You good?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked, are you straight? You look like you somewhere else," Robyn elaborated.

"Yup. Straighter than a ruler," I replied automatically, reaching for my seatbelt. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, watching as it fogged a tiny circle on the window.

I refused to meet her gaze, and for a moment, I could feel its intense heat, as though she was sifting through my words, analyzing each syllable. After a moment, she sighed, reversing out of the parking spot.

We drove in companionable silence, the radio filling in the lulls of conversation. I looked out the window, watching the scenery pass by in a blur of red taillights and green traffic lights. When we stopped at a traffic light, Robyn tapped her fingers against the steering wheel absentmindedly, humming along to the song.

I thought about him. I thought about their conflicting advice.

The idea of a no-strings-attached arrangement tempted me, promising the thrill of sex and pleasure without the shackles of commitment. But no matter how touch-deprived I was, I knew myself better than that. I couldn't compartmentalize my emotions the way Robyn could. And despite the logical aspect of me that knew a casual relationship had its benefits, there was an emotional side that desired more.

That desired raw intimacy and connection that transcended the physical and left an indelible mark on the soul.

He checked all the boxes and more on paper, from his sweet personality and tenderness to his handsome features, and then some.

I could fall for him. Just maybe.

And that terrified me.

"Stop it."

I turned to Robyn with a puzzled frown, and she quickly returned my expression with a wry grin as the flow of traffic resumed.

"Call him to meet up later before you leave this weekend. Do it once we get back to the apartment. Don't text. That way you won't be able to second-guess yourself about shit, and he won't come up with his own idea of what's going on between you two."

"But-"

"No. No excuses. Call him. You don't have to commit to what I had suggested earlier. You guys could just be friends or you could leave altogether." She looked into the side mirror and flipped on her turn signal. "But if you do decide to be fuck buddies, ain't no harm in getting yo back blown out."

✮✮✮

Ceiling mirrors—a concept that initially struck me as confusing and even a little off-putting—caught my eye for the first time during my cousin Angie's birthday weekend a year ago. Set amidst Atlantic City's nightlife and bright lights, she, her friends, and I stumbled upon a popular male strip club and were immediately ushered in for what ended up being an epic girl's night out.

It was my first such experience, and it was there that I realized the purpose of the mirrors. It was startling at first—the realization that every move we made was captured and reflected back—until I took note of the male performers who seemed to work that very fact into their shows, making their bodies into art with their seductive, erotic moves.

Adorned with little more than the sheen of sweat and the pulse of the spotlight, they moved with an allure that seemed magnified by the very existence of the mirrors.

I was entranced, watching their every move, every thrust of their hips, every ripple of muscle, as if there were a spell cast on the room. Even when the show was over and we were all back on the streets and were making our way to another club, the idea of the mirrors stuck with me, wondering what I would look like as the woman in the mirror, being the object of desire, moving my body in such a way that would enhance my partner's arousal as we made love.

I wanted that.

I wanted that power.

And I finally had that chance. I would be damned if I didn't take it.

The previous tenant had installed a mirror on his apartment bedroom ceiling and his landlord never once bothered to remove it.

A mirror as big as the ones on my bedroom walls was staring back at me in bold clarity.

There was no escaping my reflection, no shifting away to a corner or angling to avoid my scrutiny.

All eyes were on me at every moment and every new position; the visual was a stark juxtaposition of fantasy and reality.

A blatant reminder that this was real.

This was happening.

Tilting my head, chin to chest, I gazed upon his image. His eyes were a blue inferno, burning a searing trail across my skin. My breathing was labored, my chest was heaving with every inhale, and his grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging into the pliable flesh. My legs wrapped tighter around his head, my thighs quivering from the stimulation, and his grip became more insistent, a wordless plea for permission.

I obliged, allowing him to hike my legs up behind my ears, locking them in place. I mentally thanked myself for maintaining my flexibility with yoga alongside my pole sessions; the stretch was not nearly as uncomfortable as it could've been otherwise.

Worth his tongue, dancing across my core, each stroke eliciting a euphoric wave of bliss that threatened to consume me.

Worth his fingers, teasing and playing with my entrance, dipping in and out, coaxing a symphony of moans from the deepest parts of my soul.

Worth his gaze, his pupils blown wide with lust yet tinged with the gentlest hints of fondness.

My first orgasm had been building since the car ride over. His attention was split, one hand steady on the wheel, the other drawing idle, yet deliberate, patterns on my thigh. Each graze of my inner thigh with his thumb was a promise of the pleasure that awaited, akin to the delicate strike of a match igniting a slow burn beneath my skin.

He tried to hold a conversation with me, but his words were lost. My senses were too consumed by a vivid fantasy of him shedding each piece of my clothing. Like he was unwrapping me with the ravenousness of a man on the verge of dying on a deserted island, deprived of nourishment.

And I was his last supper.

By the time we arrived at his apartment, it had become almost unbearable. As he rummaged through his closet, the mundane action of searching for a particular CD and placing it into the player was sensual in itself. The way his long, slender fingers worked the controls, twisting the volume knob, the smooth glide of his thumb, and a gentle caress across the buttons.

I stalked over, the sway in my hips an effortless rhythm, and placed a hand on his bicep, the contact causing him to pause. As the first song began, a chopped and screwed track, I trailed a hand under his shirt and up his chest without breaking eye contact, delighting in the shiver that raced down his body.

He gripped my hand through the shirt, stilling its journey, and the minute his bedroom door shut behind him, we were upon each other, a tangled mess of limbs, tongues, and teeth.

Clothes were shed, discarded on the floor with little care, and our bodies fit together effortlessly.

It was as though we had known each other intimately for years.

The rap music was a distant, muffled melody, barely discernible from the sounds echoing throughout the room. The notes were punctuated by my moans and his groans, the latter rumbling across my skin.

I shuddered under his relentless ministrations, his tongue circling and suctioning my clit with the precision and accuracy of a seasoned artist, and I found myself teetering at the edge of oblivion, toes curled and head thrown back against his pillows.

"Fuck, Paul...I can't!" My fingers tugged insistently on his curls, and he groaned in response, the vibration reverberating against my core.

I closed my eyes, my focus solely on the sensations coursing through me.

The heat from his body, warming my limbs.

The rapid thrumming of my heart, hammering against my ribcage.

The cool air against heated skin, sending a shock up my spine.

The tightening of my abdomen, muscles clenching in anticipation.

His tongue was a drug, the euphoria a potent high, and I was hooked, chasing the release like a junkie.

His stubble scratched against my inner thighs, a pleasant contrast to the smoothness of his tongue, and the sensation added a new layer of stimulation, heightening the experience. He inserted two digits into my core and moved his fingers dexterously, stroking at the perfect angle. Each thrust was an effortless dance that left me breathless and reeling.

His other hand reached up, massaging the underside of my breast, and I arched into his touch, desperate for the additional contact. He tweaked a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and the action coupled with a flick of his tongue had stars dancing along the edges of my vision.

My breath caught in the back of my throat, and the climax began to tear through me with the force of a hurricane.

White hot, blinding bliss.

I caught a glimpse of our reflection above, my face flushed and eyes glassy, and the visual of our forms—akin to beholding a scene that Caravaggio himself might have struggled to capture, a masterpiece so dramatic, intense, and wildly ornate—tipped me over the edge, nearly knocking the air from my lungs.

I cried out, my hands scrambling for purchase. One gripped the sheets, nails tearing into the fabric, while the other grasped the back of his hand from its position on my breast, pressing my fingers into his palm.

It was a lifeline amidst the torrential waves of ecstasy.

His pace slowed, gradually bringing me down from the high, and he pressed a tender kiss to the inside of my thigh.

"Tão bonita..."

When the tremors subsided, I collapsed onto the bed, boneless and satisfied. He climbed up and lay beside me with a smug grin gracing his features, and I couldn't help but chuckle at his cockiness, rolling over to rest my head on his chest. His heartbeat thumped steadily, the sound a soothing melody, and I relaxed further into his embrace, content to listen as our breathing synced.

"Shit," I mumbled, burying my face in his neck.

"I take it I did good?"

"Mmm...maybe," I teased, reveling in his responding laughter.

"Five orgasms back to back and a maybe is all I get? Damn, I might need to step up my game next time."

"...Next time?"

"If you allow it."

"And if I don't?"

He shifted, so we were facing each other.

"Then, I can respect that." He murmured, brushing a braid out of my face. He reached for my arm and pressed a light kiss to the pulse point on my wrist. The inferno in his eyes had abated, replaced by a warmth, akin to a hearth. A cozy fire, crackling in the dead of winter, offering a comforting sense of familiarity and belonging.

This wasn't what I wanted.

I wanted casual.

I was supposed to have casual.

Not...this.

I bit back a smile, shifting to sit upright to lean back against the headboard. The music did little to alleviate my jitters, and I wrung my hands, looking around the room. The walls, a tapestry of color and texture, boasted a collage of posters. David Bowie shared space with De La Soul, while a gritty, hand-drawn poster of Blade Runner rubbed shoulders with Andy Warhol's pop art.

In the corner of the room, a floor lamp with a sculpted base that twisted like the roots of an ancient tree cast a warm glow, its light flickering over the sculptures and collectible figurines that were scattered throughout the space. Each custom piece in his room was a testament to his talent, from the smooth, abstract forms that served as bookends to the intricate, mechanical sculpture that doubled as a table lamp, gears and cogs exposed under a clear dome.

His mini-workspace was a controlled chaos of creativity, with tools hanging from a pegboard wall in an oddly satisfying symmetry. A half-finished sculpture, its form taking shape under his skilled hands, seemed almost alive, a frozen moment between thought and existence. On the wall, hovering over the space, was the mini-portrait I promised to create for him.

A sculpture that doubled as a nightstand held a stack of well-thumbed books, the topmost being a collection of essays on contemporary design. Next to the stereo, a sleek, modern turntable and vinyl record player sat comfortably on a repurposed industrial cable spool, its grooves as much a part of the decor as the music it spun. They sat juxtaposed with a collection of classic albums from a variety of genres.

He cleared his throat, the sound garnering my attention. He avoided my gaze, instead focusing his attention on a pillow, picking at a loose thread.

"You're leaving tomorrow, right? To visit family in Houston?" He inquired.

"Yeah," I confirmed, tugging a sheet over my naked form. "I'm kinda forced to go down there since a bunch of my folks gon' be there for Solange's party. My mama told her that she doesn't want any of them thinkin' she don't care about her children or whatever, especially since I ain't been back in years. Gotta keep up the image of a tight-knit family and all.

I couldn't care less about appeasing her or the countless elders who only ever made snide remarks about each other's parenting styles, opting to gossip about the latest pregnancy out of wedlock or cheating scandal instead.

My time spent back in Houston was always filled with the same superficial questions about what specialty in medical school I was most interested in or the latest updates about a distant cousin who was engaged to a tech entrepreneur or the aunt whose son received full funding to pursue his PhD at Harvard.

As though their accomplishments somehow validated their character, or the quality of their parent's parenthood. As if it mattered more than how they treated their kids, or the fact that they didn't reach out unless they needed something.

My parents were no different, focused only on their careers and appearances, and our interactions once I stepped foot out of their home were nonexistent. The calls every now and then asking for favors stacked in my voice mailbox and the occasional, oddly obligatory, generic postcard on holidays were left unopened and ignored, only to be tossed aside whenever Robyn and I deep cleaned the apartment.

I was fine with that, choosing instead to surround myself with the support system I had built.

They were my family, and no blood relation could change that.

I could sense Paul hesitating to place his hand on mine, opting instead to toy with a ring on his pinky. I grabbed it, lacing our fingers together, and the gesture earned me a small smile.

"I won't be gone for too long, though," I continued, idly tracing patterns across his knuckles. "Just the weekend, thank goodness."

Paul nodded, glancing at our hands. "Are you going to stay with your parents?"

"Only because I gotta watch Solange. No one knows about the pregnancy, and I need to make sure she keeps it that way. They'll find a way to flip it on me, I just know it. They'll say I wasn't there to help her or how I'm a bad influence or some shit when the truth is that she's old enough to make her own decisions and handle her responsibilities."

"How is she?"

"She seems to be doin' alright. I never really know unless she responds to my texts and calls or reaches out for advice, which isn't often 'cause she's stubborn like her daddy," I slightly chuckled, shaking my head fondly. "Though she's been tired. I know the fatigue is normal, but I still worry."

He got up and sauntered over to his bathroom, grabbing his boxer briefs from the heap of our clothes on the floor and some sweatpants from his dresser drawer along the way. I admired his backside, a brief respite from the heavy topic.

"I can put together a small care package before you leave or book something for you, like a massage, while you're out there," He called out, disappearing into the bathroom.

I frowned, raising my voice so he could hear me. "You don't have to offer that, Paul."

I could hear the faint sounds of the trash can lid open and close, and the sink was turned on.

"It's not a problem."

He walked out a moment later, wiping his hands on his sweats. "It's going to be a stressful weekend, and I want you to have something or someone to rely on, just in case." I quirked a brow as he sat beside me. "You've mentioned before how your family can be, and I know you've got your girls, but it never hurts to have another person to lean on. I...just want you to have...options. So, if you need an escape, someone to talk to, need me to send anything your way, or anything else, call me. I'll answer. I mean it."

The sincerity behind his words took me by surprise, and for a moment, the ability to speak eluded me.

"Okay." was all I could manage.

"Don't sweat it," he shrugged, rising from his seated position. He brushed under my chin playfully, and heading towards his workstation. He crouched, sifting through a box near his feet. "That's what friends are for, eh? I was going to, uh, order some Thai food, by the way. Want anything in particular?"

Friends.

Right.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "brutal" by Olivia Rodrigo

bonus track:  "Broken‐Hearted Girl" by Beyoncé

(This chapter contains content that may be triggering for some audiences. Reader discretion advised.)

(a/n: very long chapter)

I'd never been homesick.

I'd been 'home-sick' carrying a hunk of lead in the pit of my stomach since birth. Suffering through a meal or a family gathering. Having to smile politely while stifling the urge to throw the fine china across the room or scream obscenities at the two responsible for my existence.

Yet, despite that, a tiny, albeit growing, fraction longed to roam the streets once more. To walk the block where I used to frequent the local donut shop, the elderly owner greeting me by name, always ready to offer a kind word or one of the lemon crullers I favored for free.

To sit on the stoop, in spite of the muggy summer air, watching the sunset alone, listening to the neighbor's teenage son strum along to the bluesy chords of a guitar as he practiced for the jazz festival.

Houston was home.

And home was a burden.

It hung upon my shoulders like the humid Texas air, dense and unrelenting, as I threaded my way through the cluster of travelers at LAX. The routine was as familiar as it was tiresome, akin to the choreographed fuss of urban bees in a hive made of steel and glass.

Despite my Pre-Check status, the line at security felt like a slow descent. The cries of a toddler nearby, rebelling against the confines of the queue and the request to give his mother's phone back, were a sharp counterpoint to the hushed tones of business travelers and the soft shuffle of feet. The child's frustration was a mirror to my own, a raw, unedited soundtrack to the internal monologue I tried to silence with every glance at the sluggish clock.

Finally, at the gate, my patience was thin, and my anticipation for the journey ahead was as heavy as boots in thick mud. I brought out my headphones, diving into the familiarity of a podcast episode of The Read while my pen danced across the screen of my iPad.

I was only faintly aware of a new presence that claimed the adjacent seat moments later. I was a bit irritated, given the ample number of seating options in the vicinity, and her phone conversation was an added nuisance.

Even without the intention to eavesdrop, her phone conversation was a siren call, a blend of brisk efficiency and barely concealed exasperation that filled the space between us.

Her attire was a statement mirroring her voice, a declaration of self that transformed the terminal around her into her personal runway. The deliberate placement of her Miu Miu shades, the impeccable fall of her silk-pressed hair, and the casual elegance of her coat resting on her shoulders all spoke of a life far removed from the cumbersome weight of my own reality.

She rifled through her purse to retrieve lipgloss, and the smooth glide of its application was as hypnotic as it was mundane. Settling back, she crossed her leg over her knee.

As her voice grew louder, I casually moved my headphones, pretending to adjust their position. Frustration oozed from every word.

"—No, that's not the direction we discussed for the album," she snapped into her phone. "I don't care if Guap thinks it's more 'edgy' or whatever bullshit excuse he gave you. It's not happening, and if he has a problem with that, tell him to bring his ass to the office when I get back so I can tell him that in person...look, the label will foot the bill for the studio time, don't worry. We can push the deadline until next month. Just, I need you two to do me a solid and hold down the fort until I get back. It's almost two in the morning, and I am not in the mood to discuss this right now."

She paused with an irritated sigh, pressing a hand to her temple.

"No, I'm at the airport...heading back home...Houston...because my other man is out there, why else would I be flying back?...A girl's gotta have options..."

She accidentally dropped the tube of lipgloss onto the floor, and it rolled under my seat. She cursed under her breath, holding her phone between her ear and shoulder, and bent down, stretching a hand out as far as she could.

"I'm so sorry, but do you mind grabbing that for me? It rolled under there, and—"

Our eyes met, and she froze, the request dying on her lips. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, all traces of her prior demeanor dissipating.

"Um, hey, Stephen. Listen, we'll finish this later."

The call ended abruptly, and her phone hit the inside of her bag with a thump as she shoved it haphazardly.

"Oh my...Beyoncé, is that you, girl?" She squealed, standing from her seat and enveloping me in a hug.

I set aside my belongings, returning the embrace, and she pulled away, scrutinizing me.

"Oh my God!" She gushed, appraising my outfit. "You look so good! And cozy with this sweatsuit you have on. Is it Lacoste?"

I tucked a braid behind my ear, offering her a small smile.

"Thanks, Lori. You look good, too. I haven't seen you in years. How have you been?"

"Busy as usual, but things are lookin' up, so no complaints," she grinned, sitting back down. "You should see the house I just bought. Definitely a dream come true."

"Wow, congrats. That's great news."

Lori nodded. "Yeah, and what are the odds that we'd both be flyin' back home? Crazy."

"Small world."

She laughed. "Oh, definitely. Are you visiting family too?"

"Mhmm. Solange graduated from Columbia early, but she won't walk until May. You know how my mama is, though. Any excuse to have a celebration is a good reason."

"Oh, little Solo! I can't believe she's graduating already. Is she still glued to that computer of hers? I actually have some business plans that require some technical stuff, and I wouldn't mind poachin' her whenever she's available."

"You should reach out. She might be interested."

"I'll stop by the house once I get settled in. This trip is so long overdue. It's been so long since I've been back home, and I wanted to make it special. My parents have been asking me to come back, so I decided to spend the weekend there."

"Mmm," I hummed, rummaging through my bag. "Me too. Definitely been meaning to come back."

A silence settled between us, the easy banter fizzling out. Our lives were so drastically different from our teen years. High school was a lifetime ago.

I extracted a protein bar, tearing open the wrapper. The stress from packing last minute after work, coupled with the lack of a proper dinner, had left my stomach growling. The granola tasted bland, yet the sustenance was welcomed.

She cleared her throat, gesturing to the iPad in my lap. I chewed thoughtfully, turning back to Lori.

"So, what's keeping you busy nowadays? What have you been up to? I assume you're living out here." She asked.

I swallowed, clearing my throat. "Yeah. Just workin'."

"Well, obviously, girl," Lori chuckled, nudging my arm playfully. "I'm trying to get more specific, though. Is it art still? You were always such a talented artist, and I remember how much you loved doing those murals for the school."

"You remember those? Shit, high school hasn't really been on my mind."

"Of course I do." Lori smiled. "It was beautiful."

"Well, thanks. Yeah, it's still art," I replied. "But I've mostly been teachin' lately."

"Teaching? You mean like private lessons? Where can I sign up?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm at a school—Santa Monica College," I clarified.

"Oh, oh, that's cool."

The inflection in her voice betrayed a hint of surprise. I frowned slightly, picking up on the underlying note of condescension. Lori probably didn't mean any harm, yet it was challenging to shake off the ingrained elitism that seemed second nature to those we knew from Houston's social circles.

Even after years separated from the social orbits of our youth, Lori's reaction carried a faint echo of judgment. It reminded me of the subtle nods and raised eyebrows from back then, the silent communications heavy with expectation.

There was an unspoken sense of disappointment in her voice, as if to say, 'That's it? How tragic.' To them, it seemed, a profession that didn't measure up to the lucrative careers they deemed worthy, careers that could support the affluent lifestyle to which they were accustomed, was a major step down.

I took a sip of water, biting back a retort. "What have you been working on lately?"

"I do A&R for Atlantic, and one of my artists is working on their debut project. I'll just say there have been some 'creative differences' between him and myself as well as the producers," Lori sighed, checking her reflection on her phone. "It's been a process, but I'm excited about it. They have potential, but that ego can be a bit much sometimes. All the artists I'm developing right now are a handful actually."

"Sounds like you got a lot on your plate. Working in the industry does seem interestin', though," I mused, tossing the wrapper into a nearby trash can and pitifully missing it by a wide margin. "I know that firsthand."

Lori removed her sunglasses and hooked them onto her shirt. "You know someone in the industry? Anyone I might know?"

I hesitated, contemplating how much detail to share. We were close once, but the years had stretched our bond thin, and the divide felt almost insurmountable, despite the casual interaction.

"Oh no...um, I just watch a lot of YouTube and TV. You can learn a lot from watchin' Behind the Music and a couple of interviews."

Lori nodded slowly, seemingly unsatisfied with the vague response, and opened her mouth, prepared to inquire further. The announcement for boarding was my saving grace, interrupting her train of thought, and she slung her purse over her shoulder.

"That's my cue. It was so nice bumpin' into you. Here, give me a call later." Lori rummaged through her bag, producing a business card, and pressed it into my hand. "We can catch up a bit more later."

"Sure..." I gathered my belongings, following her toward the line forming at the entrance.

"Oh...did they call your group too?"

"Yeah. I'm flying first class. VIP treatment and all." I replied.

Another treat from Robyn and Kelly.

I forced my mouth into a flat-lipped smile as I scanned my boarding pass and passport. The flight attendant nodded, gesturing towards the jet bridge.

"Alright. Well, enjoy your flight, Bey. See you when we land."

I relished in the pitch of Lori's voice, a slight whine that carried the slightest note of indignation. It was a petty satisfaction, a brief, cathartic moment.

Some things never changed, no matter how far from home we strayed.

✮✮✮

"Solange, I asked you to meet me by arrivals with the rental car twenty minutes ago. Your flight got here way before mine."

"Well, I'm here now," she replied, not bothering to look up from her phone. "You should've just booked an Uber if you was gon' complain. Ain't nobody tryna hear all that."

"Just shut up and help me," I snapped, adjusting my duffle bag. Upon opening the trunk, I was greeted by the sight of a multitude of bags. "What the fu—what did you even bring all this extra stuff for?"

"Nigga, I needed clothes," Solange scoffed, rolling her eyes. She plucked my bag off my shoulder and heaved it into the trunk with little regard for the contents inside.

"Solange!"

"What?"

"Careful! Shit."

"Well, stop yellin' and do it yourself next time. My back hurts."

I took a deep, calming breath and pinched the bridge of my nose, ignoring Solange's amused snort as she made herself comfortable in the passenger seat. My patience had completely waned on the flight over, and the exhaustion that had seeped into my bones was a steady, relentless reminder of the events that were sure to unfold over the next few days.

The ride from the airport to our childhood home was unsettlingly swift for a Friday morning, just past 8 AM; it was typically the time when roads were clogged with the steady hum of commuters and the occasional blare of a horn from someone running late to work. Instead, traffic was inexplicably light, as if the universe itself conspired to hasten my return to the place I least wanted to be.

As we neared our parents' house, I caught myself scanning the driveway from a distance, hoping both cars were gone. The prospect of the house being empty and the front door remaining closed to us seemed like a recess I desperately wanted. If no one was home, we'd have the perfect excuse to reroute to a hotel and claim sanctuary among impersonal room service and starched sheets for the entire weekend.

But as we turned the corner, one car sat in the driveway, an unwelcome confirmation that someone was indeed home, waiting.

I parallel parked without issue and shut off the engine. Solange began to climb out wordlessly. Her mood had shifted; the crass attitude was replaced by a somber silence that was difficult not to notice.

I grabbed her hand, halting her movements.

"Remember, we gotta keep it together," I reminded her, squeezing her hand. "Act normal and keep your mouth shut."

"I'm not stupid," she mumbled as she sat back down, avoiding my gaze. "I know how to handle myself. I got it."

"Solange—"

"I said I got it," she snapped, snatching her hand away. "Now, can we go? I'm hungry, and Mama's probably cookin'."

"This ain't a game. You need to suppress them hormones. I can't have you actin' out," I reprimanded, fixing her with a stern glare. "And I ain't tryna call you stupid. Can you please stop bein' a hard-ass for once? It's frustratin'. At least just for this weekend."

"You always treatin' me like I'm a lil' kid," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Maybe if you didn't act like one, I wouldn't have to. Seriously, Solange."

She remained silent, and the muscles in her jaw clenched—a visible tick. After a moment, her face relaxed, the tension releasing.

"Fine," she conceded, reaching for the car door handle. "Imma...get the bags outta the trunk."

"Thank you," I exhaled.

Staring back at the winding path to the front door, the lead weight found its place. With a reluctant sigh, I followed Solange's lead, climbing out of the car and trekking up the walkway with my belongings.

The familiar, two-story cape cod structure loomed overhead, its pristine exterior a stark contrast from the memories of playing in the front yard, covered in dirt and grass stains, the remnants of a particularly muddy game of kickball.

Or the weekends spent sneaking out the faulty back door, escaping the monotony and fighting boredom with aimless adventure and the company of Kelly and the neighborhood kids.

The Ring doorbell echoed with finality as Solange pressed the button. I resisted the urge to flip off the lens.

The click of the lock sounded, and the door swung open, an unexpected face greeting us. Thank God.

"Solange! Beyoncé! Aye! Y'all made it!"

"Hi Angie," Solange grinned, hugging her briefly.

I accepted the hug she offered, and she closed the door behind us, pulling us into the foyer.

"Your mama told me y'all was comin' in today, but I was like 'Bey too?' Even she was shocked," Angie chuckled, taking my luggage and placing it near the stairs.

"Yeah, well. So am I."

"How've y'all been? How was your flight?"

Solange shrugged, moving past Angie and heading deeper into the house. Her face contorted into a grimace as the smell of a home-cooked breakfast permeated the air.

Angie turned her attention to me, frowning.

"So, she's still on her bullshit, huh?"

"Angie," I warned, raising a brow.

"I'm just sayin'," She raised her hands up in surrender. "Y'all know I love Solo, but that girl's always fussin' over somethin'. Always gotta have somethin' to say, and if she don't get the last word in—"

"Solange, is that you? Baby, come over here and say hi! Where is your sister? I thought she was comin'?" My mother called out from the kitchen.

The sound of her voice sent a wave of nausea through me, and I swallowed thickly.

"Hey Mama," Solange mumbled, standing near the doorway of the kitchen. I slowly made my way over.

"Oh, my baby," She cooed, pulling Solange into a tight hug. "I missed you so much. When did you start wearin' your hair this short, huh?"

"I wanted to try somethin' different."

"I'll bump the ends when I get the chance," She appraised, patting the sides. "Where is your sister? Didn't y'all fly out together? I shoulda known better. I wouldn't put it past her to—"

"I'm right here."

The room fell silent, and she released her hold on Solange, turning her attention to me.

The standoff in the kitchen was as stiff as the starched aprons hanging behind the pantry door. There she stood—my mother, a porcelain figure framed by the morning light spilling through the lace curtains, her face painted with the day's expectations before the sun had even reached its peak.

She was the epitome of our town's unspoken dress code: pristine, proper, and perpetually prepared for the judgment of eyes that were never kind.

I lingered in the arched doorway, my presence a ghost note in the morning's melody. The air was heavy with the aroma of bacon, grits, and biscuits, a smokescreen for the tension that simmered beneath the surface.

"Hey." My voice was flat as the turmoil roiled within me.

A practiced smile curled her lips as she assessed my appearance. "Beyoncé," she said. "You look...well, you look like you've been living out there for sure."

I bristled; the thinly-veiled critique of my urban attire and the life choices it represented was a well-aimed barb. I took a step forward, not into her embrace but into the ring we had danced around for years. "I've been good, Ma. I think L.A. suits me well."

Her smile faltered, her eyes narrowing just so—an unspoken acknowledgment of the gauntlet thrown. "I'm sure it does," she replied, the sweetness in her voice unable to mask the poison underneath. "But at least you're home, even if it's just for a lil' while."

I could feel Solange's eyes on me, watching the familiar play unfold—the eternal push and pull of a bond frayed by too many words left unsaid and too many said in anger.

Angie, sensing the brewing storm, cleared her throat and gestured toward the food.

"I made y'all's favorite. Bacon, eggs, and cheese grits, just like old times," she said, smiling softly. "Sit and eat. You must be tired from the flight. I can get y'all some coffee if y'all want."

"Actually, I'm gonna go shower. I don't really have much of an appetite," Solange interjected, rubbing her stomach. "My stomach's kinda upset."

"Oh, are you sick, baby? Do you need me to get the thermometer or—"

"No, I'm fine, Mama. It's probably just something I ate on the plane."

"Alright," my mother conceded, "Go upstairs and get settled. Your rooms are clean and ready. But don't take too long, baby. You can rest and eat somethin' after."

"Okay," Solange said. She looked at me briefly, hesitating, and I nodded, the gesture reassuring her that it was okay to leave me alone with the source of our discomfort.

"Well," I stated, moving to the table, "I'm hungry, so I'll take you up on that offer."

Angie nodded and brought a plate and steaming mug to the table, placing them in front of me. My mother busied herself at the sink, the sounds of clattering dishes and scraping metal a backdrop to the coffee pot's gurgle and Angie's quiet humming as she moved around the kitchen.

The scene felt oddly nostalgic—a snapshot of the mornings spent eating breakfast with Kelly and Solange, the three of us huddled together as our mother chastised us for being late for school. Angie would put the blame on us, even though she'd also been running around the house trying to find lost homework and missing shoes.

"Angie, why is this casserole dish from last night still in the sink?" My mother questioned.

"I was gonna soak it, but I forgot. Sorry," Angie responded, glancing at the offending dish.

"Soakin' it now won't do much. That grease has set in, and you should've left it to soak earlier. It would've been easier to get off."

"I'll remember that the next time you cook a big meal for one," Angie muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"I said I'll try to be more mindful of it. Don't worry, I'll clean it, Aunty."

"Mmm-hmm." She wiped her hands dry on a dishtowel and crossed her arms, leaning against the counter.

I took a sip from my mug, the hot liquid scorching a trail down my throat. I winced slightly, reaching for the small jar of sugar and bottle of creamer.

"I thought you hated coffee, Beyoncé," my mother noted.

"I drink it occasionally. It's best when it ain't bitter."

"Mmm. I guess that's another habit you picked up out there. Along with that slyness of yours."

"Aunt Tina, don't start—"

"No, no. I'm serious," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "You think I can't see that chip on your shoulder, Beyoncé? And you've barely even been here a few minutes, but already actin' all high and mighty."

"Maybe that has more to do with how you're speakin' to me, makin' unnecessary comments."

"Unnecessary comments?" She repeated incredulously, pushing away from the counter and moving towards the table.

"Yes. What was that little comment you made earlier about the way I look? I wasn't expectin' a compliment from you at all, but was that really necessary? Is this really how it's gonna be this entire weekend? You gon' keep pickin' and pokin' and tryna find somethin' wrong with me? With my clothes, my career, the life I'm livin'—"

"The life you're livin' ain't worth shit, and that's exactly why I'm concerned. You can't keep actin' like you're too good to be back here. The life you're livin' ain't gon' give you nothin' but trouble."

"What is it about my life that you don't like, huh? That I'm not married or have children like your friends' kids? Or is it because I don't own my own private practice like Angie? What is it exactly that's so bad about the way I live, hmm? Because you haven't actually explained anythin'. All you've ever done is insult me."

"Beyoncé," Angie cautioned, her tone stern. "Just...drop it, please. Aunty Tina, c'mon. Why are you doin' this? They literally just got here."

"Don't tell me what to do." My mother snapped, rounding on Angie. "My sister didn't raise you to talk to me like that. I don't care how old you are; you will respect your elders, Angela."

Angie scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm gonna go check on Solange. You two just...figure this out."

"Angie, we're not done," she said.

"I am," Angie called out over her shoulder, climbing the stairs.

My mother's eyes followed her path, and her chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. She looked at me, the disappointment in her gaze evident, and grabbed her purse off the table.

"I have some errands to run; tell Angie I'll be using her car," she declared, shrugging on her coat and smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt. "Remember, tonight's party is at your Uncle Larry's. I know you know the address, so show up at a reasonable time, please. And dress nice. I won't tolerate any of this streetwear nonsense. I don't have the energy to deal with your father's mouth if you show up lookin' a mess. O Dieu, aide-moi."

She headed for the door, and the front door closed with a resounding bang. The sound echoed throughout the house. I slumped in my seat, exhaling. The coffee was warm, and the food had long gone cold; the steam from my mug was no longer dissipating into the air.

The sound of a door opening and hurried footsteps padding down the steps caught my attention, and I turned, coming face to face with a distressed Angie. She rushed to the fridge, retrieving a bottle of Gatorade, and snatched a banana from the bowl on the counter.

"Bey, I think you might need to come up here. Quick," Angie said, her voice low.

I followed Angie upstairs, a sinking feeling in my stomach. The sight of the bathroom door, slightly ajar, and a body hurled over the toilet caused my chest to seize. I pushed the door open further, the acidic stench of bile and stomach contents burning my nose. A medical bag sat on top of the sink.

"Solange," I whispered, rushing to the toilet and kneeling beside her.

My hands cupped her cheeks; her face was pale, and the blood drained from her complexion. Her skin was slick with sweat, and the beads of perspiration clung to her forehead. Her shoulders rose and fell with heaving breaths. I pulled hair out of her face and tied it with a spare rubber band on my wrist, just in time for her to vomit again, her body shaking as she wretched into the bowl.

"I didn't mean to," she murmured. "I was fine, and then..."

She began crying, tears streaming down her face, and I rubbed her back, soothing her.

"It's okay," I assured her, wiping her tears.

"I heard her dry-heavin' from down the hall, so I came in here, and she was throwin' up everything," Angie explained, her expression concerned. "I checked her temperature, and it's normal. So, she's not sick. Can you wet that washcloth with cold water, please?"

I grabbed the cloth from her and dampened it in the sink, wringing out the excess moisture. Kneeling back beside Solange, I wiped her face, cleaning away the remnants of the morning's events.

"Solange...baby, not that I would expect you not to, but I've never seen you cry before. Tell me what's going on," Angie pleaded, stroking her hair.

Solange sniffled, looking at me, and the vulnerability in her gaze was jarring.

"Bey, you know somethin'," Angie stated, "don't you?"

The question lingered, an accusation, and the weight of my silence was a burden too heavy to bear.

"Can one of y'all answer me? Please."

Solange held my stare, and the tears dried, replaced with an expression of resignation and acceptance.

"Promise me you won't tell our parents. I don't want them to look at Solange the same way they look at me," I whispered.

✮✮✮

I fucking hated the scent of cigarette smoke.

The sting in my eyes. The scratchiness in my throat. His faint coughing.

By some stroke of luck or perhaps a quirk of genetics, our lungs remained defiant against the odds, staving off the insidious creep of asthma from the secondhand smoke. Perhaps it was this very resilience that lent me a peculiar tolerance, an ability to endure the smoke from the occasional blunt, though I didn't partake.

I never frowned upon those that did, but the idea of smoking anything—weed or tobacco—didn't appeal to me, no matter how often I was asked.

He stood under the awning of the back patio, an unlit cigarette dangling between his index and middle fingers, a lighter in the opposite hand. He surveyed the lawn, seemingly unbothered, his expression blank. His posture was rigid, an unease that belied the calm exterior, a contrast to the celebratory atmosphere surrounding him.

The backyard was abuzz with the chatter of distant relatives and acquaintances, mingling and gossiping. Children ran amuck, chasing one another, and a game of tag broke out. Some sat on a swing set, giggling, as they swayed back and forth. The older men congregated under the canopy by an oak tree, discussing the latest sports season.

He finally lit the cigarette, cradling the flame like his firstborn. Though the view was distorted by the streaks and smudges on the glass, I surveyed him from the kitchen window, silently observing as he brushed off the offer of another beer from my mother and retreated further outside, away from the crowd and out of sight.

I had yet to interact with him since my arrival, and each attempt was a fruitless endeavor, always interrupted by an eager relative or a friend. I had been cornered by a cousin who wanted to know if celebrities were as stuck-up as people made them seem.

An uncle who wanted to show me his latest business venture requested a family discount on my services.

An aunt who wanted to know if they were starving me in California, and would I mind making a quick appearance at her church to be blessed by the women's prayer circle.

I was already covered by His protection. He was protecting me for a reason.

This man's presence evoked an unpleasant, visceral reaction every single time.

He was a cancer, and that cigarette was his accelerant.

"Beyoncé, are you even listenin' to me?"

My mother's voice cut through the static of my thoughts, and the irritation in her tone was enough to garner a reaction.

"Hmm?"

"Where is your head at? I asked you to help me wash these serving spoons. We're about to bring the food out, and I need someone to take out this mac n' cheese and the potato salad. Can you do that, or should I ask someone else?"

"Get someone else," I answered, grabbing the spoons from her. "I'll wash these. I don't feel like goin' outside right now."

"Wow, it smells amazing in here. Beyoncé, is that all you?"

The voice behind me was smooth, a baritone that carried the faintest twinge of familiarity. I paused, the spoon in my hand now suspended above the sudsy dish water.

"No, Mr. Rowland. The most I can do is warm up a bowl of oatmeal," I joked.

Mr. Rowland's chuckle was a low, warm rumble that filled the space between the clinking of dishes and the bustling of the outdoors. He leaned into the patio doorway, a picture of dignified aging that time had been kind to. His once jet-black beard now flecked with distinguished strands of silver, each one telling a story of wisdom and years well lived.

At over six feet tall, his presence was overwhelming, yet there was a gentleness in his posture that softened the edges of his frame. The years had been generous, allowing his physique to retain much of its strength, a testament to a life of discipline and self-care. His skin, the color of well-brewed coffee, still held a youthfulness that defied the five decades it had weathered.

Morris Chestnut could have played his younger self in a self-directed and produced biopic, but age had added a layer to Mr. Rowland that no Hollywood gloss could replicate.

He was dressed casually, a knit sweater hugging his broad shoulders, perfectly in tune with the relaxed atmosphere of the family gathering. The sweater, a deep burgundy, complemented his complexion, and his slacks were immaculately pressed, a habit from years of professional discipline that he had never quite shaken off.

The gold watch on his wrist wasn't flashy but spoke of understated elegance, much like the man himself. It caught the light as he reached up to adjust the frame of his glasses—a new addition that he wore more for necessity than style, but they added an air of scholarly refinement.

"Ah, Beyoncé, don't sell yourself short," he replied with a grin that reached his eyes. "I must admit, your mother's outdone herself once again."

As he stepped further into the kitchen, his movements were fluid and unhurried, the ease of his step belying the strength that lay beneath his clothes. He had a way of making you feel seen, truly seen, as if in that moment, nothing else mattered but the words you exchanged and the shared laughter that often accompanied them.

With a nod towards the food, he added, "Need a hand with those?"

"Oh, no, Calvin. It's alright. You should go back and enjoy the party. I'm sure you have people waitin' on you," my mother replied, subtly biting her lip.

"I'm not really interested in listening to Larry talk my ear off about why I should let him be in my next film," Mr. Rowland said, rolling his eyes playfully. "Besides, I'm sure Solange is keeping everyone entertained."

"Chile, that girl loves the attention."

I finished washing the last serving spoon and handed it to my mother, who placed it on a towel and dried the utensil before moving it onto a tray. She took a deep breath, smoothing her apron, and turned to address the others in the kitchen to help with the remainder of the food.

"Calvin, are you coming?" My mother asked. There was a strange softness to her tone and her eyes that I wasn't accustomed to.

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute," Mr. Rowland responded.

My mother and the other women walked ahead, snickering and gossiping, and Mr. Rowland lingered for a moment, watching as they disappeared from sight.

"So..." he started, "how have you been holding up?"

"I've been better," I admitted, and his eyebrows furrowed. "But, I'm good. Really."

"Hmm," he hummed. "I'm glad you're doing okay, though I'm surprised you came back. I didn't expect to see you at this party."

"Honestly, I didn't either. But, my mom kinda twisted my arm into comin', and I'm really just here for my sister," I confessed.

"It's so good to see you. Just...wow, you've grown up so much."

"You haven't changed," I replied, a smile forming.

He brushed his beard. "You sure? I'm pretty sure this gray wasn't here last time."

"Okay, maybe a little," I said, gesturing a pinch. "But it looks good on you."

He smiled, the laugh lines around his mouth crinkling slightly. "I guess the kids would say 'it's lit' or something. Not too sure, but I appreciate it nonetheless. But you have changed. And thank goodness for that. It's good to know that the world didn't take too much from you, though. You and Kelly were always a bit different than the rest."

"Different, how?"

"I don't think I can put it into words, but I could always sense something in you. Something...stronger. A fire, maybe. Or a passion. Like your Uncle Johnny. I don't really blame him for keeping his distance. This town has a way of putting out those flames, and I can tell it tried its best with you. But I'm glad the three of y'all never let that happen."

He glanced outside, his eyes searching, and a frown crossed his face.

"I know I don't have a right to ask," he began, "but have you spoken to or heard from him at all? Or is he just...gone?"

"I haven't spoken to him, no. I left so abruptly that I never had a chance to get his number. And he's not on any social media. I just hope he's doing okay, wherever he is. He deserves that."

"Yeah, he does," Mr. Rowland agreed, nodding solemnly.

I offered to change the subject. "Kelly told me to say 'hi' when I saw you by the way,"

"Ooh, how is my little girl doing? I only know so much of what's going on from a few phone calls here and there. I'll be flying out to L.A. soon for some meetings, but don't tell her that. I'm planning to surprise her."

"Kelly's doin' great. She's actually—"

"Calvin," a voice called out, and I grimaced at the sharp stench of a recently extinguished cigarette. The sound of a phlegmy cough followed. Mr. Rowland's posture tensed a bit, the lines of his body pulled taut like an over-tightened guitar string. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

"Mathew," Mr. Rowland replied.

I turned, facing the source of the voice, and his eyes landed on me, appraising my appearance. He surveyed me with that analytical gaze that could dismantle my defenses as if they were one of his engineering projects.

"Beyoncé," he said. His face was expressionless.

"Hey...Daddy."

His gaze volleyed between Mr. Rowland and me, a silent inquisition in the furrow of his brow. He stepped forward, intruding upon the fragile bubble that had encased the kitchen moments before.

"What're y'all doin' in here?" He demanded, his eyes locked onto Mr. Rowland with an intensity that made the air feel just a degree too warm.

"I just came in here to see how everyone else was doing," Mr. Rowland explained.

"I was helpin' Mama with some stuff," I chimed in concurrently, my hand waving toward the sink in an attempt to paint a picture of innocence. "She needed me to help her with the dishes. I was gonna come outside, but Mr. Rowland stopped by and offered to help her carry some stuff. Then we started talkin' for a minute."

His gaze lingered on Mr. Rowland for a moment longer than was comfortable before he turned his attention to me. "I see," he said curtly, the bristles of his military-cut hair and mustache almost standing in salute to his rigid demeanor. "I didn't realize we were shorthanded with the women handling things just fine."

Mr. Rowland's eyes briefly met mine; a silent understanding passed between us before he nodded at my father. "No trouble at all, Mathew. Just lending a hand where it's needed," he said, his voice even, but I caught the slight strain behind his words. He offered me a small, reassuring smile before turning to leave. "It was great seeing you, Beyoncé," he said before he walked away, leaving me alone with the imposing figure of my father.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. "Daddy, I—" I began, but his boisterous voice cut me off, the abrupt shift causing me to jump slightly.

"What are you wearin'?" He asked, frowning, and stepped closer, a hint of disapproval in his gaze. "You got shorts underneath this skirt?"

"No, Daddy," I answered, resisting the urge to cross my arms. "It's not that short. Besides, it's not like anyone—"

"Did I ask you to explain yourself?"

"I didn't think I needed permission to."

He stepped closer, and my body tensed, the proximity making me increasingly uncomfortable.

"Do you wanna try that again?"

"My skirt is just fine," I reiterated, "No one is gonna be lookin' at me anyway. Tonight is Solange's night. Everyone's here for her. Everyone should be here for her, especially you."

His eyes narrowed. His presence was suffocating, and a strange mix of resentment and fear coursed through my veins.

"Watch your mouth, Beyoncé," he commanded. "I've always been here for my children. I put food on the table every day, paid the bills, clothed y'all. I made sure y'all had a roof over your heads. Do you know how much it takes to put a kid through school, hmm? To provide for a family? Every dollar that comes in has my blood, sweat, and tears in it. So, don't question my love and devotion as a father. I've spoiled y'all rotten. I've given more than enough."

"Providin' for a family is what you're supposed to do. It doesn't mean anythin' if you can't even show a lil bit of affection. I've watched you this whole night and you haven't said a single word to Solange. You've barely even looked at her. This party is for her and you haven't even checked in on her or bothered askin' how she's been. How can you say that you've given more than enough?"

"Solange is grown. She can handle herself. She doesn't need her father hovering over her the entire night."

"But she does need you. We both did," I said, my voice cracking, and I cursed inwardly at the hint of vulnerability.

He chuckled, but the sound was devoid of humor, and his gaze was cold. "Look at you, pretending like you've cared about your sister or her feelings for the past few years. And stop all that whinin'—"

"Don't make this about me, Daddy. You haven't—"

"Don't interrupt me," he scolded, and the years of conditioning had my mouth snapping shut, an automatic response to the harsh tenor of his voice. "You used to be so quiet as a child. Always hidin' behind your mama's leg whenever we had company. It's a damn shame you turned out like this and no one has checked you for it. Your sister has always known her place. But, you? Now, you're struttin' around with all this makeup, desperately flirtin' with your friend's father, showin' off skin like some common—"

"Whore?! Is that what you were gonna call me? Huh? Go ahead and say it. Call me a whore, Daddy. You've probably already called me worse."

My eyes stung, and my jaw clenched painfully, grinding my teeth. The rage was a violent tempest in my chest, and a sudden surge of boldness washed over me. The accusation of promiscuity, the repeated slights against my character, and the culmination of every slight, big or small, finally tipped the scales.

I continued. "You don't ever like what I'm wearin' or how I look, and I know you hate the fact that I'm livin' a life without you and your judgment. So you know what? Fuck y'alls opinion! I'm done tryna please you and Mama. You can't tell me what to do anymore. I don't even know why I bothered comin' back. I'm not gonna stand here and argue with you about somethin' stupid."

I headed out of the kitchen, and he grabbed my arm, pulling me back. I struggled against his grip, twisting and turning, but his hold was firm, and the pain caused a cry to escape me.

The stench of cigarettes and alcohol in his breath was nauseating, and the acrid blend was overwhelming. My stomach churned, the stale scent invading the space. He tightened his grip, a bruising vice on my forearm, and the tears pooled, spilling down my cheeks.

"Let go of me!"

"Who the fuck do you think you're talkin' to?!" He hissed.

His eyes, usually dark brown, were a deep black; the fury in his glare was a storm that threatened to pull me under its current. I managed to wrestle my arm free, and his fingers were embedded into my flesh—indentations from his nails.

Storming out of the kitchen, his voice chased behind me, the bellowing of his voice carrying through the backyard, silencing the conversations. Birds scattered, fleeing their perch on power lines.

"Get back here, Beyoncé. Now."

"Leave me alone!" I yelled, pushing past the gathering crowd, and the murmurs followed behind me, a trail of curious spectators.

"Beyoncé, where are you goin'?" My mother called.

Solange appeared beside her, a look of concern across her face, and the ache in my chest intensified, knowing that the commotion was marring the night she deserved.

"This daughter of yours done lost her damn mind," he exclaimed, storming behind me. "Actin' a goddamn fool, yellin' at her father. In front of all these people. Embarrassin' her entire family."

"Beyoncé, come here," Angie said, grasping my shoulder, and pulled me toward her. I yanked my arm away, shaking my head.

"Go. Follow her. Run away like you've done before," he remarked, and my blood boiled at the accusation. "That seems to be how you deal with your problems now."

"You wanna talk about runnin'? Huh?! You wanna fuckin' talk about runnin'?" I fumed, turning towards him, and his expression faltered, shock apparent. He straightened his spine, his hands curling into fists, and his nostrils flared. "That's all you've ever done, Daddy. You don't ever say anythin' to anybody, just stay in your lil corner drinkin' and smokin' and actin' like you can't be bothered by nothin' unless it benefits you or appeals to you. And if someone tries approachin' you, you snap and push them away. That's how you deal with your problems, not me. That's runnin', and you've been doin' it all my fuckin' life."

"Beyoncé, that is enough," my mother said, her tone severe.

"No," I protested, and she flinched, taken aback. "and I'm gon' get to you in a second, just wait."

I took a step towards him, my arms shaking. The adrenaline, a potent concoction of anger and hurt, fueled the courage, emboldening my words.

"Don't bring up shit you don't know anything about," my father countered, and there was an edge to his voice. "You don't know what you're talkin' about, so stay in your place, and don't try me."

"Stay in my place?" I repeated incredulously.

"Beyoncé—"

"What the hell is wrong with you? Do you even understand how fucked up you are? Do you? I can't even imagine how horrible your life must be if this is how you choose to cope. You don't even care about any of us. We're all just a reminder of what you hate most about yourself. You don't even wanna try. You've already given up, and you can't stand to see the rest of us livin' and findin' happiness outside of this fucked up place."

"I swear I'm gon' smack the taste outta—"

"Don't touch her, Mathew!" Uncle Larry shouted, rushing toward us.

"Mathew, calm down," Mr. Rowland added.

Tears blurred my vision. A stream of hot, angry trails and a sob bubbled up, spilling from my chest.

"I can't stand lookin' at you, Daddy. Because when I look at you, all I see is a man who hates himself and takes it out on everyone around him," I confessed, and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. "And I hate seein' you in me, because no matter how much I try not to, I end up thinkin' that's all I am. That all I'm ever gon' be is a failure, and I hate you for that. I fuckin' hate you and everythin' about you. Every time I'm near you, it takes everything in me not to just fuckin' scream. And I can't stand to even look at your face. The thought of you makes me feel like throwin' up. So, you're right, Daddy. I've been runnin', but that's only because you made me. You made me into this person. This angry, scared, bitter little girl who never learned how to accept herself. So, fuck you!"

Then, everything was a blur.

The cries from shocked onlookers.

Solange's yelling.

The men restraining him.

The wetness and gradual stinging on my left cheek. But they weren't tears. It carried the stench of cigarettes.

A glob of saliva clung to his bottom lip, a streak of white foam. The same saliva that strung between Angie's thumb and forefinger as she wiped my face.

I glanced up at my father, his frame silhouetted by the moonlight, and his face was devoid of emotion, blank. I was struck by the coldness in his eyes. His mouth was moving, and his hands were balled into fists, but his voice was muffled and indecipherable. A dull ringing permeated my ears, a persistent, high-pitched whine. The world was spinning, and a wave of nausea swept over me.

I was operating on autopilot as Angie guided me towards the house, her arms wrapped protectively around me, and she helped me to her car. The drive was silent, the quiet pierced only by the occasional sniffle.

She dabbed a tissue underneath her eyes, smudging the mascara, and a streak of black blotted her cheek. Her eyes were red, a burning crimson, and the smeared makeup accentuated the flushness of her skin.

As soon as we entered her house, Angie led me to her bedroom and asked if I wanted her to draw a bath. She drew small circles on my back, her movements slow and comforting.

"No," I answered.

"Are you sure?" She probed, her brow furrowed.

"I just want to be left alone. Please."

Angie sighed, nodding. "Okay," she acquiesced. "I'll give you some privacy. I'll be downstairs if you need me." Her fingertips grazed the tender area on my cheek, and a hiss escaped me as a sharp pain radiated from the point of contact.

More tears flowed silently, and my body heaved, convulsing with quiet sobs.

I felt so dirty.

I felt humiliated.

I felt weak.

I wanted to peel the skin off my face and scrub every inch of myself until the filth was gone and the layer of disgust no longer clung to my body.

"Bey—"

"Don't," I choked out. "Leave me."

She left my belongings on the bed, and her footsteps retreated once the door closed shut. Her shadow slipped from the crack beneath the door, leaving me enveloped in a quiet that felt both suffocating and liberating.

The sobbing subsided, the aftershocks of my emotional earthquake slowly calming as I lay sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes.

The solace of solitude allowed the events to replay in my mind with cruel clarity. Every word, every look of disgust, every physical sensation during the altercation with my father were etched into my consciousness, a relentless loop of the night's chaos.

It was a bitter irony that, in seeking to distance myself from him, I had mirrored his anger, his capacity for venomous words.

A part of me was aghast at the outburst, at the unbridled volcano of emotions I had unleashed. Yet, another part—a shadowy corner of my psyche—whispered a perverse sense of satisfaction.

For years, I had bottled up resentments, swallowed accusations, and suffocated cries for recognition. What had erupted was not just my own pain but a legacy of silent battles, a history of unspoken sorrows within the walls of a home that was more a prison than a sanctuary.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed at 12:23 AM, the red digits a beacon in the dim room. Time felt immaterial, each second as weightless and insignificant as the next. But the world outside continued its relentless march forward.

I knew I had to leave. The toxicity of this environment, the poison of my father's presence—it was anathema to healing, to finding any semblance of peace. But where could I go? Kelly and Robyn were states away, Laura and O'Ryan were across the pond, and their concern would only add to the burden I already bore. I didn't want to disturb Dr. Beharie's well deserved peace and privacy. Paul's offer echoed in my head, a lifeline thrown with the best intentions, yet too entangled with complications to grasp.

Then, a name surfaced. A face, a smile, a voice that had always been a steady undercurrent of calm in the stormy seas as of late.

Not too close to be enmeshed in the drama, yet familiar enough to provide solace.

She wasn't privy to the intricacies of my life back home, which was a blessing in disguise. To her, I was just Beyoncé—no strings of family dysfunction attached. I could be myself, vent about inconsequential things, talk about art, music, or movies, anything to steer my mind away from the ruins of the evening.

I reached for my phone, swiping through the contacts, and my thumb hovered over her name. It was late, but she was a night owl, often awake into the small hours, finding solace in the quiet that nighttime afforded.

Before doubt could seep in, I tapped the call button. Each ring was a thudding heartbeat, a countdown to potential reprieve or a dead end.

Voicemail.

I tried again, and her cheerful greeting played once more, the timbre of her voice soothing and light.

"Hey...it's me," I rasped, wincing at the hoarseness. "I'm sorry for callin' so late, but call me back when you get this. No rush, though. It's not urgent or anythin'. We can just talk or...y'know...whatever. Just, call me back...whenever. Thanks. Bye."

I hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed, and buried my face into the pillow, allowing the darkness to swallow me whole. Sleep began to elude me, teasing in its retreat. My eyelids grew heavy, the weariness settling upon them.

A loud, vibrating buzz roused me, and a dull headache throbbed behind my eyes. Reaching for the phone, the bright screen illuminated my face, and her name appeared.

This was my chance. I needed to make things right between us and apologize for the radio silence and the distance.

I had to answer.

"Aaliyah, hey..."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Without You" by Dwele

The prickling of grass blades against my skin, the earthy aroma of soil and decaying leaves, the sporadic caresses of a light wind, and the sun's warmth all conspired to ground me to the here and now. I opened my eyes to a world washed in vibrant greens—an expanse of grass undulating like waves, dotted with the occasional rise of a solitary hill.

I felt uncharacteristically light, almost ethereal. Above, the sky presented itself as if lifted from a children's storybook—impossibly blue with clouds scattered like haphazard dollops of whipped cream. I reached up, fingers spread wide, aiming to touch the idyllic tableau.

A dove, the very symbol of peace, chose that moment to grace my outstretched fingers. Its eyes held an innocence that whispered of simpler times. I smiled, and it seemed to understand, for it sang a note so pure it made my heart ache with longing.

I watched it take flight, cutting a graceful arc against the sun's lazy embrace. For a brief instant, the world around us seemed to pause, the wind itself hushing in reverence to the moment's fragile beauty.

But tranquility is often fleeting. A shadow fell upon my serene landscape as a larger black bird, all hunger and predatory precision, shattered the calm. The dove, now a frantic blur of desperation, sought escape, but the black bird pursued with relentless determination.

They disappeared behind a cloud, and a mournful coo reached my ears, followed by a jarring screech. A sorrowful silence ensued, soon clouded by a rain of white feathers and droplets of blood that speckled my skin, marking me an unwilling witness to nature's ruthlessness.

Sitting up from my position, prone upon the earth, a figure emerged. Astride a horse as dark as the void itself, it loomed like a shadow torn from the depths of a nightmare. Beneath a wide-brimmed hat, its gaze held the weight of ages, its presence an enigma wrapped in stillness.

I turned from the anonymous figure, seeking refuge in the sky, but found only a canvas now leeched of its vibrancy, the sun eclipsed by a creeping despair that painted everything in shades of ash.

The wind rose from a whisper to a howl, a harbinger of chaos, as the once-vivid landscape succumbed to a creeping mist. The horse, now a spectral apparition within the fog, advanced with breaths that spoke of decay. Each thunderous beat of its hooves rooted fear deeper within me.

The rider, with the black bird now perched upon his shoulder, was an omen made manifest, descending upon me with the inexorable approach of dusk.

The scent of menthol and the tang of alcohol cut through the air, assaulting my senses. Its face remained hidden, but I didn't need to see it to know who it was—I felt its identity deep in my bones. My body trembled, and as they leaned closer, I knew them to be a harvester of souls.

My voice, lost to the void, left me to suffer in silence. Its hand, cloaked in the darkest leather, found my throat, an inexorable grip of malice. I fought in vain, my efforts as futile as they were desperate. The world receded, my vision dimming, slipping...

Fading to black...

✮✮✮

With a sudden surge, I snapped into a sitting position. A slick layer of sweat traced the contours of my neck while my hands quivered uncontrollably. My chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, and tremors coursed through my entire being.

Shutting my eyes, I inhaled deeply, attempting to steady my breathing and the relentless fatigue that pulled at every muscle. It felt like my mind had been run ragged, but I could not remember even a scrap of the nightmare that had ensnared me.

Only a haunting feeling lingered—and a sense of unquenchable dread. Dreams, I had always assumed, were the one place where one could rest from the rigors of reality, and yet the one time I desperately needed such a hiatus, my mind had abandoned me to the void.

It took a few minutes of silent breathing before the trembling subsided. With the tremors calmed, my eyes were released from their self-inflicted exile. The room that greeted me in the faint darkness of pre-dawn was not mine. The disorientation caused me to sit still, collecting the threads of memory that lay scattered throughout the cobwebs of my mind.

The lamp was still on, and the digital clock next to my phone cast a soft red glow across the bedside table, announcing it was 6:40 AM. Sunbeams spilled through the thin curtains and splashed across the wall behind, highlighting the odd motes of dust drifting along lazy paths.

The bed lay in disarray around me, blankets twisted into knots, sheets crumpled and untidy.

My pillow bore the stains of sweat mingled with tears.

I could hardly remember drifting off last night. Emotions were as volatile as a firework about to burst, and with the entire day being one drawn-out adrenaline high, my mind had crashed almost as soon as the pillow met my head. What followed could not exactly be described as rest.

Slowly, my hand reached toward the side of my face to brush my fingertips over my cheek. A dull ache bloomed to life, throbbing with my heartbeat, a physical manifestation of yesterday's memories. My throat tightened, and the world became blurry as tears began to form. I pressed my lips together as a shuddering breath passed through.

I had cried myself to sleep last night.

It wasn't unusual; it wasn't the first time it happened, nor was it the worst breakdown I had suffered through. Still, waking up after a night like that brought me right back to feeling small and feeble. A hand reached to grab at my shirt, the same shirt as yesterday, now thoroughly sullied by tears and sweat. And then, like a tide of dark waters, more memories crashed back to shore.

The phone conversation with Aaliyah.

Her voice carried the unmistakable traces of guilt. Guilt for not being here to comfort me after everything that had happened. And guilt for leaving me all alone with a burden that she couldn't shake from my shoulders.

It had been a selfish thing for me to call her at that time. To dump my grief and suffering on her shoulders when she herself had to contend with her own world.

I was such a selfish bastard.

And then there was my father, who had shown a side to himself that I hadn't even dared to believe he had, even with his temperament and proclivities. For a man who had never loved and a boy who had been starved of such affection, yesterday had been his breaking point.

This was my last straw. There was a new gaping wound in my soul, a laceration that ran deeper than any before it, and for the first time ever, I feared for my own mental and physical wellbeing. I wasn't safe in spaces that were supposed to be my sanctuary. My family home, my mind, my body—I had to protect the latter two somehow.

And that was probably why Angie had taken me in, at least until I was safe again.

I rose, shrugging off the tangled covers. My limbs were stiff from lying in an awkward position for so long, and as my bare feet hit the cold floor, the shivers took a moment to subside.

A brief thought of showering crossed my mind, but I knew the rest of my stuff had to be at the house. I settled instead on rubbing the crusty sleep out of my eyes and washing my face. I paused as I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

A faint bruise, the color of plums, mottled a small area just underneath my left cheekbone. The swelling wasn't major, but it still stung to touch. The sight caused my emotions to churn and my head to hang down. I could never bring myself to look at it directly for too long. Not without another breakdown.

A deep breath later, and I turned on the tap. The water was icy cold, but I needed something to take away the dryness. As the chill assaulted my skin, the numbness spread to the rest of my body, allowing my mind to settle and clear.

The sensation passed in time, and I moved my hands from cupping my chin to gently washing my face, cleaning up the filth that had collected there. A deep inhale later, and I grabbed a towel to pat myself dry, moving gently over the tender spot.

After brushing my teeth with a spare toothbrush left aside for me, I grabbed my shoes, phone, and a small blanket from the storage bench at the foot of the bed to wrap around my shoulders. As I made my way down the stairs, two voices could be heard from the kitchen—one of Angie's and the other surprising me.

I found Angie leaning against the counter with a steaming mug in one hand, engaged in a hushed conversation with Solange, who sat at the kitchen island, looking as tired as I felt.

My phone buzzed with a message as I approached them.

Aaliyah

landed in Houston. need the addy. you doing okay? you need me to get you something on my way there?

Beyoncé

no need. im good. see you when you get here.

I sent her my location, and the two women in the room greeted me with a wry smile that fell as they noticed my appearance. I shrugged off the concerned stares as I moved to take a seat on one of the stools by the island. The stool groaned beneath my weight.

"How you doin' this morning? You should eat somethin'." Angie asked, her eyes betraying worry.

"I'm not hungry," I lied, as my eyes drifted toward Solange.

She flashed me a sad smile but didn't speak. Instead, Angie picked up where she left off.

"How's your face feelin'?"

"It still hurts when I touch it," I said with a frown. "But other than that, it ain't that bad."

"I don't want it gettin' any worse than it already is since I didn't get the chance to ice it. I got some Vitamin K cream and aloe vera to help with the swellin'. We can get that on you after you eat. Some Advil should help with the pain as well." Opening the freezer, she handed me a wrapped icepack. "If it starts gettin' any worse, you let me know right away. The last thing we need is to add more trouble on top of everythin'."

"...thanks."

"I went back to get your sister from Uncle Larry's once I left you alone. I couldn't imagine her havin' to spend the night at your parents' place, so I figured that I could be of help by letting her stay with me."

Angie placed her mug on the island and placed both hands on either side of the cup. She glanced between me and Solange with a sigh.

"She stayed in the spare room down here. I tried to ease her stress on the way back, but she told me that it's not in me to worry about her when 'you need my attention'. And when we walked into the house, we thought you would've been sleepin' until..." Angie paused, her eyes looking into my own.

"We heard you cryin'..." Solange finally spoke, and her voice trailed off, her words echoing in a barren landscape. She looked into her cup of orange juice, as if searching for answers.

My shoulders tensed at her statement. The idea of the two of them hearing me have a mental breakdown was as uncomfortable as it was embarrassing. I had enough trouble coping with all this as it was without people seeing me like this. My fingers pressed into the palm of my hand as I fought to keep my composure.

"She came up to see if you were alright, but I told her to wait down here while I went to check up on you later," Angie finished as she stepped back, leaning against the sink counter. "When I walked in, you was sound asleep, so I left you alone to rest. When I came back down here, Solange was waitin', scared, askin' me if there was anything she could do. I tried to get her to rest too. It was a pretty long night."

Angie sighed once more as she began to move around the kitchen, picking up the items for the coffee machine. The sound of her opening and closing drawers echoed, an accompaniment to the tense silence. The room remained that way until the machine's gurgle cut through the kitchen.

I turned to look at Solange, who seemed...off. The normally outspoken fire in her seemed dim. Her gaze, usually so direct and challenging, now lingered on the contents of her cup—a quietude that felt foreign on her.

The coffee pot beeped as the final drops hit the pot, and Angie walked over to hand me a steaming mug.

"You don't have to feel bad," I said to her quietly. "It's not like it's the first time you heard me cryin'."

The last sentence felt heavy on my tongue as I realized how much weight it held. My phone vibrated as Aaliyah messaged me, but I chose to ignore it. I didn't really have the energy to entertain her at the moment.

"...I've never heard you cry like that, Bey. It ain't like those other times...when...when..." Solange said, still looking at the countertop. She brought a hand up to wipe at her eyes, and the first signs of tears formed.

"Solange," I breathed out. My body felt heavy and tired, with the events of yesterday still lingering around. I moved over to her and pulled her into a side hug, but to my surprise, she turned it into a full hug, burying her face into the blanket I was using as a shawl.

"I hate him...I hate him so much!" she croaked out as she wrapped her arms around my back, clutching me with unyielding strength. A soft sniffle reached my ears, and she trembled as she tried to keep the rest of the tears at bay.

I rested my other cheek atop her head, my eyes shut, as my own emotions stirred in response.

"It's not fair. I've seen so many times how you were down on yourself after what he said. All they ever did at home was talk about you when you were gone, and it was so fuckin' annoyin'! It's not fair that you gotta go through this again. That you gotta put up with them, even after leavin' and findin' some kinda peace. I don't get it. I don't get it at all," she whispered in a quiet fury. "I didn't even wanna have this stupid party, but they forced me to, like they always do. And you got caught up in it because of me, and now..." She trailed off, and I pulled her closer, gently stroking the back of her head in an attempt to calm her down.

Angie approached and gently patted Solange on the back. "None of that was fair to you. You two don't deserve any of that, and I hate that there was nothin' I could do for you, even back then."

A long exhale escaped Solange. Her grip softened around me, but I stayed still.

I was stunned at her confession, which laid bare years of unspoken truths and unacknowledged pain. It was a revelation that forced me to confront the naivety of my own escape—I had believed that severing ties would somehow lighten us both, not realizing the void my absence would leave in her life.

"Solange, I'm sorry...I never wanted to make you feel this way for what I did last night..."

"You're not the one makin' me feel this way," she replied softly, her face still hidden. "I don't understand what I feel sometimes, but that's not your fault. I'm glad they fucked him up for what he did to you."

I moved my head up and back down in a nod. It felt like something in me had changed in that moment, and I could feel an itch of change within her likewise, wanting us to move forward.

But the 'how' eluded me.

I gently moved Solange away from me to sit down, but I held her by the shoulders.

"I don't want you stressin' out about me like this. For your sake and the baby's. You're gonna be a mom in a couple months. A beautiful one at that," I said as I cracked a grin at the last bit, trying to get her to smile. "Just promise me you'll keep it calm. You gotta promise me that."

It was a request that I needed her to abide by. The idea of her spiraling down because of me and her father was not something I wanted to have on my conscience.

A soft huff, almost a chuckle, left her as her expression morphed into one of amusement and surprise. Her lips parted into a soft grin as she looked up at me. The tension that had taken up residence in her posture dissipated, and I felt myself relaxing in turn.

I looked over at Angie, and the relieved expression that spread over her features caused a small smile of my own. "How is Daniel?" she asked softly towards Solange. "Is he ready for all this?"

"He's very excited." The warmth slowly returned to her voice, and it seemed that my reassurances had helped soothe some of her worries. "He was already makin' a list of names, and so far, we've got five girls and three boys' names written down." She took another sip of orange juice. "He's ready. I just hope I am, too."

"Don't you worry," Angie reassured her with a soft smile. "You'll be fine. If it were up to me, I would love to monitor how everythin's goin' and all, but I can't practice outside of Texas. Not if I wanna keep my license anyway. And with the way your mama comes over like she live here, she won't be too happy findin' out that you'd been here the whole time without tellin' her. You have my number. If there's anything you need help with, anything you need me to tell you or Daniel, you don't hesitate to call or text me. Even if you need to vent and cry about him grabbin' the wrong potato chip flavor from the store or somethin'. Okay?"

Solange softly chuckled at Angie's playful comment and nodded. "A'ight, a'ight. I'll make sure I do that."

"Where's my stuff, by the way? Did y'all drop by the house before comin' here?" I asked Angie.

"No...we didn't. Neither of us had the key, and y'all mama refused to hand it over at the party. She's not even answerin' my calls, and I'm afraid your dad might be home, too," Angie said, and the tightness returned to her eyes as her tone darkened. "I'll figure out a way to get in so y'all can get y'alls stuff, but it ain't gon' be anytime soon."

"I just remembered somethin'...we could probably get into the house usin' the back door. It was always janky," Solange commented. "Daddy couldn't figure out why it wouldn't close, and he would always keep forgettin' to call the locksmith to check it. I doubt they would have replaced the door yet. Or even gotten around to fixin' it."

Angie looked thoughtful. "Would you both be willin' to test that theory?"

"I'd have to anyway. I need a fresh outfit, and I want to get somethin' else I left behind besides my luggage," I replied with a sigh. "If they find us snoopin' around and get mad, let them. It's not like I have anythin' else to lose."

The sound of the doorbell drew the three of us to silence, and we each looked toward the source of the sound with varying expressions.

"It's probably the neighbors' kids," Angie said. "Always kickin' that soccer ball into the backyard..." She placed her empty cup down in the dishwasher with a soft sigh, then pushed herself off of the counter and began moving toward the front door.

I shifted to sit in a more comfortable position as Solange let out a yawn and stretched, her joints popping in a fragmented rhythm.

"Soccer? This early?" Solange said to herself.

I panicked inwardly, worried about the glaring evidence that marred my face. I had none of my makeup on me, and with no chance of hiding it from anyone that came by, I felt vulnerable.

I looked around the room, as if looking for a solution, then wrapped the blanket tightly like a hooded cloak over my head. I tried to remain calm as my sister looked at me with curiosity.

"Maybe they like playin' at the crack of dawn." I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to play it off. The last thing I needed was for Solange to guess the true cause of my sudden unease. From my position at the dining table, the front door was barely out of sight, but the sudden gasp was a telltale sign that the visitor was not who Angie expected.

"Oh my God, I can't believe it! What the hell are you doin' here?" Angie's voice carried into the room with surprise. "You sure you at the right house? Or am I hallucinatin'? Is there a camera crew outside? Am I bein' pranked?"

The door opened further as a familiar soft laugh resounded throughout the foyer. I had never been so happy to hear that sound in my life, to hear her voice. I could feel Solange drawing her head closer to the door as I struggled to remain still.

"Well, hello, ma'am, and good mornin' to you. You must be...?"

"Angie. And you ain't gotta call me ma'am, I know I ain't that old. You lookin' for somebody here?"

"Beyoncé. She sent me this address."

Aaliyah's voice rang out clearly through the house, and Solange and I locked gazes in a moment of realization. Solange's jaw dropped slightly as I looked at her sheepishly, while my own heart sped up and I could feel my ears becoming warm. She rushed out of her seat and towards the door. I watched with a sense of nervous excitement.

"Aaliyah?!" Solange exclaimed. "Can I get a picture with you? Oh shit, my friends 'bout to trip when they find out that you here. Hold up, lemme Facetime Kiana and 'em..."

"Uh-uh, Solange, now you know better." Angie said.

"Oh, you're Solange. Oh wow. Beyoncé, she told me a lot about you. Sorry, do you mind if I come inside? Is she here right now?"

"Yes, please do, come in, come in. She's in the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink like water? Juice? Have you eaten somethin'?" Angie said.

Aaliyah softly chuckled. "Thanks, but I'm fine."

Solange squealed, and I could hear the sound of a quick photo being taken on a phone. I bit back a laugh, smiling despite myself at my sister's reaction.

I then stood to meet her.

As Aaliyah rounded the corner, the early light filtered through the windows, setting her silhouette aglow and dusting the crown of her slick ponytail with a halo of sunbeams. Her eyes, slightly red and puffy, didn't diminish the soft warmth they held as they fell upon me. The sight of her in the archway, strong and yet somewhat shaken from our earlier exchange, struck a chord deep within me.

The moments stretched between us, becoming thicker and more tangible with each step she took into the kitchen. She was here, standing before me, a spectacle of raw beauty.

My throat tightened, and I had to press my lips together to keep my emotions from showing. Her eyes scanned my face, concern etched into her features as she took in my appearance.

I didn't want her to see me like this; I couldn't bear it. But Aaliyah's unsolicited presence, even without the full story of what had occurred, was a testament to her care, a depth which, perhaps, I had underestimated.

I realized then that no amount of physical distance or time apart would've kept her away.

She took another step, then paused. "Hey..." The softness of her voice was a welcome blanket over my weary heart. She looked hesitant to come any closer. Her hand fidgeted with the strap of the purse over her shoulder as she gave me a tentative smile.

I could sense that she wanted to wrap her arms around me, and it was as if we were suspended in time, as if waiting for a signal from one another that the moment had arrived.

Solange and Angie exchanged looks. Angie began to edge herself around Aaliyah, flashing an expression of confusion that Aaliyah and I both ignored. "Uh, lemme...just...let y'all catch up. Solange, why don't you help me grab some...air...in the garden?" she said before leading Solange away by her shoulder, both of them shooting us furtive looks.

I shifted on my feet, watching their departure, then turned back to Aaliyah. "Hey," I responded softly, a slight tremble to my voice. She opened her mouth, closed it, and took another step forward, but no words passed through her lips.

I didn't want to start crying again, but seeing Aaliyah reminded me of everything I had been bottling up inside me. With every fiber of my being, I wanted to fall into her embrace and feel safe in her arms. To just forget everything that was happening. And I think that's what she wanted me to do.

Her arms outstretched in an offer, and I rushed over and into her warm, soft hug, with my arms wrapping tightly around her torso, clutching at the fabric of her clothing to ensure she was real and that this wasn't just a figment of my longing.

She exhaled softly, her body relaxing against mine, and the familiar scent of her jasmine perfume and the heat of her touch soothed me, as if by magic. I couldn't help the tears that escaped as her hand moved to gently caress my back in soft, rhythmic motions.

I missed her so much. More than I thought I could. More than I had allowed myself to realize.

"I'm here...I'm right here," she whispered softly in my ear. "God, I was so worried, Bey. I'm so glad you're okay..."

We pulled back just enough to allow our eyes to meet, and in that gaze, an entire universe of compassion was exchanged. I found myself unable to look away from Aaliyah, my hand instinctively reaching up to wipe the tears that had breached my defenses, as she offered me a smile tinged with her own sadness.

A lone tear escaped her, trailing down her cheek, and without thought, my thumb came up to catch it, my touch lingering against the warmth of her skin.

Aaliyah seemed to gather herself, her features tightening as though she were about to speak. But then her attention was drawn to the very thing I had hoped she wouldn't notice.

I turned away, a reflexive attempt to shield myself from her scrutiny, but she was gentle yet insistent, tilting my face back towards her, the blanket falling away to reveal the stark evidence of my turmoil.

A moment passed as she took in my reaction before her thumb grazed the mark gingerly, and I couldn't suppress the hiss that escaped me as a jolt of pain lanced through my skin. She withdrew her hand swiftly, as if the contact had scalded her, and in her eyes, there kindled a flicker of anger, raw and fierce, the likes of which I had never witnessed in her before.

"Who did this?" Aaliyah asked, her tone low. The shift in her demeanor was so swift that I could scarcely believe that this woman before me was the same woman I knew. "Who hurt you? Bey, what happened?"

I swallowed and averted my gaze, not trusting myself to answer her.

"Beyoncé, please." Her voice was beseeching. "Tell me who did this to you."

My silence served as an answer.

Aaliyah closed her eyes, a tremor coursing through her.

"I wanna help," she murmured, opening her eyes, the request a prayer. "Tell me what I can do."

"Just...stay with me," I choked.

"I'm not going anywhere," Aaliyah swore. "You don't need to deal with this on your own, you know." She brought my hand into hers.

I let her pull me along toward the island, and as I took my place on one of the stools, she tugged me closer so that she stood between my legs, my hand still held firmly within hers as if she could physically hold the pieces of me together. Silence blossomed between us.

"Do you wanna go somewhere else? Can I get you something from somewhere nearby?" Aaliyah finally asked, glancing behind me.

"I can't really go out anywhere right now. My stuff is still at my parents'," I confessed. "My clothes. Makeup. Everythin'."

"Then we'll go get it," Aaliyah declared, as if the matter were decided. "C'mon, let's go."

She began to move away but my hand in hers tugged her back, holding her in place.

"It's not that easy," I replied quietly. "There's a camera...my father—he's probably still there, and he...I...I don't wanna see him." I swallowed. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn't get it past my lips.

Aaliyah looked at me, perplexed, the wheels of thought visibly turning. And then the realization dawned on her features. Her nostrils flared, her gaze a storm, and her lips moved, her words a whisper.

"What's the address?"

"No," I replied, a hint of panic creeping into my voice. "Aaliyah, no. I don't wanna cause a scene—"

"He hurt you. I want him to see me. And if he dares lay a finger on me or any of y'all, he'll be dealin' with more than just a scene," Aaliyah promised, her voice tight with anger.

"Please, Aaliyah," I entreated. "Let me handle my family my way. This is not yours to solve. This is my baggage. Mine. Please don't make this harder for me, for my family, and for yourself. Just...don't, okay?" I let my words hang, searching her face. "Okay?"

She shook her head slightly, her gaze dark.

"Bey—"

"You just said you would help, remember? This is what I need you to do. Please."

I watched as a war waged within her.

"I just wanna do right by you," she said finally.

"And I appreciate you. You're helpin' me, Aaliyah. Just droppin' everythin' to be here and bein' able to talk to you after so long...that's helpin'. That's more help than I could've ever asked for, so please...please do this for me. This one thing," I implored.

The struggle between the head and the heart, the logic and the emotions, played out over her expression. Her brows were knit, a frown of displeasure tugging at her features, but slowly, with each word I said, she began to relax, and she finally exhaled, the breath escaping her with reluctance.

Her grip on me had tightened, and now it loosened. The lines between her brows had smoothed, but the frustration was not far behind.

Aaliyah relented, her voice tight. "This goes against everything in me right now."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "I know," I said. My thumb stroked the back of her hand in soft motions, and it was then that I noticed the delicate tattoos etched along the length of her fingers: a set of minimalist fine lines, dots, and symbols.

The back of her hand was adorned with an abstract butterfly line drawing that, with every twitch of movement, seemed to be coming alive, its wings fluttering against the skin, soft and gentle, before stilling once more.

I marveled at the craftsmanship and artistry, and I couldn't help but trace along the lines of one wing.

Her wrist also bore ink, a pattern that disappeared beneath the cuff of her hoodie. Her long square nails, with the long French tips painted a striking crimson red, had an intricate design similar to a Catholic rosary, glimmering with a clear coat of polish.

Shockingly, none of them were shortened or broken off. Maybe it meant something. Or maybe it didn't.

I wondered aloud, tracing the symbols. "They're beautiful."

"Oh...thanks. This is a fresh set," Aaliyah revealed, wiggling her digits. "Got 'em done a few days ago."

"Oh, I meant these tattoos, but yeah, the nails are cute, too," I clarified, chuckling.

Aaliyah's faint blush caught me by surprise, and my thumb paused as her hand retracted from my grip. She pulled out the stool beside mine and sat, taking off her jacket, revealing a simple, high neck white crop top underneath. I nearly gasped as my eyes settled on the exposed skin.

The sunburst was now accompanied by new tattoos that trailed along the full length of her right arm. Delicate patterns and symbols, all in the same manner as the ones along her fingers, and bold black ink in some areas, created an ornate, seamless canvas. I soon recognized some of the symbols.

"Uli." I breathed out in awe.

"Yeah...I've...wanted you to see them in person for a while; that's why I haven't been posting much online...I never thought I'd have the chance to show you, though..." she replied as she stretched her arm out in front of her, allowing me to take it all in. The artwork was breathtakingly beautiful, and as she rotated her arm, I was mesmerized by how clean the lines were. "I was also getting my back piece completed, but it's not finished yet. Here, lemme show you..."

Her silhouette commanded attention as she turned, not by the grace of her movement but by the revelation presented before me. The top she wore was an enigma; the front was deceivingly unassuming, yet it had a backless design that invited my eyes to wander across the expanse of her skin. She moved her ponytail to the front, allowing me to gain full viewing access to the artwork.

Framed within this canvas was a mesmerizing mural of tattoos, a garden of large paradise palm leaves. The leaves intertwined, creating a haven in which a dove—rendered with meticulous care—seemed to find refuge, its feathers a cascade of detail that fluttered with an almost tangible softness.

An Arabic script—fine and delicate, yet unremarkable—was the final touch to this unfinished story, gracing the small of her lower back.

Everything was placed perfectly.

I found myself running a gentle finger along the varying line weight of one of the leaves, causing her to shudder slightly and look over her shoulder to glance back at me.

I jerked my hand away quickly. "S-Sorry," I stuttered.

Aaliyah laughed and shook her head. "No need to apologize. They're meant to be appreciated."

I continued my visual exploration of her tattoos, taking note of a few faint, harmless scratches marking her back. "What does the text say?" I asked.

"The highest One, and exalted above all creation," Aaliyah said, glancing back once more. "That's the official meaning, but I like to add the most fly too, the most beautiful."

"I like that."

Aaliyah turned in her seat to look at me directly. Her eyes glinted with curiosity and pride. "It's the meaning of my name. My mom picked it out herself, from her time in Bahrain while she was solo traveling abroad. She said it was one of the first words she picked up after learnin' some Arabic, and the sound of it...she loved it. The way it flowed out. Like poetry." She looked thoughtful. "It was like fate for her, I think, like the stars were aligned at the exact moment she needed to find that word. She found out she was pregnant with me just after."

"I don't think you'd mentioned that before, not even in your interviews. I can see how your name is meant for you, it's so beautiful..." I said with a soft laugh.

Aaliyah gave me a questioning look but didn't respond. She instead briefly watched as my fingers brushed the back of her hand. "I can't stop lookin' at them," I murmured.

She grinned, a faint dimple showing, as her eyes remained fixed on me. "Then don't."

I tried to hide the small smile that crept onto my lips, not meeting her gaze. The energy that I felt between us and the way my body was reacting made me want to run away and hide my jitters, but I couldn't bring myself to break our connection.

She was making it difficult for me to contain myself, and I knew I was heading into dangerous territory. I couldn't allow myself to get close to her. Not in that way, at least.

Not like that.

She glanced toward the doorway that led outside and turned to look at me with a sense of urgency in her eyes. "They've been out there for a while, haven't they? Do you want me to go get them for you? So we can go get your things?"

Aaliyah's presence alone was able to make me forget about Angie and Solange's absence.

"Aaliyah, I told you—" I sharply sighed as I got up from my stool, taking my blanket with me. "Lemme go get them; I'll be back."

I made my way towards the door and saw them sitting by the pool, looking deep in discussion. The closer I got to them, the more I could hear their conversation, which came to an abrupt end when they noticed me coming in their direction.

"Bey." Angie greeted me as she and Solange stood from the pool chairs.

"She wants to come with us," I said. "To get our stuff...and I don't think I can convince her otherwise. To be honest...I don't want her to come. Not just because of how they might react if we get caught...but because I don't know how she'll react. She's angry...and I don't blame her. But I don't want her doin' somethin' that she'll end up regrettin'. That she might end up in a situation she can't come back from, or worse...she gets hurt." I sighed, looking back toward the house.

"I mean, she seems like a smart enough woman, I don't think she's gonna do somethin' too reckless...right?" Solange responded.

"Yeah, I just...don't know."

"I don't think this is a good idea at all," Angie added. "We might as well just tell her that you don't wanna get your things from there yet. I don't care how famous she is, or anyone for that matter. It could be Obama or Jesus and I would still tell 'em there's no need to be involved in anythin' that ain't really they business."

I looked between them. The prospect of delaying my initial departure did not appeal to me. I didn't know how much longer I would last staying in Houston for an extended period of time with everything going on. No amount of BBQ or slab cars could convince me to change my mind.

I shook my head in disagreement. "No, I want my stuff back now, and if this is the only way, then so be it. We'll just have to deal with whatever might happen," I said. "So are we doin' this?"

Solange and Angie looked at one another for a moment before glancing at me with resignation. They then looked past me to the house and sighed. I turned to follow their gaze.

I could see Aaliyah in the distance, making her way to where we stood, with a curious look in her eyes as she stopped just outside of earshot.

"I know y'all were talkin' about me; you don't have to pretend like you weren't. I'll head back to my hotel and give you the space that you need, Bey," she called out to us. "I just want you to be careful. I won't try to get involved if you don't want me to. Just text me later, so I know that you're safe, okay?"

Aaliyah's words, both considerate and tinged with a note of hurt, seemed to hang in the Texas air. We exchanged looks, knowing well that her offer to step back wasn't made lightly. It was a testament to her respect for my wishes, even if it went against her protective instincts.

Before any of us could respond, she stepped away, widening the gap between us. The warmth of the day did little to ease the tension that had built up, but it was time to break it down, layer by layer.

"Aaliyah, wait." Solange stepped forward. "Aaliyah, it's not about not wanting you around. I mean, I think we're all big fans of you right here, and we'd be stupid to pass up the opportunity to have you in the car and get to know you. We're just tryna to figure out the best way to handle this. Bey doesn't want to put you in a tough spot."

"How about this?" Angie proposed, trying to inject a sense of lightness into the heavy atmosphere. "I don't want this trip to be a complete waste of your time, and if you still have time on your hands, then how about the two of y'all head to the Rodeo later? Houston's not Houston without it, especially when it's in town. It's a big deal around here, and it's one of Bey's favorite parts of the city. It's the perfect distraction, and it'll give y'all some time to clear y'all heads, and just enjoy the day. Seems like y'all got a lot of catchin' up to do too..."

The Rodeo was indeed a place where troubles seemed to take a backseat to the excitement and spectacle, and I hoped it would do the same for us now.

"You're serious?" she asked, a hint of a smile threatening to break through her stoic nature.

"As a heart attack," she replied, matching her tentative smile with one of her own. "And Bey, when do you leave again? In the mornin'?"

"Tomorrow night at around eleven," I replied. "I thought we'd be goin' to church, then do somethin' after and that's why I booked a late flight...but obviously not anymore..."

"Well then, y'all got today to go, and tomorrow, maybe she can show you a lil bit more of Houston. Bey's Houston. The places she loved, the little nooks and crannies that don't make it to the travel guides. Think of it as...an impromptu tour, courtesy of your personal guide."

"My own personal guide?" Aaliyah flashed a smile, looking directly at me as her eyes gleamed with anticipation. She then nodded, satisfied. "I think that works for me."

As we walked back toward the house to prepare for our outing, Aaliyah hung back to fall in step with me. I looked over at her as she studied me intently. "Hmm?" I asked with a slight laugh, slightly self-conscious, suddenly aware that she had yet to tear her eyes off me.

Aaliyah took her time before replying, a teasing grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"So. This personal guide thing, is this a one-time offer or is it something that can be taken advantage of again in the near future?"

I pretended to consider her question. "That all depends."

"On?"

"On my schedule. I might be able to squeeze in another 'customer', as long as you're willin' to wait on standby."

"I won't complain," Aaliyah murmured with a glint in her eye. "Not when it's worth it."

In the space of our slow advance towards the house, I considered the unexpected turn of events—how much could change in the space of a morning. In the wake of everything, the prospect of being able to show her a side of me that few had seen—and that was far from perfect—filled me with an eagerness and a lightness that I had not expected.

I wanted to show her, share with her, things that had come to matter in the months since we had known each other, and to have her see the same parts of myself reflected in my city, in my soul.

The prospect of seeing it anew through her eyes felt like a blessing.

Her gaze shifted again, trailing back to where the others had wandered off, then returning to me, locking in with a silent question.

"It will be," I found myself saying, the words coming out with a conviction that surprised me. It was more than a reassurance to her—it was a vow to myself. "Trust."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Freefall" by KAYTRANADA ft. Durand Bernarr

bonus track:  "XO" by Beyoncé

(a/n: long chapter with a different perspective)

Aaliyah

Few things came close to Summertime Chi.

If you had a true Summertime Chi experience, it would take you months to get over it. Days at work would pass in a haze, every sunrise a struggle, and every social call an attempt to fill the void left behind.

Solitude was a danger; it brought back memories—of hands clasped tight amidst the pleasant sounds of Erykah Badu's Lollapalooza set, of fleeting encounters at block parties that promised more but ended in a phone number half given.

Summertime Chi was a whirlwind romance—the kind you'd relive in daydreams and sleepless nights. With every person that Chicago brought into your life, you'd find a piece of yourself—some to cherish, some to yearn for, and some you'd never manage to let go of.

As the year marched on and the mercury dropped, you clung to the hope that Summertime Chi might never end.

The parties continued, the encounters wove through your days, each one a faint echo of summers past, each one leaving you reaching for a feeling that slipped away like sand through your fingers.

But seasons change, and so did you.

And then there was Houston.

Houston wasn't a rebound or a cure for the ache left by Chi. Houston was a revelation. The air around you seemed imbued with a sweetness that made every breath an epiphany, every song a symphony, every night a canopy of stars winking knowingly at your newfound joy.

Houston was stunning.

You didn't need to know every street, every corner, to know you were home. Houston welcomed you into a neighborhood of shared experiences—a melting pot of moments and memories. Here, her weather painted every day in strokes of paradise, and her character was as complex and captivating as the stories etched into every sidewalk.

Houston was the unexpected chapter, who wasn't just one to admire from afar but someone to wander with, hand in hand. With Houston, every alley held a secret, every skyline a promise.

Every night was an adventure, and every moment was an invitation to discover a side of yourself that only existed when the two of you were together.

With every step, you felt closer to becoming the best version of yourself.

Houston was the kind of love that was both an adventure and a sanctuary.

Houston felt like home.

And home was where my heart found itself settling down.

"Did you wanna eat first or look around the area?"

I looked over to find her watching me with a curious smile. It had been a long time since I'd seen her relaxed, and it felt good to have our usual ease back.

After heading back to the hotel, she stopped by to meet me in the lobby, wearing a change of clothes: jeans that hugged her just right, some jewelry, a simple hoodie, and a familiar shy smirk.

She'd been quiet and thoughtful as we headed to the car and drove down, the conversation coming in spurts between the occasional bursts of laughter.

"The only thing I've had all day was a muffin, so I'm kinda starvin'," she admitted, "but we can get somethin' later if you wanna shop or play first."

"No, let's eat. I want you to have something in your system. I can't have you faintin' on me on one of the rides. Plus, I wanna see what this BBQ is all about."

"Oh, don't tell me you never had Texas BBQ," Beyoncé exclaimed as we crossed through the throng of people milling about through the fairgrounds.

"I've only had Korean..." I lied.

"You know good and well that doesn't count," she laughed, nudging me. "I don't blame you though; food in L.A. ain't that great. All you can really eat is some tacos. Ion even think my grandmama's eaten tacos like that and we got Tex-Mex out here. And don't even get me started on In-N-Out."

"That shit taste like cardboard anyway, but you trippin'. We got real food."

"Y'all don't even have real soul food. The last place I went to added deli meat to the greens I ordered...deli meat! They put deli meat in the greens, Aaliyah."

"What restaurant did you even go to?"

"Some place over on Pico."

"Well, there you have it," I joked. "I'm not saying that you got to go to the hood to get good soul food, but you got plenty of options south of the 10."

"Take me to your favorite place then, since you seem to be the expert."

"Okay, okay, I know a place. It's not too far from your crib, actually. We can hit it up when we get back. For real though, we need to eat because I feel an argument coming on and I ain't tryna do that on an empty stomach," I laughed. "You see anything that looks good?"

"Yeah, the first place we passed. It's called Big Bubba's Pit. They got a line, though," she observed, looking around the grounds. "We could check the other places."

"Nah, that's cool. You mind the wait?"

"Nope."

We joined the line of hungry festivalgoers waiting in line for the mouthwatering barbecue. The scent of powdered funnel cake wafted through the air, mingling with the smoky sweetness of barbecued meats and the underlying tang of livestock and hay that was the rodeo's earthy perfume.

Children's laughter pirouetted on the breeze, punctuated by the occasional shrill pitch of excitement as another ride whipped them into a frenzy of screams and delight.

I was relieved when the conversation continued to flow easily without interruption, thanks to the concealment offered by large black sunglasses and a baseball cap, a style I seemed to favor on days when I needed to escape the spotlight.

She pointed out the rides and spaces she wanted to go explore later, spending the wait trading quips and observations about the sights around us.

The food was ready shortly after placing our order, and we settled at one of the picnic tables in the eating area. The meal was a study in contrasts. The ribs were fall-off-the-bone tender, the sauce a mixture of smoky heat, a touch of sweetness, and a hint of something savory.

Detroit had its own barbecue, and we'd done it up right, but the rib game had definitely been raised in the south. The brisket was a close second; the meat was so tender I could cut it with a fork, the smoke flavor just subtle enough to not overwhelm the natural flavor of the beef.

But the side dishes, cornbread and coleslaw, were a surprise.

I had expected a traditional cornbread, something heavy and cake-like with a crumbly top. This cornbread was fluffy, almost mousse-like. It had a creamy, buttery flavor that went well with the sweet, honey flavor of the ribs.

The slaw, a creamy concoction of shredded cabbage, shredded carrot, and something I couldn't identify, was a cool and refreshing counterpoint to the richness of the meat.

"Damn, you fuckin' that shit up," Beyoncé teased as she watched me devour the side dishes. "You're supposed to leave some for me."

"Girl, bye," I muttered, covering my mouth. "This cornbread is bangin' though; I could eat a whole loaf. Here, you have to try this," I countered, holding the fork out to feed her. "I'm not even a coleslaw fan either, and this shit is fire. There's a kick to it that makes it really interesting."

She gave me a mousy look, and I grinned. "Come on, don't be shy; open up. Say ahhhhhhhh..."

She rolled her eyes, but acquiesced. I fed her, enjoying the way her lips closed around the tines of the fork and the little moan of appreciation that followed with a slight rosiness on her cheeks.

"See?" I laughed.

"That was good," she answered, wiping her mouth with a napkin, "but this mac n' cheese is even better. I should've ordered a double."

She took a moment to slowly eat a few more bites of her meal, wincing occasionally as a wave of pain washed over her. My heart went out to her. Makeup was powerful magic, but there were limits to how much discomfort she could conceal.

She was soldiering through with the help of ibuprofen, but she looked relieved when she took a break and set down her fork.

I continued eating my ribs, stealing glances at her, watching her as she looked out at the scene around us. A lazy, appreciative smile settled over her features, and I wondered what she was thinking about, how her mind was interpreting what her eyes saw.

"I forgot how much I loved this place," she remarked softly. "I used to come out here with my uncle. My dad couldn't stand the dirt. The animals. All the people. He didn't wanna be bothered, and my mom was always busy with her clients. But my uncle was always there—present; he'd take my sister and me on the rides. Buy us anything we wanted. Sometimes we'd even get up early enough on the weekends to watch the cows and bulls being unloaded. There were a couple of cowboys that we got to talkin' to; they would even let us ride their horses before the show..."

She smiled softly at the memory, lost in the recollection of better times. I couldn't imagine the feelings coursing through her at that moment, but it warmed my heart to know that, despite everything she'd gone through, she could still find some semblance of comfort and solace in Houston's past.

I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

Her face and her smile were brighter than the sun and stars, and it filled me with joy to watch her as she watched the world go by.

"I got a lot of firsts here—my first kiss, my first fight—"

"You? Fighting? I don't believe it," I interrupted, smirking.

"You don't think I can scrap?"

"Nope. You seem too sweet," I laughed, "That Southern hospitality and all."

"That goes out the window once you cross me," she countered. "I might be sweet and nice, but I ain't no pushover; believe that."

"Who has had the displeasure of getting to know your fist?"

"You know," she chuckled, shaking her head. "I don't even remember the girl's name. Just her face. She had one of those long faces...big mouth, too. Kinda looked like that lil' thing from Lord of the Rings—"

I burst out in laughter. "That's fucked up."

"It's true! Nothin' but teeth and straggly split ends on that head. She tried to bully me after I was talkin' to some ol' dude—who I didn't even like, by the way. He was tryna smooth talk me. She must've thought I was just some little girl. But I'd grown up with my sister, and you don't want none of what she was about, and that girl and her friends already tried it with Solange. When she took the first swing, I laid her out."

"Oh, wow, you took her down? Just like that? Shit, that's pretty cold," I exclaimed, impressed. "Did she give you a decent fight back?"

"No," Beyoncé snorted, shaking her head. "She tried, but she was a talker. Couldn't do nothin'. But my uncle let me know real quick that that wasn't the way I should be dealing with a problem. My mama also let me know I'd better not ever do that again or I was gon' catch it, and she didn't play, I tell you that much."

"And how'd you respond?"

"I cried. I'm sensitive. That shit really messed me up. But you know, that's all in the past," she continued, sipping her drink.

"What about that first kiss? Or is that in the past as well?" I asked.

"Definitely. He's not even worth discussin'."

"So you've pretty much had all of your firsts here...or is there one still up for grabs?"

She glanced up from her plate and gave me a shy, fleeting look. I returned it with a look of my own—a look that left no room for misinterpretation as I took off my glasses.

"...We should head over to the next spot before we end up sittin' in line forever. And before we run into your fans..." Beyoncé remarked after an extended, pregnant pause. She finished the last of her meal, balling up her napkins and trash on her tray.

"Sure," I responded, trying to keep my disappointment in check as I wrapped up my own meal.

I'd thought, after the tension that had risen between us in the morning as she thoroughly examined the ink on my body, her fingers gingerly tracing each design, her eyes drinking me in like a parched woman in the desert, that we'd be exploring more than just the fairgrounds.

Add our numerous calls and texts and my not so subtle approach over the past few months, and one would think this was the ideal moment—that her mind and heart were opening up to the possibilities. But the moment I was hoping to explore slipped away from me just as quickly as it appeared, and I felt the familiar sting of rejection as her wall of caution went up between us again.

There was no denying that the air was charged when we were together.

But it was hard not to read too much into things with her.

Beyoncé had a certain intensity to her gaze that was hard to decipher, but sometimes, every now and then, I'd see a flash of emotion in her eyes, a flicker of vulnerability, a hint of what seemed like desire. It was the type of look that could make a person freeze on the spot, heart in her throat, wondering if you'd imagined that momentary lapse in her composure.

But it was a look that made me yearn to see more and hope that maybe, one day, I'd get the opportunity to have her melt beneath my touch, have her lips parted in a silent moan, and have her body undone with pleasure and need.

It was the look I'd seen earlier, and it was the same one I was seeing now, avoiding my eyes by looking elsewhere as we dumped our trash. A furrow appeared between her brows as she headed towards the main fairgrounds with me trailing behind her.

We walked down the midway, a crowded aisle of stalls and game booths filled with all manner of souvenirs and goodies. Every few feet, we were confronted by a carnival game or an impromptu contest designed to part fans with their cash in return for a cheap prize or bragging rights.

There were strongman contests, high strikers, water guns, dart tosses, ring tosses, basketball tosses, a balloon and dart contest, and even a water dunk tank. We paused briefly as I watched an impromptu game of cornhole, but Beyoncé continued walking, her steps unhurried but measured.

"You should win a stuffed animal or something," I suggested, as we passed a strongman.

"I don't know," she countered, glancing over at the booth.

"So, you wouldn't be interested in any prizes?"

"I mean, there are some things that I wouldn't mind havin'," she confessed, shrugging, "but winnin' one of these games isn't gonna get them. No, thank you."

"Are you sure? Some of these games aren't impossible to win. Like the balloon and dart one. I can bust that."

"I'm positive. Maybe later."

"Alright," I conceded, as we wandered past more booths, "I just wouldn't want you to go home empty-handed."

"I've got and can get souvenirs in the form of stories, memories...," Beyoncé mused, smiling. "I don't need anythin' else. That's the thing about memories. They're always a prize in and of themselves. And memories are priceless."

"Memories can also hurt."

"Well, not all of them," she amended, a wistful expression appearing on her face. "I ain't say every memory was a good one. Some are, some aren't. But the good ones outweigh the bad."

"Is Houston a good memory for you?"

I didn't mean for the question to sound so serious. But I couldn't help but wonder if, despite her sunny disposition and the smiles she shared, there was a part of her that was still haunted by her memories, a part of her that felt trapped, a part of her that couldn't bear the thought of staying longer than necessary.

And when her steps slowed, I could sense her discomfort, and I felt the beginnings of regret forming in the pit of my stomach.

She paused and stared up at the towering Ferris Wheel before her, the metal contraption spinning lazily beneath the late afternoon sun, its occupants laughing and conversing with each revolution, the view likely a sweeping, breathtaking landscape of the city.

Biting her lip, she considered the question, looking around us at the festival and the crowds that swarmed the midway.

"It's my first home," she answered carefully. "Everythin' started here. It was the beginning of everythin' I am now. Good or bad, Houston's a piece of me, the foundation of who I am. I know...I know I've been through a lot since comin' back. And there were a lotta tears, pain and heartache...and I couldn't wait to leave after what happened last night," she confessed, looking over at me, her eyes bright with emotion, "but it's hard not to have good memories of this place when you've shared a lot of happy moments with the people you love. And even though it's been a long time since I've been back, nothin's really changed. This city will always have a special place in my heart. So, to answer your question...yes. Despite everythin' that's happened to me here, Houston will always be a good memory."

I felt relief wash over me, grateful that her tone didn't betray any of the distress or bitterness I'd feared.

"What's your favorite ride here? We got some time to kill before the show starts, so we can ride whatever you'd like," I asked, eager to move away from the awkward turn the conversation had taken.

"There's a couple that we used to ride. That rollercoaster right there. It's the closest thing to flyin'."

"Let's go then."

As the sun began its early descent, casting long shadows over the fairgrounds, my heart raced with a mix of excitement and trepidation. It was one thing to agree to face my fears in the brightness of day, quite another under the encroaching cloak of dusk.

The rides stood tall against the dimming sky, their lights beginning to pierce the twilight, each one a colorful beacon calling the brave and the foolish.

The line was a winding serpent of anticipation, and as we inched closer to the front, my heart thumped in my chest like a drumbeat, loud and insistent.

The coaster's climb was a slow torture, the city below us shrinking away as we ascended into the sky now painted in hues of violet, amber, and rose. When we reached the top, my breath caught at the sight. The fair below was a tapestry of twinkling neon lights and shadows, the world holding its breath for a moment.

And then we plummeted.

I screamed—a sound that was part fear, part exhilaration, and wholly alive. The ride twisted and turned, each drop and loop prying my fears from their roots and scattering them to the wind. Beyoncé's laughter melded with mine, a symphony of joy that echoed long after the ride slowed to a stop.

With a few more rides under our belts, we exited breathless, hearts racing, a renewed energy crackling between us. And now the sky was a blanket of darkness, the stars winking knowingly at my sudden boldness as I held Beyoncé's hand, my fingers interlaced with hers, heading further into the fair.

Her hand was warm and soft in mine, her skin like satin, and my thumb traced her knuckles absently, enjoying the feeling. The music pulsed in the background—a muffled bassline, a rhythmic cadence that was a familiar heartbeat—a comforting soundtrack for the night as we explored the grounds.

In the petting zoo, I cradled a baby goat in my arms, its soft bleats and warm fur a balm to the adrenaline still coursing through me. Beyoncé, ever the artist, captured the moment with her film camera, the soft click echoing in the space between us.

As night continued to take hold, we found ourselves at the honeybee exhibit, where the soft hum of bees provided a backdrop to her focused concentration. She entered a creativity contest, her hands moving with the grace of a painter as she sketched a bee that seemed to dance on the paper.

The small crowd around us whispered their admiration, but all I could see was the passion in her eyes, a reflection of her soul. Grabbing her camera, I took a photo, capturing her expression—a snapshot of her genius.

Each moment, each laugh, and each shared look drew us closer, weaving a tapestry of camaraderie that felt as timeless as the mid-winter sky.

Our steps eventually led us to a quaint photo booth, tucked away like a secret waiting to be whispered. Inside, the world shrank to the space between us, a series of flashes capturing every silly face, every burst of laughter, and every candid moment.

With each flash, the booth chronicled the story of us: two souls finding common ground, two souls finding adventure, two souls finding peace.

And when the strip of photos appeared, a record of our day, I saw the joy radiating from the image, saw the light reflected in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks, saw the happiness shining from my face, and knew, without a doubt, that the day would become one of my fondest memories.

But that happiness faded once we stepped out, confronted with my own past and my own ghosts.

"Aaliyah, bitch, is that you?"

I stiffened at the sound, cursing inwardly as I forgot to put my disguise back on. I felt Beyoncé's hand slip from mine.

I came face to face with a face I'd hoped to never see again, her voice an unwelcome intrusion in a day filled with fun and laughter.

"What are you doin' here, Raven?" I asked, putting my glasses back on.

Her jacket did nothing to conceal the low-rise jeans that hugged her ass and left nothing to the imagination, nor did it cover the skimpy top that left her stomach exposed, the straps of her thong peeking over the edge.

Her skin, dark and smooth as chocolate, gleamed in the moonlight. She was a tempting portrait, the kind of girl who made a man take a second look and think sinful thoughts.

And then she opened her mouth and ruined the moment.

"Why are you askin' me that? This is a public event," Raven smirked, her gaze flitting from me to Beyoncé, mischief flickering in her eyes. "You gonna introduce me to your friend, or are we just gonna stand here like strangers?"

"Raven, this is Beyoncé...Bey, this is an old friend."

"Old friend," Raven repeated, the sarcasm clear. "I don't think I like the sound of that."

Tension thickened the air, the mood shattered, the ease between us disappearing with the introduction.

Beyoncé held out her hand, and, reluctantly, Raven shook it.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Raven retorted, a surprisingly pleasant smile on her face. "I thought you were still in L.A.. Enjoyin' Houston?"

"You could say that," I answered tersely, the politeness of my tone a mask for the irritation bubbling under the surface.

"...I'm doin' fine; thanks for askin' me, Liyah. Still doin' what I do best. The club's doin' good too and we've got some new talent; you should come by sometime. Might even get a private show. I know how much you love those."

I bristled at the suggestion; the innuendo was not lost on me. Raven's smirk widened. I remembered a time when her smile was a source of comfort, a symbol of our bond, her warmth and easygoing personality a welcome respite from the demands of work.

But that was a time before greed poisoned our relationship and tainted the memory.

"I can give you two a moment to catch up." Beyoncé offered politely, giving my hand a slight squeeze before stepping away. "I'm gonna wait by the ferris wheel and hold a spot for us in line."

"Wait—"

I tried to protest, but she was already walking away, her head held high and her stride determined, leaving me alone with Raven.

"She's cute," Raven remarked, watching Beyoncé. "Not exactly your type. Unless you like dealin' with charity cases nowadays."

"Don't start," I warned, feeling the anger rise within me. "I'm not gonna stand here and let you fuckin' disrespect her like that."

"You can never take a joke," she observed, smirking. "You fuckin' Instagram bitches, then? What about that one nigga, Keith? Or have you moved onto somethin' better, like smashin' other artists? I know about you and Victoria, by the way. Word travels fast. You probably are fuckin' your little friend over there too, huh? Or are you still hopin' she'll let you hit? She seems like the type who wouldn't give up the pussy that easily. Must be fun; I know you like a challenge."

"Why are you even here?"

"Same reason as you, probably. Ain't nothin' in L.A., but weirdos lookin' for models, hoes, or to be on some stupid shit. I ain't a pimp. What I look like havin' bitches on my line just like that? None of the girls at the club would dare entertain any of 'em anyway. I had to get out of the city to clear my head. Atlanta's dry as fuck. It's hella cold in New York. Houston's the next best thing."

"So, you just happened to run into me? By yourself?"

"Even if I had time to stalk you, I wouldn't. I actually have friends out here too," she replied, "But I was hopin' to run into you sometime soon since you refuse to pick up the phone when I call. Clear the air about what really happened. Listen, I don't know where you get your information from, but I never stole from you to 'fund my birthday trip' or whatever the fuck. I mean, hell, Liyah, why would I invite you to come with me if that was the case?"

"Really? Then why did I get a notification that fifteen million fuckin' dollars was withdrawn from my account and transferred into yours?"

"I told you, my laptop was stolen the day I was checking the club's revenue and payroll! A certain somebody must've had my passwords, my routing number, and everything else."

"That's why they say 'don't use the same password for everything' and you need better security at the front door if people can just walk in and steal your shit without being stopped. Or maybe someone on your line set you up. Maybe a bitch who was fired and needed money or another bitch who couldn't cut it as a dancer."

"They know better than to fuck with me; if they did, I got niggas ready to bust heads. Besides, I take care of my girls."

"Yeah, by ripping them off and cuttin' their hours down."

"I only had to cut the hours once because business was slow, and the club needed to make money somehow."

"That's a shitty excuse, and you know it," I countered, my patience waning.

"As you're accusing me of stealin' from you, has it ever occured to you that someone from your circle might've helped themselves to your funds? Like that snake-ass nigga?"

"Static would never do somethin' like that."

She laughed in disbelief. "Static? That's your first thought? Jesus Christ, you really are fucked up in the head, aren't you? When the fuck have you ever known Static to be involved in some shady shit? The man's always findin' new, legit ways to make money, always networking, always on his grind. Maybe you need a new partner if you think he'd betray you like that. I'd leave too if I was in his shoes, workin' with a woman who'd blame me for their misfortune."

"Well, then who the fuck are you suggestin' if you're so smart?"

Her shoulders dropped, and she looked at me with a solemn expression.

"Listen, I don't wanna do this, but you were gonna have to face facts someday."

"Raven, spit it out alrea—"

"Earl. It had to be him."

I froze at the confession, the anger rising at the mention of him. Raven saw my vexation, but pressed on.

"I remember him always comin' around the club, trying to scope out the girls, but I just knew he had to lookin' for something else, especially after I caught him in the backroom a few times. I didn't wanna do anything since you both were close and I didn't want to upset you, but that nigga was sketchy as hell. Hell, he even tried—"

"Don't you fuckin' dare drag him into this, using his government name like you knew him." I growled, the anger simmering and threatening to explode. "You ain't gon' stand here and put the blame on him. Nope. You're full of shit."

Her brows knitted in confusion. "I literally caught him talkin' to one of the girls about money and some big ass debt. He needed cash because he owed people money. Owed a lotta people. You knew he was into some deep shit. And, ugh, I never liked the guys he'd bring around, but I guess it makes sense now. Probably business associates, not friends, probably extorting his own shit and trying to get his hands on yours."

"You could've said somethin'—"

"Would you have even listened? Like you listened the last time I told you or even just now. You barely had a good word for me whenever he was around. He had a way of changin' your mind," she interjected, frowning. "X wasn't the man you thought he was—"

"You know damn well how much he meant to me," I countered, scowling. "Don't you dare try to take that away. You don't know anything."

"Neither did you," she snorted, rolling her eyes. "You were blind to his faults. Just like everybody else, but yours was worse. Everybody wanted him to be somethin' he wasn't. To save him. He's a grown ass man. He should've saved himself—"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Raven continued, "he wasn't worth anyone else's time and effort tryin' to save him. He didn't even love you. The man never loved anyone but himself. He wasn't a good person, Aaliyah, and that's why he's dead. 'Cuz you can't get away with doin' the shit he did forever. Sooner or later, karma always comes around collectin' its dues. He was a parasite, and everybody who knew him was just another meal."

"Shut up," I snapped, my jaw clenching. "Just shut the fuck up."

"His death saved a lot of people. Includin' you. If he were alive, what do you think would've happened? He would've kept puttin' people in danger. Keep leechin' off of you and probably the rest of your crew. Keep playin' y'all for fools. You know it's the truth. Your career would've gone down the drain tryna save his ass—"

"Raven."

"And he would've killed you if he needed to."

I searched her face for any sign of deceit or deception, for any hint of the lie that was surely hiding beneath the surface. But Raven's expression was blank, an empty canvas, her tone even, her words deliberate, devoid of any malice or ill-will.

"You're lyin'," I retorted, shaking my head, "You're lyin'."

"Nobody's a saint, Aaliyah, and X definitely wasn't. People ain't born evil, they're made. And his actions shaped him into the person he was. His death didn't make him a hero. It just ended up bein' his wake-up call and it should've been yours too."

As I turned my back on Raven, her words echoed in my skull, a relentless drumming that refused to be ignored. The cacophony of the fairgrounds swelled to meet my tumultuous thoughts, and I pushed through the growing crowd, fighting back the nausea that threatened to rise.

My mind raced, replaying the conversation, analyzing her words.

It couldn't be true.

The thoughts followed me as I found Beyoncé waiting patiently near the front of the line of the ferris wheel, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone with a honeysuckle straw in her mouth.

"Oh my God! It is her. Aaliyah, look over here, I love you!"

Fans were waving and clamoring for my attention, their smartphones aloft like digital torches, searching for a signal. I mustered a smile, the façade as fragile as glass, and waved back mechanically. Their cheers rang in my ears, and it took all of my willpower not to sprint away, not to turn tail and run.

Beyoncé glanced up, and a smile broke across her face.

"Sorry I took so long," I apologized, as we shuffled forward in the line.

"It's okay," she answered, her brow furrowing at my grim expression. "Did somethin' bad happen?"

"No...," I sighed, frustrated. "Just...I don't know."

She was silent, waiting expectantly for me to continue as she sucked on the straw, but the words refused to form. Instead, I stared up at the Ferris Wheel, wishing we were anywhere but there.

"Looks like we're almost next."

The ride operator's eyes widened momentarily once he saw who was waiting patiently for him, and it took him a moment before he managed to stammer out his greeting.

"H-hi, ladies, please, come right this way."

The seat swung as the wheel moved, our bodies swaying gently as the height increased. The fair disappeared below us, a blur of movement and sound, and the nerves returned immediately, my stomach lurching with each rotation.

Beyoncé sensed my discomfort and slipped her hand into mine. I squeezed it gratefully, appreciating the gesture.

"So, did you at least have a good time today?" Beyoncé inquired, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," I smiled at her fondness, turning slightly to look at her. "I did. More than I thought I would, honestly. I haven't been to one of these since my brother and I were kids. We'd save our allowance all year long, and then I'd try to win every single prize we saw."

"Did he ever win one?"

"Not really, he sucked at these games, but it was fun watchin' him try, and I liked pickin' fun at him for it. He never really cared to play much, though."

"So, what did he like doin' then?"

"Eatin'. Playin' ball or sneak his skateboard in. Tryna talk to girls there," I snickered, smiling, "but mainly he just loved makin' me laugh, bein' around me, and spendin' time with his friends and family. He was always such a people person, and I could see the way people's eyes would light up whenever they'd talk to him. He has that kind of effect on people. Like the type that people wanted to be around."

"You seem a lot like him. Especially when you're smilin'. It's a good look on you."

"You think so?"

"I do. Well, I'm glad you had fun," she replied, looking below, "We'll have to come back someday."

"I'd like that...," I paused, taking a deep breath, before continuing. I wanted to confide in her, share my feelings, reveal what else was weighing heavily on my mind, but the words were lodged in my throat, the doubts preventing me from speaking.

Was she even attracted to the same sex? Was I just a friend to her? How did she really feel about me?

Was she attracted to me?

"Bey...I have somethin' I gotta tell you—"

"If it's about Raven, it's okay, Aaliyah. It's none of my business," she cut in, glancing over at me, a wistfulness in her eyes. "And you don't owe me an explanation. You're a grown woman. You're free to do as you please with whoever you want. I get it. We're friends. And you don't have to worry. What's between you and her, that's between y'all. But she seemed nice."

"She's not," I snorted, shaking my head as I took my hat and glasses off. "Believe me. Raven's about as shiesty as they come."

"Everybody's got two sides. The good and the bad."

"Her bad outweighs the good."

"Some people are better off left in the past, then," Beyoncé agreed, nodding.

"I have no problem lettin' her stay there," I replied, watching as she withdrew her hand, her eyes trained on the fair below, "...but—"

Suddenly, the Ferris Wheel groaned, a beast awakened, and we lurched to a stop. Perched at the apex, the city sprawled beneath us like a jeweled tapestry, with tiny specks of humanity scurrying along the streets. We were suspended in mid-air, our seat rocking, the metal creaking, the air around us still and stifling.

"Are we stuck?!"

"Seems like it," Beyoncé sighed, exasperated. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. "And I wanted to see the rodeo."

"Fuck," I groaned, my breathing becoming uneven. "I can't be up this high," I muttered, closing my eyes and trying to slow my breathing. "This is bad. Shit, this is real bad. How long are we gonna be up here?"

"We'll be fine," she assured, squeezing my hand again. "Just try not to think about it."

I tried counting, focusing on the feeling of her hand in mine, but the racing thoughts were beginning to cloud my mind, the edges darkening.

Exposure therapy had helped with the fear, and it was the first time that I'd managed to suppress the irrational feelings of panic that had once consumed me.

I had hoped, with each successive day that passed, that the fears would eventually fade away and that one day I'd be able to face the heights without a momentary lapse into despair and terror. To ride all kinds of rides again, as I did earlier.

But, as I struggled to maintain the veneer of calm, I wondered if fear would ever leave me completely.

The fear, like my thoughts, spiraled out of control. It was an anchor tied to my chest, a weight dragging me further into the sea. My heart beat faster, as if trying to escape from the confines of my body, as if it sensed the panic coming.

"Aaliyah, hey...what can I do for you right now?" she asked, her voice an urgent whisper.

"Talk," I managed, squeezing my eyes shut.

"About what?"

"Anything...just talk. Distract me, please."

"Okay," Beyoncé murmured, considering the request. "Just...listen to my voice...close your eyes...breathe. You're safe."

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

As Beyoncé's soft, resonant voice unfurled, a harmony woven from the threads of tranquility and strength, I felt a gentle unraveling within.

The relentless grip of gravity seemed to loosen, and with each breath synchronized to the lullaby of her voice, my spirit grew lighter. Eyes still closed, the darkness became less of a prison and more of an egg, from which I felt myself slowly emerging.

The creaking Ferris Wheel and the distant cries of delight from the fair below all faded into insignificance, replaced by the timbre of Beyoncé's assuring words.

They were wings; they were wind. And as my heart absorbed the cadence, my fear transformed, alchemizing into something ethereal and buoyant.

My imagination unfurled, her voice painting brushstrokes of freedom across the canvas of the clouds. I was ascending, not in the metal confines of the Ferris Wheel, but upon the zephyrs of an imagined skyscape.

The clouds beckoned, cottony and kind, parting to welcome me into their embrace. I soared, my body light as a feather, my soul untethered, dancing to the symphony, now a distant echo from the realm of earthbound worries.

Above, the sky was an ocean, boundless and blue, and I found myself swimming through the air, each stroke a beat in the rhythm of existence. The sun's rays kissed my cheeks, and the air, crisp and sweet, filled my lungs with the perfume of freedom.

I was free.

Free from the weight of watching eyes, free from the chains of expectation, free to glide on the currents of her own making. Beyoncé's voice, a steadfast beacon below, anchored my flight, not to pull me down but to remind me that I was grounded, tethered to a place that was sure and steady.

And when I finally opened my eyes, the view in front of me was even more breathtaking.

The striking blue sapphire necklace that contrasted her skin.

The moon haloing her head.

The stars reflecting in her eyes.

I was home.

I yearned for it.

And I fell in. It was a gentle descent, like the last golden leaf of autumn surrendering to the inevitable embrace of the earth below.

My heart surrendered, quietly descending, and her body registered the silent impact—a shiver that rippled across her frame with the softness of a lover's sigh. It was a welcomed freefall, an embrace with the tranquil depths of joy.

Our lips met a tentative brush as she leaned closer—the trembling caress of dawn's first light, ephemeral yet laden with an unspeakable power.

The wings of my liberation dissolved; the vast skyscape that had been the backdrop of my ascent blurred into a foggy haze as the clouds dispersed like the final notes of a ballad.

And all was lost. Except her.

The delicate kiss was a fleeting connection, hesitant, a momentary union that retreated as quickly as it had arrived. My fingers, tinged with a sudden chill, grasped at the seat, my knuckles whitening as I clung to the only reality that remained steadfast.

In the wake of our stillness, time hung suspended, a silent observer to the storm of emotions that flickered across Beyoncé's facial expression.

She lingered, her lips a mere breath's distance away, a tender echo of their former touch still haunting the space between us. She stood on the precipice of vulnerability, her eyes wide and searching, her desire for reciprocal affirmation noted.

Her withdrawal was almost imperceptible, a retreat driven by the shadow of doubt that crept into her gaze. The longing in her eyes was now laced with the faintest trace of regret, as if she feared the kiss had been a comet streaking across a sky not yet ready for its light.

I met her lips again, this time with a rush, a desire to reassure, a collision meant to stoke the fading embers of her hesitation.

Her touch reignited with a newfound urgency, and her mouth was a fervent testament to the shared flame between us. My hands found their way to her lower back, drawing her closer onto my lap, a silent pledge to extinguish any flicker of doubt. Her arms wound around me, a protective circle, and her warmth was a testament to the searing connection that refused to be dimmed.

Our tongues danced anew, a tender exploration that sought to heal the fractures of uncertainty.

She tasted like peaches.

Like honey.

Like the golden warmth that only the sincerest sunshine can bestow. Her lips were the haven I hadn't known I'd sought—the soothing waters for a thirst I hadn't realized I possessed.

As we parted, breathless from the fervor of our assurance, we faced each other, the atmosphere alive with the hum of a connection reaffirmed.

The air crackled with the energy of promises unspoken yet understood. She smiled softly, a tentative blooming of hope and joy, her eyes alive with a new light of possibility.

"Beyoncé..."

The Ferris Wheel jerked to life to lead our descent back to the mundane world.

The world continued its revolution.

The fair, a hive of activity, came into view once again.

But nothing was the same.

I was altered.

Nearly irrevocably.

"I had one more 'first' to experience here...I just didn't know when or if it would ever happen," Beyoncé whispered, a smile tugging at her swollen lips. With a feather touch, she brushed over the heart tattooed on my face with her thumb, tracing the outline, a caress laden with reverence. "...I guess I had to wait for you."

I couldn't find the words to respond.

Instead, our interlaced hands remained a symbol of the silent pact forged between us, an anchor for the tumultuous waves that threatened to capsize me.

The walk back was spent in contemplative silence, the evening's events leaving us both thoughtful. Heading towards the exit, she stopped by the balloon and darts game, paying for three attempts.

"You said you wanted to try. I wanna see it for myself. And I do want a prize," Beyoncé informed me, the playfulness in her eyes evident. "Can't go back without a souvenir, right?"

With a surprising inaccuracy, I missed each shot during my first attempt, my mind still scrambling from the events of the evening. On the second, I managed to hit a green balloon, but the darts failed to pop it, falling to the floor.

She giggled with delight at my misfortune and offered words of encouragement mingled with slight teasing. "You sure you played softball in high school? Maybe they had you on the reserve team..."

"Oh, so it's like that now?" I chuckled. "You don't think I got it in me?"

"Prove me wrong, then," she challenged with a grin, her eyes sparkling. "Actually, on second thought, I need to use the ladies' room really quickly before we get to the car..."

I nodded, determined to win a prize. "You go ahead. I'm not leavin' 'til I pop one of these motherfuckers."

I tried to remain focused, my attention split between Beyoncé's return and the game in front of me. After a few minutes of failed throws on my third attempt, I was on my final dart.

With nothing to lose, I aimed at the smallest balloon that would earn any prize. I closed one eye, holding my breath to steady myself. A small crowd of people that had gathered behind me, cheering with every toss, egged me on.

With a sharp inhale and a silent prayer, I launched my last dart.

It pierced the balloon cleanly, exploding in a small burst of helium and confetti with a soft hiss.

The crowd cheered, their shouts of delight a soundtrack for my triumph. My chest swelled with pride, and I scanned the assortment of prizes with anticipation. I knew which prize I wanted.

I pointed at the oversized whale plushie hanging from the top shelf, and the worker handed it over with a smile.

"I think you made the right choice."

The voice came from behind me, seasoned with the gravelly timbre of experience. I turned to see an older man, his skin weathered like a well-loved leather jacket, standing there with a soft smile playing on his lips.

He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a Western, his cowboy hat casting a shadow over his sharp eyes. The full gear he donned—boots, belt buckle, and all—seemed to tell tales of dusty trails and sunsets over the prairie.

He was the sort of person whose age was hard to pin down because he looked incredibly good for what I assumed was his generation. There was a certain grace to his stance—the way he held himself with confidence but without arrogance.

His face bore an uncanny resemblance to someone I couldn't quite place. He seemed familiar, like a song you can't stop humming but can't name either.

"Thanks, I guess...," I responded, studying him.

He chuckled, his voice rumbling from his throat. I couldn't help but laugh with him. It felt good to share his easy-going mood. "My niece picked the same one. She didn't wanna let anyone else play with it. Especially her sister."

I grinned, gesturing at the giant whale I'd selected as my prize. "Do you think it's random, though? Most people would probably pick a teddy bear or a puppy...," I wondered out loud.

"Some people have good intuition. They know exactly what they want and what they're looking for. That's why they're happy with their choice, because they made it for a reason," he explained. "You, I'm guessin' you know what you want."

I nodded, and he studied me, his gaze scrutinizing as his eyes trailed across my face.

"You a model?"

"No. Every now and then I do, but not full time," I chuckled, shaking my head. "Why?"

"I could've sworn I've seen you somewhere before," he remarked. "My memory ain't what it used to be."

"I make music..." I supplied, removing my glasses. I'd stopped questioning fans' recognition of my face by this point, but it always made me curious when some couldn't put a name to my face. "Maybe I'm in an ad you've seen..."

He paused for a moment, contemplative. "Nah, don't think it was that. Maybe a show...," he trailed off, a thoughtful frown etched on his features. His expression was hard to decipher. He could be deep in thought or lost in another time, it was hard to tell.

"Was it an award show by any chance? Maybe the Grammys..."

"Grammys...yeah. You were the one rackin' up all the awards," he finally exclaimed, wagging a finger at me. I blushed, still not used to hearing the praise in person. "It's always good seein' a sista win."

"Yep, that was me." I nodded with a smile. "Aaliyah. It's nice to meet you."

I held out a hand for him to shake and was taken aback at how firm his handshake was.

But something else happened in that brief exchange—an odd sort of jolt that felt as if all of the hairs on the back of my neck had shot straight up.

"They call me J," he greeted, flashing a smile.

I paused at the introduction, a faint sense of recognition settling over me. The name nagged at a distant memory, but the recollection failed to coalesce into a cohesive thought.

The realization refused to reveal itself, leaving me in a limbo of familiarity and uncertainty. I chalked it up to the strange déjà vu that I felt in the presence of his familiar features and the inexplicable pull of nostalgia.

"You a big fan of the Rodeo, or..."

"Oh, this ol' raggedy fit I got on wasn't a good enough giveaway?" He joked, tipping his hat, "I'm a guest performer. Been comin' here for years, but stopped for a long time. They're good folks around here. Glad to be back. But what I want to know is what a superstar like you is doing here."

"Just hangin' out with...someone special," I said, catching Beyoncé's eye across the way. I could tell she was making her way to us, her face alight with curiosity as I conversed with a stranger.

"They the lucky girl? Guy?" he asked, gesturing towards the stuffed animal.

"I think I'd say I'm the lucky one..."

I couldn't stop the smile that threatened to spread across my face. It was the truest statement that had come out of my mouth all day. I couldn't deny that I had it bad.

"I see you finally won somethin'." The man's eyes widened in recognition at Beyoncé's voice as she approached us. "I'm ready to go if you—"

Slowly, he turned towards her. Beyoncé stopped talking mid-sentence as she locked eyes with him, the words dying on her lips as his presence washed over her. I watched, mystified at the interaction, the air crackling with an electricity that threatened to scorch.

The moment stretched out like an eternity, and my eyes darted back and forth between the pair. The expression on Beyoncé's face was an open book. In its place, her emotions were unfiltered and raw.

Shock. Joy. Elation. Fear. Anticipation. And relief. The mixture was a cocktail of conflicting emotions that he was powerless to process.

The man studied her with a look of indecipherable longing. His gaze held her as if they were two stars caught in each other's gravitational pull. The pull that made planets, galaxies, and stars dance across the cosmos.

He took a hesitant step towards her, and she froze. He stopped, but his eyes were unwavering, anchored in time, unapologetic, and intense in their assessment.

It was as if the entire universe had stopped moving, and he was waiting—waiting for her—for a signal, a nod, anything to allow him to continue moving forward. He removed his hat and ran his free hand across the stubble on his face.

I was an observer of the exchange, a spectator of their shared moment in time. The space around them became heavy, the air dense with an indescribable energy, laden with expectation, and the silence charged. I couldn't put a name to what I was seeing, but the scene playing out in front of me was touching.

They knew each other.

I knew it.

And somehow, they'd found each other again.

But they needed to close the gap between them—a final bridge that only they could build.

So, she rushed into his open arms, throwing herself at him as she embraced the man. He was tall, towering over her, but she buried her face into his shoulder as he clung to her with the desperation of a dying man grasping onto a final shred of life.

He inhaled sharply, the sound almost pained, as he breathed her in, the tears threatening to fall, a solitary droplet betraying his composure as he closed his eyes.

She looked up, and I noticed a similar wetness in her eyes as well, the yearning palpable, evident in the way she gripped his back like she didn't want to ever let go.

Her shoulders began to shake as a sob escaped her. I reached for her but hesitated, my hand hovering mid-air as she continued to sob. I didn't know what to do or where my place was. I felt like an intruder to a very private moment. He leaned his face into her hair and murmured a soft shh, an assurance that she didn't need to cry.

"I'm so sorry," I heard Beyoncé mumble through the tears that still streamed down her face. "I'm sorry I left without—"

"Sweet pea...it's alright," he rasped, the sound of his voice muffled in her hair. "We're here now. It's okay. You're home. I'm so glad you're home. Your uncle's so proud of who you are, what you've done with your life, and the beautiful woman you've grown into, Bey...that's all that matters..."

Chapter Text

now playing: "Closer" by Goapele

Beyoncé  

"Watch your step. The wood ain't as stable as I thought it would be. I've been meanin' to replace this whole floor and fix that fence over there. Nearly fell through myself last month."

The crisp, pine-scented air of Houston's outskirts was a balm, drifting off the nearby lake as I took in the sight. The once sparse and neglected plot of land that my uncle had purchased years ago had been utterly transformed.

Where my mother had once scoffed and railed against his 'poor decision', seeing nothing but a fool's errand in the vast emptiness of the land, now even she would struggle to hide her surprise.

The small, random shack that had dotted the landscape was now replaced by a growing structure that stood with purpose, reflecting the resilience and determination of the man who had built it.

The lake, a stone's throw from where we sat, held the sky's reflection like a precious piece of art, the ripples telling tales of the soft breeze that danced upon it. Willows lined the water's edge, their drooping branches swaying gently, offering a whispered soundtrack to the scene.

Uncle Johnny had not only built a home but had also cultivated the land, nurturing it until it blossomed into a verdant sanctuary that hummed with life.

Dragonflies flitted between the reeds, and the occasional splash of a fish leaping for a meal punctuated the tranquility. The property was now a harmonious blend of nature and nurture, the wildness of the land tamed just enough to coexist with the homeliness of the ranch.

A large deck that jutted out from the side. Fresh paint in a soft, welcoming hue clung to the exterior, and flower boxes brimming with vibrant blooms hung beneath each window, adding more complementary splashes of color.

The porch protested underfoot, a plank bowing outward in warning, eliciting a startled squeal from my lips. Uncle Johnny's laughter chased away the momentary fear as he ushered us inside.

The interior was a revelation. Sunlight cascaded through the open windows, casting the polished wooden floors in a golden glow.

An unassuming entertainment center housed a modest television, flanked by shelves heavy with literary classics and thick volumes on mechanics, fashion, and archival issues of Essence, Jet, and Vibe Magazine—a testament to Uncle Johnny's diverse interests.

The adjoining kitchen exuded the warmth of a recently baked lemon bundt cake, with the scent weaving its way through the air, tugging at childhood memories.

Across from the TV, a brown couch and matching recliner held court, a handmade quilt meticulously folded over its back, while the walls were adorned with framed photographs that spoke of love and simple joys.

"Y'all want somethin' to drink? I got sweet tea, water, and, uh...some lemonade..." His voice trailed off as he turned away, busying himself in the kitchen, giving me a chance to look around.

A large bookshelf sat opposite the couch, and I drifted towards it, admiring the photos that dotted the shelf. My uncle had captured moments throughout his life—moments of great importance, and moments so small, so insignificant, yet now immortalized in the photo, the details forever etched into the mind, never forgotten.

He treasured his film camera, occasionally spending entire weekends sequestered away in his makeshift darkroom, emerging only when his latest photographs were finished, the images preserved on glossy paper.

I smiled as I spotted a photo of Solange as a baby, a wide toothless grin lighting up her chubby face as she stared up at the camera, a single chubby fist raised in triumph, holding the camera strap as though it were a trophy.

In another, I caught a glimpse of myself, no older than six, with a smear of ice cream running down my mouth as I laughed at the camera.

My fingers skimmed across the frame as I remembered the day: the ice cream melting into the heat of the sun, making the cone nearly impossible to hold on to.

The sticky mess had been worth the joy of that day, even with the punishment that followed for ruining my sundress.

My father had a strong disdain for desserts.

Anything sweet.

Anything with sugar in its tank, so to speak.

It was messy.

I would need to learn how to control myself.

Always left a stain wherever it was.

How unbecoming it was to see a young lady covered in and surrounded by the remnants of something so impure, so indulgent.

He never liked the idea of a child of his indulging in such frivolities, so I learned to keep it hidden, taking the smallest of bites as the minutes ticked by, waiting for the opportune time to finish it off.

The ice cream had been worth the lecture that followed, the sting of his palm on my cheeks, the tears that threatened to fall, but refused to obey, and the cold dismissal, followed by a week of silence.

But my uncle had taken pity on me before heading home that day.

He'd whisked me away, a smile on his face as he wiped the ice cream from my hands and cheeks with tissue.

The fear of taint and ruin was left behind as we drove back to my house to drop me off, and I could still feel the wind whipping through the truck cab as the windows were rolled down, the music turned up, and our laughter sang along.

The fireflies always began to light up the twilight as Uncle Johnny and I found our familiar spot on the tailgate of his old pickup.

The air was filled with the earthy scent of the vast open land. We would sit side by side, our gaze lost in the dance of those tiny, bioluminescent creatures that seemed to echo the stars above.

"This right here," he started, his voice a low rumble, "it's more than just piss, dirt, and grass or whatever shit your father chooses to call it. It's where I'll see my dreams take root and grow."

I knew his stories by heart—the triumphs and trials, the roar of the crowd as he cleared jump after jump, his horse and him moving as one. But here, in the soft glow of dusk, those stories took on a different hue. They were quieter, more intimate. They were not about the medals and the glory but about the dreams of open spaces, of freedom, and of legacy.

He wanted to build something that would last, something that would tell not the world, but me that he was here and that he mattered. The accolades from his equestrian days were a testament to his talent and hard work, but this land, this life he was shaping with his own two hands, was a testament to his heart.

As I moved along, a set of frames drew my eye, the glass catching the light and sending fractals of light across the room. I moved up to examine it more closely, a soft gasp escaping my lips as I took in the details.

A collection of childlike paintings were displayed within the frames, some of them bearing my attempt at a signature and dates with timestamps.

A lump formed in my throat as I traced a finger across the glass of one of the works of art, remembering the day I had gifted it to my uncle.

He had been so proud. It was the first painting he ever received from me, who had been a mere three-year-old at the time.

I had excitedly handed him the paper, the drawing depicting a man, sitting in a garden, watching a little girl dance in the flowers. The man's face bore the wide smile that I cherished, the one that always made me feel safe, the one that made me feel loved.

"I'm guessing you did all of these?"

Aaliyah's voice was gentle as her head hovered over my shoulder, her eyes tracing over the image, her head tilting as she took in the details.

"It's nothin' crazy. Just some scribbles," I murmured, feeling a flush creep up my cheeks.

"No, it's not; Are you seeing what I'm seeing? This is beautiful. Look at all the colors. The details on the faces. And the shading on the petals of the flowers. That takes mad skill, especially for someone who wasn't even old enough to go to school. This is really something. My art teacher would have had a stroke if I had given him this in middle school."

As my lips subtly parted, her hand gently pressed against the small of my back, ushering me along the path of frames.

Each step we took was accompanied by her delicate guidance, as she gestured towards the line of ornate frames, her fingers almost dancing as she highlighted every meticulous detail.

The rush of adrenaline surged like a tidal wave through my veins, a visceral reaction to the proximity of her touch.

Her hand, with a touch both purposeful and tender, traced the gentle arc of my waist, drawing me nearer to her with an intimacy that spoke volumes beyond the silent language of art surrounding us.

The sound of my uncle's footsteps echoed down the hall, breaking the spell. I quickly stepped away, putting a respectable distance between Aaliyah and me, ignoring the confusion that clouded her face.

My gaze darted from her to my uncle as he entered the room, a tray in hand, a pitcher of lemonade with three glasses and a plate of soft, freshly baked cookies on its surface.

He set it down on the coffee table, smiling at Aaliyah as she moved around the living room, studying each frame and piece of art.

"She would just be paintin' away. Never met a kid who loved art more than her. I fixed up a mini studio for her in the garage at my old place." He chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling. "She would just sit and draw for hours. Wouldn't eat or nothin'. Used to worry me."

"That sounds like her. Always so focused on her craft." Aaliyah nodded, a faint smile on her lips. "I'm kinda the same way."

"How so?"

"I'm almost always in the studio. I was also really into art when I was younger. I used to paint a lot. Still do, sometimes. But I got sidetracked by other things, I guess."

My uncle nodded. "Happens to the best of us."

"You have a beautiful home," Aaliyah said, helping herself to the plate of cookies before resuming her perusal of the small nick-nacks and keepsakes scattered across the shelves. "How long have you lived here?"

My uncle leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming against his stomach. "Been livin' here for the last year or so. Got the land for real cheap back in the day, but I didn't really know what to do with it. A good ol' friend of mine knew the original owner. Said they were lookin' to sell off a parcel of their property, and I snatched it up just 'cause. Had to do a lot of fixin' up and renovatin' to get it into shape, but it's comin' together."

He looked over at me with a slight furrow to his brow as I sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, pressing my knees tightly together and folding my hands in my lap. "You awfully quiet this mornin'. What's goin' on with you?"

"Nothin'." I mumbled.

"I ain't buyin' that for a second. You always used to talk my ear off whenever you used to visit. Never really talked about anythin', but you could talk for hours once you got started. Now you're here, and it's like pullin' teeth to get you to say somethin' other than 'nothin''."

I shrugged, shifting in my seat. "I'm still tryna adjust. It's been...some time since I last saw you."

Uncle Johnny nodded, leaning forward to pour himself a glass of lemonade. "Yes, yes it has. Been too damn long. But I told you, don't matter how long it's been, this will always be your home, too. Yours and your sister's. Whenever y'all need a place to stay and feel comfortable, this door is always open. I'm done travelin' and movin' around for now."

"Thank you," I said, taking the glass that he offered to me. The tart sweetness of the lemonade was a welcome relief, chasing away the dryness of my throat as I sipped it. "Solange told me to tell you hi before she left this mornin'. She misses you."

His face softened as he took a drink. "Miss that girl somethin' fierce. I would love to see what she's been up to. Where is she?"

"New York. I think she's plannin' on stayin' there after school."

"Good for her. I'm sure she'll handle herself out there. Smart as a whip, that one. Seems like you two have patched things up if you keepin' tabs on her. That's nice. I grew tired of listenin' to y'all bickerin' back and forth."

I chuckled softly, setting my glass down on the table. "Yes, well, that ain't changed much. We still fight. It's just more...complicated now. We have to work through some stuff."

My uncle nodded, his eyes darting to Aaliyah as she quietly ate a cookie, her gaze trained on her phone. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

"She seems nice. And I like her style. I need that leather she got on; I know good quality when I see it. Girl looks like she jumped straight out of the magazines. I'm not quite sure what's goin' on between y'all, but I'm happy for you. She treats you well?"

"We're not—no, it's nothin' like that. She's just a friend," I whispered, casting a quick glance in Aaliyah's direction. She remained oblivious to our conversation, humming to herself as she scrolled through her phone, munching on the cookie.

"Mm-hmm. I may be old, but I ain't blind. Or stupid. I saw how she was lookin' at you. Both now and yesterday. Women don't look at female friends like that. Especially when they're touchin' them the way she was. I got eyes like a hawk. But that's none of my business. Just wanna make sure that you good."

He patted my knee affectionately as he leaned back in his chair, taking another drink of his lemonade.

Uncle Johnny studied her for a moment before calling for her attention. "So, what about you, Miss Aaliyah? How did y'all two meet? Hollywood types don't usually rub elbows with folks like us."

Aaliyah smiled, setting her phone in her pocket as she sat beside me on the couch. "We bumped into each other at a Target."

"Target? Wow. I woulda thought y'all had people who shopped for ya."

"Some probably do. But I enjoy doing things for myself, especially when it comes to grocery shopping. It gives me a chance to clear my head and some much needed alone time. Plus, it's kind of nice to blend in every now and then. Get away from the craziness of it all."

"I know it gets to be a bit much sometimes." Uncle Johnny nodded, taking a sip of his lemonade. "It's hard to relax, especially with all the cameras and paps followin' ya around. I remember havin' to deal with that back then. Couldn't sneeze without the whole world talkin' about it the next day. That shit'll drive a sane man crazy."

Aaliyah sighed. "Yeah, it's not for everyone. Sometimes it's hard to find privacy, but I manage. You used to be an Olympian, right? Bey says you were the best equestrian the country had ever seen. You broke a bunch of records."

Uncle Johnny chuckled. "I must not've been the best if you ain't heard of me. But yes, that was a lifetime ago. Still can't believe they let me compete back then. Black folks weren't exactly welcome in that area."

"Times have changed, thankfully. Well, to an extent. It's better than it was, so that's a start. We still have a ways to go, though. Do you still ride often, or was the Rodeo a one time thing?" Aaliyah asked.

"Is Aretha still the Queen of Soul? I could never let all that skill go to waste. I don't race, but I do love to bet on them. That's a little side thing I got goin' on. Most times, I'll do charity events or other local stuff for work besides the Rodeo now. Nothin' too serious since I've semi–retired." Uncle Johnny pointed out the window, his eyes bright. "My girl is out back. She's a beauty. Sweetest horse you'll ever meet. Y'all should come out later and say hello. She loves meetin' new friends."

"How did you get into this?"

My uncle launched into a story, recounting his accidental beginnings in horseback riding with Uncle Larry, his voice animated and filled with emotion as he detailed his journey as the shy and timid boy who hid behind the legs of his brother as a overzealous pony, the main attraction to a birthday party they had attended, bucked at the children and ran loose.

He initially found the animal to be astonishing, but had been terrified by the incident, clinging to his older brother and begging him to save him from the monstrous beast that seemed intent on causing him harm.

Uncle Johnny was convinced that he was going to die and ran away from the group of wailing children and frantic adults looking for the runaway animal.

He came upon Buttercup, peacefully grazing near an old oak tree, unconcerned with the commotion she had caused. Unlike the adults who tried to coax her with treats and lead ropes, he kept his distance, mesmerized by her sudden calm demeanor.

Instead of running away again from danger, Uncle Johnny approached the pony slowly, offering her his hand to sniff as he stood still, speaking to her in hushed tones, a trick he had learned from watching his grandfather calm down the stray dogs that roamed their neighborhood.

To the astonishment of everyone who found them, Buttercup responded to Johnny's gentle touch and allowed him to mount without so much as a flinch.

With the slightest nudge, they returned to the party together, Johnny riding Buttercup as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

That day, a bond was formed, and a passion ignited. Free community-sponsored riding lessons soon followed, and Uncle Johnny found not only a talent for equestrian pursuits but also a sanctuary within the rhythm of hooves and dirt.

Aaliyah listened intently, nodding along as he spoke, asking questions, laughing when appropriate.

They had the easy familiarity of old friends, discussing everything from the current state of athletics to the merits of local food trucks he tried in L.A., debating the validity of conspiracy theories, and trading stories of travels abroad.

Her laugh rang through the air, bright and melodic. She seemed to shine as Uncle Johnny spoke, her face alight with joy as she nodded along, captivated by his every word. Uncle Johnny warmed up to her, his posture relaxing, his speech becoming less formal, the drawl of his accent slipping through.

"You make that much just spinnin' a turntable?" Uncle Johnny asked, shaking his head as Aaliyah told him about her last gig. "Lord have mercy. I'd be livin' like a king if I made that much. What kinda records you play, or make? I remember you sayin' you a producer of some sorts."

"Anything, really. If they throw enough money at me, I'll pretty much spin whatever they want me to. But I lean more towards house, afrobeats, dancehall, and R&B. All that good stuff. For production, I play a few live instruments or use more technical equipment like MPCs."

Uncle Johnny's brows shot up in surprise, a grin spreading across his face. "Damn. You might have to teach me a thing or two about that. I've been tryin' to produce my own music for months, but I don't have the slightest clue how to use them programs."

"You makin' music now, Uncle Johnny?" I interjected. "Since when?"

He chuckled, reaching for another cookie. "Since Luther still had some weight on him. I gotta have a hobby outside of sewin'. I dabble here and there, but hadn't touched in so many years because of my line of work. I try my hand at singin', producin', even wrote a few songs. Maybe Aaliyah can give me some tips."

Aaliyah nodded. "Absolutely. I'd love to. Can I hear some of your stuff?"

"Can't promise that it'll sound any good and I ain't sure how much of a country fan you are, but I got somethin' you can listen to later. You know, Bey used to write lyrics sometimes. Pretty good at it, too. She would always sing along to the radio with me whenever we went ridin' together. Had a real nice voice."

Aaliyah turned to me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "She can sing? Wow, I had no clue."

I flushed, looking away. "Stop it. Don't even."

"You sang for her?"

"She sang to an entire crowd of strangers," Aaliyah supplied, nudging my arm with her elbow. "It was the cutest thing."

Pulling out her phone, she swiped through the screen, searching for the clip. Uncle Johnny got up from his seat and leaned down, crossing his hands behind his back with interest.

I shifted in my seat, wringing my hands together in embarrassment as she settled on the video, turning the volume up as loud as it would go.

The familiar tune of 'No Scrubs' filtered through the speaker, the opening beats bouncing off the walls of the room.

Aaliyah cackled as the video played, grinning at my uncle as he watched it with a smile on his face.

The memory of that night, the fear, the adrenaline, the exhilaration, rushed back, causing my cheeks to burn with heat. I sank further into the couch, wishing I could disappear, as Aaliyah replayed the portion of the video for Uncle Johnny, pointing out and explaining the various types of equipment and switches that were involved with her set up.

She paused the video, and Uncle Johnny looked over at me, beaming with pride. "Bey, girl, you sounded amazin'! Looked like you were havin' fun up there, too."

"Thanks." I mumbled, shrinking under his gaze. "Wasn't plannin' on singin' that night, but it kinda just happened."

"Stop hidin' yourself away like that. You got all kinds of talent. You should show it off more. Let people see you." Uncle Johnny said, leaning back into his chair. "Tell me more about what you do with your music. What got you startin' with it?"

Aaliyah launched into an explanation, gesturing with her hands as she described her career, the passion in her voice clear as she spoke about her contributions to other artists' songs.

My uncle nodded along, asking questions, laughing as she recounted some of the wilder moments of her career.

A comfortable silence settled over the room as Aaliyah finished speaking and Uncle Johnny gazed out of the window with a pensive look on his face. "Let me show y'all around outside. It's a beautiful day, and I'm sure you're dyin' to see the rest of the property." He stood up slowly, stretching his arms above his head as he headed towards the back door.

The ranch sprawled out around us, a tapestry of life and color. Animals of all kinds meandered in their designated areas, each contributing to the dynamic ecosystem of the ranch.

Off in the distance, the beautiful black horse named Midnight grazed serenely. Her coat shone in the sun, a radiant black that seemed to absorb and reflect the light all at once.

Uncle Johnny recounted how the crowd at the Rodeo yesterday had been captivated by her grace and strength. She was a creature of remarkable beauty, and it was clear she held a special place in his heart.

As we walked, the massive backyard revealed itself in greater detail. It was like a world unto itself, a place where the troubles of the outside world seemed distant and muffled.

A large, well-tended vegetable garden spread out in neat rows. The vegetables growing there would likely end up on their table or perhaps be shared with neighbors, fostering a sense of community.

The fire pit, surrounded by wooden benches, spoke of communal nights under the stars, sharing stories and laughter. It was easy to imagine the flickering flames casting a warm glow on the faces of friends and family gathered around.

A weathered barn stood proudly, housing tools and providing shelter for some of the animals. The small pond in the distance was a mirror to the sky, its still waters a haven for ducks and other wildlife. It was a focal point of the landscape, a place where one could sit in quiet contemplation and feel at one with nature.

The oak tree, massive and ancient, offered a shady respite with its sprawling branches. Beneath it, a wooden swing hung motionless, inviting someone to break its stillness and soar into the gentle breeze.

Uncle Johnny led us on a path that skirted the edges of the property, pointing out various features with a mixture of pride and nostalgia, and as we circled back into the house, we spent the rest of the time looking through his cherished photobook albums.

He showed us the photographs he had captured during his journeys, sharing the hidden treasures he had discovered along the way.

Continuing to showcase the hidden depths of the man who raised me, he showed us his passion projects—sketches of outfits he had designed, many of which Solange and I recognized from his Rodeo days, and notes he had jotted down regarding ideas for future creations.

I peppered Uncle Johnny with inquiries about his artistic process, and I watched as he lit up, his eyes sparkling as he explained his creative process and the inspiration behind his work.

Upon turning the page, I noticed a sketch that sent chills down my spine.

A dress, elegant and refined, yet daring and bold. A dress that held a familiarity, a memory, a dream. The sketch bore my name in the corner, dated several weeks prior to my prom night.

"That dress...you..."

"I remember you wearin' it that night. You looked like an angel. A little Cinderella." Uncle Johnny's voice was soft as he traced a finger across the page, his gaze distant. "You inspired this design. Every detail. Every stitch. You brought this idea to life that night you came runnin' over to my place after you got asked to prom by that boy. You were so excited, and you couldn't stop talkin' about it. I could see the joy in your eyes, and I wanted to capture that feelin', that energy, and put it into somethin'."

"I thought Mama made it?" I murmured, my brow furrowing as I studied the sketch, the details coming into focus.

Uncle Johnny shook his head. "She helped a bit here and there, I had her do your measurements. But most of it was my doin'. I sketched it all out, made sure it was perfect, and then I went to work. Spent hours hunched over that sewing machine, makin' sure everythin' was just right."

I stared at the drawing in disbelief, my mind racing to assimilate the revelation before me. I had always taken for granted the idea that my mother had crafted the dress herself.

Yet, the realization struck me that I had never actually witnessed her sewing or creating anything, especially considering the hand injury she sustained for two weeks before prom.

"I never knew..." I whispered, my voice trailing off as I struggled to wrap my head around the revelation.

"You looked so beautiful that night. I still have the dress packed away somewhere. Never wanted to part with it. It was one of my proudest creations." Uncle Johnny smiled; the memory of that night was clearly still fresh in his mind. "You reminded me of your mama when she was younger. Full of life and spirit. I don't know what happened along the way, but somethin' changed. Somethin' changed, and she became...harder. Colder. Distant. Lost that light in her eyes."

Uncle Johnny sighed, closing the book with a soft thud. "She was never the same after y'all were born. Like somethin' inside her died. She didn't smile as much. Didn't laugh as much. Just seemed...sad. Empty. Like she was just goin' through the motions. I pray for her still. Pray that she finds peace. Finds happiness again. Cause I miss that woman. We used to compete against each other all the time for fun. Always tryna outdo the other. She was always the more talented one though. She could sew circles around me. But I still loved creatin' things. Loved bringin' my visions to life."

"You said you still have it? The dress." Aaliyah chimed in.

She had remained quiet throughout the majority of our conversation, but I could see the curiosity burning in her eyes as she leaned forward to get a better look at the sketch. "Would it be possible to see it? If you don't mind, of course. Sorry, was that too pushy of me?"

Uncle Johnny chuckled before nodding. "Beyoncé, why don't you go grab it? It's in the spare room down the hall. Should be in a garment bag in the closet. Try it on if you want. See how it fits."

I rose to my feet, excitement coursing through my veins as I made my way down the hall. The spare room was small but cozy, and the walls were adorned with a design theme of nature. The bed was neatly made, and a desk sat in the corner, covered with sketches and drawings.

I crossed to the closet, opening the doors to reveal a row of carefully hung garments. My fingers trailed across the fabric as I searched for the garment bag, finally finding it tucked away in the back corner.

With deliberate care, I lifted the blue dress from its protective covering, gently holding it aloft to catch the light. It was exactly as I recalled—a paragon of elegance and grace, featuring delicate stitching that adorned the bodice and a skirt that cascaded down like liquid silver.

Wearing it again felt surreal, as though I were stepping back into a time capsule, reliving a moment from the past. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, marveling at the way the fabric moved with each twirl. I could almost hear the music from that night—the faint strains of the melody from the slow dance floating through my mind.

As I stood there, lost in the moment, I heard Uncle Johnny's voice calling for me from down the hall.

"You plannin' on struttin' down the runway for us or you still lookin' for your other shoe?" He called out, his tone laced with amusement.

I chuckled, shaking my head as I carefully slipped on the accompanying gloves, completing the look. Making my way back to the living room, I paused in the doorway, taking in the sight before me as Uncle Johnny regaled her with another story.

Aaliyah's gaze met mine as she spotted me standing there, her jaw dropping as she took in my appearance. "Wow..." She breathed, her eyes raking over me, drinking in every detail.

Uncle Johnny smiled proudly, nodding his approval as he examined the dress. "Looks just as good as it did back then."

"Uncle Johnny...this is..." I shook my head as I approached them, unable to find the words to express how I felt.

"I know. And I see you still have that necklace. The one I bought for ya. Figured you'd toss it after prom." Uncle Johnny motioned to the pendant resting against my collarbone.

It was the one item I left behind before leaving Houston all those years ago. I knew I had to look for it once we headed back to the house to get the rest of our belongings with Angie.

I couldn't leave without it.

I couldn't part with it.

It was the last thing he had given me before everything changed. Before my life shifted. Before I became someone else.

"Of course I kept it. Well, actually, I found it back at the house. Thought I lost it." I murmured, my fingers tracing the birthstone charm. "I'm a lil' surprised this dress still fits."

Aaliyah cleared her throat. "Hey, Bey...why don't you pose for some photos? I mean, if that's alright with you."

"Oh, uh...sure." I replied hesitantly, my cheeks flushing at the request.

"Great. You can stand over there by that wall with all the drawings and those trophies. That would be perfect." Aaliyah gestured towards the wall, rising to her feet to retrieve her phone.

I complied, feeling somewhat out of place as Uncle Johnny directed me to pose. Settling into a more natural stance, Aaliyah took several photos, then paused to scrutinize the results. Her face took on a focused expression as she approached to fine-tune my pose, her fingers lightly guiding my shoulders into place.

"Hold that position," Aaliyah instructed, her breath a warm caress against my neck. "Now...look right at me."

My eyes met hers, locking onto an intense stare that seemed to capture the essence of the moment. She held the gaze for a tantalizing second longer than expected, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Beautiful." She whispered, her voice low and husky.

My heart pounded in my chest as she stepped away, her attention returning to her phone. She studied the results after, a satisfied smile gracing her face. She turned her phone to show me the photos, and I marveled at the images that stared back at me.

"It kinda has a Tumblr aesthetic to it." I mused, scrolling through the series of photos she had captured.

"A what?" Uncle Johnny quirked a brow as Aaliyah chuckled.

"It means it has this kind of timeless, vintage vibe." She explained.

Uncle Johnny nodded slowly. "Huh...I don't know half of what y'all kids be talkin' about nowadays. But I guess that's a compliment."

A loud thud echoed from outside, followed by a muffled neigh of protest. Uncle Johnny frowned, his gaze darting towards the window. "What in the world?"

Rising to his feet, he shuffled towards the back door, peering outside. "Oh, shoot." He muttered, disappearing through the threshold.

Aaliyah and I exchanged a glance before following suit, curious to see what had transpired. The scene that greeted us was a comical one—bales of hay lay scattered about the barn, with Midnight stomping her hooves in irritation. Uncle Johnny stood nearby, attempting to placate her with gentle coaxing.

As he busied himself, I wandered back toward the spare room, Aaliyah slowly trailing behind. "That was a lot...but I'm glad we had a chance to reconnect," I said, the weight of the worn gloves leaving my hands as I placed them on the entryway table.

She leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed and her gaze pensive. "You were right when you said he's a cool dude. I see where you get it from now."

"Get what from?"

"Your creativity. Your passion. Your quirks. Your light. He clearly inspired you to follow your dreams." Aaliyah replied.

"Well, I wish my dreams had panned out like yours have. I don't know if I can call livin' paycheck to paycheck in a tiny apartment and spendin' every dime I earn on bills dreamin'." I mumbled, smoothing out the dress as I attempted to unzip the back. "I love what I teach, but sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to do somethin' less restrictive."

Due to the dress's design, the zipper was situated in the back rather than the side, making it difficult to reach. I cursed under my breath as I failed for the third time, eliciting a soft laugh from Aaliyah. "Let me help you." She offered, pushing off the doorframe to join me by the bed.

"I've told you several times, I don't want your money, Aaliyah." I huffed, exasperated. "I appreciate it, but I don't want charity."

"Who said anything about money? I'mma always spoil you regardless, by the way, but I was talking about helping you zip down the dress." Aaliyah smirked as she made her way behind me, gently grasping the zipper pull before pausing. "May I?"

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close she stood, the warmth of her body radiating against my skin. "I got it." I stammered, my cheeks heating as she began. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and I could feel her gaze trailing down my spine as she exposed more of my skin.

"Bey." Aaliyah's voice was gentle but firm. "Let me help you."

With each inch that fell away, my pulse quickened, until it was zipped halfway down, the dress hanging loose around my waist.

"I know you that cherish every student that comes into your classroom. You feel like you're doing something to better their lives...but I think...if something isn't serving you, it's okay to let it go. You should know that, given the fact that you uprooted your whole life to move not once, but four times to start fresh." Aaliyah said quietly.

"But it's becoming exhaustin' havin' to start over. I don't know if I can keep doin' it. Not anymore." I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.

"It's okay to ask for help along the way. You say your sister is stubborn? Well, so are you. You have people who want to support you and help carry the burden. Don't try to bear it alone. Especially when you're willing to help everyone else at the same time." She countered, her hands resting on my bare shoulders.

I closed my eyes.

"I don't know who I'm supposed to be or what I'm supposed to be doin' in life sometimes. I don't know my purpose. Maybe that's why I throw myself at everything and everybody that comes my way. Or at least that's what my therapist said. I feel like I've been searchin' for answers my entire life. Tryna find a piece of myself that I lost along the way." I admitted.

"Maybe it's time to stop searching. Maybe you already found it. Found yourself."

"What if I've never liked what I saw? What if...I'm not ready to accept it?"

"Then I'll be here for you. I think you're perfect just the way you are." Aaliyah replied, her tone sincere. "And I know your uncle thinks so, too. Really take into consideration the advice he gave you today. Because sometimes, we just need to hear it from someone else before we believe it ourselves. And it's more than just about singing or creating something. It's about being true to yourself. Doing what makes you happy. Being happy with who you are as a person."

Aaliyah's voice was steady and reassuring, and I could feel myself relaxing under her touch. "I really do think you needed this trip. This is part of those good memories you reminisced about. The ones that remind you of who you were and who you want to be again. Who Beyoncé is. Not who your parents molded you to be. Who you are deep down. That piece of you was never lost, just repressed. I was quiet when the two of you were talking earlier because I wanted to watch you rediscover parts of the real version of yourself that you forgot existed. I may not have known you back then, but I saw glimpses of that Beyoncé peeking through. Since the day I laid eyes on you, I've seen bits and pieces of them. And it's beautiful. It's breathtaking. A breath of fresh air. And I want to keep seeing more of her emerge."

I shivered as her lips traveled up my shoulder, skipping the bra strap and dancing along my skin as she spoke. Her words resonated within me, striking a chord deep inside my soul. I leaned into her, wanting to lose myself in the sensations she stirred within me.

"Shedding old skins is hard. Especially when you've worn them for so long. Your uncle's been able to do it with his travels, his work, and now his music. He's remaking himself into someone new while still holding onto what's important to him. He's comfortable in his own skin. And I want you to start doing the same. Yesterday, on the Ferris wheel...when we kissed...that was your first step. That was you taking control of your life. Of your choices. You were choosing to be happy. To choose to feel something. To feel alive. To be you. And I know it wasn't easy. I know it scared you. But I'm here to support you. To encourage you. My only question is, will you let me help you?"

Aaliyah paused, her lips hovering dangerously close to my ear. "Will you let me peel back those layers? Will you let me see all of you? The real you?"

As the zipper whispered its final descent, the dress formed a silken moat around my feet, and in that moment of unveiling, I turned to face her. Our gazes entwined, a silent pact forged in the depths of smoldering eyes.

The air seemed to thicken with our shared breath, each inhalation a step closer into an intimate world we were about to create.

With a heart drumming a fervent rhythm, I reached out, my hand a gentle pilgrim, finding sanctuary on the warmth of her cheek. My thumb, tentative yet deliberate, sketched the plush contour of her bottom lip—a petal-soft boundary on the brink of yielding.

I could feel my resolve weakening, my defenses crumbling as I gave in to the desire that burned within me for months.

For decades.

I answered her with a kiss, pouring every ounce of emotion into it. Our bodies melded together, fitting perfectly as though they were made for one another.

Aaliyah's hands explored my bare skin with a level of tenderness I had yet to experience from any man. It was a dizzying blend of softness and strength, a passionate storm that threatened to sweep me away.

I surrendered to the pleasure, letting go of any lingering doubts or fears. I allowed myself to drown in the passion, losing myself in the moment. We stumbled onto the bed, our movements fueled by a primal need, driven by an insatiable hunger for one another.

Her lips, as if painting with the palette of Aphrodite herself, brushed a trail of fervent heat down the column of my neck, her teeth gently etching their affection into the canvas of my being. It elicited soft moans from deep within me as she nibbled and tasted, savoring every inch of my skin.

Her fingers trailed lower, tracing intricate patterns across my abdomen, before slipping towards the waistband of my panties.

I sat up slightly to take off her moto jacket and shirt, needing to feel her flesh against mine. They joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the floor, and I reveled in the sight before me—her torso.

Her muscles were a testament to her strength, each curve and contour a soft echo of her power. The softness of her skin belied the force within, an exquisite contrast that drew me in, begging for the touch of my hands. Her breasts strained against the fabric of her bra, inviting my hands to explore, to caress, to worship.

The tattoos that adorned her arm seemed to come alive in the afternoon sunlight, adding to her allure. I traced her torso with my two fingertips, admiring every detail as she shuddered on top of me. Her eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

With a gentle insistence, she guided my hands, now trembling with the sheer intensity of the moment, up the heated expanse of her body. Her hips swayed against my leg, dancing to a rhythm only she could hear as she moaned softly.

She leaned down to capture my lips once more, her tongue probing as she deepened the kiss. I lost myself in the sensation, allowing it to consume me as I began to unbutton her jeans, sliding them down to her knees.

The sound of her belt buckle clinking against itself contrasted with the sound of the back door closing. My eyes flew open as the sound of footsteps approaching the room broke the spell.

Aaliyah and I scrambled to untangle ourselves, hurriedly trying to close the door and gather my clothes as Uncle Johnny called out to us.

"Bey, you back there? I figured we can head out and do some explorin' once you're done changin'. Gotta show our guest around the city. The neighbors can watch this place while we're gone." Uncle Johnny hollered down the hall, his footsteps growing louder as he drew closer. "She in the bathroom?"

I winced as I frantically tugged on my pants, Aaliyah biting her lip to stifle a laugh as we struggled to compose ourselves. "Um...yeah. She'll probably be out in a minute." I replied, hoping my voice sounded normal.

Aaliyah suppressed another giggle as she sat on the edge of the bed, her hair slightly disheveled and her cheeks flushed. I shook my head at her, struggling to contain my own laughter as we waited for Uncle Johnny to leave.

After what seemed like an eternity, his footsteps receded, followed by a leathery creak as he settled into his favorite spot.

We burst into muffled fits of giggles as soon as he was out of earshot, the tension dissipating as we regained our composure. Aaliyah beckoned me to join her on the bed, reaching for my hand as I straddled her lap, draping my arms around her shoulders. "I think we should pick up where we left off at another time..." She murmured, pressing soft kisses on my neck.

I hummed in agreement, basking in the moment. "Definitely."

"Can I ask you something, though?"

"Yes?" I brushed the stray strands of hair from her bang back to their proper place, tucking them behind her ears as I gazed down at her.

"...Where'd you get this sexy ass two–piece set from?"

I blushed, laughing softly as she ran her hands over my lace bra. "You like it?"

"Mmhmm. I love it. It looks really good on you. And probably off you as well. Which is what I wanna see next..."

"Aaliyah..." I groaned, playfully swatting her arm as she chuckled. "We gotta get goin' before my uncle comes back to check on us."

She ran her hands along my sides, before reluctantly releasing me. "You ever flown private?"

"Hmm?" I furrowed my brows in confusion at the sudden shift in conversation, sliding off her lap to grab my shirt.

"Fly back to L.A. with me. I'll reimburse you for your plane ticket back home. No crazy airports or security screaming at you for forgetting to take off your shoes. Just you, me, and champagne...or wine, if that's your thing." Aaliyah suggested, watching me slip on my top. "You deserve to pamper yourself a bit after all this. Come enjoy some of the perks of having a 'famous friend'." Aaliyah offered, rising to her feet to slip back into her own shirt and shoes.

"Friend? At this point, we're definitely beyond the 'friend' stage, don't you think?" I teased, tossing her moto jacket to her.

"Besties then?" Aaliyah smirked.

I rolled my eyes.

"So...is that a yes to the flight?" She asked, slipping back into her shoes.

"Duh. I'd be stupid to pass up that offer. Now come on, I still got some places I wanna show you before we leave and I know they'll be your kinda spots." I grinned, leading her back down the hall.

"Oh yeah? Like where?"

I replied, extending a hand to her. "You'll see...I think it's time for you to experience a couple of your own firsts."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Orange Moon" by Erykah Badu

My mind was still a landscape riddled with question marks, each one casting a longer shadow as I walked past. I could parrot the 'correct' answers, the ones I'd been taught, but they would echo hollow in my own ears.

The discrepancy between what I professed and what I felt was growing, a chasm lined with doubt and discomfort. The concept of God, once a cornerstone of my existence, had become blurred.

The teachings of my youth, once clear and absolute, were then refracted through the prism of my general education philosophy class and the earnest debates with Robyn during our shared meals in the dining hall. She had me questioning everything, from my taste in men to my unnatural affinity for Raisin Bran cereal.

But what could be more unnatural than two individuals of the same sex falling in love? It was a paradox that had kept me up many nights, wrestling with conflicting thought processes.

Perhaps if I'd prayed harder and continued my religious studies, I would have found answers and slept comfortably like a baby. But the more I gained knowledge outside of church, the more it became hard to tell if there were any truths at all. It was a disconcerting place to be.

The church had been my comfort zone as a small child, my place of belonging, but as I got older, I began to see it more and more like a fish sees water.

My skin felt dry and itchy as I swam through the liturgy.

The familiar hymns sounded shrill, and I struggled to find harmony.

My dad and his family, his friends, and his colleagues all sang along, their faces relaxed and their voices strong. The words were easy, and they flowed out without hesitation. They knew them by heart.

I could feel the difference in my face. I was certain the others could, too. Especially my father. My lips were stiff, and my jaw was tight, as though my mouth were being wrenched open to receive the lyrics.

My gaze was downcast, my eyes fixed on the order of service. I read the words, but the meaning didn't make it past the first layer of my skin.

I still wanted to believe. I still wanted to join in. I just couldn't. My dad would give the opening remarks and the morning scripture reading.

He was an orator, rivaling Martin Luther King, Jr., for charisma and conviction. When he stepped up to the pulpit, the entire congregation held its breath. Even the pastor and babies grew still.

No one outside of our family was privy to who my father truly was, but they sensed that the man behind the Bible was a man of power and substance.

A man of good faith.

A man who embodied the values he espoused.

As a deacon of our church, he had many other duties, but speaking from the pulpit was his favorite. His deep voice rumbled like thunder as he shared impersonal stories and not-so-insightful commentary.

It was one of those Sunday mornings. He would preach on the evils of drugs and alcohol, the sinfulness of fornication and adultery, and the necessity of obedience.

His speeches during Confession were often fiery and passionate, full of emotion. Too much emotion. As if he were preaching from personal experience instead of biblical exegesis.

Searching for absolution.

When he talked about sin, his face was red, and his hands were clenched. He would even point out members of the congregation, calling them up by name. He'd ask them to confess, to repent, to acknowledge their transgressions, and to beg for forgiveness.

He was a puppeteer of hearts, a thespian in the pulpit. Yet I was the solitary challenger to his façade.

The confrontation happened only once. I was fifteen. I had stumbled upon the truth unexpectedly.

Solange and I had returned prematurely from school, her tennis practice and my track practice cancelled by unexpected rain. My father, too, was home, oddly ahead of schedule, his office door cracked open just enough for the sounds within to escape.

I initially mistook his murmurs for a business call, but the one-sided conversation was peppered only with odd noises—grunts, sighs, and whimpers.

Rooted to the spot, I sensed something amiss. Meanwhile, Solange, still in the foyer and oblivious, busied herself with her shoes, then drifted upstairs to her room, unacquainted with the brewing storm.

I was certain I was imagining things, that the stress of midterms and the SATs and the pressure to get into an Ivy League school had me hallucinating. My overworked brain was creating a scenario that had no bearing on reality. But reality shattered my denial as I glimpsed his silhouette hunched over the desk.

There lay the fine, white powder, meticulously lined up. The sight of a rolled dollar bill in his hand, its end skimmingover a row, then retreating to his nostril, dispelled any doubt.

A woman's voice, rich and smoky, broke the silence from a corner of the room. "That's some good shit, isn't it?" she purred. "I got something else that'll help you take the edge off."

The scene unfolded like a Martin Scorsese film. There she was, cocaine queen, pale legs splayed wide open as she took a seat on his lap, a cigarette dangling precariously between long, painted fingernails.

She was lean, with voluptuous breasts, and donned nothing but a sheer robe that was identical to my mother's. She wasn't a natural blonde, given her dark roots that made her look sleezy.

She looked strung out. And my father was snorting away.

I was numb with shock, my limbs immobile, as I witnessed this taboo affair. My father straightened, rubbing his nose vigorously. He reached inside his pocket and withdrew a fat wad of cash. With his thumb, he peeled off several bills and handed them over. The woman counted them, her eyes gleaming like a crow's.

"That's it? This isn't even half what you owe me. Where's the rest? I know you have more than enough, how else could you afford everything you pay for?"

"I gave you this last time, remember? I ain't got time to be playin' games, those girls'll be home soon. You gon' have to accept what I'm offerin'."

The woman eyed him shrewdly, accusing him of being a cheapskate, before crushing out her cigarette on the arm of my father's chair.

As he chastised her for scorching his leather, she rose languidly from his lap. With the money in hand, she walked towards the side of my father, her hips swaying like a pendulum. He sat rigid in his chair as she leaned over and brushed her lips against his ear.

"I think I've got some other ways you can pay your debt then, baby," she murmured. "More...pleasurable ways."

She began to chuckle at his eagerness as he rushed her, but the laughter died in her throat as we made eye contact through the crack of the door. The air left my lungs as if I'd been punched in the gut. I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming, but it was too late.

My father's head jerked over, his eyes meeting mine. Time froze, then resumed at double speed. As my father scrambled to his feet, I ran upstairs, almost tripping over my feet in my haste.

My heart pounded furiously in my chest, and bile rose up in my throat. I locked myself in my bathroom, my stomach heaving. My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks. I wiped them away with the back of my hand. I couldn't unsee what I'd witnessed. I couldn't unhear what I'd heard.

I couldn't ignore the fact that my father was more than just a hypocrite and a liar.

Later that evening, after Solange and my mother were asleep, I was summoned downstairs to the dining room.

My father waited for me there, dressed in his trademark sweatpants and wifebeater tank top, his feet always dressed in a pair of bright and pristine white socks. He was still somehow capable of helping himself to a generous pour of brandy and a cigarette.

He gestured to the seat across from him, but I remained standing, arms crossed tightly across my chest.

"Sit. Down."

"How could you?" I didn't want to disturb my sleeping sister and mother, so I kept my voice low. Still, it was venomous. My father inhaled deeply, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.

"It's none of your goddamn business what I do when I'm at home or outside, Beyoncé. Learn to stay in a child's place and stop snoopin' around all the damn time. You are always causin' trouble."

His words were harsh, but his tone lacked conviction. There was a slight tremor in his voice as he exhaled another lungful of smoke. He was afraid of me. He knew I was different from the rest of our family. I saw things others chose to ignore.

I scoffed. "You talk about sin all the damn time, yet you're doing all those things behind closed doors. I bet Mama would love to know that you're screwing some cheap whore who's wearin' her new stuff."

My father slammed his glass down on the table. "Watch your fuckin' mouth. Don't you ever speak that way to me again."

I stared him down. "No."

His eyes widened, clearly taken aback by my defiance. "What did you just say to me?"

I stepped closer. "I said, no. I hate you so much right now. I wish I didn't have to live here with you, pretending I believe all your bullshit. They might worship the ground you walk on, but not me. You disgust me."

He stood abruptly, knocking over his glass and sending it crashing to the floor.

The liquid splashed across the hardwood, soaking into the cracks and seeping between the boards. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. His other hand forcefully cupped my chin, twisting my face towards him.

"You listen to me, girl," he hissed. "You think you know everythin'? You don't know nothin'. This is my house, and you will respect me. You ain't never been right in the head. Your mama may let you run around like you own the place, but I won't. You understand me? I know everything that goes on in my own house, and if I hear you repeating any of this to anyone, I'm gon' make sure you regret it...and it ain't gon' be for the rest of your life. Do you hear me?"

I swallowed hard, unable to break free from his grasp. Tears stung my eyes as his grip on my face tightened. "Answer me."

"...Yes, sir." My response was barely audible. He released me, and I stumbled backward, clutching my arm where his fingers had left angry red marks.

We glared at each other for a moment, tears streaming silently down my face. Finally, my father stubbed out his cigarette and turned away from me, shaking his head.

"Clean this shit up."

I sank to my knees beside the broken glass and spilled alcohol. More tears streamed down my face as I cleaned up the mess. The mess of my father. The mess of my life. The mess of my beliefs.

The once immovable bedrock of my faith shattered beneath my feet. Bible study, prayer group, and Sunday service became even more difficult to endure.

Historical and scriptural timelines clashed, the age of the earth and the accounts of Josephus tearing at the edges of my belief. The image of Jesus, as depicted in the Bible, seemed incongruent with the historical figure spoken of outside its pages.

But the discord went deeper. I was shaken when confronted with passages that seemed to run counter to the very essence of the teachings I held dear.

Texts that appeared to condone the indefensible—violence, subjugation, and hatred—were at odds with the compassionate core I associated with Christianity.

I remember trying to broach these conflicts with others after service, with friends—sans Kelly—and fellow parishioners.

Most dismissed my questions as rhetorical, while others brushed them off with flippant responses. One even accused me of being rebellious, of having an ulterior motive for questioning doctrine.

I would stand there, flustered and frustrated, unable to articulate the turmoil within me. They would walk away, leaving me feeling foolish and inadequate.

The dissonance continued to grow until it became unbearable. It was as if I were walking on a tightrope, struggling to maintain my balance and not fall into the abyss below.

Even the Genesis narrative, which I could once recite with conviction, now seemed to defy logic. The creation sequence, the emergence of life without the sun's warmth—it all seemed to lack the coherence I desperately sought. My beliefs were dissolving, leaving me unmoored.

I felt adrift, unable to anchor myself in the certainty I had once found so comforting. I felt alone once I fled home. My short stint in New York plus college and graduate school was an escape, but it brought with it new challenges. The freedom I craved came with the burden of self-reliance and accountability.

The church's influence ebbed, but it didn't completely disappear. I confided in my friends about my struggles, but they weren't always sympathetic.

While they respected my beliefs, they were also critical of the dogma I clung to. They challenged my assumptions, pushing me to think beyond the narrow constraints of my upbringing.

I found myself questioning old ideas and grappling with new ones. The boundaries of my worldview expanded as I explored new perspectives and debated opposing views.

It was exhilarating and terrifying, but ultimately, it led me to a place of greater understanding and acceptance.

Except for one thing.

The urges I had were undeniable. There was no point in denying them, despite my efforts to ignore them. If homosexuality was indeed a choice, then I suppose I'd chosen wrongly. 'There must be some explanation for my unnatural attraction to other women, beyond my own depravity', I thought.

Maybe I had been cursed by a voodoo priestess during a trip to my mother's hometown in Louisiana as an infant.

I couldn't help who I was attracted to. I couldn't change my feelings just because society deemed them unacceptable.

I couldn't control the way my heart skipped a beat whenever I saw a beautiful woman, or the way my breath caught in my throat when we made eye contact for more than a split second.

I couldn't deny the butterflies in my stomach when she smiled at me, or the flush that spread across my cheeks when she complimented my outfit.

But I didn't want to be attracted to other women, especially after realizing how it would be perceived by society at large.

I knew that it was considered unnatural and sinful by the church and many of its followers, that it would be met with condemnation and judgment.

I knew that it would make me an outcast, that it would isolate me further from my family and friends.

I knew that it would put me at risk for violence and discrimination.

I tried to suppress my desires, to push them down and ignore them. I tried to focus on my studies and my career, to distract myself with work, school, and friendships. I dated men, whom I still desired, but I was still left wondering why the man above was punishing me with this affliction.

Dr. Beharie presented a different perspective that I nearly took for granted during a one-off casual conversation over the phone.

Despite how our initial meeting transpired, our sessions never became overly personal. She remained strictly professional, with the exception of the occasional friendly chat, but something was noticeably different in that last conversation.

Before heading to Houston, I called her for advice regarding my situation with Paul. I expected her to be her usual calm, collected self, but there was an uncharacteristic sharpness to her voice when she asked why I was entertaining such arrangements.

"I mean, that's your business, but why are you allowing yourself to get caught up in something that's going to hurt both of you in the end? You care about him and I understand that, but it's clear as day that you aren't satisfied with what you two have going on. You can do better than that."

I protested, claiming that Paul was a great guy, that we were just having fun, but Dr. Beharie saw right through my excuses.

"Listen, and I'm not trying to be shady when I say this, but I know you're lonely; but you don't need to put yourself in a position like this to make you feel whole. You're enough on your own, too. Don't settle for less than what you deserve, okay?"

I sharply sighed, not quite convinced.

"Beyoncé, I mean it. I've seen and spoken with you enough times—more than enough times—to know that you're capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for. You have to stop letting fear hold you back from the things you really want...from the people you really want. And you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Her words hit me like a slap in the face, but I couldn't argue with her. I knew exactly what—who—she meant. She didn't know exactly who, but she was perceptive enough to deduce that the person I was pining for was another woman.

Taking note of my silence, Dr. Beharie softened her tone. Just like my friends with their agnostic views, she didn't claim to know if God existed, but she was skeptical of human claims to divine knowledge. She'd suggested that religion could be a personal tool, an aid for those grappling with the human condition, but not an absolute truth imposed on all.

It was a tool for justification, for explaining the unexplainable, and for comforting ourselves during times of grief and uncertainty. It was a tool for self-preservation.

She encouraged me to form my own spirituality, one that was grounded in love and compassion, regardless of labels and dogma. She challenged me to find my own peace, my own connection to something greater than myself.

Then, I would be ready to confront my fears.

Then, I would be ready to pursue the one who occupied my dreams.

Then, I would be able to let go of the past and embrace the future.

She urged me to reflect on my journey, to look inward, and to examine the forces that had shaped my beliefs. She reminded me that there was strength in vulnerability, that it was okay to admit that I didn't have all the answers, and that it was okay to not know.

"I'm not saying you have to hand over your bible, but I am saying that  you  have to find your own way. Live your life for you; you only get one, and it would be a shame to waste it. You're smart, and you're strong, and you're brave. Just take a chance, okay?  Go after her... "

I didn't confirm nor deny her suspicions about the gender of my crush. I simply thanked her for the advice and hung up the phone.

But I took it to heart.

For the first time ever, I felt hopeful. Though it was an uphill battle, I gradually opened my heart and mind to possibilities I had previously dismissed as heretical. In doing so, I eventually found the courage and freedom to pursue that kiss with Aaliyah, letting my desire unfurl and bloom into something beautiful and vibrant. Something real and true.

I found some clarity in recognizing that my sexuality was not a choice. It was simply a part of who I was. A precious gift from a universe that contained both suffering and joy, darkness and light, cruelty and kindness. A universe that was infinitely more complex and mysterious than I had ever imagined.

A universe that was full of wonder.

I began to see a path towards understanding myself and the world around me. It was a guide for navigating the challenges of life, not a set of rigid rules to be obeyed. It was a journey of discovery, a quest for meaning. I still had questions, many of them unanswered, but I felt less alone. Less afraid.

Because I had her.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Self" by Cleo Sol

(This chapter contains explicit content. Reader discretion advised.)

"I need to get one of those slab cars from the show. Shit was nice."

Aaliyah's soft, excited whispers filled my ear, her breath tickling my skin as we reminisced about the auto show we'd attended before our flight.

Positioned comfortably on top of her on the reclined seat, my head nestled against her shoulder, the usual barriers of celebrity seemed to vanish under the starlit sky that soared past the jet's windows.

The auto show had been an exhilarating experience, with Aaliyah's enthusiasm for the cars proving to be incredibly infectious. She moved through the venue with unmatched grace, her fame parting crowds like the bow of a ship through calm waters.

Yet, despite the attention she drew, her focus was on sharing the moment with me, genuinely captivated by the sleek lines and powerful engines of the luxury vehicles we'd admired together.

Being with Aaliyah came with its own set of unique advantages. Her status meant access to experiences most could only dream of, but what stood out the most was her genuine desire to share these moments with someone she cared about.

During the remainder of our short stint in Houston, my uncle and I had the pleasure of giving her an authentic taste of my city. Beyond the chrome of the auto show, we explored parts of Third Ward, and I watched her eyes light up as she took in the vibrant street art, the soulful sounds of live music, and the rich flavors of Texan cuisine.

And as a final touch to commemorate our time together, I had arranged for us to get matching grills to be shipped back home to Los Angeles, knowing that the memory would last far longer than the temporary metal smiles themselves.

I couldn't recall the last time I felt such a level of comfort and contentment with someone I hadn't known for more than a year. Aaliyah was effortlessly attentive, ensuring that not only my needs, but also those of my uncle's, were met at every opportunity.

She blended seamlessly into my world, making herself feel right at home amongst the people and places that made up my roots.

Perhaps the highlight of our time together was this simple opportunity to spend time above the clouds, comfortable under a plush blanket in a cabin shrouded in darkness, echoing the comfort of an old theater after the lights have dimmed.

The only light source came from the stars scattered across the night sky and my laptop screen as the echoes of Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan's comedic escapades played in the background. It was a surreal sensation to gaze out the window at the millions of specks of light suspended in the dark expanse of space while sitting inches away from someone equally as beautiful and ethereal.

The ordinary became extraordinary, the mundane turned magical.

Aaliyah shifted slightly under me, pulling me closer to her warm body and adjusting the blanket wrapped around us. I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the sensations that permeated my senses—the intoxicating scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin radiating against mine, the gentle touch of her fingers brushing softly along my arm.

"Thank you."

I tilted my head back to meet her eyes, surprised by her gratitude. "For what?" I asked.

She smiled gently, reaching her hand up to tuck a loose braid behind my ear. "For trusting and allowing me to come out here to see you. For letting me be here for you. With you. Sharing these moments together..."

I searched her eyes, unsure of how to respond. She spoke as if she was afraid I would disappear any second, and her words revealed an underlying need to preserve our connection. I knew I'd become smitten with her during our first encounter, but I hadn't realized the extent to which our chemistry had grown between then and now. "...everything. Take your pick."

My lips curled into a soft smile. "You're welcome," I responded. "Thank you for comin' out here...I...it meant a lot for me when you dropped everythin' to fly out like that." I paused briefly. "...I needed this...I had more fun in these last two days than I ever did in the sixteen years I spent livin' here."

"Good. That was the goal. I wanted you to feel special." Her smile widened, her dimples appearing, and she leaned in to brush her lips against mine. The kiss was brief but tender, and I savored the warmth that spread through me at her touch.

We settled back into our previous position as she wrapped her arms around me tighter. Her steady breathing lulled me into a state of relaxation, and I found myself wanting to drift off to sleep, the sense of safety and security she provided more potent than any sleeping pill.

I bounced my leg restlessly as I struggled to keep my eyes open, desperate to stay awake to soak up every last moment of this flight. As if reading my mind, Aaliyah shifted again beneath me, extending one of her legs from under the blanket and resting her foot against my own, stilling my movements.

She rubbed slow circles with her fingertips across my upper arm before I heard her whisper, "You tired?"

I mumbled an incoherent negative response, and she chuckled softly before placing a feather-light kiss on my forehead. "Close your eyes for a bit. I'll still be here when you wake up."

"I can't," I protested weakly, even as I nestled deeper into the crook of her neck.

"Why not?"

I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes and relishing the subtle combination of her natural scent and the soothing aroma of a fresh hot comb wafting from her hair. "As much as I want to, it's hard for me to fall asleep on planes."

"What do you usually do to help you relax?"

I shrugged lightly against her. "Count sheep or some shit. Listen to music while I'm drawin' sometimes, but I'm not really in the mood for that right now."

"Hmmm." She paused, and I felt her fingers move to play with my braids, twirling the beads and locks of hair absentmindedly. "I could sing for you. That might help."

I glanced up at her. "Sing for me? Like a lullaby?"

"Yeah, yeah...something like that."

I grinned widely. "Okay. Yeah, I wanna hear it."

She nervously returned my smile as she reached for the blanket and pulled it further up to cover my exposed shoulders. When she seemed satisfied with my level of comfort, she began to hum a soft melody, the tune unfamiliar yet soothing.

Her voice soon joined in, filling the small cabin with her velvety smooth tone.

Just like the birds
That whistle in the trees
Hid in the leaves
So happily
Well, you're my tree
And through the storms, you stood strong for me
Kept me warm as can be
Like a candy to an apple
Oh, we go together
You're so sweet on me (oh, so sweet)
I can say that I do believe
This is destiny
It keeps calling me

I was transported back to the night she sang on Static's Instagram live, and goosebumps erupted across my skin as I listened to her now, alone and close enough to feel her chest vibrate beneath me with each note.

I knew she possessed incredible talent, but hearing her this close, I felt blessed to be treated to such an intimate performance.

Her voice, a delicate whisper of silk fluttering through a golden meadow, wove through the evening air, stitching a tapestry of sound so divine that the gunshots emanating from my laptop became a distant murmur, like a bustling city viewed from the serene peak of a mountain.

As the notes danced from her lips, they painted the cabin in hues of azure and lilac, each melody a brushstroke from heaven's finest artist. She continued to sing, unaware of my rapt attention. Her eyelids drooped lazily as she cuddled me closer, enveloping me in the warmth of her embrace.

I finally allowed my eyes to close, my breathing matching her own as she crooned softly, easing me into a state of tranquility I hadn't known since I was a toddler tucked safely in my uncle's arms.

Her ad-libs floated through the cabin like snowflakes drifting lazily to the ground, each one unique yet flawless, effortlessly complementing the song's original lyrics. The final note lingered in the air, hanging like a promise of eternal grace, though the song ended too soon for my liking.

When I opened my eyes, Aaliyah's own were closed, and her breathing had slowed to a deep, rhythmic pattern. Her face was relaxed, and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly into a peaceful smile. I fought the urge to trace her dimples with my fingers, not wanting to disturb her. Instead, I whispered my appreciation, unsure if she was still awake to hear my words.

"Did it work?...Didn't think so." she asked.

"Almost," I admitted with a chuckle. "I love your voice. You definitely know how to use it."

She hummed, the vibration tickling my cheek. "My mom used to sing me to sleep all the time when I was younger. Sometimes she would make up her own songs, but I loved them just as much as the ones I knew from the radio or the ones she sang on stage."

I nuzzled closer, pulling the blanket tighter around us. "Was that one of the songs she made up?"

She hesitated before answering. "No...no, that was a song I wrote."

I raised my eyebrows. "Really? Wow...that was beautiful."

She shifted beneath me, rubbing the back of her neck while staring out the window. "Thanks."

I tilted my head back once more to look at her, surprised by her reaction. Aaliyah glanced over at me and gave a shy smile. "I don't usually share them with anyone. At least, the ones I write for myself. They're personal...intimate." She paused before continuing, almost as if she were choosing her next words carefully. "Sometimes I write when I'm happy, other times when I'm sad..."

Her words resonated within me, and I understood the vulnerability of sharing something so personal. My sketches served as an outlet for my emotions, an intimate form of self-expression that allowed me to share my story without saying a word. I glanced over at my iPad which lay untouched on the table beside us, and I wondered what Aaliyah would think if she saw the drawings I'd created since I bought it.

"...other times I write when I'm inspired by someone," she finished softly.

I studied her silently, lost in thought. "Can I...can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"The song...it seemed like there was potential for a verse 2, but there wasn't one. Was that intentional?"

She chuckled quietly. "No, actually. Not exactly. I just never finished it."

"How come?"

She paused, chewing her bottom lip. "I don't know. I just gave up and I guess I eventually felt like it didn't need to be complete to convey what I was trying to express." She shrugged lightly. "I don't know if I should finish it anyway. I mean...what's the point of finishing something that would never see the light of day? What good is it to finish writing something that no one will ever hear?"

"I heard it." Her eyes darted away from my own, and I swallowed thickly, suddenly nervous. "I mean...you shared it with me, so that counts, right? I heard it." I hesitated briefly. "I could help you finish it...if you'd like. Of course, I respect your decision either way. It's totally up to you. Actually, you were right to begin with. I'm not a professional anyway. I probably shouldn't have—"

She pressed her finger against my lips, silencing my rambling. I flushed in embarrassment, averting my eyes. Removing her finger, Aaliyah leaned in to further silence me with a soft kiss. She pulled away, but I chased after her, desperate to prolong the sensation of her lips pressed against mine.

I sighed into her mouth as she kissed me again, lingering this time as she parted my lips with her tongue. We eventually broke apart, our breathing ragged as we gazed at one another through heavy-lidded eyes.

"You sure you wanna help me finish it?" she whispered. I nodded slowly, accidentally brushing my hand against the swell of her breast as I adjusted the blanket. I blushed, apologizing quietly under my breath as she giggled and captured my wandering fingers in her own.

She brought my hand to her lips and placed a gentle kiss on my knuckles before guiding it down to rest on her stomach.

It was then that the laptop screen, idle with the closing credits of an unremembered film, presented a pivot from our current topic, the bright reflection momentarily distracting us from our conversation. Aaliyah glanced at the device, the words of the scrolling text reflected in her eyes.

She turned to face me once more. "Why don't we finish something else first?"

I furrowed my brow, confused, before realization dawned on me. "Right, sorry...I can rewind it."

She tightened her grip on my hand, preventing me from reaching for the laptop. "No, silly...not the movie..."

I bit my lip as I contemplated her words. The air in the cabin shifted as the meaning behind her suggestion settled in, and I could feel the heat of desire stirring in the pit of my belly.

I sat up slowly to allow Aaliyah space to move from beneath me. She followed suit, her gaze never leaving my own as she leaned forward to shut the laptop. She grabbed the blanket that had slipped from my shoulders during our shifting movements and placed it haphazardly on the seat across from us.

Then, she grabbed my hand and stood up, leading me towards the back of the plane. She pushed open the door to the private bedroom, and I entered the small space, aware of her presence directly behind me. She moved past me to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back to rest on her elbows and crossing one leg over the other.

Locking the door with a click seemed to echo in the relative silence, amplified by the sudden shift in atmosphere as the barrier between us and the rest of the plane came into place. As Aaliyah stared at me curiously, I shuffled awkwardly, avoiding her gaze while my cheeks heated up. I felt her eyes burning into me, patiently waiting for me to make the first move.

Clearing my throat, I took a tentative step forward, stopping just short of the bed. Her foot brushed against my calf as she uncrossed her legs, and I shivered at the contact, my heart pounding in anticipation.

Reaching out to grab my hands, Aaliyah guided me closer, parting her thighs to make room for me between her legs. I stepped forward again, allowing myself to be pulled into her orbit, and she placed her hands around my waist, her face inches from my stomach. She gazed up at me through long lashes, and I inhaled sharply as I felt the ghost of her lips press against my clothed abdomen.

She tugged gently on my shirt, silently requesting permission to remove it, and I complied, raising my arms as we peeled the fabric over my head and tossed it carelessly onto the ground. I watched her dilated pupils roam across my bare skin.

She leaned forward once more, pressing her lips against my exposed midriff. Her hands found my hips, and she guided me closer until I was standing flush against the edge of the bed. Her lips left a trail of fire in their wake as she continued to pepper my stomach with kisses, and I groaned in pleasure as she dipped her tongue into my belly button.

I squeezed my eyes shut, savoring the sensations she stirred within me. She pulled away after a few seconds, and I reluctantly opened my eyes to meet her gaze, my body already missing her touch. She slid her hands from my hips down to grasp the waistband of my pants, and I bit my lip in anticipation as I watched her tug the material down slowly.

I stepped out of the pants now pooled at my feet and kicked them aside, leaving me exposed in nothing but my underwear. Aaliyah leaned back again, drinking in the sight before her. She licked her lips before glancing up at me, her expression conveying an unspoken request for approval.

I swallowed thickly and looked down at myself, unsure of how to proceed.

Very rarely had I ever felt intimidated by someone, but being this close to her made it impossible not to be overwhelmed by how beautiful she was. And it wasn't just her physical appearance—Aaliyah's aura held a certain depth to it that I couldn't quite describe, a sense of kindness and compassion that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

There was a part of me that wanted to shy away, scared that I would ruin everything if I got too close. But there was another part of me that wanted to move closer, to bask in the warmth of her presence until I'd burned myself out.

She seemed to sense my hesitation, and she reached up to brush her fingers against my wrist.

"Hey...we don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with."

"No, it's okay," I replied quickly. "I...I want to. I know I wasn't shy earlier. It's just...now, I'm kinda nervous."

Aaliyah gave me a reassuring smile. "It's alright. You don't have to be nervous around me. We'll take it slow, yeah?" she said soothingly. "Do you trust me?"

I nodded without hesitation, my nerves beginning to ebb away with her words.

"Words, Peaches."

Peaches.

Despite my constant reminders to her to forego that nickname, I secretly enjoyed the way it made my body feel. Even now, the way her soft lips shaped around the syllables sent a small tremor through my chest, a faint echo of the warmth that flooded between my thighs.

There was a softer, more hushed infliction to the way she said it. Like some sort of secret only the two of us were privy too. As though it meant something more than just a cutesy moniker she gave me during our first meeting.

She seemed to notice my reaction, and she smirked slightly before repeating the question. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes...yes, I do...I trust you."

"Tell me what you need," she murmured. Her hand gently pulled my wrist downward, encouraging me to lower myself onto her lap. "What do you want me to do for you?"

I shivered as my knees came to rest on either side of her hips, my core mere inches away from her body. Her proximity sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I bit my lip to suppress a moan as I felt myself growing wetter by the second.

"Touch me...please," I whispered hoarsely.

Aaliyah's eyes darkened at my plea, and she reached up to cup my jaw with one hand. Her thumb traced my bottom lip, and I parted my lips instinctively, allowing her to slip the digit into my mouth. I sucked gently, swirling my tongue around the tip as she watched intently.

She withdrew her thumb after a few seconds and leaned forward to capture my lips in a searing kiss, swallowing the moan that escaped my throat. As our tongues battled for dominance, Aaliyah's hands found their way to my breasts, squeezing and massaging them through the fabric of my bra.

I arched my back into her touch, eager for more contact, and she broke our kiss to pepper soft kisses along my jawline. Her lips trailed down my neck before coming to rest at the base of my throat.

I gasped as she bit down lightly, soothing the area with her tongue before sucking harshly, leaving a mark that would surely be visible for days to come. I tangled my fingers in her hair as she continued her assault on my sensitive skin, tilting my head to give her better access.

She smirked against my throat before moving lower to repeat the process, alternating between licking and biting as she made her way down my collarbone. "Lie down," she instructed quietly, releasing me so that I could follow her command.

I obeyed without hesitation, crawling towards the head of the bed and laying slightly elevated with a pillow on my back. Licking her lips seductively, she stood up to remove her own shirt, revealing the smooth, full expanse of her upper body once more.

I groaned at the sight of her. It almost hurt to look directly at her, like staring straight into the sun. Golden light bathed her features, giving her an ethereal glow that rivaled any masterpiece I'd seen in the Louvre or the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Her skin was flawless, smooth, supple, unblemished. Her curves flowed effortlessly, accentuated by the dim lighting of the room that cast shadows across her muscles. She was a goddess, an angel sent from heaven to bless me with her presence.

Aaliyah smiled softly, turning around to give me a better view. My breath caught in my throat as she swayed her hips teasingly before bending over seductively to slide off her pants. I bit my lip at the sight of her full back tattoo as she moved her ponytail to the side to unclasp her bra.

The mere thought of tracing each line with my tongue caused my arousal to spike, and I clenched my thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure.

Red lace was all that remained.

I was Adam staring at the plump apple.

Temptation incarnate, ripe for the picking.

Aaliyah turned her head over her shoulder to glance at me, a playful smirk gracing her lips as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties.

"You want this?"

I nodded dumbly, unable to formulate a coherent response.

"Let me hear how much you want me..." She lowered her underwear agonizingly slow, exposing her ass inch by tantalizing inch before letting the garment fall to the floor. I moaned as she stood fully naked before me, every curve on display for my eyes only.

"Come here..." I breathed, beckoning her with a finger. Aaliyah chuckled softly, turning around and crawling towards me with the pace and stride of a jungle cat stalking its prey. Her eyes locked with mine as she hovered above me, straddling my hips.

"Like what you see?" she purred, kneading the flesh of her breasts between her fingers. I wanted to reach out and replace her hands with my own, but my limbs felt heavy, paralyzed by the intensity of my arousal.

She released her grip, letting her hands slide down my torso slowly until they reached the elastic band of my panties. She hooked a finger underneath the fabric string, tugging gently before releasing it with a snap. "I know I do," she murmured huskily, trailing her fingertips over my stomach and circling my belly button lazily.

She leaned over me and captured my mouth with hers. Her tongue darted out to trace my bottom lip before slipping past my parted lips and sliding against my own.

With a sudden burst of confidence, I moved my hands to cup her ass, gripping tightly and pulling her even closer until our bodies were flush against one another. Aaliyah moaned softly, breaking away to plant sloppy kisses along my jawline and down my neck.

I sat up slightly, sucking the delicate skin of her throat between my teeth and biting down gently. She gasped sharply, grinding her hips against my leg in response. I grunted, relishing the friction of our bodies rubbing together and the dominance I was exercising over her.

I knew I had tasted heaven, and yet there was something else...

Something familiar and intoxicatingly addictive.

Just like how I felt under the mirrors in the dance studio.

At the tattoo parlor.

The Ferris wheel.

Power.

Control.

I was drunk on it. I couldn't help but think that this was what men must feel like after killing a deer. Or maybe when they've finally beaten a rival after a long, drawn-out grudge match. The sense of satisfaction that comes from a hunt well executed.

Of victory achieved.

But unlike any man, I would never abuse such power. Because Aaliyah wasn't prey.

Not even close.

She was a force of nature. A goddess whose very presence demanded absolute devotion. Worship.

And tonight, I would gladly give her everything she wanted to make her feel good.

I continued marking her neck, leaving behind a light purple bruise in my wake. Once satisfied with my handiwork, I trailed lower, running my tongue over her collarbone before dipping between her breasts. She sighed contentedly as I cupped both mounds with my hands, massaging them gently before taking one of her nipples into my mouth.

I swirled my tongue around the hardened bud, sucking eagerly as she squirmed beneath me.

"Fuck...Bey, baby..." she moaned, arching her back into my touch. Encouraged by her praise, I moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention while I tweaked and teased the one I'd abandoned. Aaliyah whimpered, tangling her fingers in my braids and tugging lightly.

I loved every second of it, and I found myself getting lost in her body, hypnotized by the sound of her moans and the way she said my name.

I was so into the sensation that I almost didn't notice her unclasping my bra until I felt the cool air against my newly exposed flesh. She pulled and tossed the garment aside before pushing me back down onto the bed, hovering over me possessively. Her eyes widened at the sight, presumably surprised by the two barbells protruding from my nipples.

"Shit...," she growled hungrily, capturing one between her teeth and tugging gently, causing me to gasp in pleasure. "You surprise me more and more every day, girl." She reached out to roll one between her fingers. "Did they hurt?" she asked curiously.

"Yeah, but it was worth it."

"Mmm," she hummed, switching to tease the other piercing with her mouth. "I bet." I closed my eyes and moaned as she continued toying with them, alternating between sucking and licking them unsparingly.

When she finally decided to stop torturing me, she planted soft kisses down my stomach before coming to a halt at the waistband of my underwear. Her eyes met mine, silently asking for permission to continue.

I nodded breathlessly, lifting my hips so she could remove the final barrier between us. Aaliyah sat back on her heels as she discarded my underwear, tossing it aside carelessly. My cheeks flushed crimson as the cool air hit the dampness between my thighs, cooling the heat of desire coursing through my veins.

I squeezed them together, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. The courage that had fueled me only a few minutes earlier dissipated rapidly.

"Peaches..." Aaliyah cooed softly, stroking the inside of my thigh gently. "Open up for me. I wanna see all of you."

I followed her request, spreading my legs apart obediently. She whistled lowly, trailing her fingertips along my inner thigh lightly, brushing dangerously close to my center.

"Beautiful," she whispered reverently, locking eyes with me as she dipped a single digit between my folds and dragged it upwards slowly. So slowly, in fact, that I could barely stand the torture any longer.

My entire body trembled, and a strangled whine escaped my lips, pleading for more. "So wet," she observed casually, continuing her exploration of my most intimate parts, teasing my entrance playfully while avoiding direct contact with my aching clit. "Is this all for me?" she questioned coyly, her finger finally tracing tight circles around the swollen bundle of nerves.

I nodded weakly, flinching slightly at the stimulation. My hips bucked involuntarily as she applied more pressure, and I gripped the sheets beneath me tightly, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure.

"You can be loud with me...the pilot's not gonna hear us in here," Aaliyah reminded me, placing her fingers in her mouth.

Before I could respond, her head dipped down suddenly, pressing a fleeting kiss against my clit before she withdrew completely. I groaned loudly, protesting the loss of contact immediately. She chuckled lowly, placing a hand on my abdomen to steady me as she positioned herself between my legs.

Her tongue darted out to tease my entrance, starting slow and soft, drawing every line and shape imaginable against my folds as she audibly savored the very taste of me.

It soon plunged inside forcefully and my hips bucked upwards, grinding against her face uncontrollably as she lapped at my juices greedily. Her tongue moved skillfully, exploring every crevice thoroughly, leaving no area unattended. I writhed beneath her, clutching desperately at her hair as she devoured me whole.

I cried out shamelessly, gradually unable to control the volume of my voice any longer, curses falling from my lips unrestrained. The sounds of my pleasure filled the small room, echoing off the walls, and I briefly wondered if the whole world could hear us.

I didn't care anymore.

I was too far gone to be embarrassed by anything right now.

It wasn't long before I felt the beginnings of an orgasm approaching. Heat pooled in the pit of my stomach, spreading throughout my body like wildfire, setting every nerve ending alight. My toes curled, and my muscles clenched tightly, preparing themselves for release.

Aaliyah seemed to sense my impending release, doubling her efforts as she cupped my breasts roughly, kneading them fervidly while still maintaining the relentless rhythm of her tongue.

Her eyes.

They were so beautiful.

So intense.

They bored into mine with such intensity that it took me aback momentarily, causing me to falter mid-cry. I was no stranger to sex, but being under Aaliyah's gaze—no, her scrutiny—was different. It felt more raw. Intimate. Exhilarating. Like jumping off a bridge and flying blind into the unknown.

With one final suction of her lips, Aaliyah sealed my fate, sending me hurtling over the edge in a mind-numbing climax.

Wave after wave of ecstasy washed over me, drowning me completely, reducing every last thought in my head to static.

I screamed her name repeatedly, repeating it like a mantra as she prolonged my euphoria, prolonging the intensity of my high.

She never relented, continuing to hold me down and lap at my core with vigor as I writhed and pleaded.

Begged.

Cursed.

Prayed. Praise tumbled from my lips in broken whispers, mixed with groans and gasps.

Until I felt something strange. A tingling sensation unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Something was bound to burst forth from within me, something alien and terrifying.

I panicked momentarily to warn Aaliyah, but before I could utter a single syllable, it happened. Something deep inside me snapped.

And then, everything went white.

My entire being exploded into stardust, and I lost all sense of reality.

I was weightless—silent—floating in a void of nothingness, drifting aimlessly through space and time. I don't know how long I remained suspended in that state, but eventually, I began to come back to earth.

Slowly, reluctantly, Aaliyah pulled away from me, licking her lips clean lasciviously, savoring every drop of me like fine wine. Her chin and nose dripped and glistened with the liquid evidence of what transpired, and I blushed furiously, mortified by my apparent loss of control.

"Shit...oh my...I'm so sorry. I—I swear I've never done that before..." I mumbled sheepishly.

Aaliyah chuckled warmly, placing a tender kiss on my inner thigh before moving to lay beside me. She pulled me into her arms, cradling me lovingly as we basked in the afterglow.

"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for," she assured me sweetly. "If anything, I wanted that to happen. Although, I gotta admit, I was surprised. I thought my nails would've held me back a bit. Guess not," she mused playfully, wiggling her fingers in front of my face teasingly.

I giggled softly, swatting her hand away. "Shut up," I grumbled weakly, burying my face in her chest.

"Make me."

I peered up at her, raising an eyebrow curiously.

Aaliyah smirked, tapping her lower lip expectantly. I couldn't resist.

I leaned in, claiming her mouth hungrily. Our tongues danced languidly, tasting myself on her tongue. My body hummed pleasantly at the knowledge that she'd made me feel that way.

Aaliyah's hand wandered lower, trailing along my spine before settling on my ass and squeezing firmly. "You got me all worked up now, Peaches," she murmured breathlessly.

"Mmhm, I can tell," I replied cheekily, touching her experimentally. She moaned lowly, bucking her hips upward involuntarily. "We should change the sheets, though. I mean...I kinda..." I trailed off awkwardly, gesturing vaguely towards the damp spot beneath me.

Aaliyah laughed heartily, planting a quick peck on my forehead before rolling off the bed to grab some fresh linens. She made quick work of replacing the soiled ones with the clean set, tossing the old ones aside neatly once she finished.

We crawled back onto the mattress, laying down beside each other again, and she pulled me close to her body. Our legs entwined effortlessly, fitting together perfectly like puzzle pieces as we held a light conversation just as the aftereffects of her handiwork began to take hold on me.

"...I would return the favor, but I don't want you to experience how pitiful my technique is compared to yours," I mumbled sleepily, snuggling into her embrace.

"I think you're more skilled than you think. Besides, you can make it up to me another time 'cause it's looking like you're about to knock out."

I hummed contentedly, letting my eyes drift shut.

"But now, you got blue balls, though," I slurred tiredly. Aaliyah chuckled quietly, planting a gentle kiss on the crown of my head.

I heard her mumble something indistinct under her breath, but before I could process its significance, exhaustion overtook me, finally pulling me under into a dreamless slumber on a cloud nine.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Crush" by Zhané

Routines are a blessing.

You could plan a good deal of your life on autopilot, not needing to give even the most mundane tasks much thought. You just get them done. The pattern of life is familiar; the shape of it is like an old quilt, something you can snuggle up to.

Maybe every day had a few new things in it. You knew that the old oak tree outside your office window was going to drop its leaves next week. The winter would come, and you would watch it happen as it always does, with the weather always keeping the rhythm of the seasons in perfect tempo.

Some people found this kind of thing monotonous, struggling under the weight of their own sameness. To them, the idea of returning to the same breakfast, the same commute, the same job, over and over again sounded like a kind of prison sentence. Gyms have beared witness to failed attempts at developing strong habits, people giving them up when the repetition becomes too much to bear.

They were packed at the beginning of January, a bunch of New Year's resolutions half-heartedly kept for a while, and Thanksgiving dinner not quite forgotten before life interrupted. But the treadmills would empty out, and by late February, it would be like they were never occupied in the first place.

Kofi loved having the space to himself. No competition for the elliptical or the cross trainer. No one using the pull-up bar or trying to sneakily claim a set of hand weights that he'd already mentally put aside. He'd often joke to the other guys in the gym that he should have a reserved sign for his favorite treadmill, the one in front of the TV, so he could catch up on the news or follow his beloved Arsenal.

The gym was typically his and his alone at 6:45am, but a quick check of the parking lot before entering showed us that today would surprisingly be different.

"Just three more reps, Beyoncé, you can do it," Kofi said encouragingly. "Make sure to keep that core tight."

The bar seemed cumbersome and ungainly in my small hands. I grunted as I struggled to pull myself up for the 28th time, counting off the reps as I went.

It seemed as though my time on the pole made me regain the strength I had from running track for some basic calisthenics, but not enough to make me confident that I could go the distance.

"Last one."

I hoisted myself up and dropped back down in a huff, smiling at the physical accomplishment, even though my arms felt like limp spaghetti.

"Damn, bitch, you gettin' stronger. Last time we did this, you busted your ass four times before giving up," Robyn laughed, going over to the water fountain to fill up her new Hydroflask.

I chuckled and waved her off. "At least I ain't go flyin' off the treadmill like last time, goofy."

She returned to us, taking a sip. She shrugged and pursed her lips. "Mmcht. Like mi nuh cyar bout dat," she mumbled, feigning disinterest. "Paul, how you feeling?"

He gave a thumbs up. "Good," he said through heavy breaths. He was seated, a towel around his neck after running a few miles on the treadmill. His plain black t-shirt was drenched, etching every muscle on his upper body like a map.

He noticed me staring, and I looked away, pretending to be suddenly very interested in the television hanging over our heads.

"I might be ready for the half marathon if I keep working at it."

"Oh, shit," Robyn gleamed. "You runnin' too?"

"Yeah," he nodded, a little excited. "I've been training since September. Think I'm finally getting the hang of it, though."

Robyn was grinning from ear to ear. "Let's make a bet, then. 200 bucks says I finish before you."

Paul chuckled, wiping the sweat off his brow with his towel. "And what do I get when I beat you?"

"Nothing."

He raised his eyebrows. "So, what's the point of the bet?"

"Reparations. It's still February. You know what, make it 400," Robyn challenged. "If I win, you owe me 400 dollars. If you win, you just gotta enjoy the satisfaction of knowing you did better than the girl who had to chase after her brothers all the time. And trekked through the bush to get to her grandparents' compound. And played football. I've got endurance, baby."

Paul cracked a smile. "So do I. I played beach football with my cousins and some old friends when I was younger. Still do when we travel. I don't think it'll be much of a competition," Paul countered.

"Beach footb—boy, please. You won't even finish. We'd have to carry your ass over the finish line."

"Rob, chill out," Kofi chortled. "You stay pressin' him."

"He knows I'm just fuckin' wit' him." Robyn took another sip of water and screwed the cap back on. "Well? You down or what, white boy?"

Paul chuckled again, shaking his head. "You are persistent."

"Aye, you already know," she smiled, grabbing her backpack. "Alright, well, I got work in an hour and a half, so I need to get home and change. Paul, we'll be in touch for that bet. I'll see you back at the crib, Bey. You ready, baby?"

"Yeah, help me with the tripod, though. Y'all won't mind if I post some of this footage, would you? I think it'll make a nice promo video. Nothing specific, just to advertise my classes," Kofi asked, packing up his own gear.

Paul and I shook our heads and waved him goodbye as Robyn helped him grab his gear.

"Shit, look at the time. Guess we should wrap up too," I said, walking over to my water bottle, which was perched precariously on the side of the pull-up bar. "It's gettin' even more crowded too. I'll have to stretch when I get back home."

"Wanna grab a quick smoothie first?" Paul asked.

I hesitated. Since my return from Houston, I knew spending time with Paul was around the corner. The only problem was how to handle it.

We still had a situationship, technically, though neither of us had said anything about it since returning. The morning after my first night back, I was greeted at his doorstep with a kiss on my cheek as he handed me a cup of coffee.

The routine continued, hanging out together, texting and calling.

But no sex.

Though he made it abundantly clear that he was still interested.

Every once in a while, I'd catch his eyes drifting to the swell of my breasts or the curve of my ass. He'd get closer than usual, sitting right next to me, touching me, hand on thigh, mouth by my ear. Whispering sweet nothings or asking questions about my day.

"Are you feeling fine? I keep seeing you touch your face a lot. Is it bothering you?"

"You look so beautiful in this sundress."

"Can I make you dinner tonight?"

"What are you doing later? I want to show you something..."

All these things, whispered in his living room, as we watched movies, in his car before dropping me off. Little flirtations here and there, and though my body responded, I didn't reciprocate. I didn't want to reciprocate because I was establishing something with someone else.

Someone who made my skin sizzle like the hot oil in her fryer. Someone who made my stomach flip and twirl like a gymnast. Someone who made my heart beat in time to her music, her rhythm, her cadence, her syncopated strut.

Paul's compliments, his touches, his glances, they all felt nice. But they felt familiar. Because they were routine.

I started craving the unpredictability of something new.

I wanted something spontaneous, something exciting, something that would challenge me. Push me, stretch me, make me grow. Make me feel something I've never experienced before.

I needed the spice that was Aaliyah.

But I also appreciated the stability and comfort that Paul provided.

And it was tearing me apart inside.

"Actually, Paul, I'm gonna be busy with some stuff this week. These classes are really picking up, and I've got a lot more prep work to do for my students since midterms are comin' up and—"

"Hey, hey, it's okay; you don't have to explain." He picked up his gym bag and threw it over his shoulder, looking at me sympathetically. "I get it. You're busy. I'll just see you some other time."

"Yeah. Sure." I gulped, slinging my own duffle bag over my shoulder and heading out.

"I'm surprised you're not running with Robyn and me, actually," Paul piped up as we walked. "Since you've done track and all."

"Uh, track was high school. I don't have the time to train like that, and besides, marathon running is a different beast than the hundred-meter dash."

"True," he nodded. "You'd probably still be fast, though. Maybe not as fast as me, but pretty close."

"I would've thought Robyn humbled you earlier, but I guess not," I chuckled. "You tryna race me some day?"

Paul stopped in his tracks, eyeing me down and up, grinning.

"Hell yeah. Let's make 'some day' today. Loser does whatever the winner says."

"Right now?" I snorted. He pointed to the gym's exit. "For real?"

"Why not?"

"Because, we're both sweaty, tired, and I got shit to do."

Before I could protest further, Paul took off, sprinting towards the parking lot.

"Cheater!" I called out, taking off after him.

My stride was wide, my body moving with the wind. The blood pulsed through my veins, my muscles coming alive with each step. I pushed past Paul, but he gained on me, his long legs almost matching mine.

The cool air whipped against my face, my lungs expanding and contracting in time. I could feel the sweat from my body evaporating into the atmosphere, the adrenaline pumping through every limb, every joint, every fiber of my being.

I hadn't run like this in ages. It was as if my body remembered every movement, every stride, every motion of the run.

And it felt fucking fantastic.

Paul passed me up again. I tried to pick up the pace, my feet pounding against the pavement. We were neck and neck, laughing at each other as we ran across the parking lot.

A few cars drove by, some honking, others stopping in their tracks. A group of kids on the sidewalk cheered us on, one of them recording our sprint with their iPhone.

Paul turned his head, taunting me, egging me on. His long strides kept him ahead of me, but I managed to keep up.

And then I saw it. The finish line. Or rather, our cars, parked next to each other.

I kicked up the pace, putting the last of my energy into my legs. Paul noticed me gaining on him and did the same, our footsteps practically in sync.

We reached the back of Paul's car, gasping for breath, bent over, hands on our knees.

"Beat you," he smiled, his chest rising and falling.

I playfully hit him on the arm, panting heavily. "By a half-second," I argued, standing straight to catch my breath.

"Still counts."

"So, what happens now? You won, so what do you wanna do?"

He looked at me and stepped forward, reaching out to take my hand.

"...I want to ask you something. Something I've been wanting to ask ever since you got back from Houston."

Paul stroked my knuckles with his thumb, the skin on his palm, still a little sweaty. "...and I think since I won the race, it's fair to say that I can."

"What's that?" I asked, butterflies forming in my belly.

"Do you...do you still want to go through with this? Us, I mean. Do you still want to be in this weird, in-between place? It just seems like things have changed since you came back. And at first, I didn't understand why. Did I do something wrong? Was my offer not enough? Or was I too pushy? Then, I thought, maybe family stuff was getting in the way. Or work. Or life. And I could understand that."

I squeezed his hand, letting him continue, listening closely.

"It's hard getting a read on you, though, and I've known that for a while. I just don't want to push too hard, or pull too little. But I'm not sure what you want from me, and you've been so quiet lately that it's been driving me a little crazy."

I sighed deeply, biting my lip, thinking of what to say next.

"Paul, I think...I think I need some time to figure things out."

"Do you have feelings for me?"

"I...where is this comin' from?"

"Did you feel pity for me that night we first slept together?"

"I'm not gonna answer that."

"These are simple questions, Beyoncé."

"...look, can we not do this right now?"

"I'm just trying to understand why we're still doing this. I see the way you look at me, but it's clear that you're also holding back, and I'm tired of pretending like I don't see it. And I'm not just talking about your body language...I'd noticed those marks on your neck earlier this week, and how you always seem to change the subject when I ask about what happened while you were gone—"

"Paul," I said firmly, pulling away. "Drop it. Please."

His shoulders sagged, his lips in a tight line. "No. No, we can't keep tiptoeing around this. I don't get why you're so afraid, Beyoncé, especially when I've made myself clear from the beginning. But I can't keep doing this if you don't want it."

He paused, looking down at his hands.

"I can't keep pretending that it doesn't hurt when you pull away from me."

"...I don't know what to tell you, Paul," I admitted. "...but, I made myself clear too, and it's a bit unfair of you to assume that I'm playin' games. I was honest when I said that I didn't want anything serious. And you agreed. So, why did you accept my conditions if you didn't like them?"

"Because they seemed doable at the time. But I was also hopeful that you would change your mind, or re-evaluate, or something. Anything. And that hope lasted longer than it probably should have. And for that, I apologize. I should've known better, but I thought...you know what, nevermind," he said, shaking his head.

"Well, you weren't supposed to develop feelings. Romantic feelings. You were supposed to be a good time, and nothing more."

I winced at my own words, realizing how callous I sounded.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to come out like that—"

"A good time. No, I think you did mean it," he scoffed, glaring at me. "Let's continue to be honest with each other."

"Paul, listen, it's not that I don't like you—"

"Oh, really? Then what is it?"

"You said you would respect whatever decision I made. You said that."

"But what decision are you making?" he countered. "Your indecisiveness is confusing me. What are we even doing right now? Am I wasting your time? Because I don't like wasting time, Beyoncé."

"So, I'm wastin' your time, then?" I retorted, my tone rising in volume. "I never cared about you? If you feel like I never did, then just go. I'm not stoppin' you. But don't act like it's my fault you feel this way. I was honest from the jump."

"Why are you putting words in my mouth?"

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are," he insisted, raising his voice as well.

"No, I'm not!"

"My God, Beyoncé," he laughed mirthlessly, running a hand down his face. He opened the trunk of his car and tossed his gym bag with unnecessary force, slamming it shut. He ran a hand through his hair, and closed his eyes for a moment before facing me. Fear, not anger, danced across his features, uncertainty etched into every crease on his forehead.

I looked over to see those kids still recording us from afar, whispering amongst themselves.

"Since we're being honest, and you apparently love honesty, I'll give it to you. Because that's what 'friends' do for each other." He moved back, his blue eyes searching mine for understanding. "When I met you, I wasn't looking for love, or romance, or anything like that. I was just looking for a connection with someone who was down to earth, who could talk to me, who understood where I was coming from. And, I found that with you. I really did. And yeah, the sex was good too. But that's not the only thing that made me like you. Your wit and your humor and the way you looked at the world with wonder and appreciation. That's the stuff that made me eventually fall for you, Beyoncé. And for a while, I thought you felt the same. I don't regret any of the time we spent together. In fact, I cherish it, and I cherish you as a person."

Paul leaned back against the back bumper of his car, folding his arms.

"I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm not built for this type of arrangement. It's helped me realize that love, for me, isn't just a passing fancy, or some random fling. It's real, and deep, and meaningful. It's a connection of two people that surpasses just the physical stuff. For me, I need more than the physical. I want more than that."

I looked away from him to shield my emotions, as in the back of my mind, a part of me felt relieved that this was happening.

"And I'm sorry for forcing some grand idea of love and romance on you. Or expectations. Because that's not fair. To either of us. It's obvious this isn't going to work." He harshly chuckled, fighting back his own tears. "You know, there's a certain wisdom in listening to the echoes of your own words. So, it's only right that I take my own advice and do the same...put myself first. I'll just save you the trouble and be the one to call this whole thing off."

Some guy walked past us towards the gym, singing obnoxiously loud, completely oblivious to what was going on. A car pulled up next to us and a couple got out, headed into the gym as well.

Paul sniffed and grabbed his keys from his pocket, avoiding my eyes. "...anyways...I should go."

"Paul...please, let's not end on bad terms. Can we at least still be friends?"

He sighed deeply, pressing his lips together.

"Beyoncé, I don't want to lose you either, but...I'm not sure that's possible anymore...maybe, distance will make this whole thing easier."

"Paul..."

"Take care of yourself, Beyoncé."

I watched his back as he got in his car, turning the ignition and pulling out of his parking spot. He didn't look back, didn't wave, and drove off without another word.

The sun began its ascent into the sky, bathing the parking lot in the hazy glow of early morning. The commuters, the fitness junkies, the everyday folks were out and about, getting ready for the day.

And I stood there, alone, sweaty, and defeated, watching Paul disappear into the horizon. I couldn't understand why I was so torn up about it, why this felt like a breakup, or why it felt as though the ground had disappeared from beneath my feet.

Because, this was what I wanted.

It was what I needed if I wanted to fully explore things with Aaliyah.

Then why did it hurt so much to see him drive away, never knowing if we would speak again, or hang out, or watch movies, or run, or talk, or laugh, or exist together?

Why did it feel as though my insides were breaking, shattering, the fragments of myself scattered to the wind?

Like an empty bottle, hollow, and discarded.

Useless, and meaningless.

Like shit.

✮✮✮

"Ms. Knowles, I just wanted to ask a clarifying question."

As the study session came to a close, I noticed a young white girl who always sat in the front row, raising her hand. The rest of the class groaned and rolled their eyes, clearly familiar with her eagerness to discuss class material beyond the allotted time.

I half-smiled, trying to put her at ease. "Please, you can call me Beyoncé. Yes, Alyssa. Go ahead."

Alyssa fidgeted with her pen before speaking. "Um, so, in chapter one of The Souls of Black Folk, Du Bois talks about being a 'co-worker in the kingdom of culture', but I still have no idea how that relates to the Americanization theory and Harlem Renaissance we discussed last class. Am I the only one who didn't get that part?"

The classroom remained silent, the other students half-heartedly agreeing with her through subtle side eyes, nods, and soft banter among friends.

I scanned the sea of faces, noting their tired expressions. "Not necessarily," I lied, trying to maintain a reassuring tone. "But we can discuss further after this study session."

"Okay, yeah, Ms. Knowles." Alyssa's voice trailed off.

Letting out a sharp sigh, I returned to the PowerPoint, the last few slides illuminating the room as I answered the remaining questions. As the session ended, my students packed up their belongings, their chatter filling the air as they greeted me before filing out. I reminded them about the upcoming exam, my voice nearly drowned out by the shuffling of papers and zipping of backpacks.

Alyssa approached me, the last student to leave, clutching a large binder filled with meticulously highlighted notes. "So, Ms. Knowles, um, you could do a better job at explaining the stuff in your lectures. Like, because it seems like you gloss over stuff, and, like, leave us hanging. Just wanted to give my two cents."

I gathered my belongings, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and took a deep breath before answering. "I do try to explain the material as best as I can, but it can be difficult when I have a lot of content to cover in a short amount of time." My voice was curt, the annoyance barely concealed. "Perhaps it would've helped if you had attended your TA sessions. Those also count towards your grade, by the way. You'd have more clarity on the material and would be able to ask your TA for extra help, or you could've attended one of my numerous office hours like most other students have. Regardless, all the study material is posted online, so you should be able to review and find additional resources and examples there."

Alyssa's cheeks flushed, her lips pursed as she mumbled, "Oh, uh, okay...geez."

As she trudged towards the hallway, I rolled my eyes and let out another heavy sigh, rubbing my temples as I sank into my chair. The throbbing pain behind my eyes and the grumbling in my stomach were stark reminders that lunch was desperately needed.

March was a trying month for me as a professor, with Spring Break feeling like a distant oasis in the desert of academia. The students were antsy, anxious, and hungry for vacation, the semester dragging on with each passing day.

Midterms loomed on the horizon, the pressure and stress palpable in the air.

Between the endless classes and the mountains of grading, I hardly had time to breathe, much less think about my own personal woes. But in the quiet moments, those thoughts crept up, my mind inevitably drifting back to him.

The 'conversation'. The pain. The guilt of knowing that I had failed to keep his brother's promise to 'look after him'.

Paul had stuck to his word, not speaking to me since the parking lot confrontation. I checked my phone constantly, hoping to see a notification from him, a message asking about my day.

But none came. There were times when I found myself almost calling or texting him by accident, the muscle memory too hard to shake. My fingers would type out a message before I realized what I was doing.

I even went as far as checking his Instagram, only to be greeted by the familiar spider in his profile photo and the words 'No Posts Yet' on his page.

Nothing.

It was as if he'd vanished from my life entirely.

Eventually, I would have to let it go.

Just as I was about to rise from my chair, a knock on my open classroom door caught my attention. A meek, unusually high-pitched voice spoke.

"Um, excuse me, ma'am. Are you Ms. Knowles?"

My face immediately lit up when I saw him. I let out a little squeal, prompting him to cover his ears.

"Nigga, if you don't stop playin' and get yo' ass down here right now," I playfully commanded, standing up. "O'Ryan, what are you doin' all the way out here? I'm surprised you remembered where my classroom was."

He rushed in and greeted me with a tight hug. "I was in the area for an interview and thought I'd swing by and surprise you. You look nice, too. A lil' stressed, but still beautiful as always. I'm rockin' with the straight blonde hair you got."

"I'm a little more than stressed," I laughed. "But damn glad to see you. You look handsome, too." I stepped back to assess his outfit. His top was crisp and pressed, accessorizing with a trucker hat and a BODE work jacket. The taupe blended in nicely with his black slacks, which were sharply tailored and hugged his waistline in just the right way. "If you got an interview out here, does that mean..."

"Yeah," he grinned. "I moved back home."

"Finally!" I exclaimed, adjusting my bag over my shoulder. We walked out together and headed for the main courtyard. "So, what brought this on? Mama's orders?"

"You think I'm a mama's boy?"

"I mean..."

He scoffed playfully and shook his head. "No comment. But yeah, she suggested it, but it's been on my mind for a minute now." O'Ryan pushed open the heavy doors and held it for me as we exited. "I needed a change, and London wasn't cuttin' it no more. Plus, I missed the elote man. And the beach."

As we strolled around campus, O'Ryan regaled me with his plans to move back. He had found opportunities in production management at high-end fashion houses in Los Angeles and possibly New York City, interviews he had scheduled in advance when he realized his move was inevitable. View Park was in his blood, and no matter how far he ventured, it always called him back.

He had tried his best to make London home for two years, but there was only so much beans on toast and Chinese food with gravy he could stomach before he craved the aroma of World Wide Tacos, the essence of Slauson Swap Meet, or the feel of consistent sunshine on his skin again. His occasional visits throughout his time abroad had only intensified his longing for home, and staying for less than a few weeks at a time had become increasingly difficult on his psyche.

Students stopped in their tracks to admire O'Ryan, their eyes drawn to his impeccable style and shoes. Whispers of appreciation and admiration followed us as we walked.

"I'm stayin' with my peoples in the meantime. I'm looking for apartments right now, but shit, this market is straight boo-boo. I've been lookin' for a couple of weeks, and I ain't find nothin' in my price range." He nodded to some girls who walked past us and pretended not to giggle behind their hands as they ogled him.

"I hope you get somethin' soon," I smiled. "It would be nice havin' you around more. Damn, so that means Laura is all by herself now? You two have been practically inseparable."

O'Ryan chuckled. "Yeah, she got over it real quick, though. Started datin' this fine ass white girl from some event she went to. I can't remember her name right now, but they hit it off, and Laura's been cheesin' like a motherfucker."

"Awww, well, that's cute," I cooed.

"Anything poppin' off with you? You seem happier than the last time I saw you. Still livin' with Robyn's feisty ass?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "And things are, uh, lookin' up for sure. Been busy teachin' but other than that, not really much else. Still single, still lookin'."

Our stroll landed us in front of Campos Famous Burritos, a hole-in-the-wall taqueria that could rival the best of them.

"Single as in, not datin' or not fuckin'? It can't be both, Bey. Fuckin' and dating lowkey mutually exclusive."

"Nigga, what kind of—? Why couldn't it be both? What if I was just single and lonely as fuck?"

"Because I can see right through you. Either you single and fuckin' but not datin'. Like, I don't know, maybe you got some casual thing goin' on or whatever. Or, datin', but you got other niggas on your roster, so 'technically' you single, and on top of all that, you probably got a 90-day rule."

He opened the door and waited for me to enter. The smell of carne asada, cilantro, and onions hit me, my mouth salivating as one of the cashiers greeted us.

"You ever eat here before?" He asked as he rubbed his hands together. "We used to drive past this place all the time as kids, and I always wanted to try it. But, whenever I asked, my mama was like, 'we got spaghetti at home'."

"Mmhm. Best in the city. Maybe even the West Coast."

He let out a strong giggle and followed me to the line. "Now that I remember, you got the worst taste when it comes to L.A. food. You probably think Chipotle is real Mexican food, huh?"

"Is it not?"

"No, and that gentrified moose knuckle meat is what's killin' Black folks. Slow and steady, one burrito at a time."

"You are so stupid," I laughed. We were next in line, the people ahead ordering quickly before heading to the back. We placed our orders, shamelessly allowing O'Ryan to pay, and walked over to the condiments, waiting for our number to be called. O'Ryan occupied himself with his phone, scrolling through Instagram.

"So, back to what I said...which is it? It has to be somethin, cause, like you really glowin' right now and shit."

"Glowin'?"

"Yeah, Bey. You just seem, lighter, is all. Like somethin' lifted off ya shoulders. Either that, or you finally learned how to moisturize."

"Fuck you, I ain't never been ashy a day in my life...and it's...possible that I may have a lil' somethin', somethin' goin' on. Maybe. We haven't officially stated what it is, but, like, we're not just fuckin' so..."

O'Ryan didn't respond as quickly as expected. He was still staring raptly at his phone, swiping and zooming in on whatever set of photos he was looking at.

"O'Ryan."

He ignored me.

"O'Ryan."

Still nothing. His eyebrows then shot up, his lips forming a perfect 'O' shape. Peering over, my eyebrows knit together.

"O'Ryan, what are you lookin'— "

He tilted his phone toward me.

"Yo, is that you? And ain't this your uncle?"

My heart fluttered.

There were at least five or six beautifully shot and aesthetically cool pictures shown as he swiped away at his screen, all of them with Aaliyah in some capacity.

In the first photo, Aaliyah captured her reflection in a mirror selfie within the confines of a hotel bathroom. The ambiance was subdued, and the room bathed in a gentle, white glow from the vanity mirror light.

She had donned a pair of black AirPods Max headphones and my rectangular reading glasses, which framed her face with precision. Her dark hair, pulled back into its sleek ponytail, accentuated her features, while a few wavy strands escaped to soften the look.

Clad in a black short-sleeve crop top, the simplicity of her attire stood in stark contrast to her radiant skin. A sexy gaze towards her phone accompanied a subtle pout that graced her lips as her other hand rested comfortably on her stomach.

The second photo brought us to a cozy streetwear boutique, its space intimate yet welcoming, with vibrant clothing racks flanking the walls and dynamic graffiti art claiming every spare inch.

Here, Aaliyah sported a white LOVERBOY bunny ears beanie, infusing a spirited quirkiness to her otherwise edgy ensemble. Striking a funny pose in a half-body shot, she pulled at the beanie's brim with her hand, her gaze alight with a mischievous twinkle.

In the third snapshot, Aaliyah was nestled in the bustling atmosphere of a beloved mom-and-pop diner in Third Ward. The picture was alive with laughter and camaraderie; Aaliyah was seated at a weathered wooden table, surrounded by a group of locals whose faces were etched with stories of the neighborhood.

My uncle, a man whose laughter was as hearty as his presence was commanding, stood beside her with a jovial grin, one arm casually draped over her shoulder. They were all mid-joke, if I could recall, with Aaliyah's head thrown back in genuine amusement, her ponytail swaying with the motion.

The camaraderie was palpable, as mugs of coffee steamed and plates of home-cooked fare lay half-forgotten in the shared mirth.

Wedged after these captured moments was another photo, one that exuded intimacy and confidence, and adoration. Aaliyah and I were hugged up at the car show, the Houston slab car behind us a true spectacle with its candy apple red sheen basking in the sun's embrace.

Its oversized chrome rims dazzled like jewels. I sat on the hood of the car, my legs crossed, my left arm draped over her shoulder, with my right hand supporting my weight. Aaliyah leaned back into me, her arm wrapped over my crossed legs in a one-armed hug. Her hand caressed my calf as we smiled widely into the camera.

My uncle called us 'Queen & Slim''on account of our close proximity and pose.

The final image focused on our hands in the air, united by the distinctive rings we had selected together at the Rodeo. The interior of the plane provided the backdrop.

Her hand, clad in clear, rubber rings with an assortment of colors and shapes, hovered next to mine, adorned with the same style, its opalescence gleaming in the plane's overhead light.

The caption read:

'sweet escape with h-town's finest 🤘🏾'

_View all 1,377 comments._

2 minutes ago

While reminiscing over the memories attached to these images, O'Ryan cleared his throat and asked again, this time his curiosity dripping with intrigue and his face painting a portrait of perplexity mingled with an emotion I couldn't quite grasp.

"You was in Houston?"

"Um, yeah...I went back two weekends ago," I answered sheepishly, grabbing our order once the cashier called it out. We found a place to sit, settling in at a small, worn wooden table near the taqueria's window.

"...how was that? If you don't mind me askin'?"

"It was, decent." I picked up the tortilla chip in my bowl, dipping it in the salsa O'Ryan offered. "It felt...liberatin' in a way."

"Oh, word?"

"Yeah...I had some closure with some stuff. Got some answers I've been searchin' for. Cleared the air. Can you believe I might actually be connectin' with my sister for once? Like, at least talkin' to each other without goin' for each other's throats?"

"Sounds like you had a lot goin' on."

"More than you know." I chuckled softly.

"And I bet meeting Aaliyah was the cherry on top. She seem cool, from what I've heard. L.A. is small, especially within these Hollywood circles. A few of my homies went to school with her," O'Ryan explained. He took a bite out of his burrito, careful not to let any of the contents fall onto his plate or lap. "She was a little shy when she first moved here. Some of the homies helped her adjust to things here. Got her to come out more, introduced her to people. Eventually, she warmed up and started hanging out more with folks."

"Really?" I asked, genuinely surprised at this new information. "I can't see her bein' shy."

O'Ryan shrugged and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I mean, we all gotta start somewhere, right? She morphed into this real classy chick who could turn the heads of the most cutthroat niggas out here. She was lowkey wildin' too though, but who wasn't back then? There was this one weirdo ass dude she was hanging with for awhile...heard somethin' happened to him."

"What happened?"

He shrugged again. "Ion know the details. Not my business anyway."

"Huh." I bit into my burrito, savoring the mix of flavor and texture on my tongue.

"I still can't believe you ran into her though." O'Ryan put down his burrito and began rummaging through my chips and salsa for another helping. "Crazy coincidence 'cause I swore y'all met each other last time at that gala. What did it feel like meetin' her for the first time? You the type to fangirl?"

"...she's...it's so hard to describe her without gettin' sappy. She's just...one of a kind. Genuine. Kind. Talented. Strong. And everything in between. She's like a dream, honestly. One of those dreams where you don't want to wake up from. Not just because she's beautiful and everything, but because...she makes you feel seen and heard in ways no one else does. And her aura is so comforting, like it could swallow me whole if it wanted to and I would just let it. You know what I mean?"

O'Ryan smirked, taking a sip of his soda. "You talkin' about her like you know her personally."

I swallowed thickly, the chips suddenly tasting like ash. My face was hot, my palms were becoming clammy, and I was certain the answer was written all over my face.

"Wait, Bey...for real? So, is that how y'all were able to take this picture? And the one with your uncle? 'Cause I was wonderin' why she was so comfortable with him if they just met."

I remained silent, poking at my burrito as O'Ryan tried piecing everything together.

"...Was that your hand? In the last pic? With the rings?"

My continued silence confirmed his suspicions.

I refused to look him in the eye. O'Ryan watched me carefully as I added Tapatío sauce to my burrito and took another bite. The ambient noise of the restaurant provided a thin veil of security against his pointed glare, its bustling atmosphere an effective distraction from the rising panic within me.

"...yo, is she the one you fu—"

"O'Ryan," I whispered, eyes darting around the restaurant. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't broadcast it."

"Shit, my bad...but, yo, for real though?!" He half-whispered, leaning in closer. "That's wilddd. You fucked Aaliyah. Wait, hold up, so, you bi or...?"

"I...don't really know what I am. But, I'm explorin' things, and, Aaliyah is definitely a huge part of that. I've never felt the way that I feel with her with anybody else before. And, when I'm with her, I just...I don't know, it's hard to explain," I shrugged. "Like, whenever she touches me or kisses me or looks into my eyes...my body just responds in a way I didn't even know was possible. And, it's scary, because...because, it feels too good to be true."

"Wow, Beyoncé. That's kinda..."

"Corny?"

"Nah," he chuckled. "Cute. Heartwarmin', actually. Sounds like you got it real bad. You know me, I don't give a fuck who anybody fucks, as long as everyone is consentin' and enjoyin' themselves. Clearly, you enjoyin' yourself...I'm happy for you. Really. And I bet you Laura finna lose her shit when she hears about this."

"I'm pretty sure she's already picked up on the fact that I got a thing for women," I snickered. "That night of the gala, while you was passed out in the backseat, she kinda had a mini interrogation session with me. Pretty sure she been knew somethin' was up."

"Laura and her fuckin' sixth sense," O'Ryan playfully rolled his eyes. "Anyway, so, tell me more about the trip and about y'all. How did this whole thing come about?"

My phone buzzed just as I was about to divulge, the vibration echoing on the table. I excused myself, fishing through my bag before picking it up. The Group FaceTime request popped up, and I braced myself, knowing full well the barrage of questions would ensue once they saw my face.

"Is it your girls? Lemme say what's up to Kelly." O'Ryan adjusted his trucker hat and made his way over to my side, the chair screeching as he pulled it up close. "Is my face good? I got cilantro in my teeth? You think she'll notice somethin' off about me?"

"O'Ryan, your face is fine," I giggled.

I accepted the call, waiting for the connection to be established. Within seconds, Kelly and Robyn's faces appeared, their voices echoing loudly before I could even greet them.

"Bitch!" they exclaimed in unison, causing O'Ryan to cackle at how shrill and boisterous they were. "And is that O'Ryan? The fuck is going on today?" Robyn added.

"Hello to y'all too," I sighed deeply.

Routine calls with my girls always evolved into lengthy, almost theatrical events about their days compared to my mundane life. This particular instance was different, however, as the ball was squarely in my court. The responsibility of divulging the sordid details of my Houston escapade was on me alone.

This was going to be a very, very long lunch.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette

Aaliyah

Nothing ever compared to the first touch.

The first prick.

The first line scored by the sharpened point of a needle across the virgin flesh of a once-untainted body.

In the same way that the first breath was life-giving, the first ever bite of the needle's tip on my face was an awakening of euphoria I had never before experienced. The sensation was a purifying baptism that opened the floodgates, and the angelic choir was singing its celestial hymn through my blood.

My vision became a haze, and my ears filled with the rushing of my pulse, beating, pounding, drumming in perfect rhythm to the deepest depths of the heavens and the highest notes of the devil's forte. My entire body hummed with a vibrancy I could not control, and my breath hitched at the sensual overload that coursed through my veins like an overdose of adrenaline.

"Stay still before I fuck this up," she murmured, her concentration on the design she was etching into my back.

I closed my eyes and focused on the rhythm of the needle, a staccato beat that synced with the racing of my heart. She moved with the precision of a professional, but to me, each puncture feels like a lover's touch—intimate and direct. I craved the sensation, the way it anchored me firmly to the present, to the very essence of being alive.

We mostly remained quiet throughout the session, both in a place where words could never reach us. I understood what drew her to the craft; she enjoyed the creative expression and the ability to make something beautiful from an ordinary canvas.

In the same way, I got to be the medium. There was something special about that, about knowing this art would become a permanent part of me, an extension of the person I was, was now, and would become.

With the last stroke, the needle ceased its bewitching music.

As she withdrew, the intensity of the moment began to softly ebb away. The room eased into focus, and with it, the warm undertones and rhythm of Fiona Apple's "Criminal" floated through the air from the corner speakers. The coolness of the disinfectant on my freshly marked skin made me shiver, and I found myself absently singing along to the chorus, my voice low and relaxed.

I missed the throb of its dance on my skin already.

"Give me a second, and I'll get you cleaned up," she said as she disappeared behind me. "Don't move."

I turned my head as far as I could to face her as she opened a drawer behind her desk in search of something. She pulled out a small tin container of salve and skated and swiveled back with her chair to my body moments later, using some fresh paper towels to gently wipe away the fluid that had begun to dry on my skin. She was close enough that I could hear the soft caress of her breath against my ear.

"Babygirl, I told you to make sure nothing happened to your back before we finished the last of the shading." She lightly reprimanded me with a sharp whisper. The threat held no real sting because I could hear the smile in her voice. "You're lucky we were able to reschedule, but you would've had some privacy in one of the rooms in the back if you'd listened..."

"Kidada, you know I can't control what happens when I'm handlin' my business." I sighed at the feeling of her gentle caress as she applied ointment before placing a sheet of plastic wrap and body tape over the top.

"Which girl was it this time? Or guy? Do guys even do that shit?" She joked as she tapped on my shoulder, letting me know I could now move. I stood up slowly and turned around to face the mirror as she gloved off. I took the opportunity to marvel at the now-completed tattoo, the contrast of black ink against my caramel skin making for a nice visual.

"Guess."

She gave me a sideways glance as she dumped the trash into the bin and walked toward the sink to wash her hands. "Can I at least get an occupation? An industry? Music, movies, or modeling?"

"Music."

"SOS?"

"No."

"Positions?"

"Now you're just tryna be funny. When have you ever seen me with a white girl?"

She laughed. "I thought you might've liked playing in the snow. Okay, what about Jaguar?"

"...no."

She dropped her jaw before grabbing another paper towel to dry her hands. "What happened with that?"

I shook my head.

"Aw shit, what did you do?"

"Why are you assuming I did somethin'?"

She scoffed and placed a hand on her hip. "Because you're you."

"I didn't do anything." I rolled my eyes as I reached into my bag to fetch my wallet and held out my card. "Payment."

She walked over and picked up the card, punching in a few numbers into her register and printing out a receipt. "Okay, so if you didn't do anything, why aren't you two still together?"

I sighed deeply at her insistent curiosity. "The chemistry wasn't there. But we're still cool, and I've been helping her out with some songs for her new album."

Cocking one eyebrow at me, she looked up and asked, "So, no more fine dining...or booty calls?"

"I'm dead ass serious, Dada. It's nothing like that with us anymore," I replied while reaching for my shirt.

She didn't hide the amusement in her tone. "And yet you somehow managed to get scratches on your back. Crazy how that shit works out sometimes. So, if it wasn't her...don't tell me it was—"

"Dip It Low. Yeah, unfortunately, it was. But that's over with too."

Kidada shook her head incredulously as she ripped the receipt from the register. "Aaliyah, cariño, I'm gonna give you some of my white sage. It's like you attract or purposely search for them type of bitches and I know you can do so much better. Don't be surprised when you wake up to one of your cars on fire or find a brick inside your house with a note that says 'fuck you bitch' attached to it."

A smirk danced on my lips as I watched her overboard display of concern. I accepted the receipt, tucking it into my bag. "For the thousandth time, she knew it wasn't going any further than that, and I got her ass together when she got out of line. There's not gonna be bricks with notes, nobody beatin' down my door. It's all good...real good."

The chime of the bell signaled new arrivals, and the parlor welcomed the interruption as Kidada greeted the two newcomers.

"Damn girl, you not gon' put some clothes on? Got all yo shit out on display."

"Don't act like you've never seen titties before, Pac." Kidada chuckled as I slipped my arms into the sleeves and slid my shirt over my shoulders, sitting back down on the chair.

Pac.

Patron of the arts.

O.G. Piru.

A man whose name carried more respect than the most feared dictator.

His existence was a sequence of brilliant flashes, akin to lightning streaking across the firmament—spectacular, formidable, and utterly compelling. The world beheld his swagger and his bravado, his tattoos and sinewy frame, a complex mosaic that interwove the profound with the profane.

The scarlet hue of his Washington Nationals hat was a crimson crown, just enough chroma to remind onlookers of the bloodline that ran through his veins, of the chosen family that had still claimed his loyalty and vice versa.

Perched just beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes, like Static's, were windows to a soul that had witnessed more than most could bear. Alongside his gaze, the small teardrop tattoo near the corner of his eye was a stark contrast to his otherwise stoic features—a mark that many knew but few discussed, an emblem that carried its own weight and spoke its own language in the currency of the streets.

He was an enigma, a paradox swathed in the trappings of the urban jungle. As an incendiary presence, Pac was a maelstrom of fervor and intensity, both casting illumination and scorching the earth he walked on.

Static and Kidada were the twin souls who could soothe the feral spirit within him, the singular hearts that truly ensnared his own. Yet even in their embrace, Static sensed a reservation in Pac, a guarded reluctance to bear the fractured and marred shards of his essence. His understanding of Pac was deeper than he knew—what we all knew—having witnessed and aided in his evolution from a headstrong youth to a man of substance.

I observed him with keen interest myself—the manner in which he conducted his enterprises, how he valiantly fought for his place beside Kidada despite the disapproval from her parents. He was a living oxymoron of the most exquisite variety, and within his verses lay the soul of a poet, each word a lyrical testament to the struggles and triumphs etched into his very being.

His duality was captivating, and my admiration for him was as boundless as the poetry that flowed from him, raw and unbridled.

I never knew him by his government name, nor would I ever, and I was sure he felt the same way.

"I only got eyes for my wife." Pac smiled and approached Kidada, pulling her into an embrace. He planted a gentle kiss on the side of her head, a moment of tenderness that contrasted with the playful smack on her behind as they separated. Then, turning towards me, he offered a quick head nod. "What's good with you?"

"Same ol' shit." He walked over and exchanged a quick dap. "How's business? And when's the next open mic?"

Fiddling with the silver cross chain around his neck, he looked around the room with quick, darting glances that never seemed to settle in one place for too long. "Everything is straight. I'm thinkin' of openin' up a second dispensary. Open mic is later this month. You tryna perform or just show up?"

"I think I got something fresh, so maybe I'll hop on stage."

He nodded. "A'ight bet. You try that new strain my girl gave Static yet?"

"Yeah, it was nice. Real smooth. How did you even get that through customs?"

"You really think I'm finna tell you?" he chuckled. I shrugged as Pac returned his attention back to Kidada, engaging in their own private conversation.

It was easy to get lost in your thoughts when the energy was nice, and I had nothing but the purest intentions as I sat and watched them interact with each other, the dynamic between them reminiscent of a war of words with neither party truly intent on winning.

"So, I see you finally back in town."

Static had sauntered over, and with a smooth motion, he flipped Kidada's chair around and straddled it, resting his forearms against the chair back. A toothpick danced from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Lori been blowin' up my phone about this fuckin' album while you was playin' house. Said she need you in the studio like yesterday."

"You know I got her," I reassured him. "I just needed a little break from everyone and everything once I got back to clear my head and recharge. Besides, I thought she said the label was going to give us more time."

Static shrugged. "That was the talk, but you know how that shit goes. They conveniently got amnesia."

As I leaned back in the tattoo chair, I couldn't help but kiss my teeth and exhale a deep sigh. After producing several albums rife with compromise, endless back-and-forth negotiations, and creative disagreements, the tether to the record company began to feel more like a shackle.

Static and I had started our journey with a vision, but in-house writing and production had become a battleground where the label's executives loomed large, imposing their will on our creations with a heavy hand.

The pressure to churn out radio hits and mold our sound into something palatable for the masses was endless. We had become less like artists and more like assembly-line workers, piecing together tracks with the precision of a factory, while A&R representatives and money-grubbing executives loomed over our shoulders, dictating the number of hooks per song.

The craft had devolved into a cold calculus of market trends, and with every forced adjustment, a piece of our original vision was chipped away.

My mother, who had once graced stages with her voice and later navigated the boardrooms with the same finesse, had warned me of these traps. She had managed to steer her own career with a deft hand, maintaining control and integrity in an industry known for its voracious appetite.

I didn't listen, blinded by the allure of what seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Now I understood the wisdom in her caution.

The thought of buying out our contracts had surfaced more than once, with a glimmer of freedom on the horizon. Yet, the reality was a quagmire of red tape, legal jargon, and political maneuvering within the company. Our lawyers had poured over the fine print, looking for a loophole, a way out, but the path was never clear.

The costs were astronomical, and the risk of career suicide loomed large if the label decided to play hardball.

I just knew the battle ahead would be our hardest yet.

"So, what ended up happenin' with your girl after...you know." Static lowered his voice and leaned in closer to me. "When you called, I thought I'd have to fly out there and bail yo ass outta jail, but I guess not."

"Man, she was going through a lot that night and I just couldn't leave her like that. I really feel bad for her, Static, I really do. I don't even know what I would do if I was in her shoes, having to deal with a family like that. Like it really messed me up. I still wanna fuck him up for what he did to her."

Static had been flipping through a magazine sitting nearby, his eyes catching a bold design before he set it down and looked up.

"Ain't shit you can do but be there for her, though, if she's tryna handle it on her own terms."

Our attention was pulled away momentarily by the soft sound of Kidada's laughter; we watched as Pac whispered something in her ear and handed her a small glass container, the leafy green contents nearly obscured by their intertwined fingers. "You think y'all could ever end up like these fools?"

"Faded and in love?" I gibbed and nodded over towards the couple. Pac was leaning back on Kidada's front desk, his eyes following her as she cleaned up her work space. He was observing her with a mixture of pride and adoration, a faraway look on his face. When he noticed us watching, he nodded back towards us, taking off his hat to brush his hand across his closely cropped fade and hide his coy smile.

"...I don't...I don't know, man."

"Love, babies, marriage. You don't want none of that?" Static persisted, a teasing lilt in his tone.

"Nigga, you are always trying to wife me off to the first person you can."

"It ain't like you actin' like you don't want it this time," he shot back. "This one got yo nose wide open."

I shook my head and laughed. "It'll happen if it happens. I just need to...sort some things out."

"What's happenin' when?" Pac questioned, approaching us as Kidada went into the other rooms to check on her employees.

"Mind yo damn business," Static warned him playfully.

"This my girl's shop, nigga. Everything happenin' in here is my business."

Pac and Static engaged in their customary back and forth banter, but I found my gaze drawn to the empty seat across from me, reminding me of the laughter we shared at the corner store in Third Ward, the way her face lit up when the owner remembered and offered her her favorite childhood treats, and the joy she took in sharing her history with me.

She had thrown her head back in amusement on his wooden stool, her laughter mingling with mine. Now, the silence from that corner echoed louder than the cacophony around me.

I glanced down at my hands, remembering how her fingers had woven through mine with an ease that spoke of a connection deeper than chance.

The memory of our last encounter—the way her eyes had locked onto mine, the electric silence that had pulsed between us—played on a loop, a film I couldn't pause. Her every gesture had been a word in our silent dialogue, each touch a sentence that wrote itself on my skin that felt better than any pinprick of the needle.

Her spirit was a glowing ember, and her soul was a flame, a radiant illumination in the midst of the darkness. She was a warmth that beckoned me closer, a promise of hope and possibility, of a love that I was aware my heart desired.

My mind said otherwise, however. It told me her love was a gamble, and the stakes were high. That even though that kind of love didn't exist twice in a lifetime, if she left...my life would become as hollow as a moonless night sky. It wasn't sure if my heart could endure a loss again, or if the delicate threads holding my existence together could withstand such a seismic shift.

"I'm kinda seeing someone. Not officially, though," I murmured, my voice a hesitant whisper lost amidst the hum of needlework in the background. My words were meant to be a secret, even from myself, but Pac's keen senses were always on high alert.

"Since when? Who?" Pac's voice cut through the drone of machines like a knife, his eyes wide with the kind of surprise that made his face look younger, less weathered by the streets. "You usually always braggin' about the girls you be fuckin' from the start. Why you holdin' back now? She mid? Don't tell me you scooped some bitch off Fig."

Static kissed his teeth, hiding his smirk behind his palm as he pretended to rub his nose. "You outta pocket for that. Liyah ain't that desperate. She probably gatekeepin' from y'all. I mean, shorty is bad as fuck. One of the finest pieces I've seen in a minute, but she be tryna keep the details under wraps from time to time." His drawl stretched the words, filling them with a laid-back cadence that contrasted starkly with the tension threading through my confession.

"Why the fuck are you acting like I'm hiding her?" I rolled my eyes, pulling out my phone to scroll through my camera roll. "She's not on social media like that, except for Twitter. Instagram and TikTok are for business. And Pac, don't start that mess with me; that's why I haven't told y'all shit. She's far from ugly."

"Business? So, she an influencer or somethin'?" Pac asked. Static leaned in for a closer look.

I paused, thumb hovering over the screen, as I came across a mirror selfie Beyoncé had sent me under the cloak of late-night spontaneity. She was the centerpiece in a mosaic of exuberance—a room bustling with a lively mix of friends, both guys and girls, all absorbed in the electric buzz of a night unwinding.

Beyoncé's skin seemed to capture and reflect the room's energy, her complexion a radiant canvas bathed in the soft, golden hue of the ambient lighting. It gave her a subtle glow, a celestial shimmer that seemed to amplify the vivacity in her eyes—making them appear even more lustrous and spirited.

I pinched the screen to zoom in closer on her face, my gaze tracing the contours of her light brown eyes, the delicate crinkles etched around her nose and mouth, hallmarks of a smile that was both genuine and infectious.

Her playful grin revealed the custom grill we had picked out together, a metallic glint that framed some of her top teeth and underscored the plush fullness of her lips.

I could have stared at the photo forever, committing every line and curve of her face to memory.

Holding back the smile that threatened to break free, I handed over my phone. "Artist. I'll show you some of her work after."

Pac's eyebrows hitched up, his whistle low and impressed, as he scrolled through more photos, each swipe revealing another facet of her. "Goddamn, this all you? She a catch for sure. She from here?"

"Nah, Houston. But she's well traveled." I answered, shifting in my seat as Pac and Static continued to gawk at her pictures.

"A damn shame." Pac clicked his tongue. I stared at him, confused by his comment.

"What?"

"She's too beautiful and innocent lookin' for you to just one and done her. You got a real keeper here, but you not finna wife her up." Pac gave me a skeptical glare. "You been single way too long for all that and you lowkey grimey as fuck. No way she gon' change yo mind that quick. Unless she got the most bomb ass pussy."

Static barked out a cough and laugh, raising a fist to his mouth. I snatched the phone out of Pac's hands, and he laughed at my reaction, shaking his head in pity.

"You ain't even deny it. Shorty got it like that? Ha! She really got you feenin' for her. I don't even know who I'm talking to right now." Pac's eyes widened in mock surprise as he theatrically clutched at his chest, his posture straightening as if he'd been suddenly imbued with the spirit of a Shakespearean actor.

Adopting a faux-aristocratic tone dripping with exaggerated refinement, he continued, "This is quite unbecoming of you, Aaliyah." His voice crescendoed on the last syllable, a playful smirk curling around the corners of his mouth as he awaited my response.

"No, I think this is exactly who she is, Pac." Kidada announced, returning to the front room. "Baby, I hate it when you do that shit to her." Her arms were crossed, and she shot him a pointed stare, tapping her foot impatiently on the linoleum floor before attending to another client.

"Are you guys gonna hog up my lobby or...?"

I grabbed my bag from the side and rose to my feet, adjusting my shades over my eyes and exchanging quick pecks on the cheek with Kidada. "Let me not get in your way. I need to see what's up with Lori anyway."

Brushing past Pac and Static, I scrunched my face as they nudged each other's shoulders and tried to stifle their ongoing jokes and laughter at my expense. "Childish ass motherfuckers..."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Water From Wine" by Amaarae

bonus track:  "Rock The Boat" by Aaliyah

(a/n: long chapter)

(This chapter contains explicit content. Reader discretion advised.)

The evening light hung over Culver City like a lingering embrace, the extended daylight hours painting the urban sprawl with a soft, golden glow. Despite the time, the sun hadn't yet conceded to night, stubborn rays filtering through the palm fronds that lined the boulevards, their shadows long and cool across my dashboard.

In the distance, the rhythmic percussion of construction melded with the city's heartbeat, a symphony of renewal as old structures bowed to the march of progress.

Artisan coffee shops with reclaimed wood facades and sleek, minimalist branding punctuated the streets, where once stood family-run diners whose neon signs now flickered uncertainly in the encroaching dusk.

The air carried the scent of fresh paint and the subtle musk of new leather from designer boutiques replacing thrift stores with peeling signs.

Young professionals walked briskly, their conversations about equity and startups floating on the breeze, mixing with the melodic strains of street musicians now curating playlists for an emerging clientele.

Sidewalks, once the canvas of worn-down footsteps and chalk-drawn hopscotch, were now neatly bordered with planters hosting curated greenery—a stark contrast to the untamed, verdant life that once claimed every nook and cranny.

Condominiums, sleek and glass-paned, towered over the modest bungalows, their balconies offering views of a neighborhood in metamorphosis. Food trucks serving fusion cuisine lined the curbs, surrounded by patrons whose attire reflected the latest fashion trends rather than the weathered work clothes of the area's long-time residents.

The local park, once a simple expanse of grass worn by the cleats of youth soccer teams, now boasted a renovated playground with eco-friendly equipment and a community garden where organic vegetables flourished under the care of urban gardeners.

The murmur of multiple languages that used to fill the air was now often replaced by the singular cadence of networking events, as the old community center's calendar filled with coding workshops and investment seminars.

I wished things were back to the way they were.

I navigated the manual gearbox of my car with practiced ease, the tactile pleasure of shifting gears almost making up for the snail's pace imposed by the evening traffic.

My agua fresca from a corner market Downtown was a welcome companion, the plastic cup sweating into the cup holder. I took occasional sips to pass the time as I edged closer to Beyoncé's apartment.

A quick detour prior led me to Baldwin Vista as I pulled up to my parents' house for a short visit. The well-kept lawns and the scent of blooming hyacinth in the air were a stark contrast to the rubbled concrete and potholes that dominated other parts of the city.

I exchanged brief, loving pleasantries with my folks; their inquiries about my well-being and reminders to take home-cooked leftovers were always welcomed, no matter how big or small the visit.

Upon my arrival at her apartment complex, the building itself was an understated canvas against the vibrant backdrop of the city's evening life. Its exterior, a nondescript palette of beiges and creams, was typical of Los Angeles architecture—unremarkable at first glance, yet hinting at hidden depths.

The entrance was flanked by well-groomed greenery, a nod to a more luxurious existence just beyond the average.

Parking was a typical, infuriating ordeal no matter which neighborhood I found myself in, magnified by the packed visitors' lot and street spaces claimed by residents and fellow commuters.

The evening's clarity did little to alleviate the challenge as I roamed the nearby streets, the sun's persistence in the sky dwindling with each turn around the block. My search became futile, and my frustration mounted as time ticked away, each passing moment seeming to signal yet another failure in my already pitiful efforts.

After a tense world tour of the block, I finally spotted an opening—a narrow strip of curb as someone pulled away from the adjacent space. With a nimble touch on the steering wheel and a few precise maneuvers, I tucked my car into the spot, standing out like a sore thumb against the rows of SUVs and compact sedans surrounding it. Regardless, it was a small victory.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, wasting little time grabbing the flowers and container of freshly baked goods I'd picked up from my dad from the back compartment of my car.

Bright blue flowers, a lush assortment of foliage, were wrapped in white florist paper and tied together with a creamy ribbon. Toying with the bike handlebar keychain in my grip, I walked to the entrance of the building.

A quick scan of the callbox directory yielded the unit number; my fingers moved swiftly across the keypad, buzzing the unit to request access. I sent a quick text message just in case, letting her know I'd arrived, and after a few moments, I heard a soft click and rushed into the building before the door had an opportunity to slam shut.

The foyer was empty and quiet, save for the muffled sounds of bass thumping from unseen speakers in the units on the ground floor. I moved swiftly, taking long strides across the slate marble that lined the common area until I reached the elevator bay. The faint sound of jazz emanated from within as it approached me with a near-silent whoosh, its steel doors sliding open soundlessly.

The ride to the fourth floor was an excruciating one. The elevator was sluggish on its ascent, seemingly pausing between floors as the music continued its lazy riff.

Unsure of what to expect, I found myself mulling over what I was going to say once she opened the door, each scenario growing more improbable and frantic in its execution than the last. By the time I reached her doorstep, my heart was beating frantically, each throb a hard drum against my ribs.

The scent of incense filled my lungs with each breath. Soft music was playing, something calm and lilting—an Afrobeats track by an artist I didn't recognize—mingling with the sounds of people moving throughout the apartment and engaging in friendly conversation.

Upon ringing the smart doorbell, a voice called out from the doorbell's speaker as they spoke and stifled a few giggles through their phone. "Who—stop it, Melissa. Who is it?"

The accent was distinct, with a slight foreign twang that reminded me of my visits to my paternal grandparents' house in Jamaica, of a childhood spent chasing down candy-colored birds on the outskirts of Trelawny parish. "Hi, um...it's Aaliyah. I'm here for Beyoncé?"

There was a sudden rustling behind the door, and I could make out a few voices speaking in hushed tones. I caught snippets of their conversation through the speaker—"she got her flowers, oh my god" and "this is so cute" among other frantic murmurings—but the sound of a lock disengaging drew my attention back to the door.

When it swung open, I found myself face-to-face with curious green eyes and a beaming, warm smile. A lone Starface patch graced her left cheek.

From my vantage point near the entrance, the table of a small dining nook was adorned with a smattering of jewel-toned candles in various stages of burning. Their flames flickered, casting shadows on the walls, as they painted the room with a rich ambiance.

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its blades silently slicing through the air; the scent of jerk chicken, seasoned plantains, and coconut rice wafted through the space and out the door.

"Hey, don't be shy. Come on in."

The same young woman who had greeted me through the doorbell ushered me in excitedly. She was clad in pajama shorts and a white t-shirt, the shirt reading 'jesus saves, i spend' in bold pink script.

I recognized her from pictures Beyoncé had sent me, along with her 'day in the life' TikToks and livestreams that frequented my for you page, though her hair was shorter now than before—cropped short in a black pixie cut.

The apartment was far from the cramped space Beyoncé had occasionally joked about, but it was an intimate affair, an artisan's haven designed to nurture creativity and stimulate inspiration.

I had heard her describe it before as a studio space for herself and her friends—a place for them to hangout and paint and discuss ideas without the constraints of time and deadlines. It was a comfortable environment, a conglomeration of shared spaces that were interspersed with the individual touches of her and her roommate.

"I'm Robyn, by the way. Sorry, we're kinda messy, I'm hosting a little sleepover," she explained as she guided me to the living room, where her friends were seated on large pillows and beanbag chairs.

They were in the middle of a very intense card game, with money and chips stacked high in the center of their makeshift gaming table. The mounted television was on a moderate volume in the background, displaying a music video with a Philips hue bar hidden behind and changing colors accordingly. "Bey! She's here!"

"Couldn't you just go in her room to tell her?" Someone coming down the hallway remarked with an exasperated sigh.

Robyn kissed her teeth in response. "As if she'd open the door for me. If I interrupt her right now, she's gonna beat my ass."

The women stopped their game and turned towards me in unison, their gazes a mix of curiosity and excitement as they regarded me. A bottle of wine sat uncorked on the table alongside an assortment of sweet snacks and half-empty wine glasses. I wanted to feel put on the spot, but their smiles told a different story; they were warm and friendly, an easygoing camaraderie in the midst of their fun.

"Hey, Aaliyah," they greeted me in chorus, their smiles only growing wider as they took in the sight of my gifts.

"Hello ladies," I acknowledged them politely. "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on your night."

They waved me off with varying levels of reassurance—a gentle shake of a head, a raised palm, an enthusiastic hand wave—and a dismissive laugh.

The woman from the hallway rounded the corner and gave me a quick once-over before smiling and offering a quick handshake. She had a soft air about her; her features were gentle and reserved yet brightened by her smile.

Her silk-pressed hair was in a high bun atop her head, matching the sheen of her chocolate skin, and her outfit—a matching deep purple pajama set with matching house shoes—paired with a wine glass in hand exuded effortless casual elegance. "You're not intruding at all. Trust me, we don't mind having you here. I'm Kelly."

Her face was vaguely familiar, not just from the candid shots with Beyoncé. "Aaliyah, nice to meet you...have we met before? Or maybe I've met someone that looks like you somewhere?"

Kelly shook her head lightly. "Not unless you frequent Jon and Vinny's. Was there an event or something that you remember?"

"Vanity Fair party last year?...but I don't think you were there...now I do remember some photos Calvin posted on his Instagram that fell on my timeline, and I believe you were in a few of them."

"Cal...Oh, Calvin Rowland? Oh girl, that's my dad! That makes sense. It's crazy we never officially met until now," she replied warmly, moving to take a sip of her wine. "So, you've met my father before?"

"Yeah, last I remember was him trying to pitch me his last film while he was two shots deep at the party. Hella relentless, but he's a cool guy." I nodded in confirmation as she giggled in agreement, taking another sip from her wine glass. We walked back toward the kitchen. "Are you another one of Bey's roommates? She mentioned only having one."

She shook her head, setting her wine glass on the island table. "No, the three of us are just super close friends, but Robyn is the only one that lives with her."

"That's cool. I mean, y'all seem like y'all are really tight based on how she talks about y'all, and it shows." I placed my gifts on the counter as Robyn rummaged through a nearby cupboard, looking for a vase. "I brought some brownies if you guys want any. My dad made them, so I know they're good."

The women oohed and aahed in excitement as they opened the container and helped themselves to the chocolatey treats. "Someone's cocky. We'll try them and let you know if they live up to the hype," Robyn teased as she filled the vase with water and trimmed the ends of the stems. "Hopefully they aren't 'toxic', or whatever the fuck this one right here is always complainin' about. She won't eat shit if it ain't gluten-free, non-GMO, or organic. Oh, but she'll tear up my leftover oxtails as if she fed the cow some grass her damn self."

Kelly stuck out her middle finger in response as she passed a brownie to one of the women who walked into the kitchen and took another for herself. "I can't help that I have a sensitive stomach and my body has standards. Don't act like you don't watch what you eat either. Can I get you something to drink, Aaliyah? Some water? We also have juice, soda, and hard seltzer in the fridge."

I declined her offer and let her know I'd be alright as I leaned back against the counter.

"Okay, let Robyn or I know if you need anything and feel free to make yourself at home. I'm gonna go check on Bey; she knows better than to put her hands on me."

I watched Kelly saunter towards Beyoncé's bedroom and disappear down the hall once more, noting the affectionate shake of Robyn's head as she placed the flowers in the vase and brought them over to the nook. A few minutes of idle chatter passed, with Robyn asking me questions about myself while offering tidbits of information about her job and hobbies outside of work.

Robyn had a cheery disposition, a captivating personality that seemed to illuminate even the darkest recesses of the apartment with her effervescent energy. It was no wonder Beyoncé was drawn to her company—the way their personalities differed yet complimented each other seemed to be the perfect balance to create something special.

My brief conversation with Kelly had been just as enjoyable, and I realized the level of comfort she brought me must have mirrored what Beyoncé experienced in her presence.

I had always respected those who could draw people out of their shell—whose empathy and charisma could transcend small talk and leave lasting impressions on others in less than a minute. It was a gift not many possessed, and I marveled at both women's ability to effortlessly exhibit it.

We were so immersed in conversation that it was a surprise when Kelly suddenly returned to the living room with her wine glass in hand and an excited expression on her face.

"She's ready," she announced as she topped off her glass and set it down before clapping her hands together in a dramatic flourish.

"Do I look okay?" I smoothed down the front of my crop top and pulled down my mini skirt as I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. The fact that I had fretted over my various options for heeled boots and jewelry for almost an hour would remain a secret between myself and my closet, but I hoped I'd made the right decision.

I fidgeted with my necklace as Robyn and Kelly exchanged knowing glances and gave me a reassuring nod in unison.

"Fine as hell. I'm gonna need more info on where you got this jacket from." Kelly gushed quietly.

"Right? I think it's from Diesel, last season, but I'll have to check my Pinterest board." Robyn added.

I chuckled nervously at their exchange, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth as I glanced over at the hallway once more. I suddenly felt a flurry of anxiety mixed with anticipation that threatened to spill over, but before I could register the rest of their encouragement, the women in the living room whooped in excitement as Beyoncé finally emerged from her room.

When she was in my line of sight, I was at a loss for words.

The curve-hugging mini skirt seemed to defy all laws of physics, with every movement pulling at the hemline with an opposing force that made it seem as if it could snap at any moment.

The pink fabric hugged the thick outline of her hips, its high waist accentuating her feminine figure. The mesh ruffled trim that draped down flowed and swayed as she walked had a chic edge, adding an element of sophisticated sensuality to an otherwise simple design.

The matching tube top showed off her toned arms and highlighted the rich hue of her skin and the striking blue stone from her necklace. Her hair was brushed back into a sleek mid-bun, with two tendril strands framing her face elegantly.

Each stride in her heels exuded confidence and power as if she were a living work of art; she commanded attention without making any effort at all.

When our eyes met, everything else seemed to melt away.

I drank in every detail—the faint blush dusted across her cheekbones, the brown gloss that tinted her lined, plush lips, and the glow on her pout. Her expression was calm; the corners of her mouth lifted slightly in a demure smile, yet I could see a hint of vulnerability in her gaze that made me yearn to embrace her and give her everything she needed—from kind words to sanctum and more.

She remained silent, staring intently with awe in her eyes, as if she were seeing me for the first time all over again.

"You look—"

We both stopped mid-sentence and laughed sheepishly, gently taking a few steps forward at the same time and meeting each other halfway as I pulled her in for a tender kiss. Her hands came up to cradle my face, her thumbs brushing softly against my cheeks as I rested my forehead against hers.

"So do you," she said softly, her tone light with laughter as we pulled apart and gazed at each other once more.

Her friends erupted in another round of cheers, whoops, and whistles, their support causing Beyoncé to hide her face behind her hands and flush a deep shade of red.

She turned to them, her voice taking on an annoyed pitch that had me biting back a smirk at the playfulness behind it. "Y'all need to be worryin' about not goin' home broke after y'all lil card game."

"Bitch, fuck them cards," Robyn shot back teasingly as they began to bicker jokingly before Kelly stepped in to defuse the situation, shooing the group into Robyn's bedroom to give us some privacy.

"Just take good care of my girl tonight, okay?" Kelly suggested with a wink, gesturing a silent 'call me' sign with her hand to Beyoncé as she turned away from us.

"Will do," I replied.

Before closing the door, Robyn yelled out one last thought. "She gine tek real good—OUCH! Melissa, fuck you do that for?"

The sound of a pillow hitting flesh cut her off, and Kelly's hushed voice echoed out in warning from the hallway.

We both burst out into a fit of laughter, our bodies leaning against each other as we tried to regain our composure. Beyoncé was the first to catch her breath, reaching up to fix my side bang that was blocking my eye as her gaze softened into something more pensive.

She looked over at the nook with a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth before turning back to me with a slightly arched brow. Walking over to the table, she examined the flowers, gasping softly at their beauty.

"Meconopsis betonicifolia. 'Himalayan blue poppy,'" she noted fondly. "Wow...I've always wanted to see one in person."

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" I gleamed.

"Yes, very much so." She glanced up at me with an inquisitive gleam in her eyes as she delicately ran a finger along the velvety petals. "Aaliyah, when did you—how did you even..."

"Let's just say a friend of mine imports certain rare and highly sought-after flora from all over the world. That friend was gracious enough to send me some on short notice."

She gave me an amused glance and a quizzical smirk on her lips as she cocked her head to the side in amusement. "And how does someone just so happen to be friends with a person that handles that sort of business?"

"I just have a way of attracting interesting people."

Beyoncé clicked her tongue knowingly, thanking me as she turned back to admire the flowers. I came up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist and drawing her into my chest, and kissed her lightly on her shoulder blade.

She was so close that I could make out her favorite perfume—the hint of warm spices mingled with sweet floral notes that seemed to ignite all of my senses—mingled with something else, something uniquely her own that I couldn't describe but loved nonetheless.

She leaned back into me, interlacing our fingers to brush her thumb lightly against my knuckles. The gesture was gentle, almost timid, yet I could feel the words behind it, the emotions waiting to be revealed that brimmed just beneath the surface.

My touch was a question. Hers was an answer.

"You ready to get outta here?" I murmured against her neck. She nodded wordlessly, leaving the flowers on the table. She grabbed a small Polène shoulder purse off the couch and took my hand in hers as we headed towards the door.

As we left, the sky had finally darkened, revealing an expanse of stars, constellations, and streetlights that seemed to brighten in sync with our growing spirits. Her grip was tight, her fingers interlocking with mine with ease as we strolled down the sidewalk to where I had parked my car.

Marveling at the brilliance of the night sky, she pulled me close and grabbed my arm, her head resting against my shoulder.

When we reached my car, she couldn't help but smile widely in amazement as she stared up at it from where we stood. "Which one is this?" she asked, taking in its sleek angles, custom white under the car lights, and refined jet black exterior. "I know a lil bit about cars, but not too much."

"Supra MK5." I helped her inside, closing the door gently behind her before entering on the driver's side and settling into the soft leather seat. "Don't let the Toyota brand fool you; these cars can really move when you need them to."

I pressed the ignition button and watched as Beyoncé's eyes lit up as the engine roared to life. With a grin on my face, we eased into traffic. As we made our way onto the 10 East, I let Beyoncé control the music as we continued to engage in easy conversation about our day.

Her hand rested on my thigh as we cruised towards our destination; the feeling of her fingertips absentmindedly grazing my skin while she leaned closer to comment on the latest song that played made it difficult for me to concentrate on the road ahead.

A short drive later, we arrived at our first stop—Yamashiro. The iconic Japanese restaurant sat high atop the hillside. Its seemingly endless alfresco seating was covered in intricate latticework, and the beautifully manicured grounds surrounding the outdoor terraces were adorned with delicate cascading water features.

The maître d' seated us at a secluded table overlooking the twinkling lights of Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles, enjoying a light feast of wagyu beef and salmon sashimi alongside a bottle of sake that the waiter insisted on picking out for us.

We laughed and joked over our meals, the reflection of city lights in her eyes as we talked about the most random topics—from my short stint of living in Japan at 15 to her sharing an embarrassing story about her and Robyn running into a professor colleague here that she accidentally matched with on Tinder.

Bellies full and spirits high, we continued our drive toward Downtown. I drove with a bit of swiftness, navigating the tight grid-like streets as the buildings blurred past us.

Small sprinkles of rain dotted the windshield, leaving trails on the glass before quickly dissipating into nothingness.

"I hope this doesn't ruin tonight," Beyoncé sighed as we waited at a stoplight, watching as the windshield wipers moved back and forth methodically. "I don't even remember it sayin' anything about rain earlier."

I shrugged my shoulders in response, casting her a sidelong glance. "You don't mind getting your hair wet?"

"Uh, yeah I do," she scoffed. "I spent hours on this and I ain't tryna go in the club with wet hair. Where are we goin' actually?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

I placed my hand on the back of hers near the gearbox and maneuvered the car as the light turned green. She didn't protest further, seemingly content with whatever awaited her. The light downpour picked up a bit as we inched closer to our destination, its steady rhythm drumming a steady beat against the roof of the car.

Pulling up to the entrance of the venue, I hopped out of the car and with the help of the valet crew, I rushed to help Beyoncé out of her seat and under cover of the nearby awning before we could get wet.

The club's entrance was marked by a pair of large, weathered wooden doors that opened to a world pulsating with the rhythms of yesteryear. The skepticism on Beyoncé's face quickly faded as we were welcomed by a pair of friendly doormen who smiled knowingly at us and allowed us entrance once I exchanged brief greetings with them.

As we dove inside, the rhythmic thump of bass greeted us, vibrating through the floor and into our bones.

Paradise.

A blue hue cast its spell over the entire club, bathing dancers and onlookers alike in an otherworldly glow that seemed to transform the space into a time capsule of dancehall, soca, and Afrobeats history.

The air was thick with the scent of sweet perfumes and the musky undertones of cologne, mingling with a faint hint of fog machine mist that hung very low over the dance floor. The energy was electric, and the crowd was a vibrant tapestry of people swaying and grinding to the music, their movements fluid and uninhibited.

Bodies moved in sync, as if the rhythm of the tracks spun by the DJ commanded their every motion.

As we made our way through the club, my body naturally grooved to the beat. We passed by groups of friends laughing and cheering, couples locked in intimate embraces, and solo dancers who commanded the space around them with their fierce, expressive moves.

Even in the light, I caught glimpses of recognition in the eyes of some clubgoers. Their stares lingered just a moment too long, their whispers barely audible over the music as they pointed in my direction. I was no stranger to the attention, but tonight was about letting go, not about being Aaliyah the celebrity.

We reached the bar, and the bartender gave a nod of recognition. "Aye Liyah! Shit, the people have missed you around here."

"Hey," I greeted him warmly, leaning onto the countertop with one arm. "Been busy working on some new stuff, but you know I can't stay away from this place for too long. How's everyone been doing?"

"We're all good, just miss you behind the turntables whenever you decide to come through. You know you got fans here that literally come every weekend hoping to see you."

"I'll try to make some time soon."

"I'm holding you to that," he replied before turning his attention to Beyoncé. "Who's the lovely lady you got here?"

"This is Beyoncé. Bey, this is Tyree. He was one of my deejays in training."

"But I bartend too to make some extra dough. They call me Drama now."

"Probably because you cause all the fights and breakups around here with your unsolicited opinions."

"Don't mind this one. She's just mad I tell it like it is," Tyree joked. "Nice to meet you, beautiful," he grinned as he shook Beyoncé's hand before whispering in my ear. "Damn, Liyah, you goin' through 'em like water."

I dismissed him with a nervous chuckle and a hard hand pat near his chest. "What you serving tonight?"

"Advice and compliments for free," Tyree replied smoothly, calling out an order to his colleague tending another section of the bar before placing an empty glass in front of me. "But on the real though, tonight's special is tequila on the rocks with some grenadine and lime juice."

"Would you like one? It sounds pretty good." I asked Beyoncé as he slid me a glass of ice water. She hesitated for a moment before giving me a shrug.

"That sake from dinner was pretty strong; there's only so much one person can drink all by themselves," she laughed softly. "I'll hold off for now, but I'll take a water, too."

"Alright, but let me know if you change your mind." Tyree grinned as he rushed off to fill her request.

Turning back to me, she asked, "Not a fan of tequila? Or no drinkin' since you're drivin', of course."

I took a sip of my water and shook my head, shrugging lightly. "I'm actually not much of a drinker, period. Gave it up a few months ago," I admitted with a hint of shyness in my voice as I took a sip of my water. "Just never really liked how it made me feel."

"Ah...not even on special occasions or anythin'?"

"Nope." I took another sip. "It just doesn't sit right with me. I don't feel like myself when I'm under the influence. Well, except for when I smoke weed."

Beyoncé's eyes briefly lost their luster as she absorbed my words. A pause hung in the air, her fingers ceasing their rhythmic dance against the countertop as her hand stilled. The crease in her brow deepened, a silent echo of internal conflict, before she smoothed her expression into a carefully neutral mask.

"Yeah, I've seen what alcohol does to people who can't control themselves...and their vices." Her voice came with a gentle sincerity, perhaps quieter than before, as she diverted her gaze momentarily, betraying an inward reflection. As she looked back up, her smile returned, albeit with a touch of restraint. "It takes a lotta strength to know what's best for you and stick to it."

I cleared my throat and sought to alleviate her worries with a smile. "You don't have to feel uncomfortable on my behalf if you do wanna drink though, really. It's not like I'll be offended or anything."

She laughed nervously, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she grabbed her glass from Tyree's outstretched hand. I gave his expectant hand a high five and chuckled as he kissed his teeth in response, moving off to attend to other customers. "No, I totally get it. I'm not a heavy drinker myself, honestly. I usually just have a glass of wine or a single shot when I go out with friends or somethin' and call it a night. Just means I have to be the one to take care of the gigglejuiced when they decide to have too much fun at the club. Or brunch."

"Gigglejuiced? Is that even a word?"

"If it ain't, then I'mma make it one." Beyoncé laughed as she raised her glass to clink against mine and took a sip of her water. After a few moments of catching up with Tyree, taking pictures, and shooting the shit with a few other friends that briefly spent some time at the bar, she eyed me, tilting her head in amusement. "You never said how you ended up at this club."

"I came here almost every week for two years," I said. "I used to deejay a few times a month for fun, but things kinda got in the way when I got busier with my other projects. I'm actually glad I'm not behind the booth tonight though. Gives me time to enjoy the music with you...plus more."

Beyoncé looked around at the clubgoers dancing and having fun with a small smile on her face before edging closer to me. "Are you tryna show me a good time tonight?"

"You have no idea," I murmured in response, eyes cast down at her hand that traveled up my chest, lightly brushing against the fabric of my shirt. She leaned in for a kiss, but I moved away teasingly, relishing in her flustered reaction. "All in good time, though, Bey."

She crossed her arms across her chest in mock indignation, eyebrows raised challengingly as she quirked her mouth to the side. "You playin' games now?"

"Never," I insisted. "Just testing your patience, sweetheart."

Beyoncé rolled her eyes and chuckled as she picked up her water to take another sip, seemingly contemplating her next move. She placed her now empty glass back down on the counter and tugged at my jacket, motioning towards the dance floor. "Come on, I wanna dance."

I responded with a chuckle, quickly throwing Tyree a signal to collect some cash as a tip for his charitable service from my wallet, and I rounded the counter to join Beyoncé, who was already striding away.

I followed her to an empty space near the center of the dance floor and couldn't help but admire the way she swayed her hips as she walked—the subtle shift of her posture transforming her confidence into sensuality, exuding a magnetism that drew eyes towards her and made others wish they could be the objects of her attention. She looked back at me with a devilish smirk, seeming to revel in the effect she had on me, and continued on her path.

Reaching our destination, she turned on her heel and grabbed my arm, pulling me closer as she began to move in time with the music. "No Letting Go" by Wayne Wonder boomed through the speakers, its familiar riddim sending a flood of memories rushing through my brain as I was transported back to the last time I stood on this very dance floor.

I allowed Beyoncé to take the lead, moving effortlessly to the music as I watched her whine and groove to the beat, her body flowing with a hypnotic rhythm that commanded my senses.

Her movements were seductive, full of innuendo and implications that left me entranced—the way her hands brushed up against her body as if caressing her curves, the fluid rolling of her hips, and her heated gaze that was trained on me from head to toe once she spun around. She drew me into her orbit, beckoning me with a crook of her finger to further close the distance between us.

Her skin was transformed under the azure glow, becoming a canvas bathed in the cool kiss of a moonlit lagoon, the blue tones whispering secrets of midnight serenades. Her eyes, twin pools of mischief, waltzed with the light, sparkling with the same vivacity as stars pirouetting in a velvet sky.

As she drew my hands to the small of her back, it felt as if I were being invited to become the artist of this living sculpture, the curves of her waist the delicate arches of a Baroque masterpiece.

We moved together, bodies pressing closely as we rocked back and forth, ebbing and flowing with the tempo of the beat. Our foreheads touched and our breathing grew labored as we shared the same air; our lips ghosted over each other, a hairbreadth apart but not quite connecting.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl.

As she spun, her silhouette melded with mine, her back a gentle pressure against my chest. We synchronized, heartbeat to heartbeat, our dance spinning a narrative in the dialect of instinct and intuition. Like intertwined ivy, her head found sanctuary in the nook of my neck, our movements a choreography of silhouettes in the night's embrace.

The air around us was crackled with an electric current, buzzing and snapping to the rhythm of our shared pulse. With each undulation of her hips, a wave of kinetic poetry, I was her shadow's echo, our forms conversing in the silent language of longing.

Love and lust collided in an intoxicating mixture as we continued to grind, the growing warmth in my core a direct correlation to the heat radiating from her body and permeating my senses.

I had half a mind to whisk her away into one of the secluded rooms in the back of the club where we could truly get lost in the moment—my imagination running wild with the thought of what I would do to her as I felt the moisture that began to seep through my panties and dampen my inner thighs.

We danced like that for a few more songs before the next song faded into another. Her lips found the shell of my ear. Her words were breathy, a soft whisper meant for my ears only.

She broke my restraint.

"Je crois que vous devriez...me ramener à la maison maintenant..."

✮✮✮

Each drop trickled down like an ice cold spring.

Thunder growled, a primal call that shook the heavens. Rain lashed the windows, furious in its descent, a curtain of liquid fury. And there we stood, in the eye of the storm, wrapped in a cocoon of steam and pulsing heat.

The timing and atmosphere had never been so perfect before—chill Afrobeats melodies vibrating throughout the house in a steady thump of bass and rhythmic percussion, a single boot lay forgotten on the bathroom tile, a tube top draped over the door handle—all melting away into the background, existing only in a peripheral awareness.

My back was flush against the cool marble wall; my leg was wrapped around her calves. Time seemed to lose all meaning, seconds stretched into hours, each gasp and moan eliciting another wave of pleasure that cascaded over us.

Suspended in limbo.

The water's heat was akin to the heat we had generated between us, a tangible reminder of the fervor that had driven us into each other's arms on the dance floor moments before.

The shower's mist rose around us, a veil that shrouded us from the world, as if the steam itself was a creature of our making, born from the dance, the rain, and now, our union.

A single droplet. It drew my attention, a lone wanderer upon her skin.

From its perch, it began a torpid descent. Over the rise and fall of her breathing chest, it traced a path. The droplet, a glistening bead, lingered on the precipice of her nipple—a moment's pause in its journey.

Gravity beckoned.

It slipped. A plunge toward the unknown. I was spellbound.

Gone. The droplet surrendered to the whirlpool, a tiny sacrifice to the voracious drain. The rush of water was a hushed intonation.

Below, the stream became a cascade, a speeding current eager to merge with the vastness. It was the performance of the natural world, mesmerizing, comforting in its predictability.

We touched each other without the intention to clean. Her skin was soft and foamy beneath my fingertips, but her breaths were soft pants echoing in my ears that betrayed the greed in her eyes as she stroked my waist.

I whispered her pet name into the shower spray and let it cascade like a song into the space between us. Her response was an enraptured sigh that flowed into the open cavern of my mouth as she crushed our lips together again, tongue-delving past parted lips as she languidly tasted me.

As our tongues tangled and explored each other's mouths, matted strands of hair clung to our faces—mine a sea of black that fell upon my shoulder blades and hers a long shroud of honey and caramel that dripped from her face and down her back in rivulets of liquid gold.

Her nails raked against my sides, her touch grazing fire upon my skin. I groaned into her mouth, the pain morphing into pleasure that traveled down my spine and settled at the base of my sex.

One hand twisted and pulled at my hair, forcing my head back in submission as she dipped lower, claiming my neck in a flurry of bites and kisses.

My moan was nothing short of obscene and drowned by the waterfall from above as my hands traveled downwards, seeking purchase on her plush behind in an effort to steady myself from her other hand that was now kneading my breast. The sharp pangs of pain and the tingle that lingered after each bite caused my head to swim with arousal and a lustful haze that blinded me to all else but her.

Soft sucking, licking, and nibbling. I'd been so intent on giving my all to her, I had almost forgotten the joys of receiving.

I was hers to submit to.

When she pulled away, her eyes were ravenous—the depth of their color darkened into a swirling pool of desire that I yearned to drown in.

She swiftly reached over to switch off the shower head and pulled me out of the stall, barely giving me a chance to reach for my towel before taking me by the hand and leading me to my bedroom.

Wet footprints trailed behind us, leaving puddles that glowed under the blue lights of the bedroom and glistened under the faint moonlight that peeked through the window shades. A flash of lightning illuminated the space for a split second before it was extinguished by the rumble of thunder that bellowed in its wake.

Tiny laugh lines framed our mouths as we lotioned each other's bodies in a tender and unhurried fashion, savoring the gentle caresses and intimate exchanges between our eyes.

Neither of us had uttered much since we entered the shower, but our wordless communion seemed to have opened up a new line of communication between us. We were alone together, yet our consciousness had grown, connected, and merged into one, as if we were one person experiencing a singular existence.

"My patience is wearin' thin," Beyoncé mumbled at last as she threw her arms around my neck, pressing her bare body against mine before leaning in to give me a sweet, lazy kisses on my jawline. "I'm startin' to think you're tryna make me wait until mornin'—"

I shook my head at her remark, tossing the bottle of lotion back onto my nightstand with a loud clunk. "Lie down."

Beyoncé narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me but relented as she crawled onto the bed and laid on her back with her elbows propping her up, waiting expectantly for me to join her.

"Flip over."

Her eyes widened at the command as I stared at her firmly. I bit back a smile when she cocked her head towards the headboard before flipping onto her stomach with a cheeky grin on her face.

Her head lay on its side against the pillow, lips upturned and arms outstretched, as she silently challenged me with a view of the deepest arch of her back that had me clenching my thighs involuntarily. "Is this what you want?" she asked softly as she wiggled her hips invitingly, giggling at the strained whimper that escaped my throat.

I waited until her giggles subsided before sliding over towards the walk-in closet to retrieve a brand new surprise. When I returned with it secured around my waist, Beyoncé had stretched out leisurely against the sheets, her limbs splayed haphazardly across the mattress as she relaxed her body.

She seemed unbothered by my silence, focusing on tracing random shapes across the comforter with her index finger until she noticed me staring at her.

Her eyes danced in excitement before averting her gaze bashfully. "Is that—"

"Like I said earlier...patience is a virtue."

I'd let her have her way with me another time. Tonight was still my turn.

Grabbing my hands and pulling me onto the bed, Beyoncé's gaze seemed to brighten in realization as I slipped into my role. I pinned her arms above her head as she squealed in delight, pausing a moment to indulge myself in the sight of her lying pliantly underneath me and stealing a kiss. Suddenly, she flipped me onto my back and straddled my lap.

Her hair curtained around us as she bent down to lock her lips with mine, our bodies moving in tandem as if possessed by an invisible force that directed our every motion.

Tongues swirled and dueled for dominance as she pressed herself flush against me—breasts caressing mine, abdomen and hips grinding against my pelvis as her mouth sought out every inch of skin and created a path of wet heat as it traced its way from my mouth to my neck and down my torso.

She dipped lower, settling herself between my legs. The look of concentration on her face as she raised the dildo to her mouth to place a gentle kiss along its length was almost comedic, had it not been for the sudden surge of lechery that overcame me at the sight.

I willed myself to hold still as she peppered it with small kisses, dragging her tongue along its shaft agonizingly slow as if she wanted to remember the exact flavor of the taste in her mouth for future reference.

Without breaking eye contact, she began to slowly suck on the head, gingerly guiding the tip into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it as she sank lower and lower until I witnessed her swallow around my entire length. She maintained a steady rhythm, hollowing her cheeks as she bobbed up and down, her hand pumping at its base to make sure no inch of it was neglected.

I'd never witnessed such confidence and provocative display of seduction from her before tonight. The change in demeanor was surprising, but I was wholly turned on by it and couldn't deny the thrill that ran down my spine as her eyes never once strayed from mine. I ran my fingers through her hair, noting the phantom sensation of a tight wetness around me as I held her head in place and fucked her mouth gently.

A thin string of saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth as she released the silicone with a pop and crawled up to hover over me. Her smile was demure, almost innocent, as she slowly guided my length inside herself, her lips parting in a gasp as she took in every inch of it.

My breath hitched when she bottomed out and adjusted to its girth. The sounds she made as she rode were the sweetest music in my ears.

I couldn't get enough of watching the play of emotions across her face as she pleasured herself—from the slight crinkle between her eyebrows when my hands reached back to smack at her ass and knead its generous swell to the way she bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes when she rolled her hips in small circles once she finally found the rhythm that fit her needs.

"Bey," I moaned out weakly. I was lost in the moment and couldn't escape it even if I tried—each roll of her hips sent shocks of pleasure coursing through me, fueling an aching need to fuck her senseless and hear her scream my name until she could no longer remember her own.

The thunder roared, its resonant force reverberating through the walls, heralding a fresh deluge that assaulted the windows with relentless fervor. Empowered by the storm's commanding presence, I gathered the resolve to alter our position. With a decisive motion, I briskly guided her back across the bed's expanse, reengaging with a fervency that elicited from her a sharp gasp of astonishment.

It gave way to a culmination of deep, resonant moans that harmonized with each of my impassioned groans.

I doubled over her, fingers gripping onto her waist for leverage as I picked up the pace of my thrusts.

Her face was contorted into one of pure ecstasy, her eyelids fluttering shut as her breaths came in rapid succession, loud whimpers and whines punctuated by the creaking of the bed frame in time with the relentless pounding.

One hand reached for her breast as she toyed with its erect nipple, teasing it as she pinched and pulled it to further increase the intensity of her arousal. The other was buried deep in her center, circling furiously in time with my thrusts.

My last threads of resolve began to fray as I watched her arch her back, desperate for the release that I had denied her. "Hold on for me, baby."

"Liyah," she breathed out, her eyelashes damp with unshed tears. "Fuck, I—I can't—I'm gonna—"

"Uh-uh, stay with me..." I slowed down to ease her building tension and leaned in to kiss her, wrapping her arms and legs around my back to keep her grounded as I continued to ease in and out of her slowly. "I got you."

She nodded in response, breathing in deeply as she fought to control her peak, her trembling limbs anchored by my strong embrace.

I kissed away a lone tear that streamed down her cheek, murmuring words of encouragement in her ear as I set a gentler pace that allowed us to build back up to our former pace. "You're doing so well, baby...shit," I moaned into her ear. The friction from the strap-on stimulated my own center, and I could feel my own high approaching at an alarming rate as our bodies continued to collide in an unstoppable rhythm. "So...fucking good..."

The burning sensation of her claws that dug into my back as she clung on to me for dear life.

The pull of my hair.

The sweet sting of her teeth nipping at my shoulder.

All were signs that told me she was almost there.

I needed more of it like the air I breathed.

"Jouir avec moi, bébé—" she managed to gasp out before we both fell in. The storm outside crescendoed, as if in competition with the roars of ecstasy that poured from our throats as we reached our climax, crashing over us like waves during a typhoon. Every atom was submerged in blinding white light, consumed by an intensity that wiped us clean of all thought or memory.

The winds howled a violent song in the dark as we continued to move against each other, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until all that remained was the sound of our labored breathing, the surround sound of music, and the steady drum of rain against the glass panes.

My forehead was pressed against hers as I tried to catch my breath. She seemed too lost in her thoughts to speak, still trying to recover from the intensity of what had just transpired.

After a moment, I attempted to move to lift myself off her before she reached up to hold my face in her hands. Her eyes were tender, glistening with a hint of emotion that I couldn't quite put a finger on in time as she closed the distance between us to plant a shy, lingering kiss on my lips.

It was different this time. The kiss was softer, sweeter...more delicate than any kiss I had ever received in my life. It wasn't the first time our lips had met tonight, nor was it a novel experience in the grand tapestry of our nights together, but as her lips gently pressed against mine, a tremor of something profound rippled through me for the first time ever.

In the pit of my stomach, butterflies erupted into a frenzied dance, the kind you read about in worn-out pages of romance novels, but never truly understand until it happens to you.

The depth of what lay beyond those lips and what it meant for us was something I feared.

This kiss—it was the kind that told stories of tomorrows and whispered promises that life had taught me to distrust. I felt the bed beneath me shift, a seismic tremor that threatened to upheave everything I had so meticulously structured—a concrete structure that had been etching away since the night on the Ferris wheel—and send my world plummeting into chaos.

All at the hands of the woman who had somehow made her way into my heart.

I felt more naked than I had ever felt before in the presence of another person.

Her eyes searched mine, and in them, I finally registered something that looked like understanding, like she could see the map of my fears and the scars they had left behind. And yet, she did not turn away. She did not use them to navigate away from me like many others but instead chose to chart a course closer to waters I had rarely let anyone sail before. Something in me wanted to hold on to that anchor.

I could no longer deny what had been threatening to take over for so long.

I was falling in love.

And I wondered if perhaps the thing worth fearing more was never allowing myself to experience the terrifying joys that came with loving and being loved in return.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Climax" by Slum Village

(a/n: long chapter)

Beyoncé

"Noooo, BB! You wan give her hypertension? Add another egg 'fore you ruin the whole ting."

Burnt toast.

Hot oil popping like a string of firecrackers.

Oddly shaped pancakes.

The start of a hearty, wholesome breakfast.

A person only has one first impression, my mother told me, so I had to make it count. I already assumed she had an entire checklist in her head of how she expected me to present myself for my potential future husband and his in-laws—no room for error, not a hair out of place, and with a personality so alluring that I was guaranteed a perfect match within a year.

I hadn't the slightest clue what a future husband would look like. Who my perfect match could be.

Would he have a dragon tattoo on his face, or maybe a purple Mohawk? Perhaps he'd be a reclusive tech billionaire and would propose on the back of a flying hovercraft?

Who knew. But with any possible choice, Mama would've had her way anyway; I wouldn't put it past her to conduct a background check and draft a four-year plan to ensure our union.

My parents had set a precedent for me, marrying one another on the week after they graduated from Fisk. If Mama's visions of grandeur for my future husband were anything like hers for me, then she had no intention of finding someone who would bring my joy, let alone love. It would be about pomp and circumstance and social standing. That was her fate.

A good girl doesn't question fate, and I would definitely not be breaking that trend.

But fate, as it turns out, is a twisted playwright, scripting scenes that defy our neatly laid plans. I learned that the hard way, at the debutante ball—a night that was supposed to be the apex of grace and new beginnings.

-----

The music and laughter of the ball seemed to echo faintly in the back of my mind. I could still feel the heavy silk of my gown, the bounciness of my pressed hair after it was taken down from its roller curls, the tightness of the curls that were then pinned up, and the way my smile had to be stitched as permanently as the pearls around my neck.

Lyndall was there, the boy who had been seamlessly woven into the fabric of my life by threads I hadn't seen being spun.

His parents had taken a liking to me from the moment I'd stepped inside their home for the first time with a basket of soft, melt-in-your-mouth muffins and my AP Physics textbook in hand. Tutoring sessions turned into family dinners. Family dinners turned into homecoming and prom. And prom was the equivalent of a royal proclamation in Mama's eyes. She couldn't have been prouder of her little girl who was following in her footsteps.

I'd gone as far as to patch up many of the holes in his lacrosse team uniform, the careful stitches matching the way that his friendship had slowly covered over all the doubts that plagued me about where I fit in. It was a small gesture, a moment really, but it was genuine—and it seemed to speak volumes to them about my character.

To them, I was the picture of the perfect future daughter-in-law—everything Lyndall needed. By the time the debutante ball arrived, we were the pair everyone had their eyes on. We had been pushed gently down a stream by our parents' silent paddles, and we floated on, believing it was the current that carried us.

That night, after our dance—a performance that elicited applause and admiring glances—I found myself needing a moment to breathe, a second away from the spotlight. He fondled with the clasp of his watch, as if the gears ticking inside were more interesting than I was. A flash of diamond light reflected off the side of his face and straight into my eyes, momentarily blinding me.

Blinged out from head to toe, he looked like a real-life prince with the countenance of a monarch. I'd reached over and touched his wrist, prompting him to ask me if I liked it, the Rolex Datejust. His voice was solemn and expectant.

"I do." I didn't. I hated the thing, loathed its existence. I was a far cry from being in a place to buy something so ridiculous.

He paused a beat. "I could get you one. Whatever color you want. Dad has a friend who's a jeweler."

"You don't have to."

"Well, I want to. It'll match your necklace." He laughed nervously and attempted to lightly kiss my cheek.

I smiled, but my heart wasn't in it. Something was wrong about that kiss. About many of his kisses after Winter Break and the "I love you"s that followed. He felt cold, somehow. Like a plastic mannequin.

"Aren't you gonna go hang with your boys?" I asked, trying to put some distance between us.

Lyndall looked over his shoulder, glancing around the room. "Nah," he said. "Right now, I just wanna be with you." He pulled me closer, pressing his hands into the small of my back. The firm squeeze on my behind felt more like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence rather than the gesture of a lover. "I got us a room. I'm thinking we can slip out early, head over there, and—"

"I told you already, Lyndall. That's not gonna happen until you put a ring on it. Now, don't make me repeat myself again."

"It's not a big deal. Everyone's plannin' on doin' it tonight."

"Do I look like 'everyone'? 'Cause I don't think so."

"Nah, you definitely stand out. But you know, I was just thinkin'..." He shrugged his shoulders and left the rest of the words to linger.

"Thinkin' what?" I asked, though I knew where this was headed.

"We've been together for years. No need to keep waitin' around. Hell, I already know what that ass look like just based on them track shorts you be wearin'. Why you wanna wait?"

"Lyndall, you can't be serious."

"It'll be good, Bey. Trust me." He whispered in my ear.

"Stop it, a'ight." I said. "I'm not fuckin' playin'."

He licked his lips and kept staring at my body as if he were imagining me naked before scoffing and shaking his head. "Fuck man..."

"What? What now?"

"This shit ain't even worth it anymore. You stay trippin'."

"Me? Trippin'? No, Lyndall. That's you. You disrespectful and a damn fool."

"It ain't like you gon' find someone else to do you like I would. But, then again, I heard you already tried and struck out. All in one night, huh? Guess I should've seen that comin'."

"Huh? What are you talkin' about?"

"Huh? You heard me. I knew I shoulda listened to Kamari. Girl had the nerve to tell me she heard someone seen you out with a grip of niggas after the meet. All touchy and shit, she said. Somethin' like 'bout you lettin' them put their hands in places that only I'm supposed to see at the back of the bus. And there I was, thinkin' you were too innocent for that kind of stunt."

My blood ran cold.

"I never did anythin' like that! Why would she fuckin' lie on me? And why would you believe some bullshit like that?"

"She ain't never lied. Every secert she been told has come out to be true. But if I'm bein' honest with you, only reason why I stayed was so I could get a lil piece of that cake, too. I'm not even too mad at you, I got my own hoes too, girl, but I thought, why not settle down with somethin' nice eventually? Ain't nobody else in school who's as big of a simp and naive of a girl as you. Woulda kept you around to warm my bed, cook for me, and that's it. Maybe have some kids."

I pushed him away. "So, I was nothin' more than some property to you? Lyndall, I've been nothin' but faithful and carin' towards you all these years! How could you say these things about me?"

"I could care less. And I'm not 'bout to still sit here and beg for no pussy. I'd have more luck findin' a bitch who ain't this uptight. Be less stress." He backed away and then winked.

There was a bite to the air, a chill that poked through the sweat lining my palms that seeped through my white gloves once he vanished back into the crowd. I couldn't stay in that ballroom. I had to leave—run as far away as possible from everyone and everything.

Lori approached me as I attempted to make my way across the dance floor, her hair pinned up and the gossamer fabric of her white gown fluttering around her as she walked.

"Hey, Bey, where's Lyndall?"

"In the restroom. I was just headed outside to get some air," I said, trying to give her the widest smile I could muster.

She peeked over at the dance floor and then back at me. "Let me come with you. It's stuffy in here, anyway. We can get some fresh air together."

"Lori...I think I need a minute alone."

"What do you mean? Did Lyndall say somethin' to you?" She gave me a quizzical look and gently placed her hand on my arm. "Beyoncé, what did he do?"

"Nothin'," I lied, with a wave of my hand. "I'll be back in a second."

"Wait—"

I rushed off before she could finish, not bothering to stop to talk to anyone else. When I burst out of the grand ballroom and onto the massive balcony, the music of the band faded away, and so did the crowd. It was quiet except for the murmur of the cars on the road below and the late-spring breeze rustling through the trees. The fountain's gushing sounds did little to drown out my thoughts, no matter how long I stared at the flowing water.

I ran my hand across the marble edge as I sat down on the fountain's border and tried to will my emotions to settle down.

Nothing seemed to be working.

My lungs felt as though they were full of lead, and my chest felt heavy and tight. The stars became too bright, and the water became too loud, and every inch of my body wanted to crawl out of my skin.

Tears started to form at the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. I tried to fight it, but soon, the hospital's sterile smell began to creep up the back of my nostrils, and I could see the passing doctors and nurses like shadow figures. Their mouths opened and closed in time to the beep of the heart rate monitor.

But the loudest sound of all was the silence from him—and the murmurs from random students I'd never met, whose stares could cut me in two. It was the taste of their judgment and pity, thick and bitter as sludge; they knew about our breakup and what resulted after it before I could even bring myself to say it or even introduce myself. Not even my friends could pull me out of it.

So much for first impressions.

-----

"Y'all don't know how much I wish y'all could be here to do this for me." The oversized t-shirt I wore billowed around me like a cape of borrowed normality as I paced the floor in the house. My phone was leveraged by an opened sack of flour that dusted Aaliyah's marble kitchen island.

On the other end of the line, the girls lounged under a heap of blankets on Robyn's bed, the sleepover dwindling to just the two of them as the others had trickled out with the morning's advance—it was 9:04 am when my call came through.

The hoarseness lacing my voice and the unforeseen appearance of my hair in its natural 3C state—now pulled back in a low bun—piqued their curiosity with enough conviction to fully wake them, and before long, I was unraveling the tale of the intense, impassioned night I had just experienced.

As my story unfolded, Kelly's expression transformed into one of utter shock and astonishment, her mouth agape, while a knowing grin spread across Robyn's face, both reactions amplifying with each new revelation of my nocturnal escapade.

Underneath the sheets on the bedroom floor.

Bent over the couch inside the conversation pit.

Pressed against the refrigerator.

And for the first time ever, placed on the dining room table. Complete with my name spelled out in my release as she consumed me from behind like the Last Supper.

Plus more.

"You are on the other side of town, the roads are wet, and I am not about to risk hydroplanin'." Robyn dismissed my rhetorical request to come and assist with a yawn. "Nothin' else tuh do but give it a try on your own, 'cause girl, I am not leavin' dis bed before noon."

"What's that heart-shaped thing in the background?" Kelly chimed in, squinting as she peered at the screen. I stopped my pacing, following her pointed finger as it directed me to look behind me. The contraption rested next to a clear jar of marijuana on the adjacent countertop.

"That's a bong."

"Oh, you smokin' now?" Robyn's voice bounced between disbelief and amusement. "What kinda strain is in the container? It looks like Blue Dream or Northern Lights. Or probably something else that's expensive as fuck. Does it have a name?"

"Damn, are you like a weed connoisseur?" Kelly joked, resting her head on Robyn's shoulder. "How the hell can you tell the difference from where we're lying? It's all green to me."

"It's called..." I tried my best to read the handwriting in silver ink on the glass label, my face contorting into a linguistic puzzle. "It's not even in English. Smells like some kinda...chocolate."

"It's called Thai-tanic."

My head swiveled to the side just as a bleary-eyed Aaliyah entered the room, sporting just a cotton thong underwear and a cropped Brazilian soccer jersey of her favorite player's name and number—one of the many items she'd gotten from her trip to São Paulo for Lollapalooza last summer.

Her tousled mane flowed over her shoulders, and she stretched her arms above her head before grabbing a hair tie from a nearby table and pulling her thick strands into a ponytail.

She paced towards my back to wrap her arms around my waist, placing her chin on my shoulder, and grazing my neck and cheek with a lazy kiss.

"Morning, ladies."

They replied with a chorus of morning greetings and stifled giggles. I nodded at Aaliyah's question about cooking breakfast, a small grimace finding its way onto my face as I surveyed the kitchen.

"Seems like the rain's gotten everybody trapped inside," she commented, waving at them while leaning forward to peer at my phone. "I thought it would've stopped by now. Hopefully none of your plans were ruined today."

"Uh-uh. Don't act all innocent on us. Trying to start a casual convo when we all know what you had going on in this very kitchen last night." Robyn smirked. "First of all, you strong as fuck. Second, y'all nasty."

Beside her, Kelly's quickly grabbed a fluffy Kirby pillow, pressing it to her face to muffle her giggles, only her eyes visible above the plush, crinkling with amusement.

Aaliyah pulled away from me with a seductive smirk before hoisting herself onto the countertop, her legs swinging to and fro in an innocent cadence. She ran a fingernail absentmindedly along the slightly raised, rouge-hued line that adorned her collarbone, her laughter soft and conspiratorial.

Feigning exasperation, I placed a hand on my hip, the other gesturing towards the chaos of breakfast preparations scattered across the countertop. "Listen, are y'all gon' judge me or help me out?" I challenged, my tone light but pointed, eager to steer the conversation away.

Aaliyah's voice floated over from behind me, nonchalant and practical. "I can have my brother get us something on his way here. He's coming by with my dogs anyway."

Turning off the stove, I moved closer to her, my voice dropping to a tender murmur. "Oh...but I wanted to do this for you...try and make up for last night, and I would hate to waste all of this food."

"The only thing you need to make up for is the fact that I woke up alone in that bed," she whispered, biting her lip as her eyes traveled from mine down to my lips. "I really do appreciate the gesture, but I don't want you stressing yourself out, honey. Breakfast, lunch, dinner...dessert. The food'll always be here. There'll be plenty of time for you to show me your skills in the kitchen."

My eyes flitted between her enticing gaze and the abandoned ingredients, indecision flickering within me.

"Besides..." She reached out, her thumb and forefinger gently cradling my chin to face her as she spoke with a velvety purr. "...most days, I prefer to have my breakfast in bed."

Her words washed over me, drawing a soft chuckle from my lips as she dotted my cheek with light, teasing kisses. I allowed myself to be momentarily distracted, turning my attention away from the lively chatter still spilling from my phone. Instead, I focused on the featherlike strokes of her fingers as they traced a path along the curve of my lower back, the intimacy of her touch ushering me forward into her open legs.

Still slightly adrift in the remnants of sleep, she appeared serene, her unfocused eyelids fluttering at a slow pace. Yet the playful tilt of her smile and the deliberate movements of her hand suggested a wakefulness that promised more than just morning lethargy.

"Y'all are too cute; I can't even," Kelly teased. "You think she talks Bey through it, Rob?"

"Okay, and with that, I'm hangin' up." I turned away from Aaliyah's embrace just as her fingers started to entertain themselves with the hem of my shirt. "I'mma text y'all heifas later."

The girls protested against the sudden severance of our conversation, their goodbyes rife with jokes and giggles as I ended the call and set the phone down on the countertop. The kitchen fell silent as the only other occupant in the room returned her attention to me.

My hands rested lightly on her bare thighs as she resumed, her fingers finding their way underneath my shirt. I drew close until our foreheads touched, the proximity of her lips just out of reach. Her palm lingered on my sides, eventually settling on the contour of my waist.

"This is one of my favorite shirts." She trailed her other index finger along the block-printed illustration on the front.

"What about it do you like?"

"I got it in Oaxaca, in Mexico. Kidada's got this thing for natural dyes and fibers. We were out there last Spring and there's this amazing place there where they make the best linen and cotton pieces—it's all handmade, every stitch. And not even with a machine. By hand. I just love the imperfections—the little kinks and quirks of it. Like how it has its own personality." Her fingers interlocked with mine. "The artist who makes these shirts is super talented, but so humble. You wouldn't even guess the kind of impact he's had on design unless you did the research or asked him yourself, and yet he's still just this cheery person. At times, though, he'd talk your ear off about his work but never be arrogant about it. Just happy that it inspires others. That's why I love it. And of course, I love that it's on you." Aaliyah's other hand smoothed down my waist to cup the curve of my backside, her long fingernails slightly dragging against my skin as she did so. "No panties?"

My arms glided upwards to loop around her neck, an amused smile playing on my lips. "Well, someone ripped them off me last night, and I couldn't find them when I woke up."

"Is that right?"

"Mhm." I brushed her nose with mine before tilting my head to capture her lips in a soft kiss. My palm slipped from her shoulder to settle on her chest, teasing her through the fabric before slipping inside and cupping a breast in my hand.

"Mmm." She moaned into my mouth, her hips shifting forward on the countertop as my fingers attended to her nipple. Her gentle pats on my ass transformed into a full-handed grab that prompted me to break the kiss with a low sigh. "Minty, like mine."

"I hope you don't mind that I went through your things to look for a spare toothbrush," I whispered, bringing my other hand up to the other twin. "You looked like you were in deep sleep, so I didn't wanna wake you."

"Of course not." She answered, her words slightly breathless from the tender touch of my palms against her heated skin. "Mi casa es tu casa, and...all that."

"Mi casa es tu casa?" I teased. "Your Spanish is cute."

"Gracias," Aaliyah smirked. "But, actually...mmm...actually, I would love for you to teach me a thing or two about French. I didn't understand a lick of what you were saying last night, but I was...I was definitely vibing with the tone of it. Do you speak it often?"

"Not much since high school, and I used it here and there while living abroad. My mom's side strongly insisted that my sister and I learn, and so we would get private lessons and speak it whenever we hung out with her side of the family," I explained, pressing a series of kisses along the column of her throat before brushing my lips against the shell of her ear. "I'm more than willin' to give you a lesson or two. Peut-être même une démonstration plus pratique et concrète. Laissez-vous me baiser en français. Donnez-vous la chance de me faire crier votre nom dans une autre langue. Ou te faire supplier de te toucher, de te baiser, de te laisser jouir...tout ce que vous voulez."

"Fuck...," Aaliyah moaned. She blinked twice before a shy giggle escaped from her, a rosy hue filling her cheeks as she lowered my arms. "As much as I am loving the sound of whatever you just said, my brother is gonna be here any minute. So let's hold off on that real quick."

Our heated exchange simmered down, and she hopped off the countertop with a fluid grace that seemed inherent to her every movement. Taking my hand, she pivoted to her role as my guide through the heart of her sanctuary, giving me a proper tour of the house this time.

The house, much like a treehouse dream nestled in the hills of Los Feliz, felt like an extension of the natural world, with rich, wooden structures seamlessly blending with the natural light and lush greenery visible through vast glass windows. It was a celebrity home, indeed, but one that exuded warmth and approachability rather than opulence.

Her father's architectural vision had given life to the space, with sweeping lines and organic forms inspired by Pierre Paulin's elegance in the midst of mid-century modernism. Brigette Romanek's additional touch on the interiors added layers of contemporary comfort and chic, infusing the rooms with a sense of lived-in luxury.

Beyond the large glass doors, the garden stretched out like a private park. It was here that Aaliyah's dogs would frolic, their toys scattered like colorful confetti on the open field. The sight of them playing, framed by the towering trees and the backdrop of the city beyond, was a living painting that changed with the light of day.

As we ventured further into the heart of Aaliyah's home, we came across an enclave just off the main living area, a cozy nook with a conversation pit that held a well-stocked mini bar to the side.

It showcased an array of top-shelf spirits, each bottle reflecting the soft, ambient lighting of the gray skies outside. The surface was polished, the stools chic yet inviting, and it wasn't hard to imagine the intimate gatherings and quiet conversations that had taken place here.

Adjacent to the mini-bar, a sophisticated yet playful games area boasted a vintage pool table, set against a backdrop of rich woods and leathers. Large family photos and celebrated works from artists like Basquiat and Yoshitomo Nara adorned the walls, infusing the room with cultural richness.

A classic arcade machine, foosball table, and shuffleboard court offered nostalgic fun, perfect for Aaliyah and friends to enjoy casual contests. A corner featured what she described as a detailed Lego Porsche 911 sculpture, enhancing the space with its intricate craftsmanship and embodying the room's blend of artistry and amusement.

"You know what's crazy? A friend of mine started makin' a custom car sculpture just like this." I grazed a finger along the shiny car hood, admiring its intricate details.

Aaliyah's eyebrows rose as she finished pouring herself a glass of water. "Wait, for real?"

"Yeah."

"Would they happen to live in London?"

I chuckled as I imagined how small a world we lived in sometimes. "Oh my goodness, yes. I gotta call Laura later."

She led me further down a short staircase and hallway lined with gold and platinum records to a soundproofed door. She pushed it open to reveal a compact but state-of-the-art recording studio. The room was a cocoon of creativity, with a mixing desk at its heart, surrounded by various instruments and high-quality recording equipment. Guitars, keyboards, and a drum machine were all within arm's reach, ready to capture inspiration at a moment's notice. The walls were lined with acoustic panels, and a plush sofa offered a comfortable spot for listening and reflection.

Aaliyah had mentioned that she used this space for quick sessions—a place to lay down beats and experiment with new sounds without the pressure of a commercial studio. The room hummed with potential, every knob and slider on the mixing desk a promise of music yet to be made.

As we stepped out of the studio, Aaliyah flicked a switch, and soft, colorful lighting spilled across the hallway, and we meandered through, passing through a dedicated music and relaxation room, where two iconic guitars hung like relics of rock royalty—one a vibrant model from Prince as a teen, the other a sleek, black beauty recently gifted and signed by Lenny Kravitz. They were both gifts, she explained, tokens of friendship, mentorship, and respect.

The room was a haven, an ode to the power of sound and silence alike. Cushions were strewn about the floor, inviting impromptu meditation or songwriting sessions, while shelves of vinyl records, CDs, and cassette tapes lined the walls.

Books on everything from filmmaking to musical theory to history and art filled another corner, and in the center sat an amalgam of instruments and recording equipment—the creative canvas that served as a launchpad for her own creative pursuits.

And among the curated chaos of beauty and life, there stood a piece that I had created. The abstract blue canvas that Aaliyah had coaxed into being, nudging me past my doubts until the image was complete.

I never cared for the color blue.

It had always been a hue that stirred up painful memories, like a melancholic symphony playing in the depths of my soul. Blue was the color of those hazy mornings when the tears I desperately needed to shed remained trapped within me, suffocating me from the inside out. It was the color of my anxiety, seeping through my pores like a noxious smoke, filling every crevice of my being until I felt like I was drowning in a space where escape seemed impossible.

Blue was the color of death's shadow, looming over the few precious things that tethered me to this world, threatening to sever those fragile connections at any moment.

And yet, beneath my gentle strokes, something miraculous happened. The blue began to transform, bleeding into a new creation, a masterpiece born from her love and compassion. It was still blue—still heavy with the weight of the past—but began to serve as a weighted blanket of comfort, a gentle reminder of her arms wrapped around my body as she settled me in a world where my safety was more than just a fleeting wish.

A world where my blue was hers as well.

She placed her hand on my shoulder, her fingers barely touching my skin as she spoke in hushed tones.

"I told you."

With the rest of the tour completed, we headed back to her bedroom; she loaned me a pair of sweatpants as she donned a pair of lounge shorts, just as the sound of the doorbell chimed through the house.

As we retraced our steps towards the living room, she clasped my hand in hers, and the door swung open to reveal a lanky figure with a closely shaven goatee in a black hoodie and sweatpants wielding a large umbrella and food, his smile a beacon of warmth under the threshold.

He possessed the same enthralling eyes as Aaliyah—though his hazel orbs that seemed to dance with unspoken stories—but it was the trio of dogs that stole the scene. Two stalwart canines with the cutest yellow raincoats stood by his side, their noses twitching with eager interest, while a jubilant puppy bounced within the confines of a snug harness against his chest. Aaliyah exclaimed, leaving me in favor of the excitable creatures.

"Morning," he greeted with a smile.

She unclipped the small animal's harness before lifting it to the air; its ears perked up as it observed its surroundings.

"Hi, my little babies," she cooed as she giggled at the furry face before setting the dog down. "I missed you guys so much. How were they? I hope they didn't drive Shannon crazy like last time."

"Nah, but that's because she's in D.C. with Kioni for the weekend." He answered before passing it and a bag of hot food and coffee to Aaliyah. He bent down to take off the other dogs' leashes and raincoats and wipe their paws. "She sends her love, by the way."

"Is it really love, or did you make that up on her behalf?"

He kissed his teeth. "I'mma need y'all to stop with this shit." He flipped his baseball cap up as he gestured towards me with his chin. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Hi. Nice to meet you." I stepped forward to shake his hand. "I'm Beyoncé."

"Rashad. Heard a lot about you."

"All good things, I hope." I looked over my shoulder to find Aaliyah attempting to prevent the dogs from running wild through her kitchen. "Should we...?"

"Nah, they'll run themselves tire," Rashad said, before moving from the doorway, placing his belongings down, and hanging the raincoats on a hook next to a collection of outerwear. "It's nice to finally put a face to a name. She talks about you all the time." I followed him into the kitchen as he effortlessly snagged the puppy when it tried to hop onto the countertop. "You an artist, right?"

"Well, kinda. I haven't really created much because of my day job."

"I mean, you can still claim it as somethin' you do even if you're not makin' a living off of it." He rocked the dog in his arms before placing him on the floor, where the other two were currently giving Aaliyah a tour of her own house. "Aye Liyah, did a bomb go off in the kitchen? The fuck happened in here?"

"Oh..." I shifted on my feet as my cheeks warmed under his gaze. "That was me. I tried to make breakfast, but...clearly I need more practice."

"Rashad, it's not a big deal. I'll clean it up later." Aaliyah finally released herself from the dogs' antics and sidled up next to me, her hand resting on the small of my back. "She was just trying to do something sweet for me."

"It's not like I said anything bad." He scoffed and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of nonchalance. "Just askin' questions."

"Questions that don't require an answer." Aaliyah said. "Unless you wanna be my housekeeper, I suggest you shut up."

Rashad simply rolled his eyes and Aaliyah began to introduce me to each of her pets, proudly boasting about their respective personalities and quirks.

The black one—a Doberman named Onyx—was loyal to a fault, though his temperament was level-headed and easygoing, while her brown-gold retriever named Macaroni had a hyperactive and playful spirit, always on the lookout for cuddles and belly rubs.

Her chocolate-colored little one was the newest addition to the pack—a mini Schnauzer named Cashew, Cash for short—with a tranquil nature and a face that could convince you to hand over your soul with one pleading look.

"He's adorable," I commented, squatting to his level and gently scratching him under his chin. "How long have you had him?"

"Barely a week. I got him as soon as we got back," she said with a smile. "Poor little guy had an ear infection, so he was pretty miserable for the first few days."

"I gave him his medication earlier, so he's a little sleepy." Rashad yawned. "Goddamn."

"You and Carter workin' today?" Aaliyah asked.

"Yeah, some editorial stuff for i-D," he answered, rubbing his eyes. "Got called at the ass crack of dawn 'cause they got that Camila chick for the cover for some reason, so I know it's about to be some bullshit. I doubt she'll be open to the direction I have in mind."

Aaliyah chuckled as she filled three bowls with food and fresh water. "Two divas in one room. Sounds like fun. Be sure to send my love and prayers to Carter."

I accidentally let out an amused laugh, immediately covering my mouth and clearing my throat. "My bad."

Rashad shot me a playful glance. "I'mma need you on my team 'cause I know you've probably dealt with some shit before."

"Well, yeah, we're definitely in the same boat on this one. I know that feeling all too well. Dealing with difficult clients. Kinda comes with the job."

"But when the difficult client lacks vision or refuses to listen to ideas, then you gotta stand your ground," Rashad countered with a shake of his head. "If you let 'em push you around too much, then they'll never respect you. It's a fine line."

"Right, I get that completely." I nodded along in agreement. "But at the end of the day,...hmm, I mean, you also have to have a certain amount of flexibility with your clients." I smoothed out my shirt before further explaining. "Like...not tryna to force your own personal opinions or artistic preferences on a client's work. There has to be compromise and creativity that celebrates their authenticity and their point of view, as well as bringing out your own talents and abilities. It's all about listenin' and understandin', and workin' together."

Rashad appeared deep in thought for a moment before cracking a smile and chuckling under his breath. "Sounds like you got the patience of a fuckin' saint."

I tilted my head to the side in question as I laughed along. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it sounds like you're more into placating than pushing boundaries," he replied, his eyes scanning my reaction. "Listenin' and understandin' is all well and good, but sometimes clients don't actually know what's best for them. That's when you step in, not just as a service provider, but as the expert. You've got to have a bit more backbone."

I worked to keep my expression neutral. "Having a backbone doesn't necessarily mean disregarding the client's vision."

"Sure, but there's a difference between a vision and a pipe dream," Rashad shot back with a pointed look. "Some clients need more guidance than others. Otherwise, you end up with mediocrity. And I don't do mediocre."

"I don't either. I've made some successful pieces that challenged me to think outside of the box, to push myself creatively, and to stretch my boundaries," I explained, matching his blunt tone. "But not every client wants those bells and whistles. Not every client has the same level of expectations or wants to put in the effort required for them to 'understand' some of those more ambitious projects. Not every project deserves that much attention or...'backbone' as you put it. I've also had plenty of my own work shot down because they wanted it to fit into their particular brand. Design schools. Museums. Corporate entities. They want cohesion, a certain type of look that they can sell to or draw in more consumers and I was growin' tired of the demand. But, in this economy, I can't afford to just do whatever I want and not create a product that sells, otherwise I'll get left behind. It's a balance. A 'fine line'."

"But you shouldn't have to suppress your talents or personal style because someone else won't allow it. Money is money, but your integrity is worth a hell of a lot more than a paycheck." he challenged. "It's your fucking art. Put it out there. Start your own brand if you have to. Be your own boss. Have your own agency. Stop answerin' to everybody and let people see what you can do."

"If I could create everything my heart desires, then I would." I crossed my arms over my chest. "But it ain't that easy for everyone. I rely on the salary I get for this job—a steady paycheck. But that also means less time for me to do anything creative, let alone have time for my other hobbies after work. And unlike some people, I don't have wealthy parents bankrollin' my work or fundin' my artistic endeavors so I can focus on what I love and not what is expected of me to do."

"Oh." Rashad's eyebrows rose in surprise. His gaze flickered briefly in Aaliyah's direction, his eyes softening at the edges when her own widened. He cleared his throat before shifting his weight between his feet and crossing his arms over his chest. "A'ight. Hmm. Cool. So you think my sis and I leech off our parents. You think we don't work hard for everything we have? That we didn't have to prove ourselves to get to where we are now?"

"That's not what I said nor was that what I was implyin' at all."

"Shit, you could've fooled me."

"Rashad..." Aaliyah warned. She had been leaning against the kitchen island observing our exchange with mild concern. "Come on. Don't do this."

"Do what?" He asked, his eyes not leaving mine as he raised an eyebrow. "All I'm tryna say is—"

"You're being an asshole. That's what you're doin'."

"I'm just conversatin'." He laughed. "What, you think I'm mad about what she's sayin'? It's actually nice to see some fire in someone around here. Not like some of the last few girls you was just fuckin' around with—barely had two opinions to rub together. Especially Christina. I bet you if you put her brain in a fish, it'll probably bark at you. Shit, it seems like every week there was a new one at the dining table. For a minute, I thought you was runnin' a shelter with the way you was catering to them. But I like her, Liyah. Don't fuck this one up."

My eyes darted towards Aaliyah at his choice of words. I could practically hear the air escaping her lungs.

The weighted silence that followed Rashad's unvarnished remark seemed to stretch endlessly, a taut wire thrumming with tension. On Aaliyah's face, a kaleidoscope of emotions played out in rapid succession—annoyance flaring hot at her brother's lack of filter, chased by frustration's blazing trail.

But it was the undercurrent of shame that lingered longest, a churning undertow that pulled at the corners of her mouth and clouded her normally radiant features in shadows.

When our eyes finally met, it felt like a revelation—a fracture in her meticulously constructed mask that allowed me to glimpse the raw vulnerability she typically shielded from view. In that infinitesimal moment, her lips parted as if to give voice to the tempestuous inner turmoil swirling within.

A silent plea for absolution?

A defiant challenge to judge her?

Or perhaps a desperate bid to bare the truth that stretched between us, unspoken yet undeniable, like a live wire thrumming with unseen currents.

But the words never came. Instead, her mouth settled into a taut line, and her lips compressed into a pale slash. A muscle ticked in her jaw as the storm raged on behind her shuttered gaze—warring impulses to deflect or confront, to retreat or engage, playing out in the infinitesimal movements that etched themselves into the planes of her face.

Rashad's phone buzzed once before breaking the mounting silence, the loud ringtone of an incoming call slicing through the thick atmosphere.

"Shit, I gotta go. It's probably Carter." He dug into his pocket and retrieved his phone. "Liyah, you mind walkin' me out?"

She simply nodded, the delicate line of her shoulders sagging with resignation, and her response fell flat. "Yeah."

Aaliyah grabbed her brother by the elbow and pulled him towards the front door, her voice a low whisper that carried over the din of the kitchen. Their muffled words were indecipherable, and my attempts to eavesdrop were thwarted by the dogs' excited squeals as they enjoyed their meals.

Macaroni hopped up on his hind legs, his front paws balancing against my thigh. I patted his head, my fingers sinking into his soft fur, and his tongue lolled out as he grinned at me. I crouched down to his level, smoothing his furry ears and gently scratching his chin. He relished the affection, his tail wagging with enthusiasm, and I welcomed the distraction.

Moments later, the click of a closing door echoed down the hall, and Aaliyah reappeared, her footsteps hesitant, the uncertainty evident in the set of her jaw and her downturned mouth.

"Hey." She offered a tight smile, her hands slipping into the pockets of her shorts, and her tone was measured, polite even. "Sorry about that. My brother can be...well, he can be a lot sometimes. And he doesn't always think before he speaks. I didn't think he would come off so harsh this morning, though. Not sure what's gotten into him lately."

"It's okay. He looked tired; maybe he was cranky," I straightened up and turned to fully face her, searching her face for a clue as to how to proceed. "Are...are you okay?"

"Yeah." She inhaled deeply, exhaling with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't worry about me. I should be the one askin' you that."

I remained silent, watching her carefully as she moved into the kitchen. Her actions were deliberate but stiff, the ease and fluidity absent in her jerky movements. She busied herself with tidying up my mess, the scrape of a utensil and a frying pan against the countertop were the only sounds punctuating the fragile stillness.

Finally, she broke the uneasy silence.

"You're wonderin' about what he just said, aren't you?"

There was no need for pretense. But the admission still lodged itself in my throat, the words sticking to the roof of my mouth and refusing to budge.

"Bey...say something, anything," Aaliyah urged softly, placing the last dirty spatula into the dishwasher before turning to face me. "I know there's something you want to ask me, and I promise you, I'll answer it. Just...please...say it."

Her request hung in the air, suspended by an invisible string that seemed to taunt me.

To what extent was the relationship between Aaliyah and Raven more intimate than friends? Was she one of the women her brother was referring to? I wanted to ask, but what was the point? What would change if I knew for sure?

But for the others like Christina, the ones who more concretely had already had their turn, Rashad's implication of a revolving door with possible overlaps between them was a sobering reality.

The quick succession of women who had left their imprint on the woman standing before me...were they mere dalliances? Casual flings? Or had Aaliyah opened up her heart, exposing the innermost corners of her mind and soul with nothing substantial panning out in the end?

For them, what was the depth of their feelings? Did she love them, even if only for a fleeting moment, or even if only in a singular capacity? How long did they last? How much longer would I last?

Would this connection between us dissolve as quickly as a summer sunset, fading into the shadows of her past without a trace of its existence? Or would it linger, like the stubborn remnants of a dream, refusing to loosen its grip even as wakefulness beckoned?

And what was she looking for in me? What did she want? What did her compassion, care, and desire signify, if anything at all?

Could she ever be serious about me?

I uttered the only words that would cross my lips.

"I have to go." Disappointment washed over her features, but she held my gaze with quiet resolve. "It's just...it's just that I have a bunch of work to catch up on...new semester is startin' soon and..." I was grasping at straws, trying to fill the silence with reasons to flee even as my heart screamed for me to stay. "...and I don't wanna leave it all at the last minute."

She nodded slowly, her words measured. "Of course. Yeah. Um, let me give you a ride home—"

"No." The unintentional sharpness of my reply seemed to stun her into silence, and she blinked, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly. "...I was gonna Uber back, so don't worry about it."

"Beyoncé." Her voice was gentle yet firm. "Please, just let me drop you off. I don't want you goin' all the way home alone in this weather."

I was already pulling up the app on my phone. "It'll be fine. You're probably gonna be busy yourself today, so I don't wanna inconvenience you."

She stepped closer, her hand tentatively reaching for mine and clasping it firmly. "Look, I'd just feel a lot better knowin' that you're home safe. So, please, let me do this for you." Her thumb caressed my knuckles. "Let me take you home. Okay?"

The city blurred past me as the Uber driver maneuvered the streets. Raindrops trailed down the car windows, smudging the concrete cityscape into an impressionistic swirl of colors. My head rested against the headrest, exhaustion seeping into my bones and weighing me down as the hum of the engine and the soft pitter-patter of rain lulled me into a drowsy haze.

The drive on the highway seemed endless—a formless stretch of time that yielded no answers. All I craved was to take off the stiletto heels that were pinching my toes and curl up in bed.

To bury myself in the warm cocoon of my blankets and lose myself in a dreamless sleep. Away from the tumultuous emotions churning in my gut. Away from everyone's chatter and prying eyes.

Alone, in the stillness, away from everything, I could pretend.

Pretend that everything would be okay.

Pretend that nothing could hurt me.

Pretend that no one could see me.

Pretend that the truth was whatever I wanted it to be.

"What you got in that bag? It smell real good. You cook that? Man, my girlfriend won't cook for shit. Like, the worst. Can barely boil water. If it ain't cereal or Kraft Dinner, then she ain't interested. I ain't had nothin' to eat this mornin', but it look like you got a whole meal in there. Wish my girl cooked like that...you gon' eat that?"

I hurled the bag of food onto the passenger seat, pulling over the hood of a black zip up jacket Aaliyah heavily insisted I borrow to shield myself from the rain, and I cursed under my breath at the stranger's pestering; I prayed to whatever higher power would listen.

We stopped at a red light, which allowed the driver to inspect the bag. "Breakfast burrito with...what is this...scrambled eggs, some bacon, cheese, and salsa, and some fruit on the side? I'm tryna watch my cholesterol and blood pressure, but this here is the start of a good ass breakfast. Ion like these pineapples, though. Sometimes, they sweet. Sometimes, they sour. You never really know what you gon' get. So, ion like 'em. And the texture be weird too. Y'know, my daughter—the one that's over at San Diego State—she actually prefers peaches..."

✮✮✮

"Do you need a cough drop, Beyoncé? You sound a bit raspy."

The pitter-patter of the relentless Los Angeles rain continued into the week and played a rhythmic backdrop. Dr. Beharie was perched on her oversized, bohemian-style cushion, legs crossed, a silver pen twirling in her fingers as she listened to me ramble. It was a departure from the traditional therapist's chair that now faced the desk in her small office.

She claimed her cushions were better for her bottom and hip bones, and though I wasn't a fan at first, she'd done a good job of selling it to me and was able to get my butt in one of the plushy sacks after a few visits.

Her burnt orange infinity scarf was a knitted version of a boa constrictor that was just beginning its feast. The ends tickled her chin every so often, and she'd gently swat them away as she focused intently on what I was saying.

Each session, her office seemed to embody a different aspect of the sun with its ongoing decoration. Today was no different. A vibrant yellow painting hung on the wall behind her head. Its circular movement was an embodiment of the sun and its rays. The bookcase was adorned with glass orbs, each one painted with an array of hues, and her small bistro table was topped with a collection of geodes and citrine crystals.

The citrus scent of the lemon lozenge lingered and created a tartness in my mouth. I took another hard suck, then answered her question about family.

"I swear though, if I hear her complain one more time about her apartment smellin' like corn chips and rubber, or how her burps tasted like the entire menu of Taco Bell, I'm gon' scream," I vented, tossing my hands in the air.

"Is there a reason you're choosing to focus on her right now instead of your own feelings?"

I began with a huff, slouching back into an elevated pillow. "I really want her to be happy and healthy, and I want to work towards repairing our relationship."

"So you have hope about repairing it?"

"I do." I nodded. "I have hope."

She smiled. "How does her pregnancy make you feel?"

"Honestly?" I sat up straight, planting my hands on my thighs. "I'm nervous."

"For her?"

"In general."

"Why?"

"Because..." I sighed, willing my shoulders to relax. "There's an entire little person growin' inside of her. That's not somethin' to be taken lightly. What if somethin' goes wrong? What if she needs me to help, but I'm almost 3000 miles away as I am right now? I wanna make sure I'm a great auntie."

"Then she'll call you, and you'll help her as best you can as you have this entire time. It's okay to worry, but it's not okay to allow the worry to paralyze you."

"I'm tryin'," I conceded.

The session had already lasted a bit longer than the previous visits, asking me questions about my updated day-to-day routine and life in LA, but I still hadn't brought myself to tell her the real reason I'd come to her office today.

Dr. Beharie scribbled something down in her notebook, then set it aside to fill me in on my homework for the week.

"I've come to find that, not unlike most people, when you focus on what's happening outside of you, you're able to avoid what's going on inside. When you take the time to connect with yourself, you're better equipped to handle the feelings that present themselves. Then you'll be better able to help those around you," she explained, crossing her legs at the ankles. "Have you given any thought to what we discussed during our last session? About picking up writing again? My advice for you is to journal through the things that are keeping you up at night, and the things that are stressing you out. Don't judge what you're writing or the words you choose to use. Just write."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You have nothing to lose and everything to gain, Beyoncé."

"I hear you. Can you show me some of your poetry sometime? Maybe give me an example?" I asked, sitting up straighter. "I wanna start doin' more creative writin', though the last time I've written any poems was in college."

Dr. Beharie chuckled, sliding her pen behind her ear. She glanced at the Apple Watch around her wrist and made note of the time, before letting me know our session was just about over.

"When you start writing yours, then I'll share mine. I want you to have your own authentic voice. Not a copy. You'll never get where you need to go if you keep traveling the same roads as someone else," she said, leaning forward. "But, off the record, poetry is meant to flow and be free. There are no rules. Use whatever words you need for ourselves. Write whatever feels right. No one will be the wiser. It's just you, Beyoncé. I will admit—sometimes the hardest person in the room to be vulnerable with is yourself. Are we perfect? Hell no. But I'm working on me, the same way you're working on you. I've found that being honest in my poetry has helped me be more honest about my feelings in all other parts of my life. Including the romantic ones. I've seen—and I think many others have too—that they may be a new, special person of interest in your life?"

My face reddened as I nodded, tucking my lips between my teeth. "We'll talk about that next week." I desperately wanted to get past the guilt I felt for rushing out of Aaliyah's house just days prior.

No phone calls, no texts. Radio silence since she'd sent me a quick, 'Hope you made it home okay.' Maybe she was trying to give me space. Maybe she was angry. Or embarrassed. Or scared. Maybe she'd given up.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I smiled to cover up the emotions that were swimming to the surface. "Same time?"

Dr. Beharie uncrossed her legs and stood to her feet, holding her hands out to help me up from my seat. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded me, searching for answers to the questions she hadn't yet asked.

"Same time," she agreed. "I'm sure we'll have much to discuss next week."

Chapter Text

now playing: "From Time" by Drake ft. Jhené Aiko

I leaned forward against the cool metal barricade, the remnants of yesterday's rain lending a crisp freshness to the air that carried the salt tang of the ocean.

Overhead, a ceiling of gray clouds promised more rain but held off for now, as if in silent agreement to let the marathon unfold unspoiled. The breeze was a runner's ally today, fluttering through the banners and flags that lined the streets, each one snapping aimlessly like a sail at sea.

Around me, the crowd was a mosaic of excitement, spectators of all ages and backgrounds converging with a single purpose—to cheer on the sea of determination and spandex flowing down the street. A sprinkling of world-class runners, each lost in their own rhythmic world of breath and stride, passed by in a blur of numbers and neon colors.

"I wonder if it's true."

I looked at Mr. Rowland, who stood next to me holding his DSLR camera and its telephoto lens. He'd brought the equipment along, hoping to get some good shots of Kelly to add to the family mementos.

"That you can get sick after running a marathon," he continued. "You're so tired afterward that some random virus can just come right in and fuck all your shit up."

"It's only temporary, and it's not like it'll happen automatically. You're just more susceptible to catching somethin'. Runnin' a marathon increases levels of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. These hormones help mobilize energy stores, and since your body is in a fight-or-flight mode, your immune system goes on standby as you recover from the runnin'."

Mr. Rowland looked impressed. "I thought you were an expert on color theory, not physiology."

I shrugged. "My major in college was biophysics. Tacked on environmental studies as a minor, then completely changed my mind halfway through and switched to art. At least somethin' good came out of it."

We watched as Robyn approached. She was in her element, the power in her long, lean legs carrying her effortlessly past the final marker. Her arms swung in a strong, measured rhythm, and her face relaxed into a serene mask of concentration. I couldn't tell if she was running or floating.

She had chosen her marathon outfit with a special strategy in mind: to bring smiles and a bit of lighthearted distraction to her rivals. The crowd seemed to love it, their cheers growing louder as she got closer.

The swishing tail attached to the back of her running shorts matched the black ears atop her head, and her fitted white T-shirt hugged her body, the back of it emblazoned with a message printed in large font: 'Cat got your tongue, slow poke?'

Her competition wasn't too far behind, but an eternity of distance lay between them.

"Is she always like this?" asked Mrs. Rowland, who had returned from purchasing coffee in the small vendor area nearby. It was clear from her tone that while she found the spectacle entertaining, she also pondered the appropriateness of such flamboyance at a serious athletic event. Mr. Rowland waved back at Robyn as she flew by with a quick salute and moved her purple-tinted Oakley glasses on top of her head. His camera flashed with a succession of rapid clicks. "I don't think I've ever come across someone so...hmm...confident."

"She's definitely one of a kind, ma'am." I joked, applauding loudly as she continued down the road. "She's sponsored by Puma; I'm sure that has somethin' to do with her look...maybe."

I watched until she rounded a corner, her fluid strides eating up the street like the well-oiled machine they were.

A few minutes later, Kelly came into view with a small group of runners, her dyed brown ponytail bouncing off the nape of her neck as she made her steady, determined way up the street. I saw the slight smile on her face—a thin press of lips—as she concentrated on maintaining her pace.

"That's my girl," said Mr. Rowland, his camera flashing and flashing again as she approached. We called out her name, and she responded with a brief wave before returning her focus to her pace.

Kelly's outfit was far less dramatic; her navy-blue T-shirt, white running shorts, and simple headband gave her an understated athletic appearance. As she moved forward, she seemed to draw strength from the cheering crowd, her stride gaining more power, her face brightening with the encouragement.

She passed and turned the corner, her parents' eyes following her every step until she disappeared from sight. Mrs. Rowland handed out the coffee she had bought for the three of us. Her husband gagged on the first sip.

"Baby, what'd you have them put in here?"

"Coffee? What else would they put in there? It's a double shot of espresso," said his wife.

"With no sugar? No creamer?"

"You don't need any."

"Tastes like shit," he muttered, eyeing the cup warily.

Mrs. Rowland grimaced and pushed up the sleeves of her pink hoodie. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was twisted into a neat chignon at the back of her head. Her accessories were minimal, yet her outfit was carefully put together—the Hoka shoes she wore, matching sweatsuit set, pearl earrings, and a pair of Chloe sunglasses perched atop her head.

She prided herself on being one of the rare socialites whose elegance was effortless and not the least bit contrived, even in casual clothes. If she were an animal, she'd be a swan, not the showy peacock others in her circle flaunted themselves as.

Though the diamonds in her wedding ring said otherwise.

She eyed him. "Why don't you go and get yourself another one instead of complainin' about it?"

"I was plannin' on it. Get me a normal cup of coffee. I'm sure you'd want one too, Beyoncé?" Mr. Rowland eyed the drink I was holding.

"Nah, I'm fine with this," I said, smiling as I raised my cup to my lips. The scrunching of my nose and the forced swallow that followed spoke volumes.

"Go on. I'm going to walk the rest of the course to catch up with Kelly and cheer her on. Meet up at the finish line, and we'll decide where to eat after." Mrs. Rowland instructed as she walked down the block toward the next intersection.

Mr. Rowland and I set off walking, stopping every so often when the throng of spectators got too thick or when a runner passed by.

There was a massive, temporary tent with a logo from a local coffee shop serving a wide variety of hot drinks. The line was long and slowly snaked its way into the tent, where we could hear the hiss and grind of espresso being made.

A van parked nearby was serving up baked goods to add to our beverages, and the sweet scent of their goods filled the air. The price tags were no joke, though: $8.50 for a small hot coffee—with no extras.

Mr. Rowland stepped over a coil of extension cord and took his place in line.

"I thought you might've tried to run the marathon just for fun, Miss Junior Olympics."

My eyes were glued to my phone as I replied to Arin and Laura's messages in the group chat about Laura's flight arrangements for Coachella. "Those were track and field events for sprints. Long-distance runnin' was never my thing—too borin'."

I could sense him wanting to say something more. Eventually, he sighed and stuffed his free hand into the pockets of his jeans. The line moved forward sluggishly, and we shuffled along, the buzz of conversation around us a blend of race updates and gossip.

Small talk often left me feeling trapped, counting the minutes in my head until it was socially permissible to gracefully exit the conversation. However, my interactions with Mr. Rowland were refreshingly different. With him, random conversations and comfortable silences were just that—random and comfortable.

But today, there was an unmistakable tension in his demeanor, a telltale sign that he was on the verge of divulging something significant.

"I've been meaning to ask you about something..."

I felt a flutter in my stomach, hoping the conversation did not lead where I thought it was going. I hadn't seen him since my time in Houston, and I'd tried to pray for days that another writers strike would hit Hollywood, delaying his business trip indefinitely.

"I don't mean to pry, but I've seen the headlines. I'm sure it's not all true, but there seems to be a lot of, well, speculation, around you and Aaliyah. I had no idea you even knew each other, especially to the extent that it seems you do now. Kelly mentioned it in passing, but didn't elaborate. I honestly thought she was joking. Not to mention the fact that I was a bit distracted at the time. Others on set had a lot to say as well." He gave a nervous chuckle. "I guess I'm curious just like everyone else is, and I probably shouldn't, but I figured now is as good a time as any to ask."

"We do know each other. Very well."

He nodded, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if processing the information. "Was she a client of yours? A friend of a client? A client of a friend? Or—"

"We're seein' each other." I decided to rip the Band-Aid off. "Intimately."

I braced myself for his reaction, expecting the all-too-common shock and condemnation from a Black Gen Xer when faced with sexual deviancy, especially in the form of same-sex relationships. My stomach churned, knowing he would likely be disgusted with me and inevitably share his thoughts with his wife.

I couldn't blame him if he did. I had opened the door to my bedroom of secrets, and he had caught an eyeful.

To my surprise, there was none of that. Instead, he simply exhaled and said, "Ah."

We reached the front of the line, and he placed his order for two iced coffees, adding an apple turnover for himself before turning to me. "You want anything else?"

"No, thanks. I'm good."

As we stepped aside to allow the next customers to order, I absentmindedly kicked at a crumpled napkin with the toe of my shoe, my arms tightly crossed over my chest. My eyes flitted about, intentionally avoiding his gaze, noticing a handful of spectators catching spare glimpses of us, lingering a little longer on me.

Despite my trucker hat shrouding my face, they recognized me, their hushed whispers traveling up and down the line.

'Is that her? I think that's her.'

'She's pretty as hell. Is that her real hair? That's a nice blonde.'

'Is she famous or something? I don't know who that is.'

'That man next to her looks familiar. Didn't he direct that sci-fi film with Regina King?'

In moments like these, I was painfully reminded that, despite my right to love whom I chose, revealing the truth about my personal life, even without saying a word, came at a price and always brought a twinge of vulnerability.

I didn't have to feel ashamed of who I was or the choices I made in love. No one had the right to strip that away from me. Yet, each time I was forced to open up about myself or her, I experienced a piercing anxiety.

The fear was irrational, perhaps, but it clung to me stubbornly, coloring my interactions and making moments like these fraught with tension. I found myself grappling not only with the potential fallout but also with the internal battle to maintain my dignity and self-respect in the face of possible disapproval.

"If it matters at all—which in my opinion it shouldn't—I don't have an issue with it. I hope you're not worried or think that I do."

"No. Not really," I lied.

He accepted that without pressing further. "I thought she was a nice young lady when we first met. I didn't spend a lot of time with her, but she struck me as warm, down to earth—unlike some of the others in this industry." He snorted derisively. "It's not often you get to work with people who aren't full of themselves because they're all 'famous.' Makes things real uncomfortable on set sometimes. It's like dealing with toddlers. They'll throw tantrums and meltdowns over the dumbest shit, then go right back to actin' like everything's cool afterward."

He paused as his order was called and grabbed the drinks and turnover. "How long has this been going on between you two?"

"A few weeks, but we've known each other for much longer."

He handed over my drink and took a sip of his before nodding, his attention focused on the crowd for a moment. Then, his gaze found mine once more, his eyes squinting slightly as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"Few weeks...so, right around the time you flew back home? That explains those photos of her at the Rodeo..."

"She was right there with me...after..."

I left it at that. A new piece of that puzzle dropped into place, and the memory became a little clearer, but it would never turn out to be a beautiful image.

I knew what was coming next.

"Does she know?" He asked gently. He moved us out of the flow of pedestrian traffic in the tent and off to the side on the curb. "About what happened?"

I nodded.

"What about your friends?"

"Only she knows."

"You haven't told them?"

"No. I've...been meanin' to. I just haven't yet."

"Why is that?"

"I don't want them to worry. They have their own lives. Their own worries. I don't want to add mine to the list right now."

"Well, did you go through with pressing charges? I told your cousin to help you with the process, but I'm not sure if—"

"It's not gon' make a difference. They'll just give him a slap on the wrist, maybe put him on probation for a few years. We all know that's it."

"Beyoncé."

I stared at him for a moment, frowning at his pronouncement of my name. "For someone who doesn't want to pry, you askin' a lot of questions."

"What your father did was horrible. Unacceptable. And I'm not tryna insert myself into your business. It just seems like you should at least get some kind of closure after what happened. For your own peace of mind. Don't you think? And you've known my family for years. You're practically family yourself. If you ever need to talk, we're here for you. Don't ever feel like a burden to us. Kelly's here for you too. She loves you and has always wanted what's best for you. I'm sure Robyn's the same."

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

He watched me for a few moments and sighed. "I'm serious. Kelly should know a few attorneys that can help. I can guarantee they can make a case out of this and make it stick. Because what he did is certainly a crime. Regardless of what you think might happen, you gotta at least try. Don't let him get away with it."

"...With all due respect, sir, I can't talk about this right now. Okay? I'll let you know when I'm ready...When I am, I'll find an attorney and start the process, but in the meantime, please...please, don't bring it up with me. Or Kelly. Please..."

"But, Beyoncé—"

"Please. Stop. Just...just let it go."

He nodded, his eyebrows drawing together as his expression softened with pity. The strained tone in my voice didn't leave room for negotiation. He nodded reluctantly, and we continued our walk along the course route in silence, the ease of our companionship stifled by an air of awkwardness that I hoped would dissipate soon.

"So, um...how's the film comin' along? Are y'all still in post-production?"

Mr. Rowland took a sip of his coffee before answering, seeming to understand my need for a diversion. "Yeah, we wrapped principal photography a few weeks back. Now it's just a matter of editing, sound mixing, visual effects—all the fun stuff." He chuckled wryly. "It's a long process, but we're making good progress. Should be ready for a festival run early next year if everything goes well."

As we neared the finish line, the crowd's energy seemed to surge, their cheers growing louder and more urgent. I scanned the sea of runners catching their breath with water bottles in hand and small groups of finishers on the lawns, all receiving congratulations and pats on the back.

Some sat down on the grass, their bodies limp, and Kelly was among them, sprawled out on her back like a starfish, her chest rising and falling in an effort to calm her breathing.

We jogged over and knelt beside Kelly, our voices rising in a cacophony of praise and congratulations. Her mother had been hovering over her like a hummingbird, dabbing at her face and neck with a towel, pushing a bottle of Gatorade into her hands that she feebly tried to refuse, her chest heaving with each labored breath.

When I asked about Robyn's whereabouts, Kelly's arm shot up, pointing across the field with the last of her energy before it collapsed over her face in a dramatic display.

It wasn't hard to spot Robyn amidst the throng of jubilant finishers, her frame hoisted high into the air by Kofi's strong arms, engulfed in a celebratory hug. As he set her back down on her feet, a mysterious figure, their identity obscured by a towel draped over their head, approached her, extending a white envelope.

Robyn's expression shifted, a flicker of confusion dancing across her features as she hesitantly accepted the offering. Her eyes darted around the crowd, searching, until they locked with mine.

I beamed at her, my hand raised in an enthusiastic wave as I jogged over to join her. Her response was a muted smile, tinged with a slight shake of her head that set off an instant alarm in my mind.

This wasn't the bashful, ironic head shake that often accompanied an impromptu crowd singalong. No, this was different—a silent warning, a flash of distress in her eyes, and a subtle, hesitant refusal conveyed through the slight tilt of her head.

"Hey y'all! You did good out there, Rob," I greeted as I joined them.

The towel-clad figure turned and removed it, revealing the identity of the one who had offered Robyn the mysterious envelope.

Gone were the golden curls I once knew so well, replaced by a meticulously crafted fade that could only be the handiwork of a skilled Black barber. The clean-shaven face I remembered had given way to a dusting of stubble, emphasizing a jawline that could slice through diamonds. His body, now more sculpted and defined, strained against the fabric of his tank top.

But those eyes—those piercing, unforgettable eyes—remained unchanged, save for the guarded wariness that now clouded their depths.

He stood before me, his posture taut and unyielding, his gaze tracking my every move as I approached, my steps faltering until I stood a mere arm's length away from the group.

"Beyoncé...hey—"

"Paul..."

He seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him, even as we both knew we'd be crossing paths today.

The rules of polite society dictated that we engage in a perfunctory exchange of niceties, our words tumbling over each other in a clumsy dance reminiscent of a poorly rehearsed comedy skit.

Robyn's lips pressed together in a thin line, her eyes flickering back and forth between Paul and me. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head as she tried to make sense of our interaction, wondering why two people who had once been so intimately acquainted and subsequently estranged were now standing at a formal distance, pretending that their past did not exist. He even went as far as to compliment my new style.

Kofi didn't seem to notice the heavy silence between us or the altered pitch in our voices as he embraced me in a quick hug and informed Robyn that he'd had to find a restroom at one of the nearby restaurants.

"That was quite a performance from you, Robyn. Wasn't expecting to see you out here like that."

"I don't know why you doubted me in the first place, nigga," she replied, laughing. "I told you and you were over here talkin' 'bout some 'I played beach football'."

A woman's voice called out his name, drawing our attention to a striking figure approaching our group. The telltale, subtle lilt of a French inflection wrapped around the consonants of his name. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, framing a face that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. Her caramel skin was flawless, with a delicate spray of freckles accentuating her soft cheekbones.

She was dressed casually in a pair of jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a fashionable cardigan, the white sneakers she wore appearing fresh out of the box.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, her full lips curving into a radiant smile. "I've been looking all over for you."

Paul's posture relaxed slightly as he turned to greet her, a hint of affection softening his features. "Hey, Bianca. Sorry, I got a little caught up."

"I was able to get the reservation for tonight, but I was stuck arguing with the hostess for about ten minutes." She rolled her eyes as she handed Paul a backpack. Reservation? My eyes narrowed inadvertently. "The table's under your name." She smiled as her gaze moved to the rest of us while Paul slung the backpack over his shoulder, preparing to leave.

"Who's this?" Robyn asked.

"Oh—uh." Paul cleared his throat, gesturing towards us. "Guys, this is Bianca, a close friend of mine from back home. Bianca, this is Robyn...Beyoncé."

"Hey," Bianca said, reaching out to shake our hands, her expression warm. "I'm pretty sure I remember Paul talking about you before."

His eyes avoided mine, and Robyn's eyebrows rose a fraction before returning to their natural, neutral state. "Nice to meet you, too." Robyn shook her hand first before I did.

"Same. Paul hasn't said anything about you, though," I said, shaking her hand as well.

Bianca's smile didn't waver, but her eyes flickered briefly with surprise—or was it amusement?—before she responded. "Oh. He must be keeping the best stories to himself, then." She placed a hand on Paul's bicep, and she subtly shifted closer to him. "He usually doesn't like to brag about much."

"Oh—didn't realize I'd never brought her up before . We've both been swamped lately, caught up in our own projects," Paul hastily chimed in, trying to smooth over the oversight. "It's only now that we're reconnecting since she's in town..."

Bianca looked down. "Robyn, these shoes—I heard they only made a few pairs, and they're hardly within just anyone's reach."

Robyn gave an indifferent shrug. "Puma decided to make an exception for me. Influencing has its perks."

"Oh wow. Good for you. I'm sure it does. I'm not much of a Puma person myself—I've always been more partial to Nike or actual designer labels—but I'm sure they make great shoes." She tweezed an imaginary piece of something out of Paul's hair. "I wish I had the free time to dance in front of a camera or whatnot, but you know, hard work keeps the best of us tied up. Paul and I are trying to make the most of this weekend as much as we can. Might do some shopping in Beverly Hills."

"It's not as much free time as I used to, but when I do...I find ways to use my time wisely. It's clear you've got a lot going for you. It's always interesting to see how other people choose to spend their free time. I can't exactly pinpoint it, but something in me feels like thrifting is more of your style, not shoppin' on Rodeo or at the Grove—highly overrated, by the way. Do you—do you feel that too, Bey?"

"Ion know what you talkin' 'bout." I scratched my eyebrow and fiddled with my hat.

Lord, help me.

"Hmm. Maybe it's just me, then." Robyn looked her up and down, giving her a look that was both scrutinizing and dismissive. "Most of us might find it hard to appreciate something that's been deemed 'sloppy seconds', 'used goods'; but you—well, you seem to have found a way to make the most of it to suit your...aesthetic." She shrugged again and sarcastically flashed her a lazy grin.

Paul looked at her in disbelief and his jaw clenched visibly at her rebuttal. Robyn was on a roll.

Kofi and Kelly had joined us by now and caught the tail end of the conversation, a bit perplexed by what was transpiring. They engaged in a brief exchange of pleasantries with Paul and Bianca, each one strained in their own way, before Paul and Bianca bid us a hasty farewell and took off down the street towards their next destination.

"Elle, je ne l'aime pas. C'est une faux-cul." I murmured once they were out of earshot. Robyn burst into laughter in response. Kofi whispered a question to Kelly, who translated my statement; her choice of words were a little sharper than mine.

"Who was that and why was she tryna come for you, baby?" he asked, his arm around her waist. "What'd you say to her?"

"Why do you think I'm the one who started that shit? The bitch was tryna intimidate me and Bey. She's lucky I didn't say anything else."

"You got to pick and choose your battles, Rob. If you're gonna have beef with everybody that tries to come for you, you'd be fighting every day. There's always gonna be people who aren't gonna like you."

Robyn shook her head stubbornly. "Fuck all that. You don't have to like me, but I'm not gon' let a bitch disrespect me. Why else would she try and throw shade at me before getting to know me? I shoulda smacked her bobblehead ass when I had the chance."

"That's her problem. Not yours. Chill out," said Kofi, pulling her close and attempting to drop a kiss on her cheek, which she deftly avoided. She wrinkled her nose, her lips twisting into a scowl.

"You're always hangin' out with Paul; he's never mentioned her to you at all, Kofi?" asked Kelly.

"Nah. Which is strange 'cause he talks about everything. Maybe that's his new girl?" Kofi's speculative gaze traveled in their direction.

A faint frown crossed my face at the mention of them potentially dating, quickly smoothed away as I forced a nonchalant shrug. Whatever they were doing was none of my business.

"Well, if she is, he's definitely got a type." Kelly stretched her arms overhead with a groan. "Only thing missing is the 613 layered cut."

And some self-dignity.

✮✮✮

"Ugh! Now why did my dumbass—"

I switched my phone to 'Do Not Disturb' and flung it carelessly onto the rumpled sea of sheets, where it landed with a soft thud, barely making an impression on the plush duvet.

Swaddling myself within the comforting hug of my cloud-soft, weighted blanket, I tugged it snugly around my shoulders, desperate to ward off the bone-deep chill pervading the room.

This persistent cold was Robyn's doing; she avoided using the heater, claiming it reminded her too vividly of summer back in Barbados. There, the sun blazed with the fury of a thousand forges, and the humidity draped itself over everything like syrup, so oppressive that she would dash outside at the merest tinkle of a cowbell, eager not to miss the snow cone man who patrolled the neighborhood.

After the marathon and a late lunch with the group, I retreated to my room, subjecting myself to the mindless distraction of social media. TikTok's vibrant clips of comedy, commentary, and story times served as an effective anesthetic to the restlessness that had been simmering since that morning.

That was until my fingers had a mind of their own and typed in Aaliyah's handle.

Videos of her showing off her outfits, lip-syncing to everything from the latest hip-hop to old-school R&B, posting funny commentary about her life, and posting cryptic thirst traps ensnared me for longer than I cared to admit.

Twenty-two seconds of her and some friends smoking and twerking were all it took for me to go down a spiral, my eyes glued to the screen, greedily soaking up every detail of her.

Every teasing sway and bounce of her hips as they encouraged her left me simultaneously euphoric and parched, an intense thirst scorching my throat as I lamented not being present to experience it all in person.

My thumb had betrayed me, double-tapping the old video. The heart icon flushed red before I could undo it, and now I was mentally kicking my own ass. The notification would be blasted into her notifications, and there was no taking it back.

I snatched up Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower from my mini bookshelf across the room, hoping to immerse myself in someone else's fictional world. But before I could even crack the spine, my phone buzzed insistently. I knew without looking that it was Aaliyah, hitting 'Notify Anyway' on her phone.

My eyes passed over the words on the page several times without comprehending what I was reading as I tried to ignore the device that was searing a hole through the bedsheets. But a second buzz cut through my feigned concentration, demanding my attention.

With a sigh of resignation, I set the novel aside and reluctantly picked up my phone, steeling myself before Face ID revealed the reason behind the notifications.

It was a voice memo—Aaliyah had sent me a voice memo. My heart stuttered in my chest, racing in triple time as I debated whether to listen to it now or save it for later.

"Fuck it," I muttered, pushing the play button and pressing the phone to my ear.

There was no introduction, just a pause before her sweet, soft laughter filtered through the speaker.

I rolled my eyes and scoffed, feeling my cheeks flush. I smiled involuntarily.

"...I'm hoping that was some kinda signal...that didn't seem like an accident. At least, it didn't feel like one. To me." She giggled softly again, and my stomach somersaulted. The sound was intimate, the vibrations low and sensuous. Her tone was light, almost conversational, but there was an undeniable hesitation in her cadence, as if she were carefully choosing her words.

"I just got back from New York a few hours ago. Went to some fashion launch parties—picked up a surprise for you too. Had some meetings with the label and my team. I've been writing more—more than I expected. Feelin' inspired lately, I guess. Ha...It was fun, but...I couldn't...I couldn't stop thinkin' about you the whole time."

A pause followed. "I've been waiting on you—waiting for you to call, text, or somethin' to let me know you're thinking about me too. Even send out a carrier pigeon...anything. I want us to talk...about...everything. Everything we need to talk about. So we can move forward. It's been weighing on my mind heavy and I don't want it to."

Another pause, another breath. Longer this time.

"...I miss you." Her voice dropped even softer. "Miss hearin' you laugh. How you snort when something really tickles you, even though you hate it. I miss the crinkle in your nose when you smile—like a cute little bunny. And that thing you do with your lips when you're really focused on a sketch, all pursed and pouty. It's adorable. I miss your silly superstitions, like always putting your left shoe on first for good luck. I miss watchin' you get all excited about sharing links to those weird indie films you love, the ones with meanings I can't ever seem to notice at first glance, but you've dissected and explained perfectly."

She sighed heavily, and I found myself exhaling in sync with her.

"And I miss that look you get sometimes as we're hanging out, like you're dreamin' wide awake. Head in the clouds, eyes all misty and wistful. I always wonder where you go in those moments, what worlds you're conjuring up in that beautiful mind of yours...I could watch you daydream for hours, just trying to catch a glimpse of the magic behind those eyes...wishing I could join you. Because wherever you are...I'm sure it's a million times better than the reality we're livin' in."

Her voice had grown achingly tender and her breathing was unsteady, almost ragged. A small hitch followed by a soft sniffle.

"But regardless, somehow...you've managed to bring a piece of that magic into our world, into my life. You've made my reality brighter. Better. You've shown me parts of myself that I never knew existed. And I feel like I'm finally seeing the world through a whole new lens."

I clutched the phone tighter, closing my eyes as tears pooled under my eyelids.

"It hasn't been long...but...dammit Bey, I've been feeling like a lost ship at sea this past week and a half without you...just driftin' with the waves, tryna chart a course...trying not to lose sight of the lighthouse. The steady beacon guiding me back home. To shore. To you."

My tears spilled over, carving a path down my cheeks.

"I miss being able to talk to you whenever we could, however. All those random conversations—some funny, some serious, some long and drawn out. Sometimes, it felt like we never ran out of things to talk about. Others, we'd just sit quietly together. In person.  Or on  FaceTime. And that was enough. Because we knew...we were both where we wanted to be."

She couldn't hide the tears in her voice anymore as her words stumbled forward, and it was apparent that her nose was stuffed up, making her sound slightly nasal. "You're probably thinking this message might be the corniest shit you ever heard me say, but uh, I hope it reaches you. Because...I'm waitin'. Waitin' for you..."

She sniffed again, the sound cutting through the silence before the recording ended.

It was a long time before I could gather the strength to wipe my face, and it took even longer for me to collect myself enough to compose a response, my thumbs hovering over the screen.

"God...what have I done...?"

I dialed her number before I could talk myself out of it and pressed the phone to my ear, curling into a tight ball beneath the heavy blanket. My gaze fixed on the floor, staring blankly at a spot between the gigantic scatter rug that spilled from under the bed and the clothes I wore earlier, haphazardly tossed on the floor.

She picked up on the second ring. "Bey—"

"I listened to your audio message."

There was a long pause, followed by the muffled sound of her sniffing and clearing her throat. "Wha—which part?"

"All of it."

Silence.

"...I miss you too." My voice shook, and I squeezed my eyes shut. "I've been missin' you so much, Liyah. So fuckin' much. I'm sorry..."

"Bey, don't apologize . It's my fault —"

"No. Let me—let me finish. Please. I need—need you to hear this...I've just been tryna process everythin'...I've been scared. Scared that what we have might just..." I swallowed hard. "What if I'm not enough for you, Aaliyah? What if you get bored of me—of this, like the other ones, and move on to the next shiny new thing that catches your eye?"

I pressed my lips together, trying to hold back the fresh wave of tears threatening to break free.

"I don't wanna be just another notch on your belt. Just another conquest for you to toss aside when you've had your fill and get tired of tryna placate me. Because—because there's a lot about me that doesn't fall within the realm of convention, and sometimes I feel like it's a lot to ask anyone—especially someone as famous as you—to deal with. It can be overwhelming, and maybe it'll eventually overwhelm you, and you'll want out. And then what? Where does that leave me?"

I couldn't control the tremor in my voice, and I was no longer bothering to wipe the tears dripping onto the sheets. "I've done all this before, Aaliyah, and even though he wasn't some superstar celebrity, the result was the same. At first, when we were together, he treated me with such tenderness, such warmth. He made me feel special, like he loved me. But after a while, those feelings just vanished. Like they'd never been there in the first place. He made me feel disposable. Like some throwaway doll that he could toy with whenever he pleased and then throw away when he was sick of playin'. I thought—I thought maybe it was just a phase. That maybe it would pass. But it didn't. And it killed me. Every single time, he broke me down and I never realized how bad it had gotten until I sought therapy. He made me doubt myself. Made me feel like less, like I was a burden, like I wasn't enough. And now—now, all the insecurities from the past are comin' back, and they're bubblin' up inside me, and all these thoughts are swirling around in my head, and I'm terrified, Liyah. Terrified that if we do this, it'll happen again...and I don't think I'll recover this time. Because this—it feels different. Deeper. More meaningful. And—and the thought of losin' that...of losin' you..."

I dissolved into quiet sobs, no longer able to continue.

"Beyoncé." The urgency in her voice sliced through my confession. "Bey, please believe me, okay? I'm not him. I'm not gonna do any of those things, never, because what we have—it means everything to me. It's precious, and you are the best thing that's ever happened in my life. What I feel for you...it's real, Bey. More real than anything I've ever known. More than I could even begin to comprehend. I never meant to hurt you or make you doubt anything. That's the last thing I ever wanna do. Ever. I'm not going anywhere. I know my past ain't one. I know it looks bad, that it seems like I was constantly jumping from one to another. I know. But, you gotta trust that what we're buildin' is strong. I know I have a lot to prove to you. And I will, if you'll let me. I'll do whatever it takes to show you that this isn't just some fling for me. Because that's not what this is. You mean way too much for it to be."

She exhaled slowly. "You are enough. Baby...baby, you're more than enough. More than I deserve. And if I could, I'd be right there right now, holdin' you in my arms and wiping your tears away. Tellin' you all the ways you're special to me. Over and over. Until your heart believed it."

Baby.

Not Peaches.

But baby.

The term of endearment every lover uttered. A word so universally spoken that its significance was easily diminished, devalued.

Peaches was a title of uniqueness. Something I could lay claim to and no one else could. A signifier of a connection that was ours and ours during intimacy, when lovers sought to discover new planes of pleasure and sensation, to give and receive and experience the full spectrum of emotions and carnal desire.

Baby.

So commonplace. So casual.

Yet hearing Aaliyah utter it for the very first time—outside of the knee-jerk slip during sex—in such a raw, heartfelt moment brought me to my knees.

The sound was laden with depth, resonating with a resonance that struck me to my core, vibrating through the spaces where my fractured pieces lay scattered like debris.

It held more weight than gold.

More valuable than diamonds.

It was a declaration, a promise. A confirmation that we were headed towards the inevitable destination that lovers have always longed to reach.

I released a long, tremulous breath. Picking up the stuffed whale from the fair sitting beside me, I hugged it to my chest, pressing it firmly against my skin.

Our breaths were the only sound connecting us across the distance. The stillness carried with it the weight of our words, the gravity of promises and fears laid bare. I tightened my grip on the stuffed whale, its familiar texture grounding me as I gathered the courage for what needed to come next.

Please...please ask me...yes.

She spoke up as if she were right there beside me, whispering into my ear.

"I wanna see you tonight... can I come over? "

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Getting Late" by Floetry

bonus track:  "Come Over" by Aaliyah

(a/n: long chapter)

(This chapter contains explicit content. Reader discretion advised.)

-----

In the gentle clasp of my garden's green,
Where morning doves croon secrets unseen,
A patient melody drifts on the breeze,
Love's ghost ensnared with effortless ease.

Here, my past unfurls like a tapestry grand,
Woven with golden threads through a shadowy land,
Each thread a lover's promise, a shade of deceit,
Painted in joy and betrayal, bittersweet.

Beneath the coy sun's veiled embrace,
Shadows of affection, once bright, now displaced,
Red roses, once vibrant, wilt unseen,
Like autumn leaves, crisp and serene.

On a bench of cold iron, as dawn whispers through,
The chill of the morning seeps under my dress, anew,
Contemplating love, both the old and the true,
Clad in past armor, yet facing what's due.

My Eden blossoms around me, lush and wild,
A dance of innocence and sin, beguiled,
Light filters through leaves, a dappled ballet,
A sanctuary pondered, where thoughts may sway.

The heart murmurs of endless leases on time,
In the fragrance of roses, peace seems sublime,
Yet shadowed by tales of fleeting affairs,
Bold stories of flings, carried on air's whispers.

A revolving door of past loves, a quiet echo,
Is this refuge a sanctuary or just for show?
Here, battles fought with serpent's sly taunt,
Temptations whispered, desires haunt.

Yet here I stand, renewed, my heart's tone true,
No longer a tempest but a tender coo,
Steadfast, no deceptive fruit in hand,
Reflecting the tranquility of a muted land.

Could someone so free among these desiring trees,
Root beside me with such ease?
In soil richly nurtured by tests of time,
Could our love flourish, and truly climb?

As doves take wing in the morning's embrace,
Their rhythmic beat a tender grace,
Not marred, but a canvas of potential bright,
Where love sketches its hues in light.

Not a fortress but a nurturing garden's care,
Where even wilted plants find new life to share,
In this reborn Eden, should I place my trust,
To lay down defenses, and love, if I must?

The doves rise, their hope generously bestowed,
In unburdened flight, their love openly showed,
Could this be the place where broken hearts mend,
In gardens where love finds its transcendence to tend?

-----

The ink on the page of my notebook still twinkled slightly under the lamp's light, almost reluctant to dry and set the thoughts I'd poured out. The pen in my hand tapped rhythmically against the notebook, a metronome keeping time with the soft instrumentals playing through the headphones sitting on my ears.

In the open book that sat open in front of me, there were stories, told in a thousand words, of a young girl, lost within herself, and a woman, searching for peace in a place she thought she could find it.

Stories told of a young girl's fear of a father who would never truly love her, of a mother who could only ever be disappointed in her, of a sister whose shadow she could never escape, and of a childhood friend, who only ever wanted the best for her, and would give anything, including her own happiness, to see her smile.

Stories of a young woman, struggling to find her footing, her purpose, her reason for living, lost within herself, with a heart that ached with a need for more, of a mind that ran at a mile a minute, constantly thinking, questioning, seeking, and a soul that could no longer withstand the loneliness and despair, begging for an end, crying for a release.

Stories written of a woman, broken and weary, of a woman, confused and scared, but wanting so desperately to find a place where she could finally belong, where she could finally be free to just breathe, free to just feel, free to just be, where she would no longer be bound by the chains of the past that held her in constant limbo, where the voices in her head were silenced and replaced with the voice she so longed to hear, the voice of her heart, where her soul could finally heal and her tears could finally dry.

Stories told of a woman finding comfort and solace in the arms of others, in the eyes of one who saw through the lies, in the voice of one who spoke the truth, in the hands of one who held her steady, in the soul of one who shared the same dreams, in the mind of one who understood her, in the heart of one who would fight for her, in the body of one who loved her completely.

Stories that were a compilation of a young girl's life, from the age of eleven to twenty-five.

Stories written in prose or poetry.

Stories that were not pretty, nor easy to read.

Stories that were not meant to make sense, because they didn't, not to anyone but me, and even then, sometimes, it took a while before I could make sense of them.

Stories that had taken me the better part of the last six years to write, and the last three months to finish.

Stories that were solely for my eyes, and mine alone.

Stories that would never see the light of day from anyone, including me.

Stories that I had given up on writing, until recently.

Stories that were everything and nothing.

I blew out a breath, sat back against the headboard, and closed my eyes. I hadn't intended to write tonight, and certainly not a poem, especially not a new one.

But the phone conversation with Aaliyah had left me reeling, and the urge to put a pen to paper was too hard to ignore. The earnest desperation in her voice was a punch to the gut, and the realization that she needed me, as much as I needed her, broke me in ways I couldn't explain.

So, I had written, pouring my emotions into words, like I always did, hoping to make sense of what I was feeling, or to at least lessen the impact of those feelings. It hadn't worked, though, because, like every other time I wrote, I felt more raw, more exposed, more vulnerable, than when I began.

With another sigh, I opened my eyes, placed the pen on the book, and reached for my box of tissues to blow my nose, throwing the tissue towards the small trash bin by the bedside. The box and the pen were quickly deposited on the nightstand, and the headphones were removed from my head, set on top of the notebook.

My legs slid over the edge of the bed, and I stood, reaching above me to stretch, and then made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Robyn was reading away, curled up in a ball under a small fleece blanket, on the corner of the sofa. Her square, thick framed glasses had fallen down her nose a bit as she highlighted a passage with a marker in the novel she was engrossed in.

She looked up at me as I entered, offering a soft, sleepy smile, her attention pulled back to the story unfolding on the pages before her briefly before quickly returning to me.

"Hey." She pushed her glasses up, marked her place with her bookmark, and set the book on the cushion next to her, tossing the blanket aside to sit up. "You okay, BB?"

I nodded, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, filling it with filtered water from the fridge, and drinking greedily.

"Yeah, just thirsty," I answered, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt . "Whatchu readin'?"

Robyn pursed her lips, her eyes squinting slightly.

"You sure? You don't seem okay," she said.

I turned my back to her, washing the glass I had used and putting it on the drying rack.

"Beyoncé," Robyn called, concern and slight irritation evident in her voice.

I gripped the side of the sink, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Aaliyah called earlier," I said, turning back around to face her. "...she'll probably be here in less than an hour."

Robyn's face had softened, understanding immediately why I was so off balance.

"What did she say?"

I walked to her, sitting cross-legged on the sofa next to her, and she turned towards me, her back against the armrest.

"She sounded...sad. Heartbroken, even. We were both cryin' by the end of the call...she just...needs me."

Robyn wrapped her hand around my ankle, rubbing her thumb soothingly along the bone.

"And you need her," she finished for me.

I nodded slowly, biting my lip and looking down at her hand.

"Why do I do this, Robyn?"

"Do what, BB? Love?"

My eyes shot to hers, a look of disbelief on my face.

"Yes, love. It's okay to say it, you know." Robyn smiled softly at me, shaking her head. "You love her, and she loves you...and that's okay. Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

My head tilted, a scoff leaving my lips.

"You know why, Robyn. Besides, don't you think it's too early for that? We've barely started seeing each other."

"Barely? As if the two of you haven't been talking to each other for months now? That doesn't matter. Time is irrelevant when it comes to love sometimes. If you feel it, and she feels it, then why is it so wrong to say it? And don't lie to me, Bey, and say that you don't feel it because I won't buy that shit for a minute. I know you."

My head dropped, and I closed my eyes, clenching my jaw. I felt Robyn's hand move from my ankle to my hand, and she entwined our fingers.

"Look at me, Bey."

I sighed, lifting my head, but keeping my eyes shut, refusing to allow the tears that were threatening to fall to escape. Robyn's free hand came up to my face and brushed my cheek, forcing my eyes to open and meet hers.

"Aaliyah is not Joseph. She's not gonna hurt you, especially not on purpose. Stop letting your fears ruin something beautiful."

"But-"

"No. No, Beyoncé. Stop it. Stop doing that. The fact that y'all are even here, in this position, means something. Something good. Don't deny that just because you're scared. And don't deny her of what she needs from you, either. I can't stand to see you hurting like this anymore. You deserve to be happy...let yourself be happy, for once. Please."

Robyn removed her glasses, placing them on top of the book on the sofa, and wiped the lone tear that had escaped my eye.

"God...I hate seeing you so broken. Oh..."

She sniffled, tears now brimming her eyes, and I shook my head, pulling my hand from hers, and wiping her face.

"Don't cry, Robyn, please...I'm sorry."

"I see so much potential in you, and it's just so. Damn. Frustrating. To watch you push it away, no matter what it is: your craft, your love life, whatever else. I know you wanna love her, BB, you already do, whether you admit it or not. Why are you fighting it? Why are you punishing yourself? Let her in...she's worth it."

I looked down, watching her play with the promise ring on her finger, contemplating her words. I was silent, and after a moment, Robyn cleared her throat and picked up her book and glasses, and stood, bending down to press a kiss to my forehead.

"I'm just gonna head over to Kelly's...to give y'all some space. Call us if you need us, okay?...Love you."

I looked up, nodding and forcing a small smile.

"Love you, too."

Robyn headed to the bedroom and returned a moment later with her purse and the keys to the car, giving me another quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before disappearing out the door.

I spent the next half hour trying—and failing—to distract myself from the impending arrival of Aaliyah. Suddenly, the kitchen needed cleaning, and the living room needed dusting, and the bathroom needed scrubbing, and the sheets needed changing, and the garbage needed taking out.

As I emptied the trash into the large dumpster chute on my apartment floor level, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled the phone out and read Aaliyah's message that she was on her way. My stomach began twisting and turning.

I rushed back into the familiar confines of the building, my footsteps echoing through the hallways as I made my way to the sanctuary of my apartment. After washing the filth from my hands, the living room became a stage for my restless pacing, my hands wringing together in a futile attempt to calm my frayed nerves. Halfway through my second lap, the Ring doorbell chimed.

She was here.

I paused abruptly, casting a quick glance at my reflection in the hallway mirror. With trembling fingers, I smoothed my hair, wiped my hands on my leggings, and applied a thin layer of lip balm, hoping it would mask the dryness my teeth had chewed into my lips. "Stop stallin', Beyoncé," I whispered to myself. "Open the damn door."

With measured steps, I approached the front door, the deadbolt clicking as I unlocked it. As I pulled the door open, my eyes fell upon a figure standing in the doorway with their back to me.

Clad in a black motorcycle helmet, matching leather outfit, and boots, with a duffle bag slung over their shoulder, they seemed like a mysterious visitor from another realm.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, fear gripped my soul. Was this a stranger who came to rob or kidnap me? Or perhaps, more logically, had they simply stumbled upon the wrong apartment? As these thoughts raced through my mind, the figure turned, and I found myself face-to-face with the unknown.

The enigmatic figure stood before me, their face concealed behind the dark tint of the helmet. As I parted my lips to ask about their identity, a gloved hand reached up, removing the helmet in a single, fluid motion.

A cascade of shiny, dark ginger hair with a chestnut brown undertone tumbled down, loose body waves rippling over shoulders and back. The helmet dangled at their side as they looked up, flipping their hair with a subtle grace that stole the breath from my lungs and set my heart racing.

Those brown eyes, once radiant and filled with joy, now bore the marks of sorrow. Red-rimmed and swollen, they glistened with the remnants of tears shed, lids puffy and cheeks stained with the tracks of their passage.

A plush bottom lip quivered, a shy, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of a mouth I had tasted countless times before, painted in a clear gloss that caught the light.

She looked at me through her lashes, the helmet swaying gently from her fingertips. Her lips parted, a silent invitation, a wordless plea, as she took a tentative step forward. Yet, as if caught in a dance of hesitation, my own feet carried me backward, retreating into the depths of the apartment.

One step forward, one step back. Cat and mouse. Predator and prey. Key and lock. The natural order of life.

Her eyes tracked my every movement as I backed away, until the cool marble of the kitchen island counter pressed against my lower spine, a lifeline to anchor my weakening knees.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat a manifestation of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. My chest tightened as her expression shifted, determination replacing the timid uncertainty that had colored her features moments before.

With a deliberate slowness, she licked her lips, then set the duffle bag, gloves, and helmet on the small table near the entrance.

Her gaze never wavered from mine as she unzipped the Vanson moto jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders with a casual grace. The fabric draped over the back of one of the armchairs in the living room, a silent claim on the space.

Her leather pants hugged her every curve, and the crop top showed a sliver of her toned, flat stomach, the smooth, soft skin begging to be touched. The click of the door, closed and locked, reverberated through the room like a gunshot, a sound that echoed in the chambers of my heart, sealing our fate.

As she moved towards me once more, I found myself rooted in place, transfixed by her presence, my body no longer obeying the commands of my mind. She drew closer, each step erasing the distance that had separated us for almost two long, agonizing weeks.

With every inch of space she claimed, my senses awakened, attuned to the essence of her being. The clean, crisp scent of her body wash that stirred memories of intimate moments and stolen kisses. Beneath it, the faint traces of her familiar Coco Mademoiselle perfume held its place.

Her proximity ignited a warmth within me, the heat radiating from her body seeping into my own, thawing the ice that had encased my heart in her absence. It was a fire that threatened to consume me, to burn away the doubts and fears that had taken root in the void she had left behind.

I could almost hear the racing thoughts that tumbled through her mind, a cacophony of emotions that mirrored the chaos within my own. Questions left unasked, apologies left unsaid, and the desperate longing for a future that had once seemed so certain, all swirled in the space between us.

The kiss she placed upon my cheek served as a prelude, a tender whisper of the storm to come. Time suspended, the world receded, leaving only the sensation of her lips against my skin. I closed my eyes, yielding to the moment, aware that stepping beyond this boundary meant irrevocable change.

I was already lost, even before our clothes surrendered to the floor and her wine-sweet kisses traced a path along my body. The looming consequences, the prospective wreckage—mere shadows, powerless against the engulfing tide of our need. Her gaze had claimed me, wholly, and I surrendered myself to her, body and soul.

The past shed away, the future unrolled before us—a pristine canvas eager to be stained with the hues of our passion. I knew I would willingly drown in her depths, time and time again, for eternity.

As she bridged the final distance between us, her presence eclipsed all else.

The breath I had been holding released as Aaliyah reached up, running her fingers through the hair that framed my face, her eyes dropping briefly to my lips. When I gave a slight nod, her hand slid behind my neck, tangling itself in the hair at the nape, and she pulled me to her, crashing against my lips.

Her other hand moved to cup my cheek and the kiss, which started with a gentle pressure, became more intense as she pressed her body into mine. I could taste the saltiness of her tears, and the sweetness of her lip gloss, and the desperation of her desire.

I raised my hands and clutched the soft fabric of her shirt, balling it in my fists, returning the kiss with the same intensity, pouring every ounce of emotion I had into it.

Her hand in my hair tightened, her nails lightly scraping my scalp, and the other moved down, caressing my shoulder, down my arm, and finally, settling at my hip, her fingers gripping tightly.

My tongue swiped at her lips, and she quickly obliged, opening her mouth, and moaning softly, as our tongues danced together, neither dominating, just moving in perfect harmony.

The hand at my hip traveled upwards, under my sweatshirt, and the palm rested flat against my stomach, sending shivers throughout my body. Her thumb traced a gentle pattern against the soft skin, and it was my turn to moan, a quiet whimper escaping my lips.

Too soon, the kiss was broken, and we pulled apart, breathing heavily. Our eyes fluttered open and we searched for the other.

The tears were flowing freely down Aaliyah's cheeks, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hand untangled itself from my hair, and slid down my neck, over my chest, and down my arm, stopping briefly to twine her fingers with mine.

She lifted our hands, pressing another kiss to the back of mine, before placing it over her heart, where it was pounding erratically beneath the surface.

"Feel this," she whispered, her voice hoarse and strained. "This is what you do to me, Beyoncé...this is all for you. Baby, nobody...nobody has ever made me feel the way you make me feel."

Her free hand came up to grip the waistband of my leggings, pulling me flush against her, and her forehead dropped to mine.

"Aaliyah," I choked, releasing her hand, and cupped her cheeks, brushing her tears away. "...I love you."

As the words left my mouth, her head snapped up, her eyes wide and questioning, as if she were wondering if she had heard me correctly. My thumbs ran across her cheekbones, and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth.

Three words, eight letters. Three words that had so much power. Three words that carried so much weight. Three words that were so simple, yet so difficult to say. Three words that I had not said romantically in nearly four years.

And now, they had come easily, spilling from my mouth, without thought or hesitation, without regret or remorse. And I felt nothing but love, adoration, desire, and peace.

"Say it again," She murmured.

I pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, and brought my head back, looking directly into her eyes.

"I love you, Aaliyah. I'm...in love with you."

The biggest smile I had ever seen spread across her face, and her dimples appeared, the crinkle appearing at the bridge of her nose.

"...I'm in love with you, too, Beyoncé."

Another kiss, this one short and sweet, and she wrapped her arms around my waist, hugging me tightly. My arms encircled her shoulders and I nuzzled my face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in, allowing her scent to surround me, to consume me.

We held each other for a long time, savoring the feeling of being in each other's embrace. Being wrapped in Aaliyah's arms again was like being at home, fresh baked cookies and warm milk, Saturday morning cartoons and snuggles, the excitement of the first day of school—fresh fit with the shoes to match laid out on the bed the night before, and the safety of a blanket fort.

To me, home had always been a person, not a place, because a home was supposed to be where you were the safest, the most comfortable, and the happiest. Places changed, people changed, but love remained constant, if nurtured properly.

Home was the one person who brought joy to your life, no matter how bad the day had been. Home was the one person who understood you, and loved you, despite your flaws. Home was the one person you could share your deepest, darkest secrets with, knowing they would never judge you, or betray your trust.

Home was the one person you could laugh with, no matter how silly the joke was, or how corny the punchline. Home was the one person who would be there when you cried, no matter how many tissues were used or how many bottles of wine were opened.

Home was the one person with whom you would share the greatest triumphs and the worst tragedies, because they were your biggest cheerleader and strongest shoulder to lean on.

Home was the one person who made you feel complete, because they were the missing piece you didn't realize you were looking for.

I had homes that served different purposes, different needs. I had the homes of family, and the homes of friends. I had the home where I had grown up, and the home where I had escaped to. I had the home of work, and the home of leisure, of parties and celebrations, of gatherings and getaways.

But the one home the maintenance crew always neglected was the home of heart. And with every passing day, it fell more and more into disrepair, the foundation crumbling, the walls cracking, the roof leaking, the pipes rusting, and the floors rotting.

I'd couchsurfed for years, unable to find a place to lay my head, unable to find peace, unable to find rest. I'd rented, hoping the space would serve as a temporary solution, but I was constantly evicted, never quite fitting in.

I'd even tried to build a home from scratch, but my tools were not up to par, the blueprint faulty, and the supplies not suitable, leaving me stranded and stranded, without a single stone in place.

Until the day Aaliyah had shown up.

Toolbox and blueprint in hand, she had rolled up her sleeves and gotten to work, refusing to allow me the opportunity to sabotage myself, refusing to give up on me, refusing to leave me.

She was the attendant that had come along, and promised to restore the dilapidated structure to its former glory, promising that she would not stop working, until it was perfect.

After a while, Aaliyah leaned back slightly, peppering light, loving kisses all over my face, causing me to giggle and squirm. She laughed, a carefree, joyous sound that I had missed terribly. Eventually, we pulled apart, and her fingers grazed across my forehead, sweeping stray hairs back, and tucking them behind my ear.

"I missed you," Aaliyah said softly, smiling at me.

"I missed you, too," I replied, returning her smile.

"Can we sit?" She asked, glancing towards the sofa.

"Of course."

Taking her hand, I led her into the living room, sitting next to her and turning sideways, draping my legs over her thighs, our fingers still interlocked. We gazed at each other, Aaliyah's free hand resting gently on my shin.

Her thumb brushed absently across the back of my hand, as we said nothing. Pointless staring was all we did, just drinking in the sight of each other. It was almost like we were trying to convince ourselves that the other was actually there, that this was reality and not a dream.

"I love this color on you."

We both spoke at the same time, and giggled.

"Thank you," I said, squeezing her hand.

"You're welcome," she responded, stroking my leg.

"How did you get into the building? Someone let you in on their way out?"

She simply nodded. "They kinda hesitated because I still had my helmet on...oh, wait...let me show you what I brought."

Aaliyah got up, kissing the top of my head, and the sound of a zipper being undone soon filled the room. She returned and sat back down with three boxes in her arms.

"These are for you, baby."

She handed them to me, and I placed them on the coffee table in front of me.

"What are they?"

"Open them and find out."

The first box was the smallest one. The wrapping paper was a delicate floral print, and it was tied with a purple ribbon. I removed the wrapping and ribbon, and when I opened the box, I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand.

"Aaliyah..."

She tilted her head and grinned. "Do you like it?"

Nestled inside the Cartier box was a white gold necklace with a brilliant-cut diamond pendant that glittered even in the low light of the living room. It was delicate, classic, and beautiful.

"Of course I do, Liyah...it's gorgeous."

She reached forward, taking the necklace from the box, and motioning for me to turn, unclasping the chain and securing it around my neck.

She placed a quick kiss on my cheek, and handed me the next box that was the size of a large shoebox. This one was wrapped in the same paper, and had a larger, silk ribbon tied around it.

With each layer of wrapping that fell away, I felt a sense of excitement building within me. As I opened the box, my eyes widened in disbelief, and I found myself transported back to a moment from a month prior, a memory that had been etched into my mind.

Inside the box, two pairs of shoes lay nestled together, like long-lost friends reunited at last. The Miista Sander boots and Margiela Tabi Mary Janes, in the exact styles and colors I had admired during our FaceTime session, seemed to wink at me, as if they knew the secret desires of my heart.

I remembered how I had shared my screen with Aaliyah, window shopping online on SSENSE, dreaming of the day I could see these beauties in person, perhaps even slip them onto my feet and feel their embrace.

"Yeah, they're both your size, too, right? I remember you mentioning how much you loved these, so when I saw them while walking through SoHo, I knew had to get them," she said. "Try them on, baby, let's see if I did good."

Aaliyah winked at me, and I grinned, carefully removing the boots from their box and slipping my feet into them. They fit perfectly, like they were made just for me. I wiggled my toes, testing the space, and stood, slowly walking a few feet, and turning back.

"What do you think?"

Her eyes trailed down the length of my legs, lingering on the footwear for a moment, before returning to my face.

"Mmm...they look even sexier on you than they did at the store."

I blushed and sat back down, unzipping the boots, and placing them back in the box.

"Thank you, baby," I said, pecking her lips. "They're perfect."

"You're welcome, Bey."

I took the third box from her, the skinniest and largest of the three. It was rectangular, and flat, and wrapped in a navy blue paisley print with a silver ribbon. As I carefully removed the paper and ribbon, my heart raced with anticipation, wondering what final surprise Aaliyah had in store for me.

Her face revealed nothing, remaining neutral, unlike her reactions to the previous two boxes, which had clearly shown her giddiness. Even her eyes gave nothing away.

As I nervously laughed, wondering about the contents of the box and her potential reaction, she watched me patiently, her hands clasped in her lap. When I finally lifted the lid and saw what was beneath the tissue paper, I froze, hardly believing my eyes.

An original Njideka Akunyili Crosby painting.

I thought I had lost consciousness.

"Aaliyah, no," I exclaimed, lifting the painting from the box. A certificate of authorization along with a personalized note could be found at the bottom of the box. The back of the canvas had a small label, indicating the title and year it was completed. A small black stamp, imprinted with her signature, sat at the bottom right-hand corner. "You...no. Baby...how did you...I can't even...I don't-"

"You don't have to say anything, Bey." She cackled.

I sat the painting carefully against the armchair, setting the shoebox on the coffee table, and straddled her. She leaned her head back and smiled up at me, and I cupped her cheeks, leaning down and kissing her deeply.

My tongue brushed against her lips, seeking permission, and she opened her mouth, sighing softly as our tongues met. Her hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer, and I kissed her harder, the ferocity of my gratitude for her gesture unmistakable.

My arms circled her neck, and I threaded my fingers into her hair, tugging slightly. The kiss intensified even more, Aaliyah sucking on my lower lip and sliding her hands under my sweatshirt, her palms gliding up the expanse of my bare back.

Her fingertips ghosted over my skin, tracing patterns and writing messages, communicating everything she was unable to say.

"Mmm," she hummed, breaking the kiss, and pulling back slightly. "I really, really missed you."

I bit down on my lip, looking down at her through heavy-lidded eyes, and rocked my hips, grinding against her slowly. "I wanna do somethin' for you."

"You already have," Aaliyah chuckled softly.

"Let me do more."

"Baby, I'm good. As long as I'm here with you, that's all I need."

My head shook slightly, and I moved her hair, exposing the side of her neck.

"I wanna take care of you," I whispered, brushing my lips along the shell of her ear. "The way you take care of me."

My eyes landed on the new ink on her skin, and my fingers traced the intricate design that snaked along the back and side of her neck.

This tattoo depicted an angel, not a passive or serene cherub of common lore, but a fierce guardian caught in mid-flight, its wings unfurled in majestic defiance against the mundane.

Every line of the angel's body spoke of motion and intent, its form arching with the grace of a divine archer. The wings, masterfully shaded, seemed almost to quiver with ethereal energy, suggesting they could at any moment burst into a powerful flap and propel the angel into the unseen realms above.

This angel, with its bow drawn, was a sentinel on her skin, a symbol of protection or a harbinger of a message yet to be delivered. It was as if the tattoo itself whispered secrets of resilience and beauty, visible to the world yet intimately connected to the depths of her soul.

"New tat," I murmured, pressing a kiss at the tip of its wing. "It's beautiful. The one on your back is still my favorite, but this might be her best work."

My lips trailed kisses down her neck, along her collarbone, and back up, sucking lightly at the base of her neck, and flicking my tongue over her pulse point.

"Yeah," Aaliyah breathed. "I designed it...but...I—mmph...Kidada wasn't the one who did it...she referred me to someone else...while I was gone."

She groaned quietly, her fingers digging deeper into my flesh, and she tilted her head to the side, giving me more access to her sensitive skin.

"And Eric colored your hair? He did such a good job, too. He'll have to teach me his ways."

"Mm hmm...yeah," Aaliyah mumbled.

I shifted backwards, sliding off her lap and kneeling in front of her. My hands ran up her thighs, slipping under the crop top, and pushed it up, baring her stomach, and then I moved to pull the fabric over her head, discarding the shirt on the floor.

Her arms rested along the backrest cushion behind her, and she leaned back, watching me intently as I slipped her boots off.

Our eye contact hadn't wavered once.

"Tell me about the tattoo," I said, kissing just above her belly button. "Does it mean anythin'?"

My fingers undid the button on her pants, and unzipped them, before moving up and hooking into the waistband.

"Lift."

Aaliyah raised her hips, and I tugged the leather down her legs, letting it join the crop top.

"It represents freedom," she answered. "mainly...from the bullshit."

My hands ran up her thighs once more, and Aaliyah spread her legs a bit, allowing me better access. My fingers toyed with the waistband of her black seamless cotton underwear.

"Tell me more."

She inhaled sharply as my teeth grazed the inside of her thigh, and her eyes fluttered shut.

"Bey," she moaned.

"Keep talkin', Liyah," I murmured, nibbling at her skin. "Tell me how it makes you feel."

"Free. Liberated...Empowered. Like the only limits...are the ones that I set," Aaliyah whispered. "...it reminds me...of you."

Aaliyah's admission caused me to pause. My forehead dropped to her thigh, and my eyes closed. I sighed, a shuddering exhale, that conveyed the intensity of my emotions.

"How?"

My voice was muffled against her leg, and her hand came down, her fingertips finding their way into my hair. She massaged my scalp, and after a few moments, she tugged gently, and I lifted my head, resting the side of my face atop her thigh.

"It represents...the things you make me feel. The way you make me feel. With you, I feel free, Bey. Free to love and be loved. Free to be who I truly am, and not who anyone else wants me to be. Free to be vulnerable, and open, and honest, without worrying about rejection or judgement. Free to let go, and stop holding back. And that's such a powerful feeling. One that I hadn't felt in a long time."

I smiled, and placed a kiss just above the waistband, before straightening up, and tugging her to stand with me.

"Follow me," I said, tracing the outlines of her abs, and circling her navel. "I wanna show you somethin'."

I guided Aaliyah to the bedroom, stopping in front of the full-length mirror next to the closet door while she sat in the middle of the bed. Her hands rested against the mattress, staring at the pole she constantly teased me about with a smug grin.

I briefly stepped out of the room to turn on the heater and grabbed the boxes along with her stuff, bringing them into the bedroom and setting them on the dresser, before setting up my Bluetooth speakers. "Shirt" by SZA began playing, and I turned the volume down so that it could be heard, but not loud enough to disrupt us.

Nothing was planned, and there was no agenda. Tonight was not about sex, or passion, or desire. It was about care, and love, and healing. Tonight was about me, worshipping Aaliyah, and her body, for hours on end.

Slowly, I approached the pole, and gripped it, my hips swaying to the beat. My eyes locked on hers, and I wet my lips, dragging my teeth across my lower lip. My hands moved from the pole, traveling along the curves of my body, touching myself in places she longed to.

The ability to seize her attention, to ensnare it so completely, was so intoxicating. She was spellbound, her focus sharp and unyielding, her eyes wide and unblinking as each particle of clothing was stripped from my body, leaving me in just my panties.

Though I had never confessed this to her, I wanted Aaliyah to watch me from the very moment she voiced her first request. I yearned to perform for her, to dance a tantalizing ballet of desire that would leave her aching for more, knowing I was hers alone.

As the sultry beats of the music continued to fill the air, I reached out to the pole once more. My movements were deliberate and fluid; I hooked my leg around its metallic surface and allowed my body to swing around it, twisting and turning with an almost feline grace.

I performed a series of spins, climbs, and sensuous drops, each motion more provocative than the last, using every inch of the space to draw her in deeper. All the while, Aaliyah watched me, her fascination evident in the subtle bite of her lip and the crossing of her leg.

After a series of mesmerizing maneuvers, I let my body flow down to the ground with the elegance of a falling feather. Slowly, I sauntered towards her, each step a deliberate tease. With a smooth motion, I climbed onto her lap, straddling her with strong intent.

Gently, I pushed her back until she was lying on the bed. Her hand was smacked against the mattress as her attempt to touch me was thwarted.

"Tsk, tsk," I admonished her. "Hands to yourself."

She had a mischievous expression on her face, propping herself up on her forearms.

The song faded out, and a slower, seductive beat replaced it.

I traced the edges of her bra with my index finger, trailing along the top of it. My eyes briefly found hers as I waited for her to catch on to my intentions. Without hesitation, she unclasped the front clasp between her breasts and tossed it off to the side.

"Turn over," I instructed, tapping her hip.

She obliged, and flipped over, and as she did, I trailed my hands down her back, and across the swell of her ass, before smacking it firmly, eliciting a loud moan from her. Her hips thrust forward and her back arched, and I smirked, kneading her soft, plump flesh, and leaning down, nipping at her skin.

"You're so sexy, Liyah," I purred, dragging my tongue along her spine, and kissing the small of her back. "Every...single...part of you."

I sat back on my heels, massaging her shoulders for a few minutes before working my way down to her lower back. Aaliyah hummed in approval as I applied more pressure to certain spots, loosening her muscles.

She was putty in my hands, and I intended to take advantage of every second to ensure she received exactly what she needed.

My hands rested against her ass once more, squeezing softly, and rubbing small circles into the skin before I heard her mumble into the comforter.

"What was that, baby?"

"...do it again."

My eyebrow shot up as she turned her head slightly. She was asking for it?

"You sure?" I laughed. I'd interpreted her words as a joke.

"Mm hmm."

Her nod was so faint I barely caught it, and I paused for a moment, still uncertain if she was serious or not. Deciding to indulge her whim, I raised my hand and brought it down softly, almost as if I were patting a puppy's head.

She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked over her shoulder at me.

"I'm not made of glass, Bey," Aaliyah chuckled. She turned to sit up and scooted towards me.

She planted a sweet kiss on my lips and wrapped her arms around my neck. My hands slid down to her hips, and she shivered as I squeezed her thighs gently.

My head dipped, and she sucked in a breath as my lips trailed along her collarbone and the valley between her breasts. Her hands moved down my arms and came to rest against my wrists as I palmed her breasts gently, squeezing them in my hands.

"Peaches...I don't think...mmm...I can handle anymore teasing, tonight," she smiled. "...I need you. So bad."

"Patience, baby," I cooed, taking one of them into my mouth gently. "We've got all night."

She grabbed my hand and brought it between her thighs, groaning when my fingers brushed against the immensely damp fabric of her underwear.

"See...how patient I've been? Please, Peaches."

I hooked my fingers and pulled the cotton fabric to the side, her arousal shining on her inner thighs.

"Oh my..."

I hadn't pleasured a woman, never imagined I'd be the one doing the pleasing, and here I was with Aaliyah, poised at the edge of an entirely new experience.

Despite my lack of practical knowledge, I had tried to prepare—scouring articles, watching videos, and foolishly gathering advice from friends who shared the same level of expertise as myself. Yet, standing in the stark reality of the moment, I found it was nothing like the rehearsals in my head. Doubts crept in, making me feel unsteady, unsure, and utterly inadequate.

Aaliyah's voice broke through my haze of insecurity. "What's wrong?" she asked, her brows knitting together in concern.

"It's nothin', I just—" I faltered, fumbling with the hair tie around my wrist before quickly pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I hated that my hesitation might have made her feel uncomfortable, or worse, think it was her fault.

"Hey. Talk to me, Bey. I'm not gonna judge you or be offended."

"I don't know what I'm doin'," I sighed. "What if—what if I mess up...or do it wrong...or make a fool of myself? What if...you don't enjoy it?"

"Baby...look at me. There's no script, there's no playbook, and there's no set of rules. Do what comes naturally. Follow my responses, follow your instincts, and listen when I tell you how good you're making me feel..." She discarded her underwear, and spread her legs, reaching for my hand again. "I know you'll take good care of me...you're already doing a damn good job."

I looked down and couldn't put two and two together that my middle two fingers were inside her, without even realizing. My eyes widened, and Aaliyah laughed softly, and my head snapped up, looking at her face, searching for any signs of discomfort.

"I'm okay, Bey. Just...keep going."

I pulled out slightly, and pushed back in, slowly, watching her reaction. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and her jaw went slack, as a quiet moan escaped her lips.

She opened her legs wider, giving me more ease. I tried to imagine how she made me feel when she touched me this way, what movements made me react strongly, which positions and angles were the most pleasurable. I replicated those movements, searching for that elusive spot that drove me crazy every time.

Everyone was different, though.

"Like that? Is this good?"

"Almost...," she moaned, and her hand moved over her chest, caressing her breasts. "A little bit deeper and—"

Her hips bucked violently, and her eyes snapped open, bright and full of stars, reflecting a universe of feelings. From her lips came a sound soft yet profound, one I had never heard from her before: a keening cry that was one part sigh and two parts moan and three parts anguish and four parts ecstasy.

It was a sound that was desperate and triumphant at the same time. It was the sound of someone discovering something new—an equation that worked in favor of them—and feeling equal parts gratitude for their discovery and fury that they had not come across this sooner.

Her right hand stilled its ministrations on her chest, and fisted the bedsheets, gripping tightly as her body trembled in response to my movements.

She bit down on her lower lip to try and prevent the moans from spilling forth, but it did not work. Instead, they took on a more desperate tone, growing in volume as the pleasure mounted inside her.

I looked down again at where we were connected, and noticed a glistening sheen on my fingers as I continued to move them in and out of her at a steady pace. Every so often, she would murmur for me to go a little faster or harder or deeper or curl them at the end, and I would oblige.

In and out, in and out.

A little faster here, a little harder there. Deeper still.

I felt powerful. I felt in control. I felt wanted.

Aaliyah was falling apart beneath me. Because of me. And the sight was glorious to behold.

"You're so wet," I murmured.

"Mmm...that's all because of you," she gasped. "Fuck. Baby...that feels so fucking good...don't stop."

Aaliyah's words poured over me like warm honey, and I leaned down, trailing kisses across her neck and chest, nipping lightly at her sensitive flesh, and sucking gently, marking her as mine. My kisses trailed down her stomach, pausing briefly before I lifted my head to look at her. "Can I taste you?"

She nodded enthusiastically, and her breathing hitched when I moved lower down her body, kissing across her pelvic bone.

"Tell me how you want it," I said softly. "Show me what feels good to you."

Her right hand left the bedsheets and moved between her legs, instructing me on how to please her. Her fingers guided mine, showing me exactly what she desired. For the longest time, my eyes never strayed, taking mental notes and filing them away for later use.

When I finally grew more confident and comfortable, she laid back and her fingers fell away, and my tongue took over the task.

The taste was intoxicating, and addictive, and unlike anything I had ever experienced before.

I lapped and sucked her greedily, determined to consume her until there was nothing left. Her hand cradled the side of my face before it gripped the sheets and pillows as it had done earlier.

Her hips canted upwards, her back arched, and her breath quickened. Her moans were long and drawn out, punctuated by the occasional whine or whimper that fell from her lips.

Inside her, my fingers quickened their pace, while my tongue flickered across her sensitive spots, tracing sloppy patterns. Her thighs trembled, and her breaths came in short, strangled gasps.

"Bey...shit, shit, shit," she whimpered, her back arching. "I'm gonna come...fuck, Bey...I'm gonna come."

Her head rolled from side to side on the pillow as I doubled down. Then, after a few more seconds, Aaliyah's entire body stiffened, and her walls clenched around my fingers. The most beautiful sounds I had ever heard rang in my ears.

She called out my name, as wave after wave rolled through her, her body spasming, and shaking, and convulsing. Her thighs closed around my head, keeping me trapped between them. And through it all, I never slowed or stopped. I kept going.

Eventually, Aaliyah tapped my head, signaling for me to stop, but I wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine, so I ignored her and licked her clean, relishing her essence.

She groaned, her hips bucking, trying to escape the stimulation. "Baby, please...sh—"

Her attempts became more frantic, and finally, her body gave out, and she surrendered herself to me. Her hand rested on top of my head, and she held it, riding my fingers until another orgasm overtook her.

"Okay, okay, Bey," she laughed weakly, tugging on my hair. "I can't."

She slumped back onto the mattress, spent, and sated, her chest heaving as she attempted to catch her breath. I pulled away from her, and in an attempt to slip my fingers out, her body twitched involuntarily, clamping down on them once more, and a strangled groan left her.

"Sorry, sorry," I mumbled. "I didn't mean to—"

"Stop...apologizing, baby—it's fine," she said, laughing breathlessly. Her arm covered her face, and her body continued to tremble slightly. "Fuck..."

I observed my slick fingers, and after a moment's mesmerization, I brought them to my mouth, tasting her, and humming softly. Aaliyah uncovered her face and smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't start," I giggled.

She halfheartedly beckoned for me to come closer, and I crawled up the length of her body, nestling into her embrace, giving her a tender kiss before resting my head on her chest.

Aaliyah's fingertips grazed across my bare back, tracing nonsensical patterns onto my skin, and she pressed light kisses into the top of my head.

"Did you like it?" I asked quietly, trailing my fingertips along her ribs.

She chuckled, her chest rumbling slightly, and pulled me closer.

"What do you think, Bey?"

"I wanna hear you say it," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her sternum, and resting the side of my face against her. "...tell me."

"I loved it, baby," she replied, sighing contentedly, her fingers continuing their movement. "Ten outta ten."

I hummed and relaxed into her, closing my eyes and listening to the soothing beat of her heart. "A ten?From the looks of it, I wore you out, so it's gotta at least be eleven, and we've only just begun...you might wanna work on your endurance, baby."

Aaliyah burst out in a short bark of laughter, kissing her teeth. "Oh you feelin' yourself right now, huh?"

"A lil bit," I admitted, pinching my fingers together.

We both laughed as she rolled us over, pinning me beneath her.

"I got somethin' for that smart mouth," she whispered. Her face lowered and her lips hovered above mine. "You could consider it another gift...just without the wrapping paper."

I grinned like a fool.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Like a Tattoo" by Sade

"Beyoncé...this is literally just a picture of horses. Why you actin' like this is some sorta Picasso or somethin'? Shit, Picasso ain't even that good either."

Guggenheim Museum was a bit quieter than I remembered it. The sparse weekday crowd meandered through the curving galleries, occasional whispers bouncing off Frank Lloyd Wright's smooth, organic architecture.

Even the air was quiet; still and sterile. Not a single bird chirping or car horn blaring in the New York air.

But the paintings and photos were a lot louder. They always were, of course. With the artwork being inanimate, their personalities had to be louder and brasher than their human creators could ever be.

I was never sure if that was their intention, but their bright colors and dramatic lines certainly drew the eye.

Flashy, obnoxious, attention whores, but many couldn't help but watch them.

Even more than the architecture of the museum itself. And even louder still was the redheaded woman standing beside me, who had apparently decided that hosting a live session on TikTok was required to voice her thoughts on every single piece of art she came across.

What stood out to me the most, though, was the canvas print I forced Solange and O'Ryan to take pictures of me in front of. Horses. It was a photo of horses.

Not Kahlo, not Warhol.

Just horses.

And while my cynical mates did not agree with my assessment of this fine piece of photography, O'Ryan did agree to take several photos of me posing in front of it.

"Would you relax for, like, two seconds?" O'Ryan frowned and took a step back, phone still in hand. "I can't get a good picture of Bey while you complainin' in my ear."

Solange scowled. "You not even angled right, and both of y'all got the nerve to come for my skills."

O'Ryan took a few shots, letting Solange inspect them afterwards.

"See, what did I tell you? The lighting ain't right—"

"What do you mean? You see this bright ass lamp over us? How is this not—"

"Oh, shut up, both of you," I sighed. O'Ryan passed over my phone as Solange crossed her arms over her sweatshirt. Her belly peeked out from underneath it, the subtle protruding bump a reminder that a new addition to the Knowles family was on the way. And why her spirit was particularly testy lately, too.

"Y'all had to take me all the way uptown for this shit," she grumbled. "Ain't nothin' in the Upper East, but some rich white folks with too much time on their hands. Always lookin' at me sideways, too. Probably thinkin' I'mma steal somethin'."

She bucked at the redheaded woman who gawked at the three of us as she strolled past, causing her to nearly drop her phone.

"This isn't 'shit'," I corrected, scrolling through the photos O'Ryan took to hide the snickers that dared escape my lips. They were fine, but not exactly the ideal shot I was going for. "It's inspired by—or I think it's supposed to be inspired by—Franz Marc's Three Horses Drinking."

"Who?" Solange scrunched her face.

"They one of those abstract artist dudes," O'Ryan responded.

"A German Expressionist," I added. "One of the founders of Der Blaue Reiter movement."

"So, what's so crazy about this compared to all the other cool shit we already seen here? This has gotta be one of the most boring ones we saw. I could've done this." Solange gestured to the photo behind us.

Three horses, standing on a grassy field with their heads bent downward into a small pond. Simple and mundane.

"Nothing," I admitted, eyes darting between her and the photo. "That's the beauty of it. Franz Marc painted things that were simple, everyday occurrences. Things we don't really give a second glance to. He took these images, which seem so unimportant to us, and turned them into art. With symbolism and meaning. Because art doesn't have to be complicated to be beautiful, deep or impactful. Sometimes...it can just be what it is. I get it, though. Most people don't see art as 'art' unless there's a deeper meaning right in front of their faces. It's easier to just stare at something and see what you want to see, than to try to dissect it and learn more about it. Or even to appreciate the creator's intent."

Simplicity, no matter how ordinary, was not easy to achieve. It was something I admired artists for. Something I wanted to emulate, too. They'd make your head spin with the symbolism. With the angst. The rage. The love. The joy.

"Seems a lil pretentious," Solange shrugged.

"She got a point," O'Ryan chimed in, laughing. "It's horses."

"Just pay attention to the subtlety of the piece," I pointed out. "The sky. See how vast it is? How it seems to press down on them?"

The photographer seemed to have a unique way of capturing expansiveness in a manner that felt almost suffocating. The sky wasn't just a backdrop; it played an active role in the composition, enhancing the emotional weight of the scene.

"It's literally just some clouds in the sky."

"Not just clouds," I countered as Solange squinted, tilting her head. "Notice the gradation. It's almost like a gradient of grays and whites leading into the horizon...My ex used to play with sky gradients a lot in his photos, saying that the sky reflects our feelings—endless, ever-changing, yet somehow always the same. But also, look at the edges of the clouds. See how they're slightly blurred? It's subtle but deliberate, creating a...soft focus that...makes the monotonous...seem supernatural."

As she looked again, I noticed how the light played subtly across the scene. The way the light fell on the horses' manes, soft yet highlighting their curves with a gentle precision, turned them almost ethereal against the darker, richer colors of their bodies, echoing a technique he used often.

"And the tone," I continued, quieter, softer. "There's a somberness to it. It's not just a photograph. It's a feeling. A story, and maybe a reflection of its creator's inner world. All his insecurities and fears. Everythin' he felt like the world was pressin' down on him, too, and he was unable to voice it. Just...left unsaid, but deeply felt."

I paused, my throat tight. "Maybe that's why he took a photo of these horses," I murmured almost to myself, the realization dawning on me slowly, painfully. "Because it's just another mundane, ordinary thing in our lives that most take for granted. But for him...I guess he's finally startin' to see more in it. Never did before, never gave it a second thought, but suddenly there's meaning he sees that he never saw before. What was there, waitin' for him the whole time. And now...he can't stop noticin' it... because it's everythin' he wants. Everythin' he needs—"

Solange's sudden chain of sneezes broke my concentration. I was grateful for it, though. She didn't need to know the rest of my thoughts.

"Oh. Bless you," I smiled weakly. O'Ryan offered his bless yous as well.

"Mmhm," Solange sniffled. "That's nice an' all, but whatever," she took a brief moment to look at the gold plaque beneath the photo, "'Skepta's' or whatever this shit says here's intentions were, doesn't change that it's just a photo of horses."

"Ugh, Solange, what do I have to do to get you to appreciate the little things in life?"

"Get me the fuck outta here and treat me to some Kin Ramen," Solange rubbed her belly. "My baby's in the mood for a pork bun."

"Or five." O'Ryan smirked.

"Don't make me break your other arm. Clumsy ass."

"How far are you now? Ten months?" O'Ryan asked.

"Nigga I swear—I'm approachin' four. Beyoncé, let's go, before I do somethin' I'mma regret." Solange grumbled and grabbed me by my hand.

"I wanna visit the gift shop first. I know you're hungry, but—"

Just as I spoke, the redheaded woman returned, this time racing down the gallery with two much taller brunette males beside her, dressed in all black. She cowered behind them and pointed us out.

"Andddd that's our cue." O'Ryan laughed and nodded toward the exit. "Gift shop is hella overpriced anyway."

We managed to avoid security as Solange pushed us out of the Guggenheim. Only when we were a good few feet away from the museum did we stop to catch our breath and laugh.

The steam and comforting smell of broth that emitted from my bowl of spicy tonkatsu ramen made up for the absurdly long Uber ride down the city.

We were seated at a somewhat cramped but cozy table, the steam from the kitchen fogging up the corners of the windows, giving the place a tucked-away feel, as if we were hidden from the rest of the world. 2000s J-Pop emanated from the speakers and filled the space, accompanying the murmurs and clinks of utensils surrounding us.

There was something fascinating about watching O'Ryan and Solange interact in our pocket of privacy. Polar opposites like Robyn and Kelly, but it was hard tell if they fiercely hated one another or if there was just an odd love-hate relationship between the two.

Neither one was forced to sit next to the other; they both chose to. And neither would've given up their seat.

Even as they debated about which anime character would be best dressed at the MET Gala, Solange seamlessly stepped into the role of caretaker.

With a mix of compassion and patience, she helped O'Ryan maneuver his chopsticks with his less adept left hand, his dominant arm temporarily out of commission with a cast and a brace to match his outfit.

As I slurped some noodles, my gaze met Solange's. Instantly, a blush tinged her cheeks, a silent testament to the emotions she so fiercely guarded.

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards, a fleeting smile she tried to suppress but one that spoke volumes. It was a look of gratitude, a softening around the edges of her usually tough exterior.

I hoped for the day she would let those walls down completely, allowing her affection and vulnerability to show just as freely as her formidable strength. But for now, these small moments of connection, these brief glimpses into her inner warmth, were precious.

She scarfed down her second pork bun, a dollop of sweet chili sauce clinging to her lip.

"Has y'all finally made it official?" O'Ryan asked, taking a swig from his beer bottle.

Solange wiped her face with a napkin and leaned back against her chair. "Still can't believe you bumpin' purses with a lady, a famous one at that.  All my friends can't stop askin' about her. 'What's she like, how'd y'all meet, do y'all have cute celebrity friends y'all could introduce them to'...Shit is wild."

I chuckled. "What can I say, she's a big part of my life now."

"So is that a yes?" Solange propped her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand.

"I...don't know, actually." I stirred a few strands of noodles into the broth, focusing on the sway of the ramen spoon and avoiding Solange's piercing gaze. "But it's gettin' serious. Maybe she'll bring it up soon, like on a night out...or—or I should, right?"

"Well, how serious is serious? Like 'shotgun wedding in Vegas on a whim tonight' serious? Or just fuck buddies with a title?" O'Ryan took another swig from his drink.

"Beyoncé don't do casual." Solange sighed and stole a piece of pork with her chopsticks from O'Ryan's bowl. "She a relationship kinda chick. Has been since she was fourteen, when she went steady with that fat nigga with the fake watches. Remember him?"

"Oh God," I groaned. "Don't remind me. But yeah...I mean, I told her I love her. Not sure if that was too early—"

"Woah woah woah, hold the fuck up," O'Ryan placed his bottle down.

"Ooh," Solange grinned and leaned forward, eager for more gossip.

"It was an emotional night, okay?" I blushed. "And it slipped. But I meant it. Still mean it. And she said it back."

"So, when's the U-Haul van comin' through? Y'all probably already picked out the curtains for the house an' shit."

"Solange...," I rolled my eyes. "I'll have you know we haven't even discussed livin' arrangements or anythin' like that. But I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Same page? Girl, y'all writin' a whole fuckin' book together."

They both laughed.

"Well...," O'Ryan set his chopsticks down, "You guys got a lot to talk about, then. And a lot to figure out. Maybe that'll all happen next weekend at Coachella, who knows."

"That's possible," I smiled and I twirled a strand of noodle against my wooden chopsticks.

"Speaking of Coachella, did you get those ADA accommodations I—"

"Yes, we did, Solange." O'Ryan interrupted with a groan.

"I'm just sayin'. My feet are gonna be swollen as hell, and I know y'all and Daniel are not gonna want me bitchin' the entire time 'cause I didn't have somewhere to sit down. And nigga, you might need one too, so I don't know why you got an attitude."

"Y'all confuse the hell outta me," I giggled, looking around the restaurant at the diverse crowd. More filtered in through the doors, some waiting at the host stand, others squeezing in between the tables and chairs to wait for takeout. "I'm excited, for real, even though the lineup is kinda weak this year. I hope No Doubt brings out..."

No.
No.
No.

Solange's mouth moved. O'Ryan's, too as they held their own conversation. But no words were coherent in my brain. The bustling of the busy kitchen, the clanks of utensils hitting the ceramic bowls, the J-Pop music, and the chatter of the restaurant patrons were gone, replaced only by a hollow ringing and the rapid beating of my heart.

My chest constricted. A heel grinding relentlessly into it. Deeper. Relentlessly deeper.

How? Out of every conceivable spot on Earth? Among the relentless march of hours, minutes, seconds—why here, why now?

A glimpse of chocolate brown skin had flitted through the bustling restaurant crowd.

He stood there, starkly alone in the throng. As if the room held him and only him. His presence, as commanding and daunting as ever. The jawline, sharp and resolute; a brow line so distinct, framing those dark, penetrating eyes. Eyes that spoke of a soul once tortured, a soul I knew too intimately.

Yet now, something had shifted; a softness glimmered within, hinting at a humanity long buried.

His beard, fuller yet meticulously groomed. His hair, not shorn but styled in a tapered fade, revealing the precise, angular contours of his skull—contours my fingers knew well in the quiet of night.

He looked healthier. Happier. Everything I had hoped to see and feel from him. Everything I had prayed he would find.

And it stung.

It hurt to see his broad, genuine smile, eyes twinkling with childlike joy. He laughed—a rich, full-bodied sound that shook his frame. The kind that made his head tilt back, the length of his neck exposed, 'Forever' still inked on his skin. That laugh, once my secret serenade, now a distant echo.

All was lost. Memories turned to dust.

The chasm between us, both physical and metaphorical, yawned wider than the Grand Canyon.

Beside him stood a woman, exotic and unknown to me. Older, statuesque, her sleek black hair cascading down as she spoke with animated passion. Her hands danced through the air, her nonsensical story alive in the glow of harsh lighting reflecting off the large diamond that adorned her finger.

And he, ever attentive, nodded, contributing his thoughts, fully engaged.

They looked content. At ease. Whole.

Her touch on his arm, his open posture towards her—it was enough confirmation.

Our eyes met for a moment.

Only for a moment.

An accidental brush against a stranger's shoulder on the subway.

But the impact lasted forever.

"...aye, Bey. Beyoncé."

"...hey, you good? We've been tryna call you for the last minute."

Solange's hand, warm and solid, landed on mine, looking back in the direction I had been staring, trying to figure out what had me so distracted.

But he was gone. I was gone. O'Ryan signaled for the check, and Solange squeezed my hand.

"Bey...Bey, you're scarin' me," she whispered, her grip tight. "What's goin' on? What did you see?"

"I...."

"Do you need me to handle somethin'?" O'Ryan asked, a cold, calculating stare at the ready. "Who did you see? Should I—"

"N...no. It's fine. I'm fine." I swallowed, my mouth dry. "We can stay."

"Are you sure?" Solange pressed.

"Yes," I lied and forced a smile. "Yes. Let's stay a bit longer. I'm not ready."

I needed to be anywhere but by that front area, though. Anywhere but a place where he could possibly see me. And vice versa.

"I'm not ready...I'm not re—"

"...hey."

It was too late.
Far too late.

His cologne, citrusy with a hint of spice, a new signature scent he must have chosen recently. His deep baritone, his British, north London accent—soothing, gentle, yet demanding. His voice, had found me again.

I dared not look up.

"...wow...you look...different—in a good way...wow...just...so beautiful, radiant. I can't believe how long it's been since I last saw you. It feels like...forever."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Englishman in New York" by Sting

bonus track:  "Energy (Stay Far Away)" by Skepta ft. Wizkid

I cried last night.

No reason. No specific recollection or moment.

Just a wave that seemed to come from some dark place inside me. It wasn't violent, didn't spill a flood of tears or grief. But I felt it move through my body, and in the end, there was a salty taste on my lips.

Life was looking up. I had been feeling better than in years, enjoying peaceful sleep in a plush, all-white, 3,000-count Egyptian cotton pillow top, queen-sized bed surrounded by an absurd number of throw pillows.

My needs were more than met: a stable roof, nourishing meals, immediate access to exquisite coffee and tea from around the globe in her brownstone, caring friends, and, most importantly, a woman I loved—who loved me in return.

And yet, as the sun fell in the Brooklyn sky and the hours of darkness were at their peak, tears welled up inside me. No sobs. Just an ache and a wetness that made themselves known.

I'd tried to keep it quiet. Didn't want to disturb anyone I knew who was over 2,000 miles away. Or O'Ryan, who was likely up late inspecting new sketches for Martine Rose's latest footwear collection in the guest room downstairs. The urge grew mountainous, though, and I was afraid if it didn't tumble out, the wave might grow and crash hard.

So I let myself cry. Laid on my back and watched the TV in standby mode flicker numbers. 11:01pm. 11:47 pm. 12:56 am. Until finally, my eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep.

It was a release. I'd felt better afterward.

Soon, morning had come, and the light poured into the brownstone, casting a lovely glow on the art and furniture and filling the rooms with a warm energy.

I shunned the thoughts of why I had cried. It wasn't about hiding; I simply wanted no shadows in my mind.

I wanted the sun to shine on a new day, a new beginning.

Yet, it hadn't.

That dark entity had revealed why I had cried.

Had been waiting patiently for the perfect moment to rear its ugly head.

It wasn't content to only haunting my subconscious and strike at night.

No.

It wanted daylight too.

Wanted me to feel the cold burn as the fire was doused by a truth I couldn't deny.

Wanted me to suffer all the time.

To never again feel joy.

Never experience the warmth of being loved.

Because I was unlovable.

A waste of skin and breath.

That dark thing had come out of its hiding spot, hovering over the three of us in the restaurant's booth like a storm cloud.

"The fuck you think you doin' here, nigga? You tryna get active?"

O'Ryan was on edge. Ready to pounce if needed. Solange held him back, but her body language, too, was tense.

"Relax, bruv. Just came over here to chat...Beyoncé...how've you been? And...wow, is this Solange? I've been wanting to meet you in person. You look just like your sister. There must be somethin' special in that Houston water." He extended his hand to her.

She scoffed and kept her hands on O'Ryan's shoulders, rubbing them lightly to keep him in the booth.

"Excuse me, sir; they might know you, but I don't...why are you here?" Solange asked with a slight edge to her tone.

"It's...a public restaurant? Not sure why you're confused, love."

"You know what the fuck she meant, Joseph. Why are you over here talking to us right now? We ain't got shit to say to you."

O'Ryan's voice was tense as he stood, adjusting the strap of his arm sling—his movements restrained yet charged with an unmistakable intent. Solange's continuous efforts to calm him were in vain.

Joseph had a knack for making people's blood boil, a skill he seemed to relish, especially in the face of those who openly detested him. He thrived on the tension and emotional turmoil he could invoke in others, knowing full well they could extricate themselves from the situation but chose to stay, drawn into his provocations.

This was his game, a perverse kind of theater where he was both the puppeteer and the lead actor.

"O'Ryan, sit down," I said firmly, my eyes locking with his in a silent plea for restraint.

Joseph watched this unfold with a predator's interest. The sling, O'Ryan's fury—it was all a scene from a play he enjoyed. He relished being the catalyst of chaos, the stirrer of emotions.

It was like watching a cat toy with its prey before the fatal strike, or a capricious child knocking down sandcastles just to observe the disappointment of their creators.

He had the audacity to curl his lips into a self-satisfied grin at me once our eyes met for a brief moment, pretending his presence was nothing but benign, as if we were merely old friends catching up over drinks rather than two people entangled in a painful, one-sided history.

Joseph's penchant for acting wasn't just a hobby—it was a lifestyle. He once shared with me during our earlier, brighter days that he had been the lead in his secondary school's production of Romeo and Juliet.

The first black actor to take that stage in such a prestigious role. He had been so proud, inviting everyone to witness his moment.

Yet, as he stood on that stage, his eyes scanning the crowd, he saw no familiar faces from his family. Only his brother and Ziwe, who arrived late, were there to support him.

He remembered the excuses, though none stuck as painfully as his father's absence, a man who merely shrugged and said, 'I forgot,' when asked why he missed his son's starring moment.

This pattern of disappointment wasn't new. Forgotten birthdays, broken promises of cameras, unfulfilled trips to Lagos, and unmet promises that left them in the dark, literally.

He scoffed before addressing O'Ryan. "Yeah, O'Ryan. Sit Down. Enjoy your food. I see that arm of yours is out of commission. I know it must be hard getting used to doing everything on your own with your non-dominant hand. Need a bib or a hankey, too? Can't have you accidentally staining that expensive shirt of yours. Eel sauce, sriracha, blood. Not easy stains to get out."

O'Ryan ignored him and took a seat, his eyes boring into Joseph, who gave a small wink in response. Joseph rested one hand on the table, the other pressed against the booth, effectively trapping me. He leaned in close.

"...I'm in town this weekend for my latest showcase at the Met. You should stop by and see it. I actually previewed one of the pieces yesterday at the museum nearby...you'd love it...well, at least I think you would. Your tastes were always so different than mine."

I didn't respond. My silence was my only weapon against him.

"Don't worry, I won't impose much longer. Just thought I'd check in, see how you've been. It's been some time since we've spoken, Bey...Didn't think I'd run into you here. Guess life's funny, innit?"

"Well, could you go and laugh elsewhere, 'mate'? I'd appreciate it if you backed up 'cuz you breathin' all over my food and clearly, you see my sister doesn't wanna talk to you. So leave her alone," Solange interjected.

Joseph continued to bore his eyes into the side of my head, as if he were waiting for me to look at him, acknowledge him once more. As if I owed him even a shred of attention after all the pain he had caused.

"...Alright, alright," he finally acquiesced, his voice softening as he took a step back. But then, with a deliberate slowness, he reached into the deep folds of his tailored work jacket and produced a sleek business card. He held it out towards me, his hand steady, the card a stark white against his dark suit.

"If you change your mind, don't hesitate to call," he said, his tone smooth, almost rehearsed. "Tickets are selling fast, always out these days. There's a lot of interest. It would be good for you to see it before it's gone." He paused. "Consider the exhibit as my way of expressing...gratitude. It really was nice seeing you again, Beyoncé. I hope we can have a more proper conversation soon."

I held my ground, my hands firmly at my sides. I did not reach for the card.

He set the card down on the polished surface of our table. The sharp clack of the card against the wood echoed subtly in the tense air. He lingered for just a beat longer, his gaze presumably inscrutable, before turning and walking back to his table, where his accompanying woman sat. She had been observing our exchange with a keen, almost analytical interest.

O'Ryan, Solange, and I sat in a heavy silence, the remnants of our earlier joviality evaporating like mist. Our appetites had vanished into the thick tension that now sat with us like an uninvited guest.

"...um, who was that?" Solange's voice broke through the quiet, soft and tentative.

O'Ryan picked up the card and flipped it over disdainfully. "A nigga who likes to pretend his shit is worth the estate of Michael Jackson. Always playin' games and toyin' with people. Nothin' but a clown. Bey, you cool?" As he spoke, he began to tear the card into tiny pieces, each rip a punctuation mark for his words. The fragments fluttered down onto the table, scattering like the first snow of winter.

My head was spinning. I had thought I was prepared, that I could handle seeing him again. I had mentally steeled myself, echoing Dr. Beharie's words of strength and resilience in my mind—that I was the master of my emotions and choices, not him.

But the reality of his presence, the sound of his voice, had sent my mind careening off course. All I could do was sit in silence, my eyes fixed on the shredded scraps of cardboard that littered our table.

I should have said something, should have asserted myself, told him off, shown him I didn't care anymore. Shown myself I didn't care.

I felt no control over the moment.

How pathetic.

"Take your time, Bey... I'm here. We're here."

✮✮✮

Doing hair was my favorite hobby. A way to think, reflect and relax.

I'd learned from a young age the joy of taking care of my natural tresses. Afternoons were spent under a dryer in the salon, observing my mom's skilled fingers mold the intricate waves on Ms. Minnie's head when Mrs. Johnson had too much on her plate due to constant overbooking.

Watching the older ladies gossip and laugh, reminiscing on days when times were simpler and the world a bit smaller. I could still smell the chemicals, hot comb, and fruity oils permeating the air.

Watching my mother work and converse with her friends and clients who frequented her boutique, always brought a sense of calm to my mind.

It was the rare moment where she seemed genuinely happy, content even. A far cry from the scowls, strained smiles, and moments of sadness I would surreptitiously witness at home.

And the satisfaction she took in crafting the perfect hairstyle was evident in her eyes. She loved the process. Every detail was important. From the cut to the style to the products chosen to bring it all together. Her work was her pride and joy and she wouldn't dare rush a job, giving herself and her impromptu client ample time for perfection.

I loved her talent and found joy in mimicking her.

Practicing on myself. Evenings spent in front of my vanity, braiding or curling my hair. Simple updos, twists, braids. I'd even charge a few dollars for my services, enough to buy a new lipgloss or nail polish.

I was never concerned with the trends or styles, opting for whatever felt right, what I liked, not what was in or out. My hair was my art. I learned to section and press it myself. Learned the tools and products my mother used to maintain my style. Placed a bonnet on my head each night and laid in bed with an Essence magazine.

I took my time learning every trick and tip from the Beauty section to keep it healthy and strong, reading until my eyes hurt.

Today, though, styling hair was a struggle. It felt forced. A bundle of color 4 braiding hair spread across my lap. I methodically brushed out the synthetic strands, ensuring each section was smooth and free from knots. The repetitive motion was not soothing nor meditative, but rather, had a mechanical feel.

Yesterday was still on my mind.

Solange had begged me for knotless boho braids the moment O'Ryan and I landed in New York, her excitement for a discounted service evident over the phone as she texted a slew of photos illustrating what she desired.

Solange sat on a cushion on the floor just in front of her as she scrolled through YouTube, looking for the perfect video while sipping on her mango smoothie.

"Y'all wanna watch one of them African movies? Might as well have the full experience at home."

"Maybe that old one we started last night, Bey. The one where the lady was seducin' dudes." O'Ryan was sprawled out on the adjacent sofa, scrolling through his phone. A mug of Da-Hong Pao oolong tea sat within arm's reach.

"Hell no. I am not watchin' that scary ass movie. I'mma be up all night. Look for somethin' chill or romantic." I said, my eyes focused on parting the next section for her braids.

"Ugh, you are so borin'. Alright...how 'bout this Ms. Netta and Charles video?"

"Fuck no." O'Ryan and I replied simultaneously.

"Why did he have them people Etch-a-Sketch his abs like that?" I questioned. "And then had Ms. Netta thrown out on that table?" O'Ryan and Solange burst into laughter at my sincere concern for the plastic surgery procedures they endured.

Eventually, Solange settled for a red pop the balloon video—much to my disdain—and we fell into a comfortable silence. I was nearly halfway finished with her third row of braids, when Kelly's ringtone rang.

"Hey Kell Bell, what's up?" I put her on speaker, resuming the braiding process.

"Not much. Just wanted to see how you were doin'! Haven't spoken in a minute." Kelly's voice was bright, and I could hear her moving around in the background. Moving a bit too energetically, actually. Like she had doused herself with a bucket of RedBull.

"Kelly, please don't tell me you're workin' today. You said you had the day off. You gon' run yourself into the ground."

"Muay Thai session just ended." She stated matter-of-factly, breathing heavy. I could hear the sound of a car door slamming and an engine turning over. Kelly was likely driving home. "It's just the adrenaline. I'll wind down once I get home. How's New York? Judging by the photos you sent to the group chat, accommodations seem luxe. I really love the way her place looks."

"Right? It's beautiful and spacious. Got everything I could ever want or need. A big ass tub too. And the view, oh my God. The view. You know how much I've always wanted to own a brownstone, especially in this neighborhood. Maybe one day."

"Don't you think that day is right around the corner?"

O'Ryan and Solange's eyes were locked on me now, oohs spilling from their mouths.

"Whatchu mean?" I chuckled softly. I tapped Solange's head with the rattail comb signaling her to face forward.

"What do you mean 'what do I mean'?" She mocked my cadence playfully. "You are sooo fucking dense sometimes."

"And you be gettin' on my damn nerves all the time." I said through a smile, grabbing and parting a new section of hair. "We ain't even close to that stage yet."

"From the way she spoils you, we all would've thought you two were married already. Watch, she's gonna ask you to move in, Bey. The seeds have already been planted. What's hers is yours and all that. Wait, she give you her black card yet? If not, then you might wanna reevaluate this relationship."

"Everythin' always gotta revolve around money for you. They say too much sugar is bad for ya. Don't need it goin' straight to your head." Solange scoffed to herself. She hissed through her teeth, complaining about the sharp point of the hair clip being stabbed into her scalp as I pinned the remaining hair in place.

"Will you hush?" I scolded in a low voice.

"Someone there with you? I thought I heard something earlier, but I thought you were maybe watching a movie or somethin'."

"I'm in the livin' room. Solange came over so I could braid her hair."

"Oh. Hmm."

Silence.

Solange kissed her teeth, muttering, "Here she go with this shit."

"You mad at somethin'?"

"No. Kelly, I'm sure it's just her hormones. She didn't mean—" My attempt to de-escalate the situation fell flat.

"You hard of hearin'? You heard me." Solange continued.

"I only listen to people who are worth my time and have somethin' of substance to say, like Beyoncé. Someone with nothin' worthwhile to share or too afraid to speak with their chest might as well be quiet."

"You better check her before I do. Always got somethin' smart to say, like her shit don't stank."

The two continued their petty squabbling, making me roll my eyes in frustration.

"Aye, aye, chill off that. Mad annoyin'." O'Ryan finally piped in as he shifted on the couch.

"Hold on. I'll call you back once I'm inside the house," Kelly said, hanging up abruptly without waiting for a reply.

Moments later, my phone buzzed again, signaling an incoming video call. Pausing my braiding, I reached over to accept the call. Kelly's face popped up on the screen, now in the familiar setting of her kitchen.

Her hair was pulled back into a casual ponytail, her cheeks slightly flushed from her recent activity. She was dressed in a sports bra that showcased her toned abdomen and shorts that highlighted her athletic legs. Her hands and wrists were still wrapped in hand wraps, and she was munching on a granola bar, her cheeks puffing out as she chewed.

Leaning closer to the propped-up phone, she bit her lip, trying to suppress a grin that was slowly creeping onto her face. "Who else is there with y'all?" Her voice was casual, but there was a hint of something more beneath the surface. "Was that O'Ryan I heard trying to keep the peace? Where's he at?"

The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at O'Ryan, who was now sinking deeper into the couch cushions, as if hoping they would swallow him whole. His cheeks flushed a shade redder, and he suddenly found the pattern on the rug incredibly interesting, avoiding eye contact with the phone at all costs.

Solange, unable to contain her amusement, let out a snort of laughter, which she quickly tried to disguise as a cough. I shot her a look, but the corners of my mouth twitched upward.

"Yeah, that was him," I confirmed. "You wanna say hi, O'Ryan?"

O'Ryan's head snapped up, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and horror. He shook his head vehemently, mouthing "no" and making a cutting motion across his throat. He gestured at his sling with a pointed glare.

"He says hi," I piped up, earning her another glare from O'Ryan.

"No, that's not good enough. Let me hear it from him," Kelly insisted. "O'Ryan, come talk to me."

He sat up a bit straighter, squaring his shoulders and brushing the top of his head with his good hand as I got up and brought the phone over to him. Kelly was practically vibrating with anticipation, and her smile was so wide now that it was impossible for her to hide it.

O'Ryan cleared his throat, running his good hand through his locs again before fixing his eyes on Kelly on the phone screen. He swallowed hard, as if steeling himself for a challenge, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Hey. How's...how's the, uh...how's the kickboxin'?" he said, the words spilling out in a nervous rush. He cringed internally at his delivery, and Kelly's smile widened further at the sight.

"Muay Thai," Kelly responded fluidly, her voice laced with enthusiasm. She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically for effect, adding a playful flair to her words. "But, same difference, right? And it was great—really strengthens your core, arms, legs, and upper body, as you can see." She brushed her hand over her toned midsection, glancing up at the camera through her lashes with a sly smile. "And I'm more flexible now. You should try it sometime. We could train together. I bet you'd be a natural..."

As Kelly and O'Ryan's conversation shifted from fitness to reminiscing about the fighting video games they grew up playing, O'Ryan, seemingly caught up in the nostalgia and comfort of the discussion, absentmindedly walked out of the room with my phone still in his hands. He headed towards the guest bedroom, continuing the conversation without realizing he was moving away.

Solange took the opportunity to whisper to me.

"How come he's not like that around you? She got him actin' like a little boy."

"Because he sees me like a sister and vice versa. He's comfortable around me. I ain't exactly on his mind in that way, nor would I want to be."

"Uh huh...And what about her? She into him?"

"I'm not sure. Probably just likes teasing him." I answered, looking back down the hall towards the room where he had disappeared. The door was shut, but the occasional laughter or exclamation could be heard through the wood.

Upon finishing the last braid, I headed towards the kitchen to boil more water to dip her hair in the bowl I purchased. Solange joined me at the stove.

"So...uh, I wanted to tell you this earlier, but O'Ryan was in the room...Mama called me yesterday," Solange said quietly, her eyes focused on the kettle on the stove. The kettle was heavy stainless steel, with a long, thin handle that had an elegant curve to it. It began to emit a low, almost inaudible hum as the water inside started to heat.

I glanced at Solange, feeling a knot tightening in my stomach. "Yeah? What did she want?"

"She, uh...she was askin' about you," Solange replied, her fingers drumming lightly on the countertop. I opened a few cabinets before deciding on a personal sized bag of chips and a crisp, cold bottle of water from the fridge.

"What did you tell her?" I asked, opening the bag. The sound of the crinkling plastic echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen.

"Not much," Solange said, pausing for a moment. "I mean...I told her you were okay, but..." She looked at me hesitantly. "She asked about Aaliyah."

"Hm."

"I didn't say anythin'. I figured I'd leave it up to you if you wanted to tell her."

"Tell her what?" I snapped, perhaps harsher than intended. "I don't need to talk to her and I don't need her dictatin' my life; I been done with that. You know she's only askin' about me in hopes that what I got goin' on with Aaliyah isn't real. So she can tell the congregation that her daughter is 'saved' and not 'in the clutches of the devil'. She's tryna save face. I'm not a pawn for her to use and discard as she sees fit. So no, I don't need to tell her anythin'."

I bit into a chip with a satisfying crunch, taking a swig of water afterwards. Solange nodded slightly, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

"I know...I just...I guess I just wanted you to know that she called."

"Did she even care to ask about how I was doin' after what her husband did to me?"

"...no."

"Of course not. I don't even know why I thought for a second she'd care." My fingers tightened around the chip bag, crumpling it slightly. "She hasn't bothered reachin' out to me directly, hasn't asked me a single question about what I plan to do about that situation. She didn't even jump in to stop him or say anythin' when it happened. Just stood there watchin'. She ain't never cared about me. Why would she start now? Fuck her and if she asks about me again, you might as well say I'm dead, even if she does see me on TV."

Solange nodded, her lips pressed together in a slight grimace.

The kettle began to whistle, the steam building up in its belly and shooting out the spout in a high-pitched wail. I removed the kettle from the burner and motioned for Solange to grab a fresh towel from the linen closet.

Solange obliged wordlessly, disappearing down the hallway as I pulled out a chair at the island and took a seat, waiting for her return.

When Solange emerged, O'Ryan trailed behind her, my phone clutched in his hand.

"She's askin' for you."

"She still on the line?"

"No, Kelly told me to tell you she'll talk to you later. Said somethin' about havin' a massage booked and then headin' to a pet shop. It's yo girl I was referrin' to," he smirked, handing me the phone.

I accepted the phone from him. "Pet shop? Why would she...nevermind, I'll just ask about that later. Thanks O'Ryan."

Solange settled into the chair in front of me, and I gently took the towel from her hands, unfolding it with a flourish before draping it smoothly over her shoulders.

Just then, the distinct sound of clinking metals echoed from my phone's speaker, signaling an ongoing video call. Curious, I lifted my phone and was greeted by the sight of Aaliyah on the screen.

She wore a light blue tank top showing just a hint of her lower back, and paired it with low-slung grey sweatpants that revealed the top lining of her Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Her hair was bone straight, falling around her shoulders in a dark ginger cascade as she moved about the kitchen space.

"Liyah? Where you put the clippers at?" Came a voice in the background.

"Check the second drawer in the bathroom."

Her back was turned, a canvas of skin fully revealed to my appreciative gaze under the prying lens of the camera. Absorbed in the meticulous task of sterilizing some tools, she was unaware of my presence, allowing me the privilege to watch, to admire in quiet solitude.

I didn't mind the lack of attention: I reveled in the sight of her—the fluidity of her movements, the subtle tensing and flexing of her muscles, the poetry in her unconscious poses.

The light cascaded over her, sculpting her form with each shadow and highlight. It paused to adore the Arabic script on her lower back, a piece I found eternally captivating.

My eyes, however, were inexorably drawn to her only tattooed sleeve, transformed now with new, vibrant details that had not adorned her skin a week prior. The artwork was exquisite, a testament to the tattoo artist's skill—a creator who could rival the muses of ancient lore.

As a painter, I understood the delicate interplay of color and form, yet the way the ink complemented her physique, the way it moved with her movements, stirred a deep appreciation within me. It sparked a desire, a yearning to bear such art on my own skin.

But I knew my nature too well; I was too indecisive, too fluctuating in my passions, to commit to a single design. Instead, I envisioned myself as a silent apprentice, observing the tattoo artist's method, absorbing the mastery of her craft.

Perhaps, in learning, I could translate this fluid artistry onto my own canvases, capturing the ephemeral beauty of ink on skin in oil on canvas. This silent study would be my homage, my way of connecting with the art that so beautifully adorned her.

I unmuted myself. "Hey baby, O'Ryan gave me my phone back."

At the sound of my voice, her head snapped up."Oh, hey Bey! Hold on a sec, baby." She cranked her neck and peered over her shoulder. "Stop stallin' nigga and hurry up. And don't forget the extra guards," she chided.

"Someone's impatient today," I teased, smiling at her antics.

"That makes us both then," Solange retorted, returning my smile. "The water's gettin' cold."

I dismissed her complaint with hand waves. "You cuttin' hair? Is your brother there?"

"Yeah, but it's for Static. He's finally cutting his hair." Aaliyah said, finally turning around and facing the camera. "He's been buggin' about doing this for the longest time. Says he wants somethin' new, but I think he's lowkey scared of changin' his look. Probably wants to impress his new girlfriend. They goin' out tonight."

"Aww, that's cute. Tell him good luck on their date."

"I'll pass along the message."

There was a brief lull as Aaliyah busied herself with the last of the preparations, while I finished Solange's braids, periodically dipping the tail ends of the hair into the scorching water inside the bowl.

"How've you been, Bey? Did you see the stuff I sent for you this morning at the apartment?" She asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes, I did, and thank you; that was very sweet of you. I've been doin' fine...just finishin' up with my sister's hair braidin' and O'Ryan's been around for the most part. Thanks for letting him stay here. When you described your place, I wasn't sure how I was gon' handle sleepin' in such a big space all by myself the entire time. I had no idea you two knew each other like that. Small world."

"It's more of a 'friend of some friends' situation, really, but they've said he's cool and he seems pretty chill to me. And any friend of yours has to be a good person, so yeah. It's fine by me. You said you were doing your sister's hair? Can I see her?"

The pair conversed in a gentle exchange as Solange toweled off and I moussed her hair, now styled into a fresh, captivating look. Aaliyah offered genuine compliments and praised Solange's hair, drawing a blush to her cheeks.

The conversation soon drifted to Solange's pregnancy, with Aaliyah asking thoughtful questions that reflected both her curiosity and her care about her health and wellbeing.

Solange found herself drawn to Aaliyah's effortless charm and relaxed demeanor, her initial reserve of casually speaking with someone famous melting away under the influence of Aaliyah's sincere interest and warm smile.

Watching them interact, their rapport unfolding so naturally, filled me with a profound sense of joy. It was as if the different worlds I cherished were blending into a harmonious tableau right before my eyes.

Solange excused herself after cleaning up the excess hair, the fatigue from her pregnancy prompting her to seek some rest in the outdoor patio. O'Ryan had quietly slipped away earlier, likely heading to the guest room, leaving Aaliyah and me in a quiet bubble as I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the cool marble island.

Our conversation paused as a delicate, childlike voice floated towards us from somewhere behind Aaliyah off screen. "Titi, may I pwease have another fruit snack?" The politeness in the soft inquiry was touching, and it was clear from the gentle tone that this was a well-mannered child.

Aaliyah's face lit up with affection and a hint of surprise, as if she hadn't expected the child to make an appearance just then. "Of course, Kiki," she responded, her voice equally gentle. She turned slightly to retrieve a small packet from the nearby counter and handed it to the little girl who had now peeked shyly around her.

I watched, intrigued by this unexpected, yet tender interaction. Aaliyah introduced me to her niece, Kioni, whose courteous demeanor and bright eyes added a fresh layer of warmth to the late afternoon. As Kioni clutched the fruit snacks, her gratitude was evident in her bright smile and a polite nod.

"Bye!" She chirped, waving at the camera before chasing after the dogs that scampered playfully through the house and back outside to where her father was.

"She is absolutely adorable," I said, my voice brimming. "I don't think I've ever met such a polite, well spoken little kid. How old is she?"

"She'll be four this summer, and she really is quite the character—outgoing, curious, a real bundle of energy. Definitely takes after my brother." She shook her head in amusement, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I bet she's gonna pepper me with questions when I tuck her into bed tonight. She always has so many questions for new people she meets, new experiences, new everything. Always wants to know what makes things tick, how they work, and why. I swear, she looks at the world with such awe and wonder. It's so refreshing to see."

The warmth in Aaliyah's voice and the light in her eyes as she spoke of her niece stirred something within me. It made me ponder on a future that I had often considered too fraught with risks due to my tumultuous childhood. Could I provide a different kind of upbringing? Would I ever be ready to take on such a role?

With a slight hesitation, I tenderly broached a subject that felt weighty with both meaning and emotion, yet simple in its core question.

"...would you ever want kids of your own, Liyah?...Like, someday? I mean, of course, life on the road and all the travelin' and concerts and all would be crazy. But, like, once things settle down, or maybe even if they never do...that was a silly question, I'm sorry, forget I asked—"

Aaliyah's responding chuckle cut me off, diffusing the tension building inside me. "Bey, baby, slow down. There's no need to apologize, really. It's a fair question. I mean, I can't say that it's something I've thought about extensively, given my lifestyle. But...it's definitely crossed my mind. Especially as I get older. Rashad and his wife are amazing parents, and seeing how he interacts with Kioni is the cutest shit—it's hilarious and endearing. And as much as he likes to joke about his 'selfish ways' and being the 'party animal' and all that, he would be the best dad, and I have no doubt that Kioni and his future kids will be spoiled beyond belief, but they'll also be so loved. But, you know...the whole industry thing and just my general travel habits makes me hesitant. I wouldn't want to have a family and not be around all the time."

"Yeah, that makes sense. You wanna be there for your kids."

"Exactly. The music, the traveling, the shows...they're important to me because that's my career. But being a mom is something that would supersede all that. Being a good mom would be the most important thing to me...in addition to, of course, being a good partner to the person raising my kids alongside me. It's a huge commitment, and a life-changing responsibility...but it's also one that would be beautiful, one that I could see myself wanting in my life."

The bite of her lip coupled with a bashful smile expected a response, but when my words failed me, her smile faded, replaced with an apologetic frown. "Oh, was that too—"

"No, no, it's fine," I said hastily. "Honestly. I shouldn't have asked such a loaded question out of the blue...but it's important to me. It matters. So thank you for answerin' honestly."

Aaliyah nodded. Silence settled between us again.

"And...for what it's worth," I began. "You'd be an amazing mother too."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really now?"

I nodded, mirroring her expression. "Definitely."

"And how would you know that?" she challenged, cocking her head to the side.

"You're good with kids, obviously. Kioni clearly thinks the world of you, and I saw how you spoke with her and how gentle and carin' you were. Plus you're patient, and you're funny, and you're selfless, and you're supportive, and..." My words trailed off as Aaliyah's growing smile penetrated the growing bubble of nervousness encroaching on our conversation. "Lemme not stroke your ego anymore than needed," I continued, chuckling softly.

"I wouldn't say I'm all that patient...I've been told I can be quite the diva," she said, rolling her eyes and scoffing.

"Hmm, true. You can be a bit high maintenance at times, but only sometimes. But when you are, you are. Just a tad boujie too."

"You are always comin' for my head, and I don't appreciate it." Aaliyah feigned being offended, pouting her lips and furrowing her brows.

I laughed. "You're the one that said your stylist Derek complained about you requestin' a tenth outfit change because the first nine weren't to your likin'."

"Okay, but that fourth dress was ugly as fuck, and he knows it. He should've known better than to even put it in the options. The fifth one was the one anyway. I just wanted to mess with him a bit, especially after he made that passive-aggressive comment about how complicated my midday routine has become."

"See? High maintenance. Which is fine, 'cause I can handle you."

"You...can handle me?" She leaned back against the counter, brushing her hair behind her shoulders before folding her arms across her chest. "All of me?"

"Easily," I drawled, dragging out the vowels. My eyes traveled downward, tracing the curvature of her hips and waist and the subtle definition in her arms, admiring the canvas of art on her right arm. "Even parts of you that require extra care and attention. The real question, however, is, can you handle me?"

"...I think you already know the answer to that."

"Remind me again, baby."

She inhaled deeply, her eyelids drooping as a low hum reverberated deep within her chest. "Is it too late to change flight plans? I don't think I can wait until Friday to see you." Her words were breathy and laced with desire.

"Two days."

"Two days too far," Aaliyah whined, pouting. "I miss you. It's been, like, eight days without you."

"I know, baby, but we have calls and texts and FaceTime."

"But that's not enough, Bey. I wanna smell your perfume, taste your kiss, feel your touch, and hear your laugh all up close and personal, not through a screen."

"I hear you, baby, trust and believe I do. But, unfortunately, we gotta power through. Two days ain't long, especially since we've gone longer without seein' each other. And think of what a reunion will feel like. Our bodies will be starvin' for each other, and we'll be in desperate need of satisfyin' that hunger...you'll get to lick the plate clean. I know what you like and how to take care of you, and vice versa...you gon' take such good care of me, ain't you, baby?...make me beg for more, make me cry."

My voice was low in pitch and volume, and honey dripped from every syllable. "La simple pensée que tu utilises cette sangle, que tu me la donnes brutalement et profondément...ou que tu chevauches ton visage, te regarde manger, entende les sons que tu fais, fuck...est presque trop pour moi."

Aaliyah closed her eyes and released a quiet, guttural groan. So quiet in fear of anyone overhearing. She whispered, "Beyoncé, please stop, 'cause you are not making it any easier. I'm trying to behave. I swear, but now, you got me horny, hot, and cravin' crème brûlée. And I'm not sure which need is more pressing."

"FaceTime me later tonight, then? I'll try to stay up, but no promises, just 'cause of the time difference. But, for now, I'm gonna hang up and let you go get that haircut you should be focused on instead of dessert. Your client has finally arrived." I waved and greeted Static who seemed oblivious to the charged conversation as he pulled out a chair, settling in for the process and offering me a head nod. Aaliyah smiled sheepishly, greeting Static in return. "Bon appétit."

"Merci, mon coeur."

I chuckled at her pronunciation. "Bye," I said with a final kiss and wave, ending the call.

As the sun set in the Brooklyn sky, casting hues of deep orange and purple across the horizon, a peacefulness enveloped my evening. The darkness outside contrasted with the warmth I felt within—an inner glow that radiated outward, spreading through my body like a river flowing through a valley.

Life was indeed looking up, despite the many pitfalls and obstacles encountered thus far. It didn't take scented candles from Bergdorf Goodman or fancy care packages from my lover to bring a smile to my face or lift my spirits, though I appreciated them nonetheless.

Instead, it was the conversations, the memories, the shared laughter, and the fleeting glances of her image on the screen that inspired a renewed appreciation for my life, my path, and the people who were a part of it.

I didn't need to fret, not when real love was right around the corner—or rather, a couple of states away—eagerly waiting for me, holding me close on the other side of our promised nighttime video call.

No heartbreak. No sorrow. No drama.

Just us. And a handy, rechargeable vibrator; our muffled cries so as not to disturb those sleeping nearby; and plenty of dessert to indulge in all night long.

I smiled to myself as I slept peacefully that night.

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Dreaming About You" by The Blackbyrds

(a/n: long chapter)

(This chapter contains explicit content. Reader discretion advised.)

Aaliyah

Have you ever been in love?

Have you?

No, really. Think about it. Close your eyes. Picture the one you love. The one you'd die for. The one who, just thinking about them, makes you feel...whole.

You know what I mean.

Think back to when you first met. You were probably nervous, weren't you? Maybe you felt like your heart was going to pound right out of your chest.

Eye contact held for a mere lightyear. Your eyes locked, and hers met yours and held them there. They were enthralled.

You probably thought that, for just a second, you saw a smile appear on her face. It was probably fleeting, a brief glimpse of that smile that would make your knees feel like water.

That smile that, as you sat up that night with friends, colleagues, and fans alike dressed in costume at a party, kept appearing in your mind, even when you weren't trying. I saw you smiling as well.

Then one day, weeks later, you found yourself in the produce section of a superstore and there she was, meticulously inspecting each peach as if weighing its very worth.

You knew then, that was your perfectly ripe peach.

That familiar warmth rushed over you as you watched her delicate hands turn the fruits over. Whether she was dealing with some unseen issue or simply had a naturally stern resting face, her demeanor suggested she'd rather be elsewhere.

Regardless, this chance reunion couldn't be mere coincidence.

Mustering your courage, you approached, unable to resist the gravitational pull. She turned at the sound of your voice, and there it was again—that smile.

The one that had graced your memories and compelled you forward through life's ebbs and flows.

An unspoken recognition passed between you as you two conversed, a silent acknowledgment that whatever forces had crossed your paths, they were powerful enough to bring you here again.

But as quickly as that connection sparked, it seemed to dim. Before you could ask her for her number, her eyes shifted, lips pressing into a terse line as another emotion—anxiety about the constant stares and whispers that followed us? fear of what took place at the register?—flickered across her features before she could veil it.

In an instant, the magic was broken, leaving you profoundly aware of the distance that now yawned between you.

You watched, powerless, as she turned and hurried away—not just once, but twice, disappearing into the rain-soaked parking lot despite your efforts to call her back.

The world came crashing back in—the patter of droplets against your umbrella, the earthy scent of damp pavement, the pang of confusion and loss.

What had you missed? What wrong turn had set you adrift from that person who could elevate a simple smile to a transcendent experience?

As you replayed those few fleeting moments, your mind drifted to the flowers tucked away in the plastic bag—hastily grabbed on your way out in a panicked attempt to gift something to an old friend.

Now, their vibrant petals seemed to mock the futility of such gestures in the wake of true loss. Because no matter how tenderly you nurtured them through this world—even with this woman's insights and advice—applying every ounce of love you could muster, eventually, all things must wither and fade.

You looked up at the sky, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it could give you an answer. A sign. Anything. Something.

Then the rain stopped.

You looked around and realised the clouds were clearing. The rain had stopped, and the sun was peeking out, but there was still something there, in your chest.

You'd never get over this, would you?

But you tried, and I was there, watching the whole thing. Watching you fall in love, watch you lose your love.

Men. Women, especially. All types of dates. None of them had the same smile.

You thought, maybe, casual sex would provide the amnesia you so desperately craved.

That losing yourself in the sweaty tangle of limbs and breathy gasps would finally exorcise her haunting presence from the murkiest depths of your consciousness.

I was there too during those frantic couplings, a silent witness as you frantically chased abandon, hoping each whispered command, controlled bind and stinging caress, each new warm body—sometimes two—would bring the dissociative balm you fiendishly required.

But it never worked, did it?

Not really. For as many faceless conquests as you racked up, frantically collecting new names and numbers after each sexcapade, you always emerged on the other side just as hollowed out and afflicted.

In those wretched aftermath moments, you'd lay awake with flushed skin and faint aches in the bruised half-light before dawn, mechanically extricating yourself from the rumpled sheets and novel sleeping forms with the resigned weariness of one who has trodden this futile path too many times before.

This inevitably led you to think back to when you felt whole before your world was upended by loss.

Back into the recording studio and its controlled chaos of auditory therapy. Back into the comforting ecosystem of rhythmic metrics and naked creativity where unruly emotions could be harnessed into tightly structured meters.

Back into the undemanding company of your most steadfast collaborator.

A woman with an ear for hits, often leaning on you and your partner's expertise when crafting new tracks for her latest roster of artists.

I remember those days when you and she would huddle in the studio, poring over every beat and harmony. She'd come to you whenever she hit a roadblock with a melody, trusting in your producer's intuition to refine and elevate the music.

There I was, a fly on the wall during those marathon sessions where you both would listen to the same looped instrumental for hours on end, a test of patience and passion that seemed almost enough to drive anyone to madness.

I was also there when you two had a philosophical debate that veered far from the usual discussions of chords and choruses.

You were both deep in thought, not about music this time, but about the grander, more existential questions that sometimes seize the mind during late-night studio sessions.

You both lounged comfortably on the plush, overstuffed couch, sinking into the yielding cushions as the studio lights dimmed to just a soft, warm glow.

Downtempo tracks from a carefully curated playlist she shared drifted through the air, the gentle melodies and ambient textures more felt than heard—an almost ethereal presence adding a dreamlike quality to the cozy enclave you'd created.

Shoes were abandoned carelessly by the door, a scattered trail leading in from the outside world.

You wore mismatched socks—hers a classic white ankle, yours adorned with bright colors in a quirky design. Bare feet extended towards the middle cushion, tangling together unconsciously in the sort of playful wrestling that comes from long intimacy.

You were cuddled against one arm of the couch, back resting against the soft upholstered wing, one knee drawn up with a plump throw pillow clutched against your chest.

The soft barrier seemed to provide both a sense of comfort and a subtle layer of protection, an unconscious defense against the weight and vulnerability of the conversation.

The debate centered on the nature of existence itself—whether life is merely an insignificant blip in the vast expanse of the universe. You pondered if, in the grand scheme, our lives are so fleeting that they might as well be invisible to any grand cosmic narrative.

You argued passionately that we are utterly alone, adrift in a silent universe without a savior or guide. "No one will come to our rescue," you said with a mix of resignation and defiance, "not at the end of our lives, not even God."

She listened, occasionally interjecting with thoughts about whether this stark loneliness could actually imbue our lives with more meaning rather than less, proposing that perhaps in the absence of a predetermined destiny, every choice and every moment holds profound significance.

The discussion continued, weaving through topics of free will, determinism, and the responsibility we carry for creating meaning within our own lives.

The depth and direction of the conversation rippled outward as her demeanor grew worrisome. I could tell: those subtle yet unmistakable signs one learns to read after years of closeness with another person.

Her tone lost its color, muted into cautious solemnity as she spoke carefully, each word carrying newfound weight.

But it was her eyes that betrayed her the most. Ordinarily so stern when regarding you, now they took on a warm and unguarded aspect.

In that weighted moment, her regard holding both fondness and trepidation, I realized she was looking not just at who you are, but who you might become—judging potentials, weighing the consequences of whatever thoughts or decisions roiled behind your pensive façade.

Did you really believe in the bleakness you were espousing? It was as though she was trying to solve you like a puzzle, as she so often did, and searched your face for answers; she was surprised when she found the truth.

The truth was, you weren't sure either.

There was a part of you that believed it, but there was another part that longed for something greater.

You wanted a meaning for all of this. A reason for being so revered by the masses. The purpose behind this gift of talent that made you feel so isolated. Why fame? Why success? Why are blueberries not actually blue? Why everything?

You had spent so much time wondering. You were looking for an answer to the big question.

...why am I here?

She reached out, caressing your cheek and staring into your eyes, asking what I want to know:

"Have you ever been in love? Because there are so many kinds of love. Love between friends, siblings, spouses, and parents and children. Romantic love and the love of one's creations. And the love of oneself. We're here—you're here—to love and be loved. To feel and be felt..."

You were stunned. That smile plastered on her was unlike any you'd ever seen from her. It wasn't like the smile that she shared with her other friends, the one that came with the familiarity of an old friend.

No, this was different. This had to be a look and a smile reserved for someone she cared deeply about.

And it was all directed at you.

"...and to be understood."

The realization that hit her left her scrambling. Maybe it was the second, half-finished glass of red, maybe it was the hypnotic rhythm of the tracks playing softly in the background, or maybe it was the closeness of your presence and the sense of ease it conjured.

Whatever it was, it broke through the barricades she'd erected to protect herself, and now she was exposed in a way she had never intended to be.

Her eyes quickly widened, and I saw you react. I was there, watching the whole thing. Watching the feelings flow through you. It was like a wave crashing in and washing over you.

Something in you had always felt the pull—a connection that went deeper than the professional partnership you had cultivated over the years. A yearning that was difficult to name and impossible to ignore.

You could never get a good read on her preference for not just men, but women, too; your trusted radar failed to detect even a whiff of interest from her that hinted at the possibility of actual attraction.

Sometimes, it seemed as if she flirted with you—even flirting back. Other times, it was clear she only had platonic intentions, treating you like just another colleague in business meetings and such.

You did find her attractive—physically, intellectually, and now spiritually.

Your differing orientations never caused friction or tension, and your friendship and artistic partnership remained solid and steadfast, no matter the sexualities, genders, or romantic inclinations of those involved.

But to even broach the subject risked destroying the priceless rapport that had brought such success and satisfaction to your creative life.

So you contented yourself with her friendship and admired her from afar, treasuring every new experience and opportunity you shared together, telling yourself it was enough to work alongside her.

...everything else was simply out of the question...

Now, the floodgates were blown open. Your mind was swimming with emotions and ideas. What is this feeling? What do I want? Who am I? Who is she? Who are we?

Her hand dropped down from your cheek, only to be caught by your own. But, instead of holding it there, you brought it up to your lips, gently kissing the back of her hand. The warmth that flowed through the touch was intoxicating.

"So, what does this mean?" you asked softly. "For us."

She had to think.

She was a rational woman, driven by her keen intellect and innate business savvy. She was practical, calculated, and a risk-averse strategist, prizing stability and the status quo.

She had built an impressive career by evaluating the odds of every situation, weighing the pros and cons carefully, and approaching every venture with measured prudence.

And with the way she was looking at you for the briefest of moments, again, I swear I could tell: those subtle yet unmistakable signs one learns to read. Those eyebrows moved. Just a twitch, just a fraction of an inch. But a fraction was enough for me to see—to know—the exact thing going through her mind.

Her heart was considering taking a risk. But her mind had already decided for her.

She left the room abruptly with untied shoelaces, disappearing through the doorway in a swirl of fraught energy, leaving you sitting motionless to process the tumult of everything she'd said.

Radio silence ensued, the absence of communication stretching out for the remainder of the evening and into the next few days, giving you ample time alone with the cacophonous rush of emotions and thoughts.

You were busy on that following Friday, the studio booked for sessions with another artist, and it was nearing dusk by the time the artist exited. You cleaned up, tidying the space back into pristine order with mechanical motions, then packed up the last of your gear and prepared to leave.

Just as you were about to switch off the lights, you heard the door quietly slide open. You turned to see her standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the ambient glow of the fading daylight.

She hesitated, her body language tentative as she stepped into the studio, a marked contrast from the assertive self-possession that typically characterized her every motion.

The ensuing silence was pregnant with uncertainty. Anxiety coiled tight in your belly, a heavy weight pressing in as you braced for whatever words—whatever verdict—were about to emerge.

Would it be a resumption of the familiar rapport, sweeping that night's candid confession under the rug?

Or would she reject you outright, a line drawn between the two of you that would never be crossed?

"Follow me." She grabbed the handle of your guitar case and your MIDI controller pad, and exited the room, leaving no room for rebuttal.

You followed, trailing in her wake as she led you through the maze of corridors, past the other studios and offices, until you were both inside an elevator. She pressed the button for the top floor. You watched the numbered display tick upward, ascending higher and higher.

My God.

Her office was a thing to behold, a penthouse suite that afforded a view of the city, with panoramic windows that wrapped around the corner office. It was spacious, furnished with a sleek contemporary aesthetic and luxurious details.

A modern art piece hung on one wall, a splash of red against the cool, clean backdrop.

A pair of guitars were mounted on a plaque on the wall behind her desk. One was a Gibson acoustic, the signature instrument favored by her first star, and the other was a Les Paul electric model. The pair were the symbols of label's recent success, a visual representation of the legacy she had created.

She made herself comfortable, seated at the old piano where she felt most at home. A crumpled piece of music sheet paper was set upon the music stand before her—the song, your song, that you'd spent countless late nights agonizing over during one of your creative flurries. The genesis of something profoundly personal that you'd captured in raw, embryonic form.

It had taken her only one minute, with her exacting discipline and sensitivity, to truly bring the creation to full term.

The melody flowed as her supple fingers danced across the keys in an impassioned rush.

She gave life to the notes that until then had only existed in arcane writing, you could feel the piece's transformation.

It was then you realized the immensity of what she had accomplished—she had taken the tangled knot of your heart and soul, ran her sure hands along every fitted groove, and recast the entire opus into a language that could be truly understood by others.

You gently sat on the bench beside her, sharing the moment with no words, until your voice joined her keystrokes in tandem, a duet that felt as natural and necessary as the breath in your lungs.

You'd never sounded more perfect.

As you finished, you both stared at the music sheet. Your unfinished song. It had become so much more, a vessel of your very essence that she had given shape to, a gift that would continue to resonate long after your time here had passed.

"I know you said what you wrote is stupid and cheesy," she turned to face you, a softness and openness in her eyes, "and maybe it is." The two of you chuckled lightly. "But what's wrong with that? Seriously. It's okay to be a little stupid. It's okay to be cheesy. It's okay to have emotions, and it's okay to show them. Life is short, and you should express yourself while you still can."

She leaned her head on your shoulder, and the two of you sat like that for a while. Her voice was a soft whisper. "Sometimes I wish I didn't spend so much time wondering why and not being grateful for what. Just appreciate every breath, every touch, every hug, and every smile."

Her hand reached over and caressed yours, and the sensation of her fingers intertwining with your own sent shivers down your spine.

"But it's so hard. It's so hard when everyone has expectations. Expectations for what you should be. Expectations for how you should live. They are so loud, and they expect me to be louder. They want me to yell and scream and tell them what they want to hear. But I just...don't want to yell anymore. I just want to talk. I just want to hug. I just want to be quiet."

You looked up at the setting sun through the floor to ceiling windows. The horizon was bathed in the warm hues of twilight, casting the sky in vivid shades of pink, orange and gold.

You could see the glitter of the city below, a vast sprawling landscape alive with the kinetic energy of millions of people. It all felt insignificant from this lofty vantage point, like specks of dust floating aimlessly through space.

So peaceful.

So still.

Quiet.

"Let me be that safe space for you," you whispered. "Where you can be quiet."

Her head lifted from your shoulder and looked you in the eyes. Those eyes, those beautiful amber eyes.

You could see the flecks of gold dancing in her irises, feel the thundering of your heartbeat where your skin flushed feverish. Then, like the snap of a molecular bond breaking, her lips met yours with a searing intensity.

Your eyes slowly closed, and you felt a surge of joy rush through you, like the first time you had played the guitar in front of a crowd. The world around you, the room, the furniture, everything began to dissolve, and the walls became transparent, the sky darkening and revealing the vast, open cosmos.

In the midst of all the chaos, you noticed something.

There, amidst the twinkling stars, was a small speck of light.

It was shining bright, like a beacon of hope.

And it was calling out to you.

And you never stopped reaching for it.

Even as the world seemed to collapse and the cosmos faded away, nothing compared to the moment you awoke the next morning in her bed.

There you were, entwined together, her nude form pressed gently against yours, her arm draped over you, her face nestled in the crook of your neck.

The softness of her light snoring, the warmth and scent of her skin, and the sensation of her breath caressing your skin—these were the only realities that made sense in the drowsy aftermath of intimacy.

You thought you might have seen her smiling in her sleep, though it could have easily been a trick of your dream-addled mind.

The one certainty was your contentment in that moment.

✮✮✮

The hacky sack landed squarely in the center of my palm as I lay sprawled on the plush, forest green sofa in the sunken conversation pit.

Up, down. High, low.

Over and over, the rhythmic thud of the worn, leather-bound sack against the palm of my hand served as a metronome keeping time.

Work at the label had slowed considerably despite the approaching summer season, typically a prime time for releasing anthemic, radio-friendly hits aimed at the sunny festival circuit.

But I was more than happy to spend lazy days lazing about in my cozy bungalow, enjoying the crisp, fragrant spring breeze filtering through the open windows. With a belly full of the spicy sweet potato and lentil stew I'd whipped up for lunch, an iced cup of water beside me, and my dogs lounging contentedly on the woven jute rug, there was nothing quite like the simple satisfaction of a peaceful Friday mid-morning spent in blissful relaxation.

I watched idly as the vibrant green leaves from the massive oak in the backyard danced through the air, their gentle rustling descent providing a natural underscore to the vintage vinyl spinning on the turntable—Barbra Streisand's seminal Guilty.

As much as I missed the creative energy and camaraderie of the office, the serenity of these solitary days was a welcome change of pace.

I could get used to this.

A message buzzed through the phone propped beside me on the sofa arm. The name that popped up on the screen sent an excited jolt through me, and I quickly snatched the device, unlocking the screen to read the text.

Beyoncé
flight just landed.

i just need to drop some things off at my place and freshen up then i'll be on my way.

i let the driver know already.

see you soon, beautiful.

A goofy smile crept across my face, and I bit my lip, a sudden giddy energy percolating within me. I shot back a quick response, my thumbs tapping across the smooth, glass screen with lightning speed.

Aaliyah
can't wait to see you baby. been thinking about the things we can get into 🫦

My eyes flicked over the words as I proofread, a faint blush creeping across my cheeks. Before I could chicken out, I hit the 'send' button, setting the phone aside and trying to quell the sudden swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

My phone chirped again, and I immediately scrambled to open the new message, but the name that flashed across the screen was not the one I'd hoped for. I slumped back against the cushions, resigning myself with a sigh and opening the waiting text.

Lori
hey Aaliyah, urgent favor to ask!

can you review the final mix for the new single we're planning to drop next week? need your golden ear on this, please. 🙏🏽

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Usually, I'd jump right into work mode, eager to hash out details and push projects forward to get them over with.

But today was different; today was about me...and Beyoncé.

I gave it a half hour or so before responding, distracted by TikTok and later, Cash and Macaroni's antics—a spirited game of tug-of-war that had erupted over a chewed-up stuffed rabbit with Macaroni firmly on the winning side, much to Cash's chagrin.

Aaliyah
hey Lori, just saw your message.
ngl you caught me at the worst time. got some personal commitments today.

can we possibly push the review to first thing tomorrow morning?

I want to give it the full attention it deserves.

Lori
personal commitments?

I don't think I've heard those words come out of your mouth in a loooong time.

is everything okay?

Aaliyah
definitely, just enjoying some much-needed downtime.

Lori
oh okay, sure. yeah, let's plan for a call at 9am sharp. thanks Aaliyah.

Aaliyah
👍🏾

The device fell silent, and I laid it facedown on the sofa arm, shifting my focus back to the vinyl. My eyes drifted shut, hoping the velvety vocals would transport me to a blissful trance.

Guilt tugged at the edges of my consciousness, and I mentally chastised myself for passing the buck to the next day. It was a habit I'd been working on overcoming: always putting work ahead of me and my needs. It was a never-ending dance between the professional and the personal, and sometimes, the balance was elusive.

As the record transitioned to a close, I heaved myself up from the sofa, stretching dramatically, before my phone chimed again.

Expecting another work text, I braced myself for another round of self-flagellation.

Instead, a notification from the security app popped up, alerting me that someone had opened the gate and was approaching the driveway. My pulse quickened.

The notification switched from a fuzzy photo capture to a clear video feed, and I watched as the sleek black Mercedes coupe pulled smoothly to the curb. A text followed immediately after.

Beyoncé

you and that damn emoji

Aaliyah

😏 you don't want what I got to offer?

Beyoncé

haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about. gonna need a demonstration.

we just pulled up

With an enthusiastic whoop, I sprang from the couch, shoving my feet into my Birkenstock clogs and snatching the bouquet of flowers that had been carefully arranged earlier before darting out the front door.

As expected, the driver was already pulling Beyoncé's luggage from the trunk, and a wave of excitement washed over me as my eyes fell on the familiar figure climbing out of the opened door of the backseat.

On her way around the car, she paused to exchange a few brief words and a friendly farewell with the driver.

The pair of gray flared leggings she wore clung deliciously to her curvy hips, and she adjusted the zipper of the black zip-up hoodie that she'd pilfered from my closet. Even stripped down, her natural beauty always stole my breath away, the body waves that tumbled past her shoulders framing her face, appearing almost ethereal in the late afternoon sunshine, a halo of honey and amber.

My feet were moving before my brain had even registered the impulse, the pavement giving way to a soft, dewy lawn as I crossed the wide distance to greet her, the bouquet clutched in one hand.

Beyoncé glanced away from the driver who was preparing to depart, spotting me just as the man swung the trunk shut and climbed into the driver's seat.

The corners of her lips curled upwards in an irresistible smile, and she broke into a light jog as well, meeting me across the lush expanse of manicured grass.

We met halfway, coming together in an energetic embrace, the momentum propelling me into the air.

Our lips met in a flurry of heat and electricity, and I wrapped my legs around her waist, clinging to her desperately so as not to tumble backwards. My arms encircled her neck, and Beyoncé's firm grip on my rear end reassured me that I was safely secured against her.

Her mouth yielded readily beneath mine, and she sighed into the kiss, a sweet, satisfied hum that vibrated pleasantly along my nerves.

She tasted faintly of mint gum, and I savored the intoxicating coolness, unable to resist a playful flick of the tongue between her soft lips. Her laugh was a low, throaty rumble as she broke away, pressing our foreheads together and gazing warmly into my eyes.

"Hey you," she murmured. She gently eased me back down, her hands lingering on my waist, fingers dipping under the hemline of my cropped tank. She peeked over at the bouquet. "Someone's happy to see me."

I planted another kiss on her nose for emphasis, and she giggled, the musical sound sending a pleasant tingle across my scalp and down my spine.

"For you. These are the prettiest blooms they had." I held the flowers out to her, a little bashful as I added, "kinda reminded me of those snapdragons you planted in the community garden a few weeks ago. Thought you might like 'em."

"Baby, they're beautiful," she replied, her eyes crinkling with affection as she took the bouquet, bringing the delicate blossoms close enough to smell their delicate fragrance. "Thank you. I brought you some stuff too that I think you might want."

"I'll be happy to accept whatever you have. You are getting so much stronger, by the way!" I teased, poking her bicep. "Could've sworn you was about to yeet me into the sky. I gotta join you on one of those Pilates sessions."

A sudden, loud bark startled us out of the moment, and Beyoncé looked over, noticing the three furry forms bounding across the lawn towards us. She laughed as Onyx and Macaroni collided mid-stride, scrambling over each other in their enthusiasm to greet the new arrival.

Inside the house, I led the dogs towards their cages, Beyoncé trailing behind me with her duffle bag in tow.

"Cash's gettin' big," she remarked. "Last time, he was smaller than a loaf of bread. Now look at him."

I nodded, watching as Cash circled her excitedly before following my command. "He's such a big boy now. I feel like he grows a little bit every week. How was the trip, baby? Hungry?"

"No."

"Tired?"

"No," she yawned, covering her mouth and smiling sheepishly. "Okay, maybe a little...I was up pretty late last night draftin' a proposal and makin' some sketches for a potential new client. And you know it's hard for me to sleep on planes. I did take a little nap on the ride over though."

I watched as she placed the flowers in the vase already filled with water, arranging the stems to ensure they stood upright. "Client? Alongside your job at SMC? That's a lot on your plate, Bey. I don't want you burnin' the candle at both ends like that."

"I won't...because I quit."

Beyoncé averted her eyes, nervously chewing on her bottom lip as she awaited my reaction, presumably expecting a scolding.

Instead, I moved closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her into a warm embrace, feeling her tension ease as her body relaxed into mine. "Finally," I jokingly murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair. "How do you feel?"

I could feel Beyoncé's smile return as she hugged me tighter, nuzzling against my neck. "Pretty fuckin' good," she drawled. "Free. Relieved. Like I can breathe again. I hate to admit it, but your brother was kinda right. Teaching was never my dream. It was just something I thought I should do. Something safe and stable, y'know? A paycheck. Something dependable. And it was a good fit—I loved my students. But it wasn't what I wanted. I wanna start creatin' for myself again."

"So what happens now? Any idea what your next move is? This client, they must be serious if you stayed up late tryna work on it."

She moved back, shifting from foot to foot to take off her shoes and place them on the rack, eyes roaming the room as she mulled over the question. "Arin bumped into an old friend at a dinner we had last night. His name's Zane. They kept in touch after undergrad, but then they lost contact over time. Apparently, he's hit it big with his start-up and now he has the money to bankroll whatever he wants. He talked about investin' in some gallery space downtown and was in need of some guidance on art acquisitions and buildin' the collection."

"Sounds like it could be a huge opportunity," I commented. We walked up the stairs together, her hand clasped securely in mine.

"Definitely," she agreed. "Plus, he was real impressed with the last big installation I did—the one from overseas, remember? He said he'd love to meet with me and discuss further possibilities."

"That's so amazing! Congrats, babe. I'm so proud of you."

She ascended the last step and paused at the landing, turning to face me with eyes sparkling like gemstones catching the sunlight. "And the best part? We can finally spend more time together."

She punctuated her words with a tender kiss, slow and sweet, allowing me to savor the taste of her and feel the upturned corners of her mouth against mine.

Ten days had drained by without her constant presence, and I was starved for her affection.

Ten long, endless days. I needed this—needed her.

We stumbled clumsily through the doorway, limbs entangling in a delightfully careless tangle as giddy laughter spilled from our lips. I pulled her closer, savoring the warmth of her body against mine as my fingers combed through her silken tresses. She smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, a soothing fragrance that painted feelings of home and comfort.

Setting her bag at the foot of the bed, she slid out of her leggings with an effortless, feline grace. A gentle nudge guided me back onto the plush mattress as she climbed atop me, straddling my hips.

Her lips traced a path of searing kisses up the column of my neck, grazing the sensitive whorls of my ear. Each exhalation caressed my skin like a sultry whisper, sending delicious tremors cascading down my spine.

"No more syllabi to draft..."

A lingering kiss.

"No tedious lesson plans..."

Another tantalizing brush of her lips, the flick of her tongue adding a spike of electricity.

"Not another student paper to grade..."

Her thumb stroked teasingly along the waistband of my basketball shorts, dipping just slightly under the fabric to graze the jut of my hip bone.

"All I'll be doin' is paintin' and sculpting, creatin' and designin'," she whispered, her voice a deep, smoky alto murmur, like the finest Tennessee whiskey.

The things I would give to listen to her read all 4,215 pages of In Search of Lost Time aloud. And then reread the whole damn thing if it meant hearing the cadence and inflection of her speaking voice, each phrase and sentiment spoken in that glorious baritone that was more than just sound but pure sensuality.

The touch slipped further below, brushing ever so lightly against the inner curve of my thighs, tracing along the crease where leg met pelvis, edging tantalizingly close before retreating swiftly.

A groan of protest escaped my lips, and Beyoncé chuckled softly as she continued her ministrations.

Her kisses worked their way lower, kissing down my sternum and nudging the fabric of my tank top out of the way with her nose. "Just you and me, free to do whatever we want. How does that sound, babygirl?"

Time liquified with the steady rise of her torso. Sitting up straight, her fingers curled, toying with the jacket's zipper's metal promise.

Excruciating. Each micro-movement stretched infinite, savoring the crackling tension. The zipper's descent was a velvet avalanche - its rasp echoing like a solitary drumbeat through the throbbing silence.

Breathless witnessing as inch by infinite inch of dewy temptation emerged. Reality collapsed to this one reverent strip, the world's stage lights dimming to black. Every nerve ending scorched by the zipper's excruciating peel.

Teasing me felt like a one-way ticket to hell, but God, what a sinful descent.

My mouth watered as the fabric, at last, parted to reveal nothing was worn underneath.

Only golden, shimmering skin, and two necklaces nestled in the valley of her breasts.

Sounds like heaven.

She lifted my chin up, holding it steadfastly in place, her gaze searing into mine with an innocent, inquisitive air that belied her actions.

"My eyes are up here," she smirked. "I asked you a question, Aaliyah."

"Hmm?—Oh, yeah. Good. Sounds real...good," I rambled incoherently, a low whine escaping me as Beyoncé peeled her hoodie the rest of the way off and tossed it carelessly aside.

Unable to resist, I ran appreciative hands over the toned planes of her stomach—her hands joining mine to prevent them from inching any higher—savoring the warmth of her soft skin and the involuntary shiver that rippled through her in response to my touch.

"Ah bon? Just good?" She cocked a deliciously arched brow as her fingers toyed with the waistband of her panties, dipping maddeningly beneath the elastic. My breath hitched in anticipation as her hand stroked lower, disappearing entirely from view. "Mmm...you sure baby?"

A haze of desire clouded my vision as she rocked her hips with torturous slowness, a breathy moan spilling from her lips.

Beneath the undergarment, her dexterous fingers continued their teasing caresses, the cotton fabric becoming visibly dampened by her arousal. I inhaled shakily, feeling a molten ache pooling between my own thighs.

Her free hand drifted up to caress the swell of her breasts. She threw her head back with another sinful moan, darker this time, richer. Every muscle in my body tensed with the urge to flip her over and divest her of the maddeningly flimsy barrier that was her underwear.

Seizing the opportunity, I sat upright, took one into my mouth, and sucked hard, my tongue flicking and swirling across the sensitive, pierced bud. Her nails clawed at my back, and I released her with a soft pop, repeating the process on the other side.

"That good enough for you, Beyoncé? Is that answerin' your question?" I murmured against her chest. A ragged whimper escaped her parted lips as she thrust her hips wantonly against my lap, her body undulating with growing urgency as my mouth lavished reverent attention.

"No...," she stuttered. Her fingers pumped with increasing fervor, and her hips rocked in tandem. I watched, transfixed, as the muscles of her forearm tensed and flexed with each rhythmic stroke. Her eyes were screwed shut, her full lips parted around breathy moans of pleasure, and her brow furrowed in concentration. "Try again—I want...an answer that makes me feel somethin'. Otherwise," her voice dropped to a low purr, "maybe...maybe we should stop then. We wouldn't want...want to waste your valuable time on something that's just good...would we?"

She flashed me a molten look from beneath hooded lids, her chest heaving with heated breaths. Unable to resist her provocative challenge a moment longer, in one fluid motion, I flipped her onto her back, pinning her writhing body beneath me with delicious dominance.

"It sounds so fucking amazing, Bey. The best," I blurted out. "Fucking perfection. Better than sliced bread. Baby, I can make you feel plenty without sayin' anything. The things I wanna do to you, the places I wanna take you...I don't think there's enough words in the English language to describe what I got planned."

Her laughter filled the room, her free hand threading into my hair. "Am I gettin' you all hot and bothered now, baby?" She withdrew her other hand, placing her slick digits between my lips. "...show me, then," she urged.

A soft moan escaped me as the flavor of her spread across my tastebuds, divine—like the richest nectar from the most exotic flowers, intoxicating and addictive.

Beyoncé grinned smugly in satisfaction, her pupils blown wide and dark, a deep obsidian that was almost impossible to discern from her irises.

I reached for her panties, pulling them off and tossing them over my shoulder.

A welcoming feast spread before me like a buffet.

All for me.

And I was fucking starved.

We wasted no more time during our reunion. Moans, gasps, and the sounds of fevered sex reverberated off the walls as we devoured each other.

I tasted, teased, and tortured her, dragging her to the brink and holding her there, edging her until she was practically delirious.

Her body was a map I had committed long ago to memory—a topography known and explored so thoroughly that I knew all its peaks and valleys, its most sensitive terrain.

The sweet, secret places only I was allowed to traverse.

The roadways that elicited the most delicious responses, the hidden passages that would leave her quivering in ecstasy once revealed.

All leading towards my favorite destination.

"I wish you could see yourself right now," I husked, intensifying my pace and driving her deeper into the mattress with each determined thrust. The headboard thudded rhythmically against the wall, punctuating the air with each movement.

Her muffled cries into the pillow only spurred me on, drawing a sly smirk across my face and prompting me to smack her ass a few times for emphasis.

"Speak up, baby. I can't hear you," I taunted softly. My body, then, pressed fully against her back, her curves providing a perfect, soft counterpoint to my movements.

Gently, I grasped her chin, tilting her face towards mine to catch every expression, every response. Her nails scratched futilely at the sheets as she searched for purchase, a counterbalance to the relentless pressure.

Her response was instantaneous—a garbled, muttered string of unintelligible affirmations and pleas.

"Nuh, uh, that's not gonna work," I ordered. My hips rolled with a more practiced precision, a smooth, steady tempo that struck that sweet spot with each measured stroke. Her eyelids fluttered, the strain evident in the furrow of her brow. "Let me hear it, Bey," I urged, voice soft yet commanding. "Lemme hear how much you want it. You missed the way I fucked you, didn't you, baby? The way I made you feel?"

"Yes," she breathed, voice thick with desire.

"How much?" My hand snaked down her front, cupping her gently, circling the swollen bundle of nerves.

"So...fuckin'...much. You...don't know...how—," she gasped, voice heavy with need, a hoarse edge creeping into her tone.

"Hmm? How what, baby?" Another series of slower, measured thrusts, deep and unhurried. "You want me to stop again? Can't handle it like you thought you—"

"Fuck you."

Defiance, frustration, and desire all warring in the blazing depths of her eyes.

There was something so intoxicatingly visceral about the way this woman's features contorted in the throes of rapture.

An erotic poetry inscribed in every unguarded expression, every primal instinct laid bare. Golden tresses spilled across the pillows like a wheat field beneath the summer sun's caress.

Flushed cheeks glowed with the warm blush of arousal, full lips swollen and glistening—ripe fruit plucked from the garden at the peak of its succulence.

The heated retort lanced straight through me, coiling deep in my core. A nice challenge.

A rumbling chuckle of approval escaped my lips before I captured her mouth in a frantic, open-mouthed kiss—a desperate reclamation of dominance. When I at last tore myself away, a solitary strand of saliva stretched obscenely between us as a guttural growl reverberated in my chest.

This nasty, sloppy intimacy was communion in its rawest form—consecration through the most carnal of connections. To bear witness as a lover's unraveled abandon gave way to exquisite surrender...it was worship at its most primal.

The ultimate expression rooted in the deepest wellsprings of trust and vulnerability.

Coupled with the strap's vibrations thrumming against me, the thrill that surged through me was akin to the high after a shot of absinthe—a euphoric rush that swept over me like a potent drug.

My control unraveled, my hips snapping harder, faster.

"That wasn't the kinda French I was hoping for, Peaches. But we can work on that," I whispered, breathless, burying my face in her neck to lavish her delicate skin with fevered attention.

Beyoncé's voice broke, cracking as she gave a wordless shout, the telltale sign signaling she was close again.

The sentiment, the sweet nothings I whispered in her ear, in between gasping breaths, drove her wild. "Keep...keep fuckin' me like that, and I swear to God...I'm gonna come. Please...please, Aaliyah—let me come for you."

"Go ahead baby," I peeled my upper body from hers, rising onto my knees once more. "Show me how much you missed me, how much you've been thinkin' about this. Wanna see you fall apart for me." My own voice cracked, and I gritted my teeth, struggling to hold on myself, the vibrations ratcheting up another level.

A string of unintelligible profanity flew from her mouth, a stream of pleading, broken affirmations.

Then, in time, she bucked back against me, exploding in a mess onto my thighs and the sheets. I rode the wave, maintaining an uneven pace, guiding her through each crest, prolonging the experience until her body went limp and slack against the mattress.

Only once she'd begun to still did I allow myself to succumb to the strap's vibrations, clutching her waist as I came with a series of choked cries, shuddering against her spent form.

I switched off the toy immediately, withdrawing from her with care and discarding it with a sigh. I wasn't sure how long we stayed like this—a tangled pile of intertwined limbs and contented weariness.

My lips traced a tender path along her spine, climbing towards her neck and shoulders. I savored the sensation of her muscles unwinding, her form being engulfed peacefully by the mattress beneath us.

"...was that good enough for you, Aaliyah?" she mumbled drowsily.

My answering laugh was a breathless gasp. "...perfect. Absolutely perfect."

"Good. Because my throat is killin' me right now."

I flopped over beside her, rolling onto my back, and she immediately curled into me, throwing a leg over mine, her arm draped lazily across my stomach.

I smoothed her tresses back from her face, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. Her lids were beginning to droop, and I knew it was only a matter of moments before sleep would overtake her.

"Why are you so goddamn good at that?" she grumbled, nestling closer. "How do you always manage to get me like this? We fuck like it's our first and last time together. And no one's ever been able to...you know...make me do that."

"Never had an orgasm before?"

Her cheeks flushed an even deeper crimson, and she buried her face into my chest. "Noooo, you know what I'm talkin' about. Like...how are you able to make me do that so easily?"

"Guess I'm a natural," I chuckled, pressing a kiss against her temple. "Don't know what to tell you. But don't be embarrassed, baby. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I love it when that happens."

"Tell me you love me, Aaliyah." Her words were a sleepy murmur.

"Always."

"No. Say it. I wanna hear you say it."

I turned onto my side, and Beyoncé readjusted herself accordingly, reaching out to trace idle patterns across my breasts.

"Je t'aime," I began. Her gaze softened, and her fingers drifted higher, brushing over my lips, which were soon replaced by her mouth. "To the moon and back."

A smile curled across her face. "Am I rubbin' off on you?"

"In more ways than one."

I felt her hand slide lower, cupping between my backside and giving it a light squeeze. "It feels so good bein' with you again, Aaliyah," she murmured. "I missed this so much. Missed you. And I love you, too."

I captured her hand in mine, planting a soft kiss on the palm. "I think the drenched sheets may have gotten the memo already," I chuckled. She poked my side, prompting a yelp from me, and she snickered.

I sat up with a groan, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and stretching before taking her hand and helping her up.

She joked, "Va te faire foutre. Get a towel next time."

Chapter Text

now playing:  "Your Love (I'm Sprung)" by Nicki Minaj x T-Pain (mix by Pheezy)

"'Crank Dat Dance Songs'? 'Green Day + Paramore + MCR'? 'Playa Demo B-Side'?"

The music room, my sanctuary of sound and solitude, had not felt the trace of another person in what seemed like forever.

Now, it pulsed with a new vibrancy, shared with someone who mattered. After a playful late afternoon of haircare and skincare rituals—masks that tingled and creams that soothed—we retreated here, a place usually just mine, now warmly ours.

The room pulsed with a mellow radiance, like a smoky jazz club at midnight. Puppet shadows danced on the walls, improvising their silent rhythm. Light spilled from hidden corners, smooth as a saxophone's wail.

Massive plush pillows were scattered across the hardwood floor, whispering invitations to sink and settle. My shelves, a proud display of my eclectic taste, ranged from old school vinyl to shiny CDs.

Macaroni lay curled up nearby, her snores a soft metronome in the background. Onyx, nestled against my leg, his presence a warm, reassuring weight.

Beyoncé, balancing Cash in her arm, delved into a bin I'd almost forgotten, her laughter spilling like music as she unearthed relics of my musical past: old school mixes and tapes Rashad and I sacrificed our family desktop to malware and spyware, all in an effort to compile the best playlist.

The look Beyoncé gave me could've curdled milk.

"Huh? Oh, that's Static's little group from high school. I actually don't know why that's there." I said.

"That's not the one I'm worried about. It's this one: 'MySpace Pretty Ricky Ciara Slow Jamz'—with a 'z', by the way. 'Grind Squad'."

I snorted, scratching Onyx behind the ears, his fur silky under my fingers. "Okay, that one is definitely not mine. Rashad used to stay watchin' those stupid videos on YouTube to impress some girl. Just humpin' the floor like a fuckin' idiot. She never gave him the time of day though, so it was for nothin'. But, hey, at least the mix slaps."

Onyx barked, a short, sharp sound. Approval? Perhaps.

"How old are the two of y'all again?"

"Not much older than you, Ms. Knowles. Me and you are pretty close in age."

"Please, you went to the Scream Tour," she retorted, the words light and teasing. "Fully conscious and aware of everythin'. You saw Bow Wow when he was this tall," she continued, holding Cash's hand aloft as she knelt down near the ground. He cooed at the sight of his own chubby paw. "Probably thought he was cute."

"First of all," the cackling laughter that escaped my lips made her grin in response, "he was not that short. Second of all, I was not there because I liked him. I was there because my cousin got us tickets. She had a huge crush on J-Boog."

"So you didn't have a crush on anybody?"

"I don't think I had a crush on any of them."

"You lyin'."

I scoffed, but the smirk that curled her lip said she thought she knew more than I did.