CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NAJEE
Jackie’s block looked like it was barely holding on.
There were abandoned shells of row homes. Trash nestled along curbs. Streetlights flickering like they couldn’t decide if this place was worth illuminating or not. Najee had seen some shit.
Hell, he’d worked in neighborhoods worse than this, but something about driving down her street made his senses sharpen. Everything felt a little too dark—and a little too forgotten. And maybe it wasn’t just the block. Maybe it was what lingered between them since Riverwards.
Jackie had been embarrassed. He could feel it.
Even after she tried to brush it off. But what stuck with him wasn’t the act itself.
It was the reflex. The way she defaulted to survival like it was muscle memory.
That told him more than anything she’d ever said.
He knew that look. He’d seen it in the waiting rooms, in parents who didn’t know how to ask for help without losing dignity.
But Jackie wasn’t a case file. She wasn’t one of his patients, and that’s what made it harder to shake.
He parked behind her car, slid his piece into his coat pocket just in case, and stepped out. Max was still asleep in the backseat, head tilted, lips slightly parted. Without thinking, Najee scooped him up like it was second nature and carried him to the front door.
When Jackie opened the door, Najee didn’t know what he expected.
Maybe chaos. Maybe clutter. Or another space held together by tension and survival.
It was none of that. The scent hit him first. It was sweet, warm, like roasted marshmallows layered with something green.
Matcha. Vanilla. Maybe even a little brown sugar.
The walls were lined with framed family portraits, African American art, and shelves stacked with worn books and candles that had clearly been burned more than once.
Not for show, but comfort. Possibly even necessity.
There were mismatched pillows, textures that invited touch, and plants that had clearly been loved and cared for.
Jackie’s home didn’t just look lived in—it felt safe.
It felt like her. “I can take him from here,” she said, reaching for Max.
“I’m gonna throw him in the shower, scrub the day off him. Then I’m starting on your cobbler. Shouldn’t take more than an hour and twenty. I’ll have you out of here in no time.”
“Take your time,” Najee said, eyes still sweeping the room like he didn’t want to miss a single detail. Jackie nodded and disappeared upstairs with Max slumped against her.
For a moment, Najee just stood there, taking everything in. This wasn’t what people expected from someone like her, not according to the narratives his aunt and others spun. But this?
This was someone who curated peace. Someone who still believed in beautiful things, even when life kept trying to take them away.
Then he noticed the table, nestled near the front window, quiet but deliberate.
The setup clearly meant something. The lights above it were dimmed low, casting a soft glow over a single cake sitting in the center.
Around it was neatly wrapped gifts, folded cards, and a table runner she’d clearly ironed herself.
Balloons hung in muted shades of blue and gold, as one started to tilt like it had been up since earlier.
He stepped closer and on top of the cake was a small “17” candle that hadn’t been lit.
Najee’s gaze drifted to the open envelope resting against the cake stand.
He hesitated, then picked it up. The handwriting was neat but pressed too hard, like the words had been written through tears.
The front read: To my first love. He flipped it open, eyes moving over the first few lines.
MJ,
I know I’ve missed too many of your birthdays.
Too many moments I can’t get back. I know the world ain’t been fair, to you or to me.
But I need you to know something, I never stopped fighting for us.
For you. For this little family we still are, even from far away.
Your brother misses you so much. Every night before bed, we pray that God keeps you safe.
That He finds a way to bring us back together again.
I know I haven’t been perfect, not even close.
I’ve made mistakes I wish I could undo. But you?
You’ve always been the best part of me. My first heartbeat.
My first real reason to keep going when I didn’t want to.
I don’t know how to make up for what was taken, but I’m trying baby.
Every single day, I’m trying. Wherever you are, I hope you know your momma never stopped loving you, never stopped thinking about you, and will forever be waiting for you. Happy Birthday Son.
-Love Mommy
Najee exhaled slow, jaw tightening. There was no signature, just a faint smudge of ink where she must’ve tried to wipe her face.
He set the card back down carefully, like it was something sacred, and maybe it was.
It was grief and guilt wrapped in glitter and love.
A small altar. For a boy who wasn’t there to blow out his candles.
That kind of pain didn’t come from negligence, it came from loss.
Jackie returned twenty minutes later, barefoot and soft.
She wore black leggings, a ribbed Henley that clung to her in all the right places, and a pair of faded Tweety Bird slippers that looked like they’d survived two generations.
Her hair was up now, messy, but sexy. With a pair of oversized tortoiseshell readers like she forgot they were even on. Najee felt his pulse shift.
“Don’t say nothing,” she warned with a smirk. “These slippers older than my oldest son.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything about the slippers,” he said. “But those glasses?”
She raised a brow. “Nah,” he smiled. “They fire. I like ’em.
” Jackie rolled her eyes, unconvinced, before heading toward the kitchen.
“Takeout is on the way,” he said behind her.
“I know you mentioned you didn’t eat earlier.
Figured this would keep you from cooking twice.
” Jackie paused mid-step, turning around slowly.
“Why you being so nice to me, Dr. Nigel?” she asked.
Her voice wasn’t accusing, more like curious.
Vulnerable even. “You feel that sorry for me?” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
Her walls were up, but not all the way. “Never,” he said quietly.
Their eyes held a second too long. Jackie broke the tension with a smirk.
“I see what you trying to do. You trying to finesse your way into a second serving of cobbler.”
“More like a guaranteed extra pan to myself,” Najee said, grinning as he leaned against the counter. “I feel like it’s the least I deserve after supervising balloons and battling tablecloths.”
Jackie rolled her eyes and reached for her mixing bowl.
“You put one flower arrangement on a table, sir.”
“Cap. I tied bows. I stacked chairs and I organized the party favors.”
“You stood around and looked pretty.”
“And blew up balloons.” Jackie laughed, shaking her head as she sliced peaches over the sink.
“Alright then, Mr. Helper. Make yourself useful. Grab the bourbon from that top cabinet.”
Najee walked over, opened the cabinet, and scanned the bottles.
“You keep top-shelf liquor for desserts?” She shrugged, wiping her hands on a towel.
“It’s called flavor. Grown-woman shit.”
“Say less.” He handed her the bottle, then leaned in a little, voice dropping low.
“What else you put in this famous cobbler of yours?”
Jackie poured the bourbon into a small saucepan, her smile turning sly.
“That’s G-14 classified.”
“Classified?”
“Mmhmm.” She turned back toward the stove, stirring the butter, sugar, and spice together with practiced ease. “Passed down through generations. Only shared with husbands and hospice patients.” “Oh, so I don’t qualify?” She glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “You trying to?”
Najee froze for half a second, smile dimming just enough to show he caught the weight behind her words.
But Jackie was already back to whisking cinnamon into the pot like she hadn’t said anything at all.
He stepped closer, quiet but deliberate, the scent of perfume and caramelized sugar curling together in the air.
“I qualify to taste it though, right?” Jackie didn’t answer.
She smirked instead, before turning around and holding up the spoon.
Steam rose between them as she blew on it once, then lifted it toward his mouth.
Their eyes met—slow and heavy. “Tell me what’s missing? ” She asked softly.
He tasted it and paused. The sweetness hit first, syrupy brown sugar, bourbon, and another spice he couldn’t name. But it wasn’t the flavor that made him go still. It was her.
The way she watched him, lips parted slightly, eyes steady and searching like she was waiting on more than a verdict.
Najee blinked once, slow. “Nothing,” he said finally, voice low enough to feel more than hear.
“It’s perfect as it is.” The air tightened, but neither of them moved.
Steam drifted up between them, the scent of sugar and spice wrapping around the silence.
Jackie’s breath hitched, so soft it almost didn’t exist. Najee’s gaze dropped to her mouth before he caught himself. The air felt different now.
He couldn’t name it, but he could feel it everywhere.
Jackie broke eye contact first, as she turned back toward the stove, and pretended to check the oven.
Even though he could see the faint curve of a smile she was trying to hide.
His gaze didn’t move. He kept looking at her, steady and quiet.
The room had narrowed to just the warmth of the stove, the smell of bourbon and butter, and a woman he was supposed to keep professional distance from… but couldn’t.