Chapter 11 #2
Sevyn met his gaze with a polite smile, her usual poise and grace never faltering. “Hey, Roman. How are you?” she asked smoothly, ignoring the obvious curiosity in his expression.
“Can’t complain,” he responded, the smirk still playing on his lips. Hassan stood a few steps behind, his hands in his pockets, silently observing the exchange. He didn’t miss the way Roman was sizing up the situation, his expression mischievous like he was itching to say something slick.
“I bet,” Sevyn replied, tilting her head slightly. “You and my cousin have been spending a lot of time together.”
Roman chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t get enough of her.” His tone was lighthearted, but the amused glint in his eye never left. “But this… this is a surprise.” He motioned between her and Hassan.
Sevyn laughed softly, but Hassan? He just stared at Roman like he was one comment away from getting knocked out. The unspoken tension simmered between them, and Roman—being Roman— enjoyed every second of it.
Then, without a word, Hassan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the small of Sevyn’s back. His touch was light, but possessive, his fingers lingering just enough to send a subtle message. He didn’t miss the slight shiver that ran through her body, though she kept her composure.
“Let’s go,” Hassan murmured in a low, commanding tone. Sevyn, like always, submitted effortlessly.
“Good seeing you again, Roman,” she said smoothly as she walked past him.
Roman’s smirk widened, his eyes dancing with amusement. “You too, Sevyn.”
Hassan shot Roman one last look—one that was equal parts warning and irritation—before following Sevyn out of the casino. Roman just chuckled to himself, shaking his head.
They walked in silence to her car, the cool night air settling between them. Hassan moved ahead, his fingers grazing the handle befor e pulling the door open for her.
"An addictive laugh and a gentleman," Sevyn teased, a smirk playing on her lips as she stepped aside.
Hassan shook his head at her pettiness, his face unreadable but his eyes flickering with something amused, something knowing.
"Get in the car, Sevyn," he said, his voice low, calm—yet still a command. He didn’t have to look at her to know his tone affected her.
He could feel it in the way her breath hitched just slightly, in the way she hesitated for a second longer than necessary before moving.
She settled in, and he closed the door behind her, stepping back as she rolled the window down. Even though she didn’t say anything right away, Hassan knew she had something left to say. She always did.
"Good night, Hassan. Call me when you need to talk," she said smoothly, keeping it short, professional. But even through the formality, there was warmth there—warmth that settled somewhere deep in his chest, a place he wasn’t used to acknowledging.
He didn’t respond, just gave her a single nod before stepping back, watching as she pulled away, her taillights disappearing into the night.
Hassan wasted no time going back inside, his mind shifting gears as he prepared to handle business with Roman. But the second he walked in, he already knew what was coming.
“So… you just not gonna say shit?” Roman asked, his arms crossed, an amused look plastered across his face.
Hassan didn’t even glance at him. “Ain’t shit to say.”
Roman chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, aight.” He wasn’t buying it, but Hassan wasn’t about to entertain him either.
He ignored the conversation altogether, focusing on the matter at hand—the reason they were here this late. But despite his efforts to push it aside, Sevyn lingered in the back of his mind. The way she looked at him, the way she listened, the way she read him so damn easily.
The night they shared was brief, but different. Something he hadn’t done with anyone before. And as much as he wanted to brush it off, he couldn’t deny the way it made him feel.
Therapy might not be that bad.
Or maybe… being with Sevyn wasn’t.
???
Hassan stepped into the hospice, his movements slow, calculated, but heavy with an unspoken weight. He hadn’t been here in a few days—too caught up with business, too caught up with his own damn thoughts—but he needed to check on her .
He walked into Helen’s room, the faint hum of the television filling the silence. She was sitting up slightly, her eyes locked on the screen until she noticed him. The second their gazes met, a small smile curved her lips, weak but warm.
“Hey, Madea,” he said, his voice void of emotion, but his eyes—his damn eyes—betrayed him.
Helen’s smile widened just a little. “Hey, San.”
She motioned for him to come closer, and he did, stepping further into the room, standing beside her bed.
He studied her face, noting every detail—how pale she looked, how the light in her once-sharp glowing eyes had dimmed just a little more.
Today, she looked better than she had the last time he saw her, but even then, she still looked…
tired. Like she was fighting a battle she already knew she wouldn’t win.
And that realization? It fueled something dark inside of him.
A deep, clawing anger at the fact that, for the first time in his life, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.
“I’m okay, San,” she reassured him, reading his expression like a book.
Hassan exhaled sharply, irritated. He was tired of people reading him, tired of feeling like his walls were being cracked open against his will. First Sevyn. Now her.
His jaw clenched. “Did you eat?” His tone came out low, almost scolding, like if she answered wrong, he’d tear this whole hospital apart.
Helen let out a weak chuckle. “Yes, San. They’re feeding me. Quite well, thanks to you.” She tried to joke, but he wasn’t in the mood. His face remained hard, unreadable.
Then, just like he knew she would, she brought up the one thing he didn’t want to talk about.
“Have you been looking into what I told you?” Her voice was gentle, but her question wasn’t.
Hassan sighed, already knowing she meant therapy.
“I told you, I’m not doing that talking shit.” His voice was clipped, final.
But he was lying.
Sevyn had already pried open parts of him he thought were locked down for good. He hated that she had, hated that he let her. She wasn’t even trying, and that pissed him off even more.
Helen studied him for a long moment, then just shook her head, letting it go.
“I need you to keep a closer eye on Harper,” she said, her tone heavier now, more serious.
His gaze hardened, suspicion creeping in. “Why?”
Helen exhaled, like she was preparing for the backlash. “Hendrix is mov ing back to the city. And he wants to see her.”
A slow, deadly tension coiled in Hassan’s chest at the sound of that name.
Hendrix. His uncle. Harper’s father. A man who, in Hassan’s eyes, didn’t deserve either title.
The name alone made his blood boil. Hendrix moved out to Mississippi a few years ago, thinking a new zip code could wash off all the shit he left behind.
But Hassan knew better. A different state don’t make a different man.
“What—he run outta hoes to pimp in Mississippi?” Hassan snapped, his jaw tight with frustration.
“He’s changed, Hassan,” Helen said softly. “He’s really trying to make things right. I just… I just want Harper to sit down with him. Just once. He really wants to see her.”
Her voice shook, the weight of years behind it. Not just as a mother hoping her son could be something more—but as a grandmother, desperate to fix what was broken before her time ran out.
His hands curled into fists at his sides as he fought to keep his expression unreadable.
He knew exactly what kind of man Hendrix was, knew what Harper had gone through because of him.
He had wanted to put a bullet in him more times than he could count, but Helen—and the simple fact that Harper was his blood—always stopped him.
“She don’t want nothing to do with that nigga, Madea.” His voice was sharp, but Helen nodded, already knowing that.
“Yeah, but I really think they should talk. I know how hard that’s gonna be on her once she sees him.” There was worry in her tone, a mother’s concern woven into every syllable.
Hassan sighed, the frustration in his chest bubbling up. “Madea, you gotta stop tryna fix us.”
“I’m not trying to fix—”
“Yes, you are.” His voice was calm, too calm, but firm, unwavering. “You told that nigga to bring his ass here so he and Harper could talk, like it’s gon’ fix whatever daddy issues you think she got. You keep tryna fix me too, like I’m some broken-ass nigga that needs therapy to function.”
Helen’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by his bluntness. He could see the emotion stirring behind her eyes, but he wasn’t done.
“I just want you two healed before I leave, Hassan,” she said, her voice small, fragile, breaking under the weight of her own words. Tears welled in her eyes, and for a second, just a second, Hassan felt his chest tighten. “I can’t leave this earth not knowing that you two are gonna be okay.”
His throat tightened, but his face stayed cold. Detached.
“No disrespect, Madea, but we already fucked up,” he said, voice low but firm. “In our own way, of course. But there ain’t shit you can do to change that.”
With that, he stood. The conversation was over.
He had come to check on her, to make sure she was good. And now that he saw she was, he was ready to leave. Because sitting here, under the weight of her eyes, knowing she saw him as something that needed fixing? That was something he couldn’t sit with any longer.
Hassan gripped the wheel tighter as he sped through the streets, his mind racing despite the steady calm he portrayed.
His grandmother’s words still sat heavy in his chest, but it was Sevyn who had burrowed her way into his thoughts, slipping through the cracks of his restraint like she belonged there. It pissed him off.