Chapter 12 #2
He let her absorb it all in silence, watching her reaction closely. “You live here alone?” she finally asked, her voice soft with curiosity.
Hassan nodded, locking the door behind them. “Yeah.”
Sevyn turned to him, arms folding. “Why did you bring me here?”
Hassan exhaled through his nose, slipping off his watch and placing it on the table near the door. “You needed to get away.”
She frowned slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I told you I had things to handle, Hassan. You can’t just pull up and take me whenever you feel like it.”
Hassan stepped closer, his deep, dark eyes settling on hers. “I told you to get in the car. You did.”
She sucked her teeth, rolling her eyes. “Because you basically threatened to kill Braxton.”
He didn’t respond to that—because she wasn’t wrong. Instead, he studied her. He could still see the emotion in her eyes, the weight of everything she just went through. Her parents, Braxton, the confrontation—it was all too much for one night.
She exhaled and turned away, letting her eyes wander around his home again.
It was masculine, but refined—black, royal blue, and silver accents throughout.
It was more put together than she expected from a man like him.
Not that she expected it to be a mess, but this? This was… thoughtful. Intentional.
"You have a beautiful home," Sevyn said softly, her eyes still scanning the space.
Hassan gave a slight nod. "Preciate it," he murmured, moving toward the couch. He grabbed his weed and started rolling up, his movem ents smooth, practiced. Normally, he didn’t smoke in the house, but after tonight, he needed it.
Bringing her here wasn’t part of any plan. He didn’t bring women where he laid his head—ever. The only people who had ever been inside were Harper and Roman. And yet, Sevyn was here. She stood in the middle of his living room, arms crossed, her gaze still roaming, taking in every detail.
Finally, she turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Why did you really bring me here?"
Hassan exhaled through his nose, picking up his stash and began rolling. He didn’t answer right away. He knew the real answer—he didn’t like seeing her with Braxton, didn’t like the idea of her being anywhere near that green ass nigga. But he couldn’t tell her that.
Instead, he lit the blunt, inhaled deeply, then met her gaze. "Look, I wanna talk." His voice was calm, even.
Sevyn scoffed but moved to sit across from him, keeping her distance. He noticed that. She was always measuring, always keeping space between them like she knew what this was turning into—like she didn’t trust herself not to fold.
She glanced at her watch, then back at him. "And showing up at my parents’ house and dragging me to your place at midnight…" Her voice was sharp, clipped, showing how thin her patience was. "To have a therapy session—that sounded smart to you?"
Hassan took another slow pull from his blunt, letting the smoke roll from his lips before he spoke. She wasn’t wrong. It was crazy. But talking wasn’t why he came for her tonight. It was just the excuse he told himself to justify the shit he pulled.
"You said to hit you up when I wanna talk, right?" His tone was unreadable. "So I did."
Sevyn rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached down, unstrapped her heels, and slid them off, her bare feet pressing against the plush rug beneath her.
Hassan watched her closely, admiring the way she moved, the way she eased into his space like she belonged there.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind.
“Were you really going to kill Braxton if I didn’t leave with you?” Sevyn asked, breaking the thick silence that had been sitting heavy between them.
Hassan didn’t look at her right away. He pulled from the blunt, smoke curling from his lips as he kept his gaze forward, avoiding hers. The question lingered in the air, heavy and dangerous.
He stayed quiet for a beat too long. Then finally, he spoke.
“Yo people ever tell you not to ask questions you don’t want the answe r to?”
His voice was low, calm—but something in it made her body stiffen. She knew what that meant. Knew he wasn’t saying it to scare her… but because it was the truth.
He wasn’t going to admit it, not out loud. But yes. Yes, he would’ve killed Braxton without hesitation.
And the scariest part? He couldn’t even admit that shit to himself. The room settled into a quiet stillness, thick with unspoken tension. Hassan knew Sevyn was exhausted—mentally, emotionally— after everything she had just endured with Braxton and her parents.
But he also knew that if he didn’t talk, she’d leave. And for some reason, he wasn’t ready for that.
So he spoke up.
"You even up for this?" His voice was calm, but his eyes were locked on hers, watching, reading the emotions she was trying to suppress.
Sevyn offered a small smile before nodding. "Helping people through their problems always helps me forget about mine. So listening to whatever’s on your mind right now is better than me going home and crying my eyes out." Her tone was light, but Hassan’s jaw clenched at her words.
Crying over that nigga?
He didn’t know exactly what had gone down inside her parents’ house, but it was clear Braxton had something to do with it. The busted lip and bloody nose Braxton left with told him enough.
"Plus, we drove for a while," she added, her voice shifting into something playful. "I’m probably too far from home to be leaving this late."
Hassan shook his head at how quickly she could switch from serious to goofy. It was something about her—how she carried both pain and humor so effortlessly—that intrigued him.
"Aight," he muttered, inhaling from the blunt before exhaling a slow stream of smoke.
Then, after a beat, he asked, "You straight though?" His tone was low, unreadable, but the question held weight.
The way her lips parted slightly, the surprise flickering across her face—it caught him off guard. He wasn’t the type to check in on people. He barely cared about his own emotions, let alone anyone else’s. But here he was, caring.
And he hated it.
Sevyn’s expression softened, and then she smiled—warm, genuine, something real. "Yes, Hassan. Thanks for asking."
That smile did something to him. Something he wasn’t ready to name. So he shook it off, kept his face blank, unreadable. But as Sevyn stared at him, her gaze steady and knowing, he realized she was reading him again. Like she saw everything .
And for once, he didn’t mind.
"Remember what you asked me in my office the other night?" Hassan’s voice broke through the quiet, his tone even, but there was something deeper beneath it.
Sevyn tilted her head, thinking. “I asked you a lot, you gonna have to be more specific.” Her voice was teasing, light, but he didn’t react.
“Why I started a casino when I don’t gamble.”
She nodded as the memory clicked. “For your father, right?”
Hassan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his jaw tightening slightly. “It wasn’t for him, though.”
There was a sharpness in his voice now, like just saying the words pulled something buried too close to the surface. Sevyn stayed silent, listening.
“It wasn’t for money. Wasn’t for status.
Sure as hell wasn’t to make my father proud.
” His voice tightened on that last part, his fingers twitching around the blunt before he brought it to his lips.
He took a deep pull before resting his forearm on his knee, his gaze locked on the smoke curling between them.
Sevyn caught the shift in his energy. It wasn’t just an explanation— this was something deeper.
“I did it outta spite.”
The confession sat between them, heavy and unfiltered. He looked at her then, searching for judgment, waiting for the usual reaction he got when he told people the truth. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She just looked at him, eyes warm and steady, giving him the space to continue.
Hassan flicked the blunt into the ashtray, watching the embers die before leaning back against the couch.
“My pops was a gambler. Not the ‘every now and then’ type. Nah. That motherfucka’ bet on everything.
Cards, dice, sports—you name it, he lost money on it.
I used to watch him come home, pockets empty, smelling like whiskey and regret.
Watched my mom cry herself to sleep while he swore ‘this time’ was different. ”
His voice was sharper now, edged with something darker. Anger. Resentment. Memories that still cut too deep.
He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You know what the worst part was? He wasn’t even tryna win. He just… couldn’t stop. It was like losing was his addiction. Like throwing away everything we had made him feel alive.”
Sevyn felt something tighten in her chest, but she didn’t speak.
This wasn’t about her. This was his pain .
"I watched my fucking parents die at six years old because of that nigga and his gambling problem."
Hassan’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap, but what caught Sevyn off guard wasn’t his words—it was the way his voice cracked, the slightest fracture in the mask he always wore. His face stayed emotionless, but that crack in his voice told a story his expression refused to show.
Sevyn’s breath hitched, eyes widening at the revelation, but she didn’t interrupt. She let him talk.
“My pops was an accountant. Smart as hell, but dumb as fuck at the same time.” Hassan exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his hands flexing against his knees.
“He worked for a powerful man—the type that don’t call the cops when money goes missing.
The type that don’t let anybody steal from him and walk away. ”
Sevyn caught it then. The way his hands trembled slightly before he curled them into fists. The way he flicked the blunt into the ashtray, like he suddenly didn’t need it. His voice, though—steady. Too steady. Like this wasn’t pain, just another fact.