Chapter 16 #2
And she was waking things in him he thought were gone forever.
The thought made his chest tighten. His jaw clenched as a familiar heat rose in his blood—anger, grief, confusion all tangled into one.
He hated feeling vulnerable. Hated that she had that kind of power over him.
Hated that her touch could still his chaos.
He didn’t want to let anyone in. Couldn’t. Not after what he’d lost.
But Sevyn was different. Uncontrollable. Unshakable.
And the truth he couldn’t deny, no matter how hard he tried? He didn’t want to stay away.
Hassan finally pulled into the hospital parking lot, sliding his car into the space beside Harper’s.
He was already late. He knew it. And even with his grandmother slipping further from this world, he could still hear her voice in his head—cussing him out for making her wait.
He moved fast, cutting through the hospice facility’s entrance and giving the nurses at the front desk a small nod. No words. Just a look.
They knew him by now.
He made his way down the long hallway to the back, where his grandmother’s room was tucked away in the quiet corner of the building. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.
The smell of sterile air mixed with the faint scent of lavender. Inside, Harper sat across from Helen at a small table, mid-laugh, her face lit up as Helen slammed a card down with that same fiery attitude she always had. Helen was winning, and proud of it.
But when her eyes met Hassan’s, her expression softened. A slow, weak smile curved her lips.
That smile always got him.
She looked different now. Her vibrant brown skin was dimmed, her frame thinner than it should’ve been, her features drawn.
The light in her eyes was still there, but it flickered instead of burning.
Life was slowly draining from her, but even now, she looked at him like he was st ill her whole heart.
Still her baby boy.
“Hey, Madea,” Hassan said, walking over and pressing a kiss to her forehead. The warmth of her skin against his lips did something to him—melted a little of the tension he’d been carrying.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Helen grumbled, voice raspy but strong. “Thought I was gon’ have to get out this damn bed and track your ass down myself.”
And the way she said it? He knew she meant it. If she could, she absolutely would’ve.
Hassan let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “You still crazy.”
He turned to Harper. “Wassup, Harp.”
“Hey, San,” she said softly, her eyes still focused on the game as she placed a card down.
The room went quiet for a beat.
There was love in the air. Real love. The kind that wrapped around you even when it was heavy. Even when it hurt.
They settled into the room with light conversation, the soft hum of the soap opera playing in the background as Harper and Helen gossiped like they always did.
It was their routine—laughing at the characters, arguing about who was sleeping with who, and acting like they weren’t watching reruns for the fifth time.
Hassan sat quiet in the corner, saying nothing, just watching.
Despite the blankness in his expression, his chest was tight, his thoughts louder than anything on the screen.
He couldn't bear the thought of Helen actually leaving this earth. Even though he didn’t meet her until he was sixteen, she had been the only woman to love him after his mother’s death.
The only one who saw past his brokenness and didn’t flinch.
She took him in when he was already grown and angry at the world.
And despite the hell he gave her in the beginning—breaking shit, yelling, pushing— she never stopped loving him.
Never judged him. Never gave up. And for that, he was grateful in ways he didn’t know how to say out loud.
He looked at her now, her frail body propped up with pillows, a soft smile on her face as she laid another card down on the table.
She was weaker, her skin a little duller, her fire dimmed—but not gone.
Helen had always been a fighter. Whether that meant beating cancer or beating ass, she didn’t back down.
And even as life slowly slipped from her, she still held her chin high.
Still talked shit. Still loved hard. Hassan clenched his fist in his lap as the weight of it all pressed harder on his chest. His eyes flicked to Harper, still smiling, still playing, but he could see it in her.
The sadness she was trying to hide. Helen was her whole world.
Raised her from a baby. She wasn’t just losing a grandmother—she was losing her foundation, her mothe r, her protector, all in one.
His jaw tightened as his fingers began to shake again, the helplessness clawing at him.
He couldn’t save Helen. He couldn’t heal Harper.
He couldn’t do anything except sit there and feel himself slowly unravel.
He shut his eyes and inhaled, trying to pull it together, to silence the ache swelling in his chest. But the sharp ring of his phone snapped his eyes open and pulled him straight back into reality.
He reached into his pocket, jaw clenched tight, already bracing himself for whatever storm was on the other end.
He looked down at his phone to see Nova calling—again.
His jaw clenched as he hit decline without hesitation.
Ever since Sevyn walked into his office mid-stroke, Nova had been on some extra clingy, possessive shit.
She used to play her position. She knew not to press him, knew her role was limited to when and where he decided.
But lately, she’d been acting jealous, calling more, texting like they had something deeper than they did—and he was getting tired of it.
Seconds later, the phone buzzed again with her name. Another call. Another decline.
“Turn that damn phone off. Business, and those bitches can wait,” Helen said from across the room, her tone stern, laced with that old- school authority she always carried.
Without a word, Hassan powered it down and slid it back into his pocket. “My bad, Madea,” he replied, voice even, eyes cold.
But truth was, she was right. He needed this break. No distractions. No Nova. No business. Just peace—for however long he could have it.
And somehow, despite everything, he found it.
For the first time in a long time, he actually felt connected. He sat with Harper and Helen, laughing, talking shit over dominoes, watching TV. They acted like a real family. No street shit. No blood on his hands. Just warmth. Just love. And though he’d never say it out loud, he was enjoying it.
But joy, for Hassan, never stayed long.
Just as he leaned back, the rare comfort of the moment sinking into his bones, a knock sounded at the door. It creaked open slowly— and in stepped the one man Harper resented with every fiber of her being… and the same man Hassan had promised himself he’d kill if he ever saw again.
Hendrix.
And just like that, the peace shattered.
Hendrix stepped into the room with a bouquet of flowers in hand and a shadow of tension trailing behind him. The moment he crossed the threshold, Harper’s eyes darkened, and Hassan’s went cold.
Hassan had Von tracking him—always—so seeing Hendrix here, unannounced, made his blood boil. He’d have words for Von later .
Harsh ones.
“Hey, Mama,” Hendrix said, voice soft as he approached the bed. Helen managed a nervous smile, her eyes bouncing between her son, her grandson, and her granddaughter. The silence in the room was brutal. Heavy. No one moved. No one breathed.
“Hey, son,” she finally replied as Hendrix leaned down to kiss her forehead.
That was all it took for Harper to snap. She jumped up without a word, storming toward the door, her body radiating pain.
“Hazel, wait—” Helen called out, her voice strained just before it broke into a cough.
Harper froze mid-step. But it was too late.
The tears were already falling, angry and silent, streaking down her face. Seeing her like that only made Hassan’s rage burn hotter. His eyes still hadn’t moved off Hendrix.
“You not gon’ speak to your Pops?” Hendrix asked, his tone edged with offense, like he had a right to be wounded.
Harper turned, mugging him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. They looked alike—same deep brown skin, same curl pattern now cut low and graying with age. Their eye colors didn’t match, but the shape was the same. People often said Harper was the woman version of her father.
She hated hearing that.
“Nigga, fuck you,” she said coldly, her voice sharp as a blade, and walked out without another word.
Helen called after her again, but she was gone.
Now, only Hassan, Helen, and Hendrix remained in the room— and the air turned suffocating.
Hendrix turned to Hassan. “Wassup, nephew,” he greeted, like everything was cool.
Hassan said nothing. He stood slowly, towering just slightly over his uncle as he stepped forward, eyes locked like a sniper on target.
Hendrix mugged him back, his pride too damn big to back down. “The fuck you gon’ do?”
Hassan grinned. Wide. That grin that came right before he lost control. Helen had seen it too many times before. Her eyes widened as his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. That grin wasn’t just rage—it was bloodlust.
“Hassan… please,” Helen said, her voice shaking. “This is not the place. Not the time.”
Hendrix stepped closer, unfazed. “You ain’t gone do shit.”
That low, dark chuckle escaped Hassan’s throat—one Helen knew too well. It made her heart race .
“San. Please. Go check on Harper,” she begged, her voice cracking with panic.
Hassan stared at Hendrix for one more beat. Then, finally, he turned.
“You called his ass here, didn’t you?” Hassan asked, his voice low but laced with heat as he looked back at Helen.
She didn’t say a word. But the guilt on her face said everything he needed to know.
And that silence? Hurt worse than any truth.