Chapter 11
I didn’t see him for three days after that.
That wasn’t unusual; we lived in different worlds an hour apart. I had classes, labs, and shifts at the dorm's front desk. He had his own routes, his own fires to put out in Crestwood.
But three days felt louder after that night in the study room.
The quiet between us had weight.
I tried not to read into it, but I failed.
On the fourth day, he texted.
Zayden:
You on campus all night?
Me:
Sadly.
Zayden:
I’m coming through. We gotta talk distribution.
Me:
You mean we gotta talk about your ego.
Zayden:
That too. Be ready.
I tried not to let my pulse jump.
By the time his car pulled up near the engineering building, it was already late. The kind of late where security guards started cutting corners on their rounds, and drunk freshmen started crying on the sidewalks about nothing.
I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar smell hitting me—leather, cologne, and the faintest hint of weed he thought he hid better than he did.
“You good?” he asked.
“Barely,” I said. “Midterms have been trying to jump me.”
He smirked. “You winning, though?”
“Always.”
He started the car and pulled away from the curb.
“You hungry?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to say no, then my stomach embarrassed me with a loud growl.
He laughed. “I’ma take that as a yes.”
There was a greasy little spot off-campus, open late. We grabbed burgers, fries, two sodas to go and ended up in one of the back parking lots that overlooked the athletic fields.
The stadium lights washed the interior of the car with a faint, artificial glow.
We ate in silence for a while. Comfortable, but buzzing underneath.
“So,” I said finally, wiping salt from my fingers. “Distribution.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at the maps on his phone.
He was looking at me.
“What?” I asked.
“I hit that boy,” he said casually.
I stilled. “What boy?”
“That goofy Nigga that tried to grab your arm outside the union last week.”
I frowned, thinking back. Trauma files, I called them.
Moments I refused to dwell on but never fully deleted.
A dude had reached for me when I walked away after shutting down his attempt to turn a casual conversation into begging for my number.
His fingers had closed around my wrist for half a second before I snatched away and looked at him like he was invisible.
“I handled it,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “This was for me.”
My brows lifted. “You beat him up because…?”
“He touched you like you were regular,” he said simply. “Like you weren’t protected.”
My chest tightened.
“Now he knows not to touch you at all.”
“How bad?” I asked quietly.
“Bad enough he won’t ever forget you got people,” he said. “Not bad enough to bring heat.”
I should’ve been mad. I should’ve told him he was being reckless. I should’ve reminded him that we were building something too big to jeopardize over a bruised ego or a casual slight.
Instead, something warm uncurled low in my stomach.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.
“I know.”
“Zay?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“You can’t keep deciding who gets to learn lessons on my behalf,” I said. “I’m not your girl.”
He looked at me then, eyes dark, jaw tight.
“I know you not, my girl,” he said. “I still don’t like anybody treating you like you're easy to touch.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck.
“You know what lines like that sound like, right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like the truth.”
My throat went dry.
He watched me for a long moment, then leaned back against the headrest.
“You ever gon’ admit it?” he asked.
“Admit what?”
“That this ain’t just business,” he said. “That you don’t just tolerate me ‘cause I’m useful. That you look for me sometimes.”
I hated him a little for that. For saying out loud what I tried to store in the margins.
“You really wanna do this right now?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
I looked out the windshield.
The field lights blurred at the edges.
“I look for you,” I said finally. “Happy?”
“Yes.”
I turned back to him. “Your turn.”
He nodded, slowly. “I look for you too.”
“That’s not new,” I said. “You always liked having me around when we talk numbers.”
He shook his head.
“It’s not the numbers,” he said. “It’s you.”
Something in me flinched.
“You know if we cross this line, we can’t go back,” I said. “Not to before. Not to just partners like we were.”
“You really wanna go back?” he asked.
No. That was the problem.
“I don’t wanna lose what we built,” I said. “The business. The trust. The way we move.”
“You really think we’ll lose that ‘cause we admit what’s already there?” he asked.
“I think people get sloppy when they’re in love,” I said. “I’ve seen it my whole life. I refuse to be that.”
He let that word sit there between us.
Love.
He didn’t flinch from it.
“You in love with a Nigga YaYa?” he asked, voice even.
“That’s not what I said.”
“But is it true?” he pushed gently.
I looked at him and saw everything I’d been avoiding naming—his loyalty, his violence, his discipline, his stupidity, his quiet acts of care like making sure I ate, making sure men who disrespected me learned better, making sure I never had to carry the worst of this life alone, even when I insisted on doing it.
“Yes,” I said.
The word felt like stepping off a ledge I’d been standing on for years.
He exhaled once, as if something in him relaxed.
“I love you too,” he said. “Been loved you. I loved you when your bold ass propositioned me to be your partner.”
My laugh came out shaky. “You loved me when I pulled a gun on you in the library?”
“Especially then,” he said. “You're the only woman that ever made me feel like I needed to step my shit up.”
We sat there, hearts beating loud in the quiet, the engine ticking, the night stretching out around us like a held breath.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
“Me too,” he said easily. “Difference is, I’m done pretendin’ I’m not.”
“You know what happens if this doesn’t work,” I said. “We don’t get to just break up and walk away. It breaks the business. It breaks the trust. It breaks the system that keeps my sister’s tuition paid and my brother’s appeal moving. It breaks your name in these streets.”
“It also jeopardizes my mom's payment for her home health aid and the money I’m saving for X to retire from this life unscathed. I know the stakes,” he said. “I ain’t a kid.”
“Then why aren’t you more afraid?” I demanded.
He smiled, small and devastating.
“‘Cause you’re the only variable in my life that ever made shit feel less chaotic, not more,” he said. “Every time you touched somethin’, it got clearer, tighter, and more secure. Why would I think loving you gon’ be any different?”
My chest hurt.
“You really trust me that much?” I whispered.
“With everything,” he said without hesitation. “With my brother. With my business. With my life. The only thing I been scared to trust you with is my heart. But shit, you already hold it. I’m just late admittin’ it.”
Tears burned hot behind my eyes. I blinked them back.
“Don’t make me soft,” I said.
He shook his head. “I want you soft because I’m always gon keep you safe. There’s a difference.”
I swallowed hard.
“We can’t tell anybody,” I said. “Not yet. Not the runners. Not your crew. Not X. Not my family. It stays between us until I’m sure we can carry this and everything else without dropping shit.”
“Whatever you say,” he replied. “You run the structure. I run the enforcement.”
A laugh slipped out. “You really okay letting me lead?”
“I ain’t lettin’ you,” he said. “You already do.”
The air felt thick.
He reached over then, slow enough to let me pull away if I wanted.
I didn’t.
His fingers slipped around the back of my neck, warm and solid. He tugged gently, pulling me toward him across the console.
“Last chance to say no,” he murmured.
My pulse pounded in my throat.
“Shut up and kiss me, Zay.”
His mouth was softer than I expected. Everything about Zayden Kingw was rough,h but this kiss was the opposite.
It was controlled, at first. His lips were gentle, as if he were testing his lips against mine.
His other hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek like he’d been wanting to touch me for a long time.
Heat shot through me. Every line I’d drawn between us blurred so easily, every contingency plan I’d built for everything except this slid to the back of my mind.
I kissed him back.
Hungry. I was angry at myself for how badly I needed it.
The kiss deepened, control evaporating in increments. His tongue slid against mine, slow at first, then more insistent. I felt grounded for the first time in months, not as an engineer, not as a queen in training, not as anybody’s big sister or savior.
Just as a woman who wanted this man.
His hand trailed down my spine, sending sparks up every nerve in my body. I shifted closer, half climbing over the console. My knee hit the gearshift; he chuckled against my mouth and adjusted, pulling me fully into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Kenya,” he breathed against my lips. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
What I didn’t say was: I’ve been sure for a long time.
He kissed me again, deeper, his hands exploring, mapping me the way we mapped routes and exits and vulnerabilities.
And for once, I let myself be the territory instead of the cartographer.
“Kenya, you deserve a room at the Ritz Carlton, rose petals all over the damn floor, and the best Dom Perignon. You deserve a chain and matching J’s and all that corny shit you shaty’s like, and I swear I’m gonna give it to you. But right now–Right now, I need to taste you.”