3.0
Alina's jacket refuses to zip and her bunny is "too itchy" and she wants to wear the light-up sneakers even though the batteries died months ago. She's three and everything is a hill to die on.
"Mommy, I want the sparkly socks," she says, hands on tiny hips like a supervisor.
"They're in the wash," I lie, because they probably are, because laundry is a war I rarely win.
We compromise on pink ones with little hearts.
She tugs them on herself, proud, one heel twisted halfway around and not caring.
I slick her edges with a dab of gel, kiss the top of her head, and we're out the door with her backpack, her water bottle, and the stuffed rabbit that looks like it's survived a small war.
The sky over East Philly is pale and smudged, the kind of morning that promises heat later but still pretends it's cool. I strap her into the booster seat, buckle clicking, and she's doing that constant commentary thing toddlers do-narrating the world like she's been hired for it.
"Look! A bus! That bus is big. I'm big. I'm three."
"I noticed," I say, pulling onto the block. "The whole city noticed."
She giggles like I'm hilarious. We hit two lights, and she guesses colors wrong on purpose so I'll correct her. She loves being corrected way more than being right. That's my kid.
Daycare sits on a squat corner lot with bright murals of alphabet fruit along the brick-grapes with eyes, a dancing banana. Inside, Ms. Dorsey's already at the sign-in desk, braided bun high, hoops shining. The place smells like crayons and sanitizer.
"Good morning, Alina," Ms. Dorsey sings. "Line leader again today if you listen."
Alina straightens like she's being sworn into office. "I listen so good."
"Since when?" I tease, unzipping her jacket.
She presses her forehead to my stomach and then peels away, attention already snatched by a plastic kitchen across the room and a boy arguing about who had the blue cup first. She drops Bunny into a cubby with the confidence of a girl who knows exactly where she lives in a room.
"Bye, Mommy!" She runs back fast to kiss my cheek, leaves a damp spot, then sprints away before I can pull her into a longer hug.
Ms. Dorsey smiles at me, that knowing, mom-to-mom look. "She's on a roll this week. Art circle, counting, sharing... most of the time."
"Most is a miracle," I say, signing her in. "Text me if she gives you trouble."
"Always."
I stand there half a second longer than I need to, watching Alina build a tower out of wooden blocks and tell another kid, very seriously, that it's a castle and he can't knock it down because "that's rude." She's fine. Better than fine. I still have to make my feet move.
Outside, the city has woken up a little. Corner guys setting out milk crates, a woman walking fast with a to-go cup and a ponytail that means business, SEPTA growling by like it's late for something. My car is still warm from the drive; the seat hugs me like it knows I'm tired.
I should go home. There's laundry. There's a sink. There's a half-written caption for a hair video I promised I'd post last night. Instead, I text Kian:
Me: Dropped Alina. What are you doing?
The bubbles pop quick.
Kian: Slide thru.
That's it. No address-doesn't need one. No emoji. He never wastes characters unless it's to tell me to "be good," like I work for him.
I look at the time. If I leave now, I can still make it back before pickup. If I don't, he'll try to make it a whole day. He likes me on his schedule. That's the thing about Kian-he's sweet with these sharp corners. He'll rub my feet and then tell me to answer when he calls like he bought my phone.
I pull out anyway.
Kian's condo sits high enough above the city to pretend it's quiet.
Downtown glass and steel reflected in more glass and steel.
The lobby is a wall of green plants in neat squares and a guy at the desk who always recognizes me without ever saying my name.
Professional discretion, luxury or crime-probably both.
"Morning," he says.
"Hey," I answer, light, like I live here and not in a modest single-family with squeaky floors and a front step that keeps losing paint.
He calls the elevator. I text Kian from inside.
No reply. Doesn't need one. By the time the doors open, the lock's already unclicked.
Kian stood in the doorway barefoot, gray sweats slung low, chain glinting under his t-shirt. His eyes swept me up and down in that way he didn't even try to hide.
"You move slow as hell," he said, leaning on the frame like he'd been waiting all morning.
I arched a brow, stepping inside past him. "It's called daycare drop-off. Try it sometime."
He smirked, pulling the door shut behind me. "Not trying to try that shit no time soon."
The condo smelled like cologne and his early morning smoke, the faintest sweetness of a candle burned too long. Floor-to-ceiling windows hazed the skyline into soft shapes, light bending across the sterile furniture-gray couch, black coffee table, a rug too white for anyone to actually use.
"You eat yet?" he asked, heading toward the kitchen.
"I told you, I ate."
"You always say that." He yanked open the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, cracked it. "You lying."
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth curved. "If I was starving, I wouldn't come here first."
"You come here first 'cause you like me." He leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim as he drank.
"Here you go," I rolled my eyes.
That made him grin, sharp and satisfied.
He pushed off the counter, crossed the space slow, like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid along my hip, warm and sure, tugging me close enough to brush his chain.
"You wore that for me?" His voice dipped, teasing.
I looked down at my joggers and tank. "Yeah. My sexiest laundry-day look."
"You look good not doing laundry." His palm squeezed once before sliding up to the small of my back. "Come on."
He led me down the hall, and I didn't resist. The condo blurred into neutral lines as we moved past it, every step familiar.
His room was darker, blinds pulled but not all the way. The bed was unmade, pillows stacked crooked, like he hadn't slept long. He let himself fall back onto it, stretching out, one arm tucked behind his head.
"You always pat the bed like I'm a dog," I said, slipping my shoes off anyway.
"You always listen, though," he shot back, grin lazy.
I lay down beside him, both of us stretched out, staring at the ceiling. His arm slid under my head, pulling me closer until his breath was warm against my temple. For a second, we were quiet, just letting the city hum fill the gaps.
"How your clientele been this month at the shop?" he asked finally, thumb grazing my shoulder.
"Pretty good. Rina said you were supposed to drop off products the other day. You still haven't. Such a lousy boss."
He smirked, unbothered. "I got caught up.."
"That's not an answer."
He kissed his teeth. "Why you always on my case?"
"Because you think covering for you is apart of my job description."
His laugh was low, deep in his chest. "It's not? My fault."
I rolled my eyes, but my lips curved anyway. That was Kian-sharp corners smoothed by charm, enough to make you forget he'd cut you if you weren't careful.
He turned onto his side, facing me, eyes heavy. "You miss me?"
I didn't flinch. "A little."
He hummed like that was good enough, then leaned in and kissed me. Slow, confident, the kind of kiss that wasn't asking-it was claiming. His hand slid up the back of my neck, fingers spreading until they rested at the base of my skull, holding me in place.
I let him.
"I know something else you miss," he murmured, dipping lower, his mouth dragging across my jaw, then my throat. Each kiss left heat blooming in its wake, deliberate, unhurried.
"Kian-" I started, but it came out softer than I meant, closer to a sigh than a warning.
"Mm," he hummed against my skin, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch into him. "Thought so."
The mattress dipped as he shifted, settling between my legs like he'd been there a hundred times before-which he had. His chain brushed my collarbone when he pushed my tank top higher, his other hand sliding over my hip, anchoring me.
I let my head fall back against the pillow, breathing deep, every rule I'd made for myself dissolving one by one.
He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes, a wicked little grin cutting across his face.
I didn't say a word. Didn't need to. My silence was all the permission he ever waited for.
And then there was no more talking. Just the low scrape of his laugh, the weight of him pressing me deeper into the sheets, and the kind of heat that made the city outside feel a million miles away.
The sheets were still tangled around my waist when I rolled onto my back, chest heaving, skin damp. Kian propped himself up on one elbow, chain slipping against his collarbone, a grin cutting lazy across his face like he'd just won something.
"You miss that," he murmured, more statement than question.
I didn't answer. Just reached for the blunt he'd left half-rolled on the nightstand. He sparked it with a flick of the lighter, the flame catching quick, and then leaned over to pass it to me. Smoke curled between us, softening the edges of everything.
His room always smelled like this-sweet, burnt, a little dangerous. We lay there in the half-dark, my head resting on his chest, his arm looped heavy around me like he was pinning me to the moment.
The phone buzzed on the nightstand. He ignored it at first, pulling again from the blunt, exhaling slow. Then it buzzed again. And again.
"Damn," he muttered, snatching it up. "Yo."
His tone shifted instantly-business, clipped. He rubbed my thigh absentmindedly while the voice on the other end went on. "Your dad just be doing shit," he said finally, shaking his head. "Don't even tell nobody till it's halfway done."