11.0
The blunt made a soft ember in the half-dark, a tiny planet orbiting the ceiling fan's slow churn.
Smoke curled, sweet and a little bitter, the way his place always smelled—cologne and lighter fluid and that candle he bought because an influencer said it made a room feel rich.
I lay on my back, sheet twisted around my waist, breathing through the weight in my chest that had nothing to do with his body on mine and everything to do with the headline I refused to click.
Kian tapped ash into the marble tray and pressed his mouth against my shoulder like he was staking a claim. "Why you got so quiet," he said, not a question.
I watched the city through the crack in the blackout shades. Morning made the buildings look washed, like someone had pulled the color out and left the shapes. "I'm always quiet."
He huffed a laugh against my collarbone, a sound that could be sweet until you realized it had edges. "You ain't always this quiet."
He rolled onto his side, chain sliding against his throat, eyes dragging over my face like he could pin me open if I let him.
He was handsome in that way you didn't have to argue with—soft mouth, careless lashes, an arrogance that made the nose ring look like punctuation.
But today the charm slid around me like rain off glass. I didn't have a pocket for it.
"You be so loud while I'm in you then when we done go mute," he said, softer now, head tilted. "Talk to me."
I slid my palm along the sheet, feeling for the edge. "It's nothing."
"Liar." He smiled when he said it. I didn't.
His thumb circled the notch of my shoulder, a move that used to melt me.
Now it just pressed me flat. He kissed the spot, then my mouth, like testing if the machine still worked.
I let him, because it was easier than explaining the way my chest cinched at the sound of his uncle's name.
Easier than telling him how the word campaign tasted like metal in the back of my throat.
When he pulled back, his lips brushed mine. "Come with me tonight."
My body tightened before my brain caught up. "Where."
"My uncle Bryan got something private out by the river. Not too many people. It should be cool."
Faces that mattered. White tablecloths and cameras pretending to be flies on the wall. The air dropped a degree. I kept my eyes on the slit of daylight. "No."
He blinked slow, like I'd said the wrong answer on purpose. "No?"
"I've got Alina and work in a few ."
"You can get a sitter."
"The answer's still no, Kian."
He leaned back on one arm, watching me like I was bluffing. "You act like it's a big deal. Last time you came, you was fine."
My throat went tight. "Last time, you said we were making a stop. That's all you gave me. I walked in blind."
He smirked, unbothered. "And what happened? You looked good on my arm. People noticed."
"The answers no Kian."
Kian went quiet after I told him no. Too quiet. The room felt different—his body leaning back into the headboard, smoke curling out slow, eyes fixed on the TV like I wasn't even there.
At first, I tried to ignore it. I gathered the sheet around me, bent to find my jeans on the floor. But the silence pressed harder than words.
"Are you mad?" I asked finally.
He didn't turn. "Why would I be mad?"
The tone—flat, dismissive—lit something under my skin. "Because you got quiet like I just offended you."
His mouth ticked. "You said you don't want to go. Cool."
"That's all it is," I shot back. "It's not that deep."
"Not that deep," he repeated, shaking his head.
He stubbed the blunt out in the tray with more force than necessary.
"You act like I asked you to marry me. I just asked you to come somewhere with me. A lot of bitches would jump at the thought of me asking them to go somewhere and you be tryna act too good."
My stomach tightened. "Then go ask them other bitches to go with you. I never agreed to be more than this. You knew that from the start."
He laughed then, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, you keep saying that. But you stay here, don't you? You show up, you lay up, you act like—"
"Act like what?" I snapped.
His eyes finally locked on mine, heated. "Like this means nothing. Like I'm just—what?—somebody you call when you're bored?"
My chest burned. "You knew what it was. You knew. Don't turn it into something else just because I don't want to stand around at some event and play your date."
His voice rose, cutting through the room. "It's not about the damn event. It's about you acting like you're too good to stand next to me in front of people."
I stood up from the bed, then laughed—low, disbelieving. "That's what this is? Kian, it's not about being 'too good.' It's about me not wanting that life. Period."
He shook his head, sitting forward now, elbows on his knees. "You don't get it."
"You're right, I don't," I said, voice sharper now as I put my clothes back on and gathered my things. "I never wanted more. You did."
Something in his face shifted at that. His jaw set hard, and then—before I could step back—he was on his feet, closing the space between us in two strides.
"Kian—"
He planted his hand against the wall beside my head, leaning in, close enough that the smoke on his shirt and the heat off his skin crowded me all at once. His eyes burned into mine, voice low and hard. "Don't talk to me like I'm some little bitch."
The suddenness of it—his size, the wall at my back—snatched the air out of my lungs. For a second, I just froze.
Then I pushed at his chest, steady but firm. "Move."
He blinked, like he realized how far he'd gone. His hand dropped, his shoulders pulling back. "Mira—wait. I didn't mean—"
"I'm not trying to hear it," I cut in, grabbing my bag with shaking fingers.
"Come on," he said, voice softer now, regret bleeding through. He reached like he might catch my wrist, then thought better of it. "I didn't mean it like that."
But I was already at the door, heart hammering. "Don't call me."
And I left.
The city clattered around me like nothing had happened—buses grinding, sneakers slapping pavement, somebody laughing too loud on the corner.
But my skin still buzzed with the way Kian leaned in, the doorframe at my back, his voice low like a promise I didn't want.
I hated that it shook me. I hated that a part of me still smelled his smoke, still felt the heat of him crowding me.
He crossed a line, and he knew it. That's why the apologies chased me down the block, my phone buzzing in my bag before I even turned the corner.
I didn't answer.
By the time I pushed through the shop's glass door that afternoon, the scent of pressed hair and Barbicide was enough to steady me.
Familiar. Real. The dryers hummed like background static, the kind of noise that felt safe because I knew every hand making it.
My phone buzzed again against my thigh. I silenced it, shoved it deeper into my bag.
Rina looked up from rinsing a comb, her brows lifting. "You good?"
I forced a smile, setting my bag behind the counter. "Yeah. Just tired."
The truth sat unspoken, heavy as the smoke that still clung to my hair.
She didn't press, thank God. Just nodded toward the chair by the window. "Your two o'clock rescheduled, so you got a breather."
I exhaled, letting the rhythm of the shop swallow me whole.
My phone buzzed again on the counter, his name lighting up the screen. I flipped it face down. When it buzzed again, I blocked his number.
I'd barely sunk into the rhythm of the shop when the phone rang once more—this time the shop's line, not mine.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice came through, polite but quick. "Hey, do you take squeeze-ins?"
I glanced at the clock. "Depends what you need."
"Just a wash and blowout. Nothing major."
I rubbed my temple, weighing it. "Yeah, I can fit you in. When were you thinking?"
"Oh good," she said, a little rush of relief in her tone. "I'm actually right outside, so I'll just come in."
Before I could answer, the line clicked off.
I slipped the phone back down and headed for the back room, grabbing a fresh bottle of shampoo and a few towels. The dryers hummed steady, the scent of coconut oil hanging sweet in the air. The bell over the door chimed just as I was twisting the cap back on.
Rina's voice carried from the front, warm and efficient. "She'll take you over here—this is Amira's chair."
I stepped out, bottle still in hand, and froze.
Sam was sitting there.
My grip tightened on the bottle of shampoo I'd just carried out of the back, the plastic squeaking under my fingers.
For a beat, neither of us said anything. The dryers hummed. Clippers buzzed. Somebody cracked a joke from the barber side that got a round of laughter. But the silence between us drowned it all out.
"Hey," she said finally, her voice warm but cautious.
"Hey." My throat felt tight, so I nodded at the chair like she was any other client. "You ready?"
Sam's smile was faint but steady. "Yeah. Let's do it."
I moved through the motions automatically: cape draped around her shoulders, clips set in place, water testing against my wrist. The shop smelled like coconut oil and hairspray, comforting and familiar, but my chest was knotted. I hadn't planned on seeing her—not here, not like this.
"You been good?" she asked once I started working shampoo through her curls.
"Busy," I said, keeping it clipped. "You?"
"Same. Long shifts, but worth it." Her eyes flicked open just long enough to catch mine in the mirror. "Nursing isn't for the weak."
I blinked, hands pausing mid-lather. "How's that going?"
Sam grinned, quick and proud. "I don't think I've sat down for more than ten minutes at a time since."
A laugh slipped out of me, unexpected but real. "That sounds like you."
"Yeah," she said softly, closing her eyes again. "Guess I found my lane."
I rinsed her hair, the intimacy of the act pressing old memories to the surface—late-night talks, inside jokes, her easy laugh filling the club's dressing room. I tried to focus on the task: conditioner, rinse, towel. But my chest ached.
Halfway through the blow-dry, she leaned forward just enough for her voice to carry over the roar. "Me and my girlfriend are celebrating our anniversary tonight. Two years."
The words landed in my gut, not painful, just... grounding. I smiled, brushing a section smooth. "That's good, Sam. Really."
Her reflection caught mine in the mirror. "It is. She's solid."
I nodded, not trusting myself to say more. The hum of the dryer filled the space until I clicked it off.
We slipped into small talk—about the shop, about Tati's upcoming wedding. Sam's eyes lit up when I mentioned helping with colors. "I'll see you there," she said easily. "It's been too long."
"Yeah," I admitted, brushing down the last piece. "It has."
When I spun her around to face the mirror, her hair fell smooth and polished. She reached up to touch the ends, a smile tugging at her lips. "You still got it."
"Always did," I teased, and for a second, it felt like the old rhythm was still there, just softened.
At the counter, she pulled out crisp bills, sliding them across before I could protest.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," she cut in gently, eyes steady.
Our gazes held, the weight of everything unspoken hanging there. Then she reached for her bag, adjusting the strap across her shoulder.
"Thanks, Mira," she said, the nickname warm in her mouth. "I'll see you at the wedding."
The bell over the door chimed as she slipped out, her presence lingering in the air long after.
I stood there for a while, the smell of her shampoo and the echo of her voice still wrapping around me. My phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up unknown number contact name.
Kian calling off *67..
I powered the phone off and finally gathered my things. The shop lights hummed as I flipped them down, one by one, until the mirrors gave nothing back but my own faint outline.
By the time I pulled up to Alina's daycare, the sky was sliding toward dusk.
Kids' voices carried across the lot, high and chaotic, until they thinned with each parent's arrival.
Inside, she was crouched over a puzzle, curls falling into her face.
When she spotted me, her whole body lit up—her laugh running ahead of her as she barreled into my legs.
The weight of her steadied me, like always.
We drove home in a soft quiet, Alina humming along to the radio, my thoughts miles away. Dinner, bath, two books, one song—our rituals folded the day into something smaller, easier to hold.
Alina went down easy tonight, thank God.
A bath, two books, one song, and she was out, her curls damp against the pillow, her little chest rising steady under the nightlight glow.
I lingered at the door longer than I needed to, listening, letting her even breaths remind me why I couldn't get caught up in anything messy.
The house felt too quiet when I closed her door, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder.
I poured a glass of wine I didn't really want, grabbed my sketchbook, and curled up on the couch.
Pencil in hand, I let my wrist move without thinking—lines blooming into shapes, curls and flowers, little things I didn't have to explain to anyone.
My phone sat facedown on the table, but I could still hear it in my head: five calls from Kian since I left the shop.
Maybe more. I hadn't checked. First the apologies, then the silence, then the buzzing again, like he couldn't decide what he wanted me to hear.
I'd blocked him once today already. Didn't stop him from finding another number.
The pencil sketched softer, shading petals, my hand steadying in a way my chest wasn't. I hated how much space he was still taking up in my head, how the flash of him pinning me back kept replaying like a bad song I couldn't shut off.
The phone buzzed again.
I didn't even look. Just grabbed it, thumb sliding across without breaking the motion of my pencil, ready to cut him off with a sharp "don't call me again."
"Amira?"
The pencil stopped mid-stroke.
The voice wasn't Kian's.
It was lower, steadier. Familiar in a way that hollowed me out before I could breathe.
Brooks.