Rhyan
Iknew Simmy was going to pull up eventually.
I just didn’t think today would be the day.
I fuck with Simmy the long way—but how the hell is he gonna tell me I’m wrong when Chauncey’s been out here fucking half the city?
I love Simmy, but I had to let him have it...
he’s overstepping his fucking boundaries.
Yeah… he pissed me off.
The only reason I didn’t really go off on him is that he’s my cousin’s husband.
But best believe—I’m calling Bianca. It’s levels to this shit. I hadn’t even begun to get my fucking lick back.
When I stepped back into the penthouse, it felt like I was stepping off a stage.
Too quiet.
Too still.
The marble catches my reflection—and for a second… I don’t recognize myself. Not the girl who walked in here days ago. Not the one who’s been fighting for breath in a hospital chair.
Kosh’s bags sit by the door.
Packed.
Ready.
His drive back to Texas hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. We spent the last few days floating—candlelit mornings, top-down drives, laughter that came easily…like nothing was broken.
And I’m not ready for it to end. He’s standing in front of me now, hands cupping my face like I’m something fragile. Something worth protecting.
His eyes are warm… but there’s something else there, too. Something heavy.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“I’m good.”
He studies me.
“You sure?”
I exhale.
“No.”
A small pause.
“But I’m better than I was.”
His lips curve slightly. “That’s all I wanted,” he says. “To give you a piece of yourself back.”
“You gave me more than that.”
My voice cracks just a little.“You gave me quiet.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead.
Slow.
Like a promise.
“Promise me something,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Don’t shrink when you walk back into the hospital.”
I nod.
“Promise me you’ll remember who the fuck you are.”
“I will.”
“And if you need me?—”
“I know where to find you,” I say, finishing it for him.
A small smile breaks through. He grins, with deep dimples.
“That’s my girl.”
He pauses for a beat.
“I’m finna slide. I don’t wanna say goodbye… but I do wanna see you again.”
“I wanna see you too.”
“We’ll make it happen.”
“Hopefully, I’ll be back home soon.”
“I hope so too.”
He glances toward the door. “Walk me out.”
We ride down in silence. Not awkward. Just… heavy. The kind of quiet that says everything words can’t. The valet pulls his Maybach around.
Engine low.
Smooth.
Kosh turns to me one last time. No big speech. No drama. Just a look. And somehow…it says everything. Then he’s gone. The car slips into the morning haze as if it were never here at all. I make my way back upstairs. The penthouse feels bigger now.
Colder.
I slip off my shoes by the door. The marble floor is cool beneath my bare feet. The city hums softly outside the windows. Kosh’s scent still clings to the hoodie wrapped around me.
Like a memory that hasn’t decided to leave yet. For the first time in a long time… I’m standing in the quiet.
Alone.
But not empty.
The smell hits me first. Sterile. Cold. Heavy. It clashes with everything I’ve been wrapped in for days—incense, roses, and warmth. I move through the halls as if I never left, nodding to familiar faces, ignoring the side-eye and whispers crackling behind me.
Let them talk.
Simmy’s posted outside Chauncey’s room, phone in hand, brow raised when he sees me.
“You back.”
“I told you I would be.”
His eyes soften—just for a second—before he pushes off the wall.
“He’s stable. Still out, but stronger.”
“Good.”
My voice feels too small in here. I slip past him. Chauncey lies there like he’s made of stone and memory. The heart monitor beeps steadily. Like a countdown. To something I’m not ready for. I sit beside him. Brush my fingers over his hand.
Warm.
Solid.
Still stubborn—even in sleep.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I whisper. “But I came back for you.”
Nothing. Just the rise and fall of his chest. I lean back, fold my arms, and let the silence wrap around me. Peace is gone. But maybe… I brought a little of it back with me. Kosh lingers in my mind—the quiet, the ease, the way I could breathe around him. Part of me is still tied to Chauncey.
But is it even worth it anymore?
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
My heart drops.
That voice.
It’s been a year—and it still hits like a punch to the chest. I look up. Chauncey. Tubes half-hanging. Eyes sharp. Frown deep. Still fine. Still foul.
“Thank God you’re awake,” I mutter, closing my laptop. “Now I can head back home.”
He flinches when I reach for his face—knocking my hand away.
I slap him.
Reflex.
“Aye, Rhy—watch yourself.”
“Nah, nigga. Watch yourself. Don’t put your hands on me.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t know where the fuck your hands have been.”
I don’t even blink. “Neither do I, Chauncey.”
Silence.
Ugly.
Heavy.
“It’s good to see you too,” I say dryly.
“I asked you a question.”
“Then learn how to ask it right. I’m not one of your hoes—so tighten the fuck up when you talk to me.”
“What the fuck did you say?”
“You heard me, nigga. I don’t stutter.”
He exhales through his nose.
Shakes his head. “Aye, Rhy… get out your fucking bag and answer my question.”
“I heard you the first time.” I reach over and press the call button.“Don’t worry. I won’t be here long.”
The nurse’s voice comes through. “Mrs. Benyeir, do you need anything?”
“I’m good,” I say calmly. “My husband’s awake and speaking.”
Chauncey stiffens. “I’m your husband?”
“That’s what you took from that?”
“I’m your husband, Rhy?”
“Legally,” I shrug. “But I have divorce papers in my bag if you wanna sign them.”
He mutters under his breath.
“Yeah, I thought so, nigga.”
I ignore him.
Matching energy.
“Aye, Rhy,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m the same nigga you left without a word.”
“Don’t play the victim,” I snap. “You know exactly why I fucking left. Too many hoes. Too many lies.”
My voice steadies. “I’m not coming in second—or third—to any bitch.”
“So don’t act confused.”
“I just want to know who reached out.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I put out an APB on you months ago. Nothing came back.”
I roll my eyes.
“What’s your point?”
“It’s funny how you pop up as soon as I get shot. Like you thought I was dying.”
“I came to finish the job,” I fire back. “And trust me—I didn’t come for the reasons you assume.”
“So why did you come back?” he presses.
“You already know.”
“I asked you a question.”
“And talking crazy ain’t gonna get you answers.”
He leans forward slightly. “Are you too proud to say it?”
“I set my pride aside the moment I walked into this fucking hospital,” I say quietly. “I don’t want anything from you.”
I had to catch a beat before I let this nigga have it.
“And as fast as I came back… I’ll be gone. Believe that.”
“A flight where?”
Saved by the nurse. Mrs. Joseph enters.
“Good evening, Mrs. Benyeir.”
“Hey,” I say, softening. “He’s awake.”
“Wonderful. Did you remove the tubes yourself?”
“No,” I nod toward him. “He did. The voice sounds good, though—he’s thirsty.”
“I’m sure he could use some water.”
Chauncey lets out a low chuckle. I don’t look at him. They check his vitals. Everything looks good. No brain damage. No long-term issues. Of course not. Chauncey is too stubborn to die. But as he watches me from that bed—eyes sharp… jaw tight…—I know something else survived too.
His pride.
His fire.
That same love that burned us both down.
“Mr. Benyeir, do you remember what happened?” the therapist asks.
“I do,” he says calmly. “I just don’t feel like talking about it.”
I stay seated while they work on him. I pull out my phone. I sent a text to Simmy and Mrs. Lynn.
Me:
Chauncey is awake.
Simmy:
I’m on the way.
Of course, he is.
Me:
Hey Ma, he’s awake and talking.
Mrs. Lynn: God is good. Thank you for being there. I’m on my way. I’m praying y’all get it together.
I swallow.
Everybody wants a miracle.
Me:
Can I leave now?
Simmy:
Chill.
Me:
For how long?
Simmy:
Until he’s out of the woods.
Me:
Okay.
Simmy:
What did he say?
Me: What didn’t he say? He doesn’t want me here.
Simmy:
That nigga is bluffing. I’ll be there soon.
I toss my phone to the side. Lean back. Mrs. Lynn’s words echo in my head:
I’m praying y’all get it together.
Everybody wants a miracle. I just want peace. Right now—Chauncey and I aren’t fighting for each other. We’re not fixing anything. We’re not even trying. We’re just…existing.
And somehow?
That feels worse than war.