Rhyan
The words echo through me like a slow explosion. If I gotta lose you to save you… I’ll let you go. For a second, I don’t breathe. What the fuck does that even mean? This nigga is really throwing in the fucking towel. Chauncey has never fought for us.
I can’t believe him. This—this is not the nigga I left. The Chauncey I walked away from would’ve laughed in my face, called me ungrateful, and dragged me back with a chain of apologies wrapped around his fucking ego.
But this Chauncey? He’s shattered, sitting here. Eyes soft, voice stripped bare. Offering me freedom… even if it means I don’t come back.
And that? That hurts worse than all the yelling ever could. My hands tremble in my lap. I press them still. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times… and none of them looked like this. None of them sounded like defeat whispered through clenched teeth.
“Chauncey…”
His name breaks in my throat. He looks up at me like he’s bracing for the blade to drop.
“You don’t get it,” I say quietly. “Our family has more faith in us than we do.”
“So, it’s easier for you to let me go than to fight for us.”
His brow furrows.
“I didn’t want you to let me go. I wanted you to hold on… the difference.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I didn’t need more money, more cars, or a bigger empire to drown in.”
My voice softens, but it doesn’t break.
“I needed you. Just you. Not the legend. Not the boss. Not the nigga the streets fear…”
I swallow hard. “…just the nigga I loved before the streets got its hands on him.”
His jaw tightens, but his eyes… soften.
“I wanted you to be faithful,” I whisper. “I never wanted to share you.”
That lands heavy. I see it in the way he flinches.
“And maybe I left because I couldn’t find him anymore.”
My chest rises, uneven.
“Maybe I stayed gone because I wasn’t even sure he still existed.”
The silence thickens—heavy, suffocating. For the first time since I walked into this room… I see him flinch as if my love might actually be gone.
But the truth is…it isn’t. It’s just been starving too long to recognize him now.
He drags in a shaky breath, and then it hits—the question that’s been drowning him quietly this whole time.
“Do you?”
His voice cracks like glass.
“Do you still love me, Rhy?”
The monitor hums steadily. The world holds its breath. And for the first time since I walked back into this room…so do I.
“What do you think?”
“That’s why I’m asking,” he says, his voice rough. “Because I’m not sure anymore.”
Chauncey moves like a nigga afraid of scaring something fragile—slow, careful, every motion measured. As if he knows this moment could either pull me closer… or push me out for good.
“Rhy, you hear me talking to you?”
“Yeah… I hear you.”
“Then answer me.”
I hold his gaze. “If I answer you… How does that change anything?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.
“It changes everything.”
Silence stretches.
I swallow.
“I still love you,” I say finally, voice low. “But I hate that I do… because it feels like you don’t love me the way I love you.”
Of course, that lands. I see it in the way his chest stills.
“Come here, Rhy.”
I hesitate—just for a second.
Then I move.
Not all the way. Not like before.
Just enough.
Chauncey’s hand lifts off the blanket as if it weighs more than it should. His fingers tremble—just enough for me to notice.
He doesn’t grab.
He doesn’t pull.
He reaches, palm open. An apology without words.
“Can we fix us?”
The room shrinks to that small space between our hands. His scars. The IV tape. The bruise along his jaw. He looks ridiculous… and terrifying… and heartbreakingly human.
“Do you really want to fix us?”
My first instinct is to pull away. It’s an old reflex, strapped with old armor. But something softer—something that remembers being loved without conditions—loosens inside me.
“Of course I do.”
I let my hand fall into his. I’m not leaping, and I’m not surrendering.
I’m granting permission. His fingers close around mine—careful. Not claiming. Not owning. Just… meeting me. Two islands touching at low tide. His thumb traces a slow circle on my skin.
Small.
Nervous.
I’m here. I’m trying. I feel it all—the tremor in him, the things he never knew how to fix, the thousand small betrayals… and the one massive ache that never left. And underneath it all—him. The man I once loved without hesitation.
“I’m not promising anything,” I whisper.
He nods like he expected that.
“Don’t have to,” he says quietly. “Just… let me be present.”
So, I do. I don’t fold into him. I don’t give him everything. Just this moment. My hand.
My breath. My presence. A fragile truce. We sit like that—silent, connected—while the monitor keeps time and the city hums far below. It’s not a beginning.
It’s not an ending. But it’s something. And right now… that’s enough. His words linger—soft where they used to cut.
“I’m asking you to watch me do it differently.”
And something in me loosens. It’s not the pain. It’s something far softer than that. For the first time all night… I’m not bracing. He’s not trying to win. He’s just… trying to be. And that?
That’s new.
New enough to scare me.
I lean back in the chair, my body finally unclenching.
“I don’t trust you,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
“I don’t trust this either… this soft version of you.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Me neither.”
A small laugh slips out of me—fragile, but real.
“I’m not saying I’m coming home.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
I look at him. Really look at him.
“I just don’t want you to hate me from across the room.”
The monitor hums.
The clock ticks.
And we sit there—not arguing, not breaking, just… breathing the same air again. And somehow—that feels louder than love. He watches me for a long moment. Then, softer—almost careful:
“Come lay with me, Rhy.”
“Your bed isn’t big enough.”
“It is,” he murmurs. “I just want to hold you.”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want to…but because I do. And I know exactly what I smell like.
Him.
Kosh is still on my skin, tucked into my hair, clinging to me like a secret that refuses to stay buried. I slide the hoodie off slowly and place it on the chair.
Out of sight.
But not gone.
I know Chauncey. If he catches even a trace of another nigga on me…This whole fucking room goes up in flames. Still—I move anyway.
Careful, but controlled.
I slide into bed beside him. And just like that—he’s on me. His face buries itself in my neck like he’s been starving.
“I missed the fuck out of you, Rhy.”
My breath catches. “You got a funny way of showing it.”
His hands move as if they remember me better than I remember myself.
Slow. Familiar. Possessive without asking.
God…
I hate how good it feels. His fingers slide under my shirt, unfastening my bra on instinct. His palms touch me—warm, rough, confident. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. A soft gasp escapes my lips. He bites the nape of my neck—just like that, my heart betrays me.
Throbbing.
Aching.
Wanting.
His hands slide lower—too fast, too familiar. Too soon. The sound of my belt shifting snaps me back into place.
Reality.
I grab his wrist.
“Stop.”
He’s still. He lifts his head. His eyes are dark now.
“Aye, Rhy… I want you to sit on it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not ready for that.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
Something in his face shifts. There it is. That’s Chauncey. The one I know too well.
“You don’t wanna fuck me,” he says, voice dropping, “because you’ve been fucking that nigga the last few days.”
The air changes instantly.
Heavy. Sharp. “I’m trying to fix us,” he adds, jaw tight. “But I ain’t letting that shit slide, Rhy.”
There it is. I knew it was coming. I just didn’t expect it to come this fast.
I sit up, fixing my bra and pulling my jeans back into place like armor snapping back on. Just like that—we’re back on opposite sides again.
I slide off the bed. But his hand catches my wrist.
“We ain’t fucking done.”
“I am.”
His grip tightens just enough to remind me who he used to be.
“You know I’m a jealous-ass nigga,” he mutters. “And I’m gonna kill that nigga, right?”
I don’t even look at him.
“I know you hear me talking to you.”
“I hear you,” I say calmly. “But I’m not listening.”
“You need to.”
His voice sharpens.
“You can fuck another nigga… but you can’t fuck me? I got papers on you, Rhy.”
I close my eyes for half a second. There it is.
Ownership.
Control.
The same shit that broke us in the first place. “Chauncey… don’t go there.”
“It’s too late.”
I turn to face him now. “No—what’s too late is you thinking you got the right to be mad about anything I fucking do.”
My voice cuts clean.
“The moment I stepped back in this city, I’ve been putting my foot on every bitches neck bold enough to tell me she fucked you like it was her place.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not fucking you,” I continue. “We’re not there. From the looks of it… We might never be again.”
“You got an issue with my past,” he snaps, “but you don’t wanna give me what belongs to me. You can’t have it both fucking ways.”
I laugh—short, bitter.
“I have an issue with your past. Anybody can fuck you because you let ’em.”
I step closer. “I don’t want a nigga everybody can have.”
My voice drops. “You don’t have any restraint.”
Silence.
Tense. Thick. Final.
He looks at me, something flickering behind his eyes—but pride kills it before it can breathe. “Why can’t my wife fuck me right now?” he mutters.
“Because I’m not.”
I had to catch my breath before I said what the fuck I really want to say.
Then—
“Aiight. Cool.”
And just like that… everything shifts. The room tilts. That fragile peace we were holding in our hands?
Shattered.
Gone.
Dust.
I freeze halfway to the door, staring at him—searching for the nigga who just promised to be different. And realizing… he’s still fighting to exist. He’s not here now. This is the Chauncey I know too well—territorial, wounded, mean when he’s hurting.
“I’m not doing this,” I whisper.
“Yes, the fuck you are.” His eyes burn into me.
“Where you been, Rhy? Who have you been with? And don’t lie, Rhy—I smell him on you.”