Adair
Now at twenty-eight, he held equity, respect, and more than one national award under his belt for his role in reshaping corporate DEI policy—ironically at a firm that had only just started to acknowledge it.
He’d started at the firm as a summer associate, fresh out of Columbia Law, already married to Sabine and already too serious for the after-hours bar crawls the other associates used to bond.
They’d called him “uptight.” Cold. Too focused.
And now those same men asked him to review their bonus packages before contract renewals.
Outside the boardroom, assistants passed him glances and he wasn’t blind. He saw the double takes. The subtle lip gloss touchups when he walked past. The half-nervous, half-bold way they said his name.
“…We’ll revise the indemnification clause to match the new IP valuation by Thursday,” one of the senior partners said, closing his leather folio with a crisp snap.
“Sounds good,” Adair replied, standing as the others began filing out. A few back pats and nods were exchanged, a “great work, Dayne,” and a “tight analysis, as always.” He offered a polite smile, keeping his thoughts close and his expression measured.
As he moved to leave, he noticed her—Corrine. She’d been seated three spots down the table during the meeting, quiet, watchful, noting every pivot with that same sharpness he’d once respected and then got a little too comfortable around.
Now, somehow, she was beside him. Matching his pace as they walked the sleek hallway that led toward his office.
“Nice save on the indemnity clause,” she said, a small smirk curving her lips. “You made it look easy.”
“It was,” he said flatly, his tone not inviting but not cold either.
They passed the glass-fronted offices, her heels soft against the carpeted runner, her shoulder brushing his arm just slightly when they turned the corner.
“You got a sec?” she asked, already knowing he did.
Adair sighed inwardly. “What’s up, Corrine?”
She tilted her head. “Just wondering how long we’re gonna keep pretending we don’t see each other in rooms like this.”
He glanced at her. Impeccably dressed, polished, eyes a little too knowing. She was good at her job. Smart. Strategic. And the sex had been…easy.
Too easy.
“Nothing to pretend about,” he said, slowing as they neared his office.
“Yeah,” she murmured, stopping with him at his door. “But we keep finding ourselves in the same space. Same late hours. Same...looks.”
Adair opened the door but didn’t step in. Instead, he leaned against the frame, finally letting his gaze meet hers head-on. “I don’t do sloppy, Corrine.”
Corrine shrugged one shoulder. “Neither do I. But I also don’t do fake. So, if you ever want to stop acting like you’re not still thinking about it…you know where to find me.” She walked away without waiting for a response. He watched her go, jaw tight.
Adair stepped into his office, the door clicking shut behind him. He loosened his tie a little more and finally checked his phone.
Still no text from Sabine.
But her silence echoed louder than Corrine’s heels ever could.
The day moved by slow, like it knew his mind was somewhere else. Contracts came across his desk, meetings were held, notes taken, hands shaken but his thoughts kept sliding sideways. Back to Sabine. Back to the silence.
Adair was supposed to be used to it by now.
By four-thirty, the sky had started to shift, sunlight fading to a low amber glow against the windows of his corner office. He packed up, clicked his laptop shut, grabbed his jacket, and texted Tate.
Adair: You sliding to Fat’s? 6:30.
Tate hit back with a thumbs-up and a middle finger emoji. Classic.
By the time Adair pulled up to the low-lit spot tucked between a Jamaican takeout joint and a smoke shop, the parking lot was already full of loud laughter. Inside, the air was thick with fried food, brown liquor, and old-school R dice hitting a corner table, someone arguing with the bartender about a tab, Babyface crooning.
Adair cut into a shrimp, picking up a little salad with it, chewing slow. Tate was already halfway through his wings, fingers glistening, licking his thumb.
“Damn,” Tate muttered, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Money really changed your plate, huh?”
Adair smirked. “You probably got more money than me.”
“Yeah, but mine come with risk and ankle monitors,” Tate shot back, grinning. “Yours come with HR and catered lunches.”
“You don’t clock in, don’t report to nobody, and you damn sure don’t pay taxes.”
Tate snorted, tearing a piece of chicken. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the one dodgin’ potholes on 83rd while you out here gettin’ your suits tailored and shit.”
“Perks of billable hours,” Adair smirked, but his voice was half-tired. The kind of tired that wasn’t about sleep.
They both sat in a booth at the back of Fat’s—one of the same booths they’d posted up in since high school.
Back when they were too young to drink but still knew how to sneak in through the side door if they timed it right with the kitchen deliveries.
Later, it became the spot they’d hit after long nights of chasing girls and ducking drama, ordering fries they barely ate and talking big dreams they hadn’t yet lived.
The place hadn’t changed much—still dim lights, sticky floors, smelling like Henny spills and stale ambition.
But now, they came with more weight on their backs and less bullshit in their mouths. Mostly.
Tate took another sip, licking the sauce off his thumb. “But for real, man…you good?”
Adair didn’t answer right away. Just sat back and stared at the table, watching the condensation slide down the side of his glass. That quiet look settled over him, the one Tate had seen too many times before. The one he wore when his thoughts were heavy, and his pride was in the way.
Tate wiped his hands on a napkin, studying his boy like he was trying to read a play he already knew by heart. “Man…it’s Sabine?” he asked. “Again?”
Adair cracked the smallest smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“When is it not? I didn’t know it’d still hit like this,” he admitted, voice quiet.
“Some nights I’m good. Focused. Working late, getting home, knocking out shit I need to do…
but then I hear Ade on the phone talkin’ about how Mommy made her special meatballs or how she did them forehead kisses he love but be actin’ like he too much of a big boy to enjoy…
and it’s like…” he stopped, letting the sentence bleed out unfinished.
“Like you the visitor in your own family.”
Adair didn’t respond, but the way he downed the rest of his drink said enough.
“You still love her,” Tate said simply.
“Of course I do,” Adair muttered. “I never stopped. I just…messed up.”
Tate gave him a long look, then shrugged. “Shit, you lucky. Narri ain’t never gave me no type of peace. But she got me in that house every damn week, acting like we ain’t together when we are.”
Adair raised a brow. “Y’all together?”
Tate scoffed. “Hell no. Ask her. She’ll say she hate me. Right after I finish rubbin’ her feet and putting my fuckin’ kids to sleep.”
Adair chuckled for the first time that night. “Y’all toxic as fuck.”
Tate grinned. “But I ain’t miserable. And I ain’t out here pretending I’m over her either.”
That hit Adair hard.
They both sat back in the booth for a second, the weight of love—past and present, settling in their chests.
“You ever feel like...no matter how well you do,” Adair said finally, “you still losing?”
Tate tilted his head thinking on it for a second. “You like a muhfuckin’ super lawyer, nigga; got suits that cost more than people rent, a son that look just like you and worships the ground you walk on. Losing where, bro?”
Adair cracked a slow smile, but it didn’t spread far. Yeah, he had the suits. The money. The office with his name on the glass.
But without Sabine…
None of it felt like winning.
Not really.