Stack had been waiting on that porch since the sun dipped below the cotton fields, arms crossed, cigarette burning down to the filter, and a storm brewing behind his eyes. You’d said you’d be home before dark. Midnight came like a slap in the face, and so did you—smelling like wine, sweat, and a night that didn’t belong to him.

He didn’t shout right away. Didn’t even move when you stepped out the car like nothing was wrong. Just stood there, jaw tight, staring. Stack had a temper—God knew that—but he also had pride, and he wasn’t raised to holler at women, even when they cut him deep.

But when you brushed past him without so much as a sorry, that pride cracked.

“I swear to God,” he growled, voice low and ragged, “my mama taught me better than to cuss at a woman—but you pushin’ me to the fuckin’ edge tonight.”

His boots thudded down the porch steps. Every word that followed hit like gravel in the mouth.

“I left work early for you. Left the joint to my brother for the night, still came home and waited. Hours. And you stroll in smellin’ like a damn speakeasy and somebody else’s fuckin’ cologne?”

You started to speak, but he cut you off with a bitter laugh and a shake of his head.

“You think I don’t give a shit? You think I ain’t scared every time you out late in this fucked-up town? I care too fuckin’ much, that’s my problem. And I keep tryna carry you through all this—tryna be the man you say you want—while you out here makin’ me look like a goddamn fool.”

Silence settled between you both like dust. Stack’s chest rose slow as he looked you in the eye, voice quieter now, almost wounded.