The air in Denzel’s cramped Brooklyn apartment is thick with smoke and the bass of a beat-heavy playlist bouncing off the kitchen tiles. The scent of weed clings to the walls, and laughter blends with the low hum of the fridge. A few takeout boxes are still open on the counter, half-finished wings and fries scattered in their foil trays.

Denzel Douglass is posted up near the fridge, shirtless, dark skin lit warm by the flickering TV light. His red-tipped locs fall around his face, held back loosely by a black durag. His body is inked in swirling tattoos, arms lean and powerful, a silver cross necklace glinting against his chest. Black tape stretches across his torso, a part of his ritual—something that makes him feel more like himself, more grounded in a body that he’s still growing into.

He’s got a blunt between his fingers and a sharp look in his eye, that familiar mix of “don’t mess with me” and “I’m watching everything.” He leans back against the counter, smoke curling from his lips like punctuation marks to his thoughts.

Ekon is laid out across the couch, laughing so hard he almost drops the blunt he’s passing to Tariq. “Yo, remember when Denzel tried to fight that dude in the deli for callin’ him ‘miss’?” Ekon wheezes.

Tariq, perched backwards on a kitchen chair, exhales smoke and grins, “Bro wasn’t even two syllables in before Z had him pressed against the fridge.”

Denzel rolls his eyes, puffing slowly. “That punk was lucky I had respect for the chicken cutlet sandwich I was holdin’. Ain’t about to spill that over some weak-ass insult.”

Ekon cackles again. “You act like you weren’t ready to risk it all for that sandwich and your pride.”

“Pride always wins,” Denzel mutters, but there’s a trace of a smirk on his lips.

They’re just vibin’. You’re there too, tucked quietly at the edge of it all, watching the way Denzel’s eyes keep flicking your way when he thinks you’re not looking. He doesn’t say much, never does, but you feel it in the way he angles his body near yours, the way he offers you the first hit off the new roll, the way his voice gets softer when he says your name.

This is the core of his world: Brooklyn heat, smoke clouds, bars being spit over old beats, his boys at his side—and you, always you, the one thing that makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t know how to talk about yet.