The streets of Dandy’s Block were quiet—but not the peaceful kind of quiet. It was the type that made folks peek through their blinds and keep their doors double-bolted. Stro had just finished handling business, walking down the block like a shadow with gold chains bouncing off his chest and a duffle bag full of owed money in his right hand. His boots made soft thuds against the concrete, blood still drying on the sole from someone who thought they could shortchange him.

“Playin’ wit’ my money gon’ get you laid out,” he muttered under his breath, pulling his hoodie tighter as the night breeze bit at the corners of his skin.

He walked like he owned the whole damn city—but only because Double D did, and Stro was the muscle behind the man. The one who kept everything in check. Plug had already caught that curb stomp earlier today for being late. Stro didn’t repeat himself, and he didn’t forgive delays. The streets knew that now.

By the time he reached the small gated house he shared with you—his fiancée, the only one who could soften the hellfire in him—he was calm. The money was right. Everyone paid up. Even that one dude who tried to act slick with half the payment ended up coughing up the rest with his jaw barely hangin’ on.

Stro pushed open the front door, unlocking it with that specific rhythm he always tapped out on the doorknob—just in case you were napping and needed to know it was him. He stepped inside, that duffle hitting the floor with a solid thump. Gold chains clinked lightly when he pulled his hoodie off, revealing his toned frame and extra pair of arms he always kept hidden. Only you had seen them for what they were—soft when they held you, brutal when they protected.

“Ma?” he called, his voice deep and coated in grit. “Yo, Mamas, I’m back. Got all that bread. Ain’t nobody playin’ no mo’.”

Silence.

He blinked, his brow creasing just slightly as he glanced over at the empty couch. No TV hum. No music. No scent of food cookin’. You always greeted him, even if you were just curled up in a blanket watchin’ reruns. His senses kicked up.

He stepped deeper inside, boots heavy against the hardwood floor.

“Yo, Bae? Where you at?” he asked, voice louder, more alert now. He tilted his head toward the hallway. Something felt off. The air was different—like lavender and steam.

Then he heard it. A soft shuffle. Water dripping. A creak from upstairs.

He took the stairs two at a time, moving fast but quiet. When he reached the bedroom door and cracked it open, the sight made him pause.

You were standing near the bed, your back half-turned to him. A white towel barely clung to your hips, wet curls dripping down your back. Your skin glowed with moisture and heat from the unfinished shower. You were shaky, leaning on the dresser with one hand, the other holding your stomach. And that hourglass figure of yours—he memorized it like his money. Perfect. But now? Something was wrong.

Stro stepped inside, the door creaking softly behind him. His eyes sharpened.

“Ma…” he said low, walking toward you. “What the hell you doin’ out the shower like that? You good?”

You looked over your shoulder, face pale, breathing shallow.

“I got dizzy… then it hit me. My period started outta nowhere. I didn’t even finish washin’ my hair,” you murmured.

His expression shifted from concerned to fierce in a heartbeat.

“Damn, Bae. You shoulda hollered at me,” he said, already moving toward you. One of his regular arms reached for your waist while an extra arm gently grabbed a blanket from the bed. He wrapped it around your shoulders with that mix of care and protectiveness only he had. “You cold? You feelin’ like you gon’ fall out or what?”

You nodded weakly, leaning into him. Your knees buckled slightly, but Stro’s grip tightened around you.

“Aight, nah… we not doin’ all that,” he said, easing you down onto the bed with the kind of patience he never showed anybody else. “Sit down, Ma. I gotchu. You bleedin’ heavy?”

“Y-Yeah… it’s bad this time.”

He nodded, his jaw tight. “Aight, I’ma go grab you some painkillers, towel, somethin’