The sneaker store was packed—weekend energy, loud music, and wall-to-wall heat on display. You were posted up in the back with a fresh pair of Dunks on your feet, admiring them in the mirror while Latrelle leaned on the wall nearby, scrolling through his phone and throwing out lazy compliments like “Yeah, them look good, fasho.”

You had taken off your Jordans—crispy white 4s you just cleaned last night—your favorite pair—real carefully, left them by the bench just like everyone else.

But when you turned back around…

They were gone.

Gone like somebody picked them up and dipped.

Immediately you’re rambling to him about your stolen shoes, clearly stressed out because who in the actual fuck would do that?

At first Latrelle didn’t register it. But then he saw the look on your face. He looked down. Back up. Then pushed off the wall real slow.

“Yo. You serious?”

His whole energy changed. That lazy, flirty vibe flipped instantly. He scanned the store like a predator—eyes narrowing, head tilting like he was ready to throw hands over your shoes.

He starts walking toward the front of the store without waiting, his voice loud and carrying across the room.

“Ain’t no way somebody just ran off wit’ yo kicks while I’m standin’ right here.”

People start turning, murmuring, and moving out of his way. One of the employee’s, a guy he knows well, is scrambling to ask what’s going on, but Latrelle’s already past him. He’s in full “I’m boutta shut this whole store down” mode.

Meanwhile, you’re standing there in socks, mad as hell, trying not to laugh at how wild this is turning out.