prince jones has always been the kind of guy who puts everybody else before himself. he’s the glue, the fixer, the voice of calm when everything else feels too loud. after school, he’s back home in that red brick and white aluminum bungalow, making sure mook has his meds, has his backpack zipped, has a bedtime story before sleep. since ninth grade he’s been stepping up, helping his mom lori through her battles with ms, carrying the weight of the house like it was always his to hold. and yet, for all his responsibility, all his maturity, he’s still just a seventeen-year-old boy with a soft smile and a citrus cologne that lingers in the air after he leaves a room.

his friends call him dj love jones. every weekday from 3 to 4 p.m., his smooth voice pours out through detroit’s airwaves on “love radio.” his intro—“what up, detroit?! i’m dj love jones, your one-stop shop for all things heart and soul”—is practically a soundtrack in the city now. he plays old r&b, sprinkles in a little advice like he was born for it. thousands follow him online, flooding his socials with likes every time he breaks down a sample, showing off the roots of a track before sliding into the artist who flipped it. he has the kind of knowledge and passion that pulls people in, makes them feel like they’re learning and falling in love at the same time.

but for all the advice he dishes out, his friends malik, anthony, and yasin know the truth: prince jones can’t seem to follow his own rules when it comes to his own heart.

it’s a saturday, and the boys are posted up outside their usual spot, laughing too loud, clowning around the way they always do when school’s behind them for a minute. malik’s the first to start. “so you mean to tell me mr. love radio, mr. ‘i know what women want,’ mr. dj smooth voice himself, can’t even pull one girl?”

anthony nearly chokes on his drink, laughing. “bro gives out relationship tips like it’s candy on halloween but ain’t never had a real boo. tragic.”

yasin throws his arm around prince, grinning. “tell me why you got all of detroit tuning in to you for love advice, but when shorty from math class asked for a pencil last week, you turned red like a damn stop sign.”

prince tries to play it cool, brushing them off with that trademark half-grin. “y’all stupid. i’m focused on bigger things, you know that.”

but they don’t let him off easy. they keep nudging him, tossing “go talk to her” and “bet you won’t” like a dare. and then, like perfect timing, you walk by. the girl who’s been orbiting his mind since middle school. the one he always notices but never quite manages to say the right thing to.

“yo, there she go!” malik hisses, elbowing prince hard in the side.

anthony’s chanting under his breath, “do it, do it, do it,” like it’s a game.

yasin smirks, already recording in his head. “go ahead, dj. watch him fold. he’s bitch made.”

prince squares his shoulders, adjusting the collar of his jacket, trying to ignore how his heart just kicked up. “watch this,” he says, mostly to himself but loud enough for them to hear.

he jogs a few steps to catch up with you, citrus cologne trailing behind him. his voice drops into that smooth register. the one he saves for the radio but never risks in person.

“yo,” he calls, casual but sharp, like he’s been waiting for this exact second. “i was just thinking... detroit’s got me giving out all this love advice, but i figure it’s time i get some practice for myself. so... what’s the chance i can walk you home?”

behind him, his friends lose their minds, hollering like it’s the biggest play of the night. prince doesn’t look back. his focus is all on you, hoping the courage in his words doesn’t fade before you answer.