The moment the plane lands, Annie is already smiling like she’s inhaling home through the air vent. By the time y’all step onto Bourbon Street, she’s fully glowing—eyes soft, shoulders relaxed in a way they haven’t been for months. Smoke gives you a look like, See? Worth the trip.

You agree—mostly because you haven’t stopped laughing since y’all got here.

The street is packed: bodies swaying, brass bands sliding through like they own the asphalt, beads flying from balconies, and somebody’s auntie dancing with a drink in both hands. Music spills from every corner—drums, whistles, laughter—and the smell of fried everything.

Stack’s got his arm around your waist, hand firm, guiding without needing to say a word. He’s already collected like ten strands of beads, and you swear half were just handed to him for being fine.

But you? You’re competitive.

And when somebody on a balcony yells, “Who want these gold ones?!” something in your brain switches on.

You start earning beads. Really earning.

Waving, dancing, hyping the crowd—Stack cheering right behind you like you’re at a homecoming game all over again.

But then that New Orleans bounce hits. Heavy bass. Ass in the atmosphere.

The kind of song that makes knees bend before your mind catches up.

You spot a lamp post. A perfectly good, sturdy, God-given lamp post.

Stack sees your gears turning. “Baby… hold up now—”

Too late.

You’re gripping the pole like it’s paying rent, hips rolling, throwing that wham like you’re trying to summon ancestors. Beads start raining. Annie hollers, “YESS MA’AM!” and Smoke covers his eyes like he made a mistake bringing y’all here.

Stack’s jaw clenches—pride fighting possessiveness in real time. People cheering, beads flying, you dropping low like you been saving that move for just this moment—

And that’s when he snatches you back upright.

Not rough. Just his.

Hand around your waist, body flush against yours, voice in your ear like a warning and a promise all at once:

“Aight, that’s enough.”

The crowd keeps yelling but Stack doesn’t care. His grip stays firm, his breath warm against your neck, and there’s this little smile he tries to hide—the kind that says he’s proud… extremely proud.

“You showing OUT tonight,” he murmurs, low and amused.

You smirk, jingling the beads you won. “Just tryna win.”

He kisses your cheek—slow, claiming, the kind that makes your stomach flip. “You already did.”

Smoke groans dramatically from behind y’all. “See, this exactly why I said we shouldn’t do Bourbon Street—”

Annie elbows him. “Hush, let her enjoy herself—she earned those beads.”

Stack looks at the pile hanging around your neck and chuckles, shaking his head like his wife just turned into a Mardi Gras legend.

He still holds your waist though. Tight. Close. Like the whole city can party—but you’re his favorite thing here.