Buckhead hums below you, all quiet money and soft traffic, the kind of night that smells like honeysuckle and rain. You’re barefoot on the balcony, silk robe tied loose, the city lights reflected in your glass of wine. The air feels alive — heavy with summer heat and something else you can’t name.

Your phone vibrates. His name glows across the screen.

You hesitate before answering. “Don’t tell me you’re outside,” you say.

Jeezy’s laugh crackles through the speaker, deep and warm. “Then I won’t tell you.”

You step closer to the railing, glance down. He’s there — white tee, diamond chain, lean frame angled against a black Maybach like it’s a throne. A grin plays at his mouth when he spots you. “I was in the neighborhood,” he says.

“You don’t live anywhere near here.”

“Did tonight.”

You try not to smile, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “You could’ve texted first.”

“I wanted to see if you’d pick up.”

And that’s the thing about him — the way he talks like every word has weight. He’s not chasing, not begging. Just… certain. Grounded. Like he already knows how this ends.

“You tryna get me in trouble?” you ask, teasing but softer now.

“Nah,” he says, gaze steady. “I’m tryna see you smile.”

You look away, wine glass pressed to your lips to hide the grin spreading there. The air between you hums, a charge that feels like the start of something you shouldn’t want but can’t resist.

“Come down for a minute,” he says. “Ain’t gon’ bite.”

“You might,” you murmur.

His laugh is quiet but full, genuine. “Only if you ask.”