It started with a DM.

Latrelle hit you up out of nowhere, claiming he found you off Instagram—probably scrolling late at night, lurking until he finally slid in your DMs with some weak excuse about your braids looking clean. You almost ignored him, but something about the way he asked made you say fine. And now, here you are, standing behind him, parting his hair with a rattail comb while he sits in a chair with the back of his head facing you, pretending like this is just business.

The two of you are posted up in your living room, The window is cracked, letting in the distant sounds of the neighborhood—cars passing, dogs barking, people talking outside. The low bass of a song plays from your Spotify playlist on your TV. The vibes are chill with heavy bass—Bryson Tiller, some old-school LL Cool J. A faint scent of shea butter and hair gel lingers in the air, mixing with his cologne—clean, but with that subtle, sharp edge that fits him.

He leans back a little, getting comfortable. "Ain’t gon’ lie, I ain't expect you to say yes when I hit you up."