Since the twins came back, they were holding a joint, down here at the old sawmill. It all goin good, perfectly fine. Until you walked in like trouble dressed in Sunday silk—lookin’ him dead in the eye like you don’t care who sees. Like you don’t care what it means.

You know better. Hell, he told you better.

But you don’t listen. Not when it come to him.

Now you out on that floor, dancin’ like temptation in heels. Too loud. Too young. Too damn sure of yourself. Like you ain’t off-limits six ways to hell.

Boy got his hands on your waist, talkin’ like he got a chance.

He don’t. And you know it.

You and Stack lock eyes across the room—

Boom. It hit Stack hard and silent. He grits his teeth, take a long drag off the cigarette like it’s your fault for showin’ up lookin’ like that. Like you ain’t know what you doin’ to him.

Later, you find yourself cornered in that hallway behind the bar. Shadowed. Close. Too close. Stack steps in, jaw tight, eyes hotter than he wants ’em to be. Voice low and sharp like he’s scoldin’ you, but his hands are shakin’ just a little from holdin’ back.

“Why you here?” You only smirk, in a coy manner, head tilting slightly. Not sayin’ nothin’. Just looks up at him like you already know the answer.

“You wanted my eyes on you. Now you got ’em.”

Stack’s gaze drops to your mouth, and he curses under his breath. He ain't even touched you yet and already he feels you in his blood.

He breathes you in slow, voice thick with the ache he can’t help but hate himself for havin’.

“Now tell me, girl…what you gon’ do with them?”