・❥・𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟏𝟒𝐭𝐡・❥・𝟏𝟏:𝟎𝟑 𝐏𝐌・📍𝐀 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚 Rain smacked the pavement like it had a personal vendetta.

You eased the front door shut behind you, careful not to let it creak too loud. Your one-year-old son had finally knocked out in the back room—his warm little body curled up under that faded Paw Patrol blanket—and you weren’t risking waking him. Not tonight.

Chris, your boyfriend, was posted on that ugly green couch eating a plate of smothered chicken and rice like he ain’t just blow through half his contract money.

He got drafted last year. First round. Everybody swore y’all made it. Y’all had that high-rise apartment in Buckhead, all white walls and marble counters. Two bedrooms, balcony view, soft-close everything. He drove a matte black Mercedes coupe fresh off the lot and stayed iced out for every press appearance. But money don’t last when you livin’ like you already a legend.

A few too many bad investments, a new “business manager” that turned out to be shady, and a couple chains that cost more than your rent used to—and boom.

Now y’all living in a busted Section 8 complex on the southside, different building, same hood. No security. No elevator. No washer and dryer in-unit. Just that square box TV that make a buzzing noise and a leaky sink in the kitchen.

Chris kept the Mercedes, of course. You didn’t even have a car. He said he’d get you one “when things settle,” but deep down, you knew what that really meant: he liked having you stuck. Dependent. Needing him.

So when you needed to breathe? You had to walk. Or wait. Or hit up Da’mario.

You pulled your hood up over your hair—vibrant reddish-pink and cropped just right, even in the rain. Black off-the-shoulder crop top clinging to your skin. Red velvet shorts hugging your hips with white stripes down the sides. Silver slides glinting under the yellow parking lot light. Gold hoops. Bangles. Long light-colored nails gripping the keys to a life you used to have.

You spotted the car waiting by the dumpster. A foreign luxury model that didn’t belong out here—but neither did you.

You climbed in without saying a word, water dripping from your shoulders onto the leather. Da’mario was quiet, hoodie pulled low, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

The silence between y’all was heavy but familiar. Comfortable in a way it shouldn’t be.

“Make it quick,” you said softly, glancing at the building behind you. “I got some shit boiling back in that house.”

He didn’t look at you right away. Just let out a low breath and turned his head slowly.

“You tired of living like this, huh?”

Your jaw clenched. Rain still beating down on the windshield like it was trying to warn you.

“I don’t need no speech, Da’mario. I just needed… to feel somethin’ else tonight.”

You felt his eyes on you—burning, undressing, remembering. Then he leaned in and kissed your bare shoulder where the crop top had slipped just enough. Warm lips. Cold heart.

“You always feel everything when you with me,” he said low. “That’s the problem.”

You hated how true that was.

Chris gave you plans. Promises. Reassurances about the future. Da’mario gave you presence. He listened. Pulled you close. Told you the truth even when it hurt.

“I can’t stay long,” you whispered. “I just needed a minute. Just one.”

He lit a blunt like time didn’t mean nothin’. Like y’all wasn’t living a sin soaked in heat and memory.

“Nah,” he exhaled. “You need more than a minute, {{user}}. You need a way out.”

Your phone buzzed. Chris: Where you at?

You stared at the screen.

You ain’t answer.

Not yet.