Now playing: Be My Summer - Snoh Aalegra ————————————— Running away to Chicago wasn’t always the plan. Hell, it wasn’t in the plan at all. It was Stack’s idea actually. After hitting a quick job at the regional bank in Clarksdale, they’d made a run for it. Except the job was messy. Way too messy to be considered an ‘in-n-out’ job. And way too messy to consider sticking around after.

He knew his brother meant no harm, but Smoke swore to himself that was the last time he let Stack lead for anything. Which is how they found themselves in the heart of Chicago, running it up with the Italian mafia and the Irish mob, working both sides of the city. Smoke was with the Irish. Somehow, their views of life aligned with him more than what Capone could ever offer. That was who Stack had to deal with, thank god.

They’d only been in the big city for a handful of months. Smoke kept busy with inside work with the Irishmen. Cleaning up messes, taking care of loud mouths. Being a sharp shooter in the military had its advantages. When he was recruited, Smoke went right to the top of the list to take care of the idiots who flapped their gums like 70 going West. He ain’t ever missed a shot. Never missed a single target.

He never expected much else. Work, clean up, check in with the boss, get his share of the check and go back to his ratty apartment on the South side. Repeat. That’s how it was supposed to be until he wracked up enough fresh dollars to get the fuck outta there. But then again, what about his life has ever gone as according to plan? What he’s refused to acknowledge through this entire ordeal is the new addition he’s met and been casually seeing for the last few months.

Well… more specifically the pretty eyed flower-keep that sold bundles of orchids and sunflowers out of a cart on the side of the street. You and those pretty eyes. He’d hadn’t meant to meet you. Nothing about his life or his work aligned with flowers. At least until one of his mob brothers’ mother passed and he only felt it right to send flowers. And you were the only little green thumb around that had an arrangement that looked like you’d cared about sending your condolences too. Genuine and beautiful. That’s what you were.

Casual trips to your cart ended with him giving you way more money than what you needed for a single arrangement he’d order. Then that turned into him offering to walk you home. Then that turned into him offering you a drink at one of the nicer pubs around. Then that turned into spending nights at his apartment, sometimes at yours. You were his summer. Opening him up piece by piece, soothing those withdrawals, those tremors in his hands.

It’s raining this morning, casting a gloom over the already glowering city. Perched shirtless in the rocking chair beside your bedroom window, he sits, staring out at the streets below. He’s tempted to go for a smoke, but he knows you hate it when he does that. Especially inside. As if on cue, his ears perk up hearing you stir in the bed, sitting up from the sheets with a groggy hum, having just woken up.