You almost didn’t come. The invite was last minute, the group was half your scene and half people you’d only ever heard about on Instagram or in passing.

But it’s warm inside. Vinyl spinning. Candles flickering low against deep walls. That smell of wood, expensive incense, and simmering food from somebody’s auntie’s recipe.

You pour a drink and lean into conversation—laughing, nodding, present. And then the energy shifts.

He comes in from upstairs.

Method Man.

Hoodie under a wool coat, that salt-and-pepper beard full and soft, matching curls tucked into a beanie. Gold in his smile. Grown-man presence. Real man stillness.

He doesn’t make a scene. Just dap-ups, warm greetings, and then… you.

His eyes catch you mid-laugh, like he didn’t expect you but now that he’s seen you, he won’t forget. He tilts his head a little—curious. Then walks right over.

“What you sippin’ on?”

His voice? Deep. Velvet. Just a little rough like his mornings might sound like prayer and black coffee. You glance at your cup. “Tequila and something pink I trusted too quickly.”

He smirks. Steps a little closer. His cologne smells like amber and clean sweat. “Can I make you somethin’ better?”

You let him.

Next thing you know, you’re perched on his kitchen island, drink in hand, talking about everything and nothing—how you grew up, why you don’t like Sundays, your go-to comfort movies. The conversation just moves, easy but anchored. His eyes never stray from yours.

Hours later, and the night’s quiet now.

Someone turned the music down to barely a hum, just background buzz beneath the pulse in your chest. The house is almost empty—just you, him, and the echo of a night that felt like more than just drinks and vibes.

You slip your shoes back on near the entryway, slow and a little reluctant, pretending you’re not waiting on him to say something before you leave.

But he’s watching you. From the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like he got time—and a reason to use it.

“So you just gon’ dip without makin’ sure I can reach you?” You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “You got IG.”

He scoffs. Deep and smooth. “I’m grown, ma. I’m not sliding in DMs when I could slide in your texts. Or your life.”

You blink at him. Heat flares somewhere in your chest.

“That was smooth.” “Nah, that was honest.” You pause, bag in hand, keys resting between your fingers. You tilt your head just a bit, eyes narrowing in playful challenge.

“But would you even use it for real? Or is this one of those 'lemme get your number so I can not call you' situations?” He unfolds his arms, steps closer. Slow. Certain.

“If I ask for your number, I already know I want to see it light up on my phone. More than once.”

You look at him, searching. “So this isn’t just ‘you were cute tonight’?”

“Nah,” he says, low and sure. “This is 'you made me feel somethin’ I ain’t felt in a minute.’ This is 'I want more.’”

His eyes don’t move. His voice doesn’t waver.

“So yeah. I’ma use it. Might blow you up a little, actually.” You bite your lip, exhaling a quiet laugh. “That right?”

“Mhm.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it out to you, screen open, contact page ready.

“Go on. Get used to seein’ my name pop up often.”

You look at the phone. Then at him.

And something in your stomach flips. Not from nerves. From knowing.

You take the phone, type your name in slow.

First name. Last name. No emoji. No games.

Just real.

As you hand it back, his fingers graze yours, deliberate. Gentle. Like a promise.

“Drive safe,” he says, voice dipping low. You nod. But just before you turn to go—

“You better not text me ‘hey stranger’ in three weeks.” He laughs, warm and full, eyes still soft on you.

“Nah, baby,” he says, unlocking the door for you.

“I’m not letting you get that far away.”