10. anthony's angel
Anthony must confront the truth: is Angel simply a friend in need, or has he unknowingly begun building a future with her and her son?
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ANGELINA “ANGEL” MOORE
A few weeks had passed, and time had become its own strange creature—one moment dragging its feet like it wanted to punish me, the next sprinting ahead before I could catch my breath. The doctors said Derek was improving, and I clung to their every word, trying to let hope settle into my chest without letting it take root too deeply.
He was waking up now, little by little, in bursts so brief I almost convinced myself I’d imagined them. Once, he stayed awake for ten whole minutes, his sleepy eyes fluttering open just long enough for me to see a flicker of him—my boy, still in there. But mostly, he slept.
At first, every time I saw his still form, it felt like someone had reached inside my chest and twisted. I’d sit there, watching his little face, willing him to open his eyes, move a hand, give me something. Anything. But eventually, I learned to let the quiet settle over me, to trust that sleep was what he needed most. Trust didn’t come easy, though. I’d grilled the medical team so many times I could probably write a medical textbook on his condition. Though piece by piece, their reassurances started to sink in.
It got easier. Slowly.
Slow enough that I didn’t notice the shift right away, like when the seasons change and suddenly the air smells different. It got easier to leave the hospital in the evenings, though Anthony and I still stayed overnight once or twice a week.
Those nights at his place were… healing. I didn’t realize how much I needed them until they became part of my life. The kind of peace they gave me felt foreign, like slipping into a warm bath after years of being out in the cold.
We’d cook dinner together, or pick up something from Ruby’s, and then we’d settle on the couch for movies. His arm would stretch across the back of the cushions, his fingers just brushing my shoulder, and I’d feel myself relax in ways I didn’t even know I was tense.
Sometimes, after dinner, he’d disappear into his Game Room—a place he joked was his “sanctuary.” I’d give him space, grabbing one of the many books he seemed to collect like souvenirs. Right now, it was The Courage to Be Happy by Ichiro Kishimi, a book that felt like it was unraveling knots I didn’t even know I had inside me. It gave me a lot to think about—about what I wanted, about what I was afraid to want.
And then, at night, we’d crawl into bed. He’d pull me close and we’d talk in the dark. About everything. About nothing. Until the words ran out and sleep pulled us under like the tide. I learned things about him in those quiet hours, the kind of things that made him feel less like the towering, stoic man who always seemed to have it together, and more like…Anthony…a human.
He used to play football—high school and college. He talked about it with a kind of wistfulness, like he missed the game but didn’t regret letting it go. He loved old-school R&B, mostly from the '90s, and had a vinyl collection to prove it. He even played me a few of his favorites one night, the soft crackle of the records filling the room as his head bobbed lightly to the music. Watching him lean back on the couch, eyes closed, mouthing the words to Jodeci or Luther Vandross, I couldn’t help but smile.
He told me about growing up in the Harris household—the structure his mom demanded and the laughter his dad brought into every room. The way his younger brother, Derek, could get under his skin and make him laugh in the same breath. He talked about how protective he was of Derek growing up, about all the times he’d covered for him, saved him from trouble, even when Derek didn’t deserve it.
And then there was the other side of it—what it was like to have a superstar for a brother. The tours, the travel, the chaos of it all. “It was fun at first,” he admitted, “but after a while, I realized I wasn’t built for that life. Derek was always the dreamer, the performer. I just wanted to live simple, you know?”
He told me about Derek’s girlfriend—fiancée now—Destiny. How she was like a little sister to him, the kind of person you couldn’t help but love. “I didn’t think it was a good idea at first,” he confessed, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “Them getting back together after all those years? I figured it’d just open old wounds. But, I don’t know…I guess sometimes people really do find their way back to each other.”
Their engagement had been all over the news. Apparently, Derek had used The Juneteenth Jubilee to win Destiny back—headlining the festival in our little town that she was organizing just to be close to her after ten years apart. It worked, obviously. Anthony told me about it like it was a movie he’d seen a dozen times, his voice soft and amused as he described Derek’s grand gestures, the way Destiny tried to fight it but couldn’t. “Man always knew how to put on a show,” he said, grinning.
Anthony had offered to take me to the Jubilee. There was a special section for family and victims of the crash, and he said it might be good for me to get out, to breathe a little. He even invited me to my brothers celebration party, a private event D-Truth had thrown for Destiny to celebrate how great of a job se did.
But I couldn’t pull myself away from my son. Not for the festival, not for the party, not for anything. I wasn’t ready to leave DJ’s side, not when every moment felt so fragile.
Anthony didn’t push. He understood.
That was the thing about him—he always seemed to know when to lean in and when to give me space. When to encourage me and when to just be there.
My stories felt different. He’d ask about my past, and I’d give him pieces, but they always seemed sad when I said them out loud. The kind of stories that made people shift uncomfortably in their seats or look at you with too much pity in their eyes.
So I kept those to a minimum.
Instead, I told him about DJ. About the days we’d spend building pillow forts in the living room or how we’d make up ridiculous songs to sing in the car since he loved to rap. I told him about the first time I taught DJ how to swim, about how he’d jump into the pool with no hesitation, his little arms flailing as he shouted, “I’m a fish, Mama! Look, I’m a fish!”
And the mornings? Those were even quieter. Peaceful in a way I hadn’t felt in years. We’d walk his property together, the acres stretching out like they belonged to another world. Anthony had me out there feeding chickens, cows, and horses like I’d grown up on a farm. By the time we’d come back inside, our hands full of fresh eggs, I was already thinking about the breakfast we’d make together.
His house had started to feel like a cocoon. Warm. Safe.
The kind of place where the edges of the world seemed softer, where the weight on my shoulders felt lighter, even if just for a little while. I still used the guest room—barely. It was mostly just for changing clothes or pretending I had some semblance of boundaries. I knew I could sleep in there if I wanted to now, but… we didn’t talk about that.
It seemed like neither of us wanted to.
Sleeping next to each other, him holding me—that was just what we did now. No questions, no explanations. It just… was.
But now, as the early morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting soft streaks of light across the room, I could feel the balance shifting.
Literally.
Because his morning wood? It was hard against me, impossible to ignore.
The heat of his body pressed along the length of mine, his arm draped heavily over my waist, anchoring me to him like I might float away if he let go. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my back told me he was still fully asleep.
But me? I was wide awake.
What had I gotten myself into?
I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to say anything. But the size of him—God, he was huge. At 6’6", over a foot taller than me, he wasn’t just big. It was big. I could feel it. And even though I’d told myself over and over not to think about it, not to let my mind wander to all the what-ifs and the feelings that had started blooming out of nowhere, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Desire was a strange thing. It crept up on you slow, almost lazy, until it settled into your chest and spread through you like wildfire. And right now, with him so close, his dick damn near between my ass cheeks, I felt it everywhere. My chest tightened, my breath caught, and I bit my lip to keep from making a sound.
I tried to wiggle out of his grip, but it was like trying to move a mountain. His arm was solid, heavy, pinning me down in the warmest way possible. No matter how much I squirmed, I barely made any progress.
And then, just as I was about to try again, I heard it.
A low, rumbling moan.
It vibrated against my back, deep and unrestrained, and my body froze.
Oh my God.
My face burned as I bit my lip harder, desperately trying to keep my composure.
“Anthony,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, but he didn’t stir.
I tried again, a little louder this time. “Anthony.”
He groaned, the sound deeper now, and my body betrayed me. Heat pooled low in my belly, my chest rising and falling faster than I wanted to admit.
“You’re, um…” I hesitated, my face heating like I’d just been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to. “You’re poking me.”
“Mmmmkay,” he mumbled, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep, the kind of sound that sent a shiver down my spine even when I didn’t want it to. Then he pulled me closer, his arm tightening around me like I was his favorite plush toy, something he wasn’t about to let go of anytime soon.
The effort I’d made to wiggle out of his grip? Gone. Completely gone. I was pinned, caught in the strength of his hold and the warmth of his body pressed against mine.
Anthony was a heavy sleeper. The kind of sleeper who could probably sleep through a thunderstorm if he was comfortable enough. I’d learned that I could say just about anything to him in moments like this and he’d mumble back, completely unaware, with no recollection of it later. It was a game I played sometimes—saying the things I was too scared to admit when he was awake, just to hear what he’d say in return.
But this morning? This morning I really did need him to know that he was about to drill a hole through me.
Although, if I was being honest, a quiet, traitorous part of me wondered what that would actually feel like.
God, Angel, get it together.
“Anthony,” I said a little louder, pushing at his arm lightly. Nothing. He was dead to the world, and I was stuck here, forced to wrestle with my thoughts.
“You need me to sleep…go sleep, baby,” he grumbled. The words slurred together, soft and unguarded, like they were spilling out before he had a chance to think about them. “Papa got you.”
My breath caught.
Papa got you.
I knew he wasn’t really awake, that he wouldn’t even remember saying it later, but that didn’t stop the words from landing like a quiet promise in the space between us.
This man—Anthony—was no longer just the stranger I’d wondered about in passing when we bumped into each other. He wasn’t just the man who held me when the weight of my world threatened to crush me. He was my friend now, the person I leaned on without question, the man who stepped up for my son in ways Carlos never did.
Carlos would show up sometimes, his visits to DJ as rare as his phone calls, but when he did, Anthony’s presence was like an unspoken wall. He’d stand there, arms crossed, silent but towering, watching Carlos like a hawk, his scowl so sharp it could cut glass. And every time Carlos asked me something, Anthony would answer for me, his tone filled with a quiet dominance that almost made me laugh. I’d never seen Carlos look so powerless, so unsure of himself, and it was almost funny.
But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just how Anthony protected me and DJ, how he made sure Carlos couldn’t rattle me the way he used to. It was the way he made me feel—safe, understood, wanted in ways I hadn’t realized I could be. And that? That scared me.
Because my heart wasn’t just leaning toward Anthony anymore—it was falling. Fast and hard. I wanted him. Not just emotionally, either. Parts of my body that had only ever been touched by Carlos—parts I’d denied to anyone else because Carlos had made it clear that if I gave myself to another man, he’d cut off the money for our son—now ached for Anthony.
It was confusing and overwhelming, this storm of desire and guilt swirling inside me. My son was the only thing that mattered. He was my focus, my reason for breathing. And yet, Anthony made me think about things I’d pushed so far down I’d forgotten they existed—things I didn’t even know I wanted. Desires that felt like betrayal but also… freedom.
And right now, as he held me like I belonged here, his warmth melting some of the ice I’d wrapped around myself, I didn’t know how to stop the part of me that wanted to believe I did.
“Anthony…” I whispered again, my voice trembling this time, as I was about to ask the boldest question I ever have in my little sleepy time game.
“Hmmm.” A soft groan rumbled out of him, lazy and unbothered.
I swallowed hard, my heart thudding so loud I was sure he could feel it. A nervous laugh almost escaped me, but I caught it, biting it down.
“You love me?” I asked, teasing, throwing the question out like a lifeline to distract myself from the tension crackling in the room.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a joke. Just me being ridiculous.
But his voice, rough and low with sleep, cut through me like a quiet promise. “’Course I do…my pretty Angel.”
My body went rigid. My breath hitched.
The words came out so easily, so effortlessly, like he’d been saying them in his head for years and had finally let them slip.
He was still asleep. He had to be.
Right?
I stayed frozen, not daring to move, not daring to breathe too loud, because I couldn’t figure out what scared me more—that he’d said it… or that they could possibly be true.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed, cutting through the quiet and yanking me out of my swirling thoughts. The sound was loud, sharp against the stillness of the morning, and I felt Anthony’s body shift behind me.
He sucked his teeth, his usual annoyed response to a call he clearly didn’t want to take. Without even looking, I knew exactly what he was doing—glancing at the screen, squinting at it with that half-asleep irritation he always wore when his sleep was interrupted, then pressing ignore. He did it all the time, like clockwork.
The buzzing stopped, and just like that, he settled back down. His arm draped over my waist again, heavy and warm, like it belonged there. Like I belonged there.
A soft, almost imperceptible snore slipped out, and I froze.
And there it was again.
The press of his morning wood against me, firm and unavoidable. Heat crawled up my neck and into my face, and I tried to convince myself it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.
It was a reminder.
A reminder of everything I wasn’t ready to confront.
“Anthony, wake up,” I said softly, my voice trembling just enough to betray me.
A low, gravelly groan escaped him, deep and rough, the kind of sound that vibrated through me in ways I really didn’t want to think about. My heart stumbled over itself, skittering in my chest as I tried to keep my breathing steady.
“Angel,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and coated in that raspy tone that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, “relax, Mama… sun’s barely up.”
Relax? Easy for him to say when he wasn’t the one being pinned down by a… situation.
“We gotta get moving,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the heat creeping up my neck or the fact that I really, really needed him to move that big-ass monster off me before I had to change my panties.
He groaned, burying his face deeper into the crook of my neck like he hadn’t heard a word I said. “Why you up so early? Usually, I have to wake you.” he mumbled, sounding clearer now, his voice stronger.
The phone call must’ve shaken him awake for real because I could feel the subtle shift in his body—his breath evening out, his weight shifting just slightly. He was waking up, no longer hovering on the edge of sleep, though his arm stayed wrapped around me, tighter now, like I was something he didn’t want to let go of.
“You got something on your mind to be up at this hour. What you thinkin’ about?” he asked, his voice soft but curious.
What I was thinking about? Oh, nothing. Just the fact that the man currently pressed against me, holding me like I belonged to him, was going to make me combust if he didn’t get up soon.
“Breakfast,” I lied, my voice a little too high-pitched to sound convincing as I tried to ignore the heat crawling over my skin. “And we gotta get moving so we can go grocery shopping.”
“That’s it?” he groaned, his tone low and full of disbelief, like he knew there was more to it.
I felt him shift slightly, his body pressing even closer to mine, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep my head from spinning.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I shot back, a little too quickly. My hands twitched at my sides, itching to push him away, even though I knew I wasn’t actually going to. “We need everything for later. You know… food.”
He chuckled, the sound soft and lazy, the kind of laugh that vibrated through his chest and into my back. “Ok, Mamas” he said, his voice dripping with teasing doubt as he chuckled.
“Yep,” I said, trying to sound firm but failing miserably. My voice cracked, and I bit the inside of my cheek, praying he didn’t notice as I went down my list.
He shifted slightly, the weight of his arm pressing heavier against me. “You’re worried about something else though,” he said, his voice softer now, more awake. “DJ?”
Yes, his erection was one thing, but my mind was always on DJ. Even here, even now. Though, I was starting to trust his team. More and more.
My lips parted, ready to brush him off. But the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
“Always.”
He hummed low in his chest, like that was answer enough. His hand moved absentmindedly, his fingers tracing a slow, lazy line over the curve of my hip. My skin burned under his touch, every nerve on high alert.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said, his voice low and deep, the kind of tone that felt like it should’ve come with a warning label.
So sexy. Ugh, Angelina, stop.
I shifted slightly, trying to focus on anything else—the clock on the nightstand, the sunlight spilling through the curtains—but the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t making it easy.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound casual, though my voice came out softer than I intended.
“Remember what the doctors said?” His tone was careful, steady, the way it always got when he was trying to ease me into something. “About when Derek gets out? That he’ll need a wheelchair for a bit?”
The mention of Derek brought everything back into sharp focus, and I swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling in my chest.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter now.
“It’s gonna be tough at your place,” he said, his voice dipping into that calm, no-nonsense tone he always used when he didn’t want me to overthink. The tone that was meant to soothe but often did the opposite. “It’s gonna be a tight fit. That wheelchair’s gonna be hell to move around.”
I stiffened, the weight of his words pressing down on me, heavier than I wanted to admit.
He hesitated, and I could feel it—the moment stretching between us like a held breath, heavy and full of something unsaid.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, like he was bracing himself for my reaction. “Maybe it’s better if DJ comes here too. If you stay longer.”
The air felt thicker somehow, like his words had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. My chest tightened, the weight of what he was saying settling over me like a blanket I wasn’t sure I could crawl out from under.
“Anthony…” I started, my voice faltering. I didn’t even know what I was about to say, only that I needed to say something. But he kept going, his words firm but gentle, like he’d already made the decision for me.
“I’ll build him a ramp,” he said, his tone steady, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Make it easy for him to get in and out of the house. My hallways are wider, rooms bigger. There’s plenty of space out here for him to get fresh air. The animals… he’ll love the animals.”
I stared at the wall, my throat too tight to respond, my mind spinning too fast to latch onto anything solid. I wanted to argue, to tell him it wasn’t necessary, that I could manage on my own, but the truth was a weight I couldn’t lift.
He was right.
His voice softened then, dropping into something quieter, almost hesitant, like he was afraid he might be overstepping. “I can set up one of the rooms just for him. Make it really his, you know? Superheroes, cartoons, whatever he’s into. Just tell me, Angel, and I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”
That did it. Those words cracked something inside me, the soft promise of just tell me hitting like a wave I hadn’t seen coming.
I turned then, finally forcing myself to meet his gaze. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but they were so clear, so earnest, it made my chest ache.
He looked at me like none of this was a burden, like he’d already decided this was just what he was going to do—no questions, no second thoughts.
“Whatever I gotta do to make him comfortable, feel at home,” he finished, his voice trailing off slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he’d said too much.
And for a second, I just stared at him, trying to process what was happening. He wasn’t just offering space. He wasn’t just offering help. He was offering a home.
For me. For DJ.
And the worst part?
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to say it so badly it hurt.
But instead of exhaling, I just… broke.
The tears came hard and fast, spilling over before I even knew they were coming. My chest heaved, the tension I’d been holding for so long snapping all at once. Every fear I’d been swallowing, every doubt I’d buried—it all came pouring out in ragged sobs I couldn’t stop if I tried.
“Shit,” Anthony muttered, sitting up quickly. His arm slipped away, and for the briefest moment, I felt untethered, like I might actually fall apart. But then he was there again, pulling me into him, his arms wrapping around me with a strength that steadied me.
He held me like he thought I might shatter, like letting go wasn’t even an option.
“My bad, Angel,” he said, his voice low and rough with concern, vibrating against the crown of my head. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“No,” I choked out, shaking my head as I tried—and failed—to wipe the tears from my face. “No, it’s not you. It’s just…” My voice broke on a hiccup, and I forced the words out even though they felt too big, too raw. “You’d do all that? For my son? For us?”
His grip tightened just slightly, his hand smoothing over my back in long, steady strokes. “I’d do anything for you two,” he said, his voice so soft, so sure, it felt like the ground beneath my feet had shifted.
I cried harder. How was this man real?
I buried my face in his chest, my fingers curling into his shirt like it was the only thing keeping me upright. His scent—clean, warm, familiar—washed over me, grounding me even as I unraveled in his arms.
Anthony exhaled slowly. His thumb traced soft, soothing circles over my shoulder, like he was trying to ease the ache inside me without saying a word. And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head.
The gesture was so gentle, so natural, that it stole the air right out of my lungs.
For a moment, I felt him hesitate, like even he was caught off guard by the impulse. Like he wasn’t sure if it was okay.
But he didn’t pull away.
Slowly, I tilted my head back, the movement hesitant, uncertain, and looked up at him.
Our eyes met, and the world seemed to shrink, narrowing down to the space between us. His gaze was soft but steady, holding mine like he wasn’t afraid of what he’d find there. Like he wasn’t afraid of me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.
I wasn’t sure if I was holding my breath or if he was, but the silence between us was alive, buzzing with all the things we weren’t saying.
His eyes searched mine, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek, the simple motion sending warmth coursing through me. It was grounding and unsteadying all at once, like I was balanced on the edge of something I couldn’t see.
“So… you’ll stay…longer…both of you,” he said softly, his voice low and careful, like he was afraid to push too hard. His hand cupped my face, his palm warm against my skin. “With me?”
My chest tightened as his question sank in, as the magnitude of it wrapped itself around me. This wasn’t just about convenience or logistics. It wasn’t just about Derek or ramps or wide hallways. It was about this. About him. About the life he was trying to give us—a life I wasn’t sure I deserved.
And yet, when I looked into his eyes, clear and unflinching, I saw something I hadn’t let myself see before. Not just care, not just affection, but belief. He believed in me, in DJ, in whatever this was between us.
“Yes,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, but the weight of the word felt monumental.
His shoulders dropped, the tension I hadn’t even realized he was carrying melting away in an instant. His hand slipped from my cheek to the curve of my jaw, his touch steady, reverent.
“You sure?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like he needed to hear it again just to believe it.
“Yes,” I said again, louder this time, the word more certain.
The smile that broke across his face was so soft, so full of relief, it made my heart twist. He looked at me like I’d just given him something precious, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to have.
For a moment, he just held me there, his forehead dipping to rest lightly against mine.
Whatever had just shifted between us, whatever had just been silently acknowledged—it scared me.
But it didn’t feel wrong.
Not at all.
But life didn’t stop for moments like this. Not when there were errands to run and responsibilities to juggle. And tonight was different. His friends were coming over for card night, and I’d offered to cook for them as a thank-you.
Anthony had been cool about it, shrugging like it was no big deal, but the way he started tossing things into the shopping cart made me question if he even knew the meaning of the word budget.
And of course, he was getting all the good stuff. We were in one of those fancy supermarkets out in Westonberry—the kind with dim lighting, pristine shelves, and prices that made you question your life choices. Imported cheeses, gourmet oils, spices in tiny glass jars with labels I could barely pronounce.
It was the kind of place I used to wander through just to look, imagining all the things I’d cook with if I ever had the chance. And here Anthony was, throwing things into the cart like he wasn’t even checking the price tags.
“You even looking at the list?” I teased, leaning over the cart to survey the chaos of groceries he’d tossed in. Fancy coffee beans, organic pasta, a loaf of sourdough that probably cost more than my gas bill.
He didn’t even pause, dropping a jar of imported olives into the cart like it was nothing.
“We’ve been spending more time at home,” he said, his voice easy, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We need more food for more than just tonight.”
Home.
He said it like it was ours. Like this little bubble we’d created wasn’t temporary, like it actually belonged to both of us.
The word hit me like a weight, heavy and inescapable, and suddenly, the shelves and the cart blurred into the background. My mind twisted itself into knots, dragging me back to this morning—him asking me to stay longer when, deep down, I’d been bracing myself for him to tell me it was time to leave.
“Angel?”
The sound of her voice stopped me mid-step, and I turned to see Josie standing a few feet away. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes bouncing between me and Anthony like she was watching the final act of a drama she didn’t even know she’d bought tickets for. Her smile was warm, but there was something else behind it—a curiosity she didn’t bother hiding.
“Josie,” Anthony greeted, his tone easy, casual, like this wasn’t about to turn into an interrogation.
“Anthony,” she replied, drawing his name out in that teasing way only Josie could manage, her eyebrows raised like she already had questions brewing.
Anthony chuckled softly, completely unbothered. He stepped closer to me, brushing his hand lightly against my back—a touch so brief, so natural, it made my stomach flip—before he stepped away.
“I’m gonna grab the beers and snacks for the guys,” he said, his voice calm and grounding. He flashed me a quick, reassuring smile before walking off down the aisle like he hadn’t just left me standing in the spotlight.
Josie’s jaw practically hit the floor. She took one step closer, then another, her eyes wide, eyebrows raised, her mouth already poised to deliver whatever judgment she was brewing.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted out, caught completely off guard.
She tilted her head, like my question was the least interesting thing happening in this moment. “Girl, you know I do Instacart on the side. That’s why I’m in this bougie supermarket,” she said with a shrug, then waved a dismissive hand. “But forget that. What is happening between you and Anthony Harris?”
Her voice was brimming with disbelief, loud enough that I glanced around to make sure no one else was eavesdropping.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly, my words tumbling over each other in a rush. My voice was higher than normal, thin and shaky, which only made it worse. “He’s just my friend.”
Josie’s eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might hit her hairline. “Bullshit,” she said flatly, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at me like she’d just caught me trying to sneak out of the house past curfew.
“Josie—”
“No. Nope. Don’t even start.” She held up a finger to cut me off, her voice getting louder. “I mean, come on, Angel. Look at you. Look at him. And you’re seriously gonna stand there and tell me that nothing is happening?”
“What do you mean? We’re just buying groceries,” I said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Josie’s eyes widened even more, like I’d just tried to convince her the sky was green. “Groceries? Groceries, Angel?” she repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She gestured toward the cart, which was filled with far more than the basics. “This is not just groceries. This is… this is couple groceries.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “What the hell are couple groceries?”
“You know! The kind of stuff people buy when they’re planning to be in the kitchen together, all close and domestic and cute.” She pointed dramatically at the cart again, her voice climbing higher. “This? This is foreplay groceries. I grocery shop for folks, I’m a an expert on who buys what.”
My cheeks burned, and I nearly choked on my own breath. “Josie!” I hissed, glancing around the aisle like the shelves might grow ears.
“What? I’m not wrong,” she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head like she was daring me to deny it. “And don’t act like I didn’t see him touch your back just now. That man is not looking at you like you’re just his friend.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to explain, to say something, but nothing came out. Because, deep down, I knew she wasn’t exactly wrong.
“Angel, I was there when you two bumped into each other at my job. I saw the way you looked at each other. All weird and intense, like the beginning of a rom-com. And now this?” She gestured vaguely around the store, her eyes wide. “Come on. Spill.”
I sighed, the weight of everything pressing down on me again. “I was in the crash,” I admitted quietly. “With Mr. House. Anthony has been…taking care of me and DJ since then.”
Josie’s expression shifted instantly, her curiosity giving way to shock.
“What? You were part of that crash?” Her voice shook slightly, and she took another step closer. “Oh my God, Angel, I told you to go to the toy drive! This is all my fault!” She covered her mouth with her hand, her words coming faster now. “Where’s DJ? Is he—”
“He’s okay,” I cut her off, the words spilling out quickly, like I could somehow stop her panic from spiraling if I said it fast enough. “He’s still in the hospital, but he’s going to be okay.”
Her shoulders sagged, the tension leaving her posture in a visible wave of relief. But her wide-eyed gaze didn’t waver, locked on me like I was the most confusing puzzle she’d ever tried to solve.
“And Anthony Harris—ranch-owning recluse, D-Truth’s brother, The Juniper Giant, Anthony Harris—is… what? Just playing superhero now? He’s taking care of you and DJ?”
Her voice was dripping with disbelief, each word sharper than the last. I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. Because how was I supposed to explain it?
The truth? I didn’t even know what this was. I sighed and gave her the short version—how Anthony found me crying in the hospital hallway, how he’s been with me every day since, how he keeps Carlos at bay, and how I’ve been staying with him. I even told her about the plans he shared this morning for when DJ comes home.
“I—he’s just helping,” I said finally, hating the way my voice cracked on the word helping. “You know, with the ramp, and DJ, and… stuff.”
“Stuff,” she repeated, dragging the word out as her eyebrows climbed higher. “Angel, you don’t let people help you. You barely let me help you, and we’ve known each other for years. But now The Juniper Giant is playing house with you? Something’s not adding up here.”
“It’s not like that,” I said quickly, shaking my head as I reached for the cart, needing something to do with my hands. “He’s just—he’s just being nice. That’s all.”
Josie gave me a look. That look. The one that said she wasn’t buying it for a second.
“Nice?” she repeated, folding her arms as she leaned closer. “Angel, nice is lending you a casserole dish or watching DJ for an hour while you run errands. Nice is not building a ramp for your son and making a whole room for him. That’s not nice—that’s…”
She trailed off, her lips pressing into a smirk that made my stomach flip.
“That’s what?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be, trying to cut her off before she could finish.
“That’s a man who’s all the way in, Angel,” Josie said simply, her voice low and sure, like she was stating an undeniable fact. Then she hit me with it, plain as day: “That man is in love with you.”
I damn near gasped, her words jolting me like a sudden drop on a roller coaster. They dragged me back to what Anthony had mumbled in his sleep, the words I’d tried so hard to brush off. But that wasn’t real, was it? That was just a sleepy, half-conscious murmur.
I mean, sure, things were changing between us. We were closer, yes. But Anthony Harris? Actually in love with me? Come on.
“You’re being dramatic,” I said, trying to wave her off. “And loud.” My eyes darted around the aisle, praying no one else could hear her.
“And you’re in denial,” Josie fired back without missing a beat, her voice quieter but no less sharp. She jabbed a finger toward the aisle Anthony had disappeared into, her expression unflinching. “That man has done more for Derek in the short time you’ve known him than Carlos has in his entire life. And you? Angel, he takes care of you in a way that you don’t even see. You literally look different. Even with everything going on with your son, you’re breathing easier.”
I stared down at the cereal box in my hands, the bright colors on the packaging blurring as tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Before I could figure out how to respond, Anthony’s low rumble broke the silence, cutting through the weight of Josie’s words like it was nothing.
“Josie-Jo giving you trouble, Angel?”
I turned slowly, clutching the cereal box like it was a lifeline, and found Anthony standing a few feet away. A couple of six-packs dangled effortlessly from one hand, a bag of chips in the other. His gaze flicked to Josie briefly—familiar, like they shared some unspoken camaraderie—and then landed on me, his smile softening when he saw my face.
Josie smirked, completely unfazed. “Not at all,” she said sweetly, though her tone carried enough edge to make my stomach flip. “Just catching up with my girl here.”
Anthony’s lips twitched, like he was holding back a laugh. “Uh-huh.” He turned back to me, his dark eyes warm, steady, and so full of ease it made my chest ache. “You ready to get out of here?”
I nodded quickly, seizing the lifeline he was offering. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
As I moved to add the cereal to the cart, Anthony handed me the chips. His fingers brushed mine briefly, just a light, accidental touch, but it sent a spark through me anyway, spreading that same warmth I’d been trying so hard to ignore.
“We’ll get up with you later, Josie,” Anthony said, his tone casual, but there was something in the way he said it that felt final, like he was gently steering her out of the conversation.
Josie didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure y’all will,” she grinned, her eyes darting between the two of us like she was piecing together a puzzle only she could see. Then, with a mischievous smile, she added, “Y’all look cute together, by the way.”
Oh my God.
My cheeks burned, and I ducked my head, fumbling to place the chips in the cart as Anthony chuckled beside me. His laugh was low, quiet, but I could feel it, rumbling in my chest like it had settled there just to tease me.
Josie waved as we turned to walk away, her voice light but laced with that same knowing tone that made me want to disappear into the floor. “Bye, Angel. Don’t forget to call me!”
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
ANTHONY HARRIS
The living room felt like a stage set for a bad sitcom. The cards in my hand pressed against my fingers, heavier than they had any right to be, like they knew this wasn’t the game we were really playing tonight. And the guys? They weren’t even pretending to focus.
Reaper sat there with his jaw slack, so wide open it looked like it might unhinge. DeShawn squinted at me hard, his head tilted just enough to make him look like a teacher trying to catch a student in a lie. Bishop leaned back in his chair, lips curled into that slow, shit-stirring grin he always got when he was about to say something slick. And Jackson? Jackson was dead still. His face was blank, but his eyes? His eyes pinned me to the chair like a spotlight, heat rolling off him like the coil of a stove waiting to burn.
And Angel? Angel was in the kitchen, moving like she’d always been there, like this wasn’t some temporary arrangement but home. Garlic and butter hissed in the pan, the smell curling through the air, warm and rich, like it was trying to dress the house up for a life I hadn’t agreed to yet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her. Couldn’t help it. Her hum was soft, a little off-key but steady, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Like she belonged.
This wasn’t how Guys Night usually went. Usually, it was takeout—something greasy in a box—or whatever I threw together in fifteen minutes flat. No one cared. But Angel had insisted. Told me it was the least she could do since I’d been missing these nights with my boys. Said I’d been too wrapped up in her and DJ to stick to my routines.
And now? Now my boys were sitting there, staring at her like she was a ghost who’d just floated through the walls, and staring at me like I’d let her in.
They weren’t just surprised—they were watching. Studying her. Studying me. Turning over the pieces of a story I hadn’t even realized I’d been writing until now.
When they walked in earlier, I’d kept the introduction short. Just said, “This is Angel. She’s been staying here while her son’s recovering.”
Simple, right? But from the looks on their faces, you’d think I’d stood up and announced we’d eloped.
“The fuck is everybody’s problem?” I said finally, slamming the deck of cards down on the table. The cards scattered, but no one flinched. “We playing or what?”
“Ant,” Jackson said, leaning back in his chair, his tone slow and heavy with the kind of energy that made me want to throw something. “Are you slow? Mama Harris drop your ass as a baby?”
“What?” I snapped, my patience already hanging by a thread.
He didn’t blink. “I mean, excuse me if I’m taken aback, but your wife is in the kitchen cooking for us on Guys Night,” he said, dragging the word out like it deserved its own damn parade. “And your son is in the hospital, waking up to your face every day while you’re out here talking bout decorating his room and building his little ass a ramp. You got a whole-ass family overnight, and you’re just out here dealing cards like we’re still twenty-five and this is some bachelor pad bullshit.”
“It’s not—” I started, but Bishop cut me off.
“She lives here, Ant,” Bishop said, his grin widening like he was enjoying every second of this. “And the boy? He’s finna move in too.”
“Just till—he needs the space for his wheelchair—”
“His wheelchair,” DeShawn said, chuckling and mocking my voice. “Negro, please.”
“This nigga’s a good dad,” Reaper said with a low laugh, shaking his head.
I opened my mouth to fire back, but nothing came out. The words caught somewhere between my throat and my chest, and I sat there, cards forgotten, staring at the table while their words hung in the air.
Because the truth? The truth wasn’t something I could argue with.
The truth was stirring a pot in my kitchen, her hum weaving through the conversation like it didn’t have a care in the world. The truth smelled like garlic and butter, warm and real in a way I couldn’t ignore. And whether I wanted to admit it or not, she was just staying at my house temporarily. They were living in my head, creeping into my plans, becoming something more with every long-ass day that went by.
“I told her she could cook because y’all would eat frozen pizza and complain about it,” I muttered, keeping my tone casual—or trying to.
Reaper snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You told her, huh? So what? You the man of the house now?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I shot back, but my voice didn’t have its usual bite.
And they knew it. Reaper’s grin spread wider, DeShawn chuckled under his breath, and Jackson’s eyes cut straight through me.
The thing was, the line between what I was doing for Angel and what I was doing with Angel was getting blurrier every damn day. Every time I told myself I was just helping out, just stepping up because someone had to, that line faded a little more, like trying to follow footprints in the sand as the tide rolled in.
And then this morning? This morning, I crossed it, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
When I asked her to stay longer, to let DJ move in when he could, I told myself it was practical—it made sense. But the truth? The truth was it made me happy. I’d been nervous as hell to ask her, palms sweating like I was back in high school asking some girl to prom. And when she said yes? That relief hit harder than it should have.
Because no matter how much I pretended this was temporary, that I’d brought Angel here so she could rest, I couldn’t ignore the way my chest settled when I heard her voice or the way my arms felt empty when she wasn’t in bed with me. At first, it was because she couldn’t sleep without me holding her. Now? I was positive that if she left, I’d be the one struggling to sleep.
I liked our routine. I liked having her around. Hell, I loved holding her. And the scariest part? I didn’t want it to end anytime soon.
Or maybe not at all.
“I’m working on a ring for Em,” Bishop said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise in my head. He wasn’t even looking at his cards—just grinning like he’d already won the hand and the argument. He took a slow swig of his beer, his eyes locking on mine as he leaned back in his chair. “You might wanna come see Mr. Chung with me. You know, for when you finally stop frontin’.”
I sucked my teeth, shaking my head, but my chest tightened like he’d hit something I wasn’t ready to face yet.
“Man, get outta here with that,” I muttered, low enough to make my irritation clear but not loud enough to turn this into something bigger.
Bishop’s smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it got wider, like he’d found the button that pissed me off the most and pressed it just to watch me squirm. I looked down at the cards in my hands, but the game might as well have been over. Bishop and the others could read me clear as day, and worse? So could I.
“Just sayin’,” Bishop fired back, his tone cool and casual, the kind of cool that made me want to flip the table over. “Might as well make it a two-for-one deal. Cause what I know is, you ain’t lettin’ her walk outta here, even when her son gets better. That much I know.” He tilted his beer to his lips, pausing just long enough to let the words land. “That’s your wife in that kitchen.”
My jaw clenched so tight I swore I heard my teeth grind. I stared down at the cards in my hand like they might have some magical answer, but all I saw was a shitty hand that I wasn’t sure I could play. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, like someone had turned the dial down on the oxygen.
“Can we just focus on the damn game?” I growled, the words coming out sharper than I meant. But I didn’t take them back. I wanted the snap to land, wanted them to shut the hell up before they said something I wasn’t ready to hear.
But they didn’t flinch.
Bishop smirked, Jackson leaned back with his arms crossed, and DeShawn just shook his head like he’d already written the ending to this story. Even Reaper, quiet for once, watched me with that amused gleam in his eye, like he was waiting for me to slip and fall on the truth they all saw coming.
And then the doorbell rang.
The sound cut through the tension like a knife through thick fabric, leaving the silence frayed and uneven. I didn’t even need to check; I already knew who it was. Pops.
He didn’t come by for Guys Night often—just every now and then, when the mood struck or when he had something on his mind. He’d mentioned earlier this week he might stop by, said it’d been too long since we’d spent time together. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now, with the air in the room heavy and sharp, his timing felt like both a blessing and a curse.
I opened the door, and there he was, the older, grayer version of myself. Pops had the same steady presence he’d always carried, like the weight of the world didn’t faze him. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight despite the years that had started to bend other men his age. His eyes swept over me, then past me, taking in the scene behind me before he said a word.
“Pop,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.
Before he could get all the way in, a familiar voice called out behind him, loud and clear.
“Ant!”
I froze for half a second before leaning to look past Pops, and there he was—Derek, my little brother, strolling up the walkway like he owned the place.
“Oh yeah, he came too,” Pops grumbled, shooting me a look like he was daring me to complain. “Finally got him off that damn Destiny long enough to show his face. Boy act like he ain’t never had pussy before, his nose so wide open for that girl.”
I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my face as Derek stepped through the door and hit me with a handshake that turned into a quick dap.
“Little brother,” I said, not expecting him but feeling happy to see him.
“What up, big bro,” Derek said, his grin as sharp as ever, his gold chain flashing in the low light.
“I know that ain’t Shitty Pamper Derek,” Jackson called out from the living room, his voice dripping with the kind of roasted-in-love tone only a long friendship could carry.
Derek stopped mid-stride as he made his way inside, raising his hands like he was already over it. “Aw, here we go.”
The room erupted into laughter, the tension from earlier melting away just a little.
To the world, my little brother was D-Truth, this larger-than-life, menacing rap superstar with chains heavy enough to snap a neck and a scowl that could clear a room. But to me—and to my friends—he was just my little brother.
“I’m grown now. The fuck?” Derek shot back, his tone riding the line between defensive and playful.
“Grown?” Reaper leaned back in his chair, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Boy, we still gotta check your ass for diaper rash. Talkin’ ’bout you getting married.”
The table erupted in laughter, and Derek just shook his head, his gold chain catching the light as he leaned forward.
“Congrats, lil bro,” Bishop said, raising his beer like it was a toast.
“Thanks,” Derek said, his voice carrying a rare pride. I knew he was proud, too—proud to put that big-ass rock on Destiny’s hand, a ring so blinding it could probably blind Juniper on a sunny day. I couldn’t help but feel happy for him, he and Destiny belonged together.
But then Derek froze, his gaze snagging on something—or someone—in the kitchen.
“Oh… what’s up, Angel?” he said, his voice dipping into something smoother, slower, like he’d been caught off guard but was too proud to let it show.
The guys at the table? Dead quiet. They were watching too, reading the room like it was a chessboard, trying to figure out who’d make the next move.
Angel turned from the stove, giving Derek a small smile that was polite, nothing more.
“Hey, Derek,” she said, her voice soft and steady, as calm as ever. If D-Truth standing in my kitchen fazed her, she didn’t let it show. Hell, by now, she was probably used to him—he stopped in or called so often to check on her son that he might as well have been part of her routine. She just turned back to the pan, the hiss and crackle of butter and garlic filling the space between them, like she had more important things to focus on than his superstar swagger.
Most women couldn’t see past my brother’s name, his fame, his shadow. They got so wrapped up in who he was that I might as well have been invisible. But not her.
I caught Derek’s eye and gave him a look—quick, sharp, one that said, we’ll talk later.
Derek just shrugged like it didn’t matter, letting his chain swing as he found an empty chair at the table. He slid into it with that easy confidence he carried everywhere, leaning back like he’d been here a hundred times before.
“Alright,” he said, cracking his knuckles with a grin, “what we playin’? I’m tryna take somebody’s money tonight.”
Bishop, shuffling the deck with a practiced hand, chuckled. “Boy, sit down and get dealt in. We about to school your ass like we used to.”
“You wish,” Derek fired back, leaning forward like he was ready for war.
Clearing my throat, I tried to keep my voice casual, like this was just another night.
“Pop,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen as I led him in further, “you remember Angel. Little Derek’s mom.”
For a second, confusion flickered across his face. Then, like the seasoned man he was, he masked it with a warm smile and walked right up to her, arms open for a hug.
“Angel,” he said, his tone as smooth as ever, “good to see you smiling.”
Angel glanced down, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Good to have something to smile about,” she said softly.
From behind me, DeShawn’s voice came low and slick, just enough to reach my ears. “Bet Ant giving her something to smile about.”
I shot him a glare that said don’t play with me, but Pops didn’t miss a beat. He leaned casually against the counter, his eyes on Angel like he was genuinely curious.
“What you in here cooking up, baby girl?” he asked, his voice warm but commanding in that way only Pops could pull off.
Angel wiped her hands on a dish towel, glancing around the kitchen as if she needed to double-check. “Some wings, sweet potato fries, subs, brownies… just a couple other things.”
Pops nodded, clearly impressed. “A couple things, huh? Smells like a feast in here.”
“She insisted,” I said, scratching the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the guys’ eyes on me again.
“Well,” Pops said, looking back at her with a grin, “these boys are some knuckleheads. Don’t let them give you any grief tonight, alright?”
Angel chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “They’ve been great.”
Pop glanced at me, then back at her, that signature smirk creeping across his face. “Good. ‘Cause it looks like my son got himself a real one.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the room erupted in low chuckles and murmurs, leaving me no choice but to let it ride—for now. Angel blushed, turning away from me, probably not sure how to react to all the attention.
“Meet me out back, Ant,” Pops said, his voice calm but carrying that no-argument tone he’d perfected over the years. He was already heading toward the back door, not even waiting to see if I’d follow.
I hesitated for a second, watching him disappear outside, then let out a slow breath and trailed after him. The cool night air hit me as I stepped onto the porch, sharp and bracing, and the faint sounds of the animals in the pasture hummed in the distance. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing us off from the noise inside.
Pops stood at the railing, arms crossed over his chest, his posture loose but his eyes cutting through the night like headlights. He looked like a man who’d already made up his mind, who just needed to see if I’d catch up.
“Son, what you doing, man?” he asked, his voice low, steady.
“What you mean?” I said, playing dumb even though I felt the weight of the question before it left his mouth.
He gave me a hard look, the kind that said he didn’t have the patience for bullshit tonight.
“You been up at that hospital day and night with this girl for a minute now. From what your brother says, she’s basically living here.” He gestured toward the house, his hand slow and deliberate. “She’s in there cooking for your boys, know that kitchen like the back of her hand, looking every bit like the lady of the house.”
He paused, letting it hang in the air before hitting me with, “Talk to me, Ant. What’s up?”
“I’m just helping a friend out,” I said, my voice tight, trying to keep it even.
Pops shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing like he could see every crack in my words.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your dumb-ass friends—DeShawn specifically,” Pops said, his tone firm but calm, cutting through my weak attempt to dodge. “I’m your father. Be real with me.” He leaned forward, his voice softening just enough to make the question hit harder. “You in love with this girl?”
The words hit me square in the chest, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. I opened my mouth, ready to throw out another deflection, but the words wouldn’t come. I dragged a hand over my face and let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
“I think so,” I said finally, the truth landing heavier than I’d expected.
Pops nodded slowly, like he wasn’t surprised but wanted to let me sit in it for a minute.
“Alright,” he said, his voice calm but carrying that weight only he could pull off. “If that’s the case, then you better make damn sure you’re ready for what comes with that. ‘Cause this ain’t no casual thing you’re stepping into, Ant. This woman’s got a son. One that is fighting for his life. A whole life she’s trying to rebuild. You ready for that? Really ready?”
I looked away, staring out into the dark expanse of the pasture like it might have answers I couldn’t find.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. The weight of his words pressed down on me, heavy and unrelenting. “But I know I want to try.”
Pops studied me for a long moment, his gaze steady, narrowing slightly like he was working through something in his head. Then he clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, his grip solid and grounding.
“Ain’t no ‘try’ about it, son,” Pops said, his voice sharpening, cutting through the cool night air. “Seems to me like you’ve already stepped into the role—you just ain’t owned it yet.”
“I can’t be in love with her though,” I said quickly, the words coming out before I even thought about them. “We’re friends. She’s gotta focus on her son. It’s the right thing to do. The safe thing to do. And I got my own shit I need to clear up.”
Pops leaned back against the railing, arms still crossed, his brow furrowed like he was holding back from rolling his eyes.
“Well, clear that shit up, then,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “Just don’t fool yourself into thinking this is temporary. That girl’s settling in. And from what I see? You don’t look like you’re trying to stop her.”
I couldn’t argue. Because Pops wasn’t just seeing it—he was calling it.
He let out a chuckle, low and full of disbelief. “Friends. That’s what we call it now? That why you damn near put her ex-husband through a wall at the hospital?”
I tensed, my jaw tightening as heat crawled up the back of my neck. “D talks too much.”
“Mmmhmmm,” Pops said, a knowing hum that held more weight than words ever could.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, forcing myself to stay calm. “He was talking to her crazy, Pop. He’s abused her—verbally, mentally, emotionally. I’m not having it. He don’t take care of his son unless she jumps through hoops. I’m not gonna stand by and let that happen to them anymore.” My voice rose slightly before I caught myself. “They need me.”
Pops stared at me for a long moment, his expression softening, his head tilting just slightly, like he’d just pieced together the last part of a puzzle.
“They need you, huh?” he said quietly, his voice almost gentle now. “And what about you, son? What do you need?”
The question hit me harder than I expected, like a punch I didn’t see coming. I didn’t answer right away, just stared out into the darkness of the backyard, the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of crickets filling the silence between us. My hands found the edge of the railing, gripping it like it might steady me.
Finally, I said, “I don’t know.”
Pops nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. Then he reached out, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder, grounding me like only he could.
“Well, you better figure it out,” he said. “’Cause from what I see? If you keep playing it like you’re just her friend, you’re gonna hurt her worse than if you told her the truth.”
His words sat there, heavy and immovable, like they’d been nailed to the air between us. And for once, I didn’t have a comeback. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little bit.
“I need…” I started, the words catching in my throat. I let out a shaky breath, my voice dropping lower. “I need her.”
The confession tumbled out like it had been building inside me for too long, taking up too much space. Saying it out loud made it feel real, and real felt terrifying.
Pops didn’t say anything at first, just smirked, that slow, knowing smile only a father could pull off. He gave my shoulder a squeeze, his grip firm but reassuring.
“Yeah,” he said finally, his tone lighter now, but still steady. “That’s obvious.”
I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding, staring out at the shadows stretching across the backyard. I didn’t feel lighter, not exactly, but I felt… clearer.
Pops let go of my shoulder and leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms again.
“Now that you’ve said it,” he said, his voice calm but pointed, “don’t make her wait too long to hear it.”
We both turned toward the glass door, our reflections barely visible against the glow of the house. Inside, Angel was bringing out the food, her arms balancing trays like she’d been doing this her whole life. She wasn’t rushing, wasn’t flustered. Just moving with that calm, steady grace she always had, like she knew exactly where she belonged.
My friends, my brother—grown-ass men acting like kids at a candy store—were crowding around the counter, snatching up plates like they hadn’t seen a home-cooked meal in years. Their laughter rolled through the house, filling the space with a kind of warmth I hadn’t realized had been missing.
But it wasn’t just the food they were grateful for. It was her.
The way she moved around the kitchen, her smile soft and genuine, like she wasn’t just hosting—like she was home. She looked at each of them like they were family, and somehow, she made them feel like it.
Then, like she felt my eyes on her, Angel glanced up. Her gaze found mine, cutting through the glass like there wasn’t a barrier between us. She smiled—soft, warm, and just for me.
I couldn’t help but smile back, and for a moment, the noise inside faded into the background. Something settled in my gut, heavy but steady, like the answer to a question I hadn’t realized I’d been asking.
“She’s the one for me,” I murmured, more to myself than to Pops.
Beside me, Pops let out a low chuckle. “Took you long enough to figure that out,” he said, his voice steady, the edges laced with that dry humor he always carried. He leaned his elbow on the railing, staring into the house like he was watching the end of a movie he already knew the ending to. “Your brother came home, put it all on the line to get his woman back. Might as well get yours too.”
I kept my eyes on Angel, the way she laughed at something Bishop said, swatting his hand when he tried to grab more food before she finished setting the tray down. She shook her head, laughing softly, like she’d known him her whole life.
And in that moment, I could see it—the life we could have. The three of us: me, her, and DJ. It would be even better when he was here. I already knew that from the stories she’d told me about him, how her face would light up every time she mentioned his confidence and charm. I knew it from what my brother said after meeting him, about how the kid carried himself like he was already knew he was somebody. I remembered watching across the park, seeing him perform for my brother, standing tall and sure, like he’d never doubted himself a day in his life.
And I knew it because he came from Angel. And she was everything.
Pops’ voice cut through my thoughts like a knife, low and steady, the way only he could make it. “You always here for everybody else, Ant. Always. It’s nice seeing somebody take care of you for a change even with a gesture like cooking for your loved ones.” He let that hang in the air for a second before he added, sharper this time, “No more pussyfootin’ around. Tell her what time it is.”
The weight of his words hit me square in the chest, but I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I just kept my eyes on her, my heart hammering harder than it should’ve been.
Because deep down, I knew he was right.
It was time to make Angel mine.
I hope chapter 11 and 12 come soon! Nice to read over the weekend.
Angel is the beginning had me cheesing and laughing! Then Ant saying he loved her half-sleep, not to forget her fighting his morning wood. “I screamed Jheanelle stop it!” 😂😂
Ant’s scene I the end was perfect! I’m so glad Pops came to pull his card like only a father can. The guys had been teasing and calling him out but Pops made him realize it! I can’t wait to see how their story unfolds.
Also is the sh*t does he need to clear up? Is it related to those calls he’s ignoring? 👀