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She rubbed her thumb over her knuckle where Malik had kissed her hand that one night like she was his most valued prayer.

She still hadn’t washed off that feeling.

“Aku,” Noodle said, watching her closely now, “don’t let your ambition drown your softness.”

Aku looked over. “What you mean?”

“You got this big ass life. Lights, cameras, clients, racks full of proof you made it. But baby…if you gon’ keep loving men like Malik—and I mean the real kind, not the polished package—then you gotta let your soft live too.”

Her throat tightened. “I just don’t wanna make myself small to fit into somebody’s trauma.”

“You don’t gotta shrink,” Noodle said, standing to pick through a shoe bin. “Just gotta stretch your patience. That’s what I did with Bu. He ain’t meet me at the altar with emotional intelligence. That shit came after the hard conversations, the ego bruises.”

Aku swallowed hard and whispered, “What if he don’t ever show up the way I need him to?”

Noodle turned and looked her dead in the eyes. “Then you keep being whole. You ain’t made from pieces no more.”

That hit different.

Niah, sensing the heaviness in the air, rolled the clothing rack back toward the window and lit one of the “We Ain’t Begging” affirmation candles from the shelf. The scent of amber and cedarwood filled the room with intention.

Aku stood up slowly, running her hands across one of the garment bags.

She didn’t say anything right away, just focused on adjusting tags, rearranging the shoes, fluffing the sleeves on a Marc Jacobs trench like it hadn’t just reminded her of Malik’s hoodie—the one she swore still smelled like weed and cologne.

“I love this shit,” she finally said. “Like, really love it. The styling. The rush. The transformations. I love watching women see themselves in the mirror and smile like they just discovered a new power. I love picking out textures and imagining stories behind the fabric. I love the mess. I love the motion. I love the work. ”

She turned to Niah and Noodle, chest rising. “And it scares me…’cause I’ve worked so hard to build a life that feels like mine—not the one handed to me by my parents. But when I love people, I do it with my whole chest. I don’t know how to be soft in halves.”

Noodle smiled, her voice low but solid. “Then stop tryin’ to be less of you to make him more of him.”

Niah clapped softly. “Bars.”

Aku cracked a faint smile. She dropped her hands to her side and sat back down on the couch. “Y’all gon’ make me cry in this damn Fenty bronzer.”

Noodle walked over and hugged her from the side, head on her shoulder. “Cry in it. We still taking pics for the gram later. Tears hit different in highlighter.”

The three of them laughed.

Then came the call. It was French again, he had too much on his mind to let it all just sit there.

As soon as Aku answered the phone, French was back on his bullshit. “I really don’t like that nigga.”

She sighed. “You just told me that.”

French had a theory—a logic that supported why he didn’t like Malik when he’d just learned his name.

“I know a wounded man when I see one. That nigga been carrying somethin’ for a long time.

I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. He looked like he made peace with being hurt and now he tryna hand that pain to my baby like a souvenir. ”

“I’m grown, Daddy.”

“And I’m still your Daddy. I got every right to be watchin’ from a distance with my hand on the button. Don’t make me fly out there.”

“Don’t make me block you ‘cause this is gettin’ out of hand, French.

” Aku loved him, but he needed to read her mood and understand her heart couldn’t handle the weight of his negative words.

She knew the only way to calm her Daddy down was to get her Mama involved.

Pulling the phone from her face, she sent Solar a text.

“You gon’ block your own Daddy over some hood nigga that’s a little smart with soft eyes?”

Aku blinked, holding her laughter in. “Soft what?”

“His eyes. They soft. That’s what makes him dangerous. I seen it before. That kind of man makes you think you the only one who ever touched the tender part of him. Then he fuck around and disappear ‘cause he scared of what you waking up inside him.”

“French!” Solar’s voice exploded through the phone.

“Aku, you called yo’ Mama on me?” French was shocked.

Snickering, but hurt on the inside Aku said, “Yup! Get him Mama cause he’s doing too much.”

Solar was still fussing which made French finally hang up the phone. Aku knew it wouldn’t be long before he was calling her back, still trying to rationalize why Malik wasn’t the one for her, even though she felt him in her chest.

She just stared at the phone like French had reached in and pulled something out her chest.

Noodle tilted her head. “He ain’t all wrong.”

“I hate y’all,” Aku muttered.

“I love us,” Niah countered, raising her smoothie like a glass of champagne.

They all tapped invisible drinks.

And Aku—heart cracked open, hands still busy, mind still buzzing—felt that familiar tug inside her again.

The kind of pull you only get when your soul’s still standing at somebody’s door, even after your feet walked away.

“Hey…” Noodle cuddled with Aku on the couch. Noodle could tell this was really hurting Aku because her fun and bright spirit wasn’t there. “This don’t feel like Devin.”

With tears in her eyes, Aku hugged Noodle tight. “It’s not, Noodle. I love him,” she cried.

Malik sat back on the couch with a rib brace digging into his side and a blanket draped across his lap.

His face was healing, bruises had faded, cuts still red but scabbing up nice.

The pain was still there, but it had settled into a quiet hum - the kind that curled around his ribs at night like a bitter secret.

His Mama had cleaned the house top to bottom and left gospel playing in the kitchen like it could baptize the walls and her son.

There was a double knock on the screen before it was pulled open.

Quesha came in first, holding the door open like she had somewhere else to be. “He wanted to see you,” she said, barely looking at Malik. “He been askin’.”

Slowly, Pharoah rolled in behind her - chin high, posture proud like his chair was a throne and not a reminder.

His wheelchair glided smoothly across the tile ‘cause it knew the terrain. He looked good—skin rich, face clean, eyes steady with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like life hadn’t defeated him, just taught him a different way to win.

Malik almost smiled, seeing him. “Y’all good?” he asked, sitting up with a grunt.

Pharoah nodded, already reaching for the vape hanging from his neck.

Quesha kissed her teeth and walked out toward the porch. She ain’t slam the screen door, but the air changed when she left.

Pharoah took a pull and exhaled slow. “You…look like shit,” he muttered, voice slurred but clear enough for Malik to catch.

Malik let out a breathy laugh. “You always know how to ease a nigga into comfort.”

“Gotta keep you humble,” Pharoah said, eyes flickering with amusement. “Be…sides… I ain’t seen a… nigga look that beat up since I tried to fight James over a phone charger in ninth grade.”

Malik smirked. “That nigga bit you, bro.”

“Still got the scar,” Pharoah nodded like it was war-earned. “Ain’t no love in Crescent over electronics.”

They both chuckled lightly, but it died quick.

“Still got that Crescent air ‘round you,” Pharoah said, serious now. “Still think you gotta fight to keep breathin’.”

Malik leaned his head back against the cushion. “Ain’t that the only way?”

“No.” Pharoah shook his head gently. “It’s the only…way if you wanna die fast.”

Outside, the wind rustled the plastic covering Granny had wrapped around her porch plants. One of them knocked against the screen like even the vines were tired of watching them self-destruct.

Malik rubbed his hands together like he could warm his spirit through friction. “I ain’t mean for it to happen like this,” he said, voice low. “I wasn’t even there ten minutes before they jumped me. It wasn’t even for me…it was history. Shit from years ago that they never let go.”

Pharoah’s head tilted. “You tired, huh?”

“Hell yea.”

“You ready to do shit different?” Pharoah puffed his vape again. He preferred holistic pain meds over the ones the doctors prescribed him.

Malik didn’t answer. Just let the question sit in the air.

Pharoah shifted, turning in his chair just enough to square up with him. That look in his eye was solid—like he was holding something heavy, but sacred.

“Look at me, Malik,” he said. “I can’t walk…can’t run…can’t slide for nobody no more. My days of spinnin’ the block been over since I took them bullets tryna protect what ain’t even mine no more.”

Malik’s throat tightened, eyes glossing over.

He thought about that night, more than he admitted. The sounds…the screams…the silence afterward…the blood. How it should’ve been him. How it felt like he stole a life he hadn’t even earned.

“But you?” Pharoah went on. “You got all your limbs. You got a brain that makes the hood feel like Wakanda when you talk about it right. You got a woman who’d go to war behind your name, and a city still tryna figure out how you didn’t die last week.”

He took another pull from his vape, exhaled slow. “So be my legs.”

Malik blinked, his tears falling down his face.

Pharoah nodded again, firmer. “Live for me. Get the love. Get the money. Be a fuckin’ king.” He stopped to catch his breath, eyes still locked on Malik. “Don’t let what happened to us be the blueprint. We ain’t meant to die martyrs—we meant to live like legends.”

That silence between them wasn’t awkward and sad.

It was sacred.

A brotherhood.

It was love.

Malik wiped his eyes fast like he could pretend it was nothing. “You always gotta get spiritual on a nigga,” he mumbled.

“I’m spiritual now, huh?” Pharoah smirked. “Nigga, I been spiritual since they took the use of my legs. I meditate every time I gotta pee.”