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Krys had always been an observer. She noticed details, read between the lines, picked up on things people thought they were hiding. And right now, she was noticing Kenyatta.

Not just the way he carried himself, always smooth, always unbothered, always two steps ahead. Not just the way he made himself at home in her world, as if he had belonged in it all along. But it was the way he moved. Who he let in; who he didn’t.

She had a good grasp of who he was and wasn’t in the streets, but she wanted to know more than that. Who was Kenyatta when nobody was watching?

She didn’t even think twice before sending the text.

[Krys] 6:02PM— You free for lunch tomorrow?

[Kenyatta] 6:07PM— Oh, we doing lunch dates now?

[Krys] 6:09PM— I’m trying to feed your hungry ass. Just say yes or no.

[Kenyatta] 6:10PM— Ight, damn. What’s the occasion?

[Krys] 6:13PM— Do I need one?

[Kenyatta] 6:17PM— You ain’t slick, Krys. You up to sumthin.

[Krys] 6:17PM— You scared?

[Kenyatta] 6:20PM— Girl, please. Set it up. I’m there.

She stood barefoot in her bonus room, wrapped in a silk robe, twirling her phone between her fingers as she stared at the screen. The message thread with Kenyatta was still open, the last message sitting there like a challenge she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

Musa, stretched out idly across the floor, lifted his massive head, his dark eyes locked on her like he already knew what was up.

Krys exhaled, shaking her head. “What you looking at me like that for?”

Musa huffed, resting his head back down on his paws, his massive chest rising and falling with a slow sigh.

Krys smiled lazily, stepping closer, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. “You judging me? Hmm?”

Musa’s tail thumped against the floor, but he didn’t move, still watching her like she was making this too complicated.

Krys exhaled, moving to the sleek black sectional and curling her legs underneath her. “I know, I know…” she muttered, tilting her head as she rubbed her fingers over her temple. “I don’t even know why I’m overthinking this. It’s just lunch.”

Musa yawned dramatically.

Krys side-eyed him. “Oh, now you got an opinion?”

Musa let out a low grunt, rolling onto his side, completely unbothered.

Krys shook her head, staring back down at her phone. “See, that’s the thing though. It ain’t just lunch,” she admitted. Her voice was quieter now, more to herself than to him. “Not with him.”

She didn’t like this. The way Kenyatta lingered in her thoughts. The way she found herself replaying moments, his voice, his smirk, the way he had looked at her the other night, like he already knew what she was fighting.

And then there was Kaliyah. That little girl had softened her in a way that nobody ever had. It had come from left field. Krysta ? Liking kids for real?

Krys let out a dry laugh, leaning her head back against the couch. “This some bullshit.”

Musa lifted his head again, sniffing the air, then lazily blinked at her.

She groaned, rubbing her hands down her face. “A rich, bad bitch like me, losing sleep over some ex-street nigga. Can you believe that?”

Musa grumbled and stretched, his paws sliding against the floor.

Krys exhaled, rubbing his broad head as she continued. “I don’t do this, Musa. I don’t chase niggas, I don’t wonder about them. I don’t make space for them. But Mr. Hayes?” She chewed the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. “He’s making me think about shit I shouldn’t be thinking about.”

Musa flicked his ears, watching her carefully.

Krys rolled her eyes, sitting up. “Okay, you know what? I’m done talking to you. You’re just gon’ sit there acting like you got all the answers, huh?”

Musa yawned again, this time stretching out his whole body, then let out a deep, unimpressed sigh.

Krys half-chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you loud and clear. I’m tripping.”

She picked up her phone again, staring at Kenyatta’s last message.

He said he’d be there, and she couldn’t wait.

**********

Rosario’s was one of those old-money spots in Midtown. Classic, upscale, but not stuffy. It was the kind of place where power deals were made over plates of handmade pasta, where the owners knew the regulars by name, and the servers had been there for years.

The restaurant sat on a corner lot, nestled between a boutique cigar lounge and a high-end wine bar, the sidewalk buzzing with corporate professionals and socialites. Black luxury sedans and foreign whips lined the valet queue.

Inside, the space was warm but refined; exposed brick, dim golden lighting, polished wooden floors. A long marble bar stretched along one side, lined with dark leather stools, and the open kitchen in the back let the scent of garlic, wine, and fresh basil swirl through the air.

Krys had made a reservation, so they were immediately seated at a table near the window, the view showcasing Midtown’s sleek skyline.

Kenyatta took his seat across from her, leaning back, looking entirely too relaxed for someone she was about to interrogate.

“Damn,” he smiled knowingly, glancing around. “Ain’t even been on payroll for a full month and you already treating me to luxury meals?”

Krys rolled her eyes, setting her quilted Dior purse on the chair beside her. “Don’t get carried away. This ain’t a date.”

Kenyatta tilted his head. “Mmhmm. You keep saying that.”

A waiter appeared before Krys could respond, handing them menus and pouring chilled water into their glasses.

“Welcome to Rosario’s,” the older gentleman greeted with a polite smile. “Can I start you both off with some wine today?”

Krys barely glanced at the menu. “I’ll take the Chianti.”

Kenyatta smirked at her choice, then looked at the waiter. “Water’s good for me.”

Krys lifted a brow. “No wine?”

“Nah. I need to be sharp for this lil’ interrogation you about to hit me with.”

Krys shook her head, amused.

The waiter gave a knowing smile. “Very well. And for food?”

Krys didn’t hesitate. “The lobster ravioli.”

Kenyatta glanced at her, then back at the menu. “The rigatoni alla vodka. And add chicken.”

The waiter nodded before disappearing.

Krys took a slow sip of her water, eyes narrowing slightly. “So. How many people tried to tell you to get back in the game since you got out?”

Kenyatta’s lips curled into a slow teasing grin. “Damn. You ain’t waste no time.”

Krys shrugged. “What’s wasting time? We here, aren’t we?”

Kenyatta exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah…a few people.”

“Including Jay-1?”

He gave her a look. “You already know the answer to that.”

Krys hummed. “And you told him no.”

Kenyatta nodded, fingers drumming against the table. “Told a lotta people no.”

“Why?”

Kenyatta studied her for a second, then leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You want the short answer or the long one?”

Krys arched a brow. “Both.”

Kenyatta chuckled, shaking his head. “Short answer? I got a daughter.”

Krys leaned back. “And the long answer?”

He exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table before finally saying, “‘Cause I actually want somethin’ different this time.”

Krys didn’t respond immediately. She just watched him, trying to gauge if that answer was real.

He held her stare, unapologetic, unflinching. It was real.

Their food arrived, the plates steaming, smelling like heaven and money.

Krys twirled a piece of ravioli onto her fork, glancing at him. “And what does ‘different’ look like?”

Kenyatta cut into his rigatoni, lifting his fork. “Something legit. Something I can build. Something that don’t end with me doing another seven years.”

Krys let that sit between them. Then she asked, “You think you can really stay out of it?”

Kenyatta smirked. “You doubt me?”

Krys gave it right back. “I doubt anybody who says they’re done but still got the game’s number saved.”

Kenyatta chuckled, shaking his head. “You ain’t easy.”

“Never claimed to be.”

They ate in silence for a moment, the conversation heavy but not uncomfortable.

She asked, “So, you ever going to tell me why I couldn’t find you on social media?”

Kenyatta stopped mid-reach for another roll. His smirk didn’t drop right away, but it did shift slightly, his mind catching up to where she was trying to take this.

“Damn,” he muttered, leaning back in the booth. “Why you looking up a nigga’s social media?”

Krys raised a brow, setting her glass down. “Yatta. Don’t play dumb.”

He huffed out a chuckle, shaking his head.

“I ain’t got social media,” he said smoothly. “Never been my thing.”

Krys folded her arms, tapping her nails against the table. “Or maybe you just don’t want nobody finding shit on you.”

Kenyatta leaned back in the booth, rolling his tongue across his teeth. He could already see where this was going.

“I mean,” he started, picking up his drink, “I ain’t never been the type to post my every move. Social media just seem like another way for people to be all in my business.”

Krys lifted a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip. “And what I look like posting selfies and ‘ good morning’ quotes? That’s you.”

Krys scoffed. “Boy, please. I ain’t that corny.”

Kenyatta threw a quick jab to shift the conversation. “Oh, my bad. You one of them ‘ Soft life, catching flights not feelings ’ type chicks, huh?”

Krys rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh. “That’s beside the point.”

Kenyatta chuckled, thinking maybe he had successfully dodged the heat.

She pressed on. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Kenyatta chuckled dryly. “Shit, I don’t even know what you do and don’t know at this point.”

Krys tapped her nails against the table.

“Possession with intent. Firearm charges. Pled down, served seven years in the feds,” she recited, voice even. “That’s what I know.”

She tilted her head.

“What I don’t know—” She folded her arms. “Is who the fuck Kenyatta Hayes really is.”

Kenyatta ran his tongue over his teeth, his mind working fast.

She wasn’t asking like some chick who was scared; she wasn’t pressing like she was looking for a reason to walk away. She just wanted the truth. He actually wanted to give it to her.

Kenyatta’s jaw tightened as he stared at the woman across from him.

Krys sat there, all calm and collected, like she had just asked him about the damn weather and not about the worst years of his life.

It kind of rubbed him the wrong way because why did she care? Why did she dig this shit up? Why was she sitting here waiting for him to spill his guts like he owed her that? What did she want?

He exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against the table.

“A’ight,” he muttered, leaning forward slightly. “Let’s flip this real quick.”

Krys blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “You sitting here grilling me like some damn parole officer; so, let me ask you something.”

Krys leaned back, raising a brow. “Go ahead.”

Kenyatta tapped the table, his voice dropping a little lower. “Why do you even care?”

Krys smiled to herself, stretching out the silence before answering.

“That’s the question you wanna ask me?”

Kenyatta folded his arms. “Yeah.”

Krys tilted her head. “You really think I’d be out here faking for fun?”

Kenyatta didn’t answer.

So Krys sighed, shaking her head. “You think I sit down and have lunch with every man I do business with?”

Kenyatta narrowed his eyes.

Krys leaned in, her voice a little softer but still firm. “Listen. I care because whether or not I want to, you’re in my world now. I brought you into my space, my business, my people. That means I need to know who I’m dealing with. The real you. Not just the version you show when it’s convenient.”

Kenyatta let her words settle. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his beard.

“Man…” he muttered, shaking his head. “You somethin’ else, you know that?”

Krys smiled. “Oh, trust me, I know.”

The tension wasn’t gone, but it waned momentarily.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had nowhere to run.

Krys had him cornered; not in a bad way, but in a way that forced him to stop dodging, stop deflecting.

Honestly, he was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of acting like the past didn’t still have its claws in him.

So, finally, he exhaled and said, “A’ight. You wanna know? I’ll tell you.”

Krys didn’t move, didn’t say a word. She just waited. Watched him closely.

For the first time, Kenyatta let the words come out.

“I was sixteen the first time I got caught up,” he muttered, voice low. “Not for anything major. Just some petty shit; boosting, fighting, dumb decisions. That’s how it always starts, though, right?”

Krys said nothing; just listened.

Kenyatta glanced at the table, rubbing a thumb over the wood grain.

“Then I got deeper in. Started hustlin’ for real. Ain’t have no choice, really. Moms was struggling, Pops was in and out. And as for me…” He scoffed. “Shit, a nigga was just good at it. Too good. Thought I was invincible. Thought I was smarter than everybody.”

A pause.

A sharp exhale.

“Then, boom...Caught with weight and a strap. Feds wasn’t playing. Seven years.”

Krys digested that, then, she asked, soft but steady, “You slipped?”

Kenyatta chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Yeah. I did…was a lil’ reckless.”

“And now…?” Her question hung in the air.

He wasn’t sure what she was asking. His brow wrinkled. “Now what?”

“The recklessness?”

He ruminated for a second. “I don’t think that’s me anymore.”

“How so?”

“Prison ain’t change me overnight,” he admitted. “I went in thinking I was gon’ come right back out and get back to it. But time…time do somethin’ to you.”

He finally looked Krys in the eye.

“I lost a lot in there. Friends. Family. Years I can’t get back. And when I came home?” He shook his head. “Shit was different. Everybody moved on, everything changed. And me? I ain’t know where I fit no more. Still don’t.”

Krys leaned forward slightly, her gaze unreadable. “So, what now?” she asked. “What’s next?”

Kenyatta licked his lips, running a hand down his beard. “I’m trying,” he muttered. “Trying to move different. Trying to keep my head down. But…”

Another pause.

“The past don’t really let you go, does it?”

The weight of Kenyatta’s words still hung between them, heavy like thick smoke that refused to clear.

Neither of them spoke immediately. Krys wasn’t rushing to fill the silence. She just let it breathe; like she was letting everything sink in.

Kenyatta wasn’t used to opening up to someone who seemed to take a genuine interest in his internal struggles and who he was as a person. Most people either wanted to judge him, save him, or use him. But with Krys, it felt like she simply was seeing him. For who he was, for who he had been, for who he was trying to be.

“So, when I get to meet your people?” Krys asked, breaking the silence.

Kenyatta’s fork paused midair. “Who said you get to?”

Krys lifted a brow. “So, I bring you into my world, introduce you to my family, and I don’t get the same?”

Kenyatta licked his lips, setting his fork down. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because my world ain’t like yours, Krys.”

Krys exhaled, sitting back. “You think I don’t know that?”

Kenyatta studied her, tapping his fingers against the table again. She was serious. She wanted to know him. His world. His people. This was both intriguing and scary as hell.

Krys took another sip of wine, eyes still locked on his. “You trust me, Yatta?”

Kenyatta tilted his head slightly, a slow smile creeping onto his lips. “Is that the real question you wanted to ask?”

Krys didn’t blink. “Just answer it.”

He leaned back in his seat, watching her, letting the moment stretch.

Then, voice low, smooth, and undeniably real.

“Yeah. I do.”