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ALLURE

I couldn’t stop thinking about how our bodies connected last night.

Not just the sex, but the power of it. The intimacy. The way his eyes stayed locked on mine like I was the only woman who had ever mattered. The only one who ever would.

That night didn’t just change our rhythm. It shifted something tectonic in me.

I was still humming with it, legs loose, lips swollen, body warm in places I didn’t know could carry heat for this long. The way he’d whispered mine while buried inside me... I felt claimed. Not owned. Just wanted. Chosen. And that was a drug I hadn’t known I needed until now.

So I poured all of it into my work.

The studio he built felt like my sanctuary. I played around with the sewing machine. And I eyed the way the fabric draped across the mannequin like it was molding itself to my vision. I hadn’t felt this alive, this creatively charged, in years. Maybe ever.

I was sketching something new, bold shoulders, cinched waist, hand-painted silk, when my phone buzzed on the table.

Riot: Taking my moms to Saint Michael’s. She isn’t feeling good.

My chest went tight.

I stared at the message, reading between the words. Riot didn’t say much unless it mattered. And this mattered.

His mother was sick.

Despite how she looked at me like I didn’t belong, like I was an uninvited guest in her son's life, I felt a tug. The woman hated me and I had done nothing to her. She was his blood. His mother. And if something was wrong with her, I needed to be by his side. Period.

I didn’t even respond. I just moved.

Threw on jeans, slipped into my Nike Blazers, didn’t bother with makeup or earrings. This wasn’t about looking cute. This was about showing up.

By the time I made it to the hospital, my mind was racing. What if it was serious? What if it was something they couldn’t fix? Riot was strong—built like a fortress—but he was human. He’d already lost too much. I couldn’t let him face more pain alone.

The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed overhead. A flat gray afternoon filtered through the windows, casting everything in a sickly hue. But I saw him right away.

Head down. Shoulders hunched. Hands clasped like he was holding something in. Or holding himself together.

Creed stood nearby, his usual stoicism dialed to max. And beside him, a tall, elegant woman with a blonde bob, I immediately recognized—Sloane. Riot had told me all about his brother had found true love and that I would be his date to their upcoming wedding.

I walked over fast, feet quiet on the tile.

Riot looked up and everything in his face softened. That was all the permission I needed. I slid into the seat next to him and placed a hand on his knee.

“You came,” he said, his voice a little rough.

“Of course I did.”

His leg bounced under my hand. He was holding something back. Riot never showed nerves. But right now, it was all over him—in the tight line of his jaw, the wildness in his eyes.

“She was acting out this morning. Saying wild shit… that people were trying to kill her. Talking about the past.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “She was spiraling. But then… I hugged her.”

He looked at me, and I saw it. The moment he’d decided something wasn’t right.

“I smelled it.”

That stopped me.

“Smelled what?” I asked, my voice low.

“Cancer.” He said it flat, no hesitation. “It’s in her. Lungs maybe. Could be her brain. I don’t know. But I know what death smells like, and it’s all over her.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“I told her we were coming here, and she begged me not to. Said no more doctors. But fuck that. I’m not losing her on some technicality. I had to pay the doctor off just to get them to run real tests right away. They were trying to brush her off like she was just old and tired.”

Sloane stepped forward. Her voice was smooth as silk, but her eyes were sharp. “They’re running a full panel now. MRI. PET scan. Bloodwork. Everything.”

“I pulled some strings,” she added, glancing at Riot. “And if they find anything, she’s staying here.”

I squeezed Riot’s hand. “You did the right thing.”

His face twitched, like he was trying not to feel anything, but the way his fingers curled around mine told me more than he ever would out loud.

“I’m not ready to lose her,” he said finally, barely above a whisper.

“I know,” I whispered back.

He stood suddenly, looking at Creed. “Let’s go talk. We got too much shit coming up to let this fall apart.”

Creed nodded and followed him down the hall.

I stayed back with Sloane, who gave me a look that was part curiosity, part approval.

“You’re Allure, right?”

I nodded. “And you’re Sloane.”

She offered a small smile. “Nice to finally meet you. He talks about you.”

That caught me off guard. “He does?”

“All the time.”

I looked down the hall where Riot had disappeared and felt my heart catch.

He talked about me.

And here I was, showing up for him, hoping it was enough.

Sloane sat down beside me, crossing her legs with a grace that felt practiced. There was something comforting about her presence, steady, elegant, like she’d seen the worst life could throw and still chose softness.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she said gently. “He’s not the easiest man to comfort.”

“I’m not leaving,” I replied, firm. “He’s been there for me in ways no one else has.”

She studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Good. He needs someone who sees him.”

I turned to her, surprised by the way her words wrapped around something so raw inside me. “You know Riot well?”

Sloane gave a half-smile. “Well enough. Riot and Creed are very much alike. Though Riot carries more on him than Creed.”

“Not sure if Riot told you that I’m a therapist,” she said. “Licensed in three states. I specialize in trauma.

Something hit me. I knew why she was telling me. If Riot talked about me then he told her how we met.

I blinked at her, unsure of how to respond. “You knew about me?”

“I did,” she said gently. “Creed told me the basics after Riot brought you home. I didn’t push for more. Your story is your story. If you ever want to talk about it I’m here.”

“I don’t really know what to say,” I murmured. “Half the time, I don’t even know how I’m functioning. It’s like… part of me is still there. In that house. I’ve come so far though.”

Sloane nodded with a softness that felt earned. “That’s because trauma doesn’t leave the body just because the body leaves the trauma. You survived. That’s step one. But now your nervous system is trying to figure out what safety even means.”

I looked at her again, taking in what she said. Like maybe she could see the parts of me I’d been hiding behind my hunger to move forward. My need to create. My obsession with distracting myself from what I hadn't healed yet.

She didn’t pity me. She didn’t talk to me like I was fragile.

“If you ever want to talk,” she continued, “my office is in Harlem. I also do sessions virtually, if that’s easier.

There’s no pressure. But I want you to have a space where you’re not just surviving.

I know Riot feels like your savior but if you want to feel safe no matter what I can help you.

You can to learn how to exist fully. Safely. In your body again.”

My throat tightened.

I hadn’t even realized how much I’d been floating. Like I’d gotten used to living halfway out of myself just to stay sane. Even with Riot. Even with all the progress. There was still a piece of me I hadn’t reclaimed.

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. “I’ve… never had a therapist. Never even talked to anyone about what happened. Not really.”

“You will,” Sloane said with certainty, not hope. “When you’re ready.”

We sat in silence for a few moments after that, two women bound by different pains, but connected all the same.

I liked her. Not just because she was kind, but because she was the kind of woman who fought for softness in a world that tried to make us hard.

And something told me that when the time came, I’d take her up on her offer.

Eventually Creed and Riot came back to sit with us.

The doctor reappeared a few minutes later. Tall. White coat. Eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in a while.

He cleared his throat and looked between us. “We’re going to admit Ms. King for observation while we wait on the full scan results.”

My spine straightened. “Observation?”

“Some of her vitals are concerning. Her oxygen saturation was low when she first came in. Bloodwork showed elevated tumor markers. CA 125, CEA, and LDH are all out of range. That’s not conclusive on its own, but… it paints a picture.”

Sloane stood next to me. “What kind of picture?”

The doctor shifted, like he was used to bad news and didn’t want to deliver it again. “We can’t confirm until the PET scan and MRI come back, but sir, you may be right. Based on her symptoms, labwork, and presentation, we’re looking at something systemic. Possibly advanced.”

Riot swallowed hard. “Lung?”

The doctor nodded slowly, his gaze settling on Riot. “That’s our leading suspicion. The coughing, shortness of breath, memory issues, even the paranoia… all consistent with advanced-stage lung cancer. But it may not be localized. Until imaging comes back, we won’t know if it’s spread.”

Creed shifted beside Riot, his arms crossed tight. “How long until we know?”

“We expedited everything. Should have a full report within the next 48 hours.” The doctor glanced at Sloane, then back to Riot.

“But I’d prepare yourselves. Even if it hasn’t metastasized, it’s aggressive.

Her markers are high. Treatment’s possible.

She’ll need chemo, radiation, but she’d need to be onboard. ”

“She won’t be,” Riot said flatly, jaw clenched. “She don’t trust no one with a white coat.”

The doctor hesitated. “Then we’ll have to discuss other options. Palliative care. Maybe clinical trials. But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now, she’s stable and resting comfortably. We’ll monitor her and keep you updated.”

He gave a tight nod and turned to leave, coat billowing behind him.

Silence followed.

Creed was the first to speak. “You were right.”

Riot didn’t respond. Just stood there, staring past the wall like he was watching something only he could see. Maybe it was the past. Maybe it was the future. Either way, he looked like he wanted to fight something he couldn’t punch.

Sloane placed a hand on Creed’s shoulder and murmured something I couldn’t hear. He nodded, then rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his brother.

“You good?” Creed asked.

Riot didn’t look away from the wall. “Nah.”

Creed didn’t push. Just stood there with him, a quiet wall of support.

I slipped my hand into Riot’s. He didn’t flinch. Just looked down, eyes glassy but sharp.

“I’m here,” I said softly. “Whatever you need.”

His grip tightened around mine, then he exhaled through his nose like he was letting something dark out with it.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

And when I nodded, he didn’t let go.