Page 8 of Rose

It took damn near pulling teeth—and Ahzii cussing them both out while half-drugged in a hospital bed after surgery—for them to stop dancing around each other. Now, they were in love. Really in love. And Ahzii loved that for them.

Her love story might’ve died in the flames, but it made her heart a little lighter knowing her best friend and her twin finally found the kind of happiness she once had.

“Failed, huh?” Kyre teased, glancing at A’Mazi.

“Hell yeah. You know her ass stubborn, Sweet,” he replied, chuckling as Ahzii shot them both a look.

“I thought he could convince you to take the day off,” Kyre said, her tone light but knowing.

“Wrong candidate,” Ahzii muttered, her voice dry, making them both laugh softly.

They caught it—the hint of her old self, buried under the ash. She didn’t smile much, didn’t laugh much anymore, but every now and then the sarcasm slipped through. A little reminder she was still in there somewhere, fighting.

“How was the hearing?” A’Mazi asked, passing the blunt back to Ahzii.

She took it without a word, inhaling slow.

Kyre rolled her eyes, leaning back. “Long as hell. I’m just glad it’s over. Got the charges dropped.”

A’Mazi smiled, pride clear in his voice. “That’s my girl.”

She smiled softly, leaning into his shoulder as he kissed her temple.

Ahzii watched them, her heart aching in a way she couldn’t explain. But still, she smiled for Kyre. She knew how much this case weighed on her best friend .

A 19-year-old boy who shot and killed his mother’s abuser. He was facing 25 to life for protecting her. Kyre couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t.

And she didn’t.

“Congrats, Ky,” Ahzii said, her voice low but genuine, letting the smoke drift from her lips as she glanced at the time.

Her next client was waiting.

“You ready for lunch?” A’Mazi asked, already standing and stretching.

“Yeah...” Kyre nodded, remembering why she even stopped by in the first place. “Ahzii, you want to come? You need to eat something.”

“I’m good. Kiyan’s bringing me something before his appointment.”

Ahzii spoke flatly, already turning on the purifier to clear the smoke from the air and lighting a candle to drown out the smell.

A’Mazi frowned, giving her a look that could cut glass.

“You still fucking with that clown-ass nigga?”

“That three-hundred-million-dollar clown-ass nigga?” she replied dryly, not missing a beat. “Yes.”

Kyre laughed, shaking her head because even in pain, Ahzii’s delivery was undefeated. Part joke, part truth. Kiyan played for the Miami Legends and was worth more than most could dream of—but none of that mattered to her.

He was a distraction. A body. A fleeting, temporary fix for the emptiness that never left.

“Period, friend.” Kyre hyped, holding her hand out for a slap.

Ahzii gave her a small laugh and hit her palm, the sound soft in the thick air.

“You gon’ get that nigga killed, Shug,” A’Mazi muttered, rubbing his temple, forever the overprotective big brother—even if he was only older by five minutes.

Ahzii rolled her eyes. “Won’t be the first time.”

Her voice was quiet, her chuckle dry, but the words stopped them both cold.

Kyre and A’Mazi froze, exchanging a look.

They were used to her bluntness, but this... this was different.

She was talking about William.

And saying it like it was just another joke.

“Dark humor, sheesh,” Ahzii said, waving off the silence, her tone light but empty underneath. “Y’all complain when a bitch don’t joke, now I do and you looking at me crazy. It’s my trauma—I can joke about it.”

They shook their heads, not arguing, but it stung all the same.

Dark humor wasn’t new for Ahzii. But it hit different now.

Real different.

A’Mazi and Kyre hugged her goodbye before heading out for their lunch date, leaving the room a little quieter, a little colder.

A few minutes later, her second client walked in, breaking the brief silence.

Ahzii wiped her hands on a fresh towel, resetting her focus like flipping a switch.

She knew she’d be in this shop all day, working through tattoos and piercings back-to-back. The Rose Day deal always packed her schedule, but today she welcomed the energy .

The steady hum of the tattoo gun, the stories her clients shared, the art she left on their skin—it was the only thing that helped her outrun the memories still clawing at her chest.

For a few hours, this was enough to keep the trauma buried.

At least until the shop closed and the silence came crawling back.

???

After hours of tattooing, wiping down stations, and taking walk-ins back-to-back, the sun began to dip behind the Miami skyline when Kiyan finally stepped into her tattoo room, a takeout bag of Chinese food swinging from his hand.

He was her last appointment of the day, and thankfully so. She was beyond drained, both from the work and from holding herself together.

Kiyan filled the doorway in a black Nike Tech and black Forces, muscles flexing beneath his hoodie, tattoos peeking out from his sleeves—a walking billboard of the work she’d done.

Tall drink of trouble at 6'5", starting point guard for the Miami Legends, three-hundred-million-dollar contract, fame, clout, status—the whole package. Women fell at his feet without him saying a word.

But not Ahzii.

They met when Kyre dragged her out to a club one night, trying to pull her out of the darkness. She’d been numb, floating somewhere between grief and Hennessy, just trying to feel something . Kiyan had been charming, cocky, and when he offered her a night to forget, she let him.

He ate her like it was his last meal, stretched across his California king, and she was gone before the sheets cooled.

She figured that was it. One night. No strings. But a week later, he walked into The Escape Room for a tattoo. Neither of them expected it.

He didn’t know the woman who left his bed without a word was the same one behind the ink gun. But once he did, he didn’t let up.

Still, Ahzii never let him get close. She called when she wanted, and that was it. Nothing more.

Kiyan didn’t mind. He wanted her in whatever way she allowed. But what he didn’t know—what she’d never let him see—was that the woman he craved was still broken beyond repair.

“Hey, Gorgeous.” His voice cut through the hum of the purifier and the soft crackle of her candle.

She stood from the couch, greeting him with a brief hug, the smell of the food already filling the room.

“Wassup.”

“I brought you this. Figured your stubborn ass ain’t ate all day.”

He smirked, and she gave a small nod, finally working up an appetite after hours of pushing herself past empty.

“Thanks.” Her voice came soft, quiet, but real .

They settled on the couch, shoulders brushing as they opened the takeout boxes, the scent of sesame chicken and fried rice pushing back the heaviness of the day for just a moment.

And in that quiet space, between bites and unspoken truths, she allowed herself to feel something close to normal.

Even if it was temporary.

After they finished eating, Ahzii got back to work, wiping her hands and pulling on fresh gloves. She powered up the tattoo gun and adjusted the light above him as Kiyan laid back in the chair, chest bare, skin already mapped with the outlines she started weeks ago.

She was reworking the chest piece they’d barely made progress on last week, her hands steady as the needle danced across his skin.

Basketball practice, travel, endorsements—life in the limelight made it hard to lock him down for sessions, but today he was here. Quiet. Still.

Halfway through the tattoo, when the hum of the gun became the only sound between them, Kiyan’s eyes drifted upward.

He noticed it then.

The rose blooming at the side of her neck. Beautiful and bold—but not enough to hide what rested beneath.

A faint scar. Healed, but still there.

He didn’t think, just reached up and brushed his fingers gently across it.

“What happened right here?” he asked, voice low, hesitant but curious.

She froze. Snapped away from his touch like it burned.

“Nothing, damn.”

Her tone came too sharp, too fast, slicing through the room harder than the tattoo gun ever could.

Kiyan held his hands up, backing off.

“My bad. Didn’t mean to—”

“You straight,” she cut in, softer now, forcing herself to pull it back. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

The air between them settled, tense but quiet.

Kiyan gave a small nod, lips pressed tight. He didn’t push. But the look in his eyes stayed—watchful, wondering. He studied her for a moment longer, the silence stretching between them like a question left hanging.

But Ahzii kept her eyes on the needle, steady and focused, drowning herself in the buzz of the machine.

He didn’t know her. Not really.

All he saw was the beauty. The mystery. The woman who moved like art and poetry and heartbreak all at once. But what he didn’t know was that scar was one of many. And each one whispered the story of the love she lost in fire and smoke, in screams and silence.

He didn’t know. And she wasn’t about to tell him.

Silence stretched between them as Ahzii focused on finishing the tattoo. Her hands moved with muscle memory—precise, steady, detached. She wasn’t here. Not fully .

Once she laid the final wipe across his skin, she applied the aftercare with practiced ease, then grabbed her phone to snap a few photos and videos for her portfolio. Clean work, sharp lines, another masterpiece left behind.

Kiyan watched her. Quiet admiration in his eyes, but he didn’t say a word.

She didn’t meet his gaze, just started cleaning her chair, resetting for whoever came next—except today, there was no one else.

“You can leave now. You know to pay Taylor at the front.”

Her voice was flat, professional, distant. She looked up briefly, then went back to wiping down the counter.

Kiyan stayed where he was, brows drawing in slightly.

“You seem off today. You good?”

His voice was softer this time. No flirt, no charm. Just concern.

He wasn’t wrong.

He saw it in the way she zoned out mid-ink, the way her eyes shimmered with tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“I’m fine. Just tired. So I’d appreciate if you left so I can lock up and go home.”

The calm in her voice barely masked the exhaustion, the razor-thin restraint beneath it.

But Kiyan didn’t move. He stepped a little closer, his voice low, smooth.

“Come home with me. Let me make you feel better.”

Her mug was instant, sharp enough to cut.

He laughed softly, not surprised, but when she didn’t respond, when the silence stretched too long, something hopeful sparked in his chest.

She thought about it.

She hadn’t touched release in weeks. Hadn’t felt anything but grief and guilt and silence pressing in on her chest.

After today—the gravesite, the tears, the memories clawing at her ribs—she didn’t want to feel pain. She wanted to be consumed.

“First off—eww. You don’t hold that much power.”

Flat. Dry. But it wasn’t a no.

Kiyan smirked, tilting his head.

“Then let me try.”

She rolled her eyes, exhaling like she hated herself for even considering it.

“I’ll be there later. I need to lock up and go home to change.”

Kiyan grinned like she’d handed him the world.

“Front door’ll be unlocked.”

She paused, cutting him a side-eye.

“Your baby mama done with the pop-ups?”

The last time she walked out his place, drama was waiting in the driveway. His baby mama, mid-meltdown, kid in tow, ready to set the whole street on fire.

“I handled that,” Kiyan said quickly, grabbing his keys with a little too much confidence.

“You got one hour.”

She didn’t even look at him when she said it.

That was all he was getting.

Kiyan nodded, knowing better than to ask for more .

Whatever softness Ahzii used to have was gone.

All that was left was what she let him see.

Once he was gone, she finally breathed. It wasn’t relief, just space—just a pause from the weight pressing against her chest all day.

She moved through the room finishing her clean-up routine, wiping down surfaces, straightening her tools, moving like muscle memory carried her instead of choice.

In the quiet, her thoughts crept in. She wasn’t a wife anymore.

She wasn’t a mother. And on most days, she didn’t even feel like Ahzii Rose.

But she was alive. And for now, that was all she had.

She locked up the Rose Room, gave Taylor a nod without saying much, and walked out into the night like it was any other. She went home first to change and check on Ace. Then she got on her bike and drove across the city to Kiyan’s place, chasing the release she’d been craving all day.

Not comfort. Not love. Just escape.