Page 5 of What the Leos Burned (BLP Signs of Love #6)

Princess was halfway through changing her MySpace layout—new background, new song, Pretty Ricky “Grind On Me” on autoplay—when she noticed a new message sitting in her inbox.

Subject: Yo

That slowed shit down a lot.

Didn’t want you thinkin’ I ain’t care. I just ain’t have no way to reach you.

I miss you tho. Still got that pic of us at the Riverwalk in my wallet.

If you still rock wit me… hit me back.

Her heart dropped.

After all that silence—no calls, no messages, no warning—he just disappeared.

She thought he had ghosted her. She believed maybe she wasn’t good enough or, worse, just one of many.

The memory of waiting around for his name to pop up on her “Online Friends” list came flooding back.

It had been two months, and now here he was, tucked behind a MySpace message like nothing happened.

She debated for a minute on responding. She thought she should make him wait a few days, even weeks, before she replied, just to see how much it hurt. But, after a few moments, her curiosity caught up with her.

From: DaOnlyPrincess_90

Subject: RE: Yo

Locked up? For what??

I thought you just left me hangin’. That kinda messed me up, Zay, I aint gonna hold you.

If you been out, why you just now reaching out?

His response came fast.

Didn’t have a phone. Didn’t have shit.

I finally hit that nigga back.

My stepdad.

I couldn’t take it no more, Prin.

She stopped reading and let it sink in.

She always knew Zay’s life wasn’t easy. He didn’t say much about it, but there were signs: quiet flinches, long silences when she talked about her dad, the way he always looked like he was carrying something heavy, but this felt different. This was deep. She didn’t know how to feel about it yet.

They didn’t message much after that. Just once or twice.

But it was enough to shift something. She didn’t see him right away, but the city’s whisper network was alive, especially when it came to people like Zay.

Her homegirl’s cousin said he’d seen him sleeping on the bus going down Warren Avenue.

Somebody else said he was selling dope with one of his Ether Division boys on the east side.

Turns out he was doing both.

He bounced around and slept on couches and in basements, rotating between his old crew.

Ether Division wasn’t done, but they weren’t popping like before either.

The momentum had died down, when Zay was locked up and the crew started doing different things.

One of them started a hustle moving furniture with his uncle.

Another had a warrant out for selling drugs.

Nevertheless, their lead producer had plugged them into something major—an indie label booking international shows.

Europe. Canada. Japan. It wasn’t a lie. Zay had the MySpace bulletins to prove it.

So they were still together. Just trying to hold on.

When the snow started falling and the buses stopped running, he didn’t want to sleep on a cold floor anymore. Not when he knew where warmth lived.

One night, after a long walk in Timberlands with soaked socks and frozen fingers, he tapped twice on Princess’s bedroom window.

She pulled back the curtain and squinted into the night. She blinked twice until she made out his face. There he stood, mid-knock, hoodie up, and breath that fogged against the cold glass. She slid the lock, pushed the window slowly and stood back as he stepped in.

He looked thinner and tired, but that same softness was still in his eyes when he looked at her as he moved inside. He looked relieved. Like, even after all the mess and time apart, she was still home to him.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered. “It’s two in the morning.”

Zay smirked, breath visible through the cold air. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“In the neighborhood? Zay, you don’t even live over here no more.”

“I had a dream you missed me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Boy, please. What is going on?”

He grinned and stepped aside as she carefully pulled the window down.

She turned around to face him. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his soaked hoodie.

She could see he was almost drenched and tracked snow from his boots onto her carpeted floor.

He noticed her looking him up and down with concern and decided to tell her the truth.

“Alright, alright. Truth is, . . . I had nowhere else to go.”

Her puzzled expression faded, replaced by a softness she didn’t even mean to show.

“You’re wet,” she whispered. “Your clothes—how long have you been walking?”

Zay shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Long enough.”

She walked over to her closet, pulled the doors open, and reached up to grab something from the top shelf.

He watched her from the window for a moment, staring at her curvy figure as she tried to balance herself on her toes.

She was wearing a silky black pajama short set, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off the way they hugged her hips.

When she finally found what she was looking for and turned around, he suddenly dropped his eyes to the floor.

She caught him staring at her. He wasn’t slick.

She just smirked and walked back to him, holding her favorite comforter and a pillow tucked under one arm. She pushed them toward his arms.

“Here. Take these. And take your clothes off.”

He raised a brow but accepted the covers. “Damn, ma. You bold now?”

She rolled her eyes. “Zay. I’m putting them in the washer.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “So you ain’t tryna get me naked for real?”

“Stop playing,” she whispered and shook her head. “Come in, lay over here. Quiet.”

Zay walked toward the edge of her bed like he’d done so before. He looked around the room he hadn’t been in in months, still smelling like cocoa butter and flowers. He stood still for a second, dripping onto her carpeted floor.

She looked at him.

He looked back at her.

Then she said softly, “Lay over there. Opposite the door. Just in case.”

He nodded and placed the comforter and pillow on her bed.

He peeled off his hoodie and jeans, folding them quietly.

He was left in a wife beater and boxers, slim but strong, the kind of frame that said he was used to fighting what life threw at him.

He lay down on the floor and pulled the blanket over him as she scooped up his clothes and trotted out the room.

Downstairs, she moved like a church mouse.

Loaded the washer. Added fabric softener.

She debated on going back to her room and asking him if he was hungry but decided not to risk embarrassing him.

Instead, she pulled out the plate of leftover spaghetti and fried catfish her mama made earlier and warmed it up, stopping the microwave at 0:01 to avoid the beep.

She slowly grabbed a cold grape Faygo out of the fridge, a fork, then tiptoed back to her room.

He was on the floor, curled under the comforter, staring at the ceiling. His body tensed a little when she walked in, and he quickly pulled the blanket higher.

She giggled. “Relax. You ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen in health class.”

“Still,” he muttered. “Gotta protect my modesty.”

She rolled her eyes and handed him the plate and the pop. “Here.”

His eyes widened. “Yo, . . . is this catfish and spaghetti?”

“It’s what we had. I ain’t tryna spoil you.”

Zay took the first bite and melted. “Nah, this . . . this the real deal. You know I ain’t ate since like noon?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and curled one leg underneath her.

“You good?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, mouth full. “Been workin’ on the music heavy. Studio, writing. I know something major about to happen. I feel it.”

She smiled. “I believe it. I see your name everywhere now.”

He looked up at her with something unreadable in his eyes. “For real?”

“Yeah. I’ve been hearing things too . . . Some people said you been selling.”

He paused. His eyes shifted to the floor, then he nodded. “Little bit. Just enough to stay above water.”

“Zay.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I ain’t proud of it. Just temporary. Gotta eat while I’m building this.”

She studied him for a moment, then softly replied. “Just . . . be careful.”

He looked up again, took another bite, and replied with a mouthful. “Awww, . . . you care about me?”

She laughed. “You’re in my room at two a.m., and I just warmed you up some fish and spaghetti. Take a wild guess.”

He laughed too.

He finished his food as she sat quietly and watched.

She took in her feelings in this moment, as this was something new to her.

Something she hadn’t felt for any boy. She’d had her share of them too, sure.

But none of them matched what she felt in this moment.

She tried to decide if it was admiration or pity.

Maybe a mixture of both. He spoke and broke her thoughts.

“I really appreciate this. You didn’t have to, . . . but you did.”

She looked at him, then reached out and touched his hand.

“Anytime you need to come here,” she whispered, “you can. But next time, call my cell first. My dad gets home really late sometimes.”

He smiled that same warm, chipped tooth smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

And for that one quiet night, in the middle of a Detroit winter, on a bedroom floor that smelled like lavender and stories, Zavier Woods didn’t feel like a burden.

He felt home.

From that night on, it became a rhythm.

Some nights, he stayed with his crew, especially when they had late studio sessions or planned meetings about the overseas tour.

But when he wanted real peace, real quiet, real warmth, he came to her.

Her ringer stayed up, window stayed unlocked, and her room stayed lit.

Her mama’s cooking became his main meal.

Princess would wrap up extra cornbread and baked chicken, pretending she was just “saving it for later,” but always handed it off with a small smile when he showed up.

They talked more often again. Not just about survival, but about dreams. About music. About the tour. He told her he was trying to stack up so he wouldn’t come back to nothing. He was finally feeling hopeful again, but it was bittersweet. He’d never had anything he didn’t have to fight for.

One night, as the heater hummed low beneath the window, that fought off the chill that crept through the cracks, Zay lay in his usual spot, back across the floor.

His hands locked behind his head, eyes fixed on the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to her ceiling.

Princess sat cross-legged beside him, the foil from his dinner balled up on the floor, the smell of baked chicken still lingering in the air.

“You ever think about it?” she asked softly.

“Think about what?”

“Having a family.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Why you askin’ me that?”

“I don’t know. Just wondering. You’d be a good dad.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened before he finally said, “Nah. I ain’t built for that.”

Princess frowned. “Why you say that?”

Zay turned his head toward her. “You ever see your mom cry ’cause she ain’t know how to feed you? Ever had to find your little sister crying in a closet after some grown-ass man’s screaming scared her so bad that she hid and wouldn’t come out?”

Her face fell. “No, . . . I haven’t.”

“Exactly,” he muttered. “You got a family, Prin. A real one. Yo’ mama love you loud. Yo’ pops might be annoying, but he’s solid. Your little brother got it made. Birthday parties. Christmas lights. Y’all even got matching damn pajamas.”

Princess tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That don’t mean you can’t have it too. Family is what you make it.”

Zay sat up slowly and placed his elbows on his knees. “Makin’ it don’t change what I come from. My mama died, Prin. I was ten. That man she left us with ain’t love nobody. Not her. Not me. Just used us until he couldn’t anymore. I been angry ever since.”

She reached for his hand. He let her take it.

“You’re not him, Zay.”

He stared at the floor. “Don’t matter. That anger still in me. Some days I look at Kennedy and get scared that I’ll mess her up just by being around. You think I could bring a kid into this world and not mess them up too?”

Princess shook her head gently. “You take care of your sister better than some full-grown men take care of their kids. You show up. You protect. You love her.”

“That’s why I don’t want no kids,” he said. He lowered his voice. “I already feel like I’m all she got. I die tomorrow, she stuck.”

She slid closer to him. She replied softly, careful. “I just wish you saw yourself the way I do.”

He looked her in her eyes. “And how’s that?”

“Somebody with a good heart. Somebody who’s been through hell and still shows up kind. Somebody who never had a real home but still makes people feel safe.”

Zay looked away, but Princess could see the tears that pooled in his eyes. “You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be sneaking you in every night if I didn’t.”

That made him smile.

“You know I ain’t just comin’ here ’cause I need food and heat, right?” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “You come here for me.”

He nodded. “Yeah. For you.”

Silence wrapped around them in that moment, warmer than the heater under the window.

“My boys cool and all. They look out.” He continued. “But when I’m with you, . . . I don’t gotta explain myself. I can just be. That means more to me than I know how to say.”

Princess leaned her head on his shoulder. “You don’t gotta say it. I feel it.”

Zay tilted his head toward hers, voice low and real. “When I was locked up, . . . I kept thinkin’ about that day at the Riverwalk. You in that lil’ pink hoodie. Laughin’. I ain’t felt happy like that since. That memory kept me from losing my mind.”

She looked up at him then, their faces inches apart.

“I never stopped caring about you, Zay. I was mad, yeah. Hurt too. But I always wondered if you were okay.”

“I wasn’t,” he admitted. “But I am now. At least when I’m here.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but instead, she just whispered, “You don’t have to be scared of becoming him. You’re already not.”

And Zay, for once, didn’t deflect. He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers.

“Prin, . . . I love you,” he said.

It slipped out before he could take it back.

Princess didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. She just smiled.

“I love you too, Zay.”

With that, they sealed their first kiss. In that moment, for the first time in his life, he believed he could be more than where he came from.