#raiiszn

[keraiiszn]

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

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It all started at 3:12 AM, when I woke up feeling like my uterus had a personal vendetta against me. Like it had been plotting this moment for nine months, sitting in meetings with my back, my bladder, and my ankles, strategizing on how to make me suffer.

I didn't scream. Not yet. I just laid there breathing heavily like I'd just done a HIIT workout while eating a burrito, and whispered, "Oh no." Because I knew. I KNEW this wasn't Braxton Hicks. This was the real deal. The baby was clocking in for his shift, and he was apparently the type of employee who shows up early and ready to WORK.

"Elijah…" I nudged him with the gentleness of a mother waking her child for school.

He snored. Not just any snore—the deep, satisfied snore of a man who had eaten a full plate of his mama's mac and cheese and watched two episodes of The First 48.

"Elijah," I said louder, with the tone I usually reserved for when he left dishes in the sink.

Nothing. This man was in REM sleep like he was getting paid for it.

I balled up my fist, stared at it like it held the power of Thor's hammer, and thumped it against his chest with the precision of a drummer hitting a snare.

"HUH—WH—WHO—Y/N, YOU GOOD?! We getting robbed?! Where the gun?!"

"I think I'm in labour."

Now let me paint you a picture of how this grown man—this six-foot-six, business-owning, tough-talking man who had practiced birth affirmations with me in the mirror, packed my hospital bag with lavender oils and those expensive soft socks from Target, watched seven birthing videos (and cried during three of them), and made a playlist called "Welcome to the World, Lil Bro" complete with Stevie Wonder and John Legend—got out of that bed.

He moved like his soul was leaving his body and he was trying to catch it.

"Wait—you sure? Like, contraction contractions? Or like when you thought you were in labor last week but it was just gas?"

I gave him a look that could have curdled fresh milk.

"I don't know, baby. I just woke up screaming on the inside and feeling like someone's playing dodgeball with my organs. What you think?"

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I waddled to the bathroom like a penguin in flip-flops. Sat on the toilet. That's when it happened.

My water broke.

Now see, I thought it would be graceful. Maybe like a gentle spring rain or a leaky faucet. Something manageable. Something I could clean up with a regular towel and some dignity.

Nope.

That thing gushed out like Niagara Falls decided to relocate to my bathroom. Like someone turned on a fire hydrant. I stood up and yelled, "ELIJAH! WE GOT A FLOOD! NOAH NEED TO BUILD AN ARK IN HERE!"

He came flying in—and I mean FLYING, like he had wings—with a mop.

A mop. Not a towel. Not a change of clothes. Not even a "baby, you okay?"

A whole mop.

"Elijah... what are you doing?"

"Cleaning up the water?"

"Baby, that water came from INSIDE ME. You gon' mop me up?!"

He stood there holding that mop like it had betrayed him. "I... I panicked. I heard 'flood' and my brain said 'mop.'"

Another contraction hit me and I had to lean against the sink. "Get me some clothes. And throw that mop away. We ain't mopping up no birth water."

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While I was bent over the bed trying to breathe through a contraction like the doula taught me—in through the nose, out through the mouth, imagine opening like a flower (which, by the way, is the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever told a woman in labour)—Elijah decided, out of nowhere, that the hospital bag I had meticulously packed three weeks ago was "completely unacceptable."

"This can't be all you bringing! Ain't no snacks. What about your bonnet? The good bonnet, not the raggedy one! What about the baby's sound machine? THE LOUNGE SET! You ain't bring the three-piece lounge set you made me drive to three different Targets for?!"

"Elijah—" I started, but another contraction cut me off.

"AND YOUR CHARGER! Lord Jesus in heaven, you forgot your phone charger. We gon' have a baby with no damn phone battery. How we gon' take pictures? How you gon' post on Instagram? Your mama gon' kill us both!"

This man—this grown man who I had watched parallel park a truck and negotiate business deals—was now tearing apart our linen closet, throwing robes and random items into a duffel bag like we were fleeing the country.

I was having a contraction on the floor, bracing against the couch, doing my breathing exercises, and he walked past me and handed me my eyelash curler.

"Elijah. I'm. In. Labor. I don't need lashes."

"You always say you hate looking dusty in pictures! What if someone takes a photo for the hospital newsletter? What if Channel 7 shows up? You said you wanted to look cute meeting the baby!"

I wanted to fight him. I wanted to throw that eyelash curler at his head and then follow it up with the bonnet he was frantically searching for. But another contraction said, "Nah, we're not doing violence today. We're breathing."

"Baby," I said through gritted teeth, "if you don't stop packing like we're going on a three-week vacation and help me get to this car..."

He stopped. Looked at me. Looked at the chaos he'd created. "You right. You right. Let's go have this baby."

Then he grabbed the eyelash curler anyway.

Getting to the hospital should have been simple. We'd driven there twice for practice runs. We knew exactly where to go.

But at 4:30 AM, with me contracting every five minutes and Elijah's adrenaline making him drive like he was in Fast and Furious, everything went wrong.

First, he missed the exit.

"ELIJAH."

"I see it, I see it! I'ma get off at the next one!"

"There IS no next one for three miles!"

Then the GPS decided to recalculate and took us through the scenic route. Through downtown. Past the 24-hour donut shop where Elijah had the audacity to say, "You want anything?"

"DO I WANT ANYTHING?! I want this baby out of me! I want to not feel like I'm being split in half! I want you to drive like you got some sense!"

"I'm just saying, donuts might help—"

"ELIJAH MOORE, if you stop at that donut shop, I'm having this baby in the parking lot and naming him Krispy just to spite you!"

We finally got to the hospital at 5:15 AM. Elijah pulled up to what he thought was the emergency entrance but was actually the loading dock for medical supplies.

A security guard knocked on the window. "Y'all lost?"

"My wife's in labor!" Elijah announced like he was Paul Revere.

The guard looked at me, mid-contraction, gripping the door handle. "Maternity ward is around the front, baby daddy. Follow the pink signs."

"Pink signs," I repeated through my breathing. "Follow the pink signs, baby daddy."

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We got there. I got checked in. Got hooked up to all the monitors. Got examined by a nurse who had clearly seen it all and was not impressed by my dramatics.

"You're 3 centimeters," she announced.

I almost cried. three? THREE? After all that suffering, all that breathing, all that flooding and mop drama, I was only three centimeters?

"That's it?" Elijah asked. "She been in pain for hours."

"First baby?" the nurse asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiled the knowing smile of a woman who had probably delivered half the babies in the city. "Oh honey, you've got a long day ahead of you. But don't worry—" she looked at Elijah "—daddy's gonna take real good care of you, ain't you, daddy?"

Then Elijah, this man who had just driven through half the city like a maniac, who had packed our entire linen closet, who had brought a MOP to clean up amniotic fluid, looked at this nurse and asked, "Can she get the epidural now? You know, as like a courtesy? Since we here early?"

The nurse blinked at him. Slow. Deliberate. Like she was processing whether he had really asked what she thought he asked.

"Sir, labor doesn't work on a courtesy system. This ain't the Ritz-Carlton."

I would have laughed if I wasn't busy trying to breathe through another contraction.

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I labored all day. ALL DAY. I walked the halls like I was training for a marathon, bouncing on that big rubber ball they gave me (which I decided was invented by someone who clearly hated pregnant women), and did squats in the bathroom because apparently that's what helps.

My mom came around noon with a bag full of snacks and that worried look she gets when she thinks I'm not handling something right.

"You doing okay, baby?"

"I'm fine, Mama. Just bringing your grandson into the world."

Elijah's mama arrived an hour later with enough food to feed a small army and immediately started rearranging the room to her liking.

"This ain't set up right. Why is the bed facing that way? The baby needs to see the window when he come out. Elijah, move that chair. Y/N, you need to eat something. You can't birth no baby on an empty stomach."

I saw Jesus at one point around 3 PM. Not in a religious way—in a "this epidural is hitting different" way. He told me I was doing good and to stop telling Elijah to shut up so much.

I told Jesus that Elijah deserved every "shut up" he got.

Between contractions, I called Elijah every name I could think of. Not mean names—well, not too mean—but I definitely questioned his intelligence, his common sense, and his ability to handle stressful situations.

At one point around 4 PM, this man brought in a Bluetooth speaker and tried to play "Pum Pum Bring Life" by Kalado because "it's to brighten the mood and it’s true that I was bringing life through my pussy."

I threw a cup of ice at him.

Not the whole cup—I needed the ice. Just the ice. It scattered across the floor like musical notes of my frustration.

"Turn it off."

"But baby—"

"TURN. IT. OFF."

The nurse came in to check the commotion and saw Elijah collecting ice cubes from the floor while I glared at him from the bed.

"What happened here?"

"Musical differences," I said.

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By 10 PM, I was 8 centimetres. EIGHT. We were getting close, and I could feel it in my whole body. Everything was different now. Intense. Real.

Elijah had been chewing the same piece of gum for four hours—nervous chewing, stress chewing—and the sound was about to make me lose whatever sanity I had left.

"If you don't spit out that gum right now, I'm going to make YOU birth this baby."

That's when he cried. Real tears. Not "I'm overwhelmed" tears or "this is scary" tears, but genuine, deep, emotional tears.

He was holding my hand, looking into my eyes, and saying, "You so strong. You doing so good, baby. Look at you. You growing our son and you ain't even complaining—"

"I've been complaining for nine hours."

"Okay, you complaining, but you DOING it. You really doing it. You got this."

And I believed him. I felt strong. I felt capable. I felt like Wonder Woman and Beyoncé and my mama all rolled into one.

Until I looked over and this man was eating a Slim Jim.

A SLIM JIM. During labor. During this sacred, powerful moment of bringing life into the world.

"Ain't no way. There is absolutely no way you're having a meat stick while I'm pushing out a human being."

He looked at the Slim Jim like it had materiized in his hand without his knowledge. "I'm stressed! I eat when I'm stressed! You know this about me!"

"Throw it away."

"But I just opened it—"

"ELIJAH."

He threw it away. But I could tell he was mourning that Slim Jim.

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The nurse checked me one more time. "We're at 10 centimeters. Time to push."

Everything changed. The room got serious. The doctor came in. More nurses appeared. Elijah stood beside me, holding my hand, and I could see in his eyes that he was scared and excited and proud all at once.

"You ready?" the doctor asked.

Was I ready? Was anybody ever ready for this?

"Let's do it."

I pushed. And pushed. And screamed things that I'm pretty sure my mama pretended not to hear from the hallway. I might've said some things that require forgiveness and possibly some Hail Marys.

The doctor kept saying "I can see the head!" and Elijah kept crying and saying "That's my son! That's my son!" like he had just discovered fire.

And then.

Then I heard it.

That cry.

That tiny, loud, miraculous, earth-shattering cry that changed everything.

Elijah sobbed. Full-body sobbed. The kind of crying you do when something so beautiful happens that your body doesn't know how else to respond. His forehead pressed against mine, tears falling on my face. "He here. Oh my God, baby, he here. He really here."

They let him cut the cord, and his hands were shaking so bad the doctor had to help him. Then they laid our son on my chest, and everything else disappeared. I forgot the mop. I forgot the Slim Jim. I forgot the ice throwing and the GPS drama and the four-hour gum chewing. It was just us. Me, Elijah, and this perfect little brown baby with his daddy's nose and what I could already tell was going to be my whole attitude.

"Hi, baby," I whispered. "We been waiting for you."

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Around 6 PM, after I had gotten cleaned up and the baby had been checked and weighed and declared perfect, the door opened.

Elias walked in first, all 6'4 of him, ducking slightly under the doorframe, carrying a teddy bear that was bigger than the actual baby and three foil-wrapped casseroles that smelled like heaven.

"I ain't know what y'all was gonna be hungry for, so I brought mac and cheese, green beans, and cornbread. And some of mama's pound cake for later."

Renee came next, wearing a full fur coat—mind you, it was 71 degrees outside—screaming before she even got through the door: "WHERE MY NEPHEW?! I need to see this baby that had y'all acting crazy for nine months!"

Maya trailed behind with a camera and a ring light. "I'm vlogging the first meeting. Y'all don't be weird. Act natural. But also, maybe look towards the camera when you hold him."

Toni brought wine.

"I can't drink that," I said.

"It's for me," she whispered. "Labor stories make me nervous."

The baby was sleeping in his little hospital bassinet, wrapped up like a tiny burrito, completely unbothered by the chaos that was his family.

Elijah was trying to swaddle him for the visitors, and Elias had the nerve to start coaching him from across the room.

"Nah, bro, tuck that corner tighter. You want it snug but not too tight. Like when you—" he paused, looked around the room full of women "—like when you fold a fitted sheet."

"Boy, you don't know nothing about folding fitted sheets," Renee said, pushing past him to get to the baby. "Let me show you how to swaddle. I raised four kids."

Maya was crying because "the baby yawned with purpose" and trying to get it on camera.

Renee asked if we wanted to make him a TikTok account. "For the brand," she said seriously.

Toni kept threatening to take him home. "Just for a week. For bonding. Cozy auntie bonding."

My mama was trying to organize all the gifts they brought while simultaneously making sure everyone washed their hands and didn't wake the baby.

Elijah's mama was critiquing everyone's baby-holding technique and rearranging the flowers they brought "for better energy flow."

The nurse finally had to come in and diplomatically kick them all out. "Visiting hours are over, and mama and baby need their rest."

"We family!" Renee protested.

"Family visiting hours are also over," the nurse said with the authority of someone who had managed many chaotic families.

As they filed out, each one of them kissing me and the baby and promising to come back tomorrow, I realized this was going to be our life now. This beautiful, loud, chaotic, loving circus was our baby's family.

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It was quiet. Finally quiet. Just me, Elijah, and our son. The baby was sleeping in Elijah's arms, bundled in the blanket that Elias had wrapped him in with surprising gentleness for such big hands.

Elijah was in the chair next to my bed, staring at our son like he was trying to memorize every detail of his face.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you more," I whispered back.

"You cussed me out seventeen times today."

"You deserved every single one."

He smiled. That soft smile he gets when he knows I'm right but doesn't want to admit it.

I leaned over and kissed his hand, the one that wasn't supporting our baby. "Thank you. For being here. For the panic packing. For bringing a mop to clean up amniotic fluid. For the Slim Jim stress eating. For everything."

He kissed my forehead. "You made me a dad. You made us a family."

Our son let out a tiny sigh in his sleep, the softest sound I had ever heard. Like he was perfectly content to be exactly where he was.

And just like that, the hardest, funniest, wildest, most chaotic day of our lives became the best day of our lives.

I looked at Elijah holding our baby, both of them peaceful and perfect, and thought about how this little person was going to grow up with the most loving, crazy, dramatic family in the world. He was going to have a daddy who packed entire linen closets and brought mops to floods, a mama who threw ice during labor, uncles who brought too much food, aunties who wanted to make him TikTok famous, and grandmamas who rearranged hospital rooms for better energy.

He was going to be so loved.

And probably so confused.

But mostly loved.

"What are we gonna call him?" I asked.

Elijah looked down at our son, then at me. "I don't know. But whatever we choose, he's gonna have some stories to tell about the day he was born."

"Starting with the mop?"

"Definitely starting with the mop."

Our baby opened his eyes for just a moment, looked around like he was taking inventory of his new world, then closed them again with what I swear was a satisfied expression.

Welcome to the family, little one. It's going to be a wild ride.

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[keraiiszn]

ᴏᴜʀꜱ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ

𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄!𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

ᴘᴛ. 2

ʙᴀʙʏ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ, ꜱᴏᴄᴋ ᴅʀᴀᴡᴇʀ ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ, ʟᴀᴛᴇ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴘɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ʀᴜɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛᴇ — ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʜɪᴄᴄᴜᴘ, ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ.

If someone had told me six months ago that I'd be watching my deadly, composed fiancé reorganise the baby's sock drawer for the fourth time this week while muttering about "proper size categorisation," I would have laughed until I cried. Now? I'm just trying not to pee myself laughing, which is a legitimate concern at thirty-nine weeks pregnant.

"Elijah" I call from our bed, where I'm propped up like a beached whale surrounded by pregnancy pillows. "The baby is not going to care if the newborn socks are arranged by colour or by cuteness factor."

He pauses, a tiny yellow sock in each hand, and turns to look at me with the most serious expression I've ever seen him wear. "But what if they have a preference? What if they're a colour-coordinated baby?"

I snort, which immediately turns into a hiccup, which somehow triggers the baby to start what feels like a full kickboxing routine against my ribs. "Oh, now you're awake," I mutter, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot is trying to escape through my skin.

Elijah drops the socks immediately and rushes over, his hands hovering uncertainly over my belly. The man who can disarm opponents without breaking a sweat looks panicked when our baby decides to practice their karate moves.

"Are you okay? Is it time? Should I get the hospital bag? I knew I should have packed a backup bag for the backup bag—"

"Breathe, babe," I interrupt, catching his hands and placing them where the baby is currently attempting to break free. "They're just saying hi to daddy. Watch."

As if on cue, the baby settles at Elijah's touch, and he gets that look—the one that still makes my heart do ridiculous, fluttery things despite the fact that I currently resemble a penguin who swallowed a basketball.

"Every time," he murmurs, wonder clear in his voice. "He always calm down for you."

"It's because you have magic hands," I tease, waggling my eyebrows. "Among other talents."

He flushes slightly, which is adorable on a man who radiates danger for a living. "Y/N..."

"What? I'm pregnant, not dead. And these hormones are no joke—I'm basically a walking ball of feelings and inappropriate thoughts."

Before he can respond, my stomach lets out a growl that could probably be heard in the next county. Elijah's eyebrows shoot up.

"Hungry again? You just ate an hour ago."

"Yeah, but that was dinner. This is the second dinner. Different." I pause, considering. "I think I want pickles. And ice cream. But not together—that's gross. Although..." I tilt my head, genuinely contemplating it. "Maybe together. Sweet and salty, right?"

Elijah stares at me for a long moment. "It's eleven-thirty at night."

"Your point?"

"The store is closed."

I give him my best innocent look, the one that usually gets me exactly what I want. "But you love meeeee."

He's already reaching for his keys. "I'll find an all-night place."

"You're the best baby daddy ever," I call after him as he heads for the door. "Get the good pickles! The garlicky ones!"

"I don't even know what the bad pickles are," he mutters, but I catch the smile he's trying to hide.

Twenty minutes later, he returns with not just pickles and ice cream, but also prenatal vitamins (because, of course, he checked if I'd taken today's), those weird crackers I've been craving, and a bag of mini doughnuts.

"You bought out the store," I observe, accepting the jar of pickles like it's a precious gift.

"I wanted to make sure I got the right ones." He settles beside me on the bed, watching with fascination and mild horror as I alternate between pickles and vanilla ice cream. "How is that good?"

"Don't knock it till you try it." I offer him a spoonful, and his face goes through several interesting expressions.

"That's... not terrible?"

"See? Our baby has excellent taste already." I pat my belly proudly. "Speaking of which, we need to finalise names. We can't keep calling them 'the baby' forever."

Elijah groans. "Not the name discussion again."

"Yes, the name discussion again! What if they come early? What if I go into labour tomorrow and we're standing there like, 'Hello, Baby McBaby Face'?"

"I still like the names we talked about," he says carefully, which is code for 'I'm trying not to restart the Great Name War of last Tuesday.'

"Okay, but hear me out—what about something unexpected? Like... Storm?"

"Storm?"

"It's dramatic! Powerful! And it goes with your whole mysterious vibe."

Elijah looks like he's genuinely considering it, which is both sweet and terrifying. "What if it's a girl?"

"Storm works for a girl, too! Very fierce warrior princess."

"You want to name our potential daughter after weather phenomena."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." I take another bite of the pickle-ice cream combo. "Weather is powerful. Unpredictable. Beautiful."

"Like you," he says quietly, and there he goes again, being all romantic when I'm eating the weirdest food combination known to mankind.

"Smooth talker," I mumble around my spoon, but I'm grinning. "Fine, what about something unique? Alheri? Journee? Kairo? Something our kid won't have to spell for people their entire life?"

"I like Alheri," Elijah admits. "Strong queens were named uniquely, you know."

"And for a boy? James is good. Classic. Respectable.”

I wrinkle my nose. "But also kind of... boring?"

The look he gives me is long-suffering. "You're going to suggest something like Phoenix or Raven, right?"

"Phoenix is cool—"

"No."

"What about—"

"No mythical creatures, no weather patterns, no gemstones, and nothing that sounds like a stripper name."

I gasp in mock offence. "I would never suggest a stripper name for our baby!"

"You suggested Candy last week."

"That was a joke!" I pause. "Mostly."

Elijah drops his head into his hands. "We're never going to agree on this."

"Sure, we will. When I'm in labour and screaming at you about how this is all your fault, you'll agree to whatever name I want just to make me stop yelling."

He looks genuinely alarmed. "You're going to yell at me?"

"Oh, honey," I reach over to pat his cheek sympathetically. "I'm going to say things that will make you question every life choice that led to that moment. It's normal. All the pregnancy books say so."

"Maybe I shouldn't be in the delivery room," he mutters.

"Try to leave and I'll hunt you down myself," I say sweetly. "After I push a human being out of my body, because that's apparently what we're doing now."

The reality of it hits us both at the same time—the fact that in just a few days, there will be an actual tiny person who depends on us for everything. The mood shifts slightly, becoming less playful and more... holy crap, we're about to be parents.

"What if we're terrible at this?" I ask quietly, suddenly feeling very young and very unprepared.

Elijah sets aside the pickle jar and pulls me closer, carefully arranging himself around my belly. "Then we'll be terrible at it together. And we'll figure it out as we go."

"What if the baby doesn't like us?"

"Babies don't have a choice. We're stuck with each other." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "Besides, look how much practice we've already had taking care of each other."

I think about all the times he's held my hair back during morning sickness, how he learned to make my favorite tea exactly right, the way he talks to my belly every morning like the baby can already understand him. And how he lets me reorganize his perfectly organized drawers just because the nesting urge is real and I needed to organize something.

"We're going to be okay," I say, more to convince myself than him.

"We're going to be better than okay," he corrects. "We're going to be disgustingly happy and sleep-deprived and covered in baby spit-up, and it's going to be perfect."

"Even when I'm crying over diaper commercials?"

"Especially then."

"And when you're reading parenting books at three in the morning because you're convinced we're doing everything wrong?"

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "You noticed that?"

"Babe, you colour-coded a feeding schedule. For a baby who isn't even born yet."

"Organisation is important—"

I silence him with a kiss, tasting vanilla ice cream and the promise of chaos and joy and sleepless nights ahead. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.

"I love you," I whisper. "Even if you do think our baby needs a sock filing system."

"I love you, too," he replies. "Even if you want to name our child after natural disasters."

"Storm is growing on you, admit it."

"Not."

But he's smiling when he says it, and as I settle back against his chest with my ridiculous snack and his hand protective over our baby, I think maybe we've got this whole parenting thing figured out after all. We'll make it up as we go along, argue about everything from feeding schedules to bedtime stories, and love this little person so fiercely it'll probably terrify us both.

And if our biggest problem is what to name them, well, we've got at least eighteen years to come up with nicknames anyway.

"Fine," I concede, closing my eyes as exhaustion finally starts to win. "Alheri or Kairo?"

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Alheri or Kairo”

The groan he lets out vibrates through his chest, and I fall asleep smiling, dreaming of tiny socks and big adventures and the beautiful, chaotic life we're about to begin.

[keraiiszn]

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ

ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ | ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴜɪɴ | ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ, ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You loved him like salvation. But he only knew how to sin.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You hated the way his name still echoed in your chest like a warning.

Stack.

You used to say it with laughter in your throat. Now it sounded like something scraped out of glass.

You used to say it like prayer.

Now it felt like punishment.

He wasn’t supposed to get that close.

Not when you knew what came with him—anger, scars, a silence that always came before the storm. But he had that soft look sometimes, the one you swore was just for you. When his jaw relaxed. When his eyes didn’t look like warzones. When his voice dropped and he whispered shit like:

"I don’t let people in, but you… you different."

And you believed him.

You fucking believed him.

Because there was a part of you—some wounded, desperate part—that thought if you loved him enough, he’d finally feel safe. That your softness would be enough to teach him peace. That you could hold all his chaos and still be whole.

But loving Stack felt like trying to carry fire with bare hands.

It always burned. And you always let it.

The night it all fell apart was humid, thick with tension. You felt it before it happened—like the air was trying to tell you something your heart wouldn’t admit.

Your body always knew before your mind did. The unease. The ache in your chest that wasn’t quite sadness yet. Just a slow cracking in your ribs that said brace yourself.

He came in late. Again. Smelling like weed, liquor, and a perfume that didn’t belong to you.

Something sweet. Fake. Loud.

Nothing like you.

He didn’t even try to lie. Not really.

"You gon' ask or you already know?" he said, tossing his hoodie on your couch like this was still his place to fall.

You stared at him. Not because you didn’t know the answer—but because hearing it, saying it, would make it real.

"Do you even care anymore?" you asked, voice calm—too calm. That was the thing about heartbreak: it didn’t always come with screaming.

Sometimes it sounded like silence.

Sometimes it sounded like I’m done pretending I don’t know who you really are.

"Don’t start with me, Y/N," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You knew what this was."

"No, you don’t get to say that," you snapped. "You don’t get to act like I imagined this. Like you didn’t lay next to me every night and kiss my back like I was yours."

"I never said I was good for you."

"You didn’t have to. You just had to stay. But you couldn’t even do that."

He scoffed, pacing now. “You always want something I don’t got in me. You want soft. You want... fairy tale shit.”

"I never asked you to be perfect," you said, voice breaking. "I just wanted honesty. Loyalty. A fucking phone call if you were gonna disappear."

"I don’t owe you explanations every time I breathe, Y/N. You not my wife."

"And yet you called me your peace, right?" you said, bitterly. "I was your peace, but only when it was convenient. Only when you needed somewhere to hide from the world you created."

"Man, I’m not doing this,” he muttered, heading toward the kitchen like he could walk away from the mess.

"No, you never do this," you said, following him. “You run. You shut down. You fuck up and expect me to sit here and make excuses for you. And I did that. Over and over.”

He turned then, face hard.

“You think you some savior? You think being with you made me better?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think being with you made me forget who I was.”

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t empty.

It was loaded. Heavy. Grief-filled.

You should’ve left then. Should’ve walked away with your pride before it got dragged through the mud. Before you started rewriting your own worth just to make sense of his distance.

But your heart—your dumb, loyal heart—held out for a miracle.

The kind where he turns around and says he’s sorry.

The kind where he admits you were enough.

“Did you love her?” you asked, voice barely holding.

You knew the answer.

But still, you asked. Because part of you wanted him to say no. To say there was only you.

He looked at you then. Eyes soft. Regret painted across his face like it could fix anything.

“I didn’t even love myself,” he said.

And it hit you harder than any betrayal.

Because that was the truth you’d been ignoring. You weren’t fighting another woman. You were fighting his demons. His guilt. His self-loathing. His idea that love was dangerous and being loved was a death sentence.

And baby, you were losing.

Because no matter how much you bled for him, he never learned how to stop cutting.

When you left, you didn’t slam the door.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t cry—not yet.

You just took what little pieces of yourself remained and walked into the night, knowing he wouldn’t chase you.

Because Stack never chased anything he thought he could find again.

But this time, you weren’t coming back.

Not as the same girl.

Not as the girl who waited up, who forgave silence, who thought love was proving your worth to someone who only saw your heart as collateral.

And even if he did try?

You weren’t the same girl who waited up anymore.

You were done surviving him.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

[keraiiszn]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

​🇲​​🇴​​🇷​​🇩​​🇪​​🇷​​🇳​ ​🇸​​🇲​​🇴​​🇰​​🇪​ ​🇽​ ​🇧​​🇱​​🇦​​🇨​​🇰​ ​🇷​​🇪​​🇦​​🇩​​🇪​​🇷​

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

🇦​ ​🇸​​🇴​​🇫​​🇹​-​🇻​​🇴​​🇮​​🇨​​🇪​​🇩​ ​🇳​​🇺​​🇷​​🇸​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇸​​🇹​​🇺​​🇩​​🇪​​🇳​​🇹​ ​🇬​​🇴​​🇪​​🇸​ ​🇻​​🇮​​🇷​​🇦​​🇱​ ​🇦​​🇫​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇵​​🇴​​🇸​​🇹​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇦​​🇳​ ​🇦​​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇸​​🇹​​🇮​​🇨​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇻​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇴​​🇫​ “​🇦​​🇨​​🇷​​🇴​​🇸​​🇸​ ​🇴​​🇨​​🇪​​🇦​​🇳​​🇸​”—​🇦​ ​🇻​​🇺​​🇱​​🇳​​🇪​​🇷​​🇦​​🇧​​🇱​​🇪​ ​🇷​&​🇧​ ​🇧​​🇦​​🇱​​🇱​​🇦​​🇩​ ​🇧​​🇾​ ​🇳​​🇴​​🇳​​🇪​ ​🇴​​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇳​ ​🇸​​🇲​​🇴​​🇰​​🇪​, ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇲​​🇾​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇮​​🇴​​🇺​​🇸​ ​🇦​​🇷​​🇹​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ ​🇸​​🇭​​🇪​’​🇸​ ​🇸​​🇪​​🇨​​🇷​​🇪​​🇹​​🇱​​🇾​ ​🇴​​🇧​​🇸​​🇪​​🇸​​🇸​​🇪​​🇩​ ​🇼​​🇮​​🇹​​🇭​. ​

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

I almost didn’t post it.

Nyah sat on my bed, legs crossed, snacking on my plantain chips like she paid rent. “If you don’t post the video in the next ten minutes,” she said through a mouthful, “I swear I will.”

“It’s not that simple,” I argued, still fiddling with the ring light. “It’s not ready.”

“It’s fear,” Imani chimed in from the vanity. “And you sound better than half the industry. Including the man himself.”

“The man” being Smoke. Elijah Moore. The R&B artist with the kind of voice that makes heartbreak feel holy. The one whose song “Across Oceans” had been living in my headphones since the week it dropped.

Chantal, predictably, didn’t even look up from her phone. “You already bodied it at my cousin’s engagement party. People thought it was your song. Just hit record.”

I sighed, sat down in the chair by my window. The afternoon light softened my face, hitting that sweet spot my mum calls “the Congolese glow.” My guitar leaned beside me. My nerves were screaming louder than any note I could ever hit.

Still… I breathed in. I pressed record.

And I started to sing:

“You said you’d love me through distance and damage But I crossed oceans and you stayed on land.”

“Now I don’t need maps to find someone who sees me, Someone who holds me with no shaky hands.”

Soft, stripped back. Just chords, my voice, and the ache sitting under my skin.

When I finished, my girls were quiet. Not even breathing. Then Nyah wiped her eyes.

“Wow.”

“I’m posting it,” Chantal announced. I barely had time to say no before it was up, captioned:

“Just some late-night love + this gorgeous song. Smoke, your pen is crazy. 🤍 #acousticszn #cover #rnb #acrossoceans”

We piled into bed like we always do, rom-coms playing in the background, pretending not to refresh my feed every two seconds. Until the notifications got too loud to ignore.

First 10k. Then 30k. Then…

Chantal gasped. “You need to see this.”

I grabbed my phone—and froze.

Smoke. The blue check. The name I’ve seen a thousand times on Spotify. He commented.

You didn’t just sing it. You lived it. 🤍

My heart stopped.

Then came the DM.

yo... just ran your cover back like… three times. you made my own lyrics hit harder. that second verse? you held it like it was yours. i wrote that from pain. you sang it from power. that’s rare. keep shining, baby girl. 🤍

I read it out loud. We screamed. Full-on, pillow-throwing, flatmate-knocking-on-the-door chaos.

Me? I just stared at the screen.

He didn’t flirt the way most guys do. He didn’t have to. His words felt real. Heavy. Soft. Grateful.

Like I wasn’t just another girl covering a song. Like I was seen.

And maybe… just maybe… this is how it starts.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

[keraiiszn]

ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ ꜱɴᴀᴄᴋ

ᴛᴇᴇ ʜɪɢɢɪɴꜱ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪꜰᴇ!ʏ/ɴ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

Sunday afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains, casting everything in that golden, lazy glow that made even the scattered toys look picturesque. Tee Higgins padded through his house in that post-practice haze – hair still damp from his shower, football shorts hanging just right, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of Dad Life Quarterly if such a magazine existed.

The house was blissfully quiet. Their toddler was down for her nap, Y/N was folding laundry upstairs, and for once, Tee had nothing to do but exist. No playbook to study, no interviews to give, no tiny human demanding he read Goodnight Moon for the fifteenth time.

But peace and quiet had never been Tee's strong suit.

His stomach rumbled, breaking the sacred silence like a fumble on fourth down. He wandered toward the kitchen, already mentally cataloging his options. There had to be something good in there – something that didn't require actual cooking or, God forbid, meal prep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pantry door swung open with a soft creak, revealing the organized chaos that was Y/N's monthly shopping haul. She was methodical about groceries – one big trip per month, everything planned, portioned, and strategically placed. It was like a military operation, and Tee had learned not to mess with the system.

Well, usually.

His eyes scanned the shelves: Goldfish crackers (empty box – when did that happen?), trail mix (too much commitment), protein bars (ugh, cardboard disguised as nutrition), and then...

There it was.

A single, pristine pack of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies™️, sitting on the toddler shelf like a beacon of sugary salvation. The package practically glowed under the pantry light, its cartoon dinosaurs grinning at him with their fruity little faces.

Tee paused. He knew the rules. Y/N had been crystal clear: Do not touch the last of anything without asking. Especially not their daughter's snacks. The kid was particular about her food in the way only toddlers could be – she'd rather starve than eat the wrong shaped crackers.

But it was just one pack. How much drama could one tiny pouch of gummies cause?

"Ain't nobody gon' notice one little pouch," he whispered to himself, glancing around like he was planning to rob Fort Knox instead of stealing from his own pantry.

Famous last words.

Tee grabbed the package with the stealth of a man who'd once been clocked at 4.54 in the forty. He tore it open with surgical precision, the sweet smell of artificial fruit wafting up like incense.

The first gummy was heavenly – perfectly chewy, bursting with that fake strawberry flavor that somehow tasted better than real strawberries. The second was even better. By the third, he was committed to finishing the whole pack.

He ate them slowly at first, savoring each little dinosaur. Then faster, like he was racing against time. Before he knew it, he was licking the inside of the foil package, chasing every last grain of sugar.

For a moment, life was perfect. He was fed, the house was quiet, and nobody was the wiser.

Then, from down the hallway, came the sound that would haunt his dreams: a tiny, sleepy voice calling out.

"Daddy? Where's my dino snack?"

Tee froze mid-lick, the empty package still in his hands. Through the baby monitor, he could hear little feet hitting the floor, followed by the patter of footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

Oh, shit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The toddler appeared in the kitchen doorway like a tiny, pajama-clad detective, her hair sticking up in seventeen different directions and her favorite stuffed triceratops tucked under one arm. She looked at Tee, then at the empty package in his hands, then back at Tee.

Her bottom lip began to quiver.

"You eated my dino snack?" she whispered, her voice carrying the kind of betrayal usually reserved for Shakespearean tragedies.

"Baby, I—" Tee started, but it was too late. The waterworks had started, and his daughter was crying like someone had cancelled Christmas and her birthday on the same day.

He scrambled for damage control, grabbing a banana from the counter and waving it like a peace offering. "Look, baby girl, banana! You love bananas!"

"I DON'T WANT BANANA!" she wailed, throwing herself on the kitchen floor in the kind of dramatic collapse that would make soccer players jealous. "I WANT DINO SNACK!"

That's when Y/N appeared.

Y/N descended the stairs like a prosecutor approaching the witness stand, already reading the room with the sharp eyes of someone who'd been married to an NFL player long enough to recognize guilt from three rooms away.

"Why," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "is our child sobbing like someone cancelled Bluey?"

Tee tried to play it cool, bouncing the toddler's banana like it was a football. "I don't know... maybe she's tired? You know how she gets when she's tired."

Their daughter, still sprawled dramatically on the kitchen floor, pointed an accusatory finger at her father. "He eated my dino snack!" she sobbed. "My LAST dino snack!"

Y/N's eyes moved to the empty package in Tee's other hand, then back to his face. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You ate the last snack?" she asked, each word carefully enunciated.

"I didn't know it was the LAST last one," Tee said weakly.

Y/N crossed her arms. "Tee. When have I ever let her run out of snacks? When have I ever not had backup snacks for the backup snacks? Be so serious."

"I WANT DINO SNACK!" their daughter wailed from the floor, as if providing a tragic soundtrack to Tee's downfall.

"Me too, girl," Y/N said, not breaking eye contact with her husband. "Me too."

What followed was the kind of chaos that would make his worst game day look like a casual practice. Tee had a screeching toddler pulling at his leg, a wife who was eyeing her sandal like it might become a projectile, and approximately zero solutions to his self-created problem.

"Okay, okay," he said, trying to project the same calm he used in the huddle when they were down by fourteen in the fourth quarter. "I can fix this. I got this."

"How?" Y/N asked. "The grocery store doesn't open until tomorrow, and you know she's not going to accept any substitutes."

As if to prove her point, their daughter rejected the banana, a pack of crackers, and even a cookie – the nuclear option in toddler negotiations.

That's when Tee's desperation kicked into overdrive.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Attempt #1: The DIY Disaster

Tee's first bright idea involved Jell-O, food coloring, and the dinosaur-shaped ice cube trays Y/N used for the toddler's water cups. He figured he could make homemade fruit snacks – how hard could it be?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene, Tee was covered in red Jell-O, and the "gummies" looked like melted alien blobs that wouldn't hold their shape and tasted like disappointment.

His daughter took one look at his creation and cried harder.

Attempt #2: The Great Gas Station Hunt

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Tee loaded his still-pajama-clad daughter into the car, threw on some slides, and embarked on a quest to find Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies at every gas station, convenience store, and pharmacy within a ten-mile radius.

Store #1: "Nah man, we don't carry those." Store #2: "Dino whats? We got regular gummies." Store #3: "Those are a grocery store thing, dude."

By Store #4, Tee was practically bribing the teenage clerk. "Look, I'll give you fifty bucks if you got anything dinosaur-shaped in the back. Anything."

The kid looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sir, this is a Chevron."

Attempt #3: The Social Media Hail Mary

Sitting in his car outside Store #5, Tee did something he never thought he'd do: he slid into the local grocery store's Instagram DMs.

@teehiggins: yo do you guys have any dino snacks in the back? Asking for a friend... (the friend is my daughter and she's very upset)

He even tried the official Dino Gummies account, the manufacturer, and approximately twelve mom bloggers who'd posted about toddler snacks in the last week.

His phone remained stubbornly silent.

By the time Tee returned home empty-handed, his daughter had cried herself into exhaustion and was now giving him the silent treatment – which, honestly, was worse than the crying. Y/N met him at the door with a look that could've benched him for the rest of the season.

"Any luck?" she asked, though his expression had already given her the answer.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I really messed up."

Y/N's expression softened just a fraction. "Yeah, you did."

"I know you got a system. I know I'm not supposed to mess with it. I just... I wasn't thinking."

Their daughter looked up from her place on the couch, tears still clinging to her eyelashes. "No more dino snacks?"

Tee knelt down to her level. "Baby girl, Daddy's gonna make this right. I promise."

The next morning, Tee was at the grocery store when it opened, like a man possessed. He didn't just buy one box of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies – he bought ten. Plus backup snacks. Plus backup backup snacks. Plus a teddy bear shaped like a triceratops and a pack of crayons.

When he got home, he did something that would become family legend: he wrote an apology letter in crayon, complete with stick figure drawings of dinosaurs and hearts, signed "Daddy, #5."

Dear Zara, I am sorry I eated your dino snack. I will not do it again. Here are more dino snacks. I love you. Love, Daddy #5 P.S. Mommy was right

Y/N forgave him... eventually. After he promised to replace everything he'd eaten, organized the entire pantry, and agreed to ask before touching anything for the next month. The toddler forgave him faster, especially after she discovered the ten boxes of gummies and the new teddy bear.

But she wasn't taking any chances. Within a week, she'd started hoarding her snacks in a secret box under the couch, checking on them periodically like a tiny dragon guarding treasure.

Tee learned two valuable lessons that day:

Respect the snack stash

Never get between a toddler and their gummies

And maybe, just maybe, next time he'd eat the damn protein bar.

Three months later, Y/N would find Tee standing in front of the pantry, holding a pack of animal crackers and staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Those the last ones?" she'd ask.

"Yeah."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Go eat a protein bar."

"Yes, ma'am."

Some lessons, it turned out, stuck better than others. Especially when your wife had really good aim with a sandal and your toddler had an excellent memory for betrayal.

The Higgins household snack rules were now written in permanent marker on the inside of the pantry door:

Ask before you take the last of anything

Toddler snacks are OFF LIMITS

When in doubt, eat a protein bar

Love, Y/N (and she means it)

And underneath, in crayon: "No eating my dino snacks! - Zara ♡"

Tee kept those rules posted long after Zara outgrew dino gummies, because some reminders were worth keeping forever.

Sunday afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains, casting everything in that golden, lazy glow that made even the scattered toys look picturesque. Tee Higgins padded through his house in that post-practice haze – hair still damp from his shower, football shorts hanging just right, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of Dad Life Quarterly if such a magazine existed.

The house was blissfully quiet. Their toddler was down for her nap, Y/N was folding laundry upstairs, and for once, Tee had nothing to do but exist. No playbook to study, no interviews to give, no tiny human demanding he read Goodnight Moon for the fifteenth time.

But peace and quiet had never been Tee's strong suit.

His stomach rumbled, breaking the sacred silence like a fumble on fourth down. He wandered toward the kitchen, already mentally cataloging his options. There had to be something good in there – something that didn't require actual cooking or, God forbid, meal prep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pantry door swung open with a soft creak, revealing the organized chaos that was Y/N's monthly shopping haul. She was methodical about groceries – one big trip per month, everything planned, portioned, and strategically placed. It was like a military operation, and Tee had learned not to mess with the system.

Well, usually.

His eyes scanned the shelves: Goldfish crackers (empty box – when did that happen?), trail mix (too much commitment), protein bars (ugh, cardboard disguised as nutrition), and then...

There it was.

A single, pristine pack of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies™️, sitting on the toddler shelf like a beacon of sugary salvation. The package practically glowed under the pantry light, its cartoon dinosaurs grinning at him with their fruity little faces.

Tee paused. He knew the rules. Y/N had been crystal clear: Do not touch the last of anything without asking. Especially not their daughter's snacks. The kid was particular about her food in the way only toddlers could be – she'd rather starve than eat the wrong shaped crackers.

But it was just one pack. How much drama could one tiny pouch of gummies cause?

"Ain't nobody gon' notice one little pouch," he whispered to himself, glancing around like he was planning to rob Fort Knox instead of stealing from his own pantry.

Famous last words.

Tee grabbed the package with the stealth of a man who'd once been clocked at 4.54 in the forty. He tore it open with surgical precision, the sweet smell of artificial fruit wafting up like incense.

The first gummy was heavenly – perfectly chewy, bursting with that fake strawberry flavor that somehow tasted better than real strawberries. The second was even better. By the third, he was committed to finishing the whole pack.

He ate them slowly at first, savoring each little dinosaur. Then faster, like he was racing against time. Before he knew it, he was licking the inside of the foil package, chasing every last grain of sugar.

For a moment, life was perfect. He was fed, the house was quiet, and nobody was the wiser.

Then, from down the hallway, came the sound that would haunt his dreams: a tiny, sleepy voice calling out.

"Daddy? Where's my dino snack?"

Tee froze mid-lick, the empty package still in his hands. Through the baby monitor, he could hear little feet hitting the floor, followed by the patter of footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

Oh, shit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The toddler appeared in the kitchen doorway like a tiny, pajama-clad detective, her hair sticking up in seventeen different directions and her favorite stuffed triceratops tucked under one arm. She looked at Tee, then at the empty package in his hands, then back at Tee.

Her bottom lip began to quiver.

"You eated my dino snack?" she whispered, her voice carrying the kind of betrayal usually reserved for Shakespearean tragedies.

"Baby, I—" Tee started, but it was too late. The waterworks had started, and his daughter was crying like someone had cancelled Christmas and her birthday on the same day.

He scrambled for damage control, grabbing a banana from the counter and waving it like a peace offering. "Look, baby girl, banana! You love bananas!"

"I DON'T WANT BANANA!" she wailed, throwing herself on the kitchen floor in the kind of dramatic collapse that would make soccer players jealous. "I WANT DINO SNACK!"

That's when Y/N appeared.

Y/N descended the stairs like a prosecutor approaching the witness stand, already reading the room with the sharp eyes of someone who'd been married to an NFL player long enough to recognize guilt from three rooms away.

"Why," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "is our child sobbing like someone cancelled Bluey?"

Tee tried to play it cool, bouncing the toddler's banana like it was a football. "I don't know... maybe she's tired? You know how she gets when she's tired."

Their daughter, still sprawled dramatically on the kitchen floor, pointed an accusatory finger at her father. "He eated my dino snack!" she sobbed. "My LAST dino snack!"

Y/N's eyes moved to the empty package in Tee's other hand, then back to his face. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You ate the last snack?" she asked, each word carefully enunciated.

"I didn't know it was the LAST last one," Tee said weakly.

Y/N crossed her arms. "Tee. When have I ever let her run out of snacks? When have I ever not had backup snacks for the backup snacks? Be so serious."

"I WANT DINO SNACK!" their daughter wailed from the floor, as if providing a tragic soundtrack to Tee's downfall.

"Me too, girl," Y/N said, not breaking eye contact with her husband. "Me too."

What followed was the kind of chaos that would make his worst game day look like a casual practice. Tee had a screeching toddler pulling at his leg, a wife who was eyeing her sandal like it might become a projectile, and approximately zero solutions to his self-created problem.

"Okay, okay," he said, trying to project the same calm he used in the huddle when they were down by fourteen in the fourth quarter. "I can fix this. I got this."

"How?" Y/N asked. "The grocery store doesn't open until tomorrow, and you know she's not going to accept any substitutes."

As if to prove her point, their daughter rejected the banana, a pack of crackers, and even a cookie – the nuclear option in toddler negotiations.

That's when Tee's desperation kicked into overdrive.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Attempt #1: The DIY Disaster

Tee's first bright idea involved Jell-O, food coloring, and the dinosaur-shaped ice cube trays Y/N used for the toddler's water cups. He figured he could make homemade fruit snacks – how hard could it be?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene, Tee was covered in red Jell-O, and the "gummies" looked like melted alien blobs that wouldn't hold their shape and tasted like disappointment.

His daughter took one look at his creation and cried harder.

Attempt #2: The Great Gas Station Hunt

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Tee loaded his still-pajama-clad daughter into the car, threw on some slides, and embarked on a quest to find Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies at every gas station, convenience store, and pharmacy within a ten-mile radius.

Store #1: "Nah man, we don't carry those." Store #2: "Dino whats? We got regular gummies." Store #3: "Those are a grocery store thing, dude."

By Store #4, Tee was practically bribing the teenage clerk. "Look, I'll give you fifty bucks if you got anything dinosaur-shaped in the back. Anything."

The kid looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sir, this is a Chevron."

Attempt #3: The Social Media Hail Mary

Sitting in his car outside Store #5, Tee did something he never thought he'd do: he slid into the local grocery store's Instagram DMs.

@teehiggins: yo do you guys have any dino snacks in the back? Asking for a friend... (the friend is my daughter and she's very upset)

He even tried the official Dino Gummies account, the manufacturer, and approximately twelve mom bloggers who'd posted about toddler snacks in the last week.

His phone remained stubbornly silent.

By the time Tee returned home empty-handed, his daughter had cried herself into exhaustion and was now giving him the silent treatment – which, honestly, was worse than the crying. Y/N met him at the door with a look that could've benched him for the rest of the season.

"Any luck?" she asked, though his expression had already given her the answer.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I really messed up."

Y/N's expression softened just a fraction. "Yeah, you did."

"I know you got a system. I know I'm not supposed to mess with it. I just... I wasn't thinking."

Their daughter looked up from her place on the couch, tears still clinging to her eyelashes. "No more dino snacks?"

Tee knelt down to her level. "Baby girl, Daddy's gonna make this right. I promise."

The next morning, Tee was at the grocery store when it opened, like a man possessed. He didn't just buy one box of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies – he bought ten. Plus backup snacks. Plus backup backup snacks. Plus a teddy bear shaped like a triceratops and a pack of crayons.

When he got home, he did something that would become family legend: he wrote an apology letter in crayon, complete with stick figure drawings of dinosaurs and hearts, signed "Daddy, #5."

Dear Zara, I am sorry I eated your dino snack. I will not do it again. Here are more dino snacks. I love you. Love, Daddy #5 P.S. Mommy was right

Y/N forgave him... eventually. After he promised to replace everything he'd eaten, organized the entire pantry, and agreed to ask before touching anything for the next month. The toddler forgave him faster, especially after she discovered the ten boxes of gummies and the new teddy bear.

But she wasn't taking any chances. Within a week, she'd started hoarding her snacks in a secret box under the couch, checking on them periodically like a tiny dragon guarding treasure.

Tee learned two valuable lessons that day:

Respect the snack stash

Never get between a toddler and their gummies

And maybe, just maybe, next time he'd eat the damn protein bar.

Three months later, Y/N would find Tee standing in front of the pantry, holding a pack of animal crackers and staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Those the last ones?" she'd ask.

"Yeah."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Go eat a protein bar."

"Yes, ma'am."

Some lessons, it turned out, stuck better than others. Especially when your wife had really good aim with a sandal and your toddler had an excellent memory for betrayal.

The Higgins household snack rules were now written in permanent marker on the inside of the pantry door:

Ask before you take the last of anything

Toddler snacks are OFF LIMITS

When in doubt, eat a protein bar

Love, Y/N (and she means it)

And underneath, in crayon: "No eating my dino snacks! - Zara ♡"

Tee kept those rules posted long after Zara outgrew dino gummies, because some reminders were worth keeping forever.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[keraiiszn]

ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴋᴇʀᴀɪɪꜱᴢɴ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ʜɪ — ɪ’ᴍ ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏꜰᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ. ɪ’ᴍ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ. ʜᴇʀᴇ’ꜱ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛᴇ:

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

🕯️ ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ & ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴀʀɪᴇꜱ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ.

📖 ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪ’ᴠᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜱᴏ ꜰᴀʀ — ᴏɴᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇᴅ.

💌 ᴀꜱᴋ / ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ, ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ? ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

✧ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ | ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ✧ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇᴀʟ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ✧ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜱᴏꜰᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ & ꜱᴛᴏʀʏᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

✍🏽 ᴡʜᴏ ɪ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ:

ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪᴠᴇ ʀᴇɴᴛ-ꜰʀᴇᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ — ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜱᴛ, ʙᴇꜱᴛ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪ’ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟ ⬇️

➡️ ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ʙ. ᴊᴏʀᴅᴀɴ

➡️ᴛᴇᴇ ʜɪɢɢɪɴꜱ

➡️ᴅᴀᴍꜱᴏɴ ɪᴅʀɪꜱ

➡️ᴋᴇɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ

➡️ᴊᴜᴅᴇ ʙᴇʟʟɪɴɢʜᴀᴍ

➡️ᴛʀᴇɴᴛ ᴀʟᴇxᴀɴᴅᴇʀ-ᴀʀɴᴏʟᴅ

➡️ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ = ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ = ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴄʏ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀᴇ 💐

— ᴋᴇʀᴀɪɪꜱᴢɴ

[keraiiszn]

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ — ᴋᴇʀᴀɪɪꜱᴢɴ

ꨄ︎ - ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ☔︎︎ - ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ✆ - ꜱᴍᴀᴜ 🕮 - ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

𓂃✍︎ - ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ ♕ - ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ʙ. ᴊᴏʀᴅᴀɴ

ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ - 🕮 | ꨄ︎ | ✆

ᴏᴜʀꜱ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ - ꨄ︎

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ - ꨄ︎ | ♕

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ - 𓂃✍︎ | ☔︎︎

ʜᴏʟʏ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴇʟɪᴀꜱ - ♕ | 🕮 | coming soon...

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴛᴇᴇ ʜɪɢɢɪɴꜱ

ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ ꜱɴᴀᴄᴋ - ꨄ︎ | ♕

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴅᴀᴍꜱᴏɴ ɪᴅʀɪꜱ

ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴏɴ…

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴋᴇɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ

ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴏɴ…

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴊᴜᴅᴇ ʙᴇʟʟɪɴɢʜᴀᴍ

ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴏɴ…

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴛʀᴇɴᴛ ᴀʟᴇxᴀɴᴅᴇʀ-ᴀʀɴᴏʟᴅ

ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴏɴ…

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ

ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴏɴ…

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

​🇷​​🇪​​🇶​​🇺​​🇪​​🇸​​🇹​ ​🇲​​🇴​​🇷​​🇪​ ​🇨​​🇭​​🇦​​🇷​​🇦​​🇨​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇸​...

[keraiiszn]

RULES

🌸💞

ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴇ.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

1. ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴍʏ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ, ᴍʏ ʟᴇɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ. ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ.

—

2. ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ. ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ, ɴᴏ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ɴᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏɪɴɢ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. ᴀꜱᴋ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ — ᴏʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ.

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3. 18+ ᴏɴʟʏ. ɪ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴇʀᴏᴛɪᴄᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ, ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ 18, ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.

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4. ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ. ɪ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴏꜰᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ, ꜱᴇɴꜱᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ, ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ. ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ.

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5. ɴᴏ ᴜɴꜱᴏʟɪᴄɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴄʀɪᴛɪQᴜᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱʜᴏᴘ. ᴋɪɴᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪꜱ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ. ɴɪᴛᴘɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ɪ��� ɴᴏᴛ.

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6. ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ > ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ. ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ɪᴛ — ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ.

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7. ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ʟᴏᴠᴇ. ɪ’ᴍ ᴀ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴᴇʀ. ɪ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴀᴄᴇ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ — ᴏɴʟʏ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

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💌 ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ. ʙᴇ ᴄᴏᴏʟ. ʙᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟ. ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ɢʀᴏᴡꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ.