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beardedjoel · 2 months ago

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honey, honey | one: for the low, low price of!

sugar daddy! joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist

summary: you find yourself in a precarious situation financially, one that requires lying and risking the silver spoon you've grown up on. your father's oldest friend, joel, finds you in a compromising position but quickly becomes an unexpected solution to all your problems. 9.8k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, sugar daddy worthy age gap (reader is 21, joel is 54), inherent power dynamic imbalance from a sugar daddy arrangement, reader has shit parents and comes from money, one (1) jerk off session, playing it a little fast and loose with pov, slow burn!

a/n: well, here she is. i actually started this over a year ago but sent it to the back burner for ages, so it feels like such a long time coming! i hope you enjoy, these two are going on a journey together and i really hope you stick along for the ride. so, so excited for it! i'm attempting a slower burn with eventual smut this time around. it’s not the focus from the get go but instead some chemistry, banter, and confusing pining are taking center stage for a bit before they get freak nasty.

You stare down at your phone, scowling at the message on screen as the van jostles you on a turn, pulling into a new neighborhood. Your coworkers, Alicia and Gladys chat in the front seats while you sulk in the back. You don’t mean to be so off putting, but you’re reflecting on how you ended up here, staring at a text from your father inquiring about your day at the firm. Guilt squeezes your insides at the fabrication you’ve concocted, the way you couldn’t be further from the false narrative you’ve given to your parents, and with hardly anything to show for it yet.

“Wait…” you mutter, your eyes focusing and scanning along the perfectly manicured street of gorgeous brownstones rising up, all crammed together. You know that despite the small, more humble outsides of these homes, the insides are immaculate, thousands of square feet renovated to perfection. “I know this street.”

Alicia turns from the passenger seat, raising her eyebrows at you. “This richie rich neighborhood? Who do you know here?”

You feel your cheeks warm up, too embarrassed to admit to them that your own parents’ luxury apartment is on a street not too dissimilar to this. In fact, you don’t even need this job in the slightest, but have been desperate to make your own money under the radar, away from your parents’ obsessive peering into every aspect of your life. Every day that has passed since you hatched your little plan that had felt like some kind of genius at the beginning has only proven how futile it was to jump into it so hastily.

“I… swear I’ve been here before…” you mutter, mostly thinking out loud to yourself, eyes staring out the window as you wrack your brain.

When Gladys pulls into a drive, dipping below the house into a garage that opens for the van, your stomach tightens. It’s all too familiar, but you can’t quite place your finger on it. You haven’t been here for a few years, at the least.

“W-who’s our client today?” you ask urgently, tightening your hands into fists.

Gladys glances at her work tablet, filled with the itinerary for the entire week. “Mr. Miller, hon,” she replies before peering back down at the screen, confirming it. “Joel.”

You can tell you must look as shocked as you feel, eyes flashing with fear and going a little wider and your face dropping instantly.

“I-I know him,” you manage to stutter out. “Well, he knows my parents. Like, really well.”

Joel could not, under any circumstances, see you like this. What a disaster that would be - your rich daddy’s rich friend getting a house cleaning from said friend’s daughter. One who is supposed to be off interning somewhere. Instead, you’re plotting to live by scraping by, collecting money for what you hope could be an escape from this life, their life.

Your parents are both insistent on you taking over the family business - some corporate bullshit you have no interest in - so you’d sated them by claiming you were off gaining experience in between classes with some interning hours at a firm. You’re lucky that a friend of yours from college actually does work there, hoping if it came down to it, they could vouch for you. If the truth got out, you know the possibility that you would be cut off is high. It’s the kind of massive fallout you’re not sure you’re prepared to deal with yet.

The lies you’ve had to concoct and the harsh reality of cramming your schedule full between class and this job - scrubbing floors, endless vacuuming and wiping surfaces, your body aching after each and every day of work - was starting to get to you, but you had to persevere.

“They’re hardly ever even home when we come anyways, especially this Mr. Miller,” Alicia suggests at your panic, and you swallow and nod. Gladys agrees with her, then they shoot each other a concerned, confused look. They’ve been a team for a while, but you’ve only just met them a few weeks ago, assigned to train with them. Both of them are older momma bear types, having clung to your young ass like glue, vowing to teach you all the ropes and take good care of you, which you’d appreciated. You’d been lucky enough to have gotten a job with this particular company, having no experience in the field, or nay field for that matter. The client base they worked with was high end, their homes millions of dollars, the service only known to the more wealthy side of Manhattan.

“Y-yeah, you’re right. It’s totally fine.” You’re not sure if you’re trying harder to convince yourself or Gladys and Alicia, the two women staring you down with their brows wrinkled in worry.

It’s the last cleaning of the day, and all you need to do is get through it. It has to be fine, it just has to - you need the money. Desperately. You push out a small smile, moving to exit the van. “Let’s do this,” you add on a little more encouragingly after the two of them look less than convinced.

“There she is,” Gladys teases, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as you all start to unload all your supplies. You’re let in by a middle aged woman with dark hair in a sleek bob answering the garage door with a polite smile. His house manager or assistant, you realize. Men like Joel Miller had assistants, you remind yourself, to help take care of everything - the house, grocery lists for the week, light cooking, or even his schedule. She likely did it all.

You take in Joel’s home with wandering eyes, recalling now that you’d come here for dinner before - a family outing that your parents had dragged you to, the details of the place coming back to you as you all move further inside. It feels strange to be here without his permission, without your parents knowing where you are right now. Your chest is tight at the thought, but once you three get to work, you feel your anxiety dissipate as you get lost in the monotony of it - the drone of the vacuum, the mindless scrubbing of sparkling surfaces, the fresh lemon scent as you clean the bathrooms. Joel’s house isn’t all that dirty to begin with, an easy job compared to some of them you’d seen since you started.

You’re feeling downright pleasant by the time you’re finishing up, a job well done filling you with satisfaction as you wipe a thin layer of sweat off your forehead. You’re heading back to the main living room, hoping to link back up with Gladys and Alicia when you spot him.

He’s walking down the hallway with purpose, eyes glued down on his phone, dark framed reading glasses shielding his eyes from you further. His black suit hugs his body like it was meant for him, and you suppose it likely was tailored to his exact measurements, right to the very centimeter. You stop dead in your tracks, head whipping from side to side, looking for an out, a door you can rush into, but you’re trapped, the nearest one at least several paces behind you. When Joel glances up, he’s silent, stopping as he’s close to crashing into you and giving you a range of emotions rushing across his features - quizzical brows turning into full on confusion as he just stares.

Your name finally leaves his lips, almost incredulously. “Now what’re you doin’ here?” He takes in your outfit with his dark eyes - the branded tee shirt, your working slacks, and plain black work shoes - possibly one of the least flattering ensembles you could be wearing. “What is all this?”

“Not sure what you mean, Mr. Miller,” you spit out in a panic, keeping your voice professional, a high, sweet lilt as you hold your smile.

“C’mon now,” Joel urges, his brows coming together further in concern. He steps towards you with his voice lowered, but you step back a little almost instinctively, keeping your distance. Like you can run from this, from this mess you’ve suddenly made of your life. You break a little, lips faltering as your smile starts to fall. Tears prick behind your eyes, embarrassment from being caught creeping its way up from your chest.

“Please don’t tell my parents…” you mumble, darting your gaze away from his intense stare.

Joel pauses for a moment, adjusting the glasses up on his nose before deciding to take them off completely, tucking them into his jacket pocket.

“I don’t even know what I’d be tellin’ them, if I’m honest here,” he admits, rubbing a hand along his lips and chin, studying you. It’s starting to practically burn your skin, the way he stares, a man of confidence and command looking at you this way. Not something you were completely unaccustomed to, your father having plenty of business partners and associates with the same demeanor. But Joel felt different, like he was genuinely concerned for you.

“There you are,” Gladys huffs out, turning the corner behind Joel, her mouth forming a small "oh” when she sees who you’ve run into.

“Mr. Miller, great to see you, sir,” she chirps immediately, giving him her professional grin, one you’ve seen plenty of times already in the few weeks you’ve worked with her.

Joel, not forgetting his manners, smiles back at her and greets her, turning his body to let Gladys into the conversation. Alicia follows close behind, and you’re starting to burn up with embarrassment at this clusterfuck of a gathering you’ve found yourself in now.

“Everythin’ looks great, ladies. Why don’t you two head on out and I’ll steal her for just a bit,” Joel says, charming and smooth, his accent thick. “Think my office needs some special attention.”

Alicia and Gladys shoot each other a glance, then you, then Joel, seeming to try to piece everything together. Your cheeks couldn't possibly be any hotter, white hot and spreading up to your ears, knowing that this looks bad. Like Joel is about to take you into his office and do unspeakable things to you. The classic maid trope, or whatever.

“It’s okay,” you mouth quietly to the both of them, giving them an encouraging smile even though you feel shaky, like your stomach is bottoming out.

“She’s an old family friend in need of some catching up. In fact, I’ll drive her home after. Don’t y’all worry about it, I know you’ve got places to be,” Joel adds to sweeten the deal. The two ladies exchange another look, but then turn back to Joel, their faces slightly strained but professional.

“Of course, Mr. Miller. We’ll see you for the next service, then,” Alicia says a bit robotically. They both nod curtly and then bow out, not before peeking one last look at where you stand like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“This way,” Joel says, turning back to face you with a steely expression, brushing past you to lead you towards where you already know he’s going - his office. You hadn’t been in there today - Gladys had tackled the office, so it’s all new territory to you as you pass the threshold, taking in the modern but cozy decor. It’s mostly black and dark wood furniture, dark gray chairs but contrasted with airy white walls, a high ceiling, and colorful art, making the room feel spacious despite the dark features.

Joel sighs softly, shutting the door behind him, even though nobody else is here, no reason to need the privacy. It serves to make you even more nervous, and you lick your quickly drying lips, standing near the doorway with your hands folded in front of you.

“Look, Mr. Miller -” you start, wanting to explain yourself. Joel moves closer, sending you backing up into the room, cutting off your train of thought as his large, imposing form closes in on you.

“You gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on here?”

“W-what do you mean?” you ask innocently, knowing there are a myriad of very reasonable reasons for Joel to be questioning you right now. You’re not sure what charade you’re even trying to hold up at this point, it’s only pure panic. Another step closer, and another step backwards for you, he continues until the backs of your thighs hit the desk and you stop, surprised as you glance back at it behind you.

“Don’t play coy. Imagine my surprise when I see my one of my oldest buddies' daughters, knowing he takes care of his family, here cleanin’ my floors and toilets. Now don’t you think that’d strike me as odd?” His head cocks, and he looks at you seriously, brows raised. You can’t quite tell if he’s getting any satisfaction out of this, or if he actually seems angry.

“Mr. Miller, I - I can explain, okay?” you start nervously, and Joel waves a hand impatiently, as if to say go on then. “They, my parents, I mean, they want me to be in the family business, and I…” You sigh. “Don’t know what I want, but it’s not that.”

Joel stares at you for a long, quiet moment, flashing eyes studying your face, trying to read if you’re being truthful.

“And what’s this have to do with cleanin’ my house?” he asks curtly.

“I… well, it doesn’t. I mean, it does. I just need to make my own money. If I don’t follow in his footsteps, I think they’ll… cut me off,” you reply, deciding to try to be as blunt as he is. Your voice falters on those last words, the reality of it painful, twisting in your gut. What kind of parent cuts their child off for something so frivolous, so selfish?

Joel looks amused suddenly, cocking his head a little further, and you can tell he definitely doesn’t believe you. He’s so close, so in your personal space, you’re finding it hard to breathe. “So you’re sayin’ your daddy ain’t takin’ care of you?”

You bite the inside of your lip and give him a small nod. The thing about your dad was if you acquiesced, if you followed exactly the plan he’d laid out for you, you’d have been riding high, walking on easy street for the rest of your life. And if not, well, he’d always made it perfectly clear he didn’t deal with traitors, because what was the point of having children if they couldn’t take over your business for you? Sure, it was tempting to take the easy route, but maybe you’d gotten tired of it all, found your rebellious streak a little later in life than most people.

“Yes…” you say out loud, unable to believe you were sharing this with Joel of all people - someone more likely than anyone to feed this information straight back to your father. It’s not like you knew him well, despite him being one of your dad’s closest and oldest friends, one of his closest business partners and confidants. You’d spent a decent amount of time in the same room as Joel, but you only knew the surface level, just the polite, agreeable conversations you were expected to have. It typically was some kind of public function, or the holiday party at your parents’ place every year, maybe a dinner party sprinkled in here and there, but you’d certainly never been quite this close to Joel Miller. Or alone.

His face falls at the sincerity in your voice, seeming to feel the gravity of it weighing down on him. “Now what d’you mean, cut you off? Like, full on, ‘n everything?” He steps back a little, giving you some space, his brows scrunched together in concern and arms crossing over his chest.

“Er, with all due respect, Mr. Miller, I don’t think I should be talking to you about it all.” You slump back a little, pushing yourself off of where you lean back on his desk, glancing past him to look around his office. It’s tidy, bookshelves lining the far wall full of perfectly placed, perfectly organized books on all kinds of things - some practical and business related, some seeming more like guilty pleasures of fiction and nonfiction of various genres, but mostly mystery, it seems.

“Y’made it my business when you stepped into my house today though, didn’t you?” he quips back, but you detect a hint of teasing there, feeling it start to disarm you.

“C’mon, sit,” Joel says, seeming to soften when he notices you stuttering to reply, gesturing to one of the chairs that sits near the large bay window in the room, a matching one set up across from it. “This’ll be… confidential.” He smiles, trying to convince you, and you don’t know if you believe him, but the twinkle in his eye almost makes you want to. You decide to sit, smoothing your scratchy work slacks, crossing one leg over the other, feeling like you look as stiff as you feel.

Joel, on the other hand, looks relaxed as he sits back, legs spread wide, his large palms settling onto his thick thighs, fingers spread over them.

“I… don’t believe you,” you finally tell him. “What’s to stop you from telling my dad everything I say right now, or even that I was here in the first place?” you ask before feeling your heart sink a little at the likely prospect of it. Your life as you know it could be over, starting from scratch with one phone call from Joel.

Joel chuckles, the corner of one side of his mouth twitching upwards as he eyes you. “Look, I get it, I wouldn’t trust me either,” he replies, his hands lifting off of his legs to be thrown in the air before he fists his upturned palms and settles them on the arms of the chair. “I wanna hear you out, though. Your dad, he ain’t uh, without his faults, I know that.”

You try to hide your surprise, keeping your brows from twitching inward, your face showing the intrigue you feel. You breathe out, slow and steady. “My dad isn’t interested in anything but me being the next, well, him. And if I’m not interested in that, then I don’t think he’s interested in having me as his kid.”

Joel goes stone-like at your bare confession - so honest - and he seems to soak in the words quietly with serious consideration. “An’ where do they think you are right now, hm?” he finally questions, steady eyes on your anxious ones.

“An internship.” Your cheeks heat a little as you face your lie and how stupid it sounds when you say it out loud.

Joel chuckles again, this time looking a bit impressed by you. He shoots a handsome, devilish smirk your way and you avert his gaze. “Yeah? And they’re buyin’ it?”

You let out a small laugh of your own, releasing some tension, and shrug. “Seems like it.”

“Why… this? Why the, uh, cleaning?”

“Turns out the job market is pretty shit when you have no skills, no experience, and are trying to do things under the radar - y’know, name recognition around all the big places, and all of that.” Being spoiled for your entire life, never worrying about wanting anything, needing anything, had predictably led to you never having needed a job, even now into your early twenties. The only things you’d learned were with your dad, the days he’d dragged you up in his high rise to shadow him and start preparing you for the future. Your future, as directed by good ol’ dad.

Joel nods softly a few times, running a hand across his face. “Got it. An’ what exactly do you want to be doin’ if it ain’t workin’ for your daddy, fast trackin’ to CEO?”

“I…” you stutter, your eyes falling. That was the problem, wasn’t it? You hadn’t had the mindset, the freedom to wonder for so long, not realizing that you did have a choice in what you did with your life, that you could try to find a path you at least tolerated more than what your dad was going to have you do. You’d seen too much - the pressure, the stress, the kind of person it had made him into, and you wanted no part of that lifestyle.

“I don’t know yet, honestly,” you admit, embarrassed that you’d started this whole plan without an end goal, all built on a frustrated whim you had one day. “Maybe something in education? Maybe fashion, interior design? Something more creative, I think. Or I could even be a lawyer, help people out, or something.”

“Thas’ quite a laundry list, sweetheart,” Joel says, and your heart thuds at the pet name. You hate it, hate how it makes him sound condescending even if he isn’t meaning to, like you aren’t smart enough to figure this out for yourself.

“I know, I know,” you acquiesce. It was all a pipe dream, you knew that deep down. “I just needed to get away from it. I hate business school - it just feels like a load of shit, honestly, Mr. Miller. I don’t want to become like my dad.”

“An’ what’s that, hm? What’s becomin’ like your dad?”

You shake your head. “I-I’m not answering that. It’s your friend, and clearly you see some merit in him to stay close all these years. I… don’t want to ruin that for him, too.” The thought makes you sad. Your dad is already about to lose his only child if he finds you out, and you don’t want to bring losing Mr. Miller into it, too. While it was by your dad’s own choices and shortcomings that he’d lose you, you still find your heart squeezing a little for him at the thought.

“Fair enough,” he says with a small smile, rubbing his hands together before putting them back on the armrests, gripping it. He pushes himself up, standing and walking over to his desk, opening one of the top drawers and pulling something out. You can’t see from this angle, and fight the urge to get up and go see what has so suddenly grabbed his attention.

“How much?” he asks, grabbing a pen from a tiny box on the desk - a pen that likely costs more than what you’re making from this one job today.

Your lips part, mouth hanging open slightly. “What?” you ask, shaking your head.

“How much do you make in a week? Here at this job? I’ll pay you five times just f’you to quit it.”

“Mr. Miller… n-no,” you spit out, hopping up from the chair in a hurry. You rush towards the desk, your non-slip work shoes clunking along the hardwood until you reach the plush rug that surrounds his desk. “No,” you say a little more firmly, planting your hands on the desk, standing opposite of him.

“And why not?” He smirks now, like he’s somehow having fun here, and it irritates you. That would only make one of you having a nice time, because you are certainly fully out of your depth here.

“B-because! It’s ridiculous, that’s why. I don’t need handouts,” you say indignantly, now moving both of your hands to your hips, standing taller.

“Sounds like you might,” he half-teases, looking down at where he’s pulled out his checkbook onto the desk. His face falls suddenly and he rubs the back of his neck. “Jus’… I don’t like hearin’ what I’m hearin’. Could never imagine cuttin’ off Sarah, and if that’s true what you say about your dad, well, I…” he glances up to you with a more serious look in his eyes - pity.

Like your father, Mr. Miller also only has one daughter, Sarah, who as far as you’ve heard is well and thriving. Doing some kind of work in animal rescue, you think. You two had never been close given the over ten year age gap between you two - Joel had Sarah relatively young, and as long as you’ve known them, her mother hasn’t been fully in the picture. You’d always noticed how much Joel cared about her, how good of a father he was, remembering the pangs of jealousy you’d get as a kid when you saw how engaged he was with Sarah.

“You’re a good dad, that’s why,” you murmur in reply, eyes casting downwards.

“I try t’be, I suppose,” he says, sounding more bashful. “C’mon, jus’ name it, sweetheart. No harm done, it’ll be our secret.”

“Wh- what am I even supposed to do? If you give me the money? What do I…” You swallow hard. “Owe? What do you get out of this?”

Joel’s energy turns a little lighter, his smirk returning. “Let’s just say I enjoy helping you. I want to. Nothin’ owed, except coming by same time next week for your next check. We can talk more then, give y’some time to think.”

Think? About what? You almost scoff, but reign it in at the last second, fighting your eyes from rolling on top of it. “Mr. Miller, this is…”

“Ridiculous? Is it, really?”

Oh, he’s good, so convincing when he wants to be. Suave and calculated yet warm at the same time. You understand how he got to be so successful, how so many people likely fall at their feet to just be a part of the air he breathes, the aura he fills a space with. He’s a giant, knowing how to command a room, take up just enough space, yet feel so relatable at the same time.

“I’d feel too guilty…” you say quietly, your shoulders sagging in defeat.

“More guilty than doing this job, droppin’ out of school behind your parents back?”

Your skin is burning up, your brain at war with itself. He’s too insistent, there has to be some angle here that you’re missing, some reason he’d be so kind to you. Leverage - blackmail, maybe - to your father, to be able to hold it over your head to get what he wants at some point.

“Hey, c’mon. I’m serious, sweetheart. Just the check, nothin’ more,” Joel says more urgently, seeing the way you’re starting to waver.

“How can I trust you?” you finally spit out, and Joel leans back in his office chair, just watching where you stand. “I’m sorry, it’s all very nice and everything, but no. I c-can’t. I shouldn’t. I need to do this for myself.”

You turn to leave, and you hear the creak of Joel’s chair as he sits forward, watching you throw the office door open and move with purpose, rushing to get yourself out of this situation as fast as possible. You feel the spell lift immediately now that you’re out of reach, whipping past his fine furnishings and art as you move through the hallway back to the foyer. You hear Joel, hot on your tail, his energy a little more frantic than he’s been as he follows you.

“At least let me drive you home,” he finally offers as he rushes to catch up. You keep moving, shaking your head.

“N-no, I’ll just get a ride or something. Call my driver,” you throw at him over your shoulder, and his hand on your wrist stops you in your path just as the front door is in sight. You fully turn your head to face him now, and his eyes look soft, like he does care.

“Offer’ll stay on the table, okay?” Joel says and you just let your lips part, meeting his gaze for a moment. It’s intense, the standoff between the two of you, his eyes searching for weakness, for any crack that indicates you’ll give in. You offer him a succinct nod, slipping out of his grip and not looking back as you step out into the bright sunlight of the evening, shielding your eyes before pulling out your phone to call Karl, the man who has been your personal driver for years. Your father hired him, but he’s been nothing but loyal to you - you know Karl has kept every secret of where you’ve been, overheard phone calls, arguments with your father. He never says a word, never spreads the information - he’s paid well, and that extra cash pays for his silence.

In the back of the car, your phone buzzes in your lap while you stare contemplatively out the window. You ignore it, letting your eyes glaze over as you watch the houses pass you by on the way out of Joel’s neighborhood and back towards downtown.

What if this was your chance? Your only option to really get out from underneath your parents? It could be a huge cushion, much more than you’d make doing what you’re doing now. At this rate, it would take ages to get enough to push you through school, where you’d already have to start from scratch, leave Columbia and start an entirely new curriculum, most likely. Find a much cheaper school, then take care of housing, bills, everything on top of it that you’d never been prepared to have to worry about in your life, always promised the comforts of your parents money. You knew you were lucky, going around with your life spoon fed to you, but you wanted to feel something, the part of you that was excited about anything having died off completely when you realized the spoon had been fed to you through a cage. Live this way or we starve you, cut you off.

You sigh, dropping your head into your hand where it rests along the window of the car. The noise of Manhattan traffic goes in one ear and out the other, fading into oblivion as you realize you may have made a mistake by leaving so soon, not hearing Joel out.

Did you have a choice?

Your phone buzzes again, a reminder of the message from your father you’d ignored and you tear your eyes off the passing landscape to peer down at your lap. Your face falls, brows pushing together when you see it’s an unknown number texting you.

Unknown: If you change your mind, let me know. - JM

How the hell? You stare down at the message, eyes scanning rapidly over the screen in disbelief. You scoff quietly, but find your lips turning into a smile before you can stop it, unconsciously putting your fingers over your them as if Karl seeing you grin like this could give it all away.

You: How did you get this number?

Joel: I think you underestimate how persistent I can be.

You: Does it hurt your ego to take no for an answer? Is that what this is?

You eagerly lick your lips, smile growing as you find yourself so quick to banter with him. It’s always so much easier over text, you think to yourself, to be a little more bold, a little more careless. Joel had a warm, welcoming energy, but it doesn’t mean you’re immune to the way he charms, the way he seems to be a man who gets what he wants more often than not.

Joel: I think it’ll hurt you more than it does me sweetheart.

You: I’m thinking about it, okay?

Joel: Think away.

You tuck your phone away, flipping it over on your lap so you can’t see the screen anymore, drumming your fingers along the back of the case as you feel a surge of frustration wash over you. If Joel’s offer is genuine, if he really expects nothing in return, you’d be a complete fool to pass it up, right? Who passes up free money? You knew you were screwed either way, really - the job you had right now wasn’t getting you anywhere near achieving your dreams. You needed more, you needed support. Financially first of all, but if you were honest, someone like Joel with some life experience to help you figure out your next steps couldn’t hurt.

Fuck.

You wince and flip your phone back over, unlocking it to where the messages still sit on your screen, taunting you. Your fingers go flying before you can stop yourself, your heart starting to pick up in pace.

You: You’re serious? I wouldn’t owe you anything? Have to pay you back someday?

Joel: Serious as can be.

You: $800 a week. Without tips from lovely clients like you.

Joel is quiet on the other end for a while, slower than his usual response thus far, and your throat gets a little tight. You swear, if he was backing out now, or worse, sending screenshots of your conversation to your father, you were going to have it out with Joel Miller. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Instead, a few moments later, a text comes through, a photo. That same checkbook, the background the sleek black surface of his desk, with the top check filled out for four thousand dollars. Signed and everything, with the memo line reading ‘knew you’d make the right choice’. Your hand shakes a little, all of this feeling wrong suddenly now that it's gone this far.

Joel: 9am tomorrow.

Joel sits back, satisfied as he smirks at his phone. The check lays in front of him, taunting him, his energy buzzing and satisfied picturing your pretty hands taking it from him tomorrow. He sighs heavily, a hand creeping up his thigh to where he’s started to bulge through his black dress slacks.

“Fuck…” he murmurs quietly to himself as he palms it, his hard and wanting cock desperate for any relief. It would be wrong, should be wrong, if you’re the one involved in all of this. But he can’t care when he pictures your lips smiling with the check in hand, you depositing the money and buying yourself something pretty with it, taking care of bills, getting a nice meal. You spin in a new dress or top, showing it off to him, bought with that chunk of change he’d so willingly given to you. Just the tiniest of dents in his finances, so much more where that came from if you’d let him. He’s hardly realized it, the way his hand had undone his belt and zipper while he got lost in the fantasy, hard cock in his fist as he pictures it over and over. He tries to make it not you, not his friend's daughter as he immerses himself in the scenes, but he’d be remiss if he tried to deny that you’re a gorgeous young woman, that you’d look so good doing everything he’s picturing.

“Fuck, oh god…” Joel whimpers while his hand moves along his cock, slickened from the bit of precum leaking out the tip and the saliva he’d haphazardly spit down there when he started. He stares at the check, your hands on it over and over, your pretty lips and smile and the way he could give you more and more and more until you wanted for nothing. He grunts, hips stuttering forward as he fucks his fist quickly and finds himself coming faster than usual, his release taking him by surprise with a loud moan.

“Christ,” Joel murmurs as he breathes heavily, quickly cleaning himself up with a tissue before rushing to the powder room connected to his office, washing his hands of it all. He stares at himself in the mirror, such a bastard for what he’s doing, all the secrecy inlaid in his plan.

Your father… one of his oldest friends, and this is what he’s doing with that friendship? That empire of business savvy they built together? Years of trust, of advising one another, throwing it all away for a little gratification on his end? No, he knows this is about more than just him, this could really help you if what you said about your father was true. He knows your dad isn’t an easy man to live with - he’s got a short temper and is stubborn as hell, a black and white thinker if there ever was one. If he truly was saying he’d cut you off, then well, Joel was starting to think he’d believe that.

And he wants to be the one to ease that burden for you.

You fuss with your appearance yet another time, anxiety pooling in your gut as you inspect your hair and complexion, searching for anything amiss. It’s not like Joel hadn’t seen you a complete mess yesterday, your bland outfit so far from what you were used to wearing, your appearance an afterthought as you went into work at an early hour.

But last night, as you tossed and turned, anticipating meeting back up with Joel today, you’d wondered what he expected out of you. Someone pretty to look at, someone deserving of the money? Would you get there and find Joel completely different, taunting the check in your face unless you decided to get on your knees and suck his cock? Let him get a quick fuck in for the money? There was no way he was that charitable, just willing to drop four grand because you’d given him your daddy issues sob story yesterday.

So what was the catch?

There always was one - men with money didn’t just give it away for free unless it was to charity, wanting to look good. And you surely weren’t a charity case by any means. Sex for money seemed like the next logical option to your tired, frazzled brain as you laid awake in the dark. You didn’t know if he presented it like that, would you go along with it? Would you, this far in already, bring yourself to your knees for him?

Joel Miller is certainly handsome, nobody could deny that, but you’d never thought of him in that way, not really. Maybe noticing his broad, muscled shoulders stretching across his suits when you’d seen him, his cocky, warm smile that seemed to melt hearts everywhere he went. He’d always seemed kind, more amiable than your parents’ insufferable network of friends, which you’d taken notice of and respected Joel for over the years. But you’d never thought of yourself with someone older like him, despite seeing those young dates being toted on wealthy, older men’s arms to all kinds of charity events and parties over the years. Would you want that? To be seen like that?

You feel your skin tingle as the thought comes to you again this morning while you get dressed. Joel Miller in a lavish, designer suit, tailored perfectly to his body, you next to him in an equally gorgeous gown that he paid for, your hand slipped between his body and his thick bicep as he glides into a room full of people with you. And he’s proud of how good you look on his arm, how he can show the world just what he’s bought, what he’s paid for. Your head shakes violently as if to jolt the thought far away from you.

“No…” you whisper to yourself. It wouldn’t get that far, you wouldn’t let it. Maybe you’d just take the one check and run, tell Joel you couldn’t be what he was looking for. But that’s when you realize you don’t even know what it is that he may want to get out of this, the curiosity eating at you.

That bastard. Such an enigma he’d painted himself as yesterday when he’d so cooly offered you the money like it was no bother, like he’d expected nothing back. There was always something, always a trade - if you learned anything from your father, it was that.

You can't shake that incessant thought, walking up the steps of Joel’s brownstone, hesitantly knocking on his door and swallowing down the lump in your throat. The assistant you’d met yesterday opens it with a polite smile, beaming at you.

“Welcome. Mr. Miller will be right out,” she says, guiding you to a plush daybed off to the side. You just nod, a little dumbfounded as you step back into his grand foyer. It’s a lavish room with tall ceilings, a skylight at the top pouring extra light in along with the floor to ceiling frosted windows on either side of the front door. Joel’s dress shoes click along the floor, the sound bouncing off the walls as you stiffen and then freeze where you sit. You see him come into view, the top button of his pale blue dress shirt unbuttoned, navy slacks adorning the bottom of his look. He looks a little frazzled himself, like he’d tossed and turned just as much as you had last night. You hadn’t considered the possibility that Joel could have reservations about this now, too, since he’d been the one so eager to offer it up yesterday.

“Thanks, Clara,” Joel says kindly, giving her a nod before Clara skirts along the edge of the room, dismissing herself at Joel’s signal. You watch her go, confidently striding away before you skim your eyes up to Joel’s face, trying not to look too guilty.

“Back this way,” he says, holding out a hand in the direction of his office as if you weren’t here only yesterday. You stand, meeting him, and he quickly takes you in, noticing your complete change in style from yesterday - dressed much more like the businesswoman he knows you loath with a pencil skirt on. He tries not to laugh at the irony as you follow him back, taking that same path you’d just been on yesterday, a strange sense of deja vu washing over you.

You’re silent, just trying to breathe, to remember to stand your ground, not do anything you don’t absolutely want to do. You haven’t signed a contract, you aren’t bound to this, you two are just… talking. Joel smirks as he eyes you, clearly trying to walk in with confidence, but he knows this look - you’re apprehensive about the arrangement, you have questions. They always have questions.

He curves around his desk, pulling out his highback office chair and sinks into it, you doing the same in one of the sleek armchairs in front of his desk. It feels too much like a professional meeting, and your skin prickles with discomfort at how formal this all seems now. His fingers scratch along the checkbook on the desk, and you salivate as you keep widened eyes on it, knowing the number written on there, the promise of more of it to come. Your way out.

“So…” Joel says cooly, letting his hands link together and pulling them behind his head as he leans back a bit, the picture of relaxation. “Let’s talk.”

Is this some kind of sugar daddy situation, or what?

Joel laughs, a genuine smile across his face at your blunt question as he sits across from you.

“Well, in a lot of ways, I ‘spose it is,” he answers casually and honestly. You don’t understand how he can maintain this cool facade, this relaxed attitude given the circumstances. You’d think something so awkward and uncomfortable could get anyone frazzled, but then again, you take it this isn’t Joel’s first go-around with this type of offer. He goes on. “I’ll try to be blunt for both our sakes. We’re busy people. I want to… go beyond jus’ the checks. I’d pay for your lifestyle - school, car, whatever you want. Treat you, too. Give you money for all the things your pretty little heart desires, see you enjoyin’ it.”

That was not what you’d expected him to say. You stare wordlessly, stunned, expecting him to go on, to tell you now what you have to do to earn all of it. He remains quiet though, finally looking the tiniest bit sheepish as the both of you size each other up.

“…And you get?” you finally ask, your face screwed up in confusion as you shrug, throwing your hands up.

Joel smirks again, and you notice the dimple on the side of his face that he seems to prefer tilting his mouth upwards. “I get exactly that. What I said. You enjoyin’ it.”

Your mouth hangs open slightly, eyes narrowing in his direction. You give a tiny shake of your head. “No… there has to be something. One day you’ll turn it around on me, blackmail me or something.”

Joel laughs again, and you’re starting to get irritated at how blasé he seems about all of this. Your foot starts to tap anxiously on the rug underneath your feet, arms crossing over your chest. You try to remain unimpressed as you stare him down, but he’s not budging in the slightest, remaining cool as ever.

“You really think that’s the kind of guy I am, do you now?” he asks with amusement.

You scoff, pinching the inside of your lip between your teeth. “How should I know? You offer me a bunch of money and we hardly know each other, Mr. Miller.”

“First off, Joel, please, unless you’re into that, I ‘spose.” He gives you a suave smirk and your lips part a little, cheeks heating almost immediately at his words and their insinuation before you check yourself, turning back to the conversation. You’re determined not to let his charm get in the way of you walking out of here with your future secured.

“Okay, then, Joel. I just… you don’t want something from me in return? It’s not that I’m not grateful, I just can’t understand.” You tut and glance around the room for a moment to collect your thoughts. “I mean you get it, right? People with money always want something out of it. I’ve seen it my entire life.”

Joel gives you an understanding look. “I do, I get it, sweetheart. If you want me to want somethin’ out of it…” he trails off, pondering for a moment. “If that’d make you feel better about takin’ the money, then why don’t y’come spend some time with me. Let me take you out, or jus’ come by for a nice dinner, me ‘n you. Get to know each other a little, keep an old man company, hm?”

You roll your eyes with a breathy chuckle pushing out of you, feeling yourself relaxing the tiniest bit at his appeal. “Really trying to play the sympathy card calling yourself old, I see,” you say, quirking a teasing brow. You grow more serious with your next words, worrying that you’re signing yourself up for something you aren’t sure you want or even understand. “But uh, I… could do that… if that’s all you want.”

Joel’s gears are turning, and you see a flash of recognition across his face as it falls a little. He leans forward, propping his forearms on the desk, his brows knit tight and eyes narrowed while they watch you. “D’you think I expect you to sleep with me?”

You nearly choke on nothing, just the air that you’re now fighting to gasp in as you clear your throat. Your cheeks burn like something fierce, that notion you’d been so worried about as you tossed and turned last night now sounding so obscenely ridiculous when Joel says it out loud.

“I - I thought maybe that was how this sort of arrangement worked, l-like an unspoken expectation or something. But if you’re saying no -“

“I’m saying no.” Joel is hard with the words, concise, and his gaze ices over. He was kidding himself if he thought he wasn’t even remotely attracted to you, but he was already putting himself in a precarious enough spot with the secrecy of giving you this money behind your father’s back, let alone deciding to bring something as complicated as sex into it.

You didn’t need to know that just the thought of handing you this check made him start to get hard inside his slacks. You didn’t need to know that this wasn’t the first arrangement of this kind for him, the only difference being that most of them involved a relationship of some type, or at least something physical once and a while. There had been times it was just about the money, and sometimes that was enough to satisfy him without the women having to fall into his bed, too. He’d hated that he fell into such a cliche - wealthy older man toting around a younger, gorgeous woman on his arm - but he’d come to accept it by now that this was who he was, trying to come to terms with the shame of it.

“Right… right, good,” you confirm, trying to sound equally as sure. What was that you were feeling? Disappointment? Relief? All you could sense for certain was the way your stomach tightened with nerves as you delved into this conversation with Joel.

“We got enough on our plate without all that, don’t you think?” he asks, a very roundabout way of putting it, you think. Maybe he’s too afraid to hurt your feelings or directly tell you that he’s not interested in sleeping with you, even if that’s what he’d normally do in a situation like this. Joel Miller was nothing if not direct, though, you’d noticed in the last two days. You aren’t even sure why you’re thinking this way - it’s not like you’d really shown much interest in Joel, never thinking of him as accessible in that way. It never went past him being an extended part of your family, one of your father’s inner circle. So if he didn’t want to have sex with you, fine, your ego could take the hit.

“Jus’ the money, helpin’ out a family friend who needs it,” Joel adds, seeing the way you’re a bit lost in thought. You bring yourself back, meeting Joel’s eyes, noticing the rich color of them in the early daylight streaming into his office. They’re so warm despite the chilly facade he can put on.

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Yeah, when you put it like that… I mean we go way back, right? You’re practically family.” You cringe at the words, kind of hating the implication when you’re half flirting with the man and then proceeding to call him your family. “Uh, well, you know what I mean…”

Joel chuckles again, and you return it a bit nervously. “I do, sweetheart. Known your daddy a long time, so I’m trying to be, as dumb as it sounds, respectful.”

Fuck my father, your mind churns out in a flash, not daring to mutter it under your breath. Fuck him for putting you in this position, pushing you to this point where you’ve ended up in Joel Miller’s office, about to become his latest sugar baby because your dad can’t figure out how to love his only child apart from what it could bring to his business.

“Yeah…” you say, putting on a grin that you fear may have started to turn a little diabolical. “Respectful.” You’d be lying to yourself if you thought that this wasn’t starting to entice you more, the idea of such a big screw you to your father.

“So let’s talk terms…” Joel starts more pragmatically, picking up that same pen from the little box on his desk, tapping it on the hard surface a few times before he holds it over a blank page on an open black leather bound notebook. “I like t’start at five hundred for allowance. See how it goes. Then up to two thousand. An’ that’s just for you, and you alone. Your bills will come to me. Your apartment, tuition, your car, anything that’s a bill, I don’t want to see a cent of that allowance come out for it. Is that clear?”

Your mouth is slowly opening to gape at him, eyes tracking across his face as you try to follow what he’s saying, thinking it must be a joke. “S-sorry, but two thousand dollars? A… month?” you ask incredulously. That already sounds like too much to be going from Joel’s pocket to yours if he’s also taking care of your bills.

Joel goes completely smug, lips pressed tightly into a smirk. “You’re cute,” he deadpans. “Per week, sweetheart.”

You almost gasp, shaking your head. “I- no, I just need money for school, to make sure I can do any major I want in school, I don’t n-“

“Shh,” Joel interrupts you. “You came here lookin’ for my help, and this is how I like to do things. You deserve to have fun, not just pay for classes and have no extra money f’yourself.”

“I have plent-“ you start, referring to the extensive funds you have access to thanks to your parents. Funds that you do realize could be ripped out from underneath you at any time, you realize all over again with a quick jolt of fear.

“Enough,” Joel snips, raising a hand, palm facing you for further effect. “If what you tell me is true, I think your daddy ain’t gonna be too keen to pay for all your favorite things you’re used to gettin’ when he learns the truth, is he?”

You look down, ashamed. Were you really that shallow? Is that how you’d been raised to be? Joel sees through your facade right to your designer bag and clothes, all the expensive things you’d gotten accustomed to. But he doesn’t judge you for it - he understands it and he’s a part of that world, whether he likes it or not.

“No…” you murmur in defeat.

“And I’d like to keep seeing you in pretty things: nice clothes, shoes, gettin’ yourself pampered. So, two thousand dollars per week once you earn it.” He grins, setting the pen down and folding his hands together on his desk. You stay quiet, letting him go on, your heart steadily thrumming in your chest louder and louder with every word he says.

“Weekly allowance is, of course, a suggestion. If you need somethin’ more, you ask me. And otherwise, I’ll set your bills, tuition, all of it, to be paid by me.”

“I mean, weekly allowances?” you sputter out, “This is a sugar daddy thing.”

Joel doesn’t waver, he just smiles a little at you, completely unfazed. “We can call it whatever you want, but I see you want it too. I’m gonna be straight w’you here - I want to do this. I like you. I think you’ve got spunk and deserve to carve out a place for yourself in this world. Doin’ something you want, not half heartedly runnin’ your dad’s company someday. So… Do you still want this?” he asks, picking up the check, holding it out towards you. “Don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t.”

Joel’s face is kind, like he’s listening, attentive, acting like he doesn’t have a plethora of meetings or things on his plate today, which you know he must. He’s content to hear you, if you have something to say. You feel your whole body sitting tense and rigid in his chair, your mind spinning. It’s all becoming too much, this idea you had to get out on your own seems to be poked with more holes every day you’ve been trying to work and save up. You don’t really have much of a concept of money, once again thanks to your parents who never thought to put in the effort of teaching you. Why bother when there’s so much of it to go around?

“I- I know… what I’m doing now, the house cleaning, isn’t going to cut it long term. Especially if my parents find out I’ve been bullshitting them before I can save up enough for school and stuff… I just don’t k-“ you clear your throat, holding back the way your voice wants to crack as you fight tears springing to your eyes. “I feel so out of my depth,” you sigh. “I have so much to learn about real life and it’s been so… overwhelming.”

You breathe out a shaky breath, feeling your chest loosen a bit - you’d been holding this all in, doing it on your own for weeks now, not even able to trust your friends with the information even if just to vent about it because everyone in your world always has an angle. It’s exhausting.

Joel hears your words and stands up, going the few paces around his desk to stand next to you. He lays a hand on your shoulder, and you look up from where you sit, seeing him through slightly watery eyes, but you refuse to cry and break down in front of Joel. It would be too embarrassing to recover from. But you’d be damned if you didn’t feel like you were about to snap in half, holding in your tears for weeks now as you navigated this foolish path you’d set yourself on.

He gives your shoulder a squeeze before moving to sit down next to you, turning the identical chair to face you more, settling himself down and crossing one ankle over his knee. He leans towards you, and you do the same, angling your body in the chair to face him. His gaze is so steady and clear, giving you that full sense of his presence once again.

“Y’know…” he starts, scratching a hand through his beard. “I think you’ve got more potential than you’re givin’ yourself credit for.”

You snort, a tiny scoffing sound. “Oh yeah?” you spit out sarcastically, “That I have no experience, no references, nothing to show for all the time I wasted doing what my dad wanted? Except for a last name and a family that people recognize.”

Joel tuts and bites the inside of his lip. “You’re smart and so young with all this potential. You know this kinda talk ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Neither is feelin’ sorry for yourself. All you can do is use the opportunities you’re given, like this one landing in your lap from me today. Right?”

“Y-yeah, I mean, I guess you’re right. This just feels… kind of wrong.”

“Well we ain’t a couple of saints for doing this behind your daddy’s back, that’s for sure.”

You find yourself chuckling softly amidst the seriousness of the situation weighing on your chest. You honestly don’t have a clue how your father would react if he found out about this - he’s unpredictable and stubborn, and you’ve seen his vindictive side more than a handful of times. It makes your stomach clench a little at the thought of him unleashing any of that in your direction. You strengthen your resolve, unwilling to let your father stop you from exploring new horizons any longer. It was your life to live, and it was about time you did what you wanted.

“A-alright,” you tell Joel, sighing out a calming breath and sitting up straighter. “Alright, I’m in, then. What’s next?”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

#fic: honey honey #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #sugar daddy! joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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2neaky · 1 month ago

Text

. ۪ ֗ “ 𝑁𝑜—𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑂𝑛𝑒 ”⋆˚🫧

PART 1 • [this fic has been split into two parts]

21k! CONTENT WARNING (MDNI) • phone s*x (mutual m*sturbation), edg*ng, unprotected s*x, p -> v s*x, b*ckshots, squ*rting, choking, c*rvix kissing, rough consensual s*x, dominating male character, possessive behavior/talk, dummification, foot f*tish, minor size k*nk, tummy bulge, heavy use of dirty talk, use of profanity, nicknames (Mami, Mama, Papa, Pa), use of the n-word (all characters & Author are Black) • INSPIRED BY THIS POST • CHARACTER VISUALZ

PART 2 HERE ->

TENSION TIES HER BROWS INTO A KNOT, disturbing the usually smooth and clear surface of her skin.

The pounding at the base of her skull is like a jackhammer to concrete. Nothing even close to a minor headache from hunger or dehydration—though the two factors are likely at play here.

Another migraine, she knows.

The ailment has unfortunately been reoccurring for the last two months. No amount of pain reliever, water, or “relaxation” seems to be a solution.

A solution—the solution—would be to come up on the perfect new home for herself.

Her pupils tremble as they struggle to uphold their deadpan stare on the MacBook’s bright screen. The mild sting in her eyes doesn’t distract her anymore.

Within the last three hours since sitting up in bed, they’ve seen more numbers than her lagging brain can keep up with. Numbers that just keep climbing as the conditions and amenities of newer listings lessen.

These sellers must be out of their fucking minds.

$3,000 a month for a one-bedroom unit, with no washer and dryer?

Almost $600 in amenities—per month?

$2,500 for just a studio?

Every new and disappointing option makes that worrying voice at the back of her head louder. Because—really—she’s only got about a month and a half left of this lease, and she’s definitely not staying here.

She can’t afford to. Not even with her new job.

What started as a fun and optimistic search, has turned into one full of anxiety. As time withers away, her standards for a new apartment have been whittled down to the bare minimum.

Is it fair to say that she’s become desperate?

Whether or not she’ll even be able to find a new place before her lease is up, is unknown at this point.

Funding a new place is her only option at this point. The thought of moving back in with her father is unfathomable. She just can’t.

Minutes of her teeth worrying at her bottom lip; they finally rip through the soft, pink skin. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she swipes her tongue over the leaking nick as she proceeds to the eleventh page of results.

These newer listings lie near the outskirts of the city, closer to the suburbs. A problem when the public transportation of her state doesn’t reach those areas, her job is in the heart of the city and—oh! She doesn’t have a car.

“Fuck.”

A defeated whine squirms from her mouth as her head falls in her hands. The heavy comforter over her legs is hot and suffocating. But, at the very least, it feels good to close her eyes for once.

Tiny beads of tears line her closed lids, pearling up along her thinning lash extensions—which are way past their time for a fill-in. And fuck, she can’t even afford to do that.

Her chest deflates as a long and slow exhale is dragged from her chest. Following suit, is a wet sniffle.

When she finally picks her bonneted head out of her hands, her blurred vision waltzes around her bedroom.

The light is off, the sunlight does all of the work; pouring in through the tall windows and spilling itself against the cool, plaster-colored wood flooring. It reaches farther in some areas than others.

For instance, it washes over her in a shower of light, yet hesitates to touch the corners of her room where clothes, shoes, and other miscellaneous bullshit are strewn about. She shuts her eyes with the reminder of her need to clean this pigsty.

Every morning for the last few weeks—when she doesn’t have work—has been like this: wake up, check listings for hours, rot in bed for another two while wallowing, then finally picking herself up out of bed to take care of her body’s needs.

It seems to be an endless cycle that she can’t rescue herself from. And she desperately wants to escape.

The sharp ping of her phone interrupts her regularly scheduled sulking. She’s surprised it hasn’t died yet. Her arm drags to reach out for the small device buried within her rumpled, old sheets. It takes some feeling around to find it.

When she brings it to her face, the dim screen alights to show off the brand new notification: a message.

Sito💢 — Mall?

His timing never really errs on the correct side of things. Another sigh, this one gentle, blows past her cracked lips.

You — Too broke and stressed.

A tiny balloon of shame bursts within her as she had pressed ‘send’ on the confession.

He won’t clown her for it, Sito’s never been one to shit on another person’s financial situation. His family’s been down at a point.

The difference between hers and his, though, is that they were able to pick themselves up out of that. Something she still faults her father for being unable to do.

Even if it were a circumstance of luck, why couldn’t they be as lucky?

Another ping steals her attention away.

Sito💢 — Don’t even tb it

Sito💢 — Yk igu

She stares at his messages, for how long, she’s not sure. Regardless, her delayed response must’ve been long enough to trigger something in him. More messaged come.

Sito💢 — Could tb it over food, I’m buying

Sito💢 — Lmk

The word “food” reminds her body that the last time it’s consumed anything was honestly too long ago to remember—and that she desperately needs to go grocery shopping.

Her stomach feebly growls.

Sito💢 — Could tb it over food, I’m buying ?

↳ 👍

��

Even with the promise of food, getting ready proved to be an arduous task. She isn’t in the highest of spirits to really dress as nicely as she usually would.

Fishing through the laundry spilling from her closet, she finds her blue Gallery Department hoodie buried under a pile of clothes.

It’s actually Sito’s. Just one of the many pieces she’d stolen from his closet during a visit over to his place.

The hoodie pools around her upper half. She’s got to tuck it under her bra so that it sits right on her. The only pair of denim shorts she can find are her choice of bottoms for the day.

Her fresh white ankle socks just barely peek out over the low tops of her Converses—a years-old birthday gift.

She ambles out of her room with her phone in one hand and her purse dangling from the other. It isn’t until she reaches the kitchen that she takes a knee to lace up her sneakers.

Just as she finishes the bow of her laces on the second foot, her phone buzzes from beside her foot on the floor. Sito’s contact name flashes across the screen with a FaceTime call. She answers, and her face shrinks as his takes up the entire screen.

His caramel skin glistens. Fresh braids line his twisting head, dark eyes straying from the camera as his focus is clearly on the road ahead of him.

“Yo.”

“Hey,” she mumbles.

He glances at her, doing a quick once-over of the screen.

“You good?”

“Not really.”

His lips press together in thought as he looks at the road ahead of him. “You gon’ be good, I’m pulling up right now. Come downstairs.”

“Alright.”

“Aight.”

The call ends just as quickly as it started. She shoves her phone into her hoodie pocket and slings her purse over her right shoulder. Quick to grab the keys to her apartment, she heads out of the door and locks it behind herself.

The elevator ride down to the lobby is really a blur. Though, her mind seems to return once she catches sight of the sleek, black Audi Q5. The smile that appears on her face is weak, but at least it’s there.

She’s quick to get to the passenger-side door, pulling it open. “Hey,” she says softly, as she hops into the seat.

The scent of his car warms her chest. So characteristically him. Yet, she can pick up on the separate scent of the cologne he’s wearing, Tom Ford’s Bitter Peach.

He makes the first move, reaching over the middle console to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Wassup.”

She leans into him, her cheek squished against the ball of his shoulder. The hug barely lasts a second. And even with his sweater on, she still feels the chill of when he pulls away.

“You smell good,” he says over the sound of her shuffling in her seat, getting situated.

“Forreal?” The crisp click of her seatbelt cuts through the air.

Looking away, he puts the car in drive, carefully pulling out of the temporary parking spot. “Yeah.”

“Funny thing is, I didn’t even spray nothing on me. I was in a rush, I forgot.” She gathers the hoodie in a pinch, lifting the thick fabric to her freckled, button nose for a quick sniff. “Mmh,” she hums, dropping it. “You’re probably smelling my old perfume on it, I didn’t wash this since the last time I wore it.”

As he’s driving, he seems to do a double-take at her.

“Hol’up—that’s my Gallery hoodie you got on?”

A small, quiet giggle floats from around the nail of her thumb as it’s pushed between the top and bottom rows of her teeth. “I was wondering when you’d notice it was gone.”

“Man, I just got that shit ‘bout … four months ago.” He glances at her one more time, closely eyeing how it shrouds her much smaller frame. “Just spraying your shit all on my clothes like it’s yours.”

“‘Cause it is.” Although quiet, there’s a sass in her tone that relieves him.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his pink lips, so faint she doesn’t even see it. “Always playing around in my clothes … barely even notice when something’s missing.”

He isn’t lying. Next to the mall, his closet is her favorite place to shop at.

“I’ma start reporting my shit as stolen.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she mumbles, picking at her outgrown acrylics as she tries to fight back an even bigger smile. “Your mother would not appreciate you lying on my name like that.”

Outside of the car windows, the buildings zoom by. His fast driving hasn’t scared her for a long time. So long as she’s got a functioning seat belt on, she’s secure.

The lemon yellow diamonds on his bracelet glisten when the sunlight hits them; he lifts his hand to play with the curly tuft of hair at his chin.

“Yeah … you do got my folks thinking you all sweet ‘n’ shit.”

Her eye-roll is polite, despite the rude nature of such an action. “And am.”

“Mmh … nah.” He slows the car as he takes a soft turn. “They just don’t know that you really a brat.”

Her head jerks back, face twisting up with taken offense. “A brat?”

His words posit a bit of energy within her that he enjoyed. Fuck all of that fake, ‘soft-spoken,’ and mopey bullshit.

“No, the fuck I’m not.” She glares his way.

He grins. “Really? Cause you don’t listen. It’s always an argument, even if you know I’m right.”

“‘Cause you’re not.”

He swipes his tongue along the wall of his cheek. “You think you know everything, huh? You smart, ‘Mani, but you ain’t the only one.”

A scoff. “Really? ‘Cause it feels like it every time we speak.”

He huffs out a breath of laughter, not at all taking her words to heart. “I think you just like hearing yourself talk.”

“I do. Especially when I’m right.” She smiles to herself, triumphantly.

And all he does is shake his head, amused at the whole ordeal.

Just a quick temperature check, is all that was. He needed to know if her issues were beyond his fixing.

Blindly, he plucks his phone up from its spot in his lap, barely glancing at the screen to unlock it. He tosses the device to her.

“Uh!”

“You been slacking at your job, DJ.”

She kisses her teeth, picking up the phone anyway.

“And don’t play none’a that Slizzy shit. That’s all you been playing lately.”

“Fuck you, it’s good.”

‘It’s really not,’ is what he wants to say. Yet, he holds his fire when he hears the beginning of one of his favorite G Herbo songs over the car’s speakers.

He begins to bop his head along to the fast-paced beat.

“Yeah, look at you. Like a moth to a flame,” she says with a smirk.

But he doesn’t listen, only happy that he got his way.

As she scrolls through his playlist, looking for a song to queue up that’s more of her taste, a notification pops down on his screen:

Jada — Sitooo

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t even chance taking a glimpse at him.

Pursing her lips, Cimani swipes away the message before putting his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb.’ And, no doubt, Sito’s got his Focus Status shared.

With a one-sided smile, she clicks on a song she actually likes, queue-be-damned.

He kisses his teeth as what is definitely a Slizzy-type beat, begins to play—MHPG Sound’s MHA.

“‘Mani.”

He glances over at her, a large smile splitting her face in half. She only giggles.

“You getting fired soon.”

She laughs harder.

However, eventually, all of that ruckus dies down. Too soon for her liking, actually.

The silence that fills the space leaves her too much room to think about her problems again—this Jada-character not being one of them. She’s a problem for a different day.

Even if Sito isn’t constantly looking her way, he still sees the way her face slowly falls in his peripheral.

That somber look returns, dragging her pretty face down while her thoughts appear like a dark cloud over her head.

Thunder’s rumbling, preparing for lightning to strike.

Money.

Her lease.

The apartment—

“You know what your problem is?”

The impending storm quiets, just long enough for her to hear him. It takes seconds longer than normal for her to digest his words.

With what seems to be a surprise attack on her character, she waits for him to continue so that she may decide whether or not to be rightfully offended.

“You be thinking too hard. All these choices and big ass decisions you try to make.”

The birth of this new conversation steals the spotlight from her other issues, shoving those thoughts to a corner in her mind.

“So, what? I should just stop thinking for myself?”

“Didn’t say all that.”

“So what are you saying, then?”

He inhales. “What I’m saying is that, you don’t need to be doing all that thinking and worrying.”

She can only laugh, more out of shock at his audacity. “Excuse me?”

“You tired of it.” He glances at her. “I could tell … should let me be the one doing all that.”

She tries to ignore the way her stomach drops at those words.

“You?” she asks, as if the mere suggestion was an insult. “Oh, please! The nigga constantly losing his wallet?”

He shrugs. “You know I’m right, ‘Mani. You don’t gotta fry me. I’m being serious.”

She kisses her teeth, turning her head to look out of the window, already over this conversation. “Sito, you’re a man. And the last time I put my life into a man’s hands, I almost ended up homeless.”

“Quit comparing me to other niggas.”

As she opens her mouth to say something, he’s already speaking again.

“Told you ‘bout that. I’m your friend, I’d never do you like that.”

It’s funny. The mention of their relationship sparks a flame of irritation in her.

Is Jada a friend?

“I just need you to relax around me. That’s all … Relax, and let me take care of shit. Promise you, you’ll like it.”

Releasing a tired sigh, Cimani decides to keep her thoughts to herself. She turns her body back towards the window, allowing the music to fill the space that their conversation once took up.

•

It’s something about going to the mall—call it the spirit of consumerism taking ahold of her.

Stepping into the cool, wide open space with sunlight pouring in from the glass ceiling, her mood shifts. She can’t lie.

The mall has always been a place of good vibes and fun experiences. Especially when it comes to Sito being there.

They’ve been going together for years, at this point. And one thing that always surprises her is how much his love for shopping matches hers.

Quickly, she learned that he’s a great shopping partner. A great plus, too is that he’s got a commendable taste in fashion. But, he doesn’t need to hear that from her.

Their first time going together, she assumed that he’d be a complainer, whining because she took too long in stores trying on every item that caught her eye. Just like everyone else she’d go with.

However, he managed to be the one to outlast her. By the eighth store, she was tired and cranky. Her feet were killing her, and although he held most of the bags, what little she had were growing heavier by the second. And he had the audacity to ask about going to another store.

“Where you tryna go first?” he asks, looking down at her.

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t spare him a glance, still holding onto that conversation from the car. “I’m not gonna buy anything.”

Sito gives her a pointed look. “Lil’ girl’, please pick a store.”

Ignoring his obvious effort at trying to get under her skin, she peers around the busy space. People of all kinds fill the mall. Some walk together while others walk alone. There’s families, friends, and couples alike.

Entering through the first floor’s main entrance, they’ve come up on the more mainstream stores. Ones that cater more to the general public.

The more expensive stores and boutiques—your name brands—are situated on the higher level, towards the back of the mall. That’s more of Sito’s spot.

However, though, one of the first floor stores catch her eyes: Windsor. Sito follows her gaze.

“Aight, c’mon then,” he says, gently taking her wrist to pull her along.

Her protest is only a silent roll of the eyes.

Upon entering the store, his hand drops hers. “Go crazy.”

With a raised brow and a twisted lip, she glares up at him. “Sito, I don’t have money to waste—”

“So don’t.”

She scowls at him.

Letting go of a stressed sigh, he’s more than ready to give up on this conversation. Because he thought it went unsaid that, “If you want something, I’ma get it.”

For a moment, she only stares. The irritation on her face fades, but it doesn’t disappear.

“Is this an apology?”

He shrugs. “If that’s how you wanna take it.”

Her bright eyes narrow before rolling yet again. She pulls away from him, heading to the first rack that earns her attention. As she walks away, he looks on with satisfaction.

•

There’s racks on either side of them, clothes strewn all over the place. Hangers are twisted and shoved into spots they don’t belong.

All courtesy of Cimani.

He can admit, his friend is a messy shopper. And while he can’t help but to notice it, she doesn’t seem to even be aware of her issue. Her focus is elsewhere.

“What do you think about this?”

To her chest, she holds up the tiniest tennis skirt Sito has ever seen in his life.

And yet, his eyebrows don’t even raise a fraction.

He’s familiar with Cimani’s taste in fashion. Skin-tight and revealing. He knows who his friend is; “the shorter, the better,” she once said.

This late in the game, he doesn’t even blink twice when her pants ride a bit too low on her hips or her shirts are too sheer for her brown nipples.

She’s pretty to look at, why would he complain?

“S’cool,” he says, eyeing it.

The skirt is a soft cream, so pale that it almost appears to be white.

She raises a brow. “That’s all?”

“It’s your style. You already know you gonna look good in it.”

“Hm.” She turns her back to him, tossing the skirt over her arm as she shuffles through the rack. All the while, she’s pressing her glossed lips together, willing them to stay in a straight line.

The pile of clothes hanging over her left arm piques his curiosity. He leans into one of the racks. “You tryna make an outfit or something?”

“I guess,” she sighs out. “I’m not finding anything cute enough, though.”

If she can find this beautiful skirt, why can’t she walk out of here with a whole new outfit?

And that’s how she spends the next twenty minutes in this store, turning it on its head to find a good enough top to go with it. Though, she doesn’t neglect to swipe up anything else that catches her eyes.

“What the fuck?” She groans. Frustration creases up her face, as she defeatedly joins the line.

“It’s other stores, Mami,” Sito gently reminds from behind her.

She only rolls her eyes. “I wanted something from here, though.”

Throwing a heavy arm around her shoulders, he pulls her body to his chest. The weight of his pull causes her to scuff her CDG Converses against the toes of his Balenciaga ASICS, but he ignores it.

“You gonna find something.”

Her heart flutters from the affection. She keeps the feeling bottled up.

Silence settles between them for some time as they slowly move up in the line. Sure, the clothes have begun to grow heavy in her arms, but she doesn’t mind it too bad.

However, the arm around her shoulders is definitely a stronger weight. And even as he scrolls through his phone, hitting up any app that catches his interest, Sito doesn’t pull his arm away.

How many times has she been in his phone? He’s not too worried.

With no choice left but to watch, her eyes scour his screen with a detached interest.

Until she looks in the upper right hand corner of the screen to see the ‘Do Not Disturb’s crescent symbol.

Her lips purse.

“So … who’s Jada?”

His thumb twitches over the screen. Against her back, his chest slowly inflates with a deep but slow breath.

“Not anyone you know.”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds as she waits for a response.

He kisses his teeth. “She not nobody for you to be worried about.”

Wrong answer.

“Hope you didn’t leave her on ‘delivered.’”

There’s a subtle twist of her lips now.

“I didn’t.”

Before he can provide a better answer, she pulls away to stand on her own.

He sighs to himself. It’s so soft, it can almost be mistaken as a simple exhale.

Without a doubt, there’s more questions she wants to ask, more things she wants to say. But … she keeps quiet.

They remain parted until they finally reach the register.

“Hello, would you like to pay with cash or card?” the cashier asks while tapping away at the register. She’s a younger worker, clearly in her teens.

Cimani’s lips part to give an answer.

“Card.”

Her mouth shuts, head jerking back as she gives Sito a glare. The cashier simply nods as she begins to scan each item.

“What’s the next store?”

She doesn’t spare him a glance as she shrugs plainly. Her frank demeanor makes him press his lips together in annoyance. He stares her down.

��‘Mani.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

Her upper lip curls in distaste. She doesn’t obey.

“Bro, cmon.”

This time she listens, but the frown on her face deepens. That doesn’t matter too much to him.

“Dap me up.”

With a small grin, he holds out a ringed hand. The diamonds in the jewelry glisten under the store’s warm lighting.

Cimani only gives him a stiff once-over.

“Dap me up,” he presses. The jewelry on his wrist softly clink against each other as he shakes his hand for emphasis.

“Your total is two fifty-six, eighteen,” the cashier cuts in. “You can tap whenever you’re ready.”

Sito wants to groan. Dropping his hand, he retrieves his phone from his pocket to proceed with ApplePay. Shortly after, his phone dings with the successfully completed purchase.

“You over here catching an attitude, but she ain’t the one I’m getting shit for right now.” Reaching over the counter, he grabs the large shopping bags from the cashier’s hand.

“Have a good day,” Cimani tells her with a short smile, before walking ahead of him.

He follows.

“So you do this for all your friends, then?” she asks as they leave the store.

His face twists up. “One—she’s not my friend. And two, Hell nah.”

Just as fast, he drops the disgusted look. He switches the shopping bags to the other hand, throwing his free arm back around her smaller shoulders.

“You know I only do this type’a shit for you, Mami.”

Rolling her eyes at the nickname, she begrudgingly succumbs to his affection. Her body goes lax as she eventually leans mores into his touch.

Without a mention, Sito pulls them in a specific route, effectively leading the way to another store.

“Where we going?” she asks after a while.

“This one store I seen.”

When that’s all he says, her face contorts in confusion. “That’s it? What’s the name of the store?”

“Man, I’on know. But, we ‘bout to see, chill.”

She scoffs. “So damn annoying.”

It takes less than five more minutes for them to reach the new location. And “new” it is.

“I never seen this place before,” she says as they cross the threshold.

The store takes on more of a boutique style. There’s decorations of frills, lace, and baby pink all around them. These type of clothes seem to be more of a coquette style.

“Yeah,” he says, leading her towards the back of the store. “Seen it the other day when I came to pick up something.”

A soft gasp leaves her as she places a delicate hand over her chest in offense. “You came to the mall without me? What the fuck, Sito?”

He kisses his teeth, reaching overhead to riffle through a wall-mounted rack. “Relax, just had to get my mom’s pick-up order. I was in and out.”

“So you only went to one store?”

He lifts a cropped cardigan out from behind a couple of its other duplicates. He hands it over. “Yes.”

Without a question, Cimani takes the item. She doesn’t even check the size, confident that he knows hers.

“You promise?” She gazes up at him with big eyes.

As he stares down at her dramatic pout, he’s reminded of how cherubic her face is.

Faint freckles dot the apples of her cheeks and spill over the bridge of her nose. He only really sees them when he gets this close. On the apple of her left cheek, there’s a tiny beauty mark that stands out. And her lashes—which, speaking of—

“You need a fill-in.”

Her face falls. “Fuck you.”

With a smirk, he huffs out a breath of laughter. “You made an appointment for that yet?”

Finally, she takes a good look at the cardigan he’d given her. She frowns at it. “No.”

“Don’t do that, it’s cute,” he says, referencing the cardigan. “Y’know that’s your style.”

She looks at him challengingly. “Is it?”

“It’s gonna look good on you.” He eyes the piece closely, imagining it with the skirt she just purchased. “But, tell me when you book the appointment.”

“Yeah, you would like to know. ‘Cause you just love running errands with me.” She smirks, throwing the cardigan over her arm.

“I just know you gonna ask for a ride.” He takes her bag from the previous store as she walks over to some dresses. And, of course, he follows. “No car,” he mocks.

She picks up a backless, maxi dress. “Keep being sassy and you won’t have anyone to be taking.”

“Yeah, okay.” He eyes the dress. “Don’t get that.”

Kissing her teeth, her face screws up. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to wear?”

“A nigga that cares, that shit ugly,” he scoffs. “I’on know why you even picked that up. Y’know I’m your stylist.” His statement finishes with a soft smirk, only earning an aggressive eyeroll.

“And what if I like to dress myself, hm? What if I really liked this dress?”

He sucks his teeth, jerking his head back. “C’mon, y’know that’s not gonna fit you right. Look at the cut,” Sito gestures to the baggy fabric. “You too pretty for that.”

Rolling her eyes, Cimani puts the dress back.

“That’s not even your style. Just picking shit up to do it—“

“Anyway,” she laughs. The bubbly sound tapers off with a sigh. “I can’t really afford a fill-in right now. You know that.”

“That’s why I said to let me know when you book it, duh. Ain’t no other reason I’ma say that.”

“And when the fuck did you become a trick?”

The simple question earns a chuckle out of him as he follows her on the way over to a short rack of cropped tops.

“You think you funny,” he smiles.

“You’re laughing, aren’t you?” She pushes a hanger or two to the side, trying to find her size.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Cimani only rolls her eyes.

“Quit questioning me. I’m just tryna make sure you look good.”

•

And he wasn’t lying about that.

After leaving the second store, with Sito having bought her even more clothes, he decides to take her to his list of favorite stores: Alo, Nordstrom, Lulu Lemon, Bloomingdales, and even a couple of sneaker resale stores.

Granted, he hadn’t bought something from every store they visited, but he undoubtedly dropped about two bands on her. A little less on himself, just a small cop of some shoes he’s been eyeing for some time.

He was ready to spend more, really cash out and make his best friend feel better, but the food court called for them. And when it’s time for them to eat, that typically marks the end of their shopping trip.

The line for their choice of lunch wasn’t horrendously long—a relief when they’ve got at least five large shopping bags between them.

When they take their seats, Sito is sure to keep them at his feet, underneath the table. There is the soft crinkle of paper bags and wrappers as they chew on their selection of fries and chicken sandwiches.

As usual, Sito finishes his meal prematurely. He only rolls his bag over, mentally swearing to go back to this leftover fries later—which he never does. To clear his throat, he takes a sip of his lemonade as he eyes Cimani.

“So,” he begins, setting down his half-finished cup. “You wanna talk about it forreal or…?”

She glances up, a blank expression covering her face. “What do you mean?”

“Shit, you tell me. Something’s clearly bothering you.”

It was only a matter of time.

“And don’t try to say it’s nothing.” He points a playfully warning finger in her face.

For a second or two, she only stares at him. But, that’s all it takes for her to crack a smile. With a lazy hand, she pushes his out of her face and looks down at her food.

She doesn’t know what to say first. Her smile falters as she builds her response in her head.

“Life’s just … beating my ass.”

A soft sigh slips through parted lips. After eating and the natural wear of the day, there’s hardly any trace of her lipgloss left.

She shakes her head. “It’s about my apartment.”

His brows pull together. “What you mean?”

“Like … ugh.” Her head falls into her hands, her elbows pressed into the surface of the table. “Why is apartment searching so hard.”

The wrinkle in his brows deepens. Since when had she been planning to move?

Cimani picks her head up out of her hands. “My lease is ending in less than two months and I can’t afford to renew it. They’re asking for too much.”

“How much?”

She sighs, picking at her fries. “An extra three-hundred.” Her dark eyes flick upwards to peer into his. “I’m already struggling with my rent as is, Sito. I can’t afford this. I’m already burning through my savings trying to keep up ‘cause it took me so long to get this new job.”

Quiet, he rubs a hand down the lower half of his face, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Everything I find is too expensive, and for what these aprtments are offering, it’s not worth it,” she continues. “Everything in this city is just so fucking expensive.”

The fatigue in her voice is almost tangible.

“And what’s actually in my price range is outside the city, and those units aren’t even an option for me. They’re too far from my job to have to take public transportation every day. I don’t even have a car.”

The more she talks, the more he finds her shrinking in on herself. Her shoulders become more hunched, her voice grows shaky, and her frown deepens.

She picks at the fraying of her shorts. “I can’t risk being late to this job, Sito. I just started it, I’m still on probation.”

Her cracking voice causes a heavy feeling in his chest. His mouth twitches, threatening to fall into a frown of its own.

How can he make this better?

It only takes about ten seconds for him to formulate an idea.

“What if I let you borrow my car?”

His words seem to pluck her head up, her eyes wide and brows pulled together.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Sito, I can’t—“

“Nah, hol’on—obviously, it’s not gonna be the one I drive. Just take the Benz.”

“Sito—”

“I’m serious.”

‘Just take the Benz.’ Did he even realize how that sounded? Sometimes, Cimani feels like it slips his mind how different things are for them.

“And if I scratch it doing some dumb shit or I get in an accident, then what?”

“Then I get it fixed, ‘Mani.” The wrinkle in Sito’s brows grows deeper. “What you tripping for? You need the car, right?”

“I can’t take your car, Sito.” Reaching out, she plucks a single fry from its container and pops it into her mouth, just to keep her body moving.

Truth be told, the nature of this conversation has ruined her appetite. She chews for longer than normal.

His sigh, one of stress this time around, is quite loud. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. But when he finally does…

“So what you gonna do about the apartment, Mami?” His voice is tendered as he tries to meet her where she’s at.

Mid-swallow, she almost chokes on her food.

The nickname; she’s used to hearing it from him—an inside joke between them that should’ve long since died when he said it by mistake to her, during a heated conversation.

Too unserious for their own good, the two friends couldn’t help but dissolve into laughter, effectively ending the argument.

Ever since, Sito found himself using it whenever he felt like being funny.

Actually, that was the case.

She’s not really sure when the change happened, but most times now, she finds him using the nickname with a sincerity that’s almost … sickening.

It actually tends to catch her off guard more often than not these days.

At the very least, she can acknowledge how she really likes when he says it. Even if, at times, she can’t handle it. Especially those times when he purposely softens his voice just to call her that.

Recentering her breathing, she looks past him.

“I dunno,” she mumbles. “Um … guess I’ll just have to keep … looking.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment. The absence of a response has her believe that he chose to accept the situation for what it is, just like she had. That he chose to drop the subject and that they can get back to their day of fun.

“If you want—and not on no weird shit, aight? I just want you to consider it … you could choose to renew the lease, and I’ll give you the difference.”

“Sito,” she exhales. “I cannot make you pay my rent—“

“It’s a good thing you not making me, then. And I’m not paying your rent, ‘Mani. I’m just giving you the rest of it. That’s all. We don’t gotta talk about it ever. I’ll just set up a payment schedule every month—”

“No, Sito, no. You’re my friend, and I love you—I love that you’re trying to help me. I appreciate you, I really do—even for today. Thank you, but I can’t make you do that. I can’t use you.”

“You not using me ‘Mani, damn.” The signs of irritation bleed onto his face, even if he hadn’t intended for it to show. “Where the fuck you getting that shit from? I just wanna make sure you good.”

“And thank you for that, Sito. Seriously, but I’m never letting a nigga get the chance to say that he’s the one paying my rent or holding my living situation over my head. No one’s ever gonna control me like that. Ever. I need to be able to do this on my own. Just respect my wishes, please? Please.“

His exhale tells her all too well that he isn’t the happiest about this.

“Aight … aight then.“

“Thank you… If you wanna help, just … help me find a new place.”

He licks his lips as he shifts in his seat. He nods. “Okay, I’ma help you.”

“Thank you.” She gives a somber smile.

It’s so weak that it trembles under the weight of trying to conceal just how hopeless she is.

Yet, the longer he looks at her, the more that smile cracks. And the cracks just keep getting bigger and bigger until the mask shatters.

A small whine leaves her as she hides her face in her hands. There’s a hiccup he doesn’t hear, but a wet sniffle comes right after. That, he definitely hears.

“‘Mani—“

“I just feel so fucking … broke and ugly.”

Her shoulders tremble as she begins to wipe at her wet face.

“Like … I’m a fucking bum!”

“Aye.” Sito reaches out for her across the table, gently pulling her hand away from her face. “You not a bum, Mami.”

“I feel like one.”

“But you not. C’mon, quit all that crying.”

She doesn’t look him in the eyes as he thumbs away her falling tears.

“I can’t even get—get my hair done … o-or do my nails,” her voice wavers.

She can’t deny that she’s painfully aware of her overgrown nails. At this point, her shorties were now considered medium length.

“My lashes are way past a fill-in, a-and now I-I look like a fucking—cartoon character with j-just three lashes on each eye—“

“Aye, c’mon now. Stop.” He rubs her collected tears between his thumb and forefinger before wiping more of them away. “You know you better than that. You just in a rough spot right now.”

Her face creases up again as another cry leaves her, more tears bubbling up at her waterline.

He pulls his hand away to grab her a clean napkin. “Here—look.”

She sniffles again. “Th-thank you,” she hiccups, taking the napkin.

“You good,” he says softly, watching her clean herself up.

Silence settles over the two of them as Cimani slowly regains her composure while Sito patiently waits for her.

“You not ugly, Cimani. You just not done up, and that’s cool. You’on need all that shit. I know how you step. Don’t gotta prove shit to no one.”

A numb sensation settles over her while she listens to his encouraging words. And she appreciates them more than she can even say.

“Just focus on getting that new place first. We gonna find something.”

The only response she can give is a nod.

Her inhale is shaky. She wipes at her face again. With a tired sigh, she places the balled up napkin down on the table.

“I don’t even wanna go home tonight,” she croaks.

“You don’t got to.”

Finally, she peers at him with glassy eyes. The frown on her lips has yet to go away.

“You wanna leave?”

She nods.

“Aight.”

•

There is no jingling of keys or the click of a lock when he opens his apartment. Instead, there’s a soft whirr when he simply taps his phone against the electronic lock.

He pushes the door open softly and shifts to the side to let her through. Cimani keeps quiet as she slips past him, entering what Sito’s dubbed as her “second home,” for the first time in a few weeks.

When he enters right after her, he flicks on the lights to his kitchen and living room, illuminating the large, open area.

After leaving her shoes at his door, she heads straight to the couch. As much as she loves his place in all of its sleek, contemporary nature, she’s too exhausted and sad to enjoy the decor tonight.

“I’ma go put the bags in the room,” he mumbles.

She nods as he’s already on the way to his bedroom. Settling back against the large, burnt orange cushions, her eyes fall closed as she exhales.

In this time by herself, her brain replays the issues that plague her life with a kind of hurried exhaustion.

She doesn’t even hear when Sito comes back out. However, when the knock of a closed cabinet door sounds, she finds him in the kitchen. With a new change of clothes, might she add.

Behind the bar-like counter, he holds the long neck of a wine bottle. Just a few inches away, there are two wine glasses, ready to be filled.

“You look like you need to drink your problems away.”

Her face softly creases with a weak smile. She doesn’t even have it in her to give a tiny laugh.

The bottle isn’t unopened. Usually, he only brings this one out when she’s over. It’s the only brand he owns that she’ll drink.

Without much thought, unscrews the top off of the bottle and pours the first glass. The drink’s deep red color flows into the crystal clear cup, which he eyes with caution.

“On the table right there, it’s my laptop. You could get it.”

Her brows pull together as she looks at him.

He glances at her, feeling those dark brown—almost black—eyes on him. “We gonna find some listings.”

He had looked back at the cup too quick to notice the way her face softened and opened up. But, maybe it’s a good thing he hadn’t seen it—she gets the feeling that he’s seen her get teary-eyed enough for the day.

By the time she retrieved his laptop, a new MacBook—at least much newer than hers—he’s already heading over to the living room with their glasses of wine.

“Password’s the same as my phone.”

She types away, unlocking the device with ease.

“Thank you,” she glimpses at him as he rests her cup on the coffee table, in a spot closest to her.

He takes his own seat in the crook of the couch’s L-shape, just a cushion or two down from where she sits at.

Cupping the bottom of his glass, Sito holds it close to his mouth as he begins use of his phone. He’s the picture of relaxation, it’s almost funny.

He’s got his glasses on—which he only wears when he really feels like being focused. Straight-leg sweats cover his tatted legs. He’s got the ankle of one resting over the knee of the other, his lifted leg forming a right angle. His raised foot wags, both feet clad in his Balenci house slides.

Truthfully, he looks like somebody’s mother. Especially with his small bonnet covering his cornrows.

“What’s your budget?”

She blinks out of her reverie. “Um … two-thousand?”

He takes a sip of his wine, attention still buried in his phone as he types away.

She decides that before he catches her staring, to focus her attention on the laptop and start searching for apartments.

•

Sade plays softly through his surround sound—he’d decided that they needed the accompaniment of music shortly into their search.

Her cup sat untouched for the better half of an hour before she started to sip on it. She’s not sure what to say about this search.

She’s grateful that Sito’s helping, beyond grateful, but a lot of what they find are listings she’s seen before. Cimani’s come to learn the available apartments of their city like the back of her hand.

And the results they’re getting, for her budget, aren’t really even good enough options. Unsafe neighborhoods, not enough space, bad reviews on landlords, units so in-need of a renovation that it was a safety hazard at this point—it’s a struggle.

Near the bottom of Sito’s cup sits the dregs of his drink. He abandoned it on the coffee table just before he reached the bottom of the cup, claiming to “lock in” on this search.

However, at this point he thinks he actually might need another glass to help him continue this search.

With a soft grunt, he slowly unfolds to reach forward for the wine bottle on the table.

“This shit killing me,” he rasps, pouring into her cup before he does his.

“Imagine I’ve been doing this for months now.”

He kisses his teeth, recapping the bottle. “Might as well live with me at this point.” The laugh that proceeds afterwards, is messy and loose.

That’s the wine talking.

“At this point,” she agrees with a giggle. “Clear out a couple drawers for me.”

Definitely the wine talking.

Cradling his cup, he falls back into the embrace of the couch. All the while, he keeps his eyes on her as a lazy smile lifts his lips.

“You know you gon’ wear all my shit anyway.”

Looking over the edge of his laptop, she finally makes eye contact with him. His gaze is stiff, unmoving, as he holds her stare over the edge of the cup while taking another sip.

His lips smack as he swallows the tart drink. “Could move in tonight if you wanted.”

She only smiles, finally gaining the strength to look back at the laptop’s screen.

“You’on think we could live together?” he pushes.

A shortened piece of laughter leaves her as the state of his lovely space, as opposed to hers, comes to mind.

“No.”

His face scrunches up. “Why?”

“I’m too messy for you, Sito.”

“Oh, so—so you aware.”

“Shut up,” she giggles again.

His smile is smooth as he pulls the sound out of her.

“But…” He sits up on the couch, even leaning forward some. “You know I’ll hire a cleaner behind you.”

The soft slur of his words makes her scoff. She almost can’t even hear it.

He kisses his teeth. “Stop playing with me, you know I’ll do it.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Aight, then. So what’s the issue?”

Pursing her lips, Cimani chances giving him another look. “I thought you hate when I take your clothes.”

The second before he answers, he stares into her eyes as he wets his lips. His own eyes are low. “You know I don’t give a fuck about that shit … be forreal.” A smile inches at her lips.

He only breaks eye contact to push a finger up under the band of his bonnet. His eyes slightly roll off as he scratches an itch.

“You know a nigga like that shit, quit acting dumb.”

She’d heard his mumbled words loud and clear. She swallows, her throat dry. It almost tempts her to take some more wine. But she knows it’ll have her saying stupid shit,

“Do you let Jada wear your stuff?”

Like that.

The smirk she wears is hollow, but only she knows that. But, she can’t deny the pang in her chest that appears when he looks offended at her words.

“Yo—don’t—“ He shakes his head, as if trying to erase his mind like an Etch-A-Sketch. “Why you even bring that up?”

She shrugs weakly, looking back at the computer. “Thought that’s what y’all were on,” she says plainly. Though, on the inside she feels like she stepped on a landmine. “Since, y’know, you said she wasn’t a friend.”

“‘Cause she’s not. How those things even connect? And—yo, stop playing on me, you know I don’t bring nobody back to my place. You crazy?” His face seems to screw up the more he thinks about what she said. “All this shit I got up in here—You the only one I let in here. You know that. Quit acting like—“

He cuts himself off with the kiss of his teeth, growing more frustrated. He scrubs a hand down the front of his head, a habit he’s never shaken, even after growing out his waves.

“Yo, quit moving like you’on know who you are and what shit is, ‘Mani. You be pissing me off with that shit, forreal.”

She stays quiet, at war with herself on whether or not it’s good that she wants to smile. On the other hand, Sito reaches forward to gulp down more of his wine.

The conversation leaves off there, both electing to continue their search in silence. And it stays that way for a long while.

This time around, as they put their all into this, both sparingly touch their cups. It was growing harder to focus with all of the drinking.

But, the silence can’t last forever. A yawn wrestles its way out of Cimani. Shortly after, the same happens for Sito.

Then, there’s another pause for silence.

“Look at what I just sent you.”

Wordlessly, she picks up her phone just as it receives a text. Without hesitance, she opens the link he’d sent her.

For $1,850 a month, it’s a newly renovated one bedroom, one bathroom unit almost twenty minutes from her current apartment. Much closer to her new job. Amenities include a rooftop lounge, a gym, and in-unit laundry. And what’s more, is that it’s conveniently located near public transportation.

“Oh my God,” she says, sitting up straighter, her eyes opening a bit wider. She slides the laptop onto the couch, beside her. “This is perfect. How did you find this?”

This is the first time she’s looked at him in almost an hour. And it brings her some relief to see the tiny grin on his lips.

Their last conversation was forgotten, it seems.

“Told you we was gonna find something.”

Looking back down at her phone, she continues to scroll through the listing, loving it more by the second.

By the looks of it, she’d have to do some minimal downsizing, but this unit would be the perfect size for her. She’s been meaning to get rid of some hoarded junk for a while now.

As she scrolls to the bottom of the page, ready to apply, reality steps in to remind her that nothing ever just works out perfectly for her.

Her smile drops upon seeing the greyed out text: In Contract.

“What? What happened?”

She peers up to see him watching her, before she looks back down at the screen.

“It’s already in contract, Sito.” She throws her head back against the couch, groaning out. “What the fuck!”

“Don’t trip, relax. See if they left a email and shoot ‘em one about the listing.”

She picks her head back up, worry all over her face. “Don’t you know what that means? They’re already in the process of renting out the space to someone.”

For the umpteenth time today, he sucks his teeth. “‘Mani, you don’t know what stage of the process they in. They could still be looking for applicants.”

“I don’t think they’re looking for anyone else, they blocked off the option to even apply.”

“Which is why you should email ‘em. They gonna see that you serious about the shit. And if they do go forward with this person, they might got another unit they could offer you just like this one. It looks like this place is new.”

He’s got a point.

“Fine,” she sighs out, resigning to his idea.

Sure enough, she finds an email address for the apartment’s leasing office.

“It’s gonna work, I promise you. That’s how I got my place,” he says as she types out her message.

“Okay, listen to this.”

As she recites her message, he listens intently, seeking out any errors for her to fix. When she finishes, she watches him with bated breath as he thinks it over.

“Mmh … it’s good. Send it.”

“Okay,” she breathes out.

Within that second, she presses the send button on the email and watches it get whisked off to the recipient.

“I hope they get back to me soon,” she pouts, lying back against the couch as she looks over at him.

“Forreal.”

They’re both tired, it’s too obvious in the way their eyes droop and their bodies sag against the couch—likely leaving large indents of where they’d been.

“Ugh, I’m over this,” she says. Feeling a bit better about this whole ordeal, she shuts his laptop and places it back on the coffee table.

As she stands to stretch, Sito remains seated, tapping away at his phone.

“Not even gon’ lie … I’m fake tired, but … not tryna go to bed right now.”

He looks up at her through his glasses, eyeing the way the muscles in her legs flex as she stands on her toes. All these years later, and the history of running competitive track back in high school was still there.

He looks up at her face, seeing that she’s already been staring at him. He’s been caught.

Oops?

“What do you wanna do?” she asks as her arms drop to her sides.

“Not gon’ lie,” he drags out the word, contemplating on saying his idea out loud. “You tryna go live with me?”

Her brows raise. “Live, Sito?”

“It’s lowkey fun, sometimes.” He shrugs.

“Sometimes.” She scoffs. “People are mean online. And you have mad followers, I’m not tryna have all those people talk about me.”

“Please,” he waves off. “You gon’ be fine. I’m not letting them niggas talk about you.”

She looks at him, pressing her lips into a thin line as she weighs her options. “I be reading your comments sometimes, I don’t want none of your thirsty-ass fans saying nothing just ‘cause they see you with a girl.”

“Fans is crazy,” his voice muffled as he rubs a hand down his face. “Not worried about that.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He sits up in an instant, feeling a burst of energy. Standing, he grabs their near-empty cups in one hand and the wine bottle in the other.

“You wanna do it or not? Don’t be boring.”

He leaves the area to enter the kitchen. Setting the bottle down on the counter, he heads over to the sink.

“Are you peer-pressuring me?” Cimani follows after him.

He scoffs. “Yes,” he says, dumping out each glass before opening the pipe to wash it all down.

“That’s terrible.”

“Didn’t hear a ‘no,’ though.”

“That’s how peer-pressure works, dummy.”

The corner of his mouth up-turns. “Then I won.”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms.

As he sets up to go live on his phone, clearing anything from his space that can be too revealing, Cimani raids his pantry for her favorite snack—Rice Krispie Treats.

The half-empty wine bottle is used as a phone-stand, as he’s too lazy to retrieve his actual one from his office. He sits before the device, at his counter-top, among one of the many bar stools usually tucked beneath it.

“I’m ’bout to start the live. If you don’t wanna be on, let me know and I won’t put you in it.” He opens up the app TikTok. “Just let me know when you wanna pass through so I could move the camera.”

She shakes her head as she swallows a bit of her snack. “I’ll be in it.”

He peers up at her with a raised eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Aight.”

Finally, he starts the live as she watches from behind the counter.

In the first couple of minutes, about three-hundred viewers roll in. He watches the screen, leaned forward on his elbows.

“What’s up, yall. What’s up … goodnight,” he greets.

The comments roll in, greeting him back. Some playfully berate him for the time he’s choosing to go live, claiming they have to miss this one because they have work in the morning, but they just wanted to stop in and say ‘hi.’

The views reach to a steady count of over five-hundred people.

“Came on here ‘cause I was bored, ain’t gon’ lie to y’all,” he says, readjusting his bonnet.

Cimani takes the last bite of her snack, crumbling up the wrapper into a little ball in her hand.

The soft crinkling earns his attention, as it had been the only sound while he read more comments. He peers at her over the wine bottle, the two watching each other for a very still, handful of seconds.

He’s the first one to break, quietly chuckling with a fist over his mouth as she smiles, throwing her garbage into the trash can.

His focus returns to the phone.

“‘He got a bonnet on … lawd, who gon’ be the boys?’” He kisses his teeth.

Cimani laughs, careful to keep the sound hushed.

“Man, we not doing that bullshit tonight.” He sits up straighter. “I got hair, and I need a line-up, chill.” He swipes his hand over his head. “Can’t even find none of my durags.”

The sound of Sito explaining himself becomes background noise as she opens his fridge for a bottle of water. The door closes on its own with a soft shut.

As she cracks the bottle open, she notices Sito watching her.

“They asking who in the back.”

She freezes, the cool bottle to her lips.

“They could hear you moving,” he laughs.

She swallows. “Oh, sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You good. Come in the camera,” he beckons her over.

She takes her time to close the bottle before setting in down. As he watches her, pushing back his stool some to allow space, he’s got a smile on his face.

He ignores the small burst in comments, questioning who he’s calling for off-screen.

When she finally joins his side, he pulls her to stand in front of him, before the camera. Holding her by her shoulders, he keeps her steady.

“Introduce yourself.”

“Um—“ she laughs shyly. “Hi,” she waves.

The comments pour in, complimenting her and asking for her name. If there were an insult or two, none of them catch it.

“She being shy, y’all—“

“Shut up—“

“This is ‘Mani.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps, lifting a hand to her head. “Why didn’t you tell me about my hair,” she whines, trying to smooth down the flyaways of her silky bob.

He pulls back, eyes scouring her head for any imperfections he might’ve overlooked.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it.”

Reaching up, he smooths out the back of her head to make sure that all of her hairs fall straight.

“So why’re you fixing it?” she pouts.

“Chill … just tryna make you straight in the back.”

When it’s finally good enough for him, he returns his attention to the Live’s comments.

“Yeah, she pretty, right?”

“They’re actually nice,” she says quietly, her fingers pressed into her lips.

He hums. “Told you, you was gonna be good.”

Beneath the surface of the bar table, he toys with the fraying of her shorts against her outer thigh. The ticklish touches pull goosebumps up from her skin.

“Um, how was you guys’ day?” She giggles nervously.

Her laugh gets a soft smile out of him. Still eyeing her body, he slips the tip of his finger beneath the leg of her shorts.

“You don’t wanna come up outta these?”

The question catches her off guard, admittedly. She looks down at him, already seeing him stare up at her.

“I … don’t have any clothes over.”

Her voice is quiet, hoping the viewers don’t hear her. She isn’t the most sure of Sito’s reputation online, and she certainly wouldn’t want to ruin it.

“Just take one’a my sweats.”

His voice is noticeably louder, even clearer, than hers.

So, he just doesn’t give a fuck? Got it.

She just nods, recentering her focus back on the live.

“So … we did some shopping today,” he says from behind her. “I ain’t get nothing crazy, just a pair of shoes.” His hands rest on the countertop on either side of her, keeping her in place. “Tell ‘em what you got.”

“I don’t even remember everything I got.”

“Oh, wait, you should show ‘em.” He peers from her to the screen. “Y’all tryna see a haul?”

There are too many ’yes’s to count. And it makes her heart race.

“Sh-should I try them on?”

He shrugs, sitting back in his chair to give her space to leave. “It’s up to you.”

“Alright, um … I’m gonna get the bags.”

As she leaves, Sito monitors the comments, making sure his moderators were doing their job.

User23567907796 So r yall friends orrrr ..

User99645663265 Did I miss a chapter?????

User44666321677 Umm hard launch?🤔

User33561123230 She bad asf tho icl

With every question he answers, there’s a dejected tone in his voice.

“Did you miss a chapter?” He shakes his head. “Nah. You ain’t miss nothing … we friends.” With a finger, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “‘She bad’ … Yeah, she get fly.”

Any comment regarding his looks or trying to spit game at him is left unacknowledged.

Minutes later, Cimani returns with her bags of purchased items. To which, Sito offers up his seat. She takes it, sitting before the camera.

“Um, I got more clothes than anything,” she starts. “I got one pair of shoes but that’s it. I—“

“Show ‘em,” he says from behind, peering down at her.

She glances back at him. “Huh?”

“Show ‘em the shoes first.”

“Oh, yeah.” Bending down, she rifles through one of the bags to retrieve the box. Balancing it on her lap, she’s careful when taking out the brand new, shiny right foot to her pink Bapestas.

“We got them from a reseller shop,” she says as she shows it off to the camera.

Silently, he reaches out from behind her to assist her in correctly positioning the shoe for the viewers to see.

“Gotta make sure it’s in focus,” he says softly.

“Oh.”

Neither of them read the comments, gushing over how this is clearly her first time interacting with a large audience.

“You guys see it?” she asks.

“They see it, Mami.”

Her cheeks ache from how long she’s been able to hold a smile. But she can’t stop. Even when she tries to lose it, it’s like the muscles in her face are permanently fixed in this expression.

“Okay,” she says softly, putting the shoe away. “Um … I’m gonna do the clothes now,” she says, looking between the bags to decide which to start on first.

As she scans through each bag, she worries her bottom lip. Would they even find this interesting?

“Start with that one.”

She looks up in time to see him nodding at a large, pale pink bag. Wordlessly, she reaches in, retrieving the first item: a soft white, milk maid style dress.

“Sito actually picked this one out, for me,” she tells the viewers as she holds it up for them. “I accepted, ‘cause it’s close to my style, honestly.”

As she continues showing off her brand new items to the audience, moving through each store, Sito notes her increasing comfort.

Eventually, he even leaves the camera to let her do her own thing. It’s endearing, watching her speak to the viewers. Showing off everything he bought her. Seeing the way her eyes light up with each item, as if she hadn’t been holding them just a few hours before.

As he holds a water bottle, having gotten it from the fridge, he decides that looking at this scene before him—that he likes this. He really likes this.

He’d made the perfect decisions for her, picking out clothes that not only would she like, but would fit her well. That would compliment her.

“I’m not really sure how much all of this was, I can’t lie,” Cimani laughs, answering a frequently asked question among the Live comments.

Rounding the counter, Sito is back in front of the camera with her.

“No, y’all—Sito bought me all these.”

The admitted truth was uttered with an air of shyness. Maybe she was worried about the reaction she’d garner—rightfully so.

And yet, Sito couldn’t find it within himself to care. In fact, he actually felt a seed of pride blossom within him.

Watching the comments roll in, his nose twitches as he reads over one in particular. Her catches it just as Cimani gets up out of the chair.

User2293902682 Better watch out for these females theyll use u

His face twists into a scowl. “Nigga shut the fuck up.” He reclaims his seat before the camera. “I hate a bitchass nigga that just talks.” He kisses his teeth. “Somebody ban that nigga.”

“You’re about to get banned, if you keep cursing like that,” she jokes. “What’d they even say?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Looking over his shoulder at her, he notes the large Alo bag in her hand, looking as though she’s about to leave. “Where you going?”

“I wanted to try on the set you got me. Remember? I didn’t get to try it on in-store.”

He hums, turning back around to look at the live.

Running into his room, she hurries to pull out the grey, cotton ribbed Alo set. She’d always been between sizes. She can only hope that they bought the right size.

Slipping into the set, it feels wonderful against her skin. Her hands spread over her body, feeling over the smooth fabric. The crisp tags dangle from the bra top and leggings.

She pads over to the large mirror staged in the corner of Sito’s room. The set hugs her small frame, even bringing out the faint curve of her hips and the cuff of her small butt.

Staring at her reflection, she can do nothing but smile.

When she can finally pull herself away from the mirror and out of the room, she re-emerges with a pep in her step.

“Look!”

Sito turns around to see her in her new set.

“I’m surprised the extra-small fits! I thought I would’ve needed smaller.”

As she gets closer to him, he moves the phone just a few inches over to let the Live see.

“Y’all, look! Isn’t it cute?”

Sat back in his seat, an arm perched on the armrest of the stool, Sito’s cheek is pressed against his knuckles. As Cimani spins and poses for the viewers, he watches on as well.

Behind the lenses of his undoubtedly expensive frames, his dark eyes run up and down her body. He notes the figure-hugging material, how it makes her butt look just a little perkier.

“Yeah … it’s cute, Mami.”

The words had flowed smoothly from his lips without much of a thought.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly, looking at him with a gentle smile as she toys with the waistband of the leggings.

The longer he stares, he notices the slight twist in the seam along her butt.

“Come,” he motions over. “Lemme fix it.”

She looks over at him, doe eyes wide with confusion. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer as she enters his space, sliding in between his spread legs.

“The pants is twisted.”

His touch is soft and careful. He barely tugs at the waist band to fix it, while also pulling them up an inch higher. His hands smooth down the sides of her hips, coming to rest at their widest part.

“It’s good now?” she asks, peering down at him.

Licking his lips, he peers up at her. “Yeah.”

Seconds seem to fly by as they stare into each other’s eyes. Cimani is the first to look away, distracting herself with the Live comments.

She gasps, covering her mouth with a hand. “Oh my gosh. They’re going so fast.”

Turning his head, he finally looks back at the Live. He tries to read what he can catch. And from what he can see, damn near all of the comments are about his touchiness regarding his best friend.

Yet, he still doesn’t pull his hands away.

In fact, his arms encircle her small waist, keeping her in place as he leans against her.

“I can’t even read them.” She laughs as she passes a hand over his head, feeling the curves of his cornrows beneath the bonnet’s satin.

User282884928 Yall sure yall just friends??

User9298392792I wish my boy bsf treated me to a shopping spree 🙄

User0829927881Are we interrupting🤨

User104882929Jus looked at my bestie and sighed.

She seems to catch the final comment, laughing at the joke.

“Oh,” she gasps, jumping out of his hold. “The outfit I made—with the skirt? I need to see it.”

Before he can respond, she’s running back to the room with more bags.

As she’s gone, in the mean time, Sito is putting his focus back in the live. There’s mini updates he provides to his audience, informing them on progressions of small tidbits about his life he entails in his TikTok videos.

As he’s talking to them with mild interest, Cimani finally resurfaces.

“I hate to admit it, but you were right about the cardigan.”

He turns his head to see her standing in the hallway that leads to his room. She’s halfway revealed, the lower half of her body hidden in the shadows.

He spins his chair to see her. “Lemme see?”

She steps a few inches forward. The cardigan is stylishly baggy on her, the top button left undone to show subtle cleavage. Its vibrant color pairs wonderfully with the skirt she’d found.

And speaking of said skirt; as she does a little twist, his first impression of the item is confirmed before his very eyes. If she were to bend down even an inch, her ass would be out.

Granted, she doesn’t have all that much to show off, but the skirt sits pertly on her brown cheeks, teasing at a show.

“Oh, you can’t show ‘em that,” he says, chasing his phone for it to lay flat on the counter.

His audience gets a front-row seat to his tall ceilings.

“Come.”

She ambles over to him without hesitation.

“It’s cute right?” she asks, filing back in between his legs.

“You know it is.” Thoughtlessly, he reaches out and cards his fingers between hers, gripping her hand tight. “Didn’t need me to pick it out for you.”

She laughs, the apples of her cheeks lifted to the heavens above. He’s staring at her lips, unabashedly so. There’s a haze to his eyes, he isn’t the most present right now.

How much restraint is he practicing to keep himself from spinning her around and pulling her smaller body on his lap?

Better yet, how much restraint is he practicing that he’s only now picturing just how easy it would be to have her bouncing on his dick?

It would be nothing, she’s so light. He’d be the only controlling her, doing all the work while she just takes it—all of him. Probably crying about how she can’t take it, but about how good it feels. Her cute ass cheeks dropping over his lap. How deep her arch—

“You look pretty, Mami.”

Her brown face is flushed. He can see it.

“Thanks.” She really can’t stop smiling.

“Don’t gotta thank me.” He lets go of her hand to snake his around her waist, cradling the small of her back.

Her expression barely drops for a second as she remembers the Live. “Did you end it?”

She twists to look at his phone, slightly bending to read the screen.

It’s inevitable, he catches a glimpse of her panties beneath the skirt—a pale, lilac thong that disappears between her cheeks. Yet, he sees the patch of it that covers her.

He swears, it was only a second … but that was the longest second of his life. Time must’ve slowed, because he can recall the barest details of her body. Down to the outline of her lips through the thin cotton. So small and cute in size, like a little pocket.

A burst of heat runs throughout his body.

“Hey, guys,” he hears her say.

But the Live be damned. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he releases a tired sigh. “Aight, I’m done,” he croaks.

She slips the phone in his hand. He’s the only one filling the screen now, the comments begging for more of Cimani—and asking about that “moment” they just had.

“I’m done talking to y’all niggas.”

With two quick taps of a thumb, he cuts the live off.

“Awe,” Cimani pouts. “That was fun.”

Lifting his arms above his head, he stretches, the bones in his shoulders popping and cracking as he does so. “Mmph—was getting … tired of that shit.”

“Okay, well, bed-time I guess,” she smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, looking elsewhere.

“Help me bring the rest of the bags back in the room?”

Silently, he pulls himself to stand. Together, they bring the bags into his room, positing them in the corner near the mirror.

Getting ready for bed was a smooth process. He’d given her a pair of clothes to sleep in for the night—a large black tee, a random pair of shorts, and an unused pair of boxers he’d recently bought (even though she had to roll them up at the waist to be able to wear them). They showered and brushed their teeth in separate bathrooms, meeting back up in his bed for the night.

“Why this look like my bonnet?” Cimani asks, analyzing the small, satin black bonnet he had passed her.

“It is,” he chuckles, slowly climbing into bed next to her. “You left it over there from last time.”

“Oh.”

With ease, Sito pulls the comforter up high, shielding them from the cool temperature of his room. They don’t go to bed right away, that’s never a reality for either of them.

In fact, they sit up against the soft, fluffy pillows, scrolling through any social media app that catches their attention at the time. They aren’t particularly quiet, either. Cimani plays TikToks quite loudly on her phone, while Sito does his nightly scroll through Twitter.

This grown-up form of adjacent play continues for almost half-an-hour before Sito closes his phone. Setting the device down against his chest, he turns to look at her as she laughs at yet another video.

“Yo, you booked that appointment yet?”

“Huh?” Her focus bounces back and forth between him and the phone. “What, for my lashes?”

“Yeah.” His voice is heavy with fatigue.

“No, Sito,” she stresses, as if this current conversation is an inconvenience to her nightly entertainment.

“Why?”

She sucks her teeth, rolling her eyes as she finally puts the phone down. “Do you wanna do it now?”

Lazily, he shrugs. “Better now than later.”

“Fine,” she sighs, feigning annoyance.

“Yeah, okay,” he side-eyes her. “Matter fact—book the nail appointment first.”

Switching to her Instagram, Cimani pulls up her nail tech’s page to get to her booking site, one tap at a time.

“Hurry up—“

“Don’t rush me.”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. Reaching over, Sito plucks the device from her grasp.

“Hey—“

“Moving too slow.”

Her upper lip screws up in distaste. Nevertheless, she saddles up to his side, watching him fill out her information for the appointment.

“How ya toes look?” He asks, side-eyeing her as his finger hovers over the ‘package’ section.

“Oh my gosh,” she whines, covering her mouth with her hand. “So bad.”

“Lemme see.”

“No!”

He sucks his teeth and gives her a pointed look. “‘Mani.”

“Okay, but don’t say anything!”

Underneath the covers, her leg shifts. She throws it over his hip. Reaching beneath the comforter, Sito blindly fishes for her small foot. Holding her soft sole in hand, he lifts her leg some and pushes down the covers just a bit to examine her toes.

There’s nothing wrong with them. Her white, gel polish is just chipped, but nothing terrible. And even with the old paint job, she still has cute feet. Nothing wrong with them at all.

“Yeah, you need ‘em done.”

“Boy, fuck you.”

“Mmh,” he hums with a one-sided grin.

The appointment is booked with ease before he passes the phone back. “Now book that lash appointment.”

As she does so, he retrieves his phone to continue his twitter scroll.

All the while, her foot remains in his hand, playing with her toes and even massaging her sole. And neither of them say anything about it, enjoying the moment too much to have mention of it mess things up.

Honestly, ‘Mani’s glad that she doesn’t have to outwardly acknowledge it. How can she even explain to him how much she enjoys his gentle touch?

Eventually, it lulls her to sleep.

Tonight is the first night in a while, that she doesn’t go to bed worried about her future.

ᥫ᭡

MIDNIGHT BLUE OR TORTOISE SHELL BROWN?

Cimani is confident in her ability to make good decisions. She isn’t indecisive, and for as long as she can remember, has never needed anyone to decide anything for her.

She’s prideful about that.

However, swiping back and forth between the two inspo-pictures she’d found from her Pinterest, her bottom lip is caught between her silver-tracked teeth.

It seems her decisiveness has abandoned her.

She wets her lips before speaking. “Sito?”

“Hm?” He hums around his plastic straw.

Stretching an arm over the console, she shows him her screen, looking him in the eyes with a light frown on her two-toned lips. A finger swipes back and forth between the two images.

“Which one?”

Thick brows pull together as his brain struggles to catch up with her rushed thinking. Still sucking down his sprite, he reaches out for the phone, putting a halt to her quick swiping.

She relinquishes her device to him. As he takes the phone, he takes his time to look at each photo.

Cimani eyes him carefully for a few seconds, then the phone, as if trying to observe them in the same way he does. Then she looks back at him.

“C’mon, which one?”

The urgency in her voice doesn’t make him choose any faster. His cheeks cave in as he only keeps drinking.

She sucks her teeth, sitting back in her car seat with folded arms.

He swallows. “Blue.” He tosses the device into her lap, turning his attention back on the parked car in front of them.

“What? What’s wrong with the brown?” She scrapes her phone up, looking back at the photo of the brown acrylics. “It’s different.”

The ice in his cup tumbles around as he rests his cup in one of the twin cup-holders.

“You asked my opinion—” He covers his mouth with a fist as a soft burp leaves him.

“I know, but—the brown’s cute!” She pouts, peering back at the blue nails.

“The blue would look better with your skin.”

He’s got a point. Sito has always thought that rich or saturated colors fit her deep brown skin so well. But, he keeps that thought to himself.

He pulls out his phone, copy-and-pasting the address she’d sent him earlier, into his Apple Maps.

She’s not so quick to respond this time, looking down at her screen with furrowed brows and a deeper frown.

“I feel like I should get the brown.“

“‘Mani—“

“No, I’m gonna get the brown! I really feel like it’ll be good.” She reaches across the console again to steal a fry from his bag of food. Before he can smack her hand away, she snatches it back. With a triumphant smile on her spit-shined lips, she pops it in her mouth.

He remains quiet, pressing his own lips together as he starts the GPS for her nail tech’s location.

It’s only about a twenty minute ride, it would’ve been shorter, but Sito had decided that it would be a good idea to get food beforehand. She found herself agreeing with his decision when they pulled into the drive-thru.

With only ten minutes left of the drive, Cimani is presenting her phone to him at a stop light, once again.

“Which one?”

He’s ready to give an honest answer, until he sees that it’s the nails, again.

He kisses his teeth. “Bro—“

“I’m not your bro. Now which?”

His eyes switch back and forth between the red light and her changing screen. “Wha—that one.” He tries to point, just as he lifts his hand, the light turns green.

“This one?” She smiles, swiping back to the brown.

He waits until she swipes back and lingers a second too long on the blue acrylics. “No—get that one.”

“Ugh!”

He sighs quietly to himself. “I don’t know why you keep asking me. Already told you which one to get…”

For a short moment, she quietly taps away at her phone. He almost thinks she’s ignoring him. “I like the tortoise shell one better.”

That’s where the conversation ends.

With a practiced perfection, Sito parallel parks into an empty spot right in front of Cimani’s nail tech’s studio.

“Thank you,” she sings, slinging her mini-purse over her slender shoulder.

“Mhm,” he says, putting the car in park. Sitting back in his seat, he pulls his phone back out.

The soft ding of her phone chimes just as the back of it flashes with light. She quickly glances at the screen as she opens the car door.

An Apple Cash from Sito, for $230.

She peers back at him over her shoulder with pursed lips.

“Get the blue,” he mumbles, still on his phone.

“Whatever.”

She steps out of the car, shutting the door behind her.

•

He doesn’t jump when the car door suddenly opens. Cimani made sure to text him five minutes before she finished, to give him a heads-up.

In fact, he’s pretty sure she was texting him throughout her entire appointment. If she wasn’t actually texting him, she was sending him Tiktoks or Reels/posts.

And if he dared to complain—not that he would—she would guilt trip him for being a bad “best friend” to her.

The last time she’d said that, as he was taking her to her gynecologist appointment, he only scoffed.

“Sitooo,” she sings, plopping into her designated seat in his Audi. “I’m back! Did you miss me?”

He side-eyes her, his gaze heading straight for her hand that clutches her phone. Wrapped around the device are perfectly shaped, long square, ombré blue acrylics.

Exactly.

“Yeah,” he says simply, turning the car back on.

“Better have.” She fixes her legging after they’d ridden up her thighs. “Where we going now?”

He scoffs. “I’m taking you home, I got shit to do.”

Her face falls. “What?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, putting the car into drive.

“So I can’t come?” She scowls.

He doesn’t even have to look over at her to see it. “‘Cause it’s some boring ass shit. M’not gonna keep you couped up in the car.”

“So? We do errands together all the time!” In a flash, a deep furrow wrinkles her brows. “Where you going that I can’t come?”

“Bro, you know you’re gonna complain if I keep you bored in here.”

She fully turns her body to face him, crossing her arms. “If you’re going to see Jada, you could just say that.”

He only exhales, focusing on the road ahead of them. And his silence washes away her anger. Cimani’s brows smoothen out as they pull apart, and her pout is back.

“Sito,” she whines. “Are you serious?”

He glances at her, seeing the sadness on her face.

Quickly putting on his turn signal, he switches lanes. “Stop bringing her up. I don’t even talk to her no more.”

“So where are you going?”

He wants to laugh, he almost does. She sounds like a kid, begging to tag along.

“I’m just going to the shop, get my shit fixed,” he gestures to his head.

She eyes his braids with a scowl, noting his outgrown hairline. “Your hair looks fine to me. Who the fuck are you fixing it up for?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he scoffs. “You, before you start cuttin’ my ass about needing a line-up.”

She hums before looking out of the window, seeing the familiar buildings of her neighborhood. “Yeah, you do need to fix that.”

He kisses his teeth. “See? But you just said my shit was fine.”

“I don’t care.”

He rolls his eyes. “But I gotta go take my cousin to pick up his car from the mechanic after.”

“Excuses,” she mutters.

“You being bratty.” He keeps his eyes trained on the road.

“And you’re being weird, like we don’t hang out all the time.” Finally, she turns to him. “What’s so different this time?”

“‘Cause I gotta get my cousin,” he kisses his teeth. “I’d rather it just be us, to be honest.”

Cimani keeps quiet at that. Her silence earns her a quick glance.

“I’m sorry, aight?”

No answer.

“I’ll call you tonight.”

She rolls her eyes, still yet unsatisfied with the outcome of this all. Sighing, Sito settles for her silence that comes with what’s left of their ride.

As he finally pulls up to the front of her apartment, he unlocks her door.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says quietly, grabbing her bag.

“‘Mani.”

She addresses him with a pointed look, like he’s wasting her time.

“C’mon, bro. Stop acting like that, please.”

When she exhales, her tense shoulders deflate. Her eyes fall elsewhere, unable to look him in the eyes. “Okay.”

He raises his brows, leaning towards her. “You gon’ call me tonight?”

“Yes,” she rolls her eyes.

He sits back in his seat, quite satisfied with that answer. He’s even got a small grin on his face. “Thank you.”

Even with her frustrations against him, she stretches over the console and throws an arm around his shoulders for a close hug. As always, she pushes her small face in the warm crook of his neck. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around her torso, rubbing her back.

“You better not be out all night.”

He fights a shudder back as her lips fluttered against his skin with her softly spoken warning.

“Y’know I won’t.”

The deep rumble of his voice does something to her chest, it makes her feel weak.

After a couple of seconds, they finally pull apart, and before he knows it, she’s out of the car and shutting the door.

He doesn’t pull off until he sees her reach inside the building.

PART 2 HERE

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