"Mani, you really my peace."
?*??───?*??
Imani don't do rappers.
Not when attention come before intention, and every smile hide a secret. But when a late night studio session her best friend forces her to go to, puts her in the path of Messiah Jam...
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┌──❀*̥˚───❀*̥˚─┐
The morning sunlight spilled through the cracks in his blackout curtains, but Messiah was already awake.
Eyes wide open.
Laying on his back, hands behind his head, just... stuck. Still. Still thinking 'bout her.
Still thinking bout that kiss.
That damn Ferris wheel had me in a chokehold.
Or maybe it was her—green eyes glintin' under the lights, lips parted just a lil, soft breath hittin his skin right before she leaned in.
I ain't even gon' lie—I replayed that shit in my head at least twenty times since I got home.
It wasn't just a kiss. It was THE kiss.
The one I been lowkey imagining since she first walked in that studio and checked me without even trying.
The one I been building up to with every lil convo, every look, every time she played hard to get.
And when it finally happened?
A nigga damn near forgot I was scared of heights.
It was soft. Slow. Like time ain't even exist for a minute.
She tasted like powdered sugar and whatever lotion she be using that make her smell like vanilla and cashmere.
My heart was pounding, like actually pounding, like my body ain't know how to handle it 'cause I wasn't used to feeling shit like this.
It was new.
And the way she looked at me after? Yeah. I was cooked.
She really got me out here soft as hell on a Sunday morning.
Messiah exhaled through his nose, lips curling into this lil sleepy-ass smile as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"Nah... she got me bad," he mumbled, voice low and raspy.
He finally sat up, dragging his body outta bed and stretching his arms over his head.
His muscles ached a lil from walking around the carnival all night, but he ain't mind.
It was worth it. Every second.
He moved around his penthouse slow, not in a rush. Threw on some gospel in the background, Kirk, of course, 'cause his mama ain't play that.
Got in the shower, steam cloudin' the mirror as he leaned his head against the tile.
Still thinking bout how her lip gloss had rubbed off on him a lil and he ain't even wanna wipe it.
Once he got dressed—black slacks, crisp white button-up, rings on his fingers, light chain tucked under his shirt, fresh shape-up complimenting the straight backs neat as hell he checked himself in the mirror.
