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Yaya's phone was on Do Not Disturb, but the screen lit up for one name: Brent.

She ignored it.

Not because she didn't care.
Because she did, and that was the problem.

She was laid up on the couch in a big t-shirt and lashes still halfway on, replaying their argument like it was on loop. That man had the nerve to act like she wasn't supposed to defend herself. Like she was some pawn in his little game.

"You my girl out here..."

She didn't like how that sounded. Like she was owned. Like she belonged to him. But still, when he said it, her chest tightened — in a way it never had before.

Another text buzzed through.

Chris: I'm outside. Open the door.

She rolled her eyes, but she got up anyway.

⸻

The door creaked open slow, and there he was — standing under the hallway light in all black, durag on, diamond cross showing. Calm, unreadable, like always.

"You good?" he asked, his voice low.

Yaya folded her arms.
"Didn't I just get yelled at for not following orders?"

He walked past her without waiting to be let in.
"You left mad. I'm checkin' on you. That's all."

She shut the door and leaned on it.

"Why do you even care, Brent? You said this was business. I mess up, I sit out. Ain't that the rule?"

He turned to face her. His jaw tightened, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

"I care 'cause it's you, Yaya."

The air got heavy. Silence stretched long.

She looked at him, her voice softer now.
"You ain't gotta play soft with me. I know what this is."

Brent stepped in closer, his voice a little lower.
"I'm not soft. But I'm not heartless, either."

His hand reached for her waist but stopped midway. He waited.

She didn't stop him.

His hand rested on her waist, fingers splayed just enough to feel skin under the hem of her shirt.
She didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just looked up at him like she was daring him to keep going.

"So what now?" she asked, voice low.
"You gon' punish me or press up on me?"

Brent's lips curled into a half-smirk.
"Don't tempt me, Yaya."

She stepped into him — chest to chest. Her hands found his shirt, tugging it up just enough to trace her nails along the lines of his stomach.

"I already did."

That's all it took.

He backed her up against the door, one hand gripping her thigh and the other sliding under her shirt. Skin met skin, and his breath hitched when he realized she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"You always this bold after pissing me off?"
His mouth was on her neck now, slow and hungry.

"Only when it works." She gasped when his tongue touched that spot under her jaw.

Brent lifted her with one arm like it was nothing and carried her to the couch, her legs wrapped around him.

He didn't rush. That wasn't his style.

He slid the shirt off her shoulders, took his time with every inch of her skin like he was memorizing it.
Every curve, every sound she made — he wanted all of it. And she gave it, breathless and biting her lip, nails dragging down his back.