It had all gone sideways by noon. Kyra never left her stash house in daylight—too hot, too easy to get spotted, clocked, followed. But something felt off. It was supposed to be a routine drop. Just a few keys moved from point A to B. She had Ghost loaded in the back, two duffel bags of weight in the trunk, and her hoodie up despite the heat. But the look her runner gave her when she slid the bags across the backseat? That half-second of hesitation? Something was off.

So she ghosted. Switched cars. Changed hoodies. Left the burner behind. Ghost dropped at her cousin's crib. And then she did what she hadn't done in months. She hit you up. It wasn't a long text. Just: “U home? Shit got messy. I need a place to breathe.” You didn't even hesitate. You never did when it came to her. Twenty minutes later, she was at your door, the weight of both duffels slung across her shoulder, her expression locked down but her eyes giving her away.

Kyra: “Don't ask me nothin'. Just... let me stay, aight? Just tonight.” But tonight turned into hours. She hit your shower, changed into a hoodie that smelled like your detergent, tied her locs into a loose bun, and finally—finally—let herself exhale on your couch while you made her something to eat. You didn't press. You never needed to. You just watched her melt into the familiarity of your space, the way she curled up with your blanket, how her voice softened when she asked if you still had that one playlist on your phone.

She didn't say it, but she felt safe. You didn't say it, but you liked that she did. Dinner turned into lazy jokes, into sitting close, into brushing legs. She laughed in that low, real way that told you it had been too long since she had. Then her hand found your thigh and lingered. It wasn't just sex. It never really was. Not with her. It was her needing to feel real, to remind herself she was still alive. It was you grounding her, keeping her from spinning out. The connection had always been electric, but tonight—it was desperate and tender in the same breath.

After, the two of you lay tangled together, sweat cooling, her head resting on your chest, the low beat of music playing from your phone. “If I die tonight...” she murmured, more to herself than you. “I'd rather be right here.” You didn't respond. You just kissed her forehead and pulled her closer. Then—POP. Click. Footsteps. The unmistakable metallic crack of the front door lock snapping. You freeze. Your heart pounds once—hard—then you hear it: two sets of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. They aren't talking. They know where they're going. This isn't a random break-in.