The Fire 🔥 Between Us

Chapter Two: The Line We Cross

I didn’t sleep after he left.

The house was too quiet, like the walls were holding their breath with me. Smooth Operator had long faded out, but the bassline still thrummed in my body, a ghost of a song living in my skin. I lay there replaying the way his hands had learned me, the way his mouth found truths I never said out loud. We hadn’t gone all the way but we’d stood on the ledge and looked straight down. I kept thinking about how easy it would have been to tip forward.

When the sun finally bled into the blinds, I gave up on pretending to rest. I tied my turquoise headband, slid on my glasses, and went through the motions—coffee, shower, inventory lists like routine might drown the ache. It didn’t. Every time my phone buzzed, my pulse jumped.

At 9:14 a.m it lit up with his name.

Todd: You got me walking into this day smiling like an idiot.

I stared at the screen, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

Me: Good. Now suffer.

Me: Also… you’re not playing fair. You left me here all miscombobulated.

Three dots. Disappeared. Came back.

Todd: I know. I felt it too. If I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have left.

I sat down on the edge of my bed. I could hear his voice in those words low, a little rough, honest like he didn’t have energy for lies.

Me: Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll stop.

Me: Say it to my face next time.

Todd: I can’t say that to your face. You already know.

The truth of it slid through me like heat. I dressed slow, choosing the turquoise BlazzUp hoodie and matching leggings, laced my Jordans, and headed to the shop. The bell above the door chimed that bright little note that usually meant peace. Today it just sounded like a dare.

Morning, boss, Mari called from behind the counter. She took one look at me and snorted. Okay, glow. You got your edges laid and your spirit lifted. Who did it?

Nobody, I said, failing to sound casual. Inventory day.

Uh-huh, she said, swinging her braids. Inventory of your soul.

I laughed it off and tried to work, but Todd’s messages kept threading through the quiet. We traded jokes, little sparks. He sent a photo from the pool hall cue balanced on his palm, that cocky half-smile that made my knees weak. My thumbs typed faster than my sense.

Around noon, the bell rang again. I looked up and forgot how to breathe.

He walked in wearing a black henley and those charcoal slacks that made his thighs look like sin. He smelled like eucalyptus and something darker. He smiled at Mari. He looked at me like I’d been his destination all day.

Hey, he said softly.

You can’t just show up here, I whispered, smiling anyway.

I can if I’m shopping, he said, eyes flicking to the shelf of balms and tinctures. “A man’s got aches.

Mari stared between us as if she was watching daytime TV. I’ll… go reorganize gummies in the back. Slowly. She vanished with the efficiency of a best friend who knew when to disappear.

It’s risky, I said, coming around the counter.

I’m careful, he said. Also, I missed you.

The words landed with the weight of a hand pressed to my heart. What do you need? I asked, because pretending made it easier to stand up.

He tapped the sore spot at his shoulder. Tournament practice. And sleep. Whatever in here makes the world stop shouting for a night.

I packed a small bag muscle oil, chamomile honey drops, a lavender roll-on. When I handed it over, our fingers touched and the store fell away. It was nothing and it was everything. I could feel my own pulse in my wrists.

You always come through for me, he said.

Don’t say it like that, I murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m already yours.”

His eyes softened, then sharpened. He leaned in just enough for the outside world to turn to blur. You told me to say it to your face.

My mouth opened. No words. Just heat.

The bell snapped us back when a couple wandered in. Todd paid and tucked his bag into his jacket, all polite smiles while my body debated the pros and cons of self-control.

I’ll see you tonight, he said quietly.

Will you? I asked, chin lifted, testing.

If you’ll have me.

I didn’t answer with words. I let the corner of my thumb tug my bottom lip as I stared at his mouth. He inhaled like I’d reached into him.

He left. The door swung shut. Mari tiptoed out from the back, whisper-screaming, Oh, we are in trouble.

We, I said, laughing despite the nerves, are minding our business.

We, she countered, are bringing oven mitts to work because you’re about to burn the building down.

He texted me an address at 9:02 p.m. a private table in the back of a quiet spot, dim lights and old-school soul humming under the talk. When I pushed aside the velvet curtain, he was waiting with two cue sticks and that half-smile that said the night had been counting down to this.

“You late,” he teased.

I had to find the right shade of sin, I said, rolling my shoulders to show off the turquoise silk that draped my body. His eyes did a slow, appreciative slide. A current passed between us like a wire heating to red.

“Rack ’em,” he said.

We played for nothing and for everything. He took the first game easy, every shot like a promise kept. On the second, he came up behind me, guiding my stance, his palm heavy at my waist.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

I did, and my body found a rhythm with him my inhale matching his exhale, the clean click of contact, the soft thud of a ball disappearing into darkness. We stood there in the little hush that follows a perfect shot, his hand still holding me, and the quiet swelled into something living.

Tell me you don’t want me, I said, my voice barely a thread. Say it to my face and I’ll stop.

He turned me gently, cue abandoned, both hands on my hips now. He searched me like there were doors inside my eyes.

I can’t say that he whispered. Not to your face. You already know.

The kiss didn’t start so much as it arrived inevitable and already in motion. It was soft at first: the kind of soft that carries respect and promise. Then it deepened, a slow hunger with no arrogance, no hurry, only intention. The room tilted. The song bled into the next track, something with hush and bass and heartbreak stitched into it.

Come home with me, I breathed against his mouth.

Yes, he said, like the word had been waiting in his lungs all day.

We didn’t speak in the car. We didn’t need to. He drove with one hand; the other found the inside of my wrist and held my pulse. By the time we reached my door, the night had thinned to the kind that makes secrets feel safe.

Inside, I didn’t turn on the bright lights. The house wore its own soft glow stovetop hood, salt lamp, a candle I’d forgotten to blow out that threw gold across the kitchen. We moved without stumbling, like our bodies had practiced.

I put on Sade without asking. The first note spun out and he smiled like memory. He set his bag on the counter, then reached for my hair tie and tugged. My curls fell. His fingers slid into them with a sound that might have been a prayer.

You undo me, he said, forehead resting against mine.

Good, I said, because I didn’t have a gentler word for what he did to my balance.

We started in the kitchen. Not on purpose just because that’s where we happened to be when everything broke open. His hands learned my spine slowly, reverently. My palms learned the width of his back, the curve of muscle at his shoulder, the steadiness there. We kissed like time wasn’t real. We kissed like we were keeping a promise we hadn’t known we’d made.

When we finally drifted down the hall, the world shifted to small sounds: the low friction of fabric, a caught breath, a laugh that trembled. He took his time. I took mine. The wanting was not a rush; it was a right. When he whispered my name, it felt like a door opening inside my chest I hadn’t known was locked.

I won’t name what came next. I’ll tell you what it felt like.

It felt like stepping into warm water after a winter of being cold. It felt like the first deep inhale after a panic breaks lungs greedy and new. It felt like light that didn’t blind, heat that didn’t scald, fire that picked us up instead of burning us down. He didn’t take; he received. I didn’t surrender; I chose. And when the world finally went bright, it wasn’t a bang—it was a rising, the two of us lifted by something bigger than both.

Later, he lay on his back and I traced the vein on his forearm with one finger. He stared at the ceiling like it had told him a joke we weren’t old enough to understand.

Are you okay? I asked.

I’ve been okay, he said. This is… something else.

Good, I whispered, and kissed the spot where his jaw met his ear.

He laughed. You said that already.

Then hear it twice.

He turned, propped on an elbow, and looked at me like a man cataloging miracles. If we had met before the chaos

I know, I said, a little too fast. But we didn’t.

He nodded, acceptance folding into his features, then softened his voice. Still. I can’t stop seeing it—how we could’ve been unstoppable.

You say that like we aren’t already, I said, resting my palm on his chest. His heartbeat answered my hand. Just because a fire is secret doesn’t mean it’s small.

Secret, he repeated, the word heavier in his mouth than mine. He looked at the doorway like the world might barge in if he stared too long. Sponsors. Gossip. The hall is a fishbowl right now.”

And my brand’s a glass house,”I admitted. People love to throw stones at women who build.

We lay in the quiet with that truth between us and didn’t let it harden into fear. He pulled me in. I listened to the way his breathing lengthened when mine did. We slept like that, not hiding from the morning but not inviting it, either.

Morning arrived anyway, nosy and golden. I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a spoon tapping ceramic. When I padded into the kitchen, he was already there, shirtless, bare feet on cold tile, pouring two mugs like he’d been doing it for years.

Good morning, he said, voice husky with sleep and something gentler. He glanced me over from headband to toes and smiled like gratitude.

This feels illegal, I said, sliding onto the stool.

He set the mug in front of me. It’s not.

You sure? Because the way you’re looking at me, sir.

That’s a crime, he agreed, stepping between my knees. But I’m pleading guilty.

We didn’t do too much with the morning because we’d done everything with the night, but we still filled the time with the kind of closeness that makes a day worth living his chin on my shoulder while I checked emails, my hand absentmindedly rubbing circles into his thigh while he skimmed match schedules, us trading sips of the same cup because the taste of his mouth was already my favorite flavor.

At ten, reality knocked. His phone blinked with three missed calls. Mine buzzed with a delivery, a design proof, and a text from Mari that read, Get your hot self to work before I unionize.

Go, I said, trying to sound stern and failing. Before they send a search party.

He kissed my forehead like a vow. “Tonight?”

Yes, I said, with more certainty than I’d used on anything in months.

He paused at the door. You told me to say it to your face, he said.

So here.

He waited until I looked up. I want you.

I swallowed, felt it echo all the way down. Good, I said, smiling into the admission like sunlight. Now suffer.

He laughed and left, and the house felt full even as the door clicked shut.

Days fell into a rhythm one we didn’t name because names invite witnesses. He’d stop by the shop for balm and leave with kisses pressed into the back of my hand under the counter. I’d swing by the hall at strange hours and let him set me up for shots I could’ve made with my eyes closed just to feel him step behind me and breathe instruction against my skin.

The boys started to notice. Not the love men like that look right past soft things but the glow. The way Todd’s shoulders seemed looser, how his temper telescoped into patience when he lost a shot he would’ve cussed in April. They noticed the bags he carried too small, neat, labeled like medicine. I kept the product clean and legal: recovery oil, sleep drops, joint salves that smelled like honest gardens. Still, whispers find any open door.

One night, we came up for air at the bar between games. A lanky kid with a cross tattoo and a fresh fade slid over, eyes quick.

Yo, T, he said, that stuff you brought Shawn? His back stopped screaming. You got—and I mean, purely medicinal—any more of that?

Todd’s glance flicked to me before it returned to the kid. “We’re not turning the hall into a pharmacy,” he said, easy but firm.

Right, right. The kid held up his hands. Just saying. Word is it works.

It does, I said, because I refuse to shrink when my work is honorable. But we keep things clean. No alley exchanges. Come by the shop in the daylight and talk to me like a grown man.

He blinked, then grinned. Bet.

When he left, Todd shook his head. This is the tightrope

I know, I said. But careful isn’t the same as scared.

He studied me with that look he wore when he was adding columns in his head risk, reward, and the price in between. “You steady me,” he said finally.

You make me brave, I answered.

He didn’t kiss me in the open room. He reached under the bar and found my hand, laced our fingers, let the whole world be loud while we were quiet.

The first hit of real trouble landed on a Tuesday. A sponsor rep brisk smile, sharper eyes showed up to watch a set. Todd was smooth with her, respectful, nothing in his posture giving away the way my presence tugged at him from the far table. But I’ve learned to see the tremor above the water line a tightened throat, a blink too slow. The rep cut through small talk like a wire.

Distractions make great stories, she said, gaze skating to where I was racking. Not great champions.

I’d come for him, not for a fight. But love makes new kinds of courage. I walked over, calm as a Sunday, and offered my hand.

Hi, I said. I’m Dakota. I’m the reason his shoulder stopped barking.

Her brow lifted. You’re a trainer?

Entrepreneur, I said. I own a boutique and a dispensary. I put recovery before rumors.

Her mouth tilted like she wanted to be impressed but had learned better somewhere expensive. Recovery’s good, she said. Noise is not.

Then we’ll keep it down, Todd said, gentle but final. He didn’t squeeze my hand but I felt him steady us both.

She left a card on the rail. “Win your next two,” she said to him.

Make this easy for me.

He did. He ran the table so clean men clapped who never applauded. When the rep left, he let out a breath he’d been pretending he didn’t need.

I don’t want to hide you, he said, eyes on the felt. But I also don’t want to write a novel explaining us.

Then don’t, I said. “We’ll be undeniable. That’s the only explanation that works.

He looked up with something like relief. Maybe people had always asked him to choose between love and the thing that made him whole. I was offering him a third option: build a bigger life.

Weeks later, after long days tightroping and long nights unwinding, we drifted into a quiet Saturday like a boat hitting a still bay. My kids were with my mama, the shop was stocked, and his next match was days away a rare alignment. We planned burgers and a bad movie. We ended up making our own language.

It started the way our best moments startedvaccidentally. He was behind me at the stove, chin hooked over my shoulder, hands in the pockets of my robe, laughing against my neck at something stupid. I turned to shush him and his mouth landed on mine, off-center, smiling. The kiss slipped into a second, then a third, each one truer and more thoughtful, until the buns were burning and we didn’t care.

We learned each other all over again, new map layered on the old. He traced my scars like footnotes, like evidence that I’d survived. I memorized the places his breath stuttered as if I’d need to recite them in court. When we finally folded into the bed, the world narrowed to heartbeat and heat and all the ways yes can sound when you stop apologizing for wanting.

I won’t catalog it. I will tell you what stayed.

His patience. Not the kind that waits politely the kind that believes the finish line isn’t going anywhere. The way he asked for me without asking, the way he heard no in a sigh and please in the way my fingers flexed. The way the oldest parts of me the tired, guarded, don’t-drop-your-guard parts set their weapons down and went to sleep while the rest of me woke up.

After, there was the soft chaos of the room: a robe on the lamp, a sock with no partner, a glass sweating a ring into the nightstand. He propped himself on an elbow, sliding lazy fingers through my hair, the back of his knuckles grazing my cheek like he was still learning the texture of my life.

Every time I get a message from you, he said, smiling, I replay us. The twinkle when you smiled in that hall. Your laugh. I wish we’d had time different. But maybe we got the story that makes us who we are.

I kissed his wrist. Maybe the fire needed a season with no witnesses.

He laughed softly. You and these sermons.

Say amen then.

“Amen,” he said, solemn like Sunday, and kissed me again.

Trouble, of course, is a jealous creature. It waits until you are soft to pounce.

We were closing up the shop one evening when a patrol car rolled slow past the window, then again, then stopped half a block down. Mari glanced up.

“Random,” she muttered.

I felt the familiar rise of old adrenaline—the kind that makes you organize your bag even when you know your house is clean. We run legit. My paperwork could make a judge cry with relief. Still, a Black woman and the word cannabis in the same sentence invites more questions than answers.

Go, I told Mari. I got it.

After she left, I took my time counted the drawer, wiped the counter until it gleamed. The car idled. I flipped the sign to CLOSED and stepped outside, head high, turquoise bright like a flag

Evening, I said to the air, to the street, to the man I knew would come around the corner because he always did when my body hummed like this.

He did. He must’ve driven like the night was urgent. He didn’t barrel toward me with hero nonsense, though. He came like gravity, like water finding lower ground.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” I said, because I was. Because being seen makes fine true.

We stood on the sidewalk like we were admiring the sky. The cruiser pulled away. The neighborhood exhaled. He slid his hand into mine.

Every time I hear from you, I said, echoing that older text with a smile, she throbs.

He groaned, low and theatrical. You trying to get me arrested in broad daylight.

Nightlight, I corrected. And maybe.

He laughed and lifted our joined hands to his mouth, kissed my knuckles, a small thing that electrified everything. “You make me feel like the world’s not louder than me,” he said.

You make the noise quiet, I said. That’s rarer than money.

We locked the door and walked nowhere in particular. It didn’t matter where as long as we were moving together.

That night, after the street was done proving it could scare me and fail, I lit a candle the color of sea glass and let the room go soft. He lay with his head in my lap while I oiled the knots out of his shoulder, slow circles that smelled like lavender and eucalyptus and something clean. He melted under my hands in stages, tough edges dissolving like sugar.

You know,” he murmured, eyes closed, for a man who makes a living sending things into pocket

Balls, I said helpfully.

you’re determined to ruin my reputation.

I smiled. “I’m determined to keep your body working when the game tries to break it.

He opened one eye. That right?

“That’s right.”

He reached up, slid a palm over my knee, and didn’t push further. The restraint was a poem. So was the way he eventually rolled over, rested his cheek on my stomach, and just breathed there like home.

“Say it to my face,” I whispered into his hair.

He tilted his head back until our eyes met. “I want you,” he said, like a vow renewed.

“Good,” I answered, because there are some words you don’t need to embroider. “Now suffer.”

He laughed, helpless, and pulled me down into the kind of kiss that makes new calendars.

We crossed lines that night and we crossed them tenderly, with all the patience and all the hunger in the same room. We gave the moment a quiet big enough to live in. When it finally passed, it didn’t feel like something we’d done; it felt like something we’d become.

If a chapter needs a last sentence, let it be this:

Fire can be loud. Ours learned how to be light.

And in that light, we didn’t hide. We just chose who deserved to see.

Want me to keep going straight into Chapter Three: Smoke and Secrets—where the whispers get louder, the sponsor line tightens, and you two have to choose what you’ll protect and how? I can keep the same juicy, breathy energy while escalating the stakes.