He nodded. “Yeah. For you.”
Silence wrapped around them in that moment, warmer than the heater under the window.
“My boys cool and all. They look out.” He continued. “But when I’m with you, . . . I don’t gotta explain myself. I can just be. That means more to me than I know how to say.”
Princess leaned her head on his shoulder. “You don’t gotta say it. I feel it.”
Zay tilted his head toward hers, voice low and real. “When I was locked up, . . . I kept thinkin’ about that day at the Riverwalk.You in that lil’ pink hoodie. Laughin’. I ain’t felt happy like that since. That memory kept me from losing my mind.”
She looked up at him then, their faces inches apart.
“I never stopped caring about you, Zay. I was mad, yeah. Hurt too. But I always wondered if you were okay.”
“I wasn’t,” he admitted. “But I am now. At least when I’m here.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but instead, she just whispered, “You don’t have to be scared of becoming him. You’re already not.”
And Zay, for once, didn’t deflect. He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers.
“Prin, . . . I love you,” he said.
It slipped out before he could take it back.
Princess didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. She just smiled.
“I love you too, Zay.”
With that, they sealed their first kiss. In that moment, for the first time in his life, he believed he could be more than where he came from.
The Room Was Too Small for All This History
The jet cutthrough the clouds like it had somewhere more important to be. Zay sat near the window in silence, hoodie over his head, eyes fixed on the night below. Atlanta’s skyline flickered in the distance like gold teeth and ambition. The tray beside him held a bottle of untouched water. His phone buzzed with a message from Kam:
Kam:
Touch down. We in motion. Simone got your pass.
He didn’t reply. Just tucked the phone back into his pocket and leaned his head against the cold glass.
He’d already agreed to this. Already said yes to being “visible,” to shaking hands and acting like he didn’t hate this part of the industry. From what he googled on the flight, the Culture Circuit was an annual flex, an invite-only creative arts gala where Black excellence dripped from every wall, and you couldn’t swing a drink without hitting an exec or influencer with a blue checkmark. Music, fashion, literature, film, every art form was in the room. It was the kind of event Zay used to clown from the sidelines. Yet, here he was, landing solo in Jackson-Hartsfield International, dressed in quiet designer and an attitude he couldn’t shake.
Before he could even breathe the Georgia air when he stepped out the jet, he was whisked away to his hotel at the Doubletree. He spent the entire day sleeping in his one-bedroom suite, and before he knew it, room service was at the door with dinner.
He muttered under his breath “Finally” and dragged himself toward the door.
When he opened it, he was shocked to see it wasn’t a hotel tray. It was Simone, smiling bright, and Kam, who lounged behind her in a hoodie and sunglasses like the damn paparazzi was following him.
“Good evening, your majesty,” Simone said, holding up the hotel tray of food. “Met room service down the hall. Here is your catfish and spaghetti. Don’t know how you think those two dishes go together.”
Zay blinked. “Y’all couldn’t just let me eat in peace?”
Simone pushed past him and walked into his room. “You would’ve found a way to ghost us. You lucky I love your antisocial ass.”
Kam grinned. “We figured us being here will get you dressed faster than ten text messages.”
Zay groaned and rubbed his face. “I hate this already.”
“You’ll be fine,” Simone said, peeking around his hotel suite. “This is networking, not a funeral. Smile a little.”
