Page 79 of The Wright Man

Tina had sent a screenshot of her wax appointment earlier:

SisterSisterSister Chat

Tina : If I'm getting my coochie snatched for Tulum, so are y'all. Group booking. Let's suffer together.

Bella : Girl, this kitty is going to be in BALTIMORE. Mind yours.

I'd responded with a meme of a cat sprinting away from a waxing table and got three crying emojis in return.

We were planning our last Sister Sunday with all three of us in town—Bella heading back to campus early, Tina off to Tulum for a Black-owned hotel partnership.

We'd settled on a girls' night at my place. Gavin had already planned another guys' night, which meant I could drink wine in my bonnet and watch Tina fall off my couch in peace. I was so ready.

They were the only reason I hadn't burned the salon down today.

Well—them, and the fact that Maleek had kept checking in. Quiet, casual, consistent. Just like always.

He'd kept his word and texted after lunch—sent pictures of GhostFit's progress, the space coming together in that gritty, hopeful way only dream-born projects do.

One picture had his friends—who I assumed were Riq and Sticks—in the corner trying to pose, throwing up middle fingers and gang signs.

Maleek : Excuse these niggas. They ain't got no sense.

I smiled so hard my face hurt.

I hadn't even made it to the second bite of my chicken when I heard the creak of the stairs.

I froze mid-chew. Not out of fear, but instinct. Like my body had already learned that Gavin's presence meant recalculating—tone, posture, expression. Mood. Energy. All of it.

He appeared at the bottom of the steps, moving slow, smiling easy. Like we hadn't spent the better part of the last year pretending we were roommates with shared bills and no touch.

"Hey, babe," he said, voice low and warm.

My jaw tightened around the bite in my mouth. I forced myself to swallow. The wine helped.

"Hey…" I said cautiously, eyes scanning his face.

He looked good. That was the problem. He always did. Shirtless, butterscotch skin, hazel eyes still sharp in the low light, the kind of symmetry that used to stop me mid-sentence.

There was a time when I would've been halfway to the bedroom by now.

Now, it just made me brace.

He crossed the room like he had every right to the space beside me, like this was routine. As if his spot on the couch hadn't gone cold over a year ago. He eased down beside me with a soft groan, one arm stretching across the back like muscle memory had dragged him there.

"You're home late," he said, glancing at my takeout box.

"Yeah," I answered, trying to sound neutral. "Kia called out first thing this morning, so I ended up taking all her clients."

He nodded, but I could already tell his eyes weren't following the story. That familiar glazed-over look. The kind that said he was only catching every third word.

"Mmhmm."

I kept talking anyway, filling in the details — the walk-ins, the near-scissor brawl Alicia and I had to shut down — my voice flat and distant.

Still, he nodded. "That's wild."

I ate another fry and sipped my wine. I wasn't sure why I bothered. Habit, maybe. Or the ghost of hope that maybe he'd suddenly decide to care about my day.