Tony dug in his pocket, set a house key on the counter. “Spare,” he grinned. “In case y’all lock yourselves out like dummies arguing over whose turn it is to buy milk.”
I scooped it, kissed his cheek quick, and he blushed like a kid, then puffed up like a man who likes being necessary. “Aight, I’m out,” he announced, backing toward the door. “Camera’s a vault. I’m Fort Knox. I’m?—”
“Background,” Ro cut in, one eyebrow up.
“Atmosphere,” Tony corrected with flair, then slid into the hall, tossing a salute. “Long live the wifed-up!”
The door clicked. The building breathed. The quiet came back wearing our names.
Ro turned, leaned his spine to the door, and let his eyes find mine like the room was a compass. “Aight, Mrs. Zore,” he teased, tension unwinding half an inch. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” I smirked, drifting toward the kitchenette. “You got food or you got bachelor optimism?”
He cracked a cabinet and pulled a pack of Top Ramen like a magician with one good trick. “Gourmet,” he bragged, shaking the brick. “Chicken.”
“We fancy,” I giggled, turning the tap. The burner clicked twice, flame finally picking a side. He broke the noodles in the pot and I sprinkled the packet with reverence; we watched steam rise like a blessing that cost thirty-nine cents.
We ate from one bowl with two forks, legs touching on the counter like we were a table for two. He slurped, winced,grinned. I blew on noodles and fed him a bite just to watch him be extra.
“Mrs. Zore,” he crooned through the heat, hand cupping my knee. “I’ma get you a house where this pot got cousins. Cabinets and everything.”
“We already got a house,” I countered, tapping his chest with my fork. “It got heartbeat and a Bible and a window that knows your name.”
He leaned forward and kissed the corner of my mouth, noodles and salt and us. “On hood,” he murmured.
When he set the bowl in the sink, the ring on his finger caught the crooked lamplight and flared once—small, stubborn. He stared at it a long beat, then closed his fist around it like a man making a new kind of weapon.
“Come back to bed,” I coaxed, tugging his belt loop.
“In a sec,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the blind, mind finishing a map. “Just listening if the city gone try me again.”
I slid behind him, wrapped his waist, and laid my cheek between his shoulder blades. His body softened under my hands as if somebody turned a dial. Outside, the block turned over in its sleep: a car door thud, a cat yowl, tires hissing on wet somewhere far. Inside, our breaths synced, and the cheap clock gave up and blinked 1:01 like it had finally made a decision.
“Sleep,” I urged, tugging him toward the mattress with a grin. “The world can’t steal tomorrow if we already used it up tonight.”
He let me pull him, heaviness dropping off him in pieces as he went. We slid under the blanket and the room exhaled around us, satisfied. His head found my chest like it had read the blueprint, and I threaded my fingers through his hair while my other hand palmed the ring under my shirt. “He thatdwelleth in the secret place of the Most High…” I breathed into his crown.
“Gon’ abide,” he finished, drowsy, already half-floating.
“Under the shadow,” I hummed, kissing his temple.
“Of the Almighty,” he answered, voice a rumble against my ribs, then drifted fully, mouth relaxing, jaw unclenching, hand still wrapped around his ring like a vow you sleep with, so you don’t lose it by accident.
I watched the dark for a minute more, letting the block’s noises take attendance—dice hush, far siren, fridge hum, upstairs drip, a boy laughing into his sleeve on the sidewalk for no reason but being alive. Somewhere out there, White Lie polished his white toy and checked his reflection in a store window, practicing being important. Somewhere in here, my husband’s heartbeat kept time.
“Covered,” I whispered to the ceiling. “We’re covered.”
The blind fluttered once, like the night nodded. Then everything settled—the city, the breath, the ring, the house we’d built out of two bodies, one bowl, a Bible, and a promise new enough to squeak but strong enough to stand.
Roman and Nova Zore. It was only the beginning.
Roman “Ro” Zore
Ashes in the Rain
Recommended Song: Dead Presidents II by Jay-Z
The rain didn’t just fall— it came down with a weight that felt personal, fat drops slapping against my jacket like the sky had a score to settle with me. Not the lazy kind that drizzles and fades, but the kind that soaks through leather, creeps down your collar, and makes everything you carry heavier than it already was. Each drop drummed a slow, steady beat on my helmet until I slid it off, letting the cold air rush in and bite against skin that hadn’t tasted this city in years.
