His voice wrapped around the melody like it was made for it. Smooth and rich, with that same neo-soul texture D’Angelo was known for, but somehow more intimate. More personal. He wasn’t performing. He was confessing.
He sang about love being all that mattered. About the outside world fading away when you’re with the right person. About nothing else being important when you’ve found something real.
I stood there frozen, tears sliding down my cheeks, watching this man—this violent, dangerous, beautiful man—pour his soul out through music like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When he finished, the silence felt sacred.
“Prime…” I wiped my face, embarrassed by my reaction. “That was… that doesn’t fit your persona at all.”
He laughed softly. “What persona?”
“The… you know. This violent, rough around the edges. Rude…”
“That’s part of me too.” He turned on the bench to face me. “But this was first. Before all of that. Music was my escape when I was young. Before prison. Before I became what I had to become to survive.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Because Black boys aren’t allowed to be artists without being called gay or soft.” His voice went flat. “Can’t play piano. Can’t sing. Can’t show emotion. Gotta be hard. Gotta be tough. Gotta prove you’re a man every second of every day or somebody’s gonna take advantage of you. We’re expected to fit into these boxes. Light-skinned niggas are soft. Dark-skinned niggas are hard. This and that. The list goes on and on. But it’s whatever. You learn how to shove down the things that make you appear weak and amplify the shit that makes you appear strong.”
I moved closer, standing between his legs as he sat on the bench.
“That’s not fair.”
“Nah. It’s not.” He looked up at me, his hands finding my hips. “But it’s the world we live in. The world that made me who I am.”
“Who you are is more than the violence, Prime.”
“Oh, I know. You helped me see that.” His grip tightened. “You and Yusef.”
Eventually, he guided me to the kitchen and poured me a glass of wine.
“Can I tell you something?” I asked.
“Anything.”
“I hated you at first.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I know.”
“I was so pissed to find you in my kitchen that day. You were such an asshole eating that cereal. And then you threatened me right in my house. I was so angry.”
“I would’ve been too. But man, I ain’t had Cinnamon Toast Crunch since before prison. When I saw them, I couldn’t resist.”
We both broke out laughing.
“I ain’t have no plans on fallin’ in love, though. You were supposed to be a job. But I need to apologize to you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For judging you. When we first met.” He set his glass down, giving me his full attention. “I got… I got issues with women. Deep ones. My mother—” He stopped. Started again. “Vivica fucked me up. That ain’t no excuse though. I’ve carried that hatred for a long time. And sometimes it colors how I see other women. Makes me suspicious. Makes me assume the worst.” He reached across the counter and took my hand. “But you’re not her. You’re nothing like her. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to prove yourself to me.”
My throat tightened at hearing his maturity. Because here he was, opening up, being vulnerable, telling me things he probably never told anyone.
And I was still lying to him.
“You’ve opened me up in ways I’ve never been,” he continued. “Made me feel things I thought I’d buried a long time ago. And I love you, Zahara. I love you, and I love Yusef. Y’all are my family now.”
“Prime—”
