When we got in the house, he helped me to the couch like I was made of glass. Grabbed a blanket. Adjusted the pillows behind my back. Put my water on the side table. "You good?" he asked. I nodded. "You need anything?" I shook my head. He kissed my forehead before heading to the kitchen. I watched him move around the space like he wasn't even thinking about it—like he was used to taking care of me now. And still, somehow, I'd never felt more distant from him.
Later that evening, I called him over as I laid curled up in the bed. The meds had worn off. My body ached. My chest ached more. He kicked his shoes off and slid in beside me, one hand on my thigh, other propped behind his head like he didn't feel the weight hanging in the air. "Juste?" I whispered. "Yeah, baeeby?" His voice was quiet. I hesitated, then placed my hand on his chest. "You think we gon' be okay?" He turned to look at me, eyes narrowing just a bit. "What you mean?"
"I mean us. All of this. We went through something life-changing. And it's like... we ain't never really talked about it. You keep leaving, chasing after Maseon. I get it, I really do. But what about us?" His phone buzzed on the nightstand. One glance at the screen, and he was already sitting up. "Shit... I gotta take this." I grabbed his arm. "Juste, I'm really tryna talk to you. I need—"
"We'll talk later, aight? I promise," he cut me off, grabbing his phone and heading toward the hallway. "Get some rest." I stared after him, the door clicking shut behind him like a period on the end of a sentence I hadn't finished.
-
A month had gone by. The bruises had faded, but the scars—those were forever. The one on my shoulder looked like a jagged little reminder of the night my whole world flipped. Literally. Another trailed down my side, a little softer but just as ugly. I'd healed enough to move around without help, to fake normal on the outside. But inside? I still didn't feel like myself. Still didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. Still trying to figure out how to breathe without tasting resentment. And the worst part? The distance between me and Juste had only gotten wider.
He was barely home. And when he was, It felt like his body showed up but his mind stayed elsewhere—buried under the weight of vengeance and bloodlust. Maseon. That name stayed on his tongue more than mine ever did now. His obsession with finding that man had become his purpose, and I was just... background noise. Something he fed, rubbed, and kissed on the forehead before disappearing again.
I tried to be patient. Tried to understand. But understanding didn't make it hurt less. The birthday trip he'd been whispering about for weeks before the accident? Cancelled. No heads-up. No plan B. Just a tight-lipped, "It ain't safe right now. I can't focus on no getaway until that nigga buried." Like I was asking him to pick beaches over bullets.
I didn't even want anything extravagant—I just wanted him. The version of him that held me when I woke up confused in the hospital. The man who whispered I love you against my hair every night while I recovered. But that man was gone. Replaced by a colder, harder version I wasn't sure I liked. Now he came and went like a shadow. Checked in just enough to say he did. And what hurt the most was... I ain't even think he noticed the difference.
I sat at the bar with Nia and Amina, a tequila shot in each hand like I was tryna numb more than just the sting in my chest. Tomorrow was my birthday. And even though we'd made plans to go out, the girls insisted we hit the bar tonight too. Said they just wanted to be outside, but I knew the truth—they were covering for the fact Juste hadn't mentioned my birthday once. Not a card. Not a candle. Not even a damn,What you wanna do tomorrow, baby?Nothing.
So yeah, they had me out tonight. Their way of being there for me when the one person I needed wasn't. "You bitches better not let me get sloppy drunk," I said, tossing back another shot and sucking on the lime like it owed me money. "I still wanna look like a bad bitch tomorrow."
"Oh you gone look like a bad bitch, alright," Amina said, grinning as she reached for the salt. "You just might feel like roadkill." We all laughed, but the ache in my chest didn't move. Then Nia leaned back in her seat, that signature messy smirk on her face. "I bet y'all ain't heard how they got Ms. Evie hemmed up." My eyes narrowed. "The hell they do to Evie?"
Amina leaned in too, already grinning like a nosy cousin at a cookout. Nia snorted, laughing between words. "Girl, they got her ass on a leash. For real. Ain't even exaggeratin'. Juste, Jules, Saint—they rotate watching her like she a toddler or somethin'." My eyebrows shot up as I slammed my empty shot glass on the counter. "You lyin'. They got Evie on house arrest?"
"Worse." Nia was damn near in tears laughing. "She can't hit no casino, no bingo hall, no corner store with a damn scratch off. They got her shit locked tighter than Fort Knox. One of them gotta be with her anytime she leave the house." I cackled, the laughter bubbling out of me louder than I meant. Probably louder than I felt. But it felt good to laugh, even if it only lasted a minute. Amina was already reaching for the next round.
"They basically pulled a Juste on her ass," Nia added between laughs. "Same way he had you tucked away like a secret." The joke was light. But it landed hard. Because it was true. I looked down at my phone again. Still no text. No missed call. Not even a fuckin'thinking about youfrom Juste. Just the glowing lock screen fading to black as my battery hit 1%... then nothing. The screen powered down in my hand, and I sat there staring at the dark glass like it had betrayed me. Maybe it had.
2:30 AM crept up on us like we hadn't been tossing back shots since midnight. My head was buzzing, my chest warm, and Nia's phone lit up with Jules' name again for the fifth time in ten minutes. We slid out of the bar, heels clicking on the pavement, giggling like we ain't have a care in the world—except I did. I always did these days. And I carried it in silence.
The black truck was parked right at the curb like clockwork. The driver hopped out, opened the door for us, and we climbed in, still half-laughing at Amina's dumbass story about a security guard who tried to holla at her in Family Dollar. Then the phone rang again. This time Nia sighed and sucked her teeth like she'd been holding it in all night. She answered, eyes rolling, and put Jules on speaker before leaning back in the seat. "What?" she snapped, already irritated.
"Nia," Jules growled through the line. His voice was low, tight with frustration. "You gon' fuck around and make me put my foot in yo ass." I damn near snorted, covering my mouth with my hand to hold back the laugh. Nia waved her hand like he could see her through the phone. "Oh please. What do you want, Jules? Why you not sleep with the kids like a responsible ass daddy?"
He chuckled—but not the warm kind. This one was cold, sarcastic. The kind of laugh that said he was trying not to lose it. "Yeah, aight. Ima handle you when I see you. Chiana with you?" Nia and Amina both looked at me. I lifted an eyebrow like what I done now? "Yeah, she right here," Nia said slowly.
"Well, tell her Juste been blowin' her shit up for damn near an hour. Say her phone goin' straight to voicemail and that nigga is not happy." Amina turned toward me, lips parted in surprise. I shrugged. "Phone dead." Jules must've heard me. "Yeah, well, charge it. That nigga pacing the floor like a maniac. Said you aint tol' him shit and he ain't know where the hell you was. You know he don't play dat."
I leaned my head back against the headrest, eyes closed, the dull throb in my temples matching the ache in my chest. "He don't play about a lot of shit," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "But he damn sure been playin' about me lately." The truck got quiet. Still. Like everybody knew that was a wound too fresh to touch. Even Jules went silent. "Tell him I'll be there in a minute," I said after a pause, sitting up and staring out the window like it could offer peace I hadn't found in weeks.
The truck crept up the driveway, headlights casting long shadows across the house. Juste was already out front. Posted up in a goddamn lawn chair like he was security for a trap house, his big gun sitting across his lap. I blinked slow. The hell? As soon as the tires stopped rolling, Juste stood up, eyes locked on the driver's window. He cocked the gun, walked around the truck and tapped on the glass with the barrel. "Girl, what the fuck is goin' on right now?" Amina muttered, her voice low and wide-eyed from the back seat. "Juste, get that gun off the damn driver, I thought they took that mutha fucka from you." Nia hissed, rolling down her window with attitude.
"Suhhh... fuck dis nigga," Juste muttered, his eyes cutting to the back seat the moment he spotted me. His whole body relaxed just a little, and he tucked the pistol back in his waistband like it was part of his damn outfit. "Chiana. Get the fuck out the car," he barked, jaw tight, eyes wild like he was five seconds from blackin' out.
I raised my brow, slow. He must've forgot who the fuck I was. I was tipsy, irritated, and emotionally drained. All that yelling wasn't finna fly, not tonight. So instead of responding, I calmly reached in my purse and started digging for my keys like he wasn't standing there talking to me like I was one of his little runners. That's when I heard it. "Oh shit, bitch—" Amina started, but before I could react, I was yanked clean out the truck. My heels scraped the gravel. My purse hit the ground. Juste had his damn hands on me like he lost all sense.
"JUSTE!" Nia and Amina shouted in unison from the truck, doors flying open behind us. "Have you lost your fuckin' mind?!" I yelled, shoving at his chest as he held me by my arm.
"You really had me out here thinkin' somethin happened to you, Chiana!" His voice was shaking—rage and relief dancing a thin line. "I done buried people behind less than this! Your shit goin' to voicemail, it's 3 in the goddamn mornin', and you out here bar hoppin' like you not still recovering from almost dyin'?!" He was breathing hard, staring at me like he couldn't decide whether to cuss me out or fall apart.
"I was with my friends. Celebrating the fact that I'm alive. Because clearly you forgot," I snapped, my own voice cracking from the weight of everything. "I didn't disappear. I been right here, Juste. Trying. Waiting. Hurting. And where the fuck you been?! oh I forgot chasing behind Maseon ass." The silence that followed was thick—stretched between us like a rubber band pulled too far. His jaw clenched. He didn't have an answer. Didn't say shit.
"I'll call y'all in the morning," I said, turning back to look at Nia and Amina. My voice was low but steady, like I was holding everything else inside by a thread. "Happy Birthday, Chiana!" they both yelled from the truck as it pulled off, their voices fading just like the energy I had left. I didn't respond.
I turned back toward the house, the gravel crunching beneath my heels as I snatched my arm away from Juste's grasp without a word. My body moved on autopilot, the chill in the night air biting at my skin, but it was the weight in my chest that had me numb. There wasn't shit left to say. I walked through the front door like I didn't live there, didn't love there. Like this wasn't the place I imagined being celebrated, being held. Instead, all I had was silence, tension, and a man who used to see me. Used to.
I headed up the stairs, not even looking back to see if he was behind me—but I could feel him. Juste's presence was thick, heavy, like smoke from a fire. When I reached the bedroom, I didn't hesitate. I opened our shared closet, grabbed a pajama set—nothing silky, nothing sexy, just cotton and comfort. Something that didn't beg for his attention. I could feel his eyes on me as I moved, standing there at the threshold like he didn't know whether to speak or stay quiet.
