Nyce
Six Months Later
Princess’s legs trembledaround my waist withher nails digging into my back. I had her folded up just the way she liked, that slow grind deep enough to make her cry my name.
Kissing her lips, I rolled off her and leaned back against the headboard, chest rising slowly while sweat cooled on my skin. Princess lay across me, breathing heavily. I dragged a hand down my face and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the ribbon cutting today.
Six months of grind, politics, pressure, and late-night meetings. Northside was finally getting something built for them, by them. Townhomes, community center, grocery store, and after-school programs. Shit that mattered. Not some fake-ass performative cleanup. Real development. Real change. First up was the gated community.
And Princess was the blueprint behind it all. I really couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that she had a whole degree nobody gave a fuck about until I made sure her name was on the table. She sketched out the layouts and put real design behind the structure of everything.
I had never seen her so in her element, and every step of the way, she had me proud as fuck. I was still proud even when she got on my nerves, flipping about the tiles in the rec room or the wrong trees being planted. She was a beast at her job, and I appreciated the fuck out of her. I ran a hand down her spine, tracing slowly, and let myself feel the weight of all of it. We’d been through a lot, and we’d been building something beautiful.
She kissed my chest, soft and warm. “Baby,” she whispered. “We’re gonna be late.”
I glanced down at her. Her eyes were half-lidded, hair all wild. “Dr. Calloway’s ass can wait,” I muttered, dragging a palm down her bare ass.
She laughed and swatted my stomach, rolling off me and heading for the bathroom. “No, she can’t. You know she charges two hundred dollars an hour.”
I smirked as she disappeared behind the door, the sound of water running not long after. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it and checked messages. Drugs, guns, and gambling. I sent quick replies and sighed heavily.
Therapy wasn’t my idea, but Princess brought it up first. She said if we were going to be serious, we needed help unlearning some shit. Trauma. Triggers. Patterns. All the shit we never had time to understand in survival mode. I didn’t argue. I just showed up week after week and sat beside her. Some days, I hated it. Other days, I needed it. Most days, I left feeling like we actually had a shot, not just at making it work, but at really healing.
From the bathroom, I could hear Coco Jones singing through the Bluetooth speaker. It was some shit I never used to fuck with, but it grew on me. Princess was always playing music around the new house we had built, humming softly like it somehow reset her mind.
Making my way towards the bathroom, I stepped into the shower. She stood under the spray, soap lathered across her skin, head tilted back like she was in her own world. “Fucking fine,” I said, voice low.
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Finally decided to join me?”
I stepped in behind her, slid my hands over her hips, and kissed her shoulder. “You good with your moms lately?”
Her face softened. “Yeah, she’s good. We’re working on our relationship, but it’s hard because she still doesn’t approve of us.
“Time heals all.”
Looking up at me, she asked, “Does it really, though? True work has to be put in for healing to take place, and I mean…while she’s in Maryland, I don’t see that happening yet. But… I’m hopeful.”
I nodded. “I feel you. Have you heard from your bitch ass… I mean… Zeke?”
Princess elbowed me playfully, then turned in my arms. “No, I haven’t, and I told you I’m okay with that. He and my mother are officially divorced.”
“Cool.” I kissed her neck. “Now, enough about all that. Today’s about us.”
Soon enough, we were at Dr. Calloway’s office. The space was the same as always, smelling of sage, leather, and those little wood-wick candles Princess loved. She always noticed shit likethat. Me? I noticed how I’d stopped sitting with my arms crossed every time we had a session.
We sat down on the white leather couch, and I let my arm stretch along the back of the couch. Dr. Calloway clicked her pen and looked between us, that calm, unreadable face she wore in every session.
“Six months,” she said. “And here you both are.”
“Here we are,” Princess repeated, her voice soft but firm. “Still breathing.”
I gave a low grunt. “Still showing up.”
Dr. Calloway nodded. “Showing up is half the battle. But today, I want us to talk about what’s changed. Not just individually, but between you.”
Silence stretched for a second. I looked down at my hands, flexed my fingers once, then glanced at Princess. “You going first or you want me to?”
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, voice steady. “He listens more now. Not always, not perfectly, but it’s not like pulling teeth every time I say something that rubs him the wrong way.”
