I pulled her down so our faces were level.
"Stop running away from me and let me give you what you deserve. You're so damn stubborn."
She pouted, her lips forming a perfect little frown that made me want to kiss her.
"And then what?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Let it play out however it plays out. You leaving me? That ain't happening. But everything else? We'll figure it out."
"I swear..." She shook her head, still pouting. "You have all the right answers to make a good girl fall for you. But I'm not that naïve."
"Who said you were?" I frowned. "And what I tell you about putting words in my mouth? You don't want to test me, Synthia."
"I'm not a daddy's girl," she said defensively. "I've never been a daddy's girl."
"Damn, you strict as fuck," I muttered, half-amused, half-frustrated.
"No, I just know how to see through bullshit. And I don't live in La-La Land."
"Why would you need a ticket to La-La Land when I own the whole damn fairground?" I countered. "I don't know why you think I'm running game on you. I know what this is and what it ain't. And I know what it should be."
I paused, making sure she was looking at me.
"Haven't I told you? You're not some rebound pussy. You're not a placeholder. You're it."
She shoved me, pressing her palms hard into my chest. "Then show me."
"Show you what?"
"That I'm not the rebound. Go out of your way. Do shit you're not used to doing. I want the princess treatment. I want all the things other bitches don't get from you."
I smirked. "That's light work."
Synthia wanted the fairytale—the jewelry, the trips, the grand gestures. She wanted to feel special. Valued.
And I'd give it to her.
Because she deserved it.
She deserved to be treated like a queen.
And I'd do whatever it took to make sure she knew that.
The Connect Four pieces were still scattered across the living room floor—red and yellow discs under the couch, behind the coffee table, forgotten.
We'd moved to the kitchen.
I don't even remember who suggested it. Maybe neither of us did. Maybe we just gravitated there naturally, like our bodies knew what was about to happen before our brains could catch up.
Synthia was leaning against the kitchen island now, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me as I poured two glasses of water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge.
The kitchen was dimly lit—just the under-cabinet lighting casting a soft yellow glow across the granite countertops. The rest of the house was dark, quiet. Peaceful.
I handed her one of the glasses, and she took it, our fingers brushing in the exchange. That brief touch sent a jolt through me—electric, undeniable.
"You trying to sober me up?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You ain't drunk," I said, leaning against the counter across from her. "But you might need to hydrate for what I'm about to do to you."
