Mary's POV
The key clicked twice before the door gave in.
Mary stepped inside, greeted by the low hum of the fridge and the warm scent of old wood and pepper stew still clinging to the air. The hallway was narrow, leading into a living space that was clean, lived-in, and dimly lit—just the way her grandmother liked it.
The Griggs family hadn't always lived in a second-floor apartment with creaky steps and chipped paint. Once upon a time, she could run across white-tiled hallways, past long glass windows that caught the sun like a movie scene.
Now, the only thing that caught light was the brass lamp in the corner, flickering with age.
"Good evening," she called softly.
Her mother's voice came from the kitchen. "Welcome, sweetheart. You're early."
Behind her, Stephen stepped in and closed the door gently, careful not to slam it. He dropped his bag on the stool beside hers and flashed her mother a grin.
"Good evening, ma."
"Stephen," her mother replied, peeking out from behind the curtain with a warm smile. "You came just in time. I was about to cook rice."
Mary smiled.
The living room was small—two armchairs, an old TV, and a plastic flower vase that had been sitting on the same shelf since Mary was fifteen. The air carried a faint cinnamon scent from Mama Tilda's tea, and sure enough, the old woman sat near the window in her usual chair, legs wrapped in a faded Ankara wrapper, eyes half closed in thought.
Mary stepped over to her and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "Mama Tilda."
"You're home," the older woman said simply, as if she had known the moment Mary crossed the street.
Stephen was already moving toward the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves and humming a song Mary couldn't quite name.
She dropped her bag and sat on the floor, back against the couch, stretching her legs. The day had been long. Not in a dramatic way—just long in that quiet, tiring way life often was now.
Mama Tilda reached over and gently ran her fingers along one of Mary's braids. "This one's getting loose," she murmured.
"I know," Mary said, eyes closed. "I'll fix it this weekend."
From the kitchen came the sound of oil popping in a pan and Stephen's voice asking, "Is there pepper or should I pretend I like bland food?"
"There's pepper," her mother replied with a laugh.
Mary opened her eyes and glanced at the ceiling.
No talk about school. No talk about dreams. Just warmth. Familiar voices. Rice and pepper. And her grandmother's fingers in her hair.
For now, it was enough.
⸻
The road leading out of Kingswood Heights curved gently along the edge of town, where sleek lampposts stood tall like guards of privilege. Drake Edward gripped the steering wheel of his charcoal-black Benz with one hand, the other resting lazily on the window frame as music hummed low through the speakers.
But he wasn't really listening.
He was lost in his thoughts — Sasha again.
She had called him earlier. Again.
"Drake, this is serious. I'm not playing games."
Her voice had been tight. Controlled. But he could hear the edge — the one that always came when she wanted something.
"I'm pregnant, and you know it's yours."
He didn't reply then. He hadn't replied the last two times either.
It wasn't the idea of a child that unsettled him. Drake was raised to take responsibility.
If there was a child, he would step up.
But none of it added up.
Six months ago, he'd met Sasha at some rooftop club in the city. His friends dragged him there the night after a bad fight with his dad. It was loud, dark, full of strobe lights and shallow grins.
He wasn't a drinker. One bottle — that was all it took. Just one. And the next morning, he woke up foggy, confused, and shirtless beside a girl he barely remembered saying more than five words to.
Sasha.
She had smiled like it was nothing.
Played it cool.
Said, "We had fun. Don't overthink it."
And now, half a year later, this.
Drake exhaled sharply and blinked, realizing he was barely watching the road. He'd already left the neighborhood and was driving through the east side when his eyes caught two figures walking on the sidewalk.
Stephen. And— her.
Mary.
Her scarf was loose around her neck, and her arm was brushing Stephen's slightly as they walked side by side. She looked up, just for a second, and their eyes met.
Drake blinked. Slowed a little without realizing it.
Mary turned her head quickly.
Stephen noticed him too, gave a small nod.
Drake didn't wave.
His fingers tightened around the wheel before he gently pressed the gas and moved past them. The moment was over in seconds, but it settled somewhere deep in his chest.
He hadn't expected to see her.
He hadn't expected to feel anything.
But there it was — real, and confusing, and quiet.
They didn't speak for a few seconds after the car drove past.
The moment had passed quickly — a blur of tinted glass, sleek paint, and the quiet intensity of Drake's gaze. But it stayed with her like the scent of rain on dry soil — brief, but impossible to ignore.
Stephen looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
"You okay?"
Mary nodded, but her voice came out soft. "Yeah. Just… wasn't expecting that."
He gave her a half-smile. "It's okay to say you were caught off guard. That car looked like it belonged in a music video."
She laughed weakly. "Something like that."
They walked a few more steps in silence. The street grew quieter as they neared the busier part of town, where Stephen would catch a cab or call his driver.
Then, he stopped.
"You should head back," he said gently.
Mary blinked. "What?"
"It's late," he added, giving her a small smile. "Your grandma'll start pacing. You know she worries."
Mary hesitated. "But you—"
"I'll get home fine," he cut in, waving his phone. "Worst case, I'll charm a bike guy into giving me a free ride."
She smiled, but something in her chest softened.
"You sure?"
Stephen nodded. "Go on. Besides," he added, raising an eyebrow, "I think you have a lot to think about tonight."
Mary rolled her eyes. "Don't start."
He smirked. "I didn't say anything."
"Yet."
She turned slowly, taking one last glance down the street where the car had disappeared, then began walking back toward her apartment — toward her grandmother's small kitchen, the leftover rice, and the weight of everything that had just shifted.
Behind her, Stephen watched until she was almost out of sight, then pulled out his phone and quietly called for a car.