Page 84 of Kentrell

“Shit,” I whispered.

“Zoe?” Stacia called in my ear. “Why you whispering?”

Mars chimed in too. “Girl, did the delivery guy show upfineor something? You breathing hard.”

But I wasn’t listening anymore. Not really.

I was staring into Kentrell’s face.

There was no smirk. No teasing in his eyes. Just a low, haunted stillness that blanketed everything between us. Something was off.

Way off.

“Zoe?” he said, voice low.

I nodded slowly, stepping aside to let him in.

“You okay?” I asked, too soft for the phone to catch.

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked in, set the pizza down on my coffee table, and looked around like he was trying to hear something I couldn’t.

My girls were still yapping in my ear.

“Zoe! What’s going on? Who is it?” Ayesha demanded.

“Wait,” Mars said, deadpan. “Is thathim?”

I didn’t press. I just rested my hand against his chest, let my fingers trace slow, steady circles, and held the space for whatever he needed to let out next.

And while I had the moment—while he held me like he couldn’t let go—I let myselflookat him.

It was snowing outside. Mid-October had brought a stubborn chill through the city, but he came dressed like he knew how to survive it. Dark-washed jeans. A long-sleeved black tee clinging to his arms, hinting at an undershirt beneath it. A gray Louis Vuitton skully still hugged his head, the matching scarf draped across his shoulders. Thick cashmere peacoat open just enoughfor me to see the way his chest moved beneath the layers. Timbs on his feet. Diamonds flashing in his ears.

He looked good.Toogood. And heavy—like whatever he’d walked through to get here had left something behind on him.

My eyes drifted to his neck.

Ink.

There was a tattoo just beneath his left ear—Shaniece—written in soft cursive. It stood out against his rich brown skin like a whispered memory.

His mama.

I didn’t have to guess.

More ink crawled across his hands and wrists—names, symbols, stories waiting to be read.

Without thinking, I reached up and gently tugged his skully off. He didn’t stop me. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was giving me permission.

Underneath, his waves were flawless—tight and clean, each one laid down with care. I slid my fingers across the top of his head, slow and deliberate, tracing the grooves like they told me something about him the streets couldn’t.

He sighed. Deep. And pulled me in tighter.

No words. Just arms around my waist. Hands spread across the silk of my nightie, warm on my bare skin.

And just like that, my overthinking stopped.

Because whatever he was carrying—I could hold him through it.

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