Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Juke Joint comes alive with sound and heat as Stack and Smoke open the doors for another hot, sticky night of soul and sweat. The band is warming up with a loose, wandering blues riff, the kind that makes the sweat on your back dance before your feet ever touch the floor. You’re leaning at the bar, waiting on Mary, idly watching the crowd filter in—until everything slows down.

Cornbread, seated on a stool just inside the door, shifts his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He squints into the growing dusk outside, eyes narrowing at the slow approach of three white strangers. They’re too clean. Too quiet. And they damn sure don’t look like they’re here for the music.

You glance just in time to see Smoke and Stack hustling to the entrance. Curiosity gets the better of you. You slide off your stool, drink in hand, and begin weaving your way through bodies to stand beside Mary at the door.

Three white strangers step into the glow of the doorway like ghosts slipped loose from another world. They don’t belong.

The middle one—tall, dark-haired, and dressed in fucking suspenders—locks eyes with you. Worst part is, part of you imagines the white man wrapping the suspenders around your wrist while he drives deep-Enough of that train of thought. There’s a slow grin stretching across his face that makes your stomach tighten.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawls, voice smooth and warm like molasses. “You as sweet as you look?”

It’s like a record scratches in real time. Heads turn. Smoke stills. 

He motioned loosely with a thumb toward the road. “Sound carries in these parts. Heard somethin’ sweet on the wind, figured we’d follow it. Didn’t know the best part was waitin’ at the front.”

His gaze fell back on you, lower this time, heavy and deliberate as it climbed from your ankles to your eyes. “Now I’m thinkin’ we stumbled into a little bit of heaven by accident.”

You scoffed, sharp and dry. “Sounds like you came knockin’ with champagne tastes and a pocket full of cornmeal.”  Annie grabs your arm, pulling you back slightly. 

Before he can respond, Stack and Smoke—tall, broad, and together—cut the line of sight between you and the strangers.

“White money’s better spent at white barrelhouses,” Smoke says, voice low and final. “Don’t make me say it again.”

The stranger—Remmick—puts up both hands. “Didn’t mean no harm.”

A click echoes softly from Stack. Not loud. Just enough.

Remmick’s friends start backing toward the dark outside. He lingers half a second longer, gives you one last look, then disappears into the night.

Chapter Text

By the time you’re halfway back inside, Annie’s already waiting for you, arms folded and foot tapping like she been summoned from heaven itself to scold. She cuts you a look sharp enough to filet a fish.

“I know you didn’t just try to square up with that white man like you was ten feet tall and bulletproof,” she snaps.

You blink once, twice. “I said what needed sayin’.”

“No, you said what made Smoke clench his jaw and Stack flex his shoulders,” Annie fires back, eyes blazing. “Which means now we all gotta make sure no hellfire rolls back through here tonight. That what you want?”

You shrug, brushing past her, but she grabs your elbow quick.

“You ever hear of keepin’ your pretty mouth shut just long enough to let the boys do their job?”

You look down at her hand, then up into her face. “I don’t like bein’ stared at like I’m meat on a hook.”

“And I don’t like diggin’ bullets outta flesh when someone gets bold for the sake of pride,” she hisses. “You think Stack and Smoke came to the front ‘cause they needed your sass? No, girl. They came ‘cause they know one wrong word in a room full of bad history could get someone lynched.”

You pull your arm free, but not rough. Annie’s voice had softened at the edges.

“We live out here on rhythm and respect,” she says quieter. “You don’t let some fool in suspenders get you stirred up just ‘cause he looked at you like he wanted to lick it.”

You cross your arms, biting the inside of your cheek. “He didn’t scare me.”

“Didn’t say he did,” Annie replies. “But you gotta stop mistakin’ your sharp tongue for protection. Around men like that, sometimes silence is survival.”

Annie pauses. Her mouth works, jaw tight like she’s trying to swallow words she knows she shouldn’t say out loud. Then she sighs, eyes cutting toward the front door like she can still feel that man’s gaze clinging to the air.

“Maybe he did look at you like that. Maybe you liked it a little. That ain’t the problem.” She leans in just a bit. “But this ain’t a night for temptin’ fate. The Juke just opened. Stack and Smoke need it to do well, or we all pack up and scatter again. You think the Klan don’t got ears in the trees?”

She steps back, voice lowering but sharpening. “The second they feel threatened, those men out there’ll make up stories and spill blood like wine. And the twins?” She huffs. “They’ll toss you out the back and swear you never worked a day in here if it keeps the till full.”

You shift your weight, throat suddenly tight.

“I’ll watch myself.”

She studies your face a moment longer, eyes sharp but not unkind. Then she releases a breath and brushes a hand down the front of her dress like she’s smoothing the whole conversation away.

“You better. ‘Cause if Smoke even thinks trouble followed them through them trees, he won’t wait for the shooting to start. And if Stack backs him, won’t be no end to it.”

You nod, not because she’s right—though she is—but because it’s the only thing left to do.

Chapter Text

You’ve barely taken three steps before Mary’s at your elbow, tugging you toward the hallway near the back. Stack is already waiting, leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, gold tooth catching light with every twitch of his smirk.

“Well now,” Stack says, not bothering with pleasantries, “that was quite the show out front.”

You cross your arms. “If you dragged me back here to complain about my mouth, Annie already beat you to it.”

He chuckles, low and lazy. “Nah, see, that mouth might actually come in handy. Mary thought she could sweet-talk 'em for some answers, but they barely gave her a blink. Now after the way suspenders was talkin’ sweet at the door? Figured he’d be more loose-lipped with the one he clearly had eyes on.”

You squint at him. “So you want me to go out there and what nigga—bat my lashes?”

“Talk,” he says simply. “Talk and see how much money they really got on them. He flashed a pouch, sure, but I’m tryin’ to figure out if that gold was just decoration or if they came loaded. We got mouths to feed and bills to settle, and the Juke ain’t got the luxury of pride right now.”

You hesitate. Stack sees it. Leans in just a hair.

You cut your eyes at him, the weight of your glare doing more than words. “I get that he flirted with me, but sending me out there ‘cause you don’t want lil’ Miss Muppet over here to get her feelings hurt is rude as hell. I’m not part of whatever weird love thing y’all got going on.”

Stack’s jaw twitches. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” you say, folding your arms tight across your chest. “But if Mary here were at home with her husband like she’s supposed to be, that white man would’ve felt outnumbered at the door. Maybe wouldn’t have tried it.”

Mary bristles behind you, but says nothing. Stack just stares at you a moment, face blank.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. “You goin’ or not?”

You don’t answer right away. But you glance toward the door, then back at him.

“I go. I talk. That’s it.”. You don’t offer more than words. He grins. “You always had a gift for reading people. Use it.”

Outside, the moon’s low, fat and orange. You hear the faint strum of strings before you see him.

Remmick’s perched on a fallen tree log like it’s a throne carved just for him, legs stretched out and banjo resting across his thighs. His two companions sit nearby, speaking low. You step into the lamplight, arms crossed tight.

“You got a habit of causin’ problems wherever you go?”

He looks up, grins. “I got a habit of followin’ good music and prettier faces.”

“You might be the reason Smoke’s blood pressure just hit the stratosphere.”

“I haven’t even done anything yet.” He pats the space beside him. “C’mon. Let’s be neighborly.”

You stay put. “Neighborly don’t usually come wrapped in suspenders and pale skin.”

He laughs, low and warm. “That sass get you in trouble often?”

You narrow your eyes. “Sometimes. But trouble usually tastes like money, so I make do.”

He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a velvet pouch, and tosses it underhand. You catch it—heavier than expected. You open it just enough to see the glint.

Gold. Real gold.

“That a bribe?”

“Call it an investment.”

You study him. The way he’s lounging, the angle of his smile. The way his eyes don’t flinch when they meet yours.

“What do you want?”

He nods toward the music drifting through the walls. “To enjoy the night. Maybe hear a voice as fine as that one I heard talkin’ slick a few minutes ago.”

You raise a brow. “You follow women who insult you?”

“I follow fire. Can’t help it. Moths like me never learn.”

You roll your eyes but step forward anyway, arms loosening a little.

“I talk. You behave. That’s the deal.”

He grins again, softer now. “Deal.”

You slowly lower yourself onto the log beside him, just close enough that your thigh brushes his. The air between you hums. You glance slightly off to the side at the woman standing there staring at me. 

"Oh, how rude of me," Remmick says, gesturing with the flourish. “Miss…?” He trails off, not knowing your name.

"Y/N," you offer.

His eyes flicker, pleased. “Lovely name for a lovely woman. This is Joan.” he says tilting his chin toward the woman with the fixed stare. "and Bert,” he nods to the tall man on his right. 

They both nod, Joan slower than Bert. Neither speaks. It's a bit weird but you decide to pay them no mind. 

He glances sideways at you, brows lifting just slightly. "They really send you out here all by yourself?"

You shrug, keeping your tone flat. "I can handle myself."

Remmick lets out a slow whistle through his teeth. “I don't doubt that, but still, a pretty girl like you? Wouldn’t be lettin’ you off by yourself if you were mine. Somebody else might snatch you up.”

You glance at him sideways. “Good thing I’m not anybody’s, then.”

His grin turns sly. “Not yet.”

Somewhere in the trees, a nightbird cries. Somewhere behind you, Stack counts coins in the till. And beside you, Remmick plays a single note, long and low, that sounds suspiciously like trouble.

Chapter Text

You lean back, listening to the slow strum of his banjo as your eyes scan the woods.

"So," you say eventually, "what brings you all the way out here from Carolina? Don’t tell me it was just the music."

Remmick hums, finger plucking an easy rhythm. "I’ve been south and back more times than I can count. But this place? Heard it was somethin’ else. Real music. Real people. Not just noise and shine." He turns toward you slightly. "And then we rolled in, and there you were. That might’ve sealed it."

You arch a brow. “That your thing? Following music and women across state lines?”

He chuckles low in his chest. “Only the kind worth crossing for.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile. “Smooth talkin’ ain’t currency around here, you know. We take bills, coin, or sweat.”

He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a second pouch. This one’s heavier, darker leather. He places it in your hand without ceremony.

“Then go give ‘em this. Earned or not, it oughta keep the lights on a few more nights.”

You blink. “Just like that?”

Remmick shrugs. “Call it goodwill. You did your part.”

You don’t move immediately. The weight of the pouch is real. So is the weight of him watching you.

You nod and rise, dusting your hands along your skirt. Glancing at Bert and Joan, you start to step back towards the Juke. Weird ass white people aint said a damn word. Shit I don't event think the womans blinked yet. “Y’all sticking around?”

Remmick glances up at you with a grin that feels too soft for someone who looks like temptation.
“Aw, darlin’,” he says, voice smooth as a backroom hymn. “Even if I was fixin’ to go, I wouldn’t leave without sayin’ goodbye to you.”

The way he says it—simple, unhurried—curls around your ribs and settles there.

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “Just behave, Carolina. I don’t want to have to come back out here and find you elbow-deep in foolishness.”

“No promises,” he murmurs, already turning his attention back to the strings.

Chapter Text

The night air is thick, heavy with heat and the hum of Delta blues slipping through the cracks of the walls. Cornbread, sitting against the open doorframe, perks up as soon as he spots you approaching from the dark.

He squints. “Where you been? Ain’t no powder room out back.”

You arch a brow, dusting your hands like you'd been somewhere clean. “Didn’t realize I had to check in with the welcome committee.”

Cornbread’s face scrunches, confused, but he backs off like a dog that got gently swatted with a broom. “I was just askin’. Smoke don’t like folk hangin’ outside.”

You sidestep him with a smirk. “Then maybe Stack should post someone who can actually spell attention.”

Inside, the place is alive. Packed shoulder to shoulder with sweating bodies and the clink of smuggled bottles beneath tables. Delta Slim’s fingers float across the piano like they’re conjuring ghosts, while Sammie picks at his guitar like the strings owe him money. Laughter ripples under the music. The air tastes like brown liquor and secrets.

You make your way through the crowd, slipping past hips and elbows until you catch Stack’s eye behind the bar. He lifts his chin once—barely a nod—but it’s enough. You head toward the velvet curtain tucked behind the dance floor.

The back room’s quieter, but not silent. Three card tables, a pair of dice games in motion, and half a dozen men nursing dark glasses and darker intentions.

Stack’s already there.

“Clear the room,” he says.

The men grumble but obey. It only takes Stack reaching for his belt once to get them all moving. Stack hooks two fingers in the collar of Bo’s shirt, dragging him half a step back into the room. "Not you."

Bo blinks, confused. “Now what the hell I do?”

Stack claps a heavy hand on Bo Chow’s shoulder. “Shut up and sit down,” he mutters.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed as Stack turns to you.

“Well?” he asks. “That white boy give you anything or was he just flappin’ his gums?”

You slip the pouch from your hand and drop it into Stack’s hand.

He opens it just enough to let the gold catch the lamplight.

Bo lets out a low whistle. “Hot damn.”

Stack finally opens the pouch, a few coins clink into his palm, catching the low light with a sick kind of shimmer.

That’s when you hear footsteps pause just outside the curtain. The curtain is pulled aside and Smoke steps in, Annie right behind him.

Smoke’s voice follows, dry as dust. “Ya'll holdin’ a church collection back here?” Smoke’s eyes hit the glint of gold in Stack’s palm. “Now where in the blue hell’d that come from?”

Stack doesn’t answer right away. Just tightens the pouch and leans against the table like he’s waiting for a storm.

Annie stands beside Smoke, arms crossed, eyes already narrowed.

“Well?” Smoke says, stepping in. “Don’t all speak at once.”

Bo opens his mouth, but Stack beats him to it.

“Outside.”

“Outside where?” Smoke asks, his eyes narrowing.

Stack lets a few coins roll into his palm again—just enough for them to catch the lamplight.

“It's Payment,” Stack says smoothly.

Annie squints. “You shaking folks down at the door now?”

Bo snorts. “If so, I want a cut.”

Stack ignores them both, nodding toward you. “She brought it in.”

Annie’s brow twitches. “You went outside?”

Stack cuts in, raising a hand. “Ain’t like that. She ain’t wander off. I asked her to check something.”

Smoke’s face hardens. “You sent her out there?”

That’s when Mary speaks up, arms crossed like a shield. “He was flirtin’ all syrupy and bold right at her. Figured she’d get more outta him.”

Annie rounds on her, smile tight as piano wire. “Oh, that’s what we doin’ now? Playing favorites with who the white boys whistle at?”

Mary straightens. “Ain’t playin’ anything. Just made the call that made sense.”

Annie doesn’t raise her voice—but the heat in it is fire-born. “No, see, what made sense was you catchin’ that train back to your husband’s table and your own front porch. But you stayed. You family Mary and we love you. But now I’m wonderin’ if you forgot what our family is—if sendin’ a Black woman into trouble sits easy for you now.”

Mary’s mouth tightens, but she says nothing. She then folds her arms and says, with a shrug and a little too much attitude, “Somebody woulda heard her if she was in trouble.”

No sooner are the words out her mouth than a raucous howl of laughter erupts from the front room. The music seems to be screaming. Glass shatters. Someone shouts too loud about nothing.

Annie doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, Jesus woulda been the only one to hear.”

The room stills for a beat.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. The weight of it—all of it—hangs heavy.

Smoke finally steps forward, his voice low and even. “We already turned those folks away. Told them keep it movin’. So why the hell are we makin’ side deals with strangers out back?”

Stack rolls one shoulder, chin lifted. “Because this deal shines.”

Smoke cuts him a look. “So does a knife, right before it cuts you.”

Another beat of silence.

Bo Chow leans back, ever the gambler. “Well, the way I see it—either we take their coin, or someone else down the road will.”

Smoke exhales through his nose, the sound low and full of grit. His eyes flick once more to the pouch, then to you, then to Stack.

“One game,” he says. “That’s it.”

Bo Chow grins wide, already reaching for the deck. “One game. Got it.”

Smoke doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. He turns and sticks his head through the curtain, flagging down the nearest runner—a wiry teen too young to be drinking but fast enough to earn a few coins sweeping and fetching.

“Tell Cornbread to bring our guests in through the back,” Smoke mutters. “And tell him not to let the whole damn block know what he’s doin’, or I’ll tan his hide myself.”

The boy nods and bolts before the threat can sink in.

Stack claps his hands once, dusting tension off his palms. “Let’s make sure we’ve got a table open.”

You stay leaned against the wall, watching it all unfold, your nerves coiled tight as banjo strings. It doesn’t take long before the back door creaks open.

Cornbread steps in first, glancing around with a proud little nod like he’s escorted royalty.

Remmick follows, suspenders and all, grinning like he’s been invited to the best kind of trouble. Bert and Joan trail behind him, both strangely quiet, eyes sharp and darting.

“Evenin’,” Remmick says, flashing you a smile like you’re the only person in the room. “Appreciate the invitation.”

Smoke grunts, arms folded. “Play your hand. Then go.”

Remmick gives a lazy shrug, walking further into the room. “Suppose I can hold off on the music. Shame, though. Got a good tune in my head.”

He tilts his head toward you, eyes locking. “But maybe I’ll save it. Just for you.”

Joan chuckles under her breath, low and dry. “Here we go.”

Bert tips his invisible hat. “Boy gets near a pretty lady and starts speakin’ in poetry.”

Remmick doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t need to.

Instead, he hums—just a single note, soft and nearly lost under the buzz of conversation. And when he does, Bert’s grin widens, almost too fast. Joan blinks once, her body slackening just slightly before she follows his lead, laughing again like someone pulled a string.

Something shifts in the air.

You notice it—how both of them seem to suddenly sync with Remmick’s energy. How they echo his rhythm, mirror his mood, like puppets trying to pass as people.

Remmick glances at you from under his lashes. “Was hopin’ to see you again.”

You arch a brow. “Didn’t figure you’d be invited back.”

“Didn’t need an invite,” he murmurs. “Just needed you to be waitin’ on the other side.”

Stack clears his throat loud enough to cut the tension. “Alright. Rules are simple. No drinkin’, no wanderin’, no funny business.”

Bert lifts his hands. “Ain’t never been funny a day in my life.”

Joan snorts. “That’s the truest thing you ever said.”

Smoke’s watching them all like a hawk. Annie, still in the corner, doesn’t look convinced.

You can feel Remmick’s presence even when he’s not looking at you—like a shadow brushing up against your shoulder. Whatever this man is, he’s good at keeping people charmed.

But you’re not just anybody.

Not tonight.

And definitely not when his smile is hiding something deeper than teeth.

Chapter Text

The table’s set, the cards gleam, and still Remmick has one eye on the game and the other on you.

Mary lingers near the corner, trying to be invisible but not succeeding. She's leaned just close enough to be noticed—arms folded, lips tight, jaw working like she’s biting back a thousand things she’d rather say.

Remmick, still settling into his seat, glances her way and then back to the group. “You know,” he says slowly, voice honey-thick and drawling for effect, “I remember seein’ her when we first walked up.”

He nods toward Mary with that same easy smirk. “Said we weren’t welcome. But somehow, little miss family here was already inside. That mean she’s special, or just lucky?”

Stack’s jaw tics. Annie’s stare could cut glass.

You step in before it festers. “Like we said, she’s here ‘cause she’s family,” you say evenly. “And you’re here to play cards, not get clever.”

Remmick shifts his eyes back to you, grin curling wider. “Yes ma’am,” he says, mock solemn. “But you gotta admit, the way we was shut down at the door—sounding damn near perfect—and then for her to already be in? That got me curious. Besides, we was just followin’ the blues, didn’t know we was walkin’ straight into family dinner.”

Your voice doesn’t waver. “You keep walkin’ like that and you’ll trip over your own tongue.”

Joan lets out a quiet ooh under her breath. Bert chuckles, flicking a coin between his fingers.

Mary’s posture stiffens. She finally speaks, trying for light but landing somewhere around brittle. “Didn’t think you’d remember me from out front. Thought all your attention was... elsewhere.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says it, but she might as well.

Remmick shrugs. “Some things are worth remembering. Others just made noise.”

Stack doesn’t say a word, but the twitch in his lip is telling—just a flash of tooth under a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You know that look. It’s not jealousy. It’s something older. Deeper. That bitter, iron taste of pride mixed with something unresolved.

You glance at Mary. You’ve never gone out of your way to be cruel to her. You grew up side by side with her and the twins. Her mama braided your hair more times than your own. When the bruises on you came from things darker than schoolyard roughhousing, she never asked questions—just pressed a kiss to you and let you sleep in her home.

And still, for all the years between you, the way she’s acting now? Like you stole something. Like the light was only meant to hit her.

Stack shifts again, but you catch the way his eyes land on Mary. Whatever used to be between them, it’s twisted now. Maybe he liked her better before she started acting like not being the center of the room was beneath her.

Joan breaks the tension with a half-laugh. “Ain’t no family like found family, huh?”

No one answers. The chips clink, the cards get shuffled, and the room hums under the weight of everything unsaid.

And from across the table, Remmick keeps his eyes on you—not in challenge, but in something quieter. Something hungrier.

Something that still hasn’t shown its teeth.

Chapter Text

Bo Chow deals the last hand with the flair of a man who enjoys the performance more than the payout. The pot’s fat—gold coins clinking in the center like a promise. Remmick watches with lazy charm, his suspenders loose and grin looser. Bert leans back with his arms crossed and a whistle in his teeth. Joan, ever still, eyes the room like she’s studying it for weakness.

One last flip of the cards—and it’s over. Remmick lays his hand down, casual and confident.

Bo lets out a groan. “Again? I swear this man’s touchin’ God’s elbow.”

Remmick smiles wide. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

Remmick leans back, that ever-lazy smirk sliding into place. “What do you say—one more?”

Across the room, Stack and Smoke are murmuring near the curtain, their heads tilted low like they’re weighing a loaded scale. They both look back at the table.

Stack’s face is unreadable. Smoke looks like he swallowed something bitter.

“Yeah,” Smoke finally says. “Fine. Y’all can continue to play. Just don’t cause no trouble.”

So they do.

They play long into the night, the low sounds of dice and cards blending into the soft echo of blues bleeding in from the front room. At some point, Sammie pokes his head in, brow raised like he heard laughter he didn’t expect. Remmick perks up immediately, tipping his head.

“You,” he says to Sammie, voice warm with recognition. “You the one with that voice sweeter than molasses in church. That song earlier? Gave me goosebumps in places I didn’t think still worked.”

Sammie stares, baffled, then snorts and disappears back into the music.

Time slides by.

And for all the gold and the grins, Remmick, Bert, and Joan don’t make trouble. They don’t drink. Don’t roam. Just play, joke, and win far more than they lose.

They play long into the night. The pot builds, shrinks, builds again. And when they finally fold their hands, Remmick’s pile is high and gleaming.

Smoke clears his throat from the door. “Wrap it up. Folks’ll be leavin’ soon. Don’t need them askin’ why we got crackers in the back.”

Remmick doesn’t argue. He stands, stretches, and to everyone’s surprise, leaves the full pot untouched.

“Think what y’all got here’s beautiful,” he says. “Happy to invest.”

Joan and Bert stand behind him, echoing him with perfect timing. “Happy to invest.”

Stack’s brow lifts, but he says nothing.

Smoke joins him at the door. “If you show up tomorrow with that same kind of shine, we’ll find you a seat.”

“Consider it done,” Remmick says.

As they start filing out, Remmick lingers. He catches your eye and walks over like the rest of the world is silent.

“That shine y’all worried about?” he says, voice low and warm. “You got more of it than the whole damn pouch.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you with a curve. “Go on, Carolina. You’re gonna make the moon jealous.”

He tips an imaginary hat. “Pleased to know I did some good down here. Saved the Juke and got to see a face like yours.”

Stack and Smoke stand, watching them leave. As soon as the door shuts, Stack shakes his head with a grin.

Stack whistles low. “Shit. We bring that white man back every night, we could close the Juke next week and never work again.”

You smirk, folding your arms. “Carolina will be thrilled to hear he saved y’all from the evils of employment.”

Annie snorts from the side of the room. “I don’t know. Something about them didn’t sit right with me.”

Stack rolls his eyes. “Knock it off with the voodoo, Annie.”

Smoke doesn’t even look up. “Shut up, Stack. Least Annie talkin’ about a feelin’ and not feelin’ bitter she wasn’t the one gettin’ heart eyed at.”

The jab lands with a dull thud. Mary stiffens but says nothing. Her silence is louder than any comeback. Stack's mouth opens—but Bo cuts in, eyes bouncing between all of them. 

“Damn. Y’all need to let the tension cool before the coins melt. We all made rent tonight. Let that be enough.”

Outside the curtain, the last of the dancers sway to Delta Slim’s tired fingers on the piano. Then the music fades. The liquor dries up. One by one, the crowd thins like sugar in coffee, until the Juke is just wood, sweat, and breath again.

You spot Sammie stacking a chair, his shoulders still swaying like the rhythm hasn’t left him yet.

“You were good tonight,” you say, stepping over an empty glass.

He lifts his head, blinking like he wasn’t expecting praise.

“Real good,” you repeat, voice softer. “You keep singin’ like that, Sammie, and you’ll never be just preacher boy. Or somebody’s field hand. You were meant for more than cotton rows and sermons.”

He ducks his head, cheeks flushing under the low lights.

“You don’t get that kind of God-given sound without being destined for something better. Greater,” you say, and you mean it.

He nods, voice catching on a small “Thank you.”

The rest of the crew is already moving around the floor, putting chairs up, sweeping corners. Grace hums a tired tune while she wipes tables. Bo Chow jokes about charging rent for every broken glass. Stack and Smoke keep mostly quiet, passing by each other like coals grinding in a stove. Annie’s tying up a bag with a look that says she’s already halfway home in her mind.

Cornbread is, of course, sleeping near the door like he never moved all night.

Mary’s the only one who doesn’t fall into rhythm. She mills about like the floor’s too uneven, straight-backed and quiet, eyes trailing people like she’s not sure she belongs tonight.

You ignore her.

The last light gets turned off over the bar, and you stretch your arms over your head.

“I’m headin’ out,” you announce.

Smoke, still leaning by the till, straightens. “We’ll drive you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That white boy was real polite tonight,” Annie says, coming up behind him, tying her coat at the waist. “But I’ve seen men like him. They behave real well ‘til the night’s done. Then they remember who the law bends for.”

Smoke nods. “Ain’t ‘bout whether he acted right in the Juke. It’s about how white men act when they think nobody watchin’. Don’t want you walkin’ home alone.”

You sigh, not annoyed—just tired.

“Colonizers didn’t take the whole world by askin’ nice,” Smoke adds.

Bo Chow laughs from across the room. “Ain’t that the damn truth.”

You finally nod. “All right. I’ll take the ride.”

Smoke swings his keys. “Let’s go. Before Mary decides she wanna say somethin’ else slick.”

Mary doesn't say anything, but you hear her suck her teeth.

You leave her in it. And walk out with the people who still remember you’re family.

Chapter Text

The truck rumbles soft through the dirt path, its headlights splitting the dark in two weak beams. Smoke drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the open window. Annie leans her elbow out the passenger side, wind catching stray curls as she hums something low—too quiet to place, but familiar like a hymn half-forgotten.

The night is velvet-thick. Crickets chirp, frogs bellow low from the marsh nearby. Even this late, Mississippi breathes with heat.

“You good?” Annie asks, turning back toward you.

You nod. “I’m just tired. My feet feel like they walked all the way to the North and back.”

Smoke chuckles. 

The truck slows to a stop near your home. Your shack sits just down the way from Annie’s, far enough for privacy, close enough to holler if something went sideways. The porch creaks under your weight as you step out.

Annie tips her chin. “Get some rest. Tomorrow might be just as long.”

Smoke adds, “And lock your door.”

You wave them off, but the warmth in your chest lingers as they pull away.

Inside, the little house hums quietly. You strip off your shoes, wash your hands in the chipped basin, and change into your softest slip. The window’s open just enough to let in the breeze. The bedsheets smell like lavender and pine and heat.

You light your bedside lamp, low and golden. Then sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for the wide-tooth comb on your nightstand. It’s too late for a proper bath, and your body’s too tired to go through the whole press and oil routine. But your hair’s still your crown—even on nights like this.

You rake your fingers gently through your roots first, working out the tangles from the long night. Sweat and smoke always find a way to cling. Then the comb follows, slow and patient, section by section. You hum to yourself—just a little—something your mother used to sing when she did this same thing at your bedside. Something soft. Sacred.

Once it’s smooth enough, you gather it all back and tie your scarf snug around your edges, knotting it just right so it won’t slip in your sleep. The motion is familiar. Muscle-deep.

You do it not just for comfort, but for protection. For ritual. For keeping what’s yours intact.

Outside, the frogs still croak.

The crickets still sing.

And then—

Silence.

Sudden.

Unnatural.

Like the night itself sucked in a breath and forgot how to let it go.

You pause, hand frozen on the lamp’s knob. The air feels… off. Still, but not calm. Heavy. Expectant.

You tiptoe to the window.

The woods beyond your yard are nothing but shadow and shape, the black so thick it swallows the edges of everything. You scan the trees. The grass. The stretch of dirt road winding off toward the Juke.

Nothing.

No figures.

No footsteps.

No sound.

Just you and the hush.

You close the window slowly and pull the curtains tight, locking the quiet out like it might crawl in if given the chance.

And still, your skin prickles.

Because you know what night sounds like.

And this one? This one’s waiting.

Chapter Text

You sleep with the scarf still tied tight, but rest don’t come easy.

Even after the heat fades and the wind slides through the trees again, the hush from earlier lingers—like the house itself remembers. Like something passed by that chose not to knock.

You dream.

But it ain’t the usual kind, no flashes of memory or jumbled nonsense. No. This one comes soft, thick like honey, slow like syrup down the back of your throat. It unfolds behind your eyelids with the hum of the Delta and the warmth of a fire you don’t remember lighting.

Remmick is there.

Not quite the same as you saw him last—not with that cocky lean or grin wide as the Mississippi. Here, he’s quieter. Sitting in a chair by a window that don’t belong to you, bathed in moonlight, strumming something gentle and sad on a banjo.

He sees you.

He smiles.

And when he speaks, that Southern lilt from earlier is gone—washed clean. What pours from his mouth now sounds older. Foreign. Like music made from water and moss and stone.

You can’t place the words, not fully.

But they pull at something deep in your belly. Like a memory that ain’t yours.

You sit down across from him. You don't remember walking there. Just that your feet knew where to go.

He leans forward, elbow on his knee. The banjo hums a final note and falls quiet.

“Mo chroí,” he says softly.

You tilt your head.

He reaches out, hand hovering near your cheek like he doesn’t want to touch, just to be close. “Tá tú cosúil le tine faoi bhun mo chraiceann,” he whispers.

The words curl around you like smoke. Warm. Intimate. Dangerous.

Your breath hitches. “What are you saying?”

He smiles—sad, almost. “Things I shouldn’t.”

Your heart thuds, even here. Even knowing it’s a dream. “Are you real?”

That grin creeps back. “I’m whatever you’re willin’ to believe in, darlin’.”

The room flickers, fades at the edges. You reach for him—but your hands come up empty. He’s already retreating, stepping back into shadow, his voice the last thing that stays.

“Codladh sámh, a rún.”

Sleep soundly, sweetheart.

You wake slow, breath caught in your chest.

Your room is still dark. Your scarf’s still in place. And your hands are balled in the sheets like you were reaching for something you never held.

Outside, the night’s whole again. No silence. Just crickets, wind, and the familiar echo of a world that kept turning while you wandered off somewhere in it.

You sit up. Touch your temple.

And whisper, “Mo chroí,” though you still don’t know what it means.

But somehow, it feels like the truth.

Chapter Text

Morning hits like a slap to the face and a kiss to the jaw.

The heat wakes first—sliding through your shutters, slipping across your floorboards, warming the soles of your feet before your body’s ready. The smell of dust and dew clings to the air. You roll slow, scarf still on, eyes gritty from sleep that didn’t settle right. Dream fragments echo at the edge of your mind: the sound of a banjo, words in another tongue, a smile that didn’t belong here.

You get dressed in cotton. Pull on your day shoes. Wrap a light scarf over your braids and step into the sun like it’s a choice.

The dirt road is already hot beneath your soles, the walk into town baked dry. You wave at old Miss Hattie on her porch—she just nods like always, chin tilted like she knows things she’ll never say.

By the time you reach Bo and Grace’s store, the sun is sitting fat in the sky, and you’re craving something sweet just to cut through the thickness in your throat.

The bell above the door jingles soft when you step inside.

It smells like ginger and sugar and wood that’s been here a long time. Shelves are packed tight—glass jars of candy buttons and licorice, sacks of rice, bolts of muslin and cheap calico. In the back, a rusting ice box hums low. Above it, red paper lanterns from the new year still hang, edges curled.

Lisa’s at the counter.

“Morning,” you say.

She nods, serious and small behind the register. “Morning.”

She’s barely fourteen, sharp as a blade and twice as quiet. Always watching. Always listening. Bo and Grace say she was born with that look—like she knows what you did before you say hello.

“You look tired,” she says plainly.

You snort. “Didn’t realize you ran the town beauty parlor now.”

She doesn’t smile, but her eyes flick like she wants to.

From the back, you hear Bo’s voice before you see him. “That who I think it is?”

He rounds the corner with a crate in hand, face already sweat-slicked from the morning heat. “Well damn, sugarfoot. You up early.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a miracle,” you laugh.

“I’m just sayin’,” Bo shrugs, setting the crate down. “Ain’t often you show up before the flies do.”

Grace trails in after him, apron tied tight over her skirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She smiles when she sees you. “She come to buy somethin’, or just avoid Stack and Smoke for an hour?”

“I came for peace,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Thought I’d find it in a lemon drop or two.”

Bo grins. “You’ll find more than that, dependin’ on who’s walkin’ in behind you.”

Your brows raise. “You talkin’ about Remmick?”

Grace frowns. “The white man from last night?”

Bo tosses her a look. “You was slingin’ drinks, you missed half the show.”

“I saw the gold,” Grace says, wiping her hands on a towel. “Didn’t need to see more.”

“He was flirtin’ like he been sweet on her for a year,” Bo adds, nodding toward you.

You roll your eyes, but your face warms.

Lisa speaks again—quiet, flat: “Why would a white man flirt with a Black woman in front of a room full of people?”

Bo blinks. Grace stills. Even you pause.

It’s not the kind of question you usually hear out loud. But it’s not untrue.

“Some white men like to play with fire,” Grace says gently, moving closer to her daughter. “They like what they ain’t supposed to have.”

Lisa stares at you. “Are you gonna let him?”

You hold her gaze. You don’t answer.

Bo clears his throat. “Remmick don’t seem like most. But don’t mean he ain’t trouble.”

“Everybody’s trouble, Bo,” you say. “Depends on who’s holdin’ the match.”

That gets a short laugh from him. Grace shakes her head.

You buy the lemon drops anyway, tucking the small bag into your palm.

Before you can step out, Lisa speaks again—soft and strange, like she’s halfway in a dream or speaking in tongues borrowed from somewhere older than all of you.

She doesn’t blink, voice quiet but certain. “An Irish token, a silver-tongue. Soul boat’s already left the dock. And you? You sittin’ in the ferryman’s lap, hopin’ he don’t ask for payment.”

Bo looks up from his crate, a frown pinching his face. “Lisa—”

But she keeps going, eyes locked on yours like she sees something behind you. “You kiss a man like that, you don’t dream no more. You remember. And remembering hurts worse.”

You stare at her, words caught somewhere between your teeth and your chest.

You open your mouth to ask what she's talking about—but the bell jingles, and a new customers walks in. You’re already halfway out the door when you hear Grace say, “Lisa, hush now. That’s grown folks’ business.”

Chapter Text

The sun’s still climbing when you leave Bo and Grace’s store, the gravel crunching under your feet as you head down the narrow path cutting through town. Clarksdale never truly quiets—even in the morning, voices hum behind cracked shutters, and dust stirs like it’s got business of its own.

You don’t make it far before you see them—Smoke and Sammie walking your way. Smoke’s in his usual—brim low, suspenders taut over his shoulders, stride slow and deliberate. Sammie’s beside him, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a colt barely broken.

“Well look at that,” you call out, hands on your hips. “Aren’t you supposed to be halfway down the road by now, preachin’ to the chickens?”

Sammie gives you a wide, boyish grin, all teeth and mischief. “Cuz talked him into lettin’ me come back,” he says, like it wasn’t a fight that rattled windows. “He mad, but you know he ain’t gon’ raise no hell with the twins.”

Smoke grunts. “He can try.” He then digs into his pocket and hands Sammie a folded bill. “Go over to Grace, get yourself a treat. Don’t let Bo talk you into sweepin’ the storeroom.”

Sammie nods and dashes off, calling a quick “Thank you!” over his shoulder.

Smoke watches him for a second, then turns to you, his gaze as heavy as it always is when he’s thinking deeper than he wants to admit.

You and Smoke stand in the shade of the awning now, quiet for a beat. He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m goin’ to check in on Delta Slim. See if he’s game for another night.”

You nod, but you can feel the shift. He’s not really here to talk about Slim.

Sure enough, after a beat, he glances toward the path Sammie disappeared down, then back to you.

“I’m still hot with Stack,” Smoke mutters, his voice low and tight.

You glance sideways at him but your expression softens. “I ain’t mad at Stack. Not really. It’s business. I get it.”

Smoke doesn’t say anything yet, just watches you, listening.

You exhale through your nose, gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I just don’t like bein’ caught in whatever power-play flirtation him and Mary got goin’. It’s your joint—his and yours. Mary can help, sure. But she had no damn business makin’ decisions like that.”

You took a breath. Watching a mother corral her children up the street towards the ice cream parlor. 

“I said yes,” you add after a pause, quieter now. “Because I felt like I owed y’all. I know I don’t, not really. But I do. Y’all been lookin’ out for me my whole life. Ain’t blood, but... y’all still my brothers.”

Smoke looks at you for a long beat, his expression softening. “You always been our sister. Ain’t nothin’ ever gonna change that.”

You smile, small but real. He chuckles, but his eyes don’t lighten. Not fully. And when he speaks again, it’s quieter. Realer.

“I shoulda said somethin’ last night. Or sooner.” He kicks a rock with the toe of his boot. “About us leavin’. About you.”

You look away, jaw tight. “Still had Mary’s momma.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, gaze following yours. “But you know how that was.”

Silence lingers a second too long. Then he leans in slightly, lowering his voice to a hush.

“Your daddy ain’t ever touch you again, right?”

That ache blooms in your chest like it never left. The memory’s cold, bitter, older than the bones you stand on. But the smile you pull onto your face is sharp and knowing.

“Not since y’all beat him so close to hell the devil almost kissed him on the lips.”

Smoke doesn’t laugh, but his shoulders ease, just a bit. That knot in his brow softens.

“I ain’t forgot,” he says. “What he did. What we didn’t do fast enough.”

You shake your head. “Ain’t about what you did or didn’t. It’s about what stopped.”

You both stand there in the quiet heat, not speaking, but the silence says enough. Then he looks at you sideways, all that weight shifting back into something practical.

“You comin’ back tonight?” he asks.

You start to answer, but he lifts a hand, cutting himself off.

“Not tryin’ to put you out. I’m still mad about it. But…” He glances toward the horizon like the trio might stroll up out the dust again. “White boy was sweet with you. Might not be so inclined to spend if you’re not there. That’s just facts.”

He shrugs. “But it’s your call. Whatever makes you feel safe.”

You watch him a second, reminded—again—why folks got Smoke twisted. Always thought he was the dangerous one. The reckless one.

But Smoke didn’t speak much because he didn’t have to. Every word he used had weight. Meant something. And when he gave a damn, you felt it.

You give him a little nod. “I’ll think on it.”

“Good.” He nods, once. “Ain’t nobody pushin’ you. Just… don’t let guilt make you come if your gut says different.”

The morning air grows still between you, golden light stretching long over the red dirt.

“Besides,” Smoke adds, with the hint of a smile, “we might need you to distract him again if Bo starts losin’ too bad.”

You grin. “Bo can’t bluff to save his life. Remmick coulda taken him for twice that coin if he wasn’t too busy watchin’ me.”

Smoke raises a brow. “He’s trouble.”

“Yeah,” you say, turning to go. “But not the kind that scares me.”

He watches you leave, standing solid as a tree in the middle of the path. And you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way home.

Chapter Text

You headed home—well, almost.

Annie’s shack sat just a few trees down from your own. You could see the smoke curling from her chimney like it always did, no matter the time of day. The porch was swept clean, and her little garden was already humming with bees.

You knocked once, out of habit. The door creaked open before your knuckles met wood a second time.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d swing by,” Annie said without looking up. She was seated cross-legged near the hearth, laying out roots and bones like puzzle pieces, each one turning under her fingers with practiced ease.

You stepped inside, ducking beneath the bundles of drying herbs strung from the rafters. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

Annie shot you a look. “You were.”

You sat across from her on the braided rug, the old fabric worn smooth under your fingers. She was quiet for a while, running a chicken bone between her thumb and forefinger. The fire snapped behind her, but the rest of the house was still.

“I figured it out,” she said eventually.

You tilted your head. “Figured what out?”

“That feelin’ from last night.” Her voice dipped. “The one in my stomach. Thought it was just trouble at first. But it was worse than that.”

You waited.

She looked up at you, eyes dark and firm. “It was death.”

You blinked, the word hitting your spine like a sudden gust of cold.

Annie didn’t flinch. “Didn’t know it then. But it was hoverin’. Waitin’. And it came with them.”

You didn’t have to ask who. 

She nodded once. “I don’t know what they are, but I know what I felt. That white boy smiled like the devil ain’t never told a lie. And the other two? They ain’t blink right. Eyes too still. Like lookin’ at somethin’ wearin a person’s skin.”

You frowned. “You think they’re gonna do something?”

Annie shook her head slowly. “Not yet. Not sure. Just… off. Wrong in the way bad luck feels before it hits.”

She leaned forward, her fingers curling into the rug. “Don’t go back to the Juke tonight. Not if they there.”

You exhaled through your nose, heavy. “You know Stack’ll want ‘em back. That kind of money buys loyalty fast.”

“Stack would sell his good sense if it came in gold coins,” Annie snapped. “And Smoke…”

She trailed off, but the look in her eye said more than words could.

You studied her. “You still love him.”

Annie looked away, jaw tight. “That ain’t the point.”

You didn’t press.

The silence between you was familiar. Annie had always been like that—sharp, steady, and still grieving. You’d only been a girl when she and Smoke buried their daughter, but even then you’d felt it. The way it bent her, made her heart stubborn in places soft things used to live.

She was only a few years older than you, but the world had aged her quicker. Same as it did to all the women around here who tried to hold on to something sweet and lost it anyway.

“I ain’t tryin’ to scare you,” she said finally. “Just… I saw how he looked at you. The white one. That kinda look? It ain’t ever just flirtin’.”

You nodded once. “I’ll be careful.”

Annie reached for your hand, squeezing it. Her palm was warm and calloused. “You always are. But tonight, I want you to be more than that.”

You met her gaze. “You want me to be ready.”

She nodded. “I got somethin’ for you, before you go.”

She stood, crossed to a small chest in the corner, and pulled out a little cloth pouch. It was tied with red thread and smelled like sage, graveyard dirt, and dried cedar.

“Keep it in your pocket,” she said, pressing it into your palm. “Don’t lose it. Don’t open it.”

You didn’t argue.

Outside, the morning light glinted off dew still clinging to the tall grass. The world looked normal. Alive.

But in your hand, Annie’s charm felt like a warning bell wrapped in linen.

And somewhere, beneath the scent of earth and iron, you swore you could still smell last night’s blues.

Chapter Text

You spend most of the day doing what folks do in the heat of a Mississippi summer—trying not to sweat yourself into an early grave. A quick meal, some cleaning, a short nap in the lull of early afternoon. You avoid thinking too hard. About the dream. About Remmick. About what Lisa and Annie said.

But when the sun starts to sag behind the trees, you’re already pulling out your nicer dress—the one that clings a little at the waist and fans out just enough at the hips to make a statement. You don’t say it aloud, but you know why. He’ll be back.

You secure Annie’s pouch under your dress, tied at your hip with a strip of cloth. It’s warm against your skin, heavier than it should be for a bundle of herbs and bones. Protective, Annie had said. For death.

The Juke’s already lit up when you arrive. Delta Slim is tearing through the keys like they owe him money, Sammie’s on guitar, and the crowd is moving like they’ve got no worries left in the world. Laughter and sweat fill the air, boot heels hit the wood floor hard, and the pulse of it all wraps around you before you even step inside.

Cornbread gives you a nod as you pass—he’s actually alert tonight, bless him—and you slip into the rhythm of it all, letting it settle in your bones. There’s something about the noise and the bodies that makes it easy to pretend things are normal.

But of course, normal doesn’t last.

Stack catches your eye from across the room and gives the smallest nod. You move through the press of bodies, slide past the curtain in the back.

They’re already there.

Remmick stands when you enter, like he’s been waiting. Joan and Bert lounge nearby, playing at casual, but their eyes track everything. The curtain swings shut behind you, sealing you in again with him.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” Remmick says, voice low and smooth. “You look like trouble dressed up to cause more.”

You arch a brow. “You gonna flirt, or you gonna lose your money again?”

Bo chuckles from his seat, already shuffling the deck. 

Joan smirks. Bert leans back in his chair, exhaling slow through his nose.

Remmick doesn’t miss a beat. “A man can do both.” His eyes trail down your form with a lazy ease that sends a hot line across your skin. “But for you? I’ll play my hand right.”

Halfway through the second game, you're watching him smile over a losing hand when a breathless runner pushes through the curtain. Stack and Smoke both rise in an instant.

“Cars,” the boy pants. “White men. Comin’ up the road.”

The room stills like a struck bell.

Remmick is already standing. “This ain’t us.”

Smoke’s voice is ice. “You sure?”

Bert rises too, calm but tense. “We didn’t call no one.”

Stack growls, “If this is a setup—”

“It ain’t,” Remmick says. “Swear it. Let us help.”

“Help?” Annie says from the doorway, arms crossed. “Or make it worse?”

Remmick turns to you, softer now. “I won’t let them touch this place.”

Then he steps forward, shoulders square.

“Let me talk.”

Smoke, hesitating for a heartbeat, gives a short nod. “You go with us. Bert too. Joan stays.”

You watch as they vanish behind the curtain, slipping out the side door. You press close behind Stack, watching from the shadows just inside the open window.

The cars pull up like bad omens. Five in all, each carrying more menace than the next. Men with hats pulled low, lips tight, eyes scanning like wolves looking for a weak fence.

Remmick steps out front like he owns the road.

“Evenin’, gentlemen,” he calls out. “What brings y’all out this way?”

The lead man—broad, red in the face already—steps forward. “Heard there was a party here. Didn’t figure y’all’d started lettin’ colors throw barrelhouses.”

“Oh, this ain’t a party,” Remmick says easily. “This is my place.”

The man squints. “Your place?”

“Yeah. Bought it last week.” Remmick gestures at the Juke like it’s still a damn cotton gin. “Thought I’d see how the locals threw a shindig before I put my name on the sign.”

“And you lettin’ them run it?”

“Only for now. Man’s gotta learn the ropes. Gotta know the people.” Remmick smiles. “And these people? They’re mine.”

The man shifts, uncertain now.

Remmick steps closer. “Ain’t no trouble here. Not tonight. And if you think about bringing some…” His smile fades. “Well. You’d be messin’ with the wrong white man.”

There’s a long pause. Engines hum. A crow calls somewhere behind the trees.

And then, one by one, the cars turn around.

As the dust trails off into the dark, Remmick stands motionless, his gaze pinned to the road like he can still see the tires turning.

Bert lingers a few paces behind, hands at his sides, spine too straight.  

“You always did know how to bluff.” His voice is flat, rehearsed, like he’s repeating something that’s been fed into his mouth by another will entirely.

Joan goes to stand beside him, her chin tilted just enough to mimic Remmick’s posture, her fingers twitching once before falling still again.

Remmick doesn’t respond right away.

His jaw ticks once.

And then, without looking back, he says—calm, cold:

“Wasn’t a bluff.”

You squint from the side of the window, heart tripping.

Just before he turns back toward the door, you swear—just for a split second—his eyes catch the light and flash a deep, gleaming red. Not the reflection of a lantern. Something deeper. Hungrier.

And behind him, Bert and Joan smile.

But it’s the kind of smile you only see on things that don’t sleep.

Chapter Text

The tension from the drive-up lingers even after the last of the taillights disappear. Folks inside don’t even know how close it got. How a wrong glance or a word too bold could’ve turned the Juke into a crime scene.

Remmick, Joan, and Bert file back into the back room like they never left—silent, smooth, and wrong in a way that prickles the hairs on your arms. Stack pulls the door shut behind them, jaw tight, eyes flitting to you. He says nothing.

Bo Chow exhales and slaps his palm on the card table. “Ain’t no sense in stoppin’ now. We already danced with the devil—might as well finish the song.”

Nobody laughs.

You linger near the curtain, Annie’s pouch still tucked against your hip, its herbs and dried bones pressing cool through the fabric of your dress. You feel safer with it close. Like Annie’s words stitched themselves into your ribs:

“That wasn’t just a bad feeling, baby. That was death leanin’ on the porch.”

The game picks up again. Bert shuffles with a calm precision, but it’s Remmick’s eyes that slide to you when he should be focused on his hand. He grins like he knows a secret about you that even you don’t.

“You alright, darlin’?” he murmurs, barely above the scratch of the cards.

“Wasn’t me out there lyin’ to the Klan,” you reply.

He leans back, slow and easy. “Didn’t lie. Told ’em it wasn’t their place. Told ’em to move on. And they did.”

“You didn’t have to step in,” you say.

His grin fades into something quieter. “Didn’t want anyone gettin’ hurt. Least of all you.”

You don’t answer.

Behind him, Joan watches the cards but never bets more than she should. Bert smirks when Remmick smirks. Mimics the lean. It’s subtle. But once you catch it, you can’t unsee it.

They’re copying him.

No. Following.

The room feels colder.

You rub your hands against your arms and glance toward the curtain, wishing Smoke would come back in. As if summoned, the curtain parts.

Smoke steps in. Eyes cut across the table. Then to you.

“We’re closin’ down in ten,” he says.

“Already?” Bo groans. “I was about to win my rent.”

“You win too much, folks get suspicious,” Smoke replies, deadpan.

He waits until Remmick nods and begins stacking his chips before disappearing again.

Remmick tosses in one last coin. “One more hand.”

You start to say no. But Bo deals.

Remmick wins.

Again.

Remmick's fingers coast over the pile of winnings like it was always meant to be his. Bo whistles low, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair.

“Man’s got the devil’s luck,” Bo mutters, half grinning.

Remmick tips an invisible hat. “He and I are on speaking terms.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tucked behind it. Remmick’s gaze catches it and lingers. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore—the way he watches you like you're the only thing in the room that breathes.

Grace appears at the curtain then, apron still on, curls pinned up. She gives Bo a light swat on the shoulder before her eyes drift to Remmick—and then to you. One brow arches high.

“Ah,” she murmurs. “So that’s what you meant, Bo.”

Bo just grunts, sliding his chair back.

Remmick catches her eyes and gives a polite nod. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Grace,” she corrects. “Ain’t no ‘ma’am’ in a place like this.”

Stack and Smoke re-enter together, tension still hanging off their shoulders. But Smoke surprises everyone when he nods at Remmick.

“Y’all helped us out tonight. Appreciate that,” he says.

Remmick raises a brow.

Smoke jerks his chin toward the curtain. “Reckon we can let you see the front of the place now. Ain’t no one left to care.”

Remmick tilts his head in mock surprise. “Well now. I’m honored.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Stack mutters. “Come on.”

They part the curtain and let the three of them into the front.

Delta Slim’s old piano is quiet now. The bar is still littered with bottles. The floor’s scuffed, sticky in places, but still glowing under the last of the hanging lights. A few tables still carry the echo of laughter and dancing feet. The spirit of the night lingers, warm and humming.

Joan steps lightly across the threshold, eyes scanning every inch like she’s trying to memorize it. Bert follows, quiet and still in that way that makes the air bend wrong around him.

Remmick lingers near the middle of the room, head tipped back just slightly like he’s soaking in the bones of the place.

“This,” he says, almost reverently, “is more than a room. It breathes.”

Joan tilted her head, gaze flicking across the stage, the bar, the scuffed-up dance floor. “So this is where all the noise comes from,” she said, voice soft but offbeat, like she was repeating something she’d heard once and hadn’t forgotten.

Bert stood just behind her, hands in his pockets, still as a statue. “It’s... warm,” he muttered, and it was hard to tell if he meant the air or the people. Probably neither.

They both turned to Remmick.

“We’ll head out,” Joan said smoothly. “Appreciate the hospitality.”

Bert nodded, sharp and polite. “We’ll catch up with you later.”

Without another word, the two of them slipped out the back like a shadow changing shape, quiet and quick. Just as suddenly as they’d arrived, they were gone.

Smoke watched the door swing closed behind them. “Those two always that quiet?”

Remmick just smiled. “Only when they like a place.”

You turn toward Sammie as he lingers by the piano, fingers ghosting over the keys like he might coax a note out if no one was watching. You hadn't seen him since that morning being in the backroom watching Remmick the whole night. 

“You ain’t sing tonight,” you say.

Sammie glances up at you with that boyish grin of his. “Didn’t have to. Figured I’d let the walls miss me for a night.”

Stack, from where he’s wiping down the last table, chuckles. “We told him to rest up.”

Smoke nods, stretching his arms with a grunt. “Boy’s got plenty more nights ahead of him. Can’t let that voice get ragged too soon.”

“We ain’t lettin’ it go to waste,” Stack adds. “He’s stayin’ with us. Got a room cleared out already.”

Sammie looks proud, but not puffed up. Just pleased in that quiet way only someone who’s been made to feel like they didn’t belong can feel when they finally do.

Annie, leaning against the bar with arms folded, gives the twins a look. “That’s fine. But y’all better not get him caught up in your usual foolishness.”

Smoke raises a hand. “We saints now, Annie. Swear it.”

Annie snorts. “You still owe me money from the last time y’all ‘swore’ somethin’.”

Grace laughs from the other side of the counter, sliding a jar of moonshine into a crate. “Please. Sammie couldn’t’ve sung tonight anyway.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Grace throws Sammie a teasing glance. “Boy was too busy flirtin’ with Pearline. That woman got a husband with a shotgun and a limp, and Sammie out here talkin’ ‘bout her eyes like he’s got life insurance.”

The whole room breaks into soft laughter. Sammie looks mortified. “I was just being polite!”

“Uh huh,” Grace says, smirking. “Polite don’t get you extra slices of pie and an invitation to walk somebody home.”

“I didn’t go!” Sammie defends.

Smoke shakes his head. “Yet.”

Amid the laughter, you glance toward Remmick.

He’s not laughing exactly, but he’s watching—eyes bright, smile lingering like it’s permanent. His arms are crossed loose over his chest, but he’s leaning in ever so slightly, like this moment of banter is more precious than gold.

You catch him watching you.

He doesn’t look away.

Just smiles wider, like being near all this—people who jab and laugh and love—is something he’s never had and didn’t realize he missed until now.

You clear your throat and turn back toward the others, feeling your face warm despite yourself. “Y’all done teasin’ Sammie yet, or should we just hang a sign over him says ‘Hot and Bothered’?”

Bo slaps the back of a chair. “I’ll paint it myself.” The laughter rises again, rolling easy through the Juke, filling its bones like music once did. And Remmick—quiet, ever watching—soaks in every word like it’s something holy.

You watch him for a moment, then grab a broom. Preparing to sweep the dirt and grime off the dance floor. To everyone’s quiet surprise, Remmick starts to help you, stacking and moving chairs and boxes that are in your way.

And Remmick keeps flirting.

Subtle at first—a hand brushing yours when he past you, a glance over his shoulder with a grin tucked in the corner of his mouth. Then bolder.

“You always smile like that when you sweep?” he asks, eyes on you as you wipe down a table.

“Only when white men with molasses voices do chores without being asked,” you shoot back.

He laughs and lingers near your side. You get caught up in the motions, listening to the sounds of everyone pitching in. 

“You always move like that?” he asked, voice low as honey left too long in the sun. “Or is it just when I’m in the room?”

You shot him a look, noticing the way his eyes roam over your hips and ass. Your lips twitched before you could stop them. “You’re flirtin’ awful heavy for a man who barely made it past the back curtain.”

It was strange—this white man cleaning the juke joint like he’d been doing it his whole life.

“Don’t mean nothin” Annie muttered as she walked past you. “Still don’t trust him.”

You can practically hear Smoke roll his eyes from where he's sitting, counting the till for the night. His silence and slight smile say he’s halfway amused—but more than that, satisfied.

The games and money Remmick won tonight and, once again, he didn’t take a cent. Said something slick like, “Consider it another investment—place like this oughta stay open long enough for me to lose proper next time.” Like he hadn’t just dropped a week’s wages without blinking.

Smoke shakes his head and mutters, mostly to himself, “White boy got a mouth on him… but I’ll be damned if he ain’t generous.”

You’re wiping down part of the bar when the front door creaks open.

Mary.

She walks in like she owns the place—chin high, heels louder than necessary on the floor.

Smoke doesn’t bother hiding his scowl. “Thought you were catchin’ that train.”

“I was,” she says, casting her eyes around the quiet room. “Train didn’t come.”

“Another one does tomorrow,” Annie replies pursing her lips at her.

Mary’s eyes land on Remmick, then you. She sees the two of you, side by side. Her mouth tightens.

“You help clean too, white boy?” she snipes.

Remmick doesn’t even pause. “Only if I make the mess. But I reckon I’m not the one stirrin’ the pot right now.”

Mary’s eyes narrow, her gaze sliding past him to land on you. One brow arches—like she’s just found something to file away for later.

“Well,” she says, her tone saccharine and brittle, “you’re certainly making friends fast.”

Before you, Annie or Grace can open your mouth, Remmick turns fully toward her, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Now hold on,” he says, with mock surprise. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

He tilts his head, studying her the way a man sizes up a piece of fruit already half-bruised. “You must be Miss Mary. The one who missed her train last night too right?”

You can see Sammies eyes bouncing back and forth between them like a kid excited to finally be a part of grown folks business.

Mary’s mouth parts to respond—but nothing comes out. He doesn’t wait.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he adds, voice dipping lower, “but if that attitude’s what’s waitin’ at the station, I reckon it’s a good thing the train left without you.”

Bo Chow lets out a high-pitched wheeze like he’s been holding in a laugh all night. “Whew, that white boy came with the seasoning tonight.” Grace smacks him on the back of the head.

Stack lets out a tired breath and sets a crate of glasses down harder than necessary. “Alright, that’s enough.”

He walks around the table and puts a hand on Mary’s elbow. “Come on,” he says, voice low but firm. “Let’s talk. Back room.”

Mary opens her mouth like she’s about to argue, but one look at Stack’s face makes her think better of it. She lets herself be led behind the curtain, heels clacking like punctuation marks to her pride.

Grace raises her brows, muttering, “Mmhm. Whole pot full of sour.”

Chapter Text

The Juke slipped back into that sacred hush. Remmick cleared his throat, watching the curtain sway behind Stack and Mary. He caught your eye one last time.

“Well,” he said with a lopsided grin, “might be time I quit while I’m ahead.”

You arched a brow. “This your version of slippin’ out the back door?”

He laughed low. Then, straightening with a nod that was more military than casual, he said to Smoke. “Thank you,” he said to Smoke, nodding with a sincerity that caught even you off guard. “For letting me see the front. And for letting me back at all. Wasn’t expecting a second night.”

Smoke, leaning a hip against the bar, arms folded tight across his chest, gave him a look like he was still wrestling with something. “You ain’t caused trouble. I can admit when I’m wrong.”

Remmick raised a brow.

Smoke’s arms are crossed, jaw ticking like he’s still arguing with himself inside. His eyes flick to you, then back to Remmick. Finally, he lets out a sigh like it’s been sitting in his chest for days.

“You wanna come back,” he says, “doors open again next Friday. You sit quiet, keep your eyes front, and actually listen to the damn music.”

Stack blinks. Grace nearly drops a bottle. Bo stares like he just watched a mule speak English.

Even Remmick’s brows tick up. “Well now,” he says slowly, “didn’t think I’d get the full invitation.”

Annie doesn’t even hide her glare. “And how you plan to explain that to the rest of the crowd, huh? Ain’t exactly usual for a white man to be settin’ up shop in the back of a colored Juke.”

Smoke doesn’t miss a beat. “Easy. I’M fine with it. If they got an issue, I’ll solve it.”

Grace whistles low. “Soundin’ like the law tonight.”

Smoke doesn’t smile. Just stares straight ahead like it’s already handled.

“Last night was grand openin’,” he says. “Only opened again tonight to ride the wave. As Y/N so lovingly calls him, Carolina here talks like an investor—let’s see if he puts his money where his mouth is.”

Remmick places a hand over his heart and bows his head. “You’ll have it. And maybe, one day, I’ll earn enough trust to walk that pretty girl of yours home.” He tosses you a look that lingers like syrup on biscuits.

Annie makes a noise like she’s about to cough up a curse, and Smoke just shakes his head, muttering, “Don’t hold your breath.” With one last sweep of his eyes across the Juke, Remmick steps out into the night, the door closing behind him with a gentle hush.

Silence settles for a second.

“Did I hear that right?” Grace asked, wiping sweat off her brow. “He comin’ back next week?”

Annie squinted at Smoke like she couldn’t believe her ears. “You done lost your damn mind?”

Smoke leaned back against the bar, arms folded, jaw tight. “He ain’t have to step in when them trucks rolled up. Coulda let it burn. But he didn’t. Kept cool. Kept them fools outta here. That count for somethin’.”

Annie crossed her arms. “So now he’s one of us? A white boy drop a coin and you roll the whole carpet out?”

“He ain’t cause no trouble,” Smoke said flat. “Ain’t got sticky fingers, ain’t run his mouth. Talkin’ ‘bout puttin’ money into the place. I say let’s see if he backs it up.”

Grace snorted, skeptical but not stupid enough to argue in front of Smoke when he was already on edge. Bo muttered something that sounded like a prayer and a curse at once. 

Just then, Stack pushed through the curtain with Mary behind him, her chin high like she ain’t smell the shit she stepped in. She looked like the heat didn’t touch her, like she didn’t grow up in the same dirt as the rest of them.

“Now hold the fuck up,” Stack barked. “You? You the one lettin’ him back next week? Out front? To hear the goddamn music?” His laugh was sharp, hollow. “Nigga you was the main one hollerin’ last night. Said I was out my goddamn mind lettin’ that white boy and his crew in. Told me I lost it sendin’ her”—he thumbed toward you—“to talk to 'em.”

Smoke’s voice dropped an octave, calm but heavy like thunder ‘fore the storm. “And I still ain’t forgiven you for that dumbass move. But that ain’t what we talkin’ about. That man helped tonight. Period. He didn’t bring trouble. For now, that earns a seat and a song. But you sendin’ her out alone? That’s a whole different fuck-up.”

“Man, you actin’ like I tossed her to the wolves—”

“She ain’t your runner, Stack,” Smoke snapped. “She family.”

The room dropped a degree. Sammie, quiet in the corner near the stage, didn’t even breathe too loud.

Mary rolled her eyes with a little scoff, arms crossed like she was above the whole damn thing.

Annie saw it—like she always did. And Annie ain't ever let some shit slide.

“What’s your damn problem, Mary?” Annie said, voice low but sharp, like a switchblade unsnapped. "You wanna explain yourself, or should I help you find the words?”

Mary blinked slow. “Ain’t nothin’ to explain.”

Annie scoffed. “Bullshit. You been actin’ sour as week-old milk since the moment you walked in. And not just tonight either.”

“I ain’t got a problem with nobody,” Mary said, voice sweet like molasses, sharp like glass.

“You damn sure got one with her,” Annie snapped, jabbing a finger in your direction. “And I wanna know why.”

The room fell quiet. Smoke didn’t say a word, but his posture shifted—he was ready if this went left. Sammie looked down at the floor, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping. Stack rubbed the back of his neck.

Mary squared her shoulders. “Y’all always took her side.”

“Side?” Annie barked, stunned. “Girl, this ain’t no street fight. Ain’t no sides when you family.”

Mary scoffed. “Please. I been on the outside lookin’ in since I was fifteen.”

Annie’s hands went to her hips. “The hell are you even talkin’ about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” Mary snapped. “Y’all sent me off—got me married to some white man like it was doin’ me a favor. Like I was some problem to fix. And you—” her eyes slid to you, “you got to stay. Got to be the daughter Mama chose. Just ‘cause your skin matches hers more than mine ever did.”

You blinked.

Mary laughed bitter. “She wasn’t your mama,” Mary spat. “She was mine. Your just the girl who's daddy-”

“Don’t,” Smoke cut in, low and firm.

But it was too late.

Your jaw clenched. The air left your lungs like you’d been slapped.

Annie’s hand slammed down on the bar so hard the jars rattled. “You shut your damn mouth.”

Mary tried to look defiant, but her bottom lip was trembling.

You stared at her, jaw set, voice steady—but low. “Go on,” you said. “Say it. Say what everybody already knows.”

The silence was heavy. Sticky. Like molasses dragged over a wound.

“You think I wanted what he did?” you asked. “You think I didn’t pray every night for God to snatch me up in my sleep? That I ain’t still hear the creak of his boots near my bed? You think I chose that shit?”

Smoke’s face had gone stone still. Stack looked like someone had gut-punched him.

Annie stepped in front of you, protective like she’d been since you were knee-high. “You owe her an apology.”

Mary’s voice was barely a whisper. “I ain’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Annie snapped. “You meant it. And that’s the problem.”

You took a breath so deep it scraped your ribs. “Your momma saved me,” you said. “She saved all of us. But she held me when I couldn’t even hold myself. She bathed me when I came in bloody. Called me her girl. So no—maybe I ain’t her blood, but I was her child. And I buried her like she was my mother. ‘Cause she was. You wasn’t there, Mary. Not when her hands started tremblin’. Not when she forgot names. Not when her breathing got shallow and she called out for you but looked straight through me. And I still stayed. I stayed. You showed up to her funeral wearin’ white like you was the widow and hadn’t even sent a letter.”

You paused. Eyes locked. Voice breaking.

“And then you told folks you buried her.”

Grace let out a noise—half laugh, half scoff—but it held no humor.

Mary’s throat worked like she was gonna speak, but nothing came.

You shook your head, that grief rising again. The old kind—the one that sat under your ribs, quiet and burning.

“She’s the reason I’m still here. And I’ll be damned if I let you rewrite her memory to make yourself feel better about the choices you made.”

Chapter Text

“Well,” you said flatly, voice calm like water before a storm. “That’s enough excitement for one damn night.”

Bo and Grace exchanged a look like they’d just remembered they had a whole child waitin’ at home.

Bo clapped his hands and groaned. “Damn, my knees just reminded me I ain’t got no business stayin’ out past midnight. Damn things hollerin’ like a Baptist widow.”

Grace smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, fool. Let’s go home to Lisa.”

You gave Grace a hug, holding her tight like a breath you ain’t realized you needed. Then Bo, who gave you one of those big ol’ bear squeezes like you were made of gold and laughter.

“Night, sugar,” Grace said softly.

“You always a light, baby girl,” Bo added. “Even when the power out.”

They headed out, still talking’ low between themselves.

The door shut behind them, leaving the room a little too quiet, too full of the things that weren’t said.

Smoke looked your way. “Let me drive you home again. I ain’t comfortable lettin’ you walk, not tonight.”

You nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Stack stood nearby, trying to make himself look busy but failing at it. You could feel the heat of his guilt before he said a word. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes on the floor, like maybe the dirt had the answers.

You stepped toward him, didn’t say nothin’, just pulled him in for a hug. He held on longer than he should’ve, like maybe he thought it could fix things.

“Night. Talk later?” he murmured.

You knew the anger you felt toward him wasn’t all his fault—not really. Just missteps in a world full of holes. “Sure. Night,” you said.

But your eyes never touched Mary.

She stood stiff by the table, arms still crossed, face unreadable. You walked past her like she wasn’t even there.

Because she wasn’t.

Not really.

Not anymore.

Smoke gathered Sammie with a nod, the boy still quiet and hanging close. Annie was right behind, her skirt swishing like a warning.

Just before she hit the door, she turned and let her eyes rake over Mary one last time.

“Sort yourself out, girl,” she said to her, quiet but stern. “Bitterness only sweet to the one drinkin’ it.”

Mary didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

And that silence said more than her mouth ever had.

Then you stepped out into the hot, heavy night—memories, sweat, and the thick buzz of trouble lingering in the air. The moon was swollen, glowing like it knew secrets it shouldn’t be keepin’, and the air smelled like leftover bourbon, cut grass, and something old clawing its way back to life.

Smoke unlocked his car with a grunt and waited for you to slide in before Sammie and Annie took the back. The car doors thunked closed, sealing you all in like a hymn with no choir.

As Smoke started the engine, the hum of the juke behind you dimmed into the distance, and the road ahead stretched long, hot, and quiet.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to.

You’d see it again soon enough.

Chapter Text

You didn’t fall asleep easy.

The night pressed heavy on your chest, thick with sweat and leftover echoes of words you didn’t ask for and pain you thought you’d buried.

You tossed. Turned.

Stared at the ceiling like it might split open and offer answers.

But eventually—somewhere between the creak of the floorboards and the hum of the crickets—you drifted off.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Not the sharp-tongued gambler or the watchful white man with devil-luck eyes—but something quieter, warmer. Like velvet shadows and hush-toned hymns. You stood beneath that strange silver tree again, the air glowing blue like it was lit from inside.

He stepped forward, slow and sure.

His voice was soft, with that Southern drawl that sometimes bled Irish when he got tired—or, in dreams, tender.

“I felt you,” he whispered. “Felt what you carried home tonight.”

You didn’t speak, just stared at him—waiting for the other shoe, the edge, the hidden hook.

But all he did was step closer.

“I’ll always protect you now,” he said, in English, no tricks in his tongue. “Ain’t nobody ever gonna touch you again without your say-so. Not ever. Not even in memory.”

You turned to look at him, and his expression wasn’t flirtatious, not cocky or sharp. It was reverent. Soft, in a way you weren’t used to from men. Like he was looking at something sacred. Like you were something sacred.

Your breath caught.

Then came the words in that other tongue—the same musical, foreign language from your first dream. Gaelic, you were sure now. You didn’t know the words, but your bones did. They vibrated through you like a hymn:

“Mo chroí. Mo ghrá. Ní bheidh aon duine eile ann choíche.”
My heart. My love. There will be no other again.

Like a wound had been seen, named, and covered all in one go.

He opened his arms.

And you—maybe foolish, maybe desperate—stepped in.

He held you like he had the right. Like he already knew the shape of your hurt and wasn’t afraid to carry it.

“I got you,” he whispered. “Sleep, now.”

And for the first time in a long time, you slept deep.

Dreamless.

Safe.

Chapter Text

The sun was sittin’ high and hot when Stack showed up on your porch, shirt half unbuttoned and a dust cloud still clingin’ to his boots like he’d stomped his way through a sin.

You were shellin’ peas in a bowl, tryin’ not to think too much about the night before—about Remmick’s eyes, Mary’s mouth, and how one moment of joy could be followed by a whole damn flood of trouble.

Stack didn’t knock. He just leaned against the porch rail like he had every right, eyes low with that hangdog look he only pulled out when he knew he was wrong.

“You gon’ stand there and bake or you gon’ speak?” you asked without lookin’ up.

He huffed. “Came to apologize.”

That got your attention.

You set the bowl aside, wiping your hands on your apron. “Well go on then, preacher. Let me hear this sermon.”

He gave a tight, half-smile. “Shouldn’t’ve sent you out there that first night. To talk to Remmick. That shit was dangerous. You coulda been hurt, or worse. And I was too focused on the money, not enough on you.”

You crossed your arms. “Stack—”

“Nah, let me finish. I’m sorry for that. Truly.”

You nodded, letting the silence hold it.

He glanced up, eyes rimmed with guilt. “And last night...Mary. What she said? I didn’t know she still had all that poison in her. I ain’t never been so ashamed. She had no right. Not to you. Not to bring up your daddy like that. You’re our sister, and you always been. Blood ain’t never made this family. She lucky Annie ain’t clocked her with a broom handle.”

You didn’t speak right away. Just let the air settle between you, full of things you’d felt but hadn’t had words for. Finally, you said, “Took you long enough.”

Stack’s eyes widened.

You smirked. “You think you get to show up here with hat in hand and not get roasted a little?”

That broke it. His laugh came quick and sudden, loud in your small room. “Damn, girl. Ain’t changed a bit.”

You shrugged. “Somebody gotta keep your head from swellin’.”

He grinned, eyes easing into something closer to peace. “You always was better at cussin’ people out with kindness than I was.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m smarter,” you replied.

“Bullshit,” he said, leaning back with a shake of his head. “You just prettier so folks let you get away with it.”

Stack leaned down and plucked a pea from the bowl, tossed it into his mouth. You slapped his hand. “Boy, don’t eat my damn peas raw!”

You both laughed, and the sound felt good—like stretchin’ your legs after sittin’ too long in your feelings. You let the silence between yall sit for a minute before you gave him a sideways look. “You still sweet on her?”

He snorted. “Hell no. That ship sunk and took half the damn harbor with it.”

You grinned. “You was damn near weepin’ when you sent her out to marry that white man.”

Stack pointed a finger. “Now don’t get cute.”

You leaned back. “Too late. Cute’s my default.”

He shook his head, but the smile reached his eyes now. Then his brow lifted, remembering somethin’. “Oh! I damn near forgot.”

You raised a brow.

He leaned in, voice dropping like he was about to tell a ghost story. “You ain’t gonna believe this shit. You remember them fools that rolled up in them trucks last night?”

You nodded slow.

“Well, they ain’t makin’ another visit. Whole damn group turned up dead this mornin’. Gas explosion at that old diner on Sycamore. Boom took out the whole front of the building.”

Your hand stilled mid-shell. “Dead?”

“Was a Klan meetin’,” Stack added, like it was the last piece of a twisted puzzle. “They was all in there plannin’ God knows what. Now they ashes.”

You blinked. “Gas explosion?”

“Mmhm.”

Stack leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, that crooked smirk creeping back across his face. “Ain’t that somethin’? The Lord workin’ overtime.”

You weren’t sure it was the Lord.

Weren’t sure at all.

Because when you closed your eyes, you saw Remmick’s red stare. Heard the way his voice wrapped around the lie he told them men. The way the night bent to him like it owed him a favor. The way, even in your dreams he said no one would ever touch you again. 

“Swear to God,” he said, laughing now. “Clean off the map. They say folks found nothin’ but teeth and belt buckles. Gas line must’ve been leakin’. Hell of a way for hate to burn out.”

You shook your head, disbelief dancing with dark satisfaction in your chest. “Damn.”

“Maybe the devil wanted his dues early,” you said, dry.

Stack hooted. “Shit, maybe so.”

But you weren’t laughin’.

Not anymore.

You went back to shellin’ peas. The cicadas kept singin’.

And far off in the woods, you swore the birds stopped chirpin’ for just a second too long.

Chapter Text

The next few days moved slow—like molasses in January.

You stayed close to home, kept your head down. Mending clothes for folks ‘round the neighborhood didn’t bring in riches, but it kept your belly full and your mind just busy enough not to go stir-crazy. Your fingers moved by memory now—patching holes in coveralls, fixing hems on Sunday dresses, tightening seams on baby clothes that’d already seen too many washings.

The Juke wouldn’t open again until Friday. That left too much time and too little distraction.

You weren’t hiding, not really. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But after what Mary said—after everything that spilled out under that roof—you couldn’t quite bring yourself to step back into the current of your people. You weren’t ready to feel their eyes, even if they weren’t judging. Even if they loved you.

Sometimes you’d hear Stack and Smoke slow roll past in Smoke’s old truck, engine rumbling like a sleeping bull. They didn’t stop. Just coasted on by, eyes forward, but you knew what they were doing. Just checkin’.

Annie came once—didn’t knock, didn’t speak. You were sittin’ on the back steps, half-lost in thought, and didn’t even hear her come or go. But when you went back in the house, there it was on your doorframe: a new carving. Delicate swirls and lines, tucked neat into the wood like a prayer only she and the spirits could read. A blessing. Protection. A reminder.

Grace stopped by too. Didn’t say a word—just left a basket on your porch full of okra, peaches, and two ears of sweet corn, wrapped up like love in a gingham cloth. You found a note tucked under the handle, written in her tidy hand: “Feed yourself.”

You wanted to be mad at them all—for treatin’ you soft like you might break—but you couldn’t. Not really. Not when you knew what it meant. Not when their silence was just another way to say, we got you.

But what you didn’t have—what you couldn’t ask for—was clarity.

You thought about Remmick more than you ought to. Thought about the sharp way he smiled, and how it never reached his eyes… except when he was lookin’ at you. Thought about his voice, Southern smooth with a strange lilt that turned Irish when your eyes closed at night. Sweet in your dreams. Soft. Boyish, even. Like he could be the kind of man who carved initials into trees and gave wildflowers without names.

But there was always something behind it.

Something under it.

In your dreams, he whispered things in a language you didn’t understand—but your bones did. Gaelic, maybe. You’d wake up heart pounding, skin flushed, lips dry. No danger ever came in those dreams. Just him. And yet…

You thought about Lisa’s words. That riddle about the Irish token, the soul boat, the ferryman.

You thought about what Annie said—that what she felt that night wasn’t just dread. It was death leanin’ on the porch.

You thought about the Klan boys, burnt up in that diner like kindling in a fire meant for somethin’ holy. Stack thought it was funny. Just desserts. Coincidence.

But you didn’t believe in coincidence.

And maybe it made you wrong, or soft, or still cracked from the things your daddy did when the night creaked and no one came runnin’—but you didn’t feel afraid of Remmick.

You should’ve.

You knew you should’ve.

But instead, you felt… curious. Pulled. Like a moth who knew the flame would scorch her wings but flew toward it anyway, just to know how it felt.

You hadn’t been wearin’ Annie’s pouch during the days. Not on purpose. You’d told yourself it was just too warm, too heavy. You’d lied.

The truth was, you didn’t want to be too protected.

Something about him made you want to see how close you could get. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was broken. But maybe, just maybe, it was survival. The kind of survival a girl learned when she grew up with no safety, no comfort, no father but monsters in flesh.

Danger didn’t scare you. Not really.

Because Remmick’s danger didn’t feel like teeth or fists.

It felt like a secret.

And you were tired of not knowing what that secret was.

You’d find out. Sooner or later.

Friday was coming.

And so was he.

Chapter Text

Friday came with thunder in its bones—thick clouds hanging low over town like the sky knew secrets nobody was ready to speak on. But by the time the sun dipped behind the trees, the storm had passed, and Club Juke hummed back to life.

Inside, you moved chairs and helped Grace stack crates of liquor behind the bar. Bo was fussin’ with the light, and Stack was adjusting the fan in the corner that only worked when it felt like it. Annie lit a bundle of dried herbs in the back, waving the smoke through the place while mumbling something low under her breath.

You didn’t ask what for.

Smoke was pacing. Mary was still in town.

You didn’t ask if anybody knew why, but you could tell Smoke was two seconds from snatching her up by the hem of her skirt and tossing her onto the next train out of Clarksdale. 

“Hell,” Smoke muttered, setting down crates behind the bar. “Girl lingerin’ like she forgot she got a whole white husband somewhere who might come lookin’. And what the hell we supposed to tell him? ‘Sorry sir, your wife out back chasin’ ghosts and stirrin’ mess’?”

Bo stifled a laugh behind his hand. “Let me find out you care now.”

“Only care ‘cause if he shows up here, it’s my face on the poster.” He cut a glance your way. 

Stack grunted.

Grace snorted from the bar. “Maybe he tired of her too.”

Bo leaned in. “Man probably hopin’ we keep her.”

Annie smirked. “Don’t tempt fate.”

You just laughed, low and dry. Didn’t need to add nothin’. The whole room was in agreement. Mary’s presence was like a hangnail on Sunday—aggravating, inconvenient, and bound to get worse before it got better.

That’s when Cornbread barged in, still wearin’ his same dusty hat, same lopsided grin. “Hey now, I’m just checkin’, but I’m gettin’ the same pay for watchin’ the door, right?”

You looked up from adjusting one of the tablecloths, mouth twitching. “Same pay? Nigga you ain’t even watch the door last time. Miracle you even saw them trucks comin’.”

Bo laughed so hard he nearly dropped the crate of mason jars he was stackin’. “She ain’t lyin’, ‘Bread.”

Cornbread gave a crooked grin. “I’m surprised you noticed what I was doin’, what with all the buzz sayin’ you sweet on a white man.”

You turn to look at Bo. “Dammit Bo, stop being such a gossip!”

Laughter broke through the room.

The Juke filled slow. Heat crept through the walls, sweat beading on brows and backs as dancers spun in their Sunday best, letting music stitch them together. You watched. You waited.

Couldn’t help it.

Annie caught you watching. Gave you that half-lidded smirk, slow and knowing. She didn’t say a word, but the look on her face said it all: You ain’t slick, baby girl.Earlier she’d told you, quiet and low: “The spirits say death’s still here. But not like we know it. Not the end kind. The followin’ kind. The friend kind.”

You didn’t know what the hell that meant. Still didn’t.  But you hadn’t worn her pouch again. Not tonight.

And then Smoke walked in—with him.

Remmick.

Same button-down shirt, suspenders. Same smirk on his face. And when he moved? He glided like he ain’t ever been touched by gravity.

Joan and Bert weren’t with him.

It was like the whole room took a breath and held it.

Delta Slim glanced up from the keys, and for a moment, you thought he’d stop playin’. But his hands kept movin’, and his eyes turned back to the ivory.

Grace tensed behind the bar. Bo Chow set his glass down like it might turn into a weapon. Annie reached into her apron and fingered somethin’—a charm, probably.

And right on cue: “Nigga, you lost your goddamn mind?” someone called out from the side. “What the hell’s a white man doin’ here?”

Remmick didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Smoke stepped forward, slow and easy. “He here on our word. That mean mine and Stack’s. Y’all know what that means. If anybody got a problem with that, bring it to us.”

The tone in his voice? It left no room for negotiation.

Remmick kept his mouth shut, eyes flickin’ calm and neutral across the room.

A hush fell. Then the music picked back up like nothin’ happened—but the watchfulness stayed. People danced, drank, leaned close and whispered. But they kept sneakin’ glances toward the white man at the edge of the room, hands folded in front of him, calm like a Sunday preacher who knew the devil personally.

Smoke brought him over to you, and you couldn’t help the smile that touched your lips before you could catch it.

Remmick’s grin was wider tonight. Bolder. That molasses smooth talk on full display.

“You look like sin tonight,” he said, voice dragging over your skin like silk caught on sweat.

“You always come in flirtin’ like a man that ain’t got no shame?” you replied, mouth twitching.

“Only when the woman I’m flirtin’ with makes it worth the sin.”

And for the rest of the night, he didn’t stray far. He didn’t dance. Didn’t make a fuss. Just lingered near your orbit—watching, smiling, drinking like the music was something sacred. And maybe, to him, it was.

Then Sammie picked up his guitar and slid onto the stage again, chin high, fingers eager.

Pearline sat in the front row lookin’ like a sin in satin. You just sighed. Boy was young. Let him learn the hard way.

The room hushed.

He strummed slow at first, a love song you remembered from childhood. Somethin’ soft, somethin’ aching. Folks leaned in. Some swayed. Some closed their eyes.

But you weren’t watching Sammie.

You were watching him.

Remmick sat still. Too still. Didn’t tap his foot. Didn’t nod his head. Didn’t even breathe, far as you could tell. You watched the reverence in his face. The awe. Like the sound came from heaven itself.

That’s when you saw it.

Remmick’s eyes.

Red and glowing.

Nobody noticed.

Except you.

The song ended. The room erupted.

Remmick clapped too—longer than most. He even let out a sharp whistle.

Then he turned.

That red glow still in his eyes.

And looked right at you.

You stepped closer, not breaking gaze. Smirked a little.

“Hot in here,” you said, voice low and syrupy. “You wanna get some air?”

His brows rose. He leaned in like you’d just told him the secret to salvation. “Careful,” he said, grin curling, “you say it like you tryin’ to get me alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “You think mighty high of yourself.”

You grabbed your drink and motioned for Remmick to follow you out into the night.

And he did.

Like death on two legs wrapped in charm and suspenders.

As you passed Smoke and Bo, you caught their eyes. Gave a little signal.

Smoke nodded once. Tense, but respectful.

Bo raised both brows and made a crude gesture with his hands that earned him a slap from Grace.

You bit your lip to hide the smile and stepped out into the Mississippi night.

Air thick. Crickets loud. And the man beside you walking like he belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Just you.

And whatever he was.

Chapter Text

Outside the Juke, the air was thick with heat and dust. You lead Remmick around the side of the Juke, where the cicadas hummed and the tree line stood like quiet sentries. Remmick followed close, the door creaking shut behind him.

His boots scuffed the earth once before he settled in beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose.

His eyes looked normal now. Clear. Human.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let the silence stretch long and warm between you.

Finally, you glanced sideways at him. “So… where you stayin’ in town?”

He smiled slow, like molasses drippin’ off the edge of a spoon. “Why? You thinkin’ about payin’ a visit?”

You rolled your eyes. “Boy, you got a lotta nerve.”

“Mm,” he mused, leaning slightly closer, “that ain’t a no.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-smiling despite yourself. “You plannin’ to stay long? Or just passin’ through?”

“Planned on visitin’,” he admitted, voice dropping lower. “Stayin’ with Joan and Bert. But…”

He looked at you like he was trying to see past skin and bone, like your soul was tucked behind your left eye.

“But now I think I’m stayin’ a while.”

That heat—different from the night’s air—settled between your ribs. You told yourself it was foolishness. That a Black woman lettin’ a white man flirt with her outside a juke joint was a one-way ticket to trouble.

But you didn’t move away.

And when he took half a step closer, his body near enough that the brush of his sleeve made your skin hum, you didn’t stop him. You looked up at him, searching for the danger you knew lived behind those eyes.

But all you saw was hunger.

Not just the carnal kind. The kind that said I want to know you. All of you.

His hand touched your arm. Warm. Careful.

“You ever let someone kiss you like they mean it?” he asked, voice rough like tobacco smoke.

You blinked. "No...but I'd let you."

You didn't have to wait for the lasy syllable to be out before his mouth was on yours—soft at first, gentle even, like he was afraid he’d ruin the shape of you. But when you leaned in, just a fraction, that fear burned off like fog.

You kissed like you were starvin’. Like maybe you’d both been parched for years and just now found the well.

His hands moved to your waist. Yours to his chest. And when he broke the kiss to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck—

His breath hitched. His lips lingered. And then—

You felt it.

A strange wetness against your skin.

You pulled back.

His eyes had gone red again. But not glowing—glassed over, primal. His mouth open, panting slightly. Drool at the corner of his lip.

“Remmick?”

He blinked, like waking from a trance. Swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—” he started, then stopped. Smirked, embarrassed but still bold. “I just… fuck, I wanna taste you. Let me—”

Your breath caught.

Chapter Text

And shit if that didn't have you leaking like the damn mississippi river. 

"I been dreamin bout it, know you'd taste so damn good. Like fuckin honey. You know it would be good too. Shit already got me droolin, wanna make you wetter. You ain't been nothin but sweet to me, let me show my appreciation." 

Your embarrassed by how quick you pull his body back to yours. "Fuck Remmick."

He seems to take that as permission for his hands to roam. Going from the back of your neck to eagerly gripping your breasts and ass. 

Remmick was now straight begging. "Please, darlin, just let me have a taste." You could hear his accent tilt to the one you hear in your dreams. "Yes-Yeah. Remmick, please!"

You briefly think about the fact that your back is pressed against a thin ass wall. Not even really that far from the fucking front door. Then you felt Remmick drop to his knees, grab your thigh, and lift you onto his shoulders, and suddenly you don't give a shit. 

Remmick didn't look that strong, but looks sure were deceiving by the way he had your body lifted up against the wall and practically sat your pussy on his face. One of his hands wrapped around your thigh to reach through and pull your panties to the side. 

"Fuckin leaking ain't she. Goddamn, look at this pretty pussy." He wasted no time giving your clit a sloppy kiss, pulling a shriek from you. You feel his hand smack your ass. 

"Shh, darlin, don't need nobody coming out here."

No wonder Remmick felt like death. You were gonna have a couple of little ones from his mouth alone. 

Remmick's hand reaches up to press against your lips. You open your mouth to moan, and he presses them inside, gagging your noise.  Your hands are wrapped around his head, not knowing where to go. Thighs squeezing around his ears.

He groans deep into you. Tongue catching your juices like a damn sponge. You feel him scrape his teeth against your clit. Are his teeth getting longer?!

You damn near climb the wall, but his hands tighten on your thighs. He leans even more forward, literally forcing your pussy onto his face with the wall at your back. 

Remmick pulls back for just a moment. "Don't you dare run. You gave me this pussy, let me have it." Then dives back in. 

You choke around his fingers. His words driving you over the edge. "Cu-Cum-" You don't even manage to get the word out before you squirt all over his face. You feel his fingers drive deeper into your mouth, hiding your scream. 

Remmick somehow goes even more feral. Latching on until your pulling his hair. Managing to say "No more!" around his fingers. 

He slowly leans back on his hutches, removing his fingers from your mouth. He slowly lowers your left leg, then your right. Luckily for you, he kept a grip on your hips because your legs were trembling so bad there was no way you could stand on your own. 

You stood for a moment trying to catch your breath. Remmick stood, kissing your neck and petting your hair. 

"If I'd known this was waiting for me, I'd of been alone with you sooner." You say smirking.

He snorts and pulls his face out of your neck. Looking at you. 

You grab the handkerchief you keep stuffed inside the chest of your dress and wipe what's left of you off his face. 

"Awww thanks darlin!" He gives you that grin again. Eyes glowing. 

You go to tuck it back when it's plucked out your hand. "I'll be taking that. Smell like that can't go to waste."

It's shameful how quick your about to be ready to cum again. 

You reach your hand out, grazing the front of his pants. He's hard as a rock and bigger than anyone you'd ever felt.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling your hand away. He brought it up to his face, kissing your palm. 

“Naw, baby,” he said, licking his lips slow. “That was just for you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You look like the cat that got into the cream.”

“Mm.” He winked. “Sweetest cream I ever tasted.”

Chapter Text

You stepped back into the Juke with your dress a little wrinkled, your skin warm, and your smile tugging at the edges like you were trying to hold it in and failing.

Remmick followed just behind you, shirt collar loose, suspenders hanging down, mouth still slick with smugness. That man had the nerve to look like he’d won a damn trophy. Or tasted somethin’ forbidden and found it sweeter than he imagined.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” you muttered, half-hearted.

He leaned in, voice low in your ear. “Can’t. Got the taste of you still sittin’ pretty on my tongue.”

You swatted at him, biting your smile, and didn’t say a word as you made a beeline for the bar.

A few folks at the bar lifted their heads, eyes tracking the two of you. You caught sight of one woman pause mid-sip, glance at her friend, then go back to sipping like it was nothing. Maybe it was the way Remmick kept to himself. Or maybe it was how Smoke had vouched for him. Or maybe—just maybe—it was how he’d been there all night, laughing low, sipping slow, not causing a lick of trouble.

Whatever it was, the room had adjusted to him.

Settled, like a bone healing wrong but healing all the same.

Grace was behind it, stacking clean glasses, humming a tune Sammie had played earlier. You didn’t look at her right away. You just leaned on the counter like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just let a white man get his mouth on you outside in the heat and dirt like a sin you wanted to get caught committing.

Remmick ordered another bourbon, casual as anything.

Grace set the glass down and leaned her weight on one elbow, eyes flicking between you and Remmick.

Then, like she’d been waiting for just the right moment, she leaned across the bar and whispered, “Mmhm. Thought I saw y’all slippin’ out back.”

You froze.

She smiled wide like a cat. “Man lookin’ like he licked frosting off a Sunday cake.”

Your jaw dropped. “Grace!”

She cackled softly, wiping the bar like she hadn’t just set your soul on fire. “Girl, please. I been grown. Ain’t nothin’ you do that I ain’t already done and done better.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You nosy as hell.” Your face warmed.

“I ain’t sayin’ it was wrong,” she added quickly, eyes twinkling. “Just sayin’… that look on a man? That I-just-got-done-worshippin’-somebody look?”

She nodded toward Remmick, who’d just tipped back his glass and licked his lips like he was replaying it.

“Whew.” Grace shook her head. “That man look like he done found religion.”

You tried to keep your face straight. Failed miserably.

“Grace,” you warned, lips trembling from holding in a smile.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, chuckling. “Your secret’s safe.

Remmick sipped his drink and raised a brow at both of you, clearly amused. “Everything alright over here?”

Grace gave him a look so sweet it might as well have been dipped in syrup. “Oh, just complimentin’ your lady here. She lookin’… satisfied.”

You almost choked on your own spit. Remmick coughed, then laughed into his glass.

You shook your head, cheeks burning, but deep down?

You didn’t hate it. Not one bit.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Remmick stuck around for a while longer—still sipping on that bourbon like it was church wine, laughing easy with folks, especially after Slim’s strange and unexpected seal of approval. But eventually, he tapped the counter, set the empty glass down, and turned toward you with that lazy smile that had already gotten under your skin.

“Think I’m gonna head on out,” he said, tone easy but respectful. “Don’t wanna overstay my welcome. Feels like I’ve already used up a lifetime of luck.”

You were about to reply when Stack and Smoke appeared, flanking him like the ghost of trouble past and present.

Stack clapped Remmick on the shoulder. “Ain’t gotta run off just yet.”

Smoke folded his arms, eyes still cautious but not unkind. “We ain’t openin’ the Juke tomorrow night. Keepin’ it a Friday thing for now.”

Remmick nodded, lips twitching. “Ain’t tryna crash family dinner or nothin’.”

“We want to talk business,” Stack continued. “You said you was lookin’ to invest. We thinkin’ on lettin’ you.”

Remmick’s brow raised. “You serious?”

Smoke nodded, once. “Come back tomorrow night. Place’ll be closed to the public. Just us. Talk proper.”

Remmick hesitated for a second before saying, “Can’t come by ‘til after sundown. I’m helpin’ Bert with somethin’ during the day.”

“That’s fine,” Smoke said, almost relieved. “Better that way anyhow. Last thing we need is word gettin’ out ‘round town a white man’s doin’ business with us. Still lucky nobody came knockin’ after that gas explosion.”

“Yeah,” Stack muttered. “God don’t always strike twice.”

Remmick chuckled. “Look at that—everyone likes me now. Bet y’all glad you gave the strange white man a chance.”

Bo came out from the card room right on cue. “Ain’t nobody like you more than her.”

Remmick grinned and turned toward you, eyes glinting. You rolled your eyes. “Come on, I’ll walk you out before you say something dumber.”

Smoke snorted. “Yeah that's why she wanna walk him out.”

You flipped him off without looking back. You passed Cornbread posted by the door, fanning himself with an old flyer.

“Well looky here,” Cornbread said, eyes tracking you both. “Ain’t she sweet walkin’ the cracker out.”

You stopped mid-step. “Cornbread, mind your damn business.”

Cornbread blinked like he hadn’t expected that. “I was just—”

“You was talkin’ too much.”

Remmick chuckled low beside you. You stepped past the door and into the stretch of open dirt road that curved away from the Juke. The music inside still hummed through the walls, but it faded fast out here. The moon was high, but low clouds made the world feel tight and close.

You paused, eyein’ him. “You drive?”

“Nah,” he said with a shake of his head. “Walked. I like to stretch my legs.”

You nodded, about to say somethin’ back when he suddenly tugged you gently, pulling you just out of the lamp’s glow where Cornbread wouldn’t see.

Then, without warning, he pulled you just out of sight, behind the thick shadow of a cypress tree near the edge of the Juke’s lot—where Cornbread couldn’t see a damn thing.

His lips found yours before you could ask another question.

It wasn’t rushed—just slow, confident, and a little too good for how late it was. When he pulled away, his mouth stayed close to your ear.

“Still got your taste on my tongue,” he whispered, voice thick and warm. “You sure you don’t want to come visit sugar?”

You smacked his chest with a grin, caught between flustered and amused. “Go on home now.”

He grinned, devilish and satisfied. “You always leave a man wantin’ more.”

You watched him walk off down that dirt road, suspenders bouncing slightly, hands in his pockets like he had no fear in this world. Like he belonged.

“Lord, have mercy,” you muttered under your breath.

Cornbread was still by the door when you came back. You didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“Say one word and I’mma get Smoke to shoot you in the leg.”

Cornbread shut up. Again.

Back at the bar, you spotted Annie kicked back like royalty, a glass of something dark and dangerous in one hand, her boots propped on the rung of a nearby stool like the place paid her rent.

You slid onto the seat beside her, still feeling a little floaty from the heat of Remmick’s mouth and the way he disappeared into the dark like a dream with legs.

“What you been up to all night?” you asked, trying to settle the flutter still wingin’ around in your chest.

Annie didn’t look at you right away. Just sipped slow, like she was savoring more than liquor. “Tryin’ to keep Sammie from losin’ what little sense he’s got. That fool think he slick, sneakin’ off to the back with Pearline like her husband ain’t got a rifle and two bad knees.”

You snorted, shaking your head, but Annie turned toward you then, sharp eyes narrowing like she was reading every lie you hadn’t told yet.

“Though I’m real curious how you managed to notice anything at all,” she said, tilting her glass your way. “Way you floated out with that white boy, thought you was walkin’ on water. Then came back in here lookin’ like a fresh-hatched foal tryin’ to find its legs.”

You coughed and turned your face away, but the burn in your cheeks gave you up.

Annie chuckled low, all teeth and wisdom. “Uh huh. Thought so.”

Chapter Text

By Saturday morning, your stomach started aching with that deep, dragging pull you knew too well. The kind of cramp that made your whole body feel like it was arguing with itself. You curled up on your bed with a rag pressed warm to your belly and tried to ignore it.

You wanted to ask someone what Stack and Smoke were up to with him. But they hadn't asked you to be there, and you weren’t the type to go chasing after what wasn’t offered.

Sunday slid past like a breeze through cotton sheets, slow and soft but lined with pain. You kept busy with mending work—hemming skirts, patching overalls, fixing seams busted from too much Saturday night dancing. You told yourself it was just another weekend, but your body knew better.

The cramps came harder that night, twisting low and mean, like they were digging around for something they weren’t gonna find. And still—like clockwork—Remmick found his way into your dreams. They were sweeter now, sure, but they weren’t innocent. He whispered your name like a hymn, touched you like he already knew the shape of you beneath your skin. Even in sleep, you knew he was dangerous.

Monday rolled around hot and heavy. The sun felt like it was hanging too close to the earth, and you were too damn tired to do much more than sit on your porch after sundown, fanning yourself and humming an old tune Mary's mama used to hum when the air was thick and the world needed softening.

That’s when you heard him.

“I knew you sound pretty singin’,” came a voice from the dark, lazy and warm like a shot of rye. “’Course, the sounds you made the other night carried a tune too.”

You jumped damn near out your seat, heart thumping. “Remmick?!”

He stepped out from the edge of the dark like he was made from it. Loose shirt, suspenders still on. That wolfish grin painted across his mouth.

“How the hell you know where I live?” you asked, standing halfway, not sure whether to be mad or flattered.

He leaned one shoulder against the porch rail, arms crossed casual. “Well now, Bo’s got a mouth like a screen door. Shit just slides right through. Almost like everything he knows, I now know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying not to smile. “You charming all my folks into spillin’ secrets now?”

“Only the ones that lead me to you.”

You rolled your eyes but motioned to the rocking chair next to yours. “You walk all this way, you might as well sit.”

He took the seat, leaned back slow like he’d done it a thousand times. “Nice spot. Quiet. Smells like lavender and brown sugar.”

“Smells like sweat and liniment,” you muttered. “Ain’t exactly Sunday dinner out here.”

“Well,” he said, glancing sideways, “I’d still eat it all up.”

You swatted at him, laughing despite yourself.

“So,” you said after a beat, “what’d Smoke and Stack want with you, anyway? Business talk or trouble?”

He leaned his head back, eyes on the stars. “Ah. Business. They want me to invest. Quiet-like. Help them expand—fix up the Juke’s roof, add a real bar counter. Hire other musicians."

“They ain’t got it all figured out yet,” he added, “but I reckon if I was gonna stick around anyway, might as well help build something beautiful."

You tried not to notice how hard your heart was beating “So just like that huh? You sticking around?”

He met your gaze smirking in that slow way he does when he knows your caught up. “Even found a nice little place between the juke and here. Real nice place, the kind of place you share with somebody …”

His voice trailed off.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Movin a lil fast there ain't ya? I know you done gotten some cream, but that ain't mean we getting married. Also you forget you a white man?”

That pulled a flicker in his smirk, something unreadable crawling into the edges.

“I ain’t tryna get myself lynched behind some sweet talk and a lease,” you continued, tone sharper now. “Cause whatever lil fantasy you think you buildin’, it don’t stand up out here. Not in Mississippi. Not in 1932.”

You watched him carefully then. Waited for him to flinch. To laugh. To play it off like all the rest of them—like he could afford to ignore what danger came with being seen, let alone caught, wrapped up in a Black woman.

But he didn’t.

He just tilted his head and said, calm and low, “Ain’t nothin’ about you a fantasy to me. And I don’t care what year it is—I know what I want.”

Your throat tightened. Because the way he said it, soft and certain, didn’t sound reckless. It sounded like a promise.

You sat there together in the heat of the night, rocking slowly side by side; your cramps forgotten for a minute, and Remmick looking at you like you were the only light he’d seen in a long time.

Chapter Text

By the time the moon hit high, the warmth between your legs shifted from warning to full-blown situation. You felt it before you saw it—hot, thick, sliding down the inside of your thigh like molasses down a tin plate. Your whole body seized up. You knew it was coming, but Lord, not now. Not with him sitting two feet away, lookin’ at you like you were a peach cobbler straight out the oven.

You crossed your legs tight, casually—well, tried to—trying to act like nothing happened. Remmick’s eyes shifted, nostrils flaring just a hair. His pupils sharpened. His smile faded, not gone, but bent. He leaned forward, elbows to knees.

And then… his eyes turned red.

Not some cute wine-red, either. Full-on, heart-of-a-furnace, back-of-the-devil’s-throat red. His canines lengthened, slow and slick behind his lips like he was savoring the change.

You shot up before your brain could catch up with your legs. “Nope.”

Remmick stood too, but didn’t lunge. Not yet. Just watched. Almost amused. “Oh, now you gone run?” he drawled, head cocked like a damn hunting dog.

“I—I gotta go inside,” you said, voice higher than you meant it to be.

“Mmhmm,” he said, taking a lazy step forward, boots thudding soft on your porch wood. “I’mma let you do this, ‘cause I got time. Guess I better get used to you bein’ dramatic since we gonna be together for a looooooooong time.”

You didn’t wait to hear the end of that. You bolted—skirt lifted high, dignity be damned—and made it through the doorway just in time. His hand grazed your back like a spark and then—

Nothing.

You turned, panting. Remmick stood just at the threshold, grinning like sin in suspenders. “Aw, sugar. Don’t be like that.” He leaned one hand against the doorframe. “Promise I won’t harm ya. Just a taste.”

His voice dipped, syrup-slick and slow. “Just a lil sip, sweetheart. Like Friday night, remember?”

You clutched your chest like it might shield your soul. “You—you can’t come in…”

He winked. “Nah, darlin’. I can’t. Not unless you invite me.”

You felt sick. Embarrassed. Bleeding. Confused. And his voice kept coming like warm whiskey poured over something sharp.

“C’mon. I miss you already. Let me sit a spell.” He glanced toward your couch. “Ain’t fair you get to sit all cozy in there, and I’m out here lookin’ like a sad dog left on the porch.”

You blinked at him, body still frozen, head spinning. “What… what are you?”

He smiled like the question pleased him. “Been called many things. In Ireland, they had names—dearg-due, abhartach, olc... but nowadays? Folks just say ‘vampire.’ Simpler that way.”

Your mouth went dry.

Well I'll be damned. Annie’s crazy ass was right this whole time. Of course she was right!! Annie, with her jars of river mud, rabbit bones, and “don’t cut your nails after sundown” rules. You’d rolled your eyes at half of it. Figured most of her talk was just backwoods drama passed down like cornbread recipes.

But now here you were, bleeding through your drawers, facing a white man with glowing red eyes talkin’ ‘bout Irish folklore like it was a family tree.

I'm really gone have to apologize next time she start lighting candles and blessing shit.

His grin widened. “ Mmm. Annie's a clever girl, you know. That pouch she gave you? The one you stopped wearin’? Little knot of red string, ashes, and hawthorn? Work of art, that was. Burned like holy water when I brushed near you. Wouldn’t’ve kept me out, not fully—but it would’ve stung to touch you. Like grabbin’ a skillet off the fire with your bare hands. Smart girl, that Annie.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

He sighed. “People these days don’t want to believe in the old ways. Makes it easier to hunt, honestly. Nobody listenin’ to the wise women no more.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not inviting you in.”

Remmick didn’t budge. If anything, he looked amused, like this was some game you were both playing and you just hadn’t caught up to the rules yet.

That lazy grin crawling back onto his face. “You know… you could let me in,” he said, voice low and teasing. “We could have ourselves a little fun. Again.”

You narrowed your eyes, but he went right on.

“Don’t see the point in pretendin’, sugar. We’re gonna be livin’ together soon anyway. That little house I bought?” He tilted his head. “It’s just waitin’ on you. I figured you’d liven it up nice—curtains, plants, books stacked in every corner. Maybe some lemon balm hangin’ from the windows. Whatever your heart wants.”

He gave a soft chuckle, shrugging one shoulder. “Not sure why you’re fightin’ it. So I’m a vampire—big deal. Doesn’t change what happened between us. Doesn’t change how I feel.”

You stared at him, jaw tight, pulse hammering. “And what makes you think I’d ever want you around again? Or agree to be with you?”

Remmick's smile curved, sharp and knowing. “Aww, sugar. After I had you seein’ heaven the other night, you still gonna be mean?”

You flushed despite yourself, every nerve in your body remembering exactly what heaven had felt like.

He reached into his pocket slow, like he was pulling out treasure—and when his hand came back, he was holding your handkerchief. The one from Friday night. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in deep, eyes half-lidded.

“Still got your sweet scent too,” he murmured.

Your mouth fell open.

Remmick’s grin stretched wider, all teeth and trouble, clearly enjoying your mix of shock and indignation. “Now, don’t go spookin’ yourself,” he said, voice dipping into something softer—almost sincere. “I told you before, didn’t I? No one touches you without your say-so. Not ever again. That includes me.”

Then, with a wink that made your stomach flip, he added, “Besides, wouldn’t make for a very good honeymoon if I went ‘round disrespectin’ my bride. Consent, sugar—that’s the real romance.”

You choked, caught between outrage and… something else entirely. “Remmick—how long have you been like this? Is that why I’ve been dreamin’ about you every damn night? Are you… are you messin’ with my mind?”

He tilted his head, looking almost proud. “Now, honey, what did I just say about consent?! I’m in your dreams ‘cause you want me there. Same rules apply—I need an invite to get in, even up there.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Don’t go blamin’ me for your midnight cravings, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, pulse thudding like a warning bell. Because if he wasn’t slipping into your head, then that meant all the yearning—all of it—was yours.

A cold weight settled in your chest.

Your voice dropped low, tightening like a noose. “So what then? All this charm, all this sweet-talkin’—was it just the setup?” Your gaze locked with his. “Was your plan to kill us all? 'Cause you figured no one’d notice if a few Black folks up and vanished? That we wouldn’t matter?”

Chapter Text

You left him at the door.

Locked it. Turned the deadbolt slow, like that extra second would somehow brace your soul. Then you backed away until the glow of his eyes disappeared from the glass pane.

You peeked through the lace curtain a few minutes later, stomach still in knots and thighs still sticky.

The damn man had sat himself right back down in your rocking chair like he lived there.

He was just there. Rocking in that chair like he paid rent. Arms folded behind his head, one leg crossed over the other, lookin’ smug as a cat in a creamery. When your eyes met through the windowpane, he waved real slow, like y’all were in the middle of some quaint courtship and not, in fact, dancing around the fact that he wanted you.

Whether it was your blood, soul or pussy he really wanted was left to be determined. 

You backed away from the window and let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a Lord, why me?

Remmick, apparently, had decided to stay the night.

You tried to settle. Laid on your couch, curled up on your side, stomach cramping and head spinning. Every part of you was tense and aching, and still… still that part of you—the dumb, traitorous part—wondered what he’d say next. Or worse, what he’d do if you opened the door.

But there he was.

Every creak of the chair echoed through the quiet house like a ticking clock. Rock, pause. Rock, pause.

This fool really rockin’ through the night.

You huffed, sitting up. “You best not be sittin’ out there ‘til morning!” you hollered through the door.

His voice floated in, amused. “Well, I can’t exactly be sittin’ out here after mornin’, sugar. Sun’ll crisp me up like bacon in a skillet.”

There was a pause before he started again.

“Y’know,” came his voice, smooth and smug through the wood, “you ain’t much of a hostess. I came all this way just to sit out here like somebody’s stray dog.”

Rock… creak.
Rock… creak.

“I even brought my good suspenders,” he added, clearly hoping you were pressed about it. “And you can’t even offer a man a blanket or a cool drink?”

You exhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling like it might give you strength. “You’re a vampire, Remmick. You don’t need a damn drink.”

“Mmm, I can think of a couple of liquids I'd enjoy,” he purred.

You slapped your forehead. “Jesus Christ.”

“Nope,” he called back, cheerful as ever. “Wrong religion. Though I've crossed path with some of his people. Heard he's real good with his hands, ya know bein a carpenter and all.”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.

Then tried not to think about Remmicks hands.  Mostly because your body still remembered his hands on your hips from Friday night, and your brain was screaming something between don’t be stupid and well, damn if that wasn’t the best you ever had.

You got up and padded to the door, dress clinging to your thighs. You cracked it open just an inch.

He turned his head, eyes catching moonlight like polished garnet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

The he smirked. “Darlin’, if you’re gonna watch me all night, might as well let me in so we can make it mutual.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your soul almost left your body.

“I’m just sayin’,” he added quickly, “if you let me in, we could do more rockin’ than that chair’s doin’ right now.”

You slammed it again. Hard.

“Worth a shot,” you heard him chuckle.

You shuffled back to the couch, holding your belly like a war wound. You were tired. You were bleeding. You were overwhelmed. And worst of all?

You were still kinda turned on.

“Y’know,” he called out after a while, voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous, “I could hum you to sleep from here. That counts as consent, right? You lettin’ me in sonically?”

“Go hum to the mosquitoes,” you muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

He laughed. Not just a chuckle—laughed. Deep and full, like he was genuinely tickled. And dammit, it was a good laugh. Rich. Warm. Familiar.

You sighed, letting the fan hum lull you while Remmick’s chair kept time outside like some kind of devil’s metronome.

Blood still pulsed low and steady, cramps chewing at your spine, but the worst of the wave had passed.

You told yourself not to fall asleep.

Told yourself

Chapter Text

You told yourself not to fall asleep.

Over and over. You even muttered it out loud like a damn chant, hoping your own stubbornness might keep you tethered to the waking world.

But pain is exhausting. Lust is louder than sense. And the damn rocking chair outside was hypnotic—creaking like it was counting down to something inevitable.

Rock… creak.
Rock… creak.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

_

You knew it was a dream, the air had gone thick with honeysuckle and summer heat. You stood barefoot in a field that shimmered like the edge of memory—gold and hazy, like it’d been soaked in sun and sealed in a jar.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Standing in the tall grass like sin made flesh, shirtless this time—bare chest gleaming faint in the moonlight, suspenders hanging loose at his sides like they couldn’t be bothered to do their job. His pants rode low on his hips, creased just enough to make your thoughts turn left. His hair was mussed like he’d just rolled outta your bed, and his smile—lazy and crooked—was already undoing you.

Lord help you.

You tried to say something sharp, something clever, something that wasn’t “Goddamn.”

But he beat you to it.

“Now ain’t this somethin’,” he drawled, voice thick as molasses and smooth as jazz. “You locked me out the house, but you still invite me in here.”

He tapped his temple with two fingers, that same smug look from earlier making a reappearance. “Guess I oughta be flattered.”

You folded your arms across your chest, more to stop your heart from jumping out than anything. “You weren’t invited.”

He smirked. “You sure ‘bout that?”

You opened your mouth to fire back—only to realize you were standing in front of him wearing nothing but one of your nightdresses. One of the thin ones. The good one.

You blinked down at yourself. “This ain’t what I went to bed in.”

“Mmm,” he said, gaze dipping slow over your body, “must’ve been me rummagin’ around in your dreams. Found the pretty one in the back of your closet and thought, ‘Yeah, that’ll do.’”

Your cheeks burned. “You’re disgusting.”

“Maybe,” he said, stepping closer, cocky and golden and all kinds of bad ideas. “But you’re dreamin’ about me half-naked in a patch of wildflowers, so what that make you?”

You hated that he had a point.

He stopped a breath away, close enough that the heat off him felt real. Tangible. Dangerous. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just tilted his head and looked at you like you were something sacred. 

His voice dropped. “Don’t want the first time we’re really together to be in your dreams, y’know. Wouldn’t be fair. Dreams always cheat the details. Make it too easy. Too soft.”

He leaned in, breath brushing your jaw.

“I want it to hurt a little,” he whispered, voice rasping just enough to leave goosebumps. 

Your whole body went hot.

“But,” he added, pulling back just enough to catch your eyes, “if this is the only door I can walk through tonight…”

He cupped your jaw—lightly, reverently, like he was asking a question.

“…then I guess I’ll just have to make it worth your while.”

You knew it wasn’t real.

But his thumb traced your cheek, and the world tilted. Not in fear.

In longing.

You stood there frozen, teetering between sense and sin.

And then you did the only thing your body could agree on—

You kissed him.

And somewhere outside, in the waking world, a rocking chair creaked.

Chapter Text

You woke up hot.

Not summer-hot, not cramps-hot—wanting hot. Sticky between the thighs, breath caught in your throat, the ghost of a kiss still clinging to your mouth like you’d rolled over and left it on the pillow.

And the ache.

It sat low and deep, curled behind your belly like a secret. A quiet burn. The kind that didn’t just come from cramps or sleep—it came from hunger. Want. The kind that followed dreams with shirtless men in moonlit fields and suspenders sliding down sharp collarbones.

You shifted, thighs pressing together as if you could tame it. You couldn’t. Lord help you, you tried.

Remmick was still out there. You could still hear the damn chair. 

Rock… creak.
Rock… creak.

You let your eyes drift closed again, one arm curling behind your head, the other trailing slow down your belly. Just enough pressure to tease. To imagine. To remember.

Friday night.

The grip of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the way his voice had dragged across your skin like honey poured over gravel. And tonight’s dream—him shirtless, eyes full of fire and promise.

Your fingers slipped a little lower.

Just a little.

You were quiet. Careful. You just needed relief. A release. Just enough to settle your nerves and cool that fever that clung to your bones like sin.

You bit down on your lip, a moan catching in your throat the moment your fingers found your clit—slow, tight circles that made your hips twitch. Your other hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to draw another breathless gasp.

You dipped lower, no longer caring about the blood—just heat and need. Your fingers slipped between your folds, parting them with care. Your walls were warm, swollen, aching. Gathering the slickness pooling there, you brought it back to your clit, rubbing slow and steady until your jaw fell slack with the pleasure.

When you finally pushed a finger inside, you did it slow—deliberate—until you were knuckle-deep in your own heat, the stretch making your back arch.

You shifted, lifting your leg and planting your foot on the couch cushion to open yourself wider. The next few seconds were spent swirling inside, teasing, loosening—each movement sending another pulse through your belly.

Your body clenched at the build, and you pulled out, only to slide back in deeper this time, adding a second finger. Your thumb rubbed against your clit, slippery and fast, while your fingers curled just right—

And there it was.

That spot.

You tried not to moan his name aloud, but his face was there behind your eyes, shirtless, sweat-slick, and smug. The image of him from your dream lingered: suspenders hanging loose at his sides, moonlight on his chest, a look in his eyes like he knew every secret you’d ever tried to keep locked away.

If you had been paying attention to anything other than your body, you'd of noticed how fucking wet you sounded. You were getting close, ready to tip off the edge when you heard it.

Remmick’s voice.

“Baby…”

His voice.

Low. Drawn-out. Pained like it hurt him not to be touching you.

You froze like someone had dumped a pail of well water on your chest.

“Sugar,” Remmick groaned, and you could hear the grin behind it. “I can hear ya. You sound so wet.”

A pause. The chair squeaked. You heard a soft thud as he stood up, boots shifting closer to the door.

“You thinkin’ of me?”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your hand had stilled, breath caught halfway between arousal and horror. You were one more second from coming undone, and now your uninvited vampire guest was eavesdropping on your sinning.

He dropped his voice again, soft and ruined. “You know I’d be so good to you. Remember how good I was?”

The sound of his palm pressed to the wood. Close. Right where you’d leaned minutes earlier, sweaty and aching.

“You let me in,” he whispered, “and I’ll make you come so many times you forget how to spell your name.”

You squeezed your thighs together, shame and desire doing battle across your ribs.

Silence followed.

And then—his voice, rougher now. Wanting.

“You wanna put your fingers back, sugar?” He sounded like he was begging. Real, honest need laced through that smooth drawl. “Pretend I’m kissin’ you down there instead? Go on. I’ll listen.”

You whimpered.

You knew it was a bad idea. Knew you had locked that door for a reason. And still—

You got up slow. Walked barefoot across the wood floor, heartbeat thunderin’ like it was tryna warn you one last time.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Pressed right up against the frame, like his whole body was straining to step forward. One hand braced against the wood, suspenders hanging loose at his hips like lazy lovers, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to his chest from the southern heat. He looked like temptation made flesh. Eyes bleeding red. Sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

His eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent. And then he saw your hand—slick with your own want and blood, trembling by your side.

He swore, low and sharp.

“Shit, honey…”

You didn’t invite him.

Instead, you turned your back to him. Walked slow, deliberate, and sat down on the couch facing the door—legs parted, knees up, dress bunched around your thighs.

Then you met his eyes.

And you let your fingers slip back between your legs.

Remmick groaned—visibly. His head fell back against the frame with a dull thud. “Goddamn,” he breathed.

You moaned softly, fingers circling, slow and unhurried now, watching him watch you.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, chest rising.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. Just slid one hand higher up your body, pulling the top of your dress down. Letting your breast spill out. You squeezed one, slow, thumb brushing over your nipple as your fingers slid between your folds again.

That wet sound returned, louder now with the stillness, and his breath caught sharp in his chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes locked on your every movement.

Remmick’s restraint snapped like brittle wood.

He fumbled with his belt—shaking fingers unfastening himself with desperate urgency. You watched, breath catching, as he freed himself, his cock thick and flushed and already leaking for you. He hissed the moment his hand closed around his length, hips jerking forward like the relief was almost painful.

You whimpered at the sight—at the way he stroked himself, slow and reverent, gaze fixed to the place where your fingers worked slick between your thighs.

“That’s it, sugar,” he groaned. “You look so fuckin’ good like that. Open for me. Drippin’ for me. Pussy fuckin painted red like the ripest strawberry. Like your body know who it belongs to.”

You whimpered again, thighs trembling, pressure building sharp and fast. 

“Keep touchin’ yourself just like that. Don’t stop. You’re so fuckin tight, I can see it. You gonna put another finger in? Do it baby. Go on, know you'll need to be stretched more to take this fuckin cock.”

You moaned, arching your back slightly, squeezing your breast tighter. Roughly putting another finger in. 

“Hey,” he growled, voice snapping sharp. “You be gentle with that sweet pussy. That’s mine. You don’t treat her rough ‘less I’m the one makin’ you.”

You whimpered, fingers slowing just slightly at the command. Your legs trembled where they’d fallen open again, heat spiraling up your spine like you were burning from the inside out.

Remmick leaned closer, forehead pressed to the doorway, voice thick with hunger and reverence.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he crooned. “Real slow now. Let me see you open up for me.”

His grip on his cock faltered for a second—eyes fluttering as his hips rocked into his own hand, knuckles going white on the doorframe. “Fuck—I’d drop to my knees if you let me. Stay between those thighs for days. Wish I could taste you. Wish I could put my mouth on that pretty little spot you’re playin’ with right now.” He growled. 

Shit his mouth

“God, I can still remember the taste of ya,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Sweet like fuckin cream. Now you’re bleedin’,” he whispered, breath hitching. “Makes you richer. Warmer. Like honey warmed over the fire. Makes me want you even worse, 'cause I know you’re open. Soft. Ready.”

You arched into your hand, breath ragged, stomach tight.

Remmick,” you whispered—just enough for him to hear it.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Say it again. Say it like I’m inside you. I want you to come for me, baby,” he panted. “Want to see you fall apart. You close?”
His voice was pure desperation now. Rough. Shaking.

Your breath hitched. You were right there—tight, aching, trembling. And like he commanded it, your body obeyed.

“Remmick,” you gasped again, louder now. “Remmick—”

And just like that, the coil snapped. 

You came hard, thighs twitching, hand sticky with slick and blood, gasping his name again like a prayer you hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You cried out, legs shaking, fingers soaked, back arching as the release crashed over you—hot and thick and dizzying. Your eyes stayed locked on his.

And he followed.

Remmick let out a deep, strangled moan—hips jerking, hand stroking fast and brutal now. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, spilling over his hand, over his shirt, body shuddering hard as his forehead thudded against the door.

You sat there in the afterglow, thighs still twitching, chest heaving.

You both sat in it—shaking, panting, burning in the quiet.

Separated by some invisible boundary line of his kind.

But that line?

It wasn’t just thin anymore.

It was bleeding.

Chapter Text

“Shit,” Remmick whispered, voice raw. He sagged against the doorframe, shirt rumpled and streaked, suspenders half-hanging like he’d barely survived his own want. “That was…”

He trailed off, panting. Then laughed—quiet and warm. “You are gonna be the death of me, darlin’. Again.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell in broken waves, thighs twitching, pulse still fluttering in your throat like wings in a jar. You’d never done something like that before—never been seen like that. Not without shame. Not without consequence.

And then, with that half-lidded, too-pretty smile that always got you into trouble, he rasped, “Damn, sugar… if that’s what you do without lettin’ me in…”

You rolled your eyes, slow and lazy. “Don’t get smug. You still outside.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, voice dragging low and sweet. “And yet, I saw all of you. Felt every little moan like it was mine. Wouldn’t call it hospitality, but what you just gave me, sugar?” His gaze softened a touch, red eyes dimming to something deeper. “That was trust. Even if you didn’t mean it that way.”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in his tone.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For trustin’ me like that, honey. For allowin’ yourself to be vulnerable. For not hiding.”

The words settled low in your belly—tender and unexpected. But before you could reply, that damn smirk returned.

Then his gaze dropped lower.

Your heart stuttered as you realized your breasts were still bare, nipples peaked from the cool air and the leftover heat between your legs.

Remmick let out a low whistle. “Mmm. Better put those away, baby. Don’t need anybody else seein’ my pussy or my titties.”

Your breath hitched.

My pussy.

You swallowed, thighs instinctively pressing together again.

He winked, clearly catching it. “I saw that.”

You grumbled, tugging the top of your dress up quick, suddenly shy now that the fire was ebbing and you could actually feel your heartbeat again. Remmick tucked himself away too, sighing like a man who’d just climbed out of something holy.

“Sun’s almost up,” he said, glancing toward the horizon. “I gotta go.”

He blew you a kiss with two fingers, grinning like the devil you knew.

Then he stepped back off the porch into the moonlight, his boots thudding soft on the wood, and started humming low under his breath. The tune was old—older than this town, older than either of you. Something mournful, like it’d been passed down through graves and fog.

You sat there, watching him fade into the dark, your fingers still twitching like they missed him already.

When you finally got up, you closed the door.

Locked it.

Bolted it.

Just like he asked.

You cleaned yourself up slow in the wash basin, the coppery smell of blood mixing with lavender soap. The rag was warm against your thighs, soothing in a way you didn’t expect.

Your period reminded you that you were still flesh and blood. Still real. Still you.

When you climbed into bed, you expected the dreams.

For the first time since meeting him, you didn’t dream.

Chapter Text

The morning sun snuck through the cracks in the curtain like it knew something you didn’t. You woke up heavy. Quiet. The kind of still that only follows sin or storm.

He never came inside.

You hadn’t let him.

But it sure felt like he had.

You sat up slowly, pressing your palm to your forehead. How the hell were you supposed to explain this to anyone? That Remmick—the strange, too-charming white man with a voice like sin and suspenders that should be illegal—was a goddamn vampire?

You couldn’t even say the word out loud without your mouth twitching.

Hi, yes, I let a white man with red eyes watch me finger myself on my living room couch while I was on my period, but don’t worry, he couldn't come inside because he’s a vampire, and I didnt invite him in.

Yeah.

You’d be locked up or lynched by sundown.

In what world is a white man messing with a black girl NOT the strangest thing that could happen.

You shuffled to the kitchen, cramping a little as you reached for the tin of coffee. Your body reminded you of everything that had happened—or rather, everything you’d done to yourself while he stood outside your door watching.

“I need Jesus,” you muttered.

And maybe a stronger front door.

Knock knock knock.

You jumped, heart lurching.

But then the voice came through the door.

“Girl, open this door before I knock it clean off the hinges.”

You exhaled hard. "Annie."

She stood there in her usual linen blouse and wrap skirt, headscarf tied tight, a long satchel draped across her chest like she’d just come from blessing someone’s garden or cursing their ex.

She didn’t wait for an invite.

Just looked you up and down, then brushed past you and stepped inside.

She looked at you then looked at the couch. "I ain't sitting on that."

“I knew he was here,” she muttered, setting her bag down by the door. “Damn spirits wouldn’t let me sleep last night.”

You blinked. “You—what?”

“Remmick,” she said, turning to face you. “He was here. I know what he is.”

You gawked. “How?”

Annie raised her brows like you’d just asked if water was wet. “I talk to things that don’t wear skin, sugar. You think I didn’t feel it the minute he crossed into this town? Spirits got real mouthy about him last night. Woke me up hollerin’ in Gullah, and I ain’t spoken Gullah in years.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This was… a lot.

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are they angry?”

She shook her head. “No. That’s the strange part. They didn’t say he was danger. Not in the way I expected. Said he’s part of somethin’ bigger. That you—” she pointed at your chest, “—you’re what’s gonna help him.”

You stared at her. “Help him?”

Annie crossed her arms. “They said he done a lotta wrong, yes. And he has. Lord, he has. But he wasn’t supposed to be this way. Somethin’ went sideways a long time ago, and it threw nature outta rhythm. He’s tangled in it.”

You blinked, the memory of his voice echoing in your head—You anchor me. Give me purpose. Make me feel things I thought I lost a hundred years ago.

“He said that,” you whispered. “Remmick said I had a gift. That I grounded him. That I made him feel… something again.”

Annie’s face softened, eyes going gentler.

“So you knew,” you said, louder this time. “You knew this whole time.”

She let out a long breath through her nose.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I knew.”

You stared, arms crossed tight over your chest like they might hold your emotions in place.

“Just like I know about Sammie’s gift. And Stack’s old soul. And Smoke’s hands, how he always channels grief into ‘em. I see things, baby. Spirits whisper to me whether I’m askin’ or not.”

Annie stepped closer, voice low. “You ever wonder why the music sounds sweeter when you hum it? Why rooms feel easier when you smile? That ain’t just charm, baby. That’s magic. Old magic. Been runnin’ through your mama’s side since before the boats came.”

You opened your mouth, but she kept talking.

“I didn’t mean to hide it from you. You had enough goin’ on comin’ up—your mama gone, your daddy..... folks round here starin’ like your very breath made ‘em uncomfortable.” Her voice cracked just slightly. “Wasn’t tryin’ to give you more to carry.”

That was the part that stung.

Because it sounded like love.

Like protection.

Even when it felt like betrayal.

“You ain’t broken,” she said softly. “You’re blessed. Ain’t always a fun thing to be, but it’s true.”

You nodded, blinking fast.

Then she smirked.

“And anyway, from the look on your face sounds like the devil might be blessed too.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Annie!”

She howled. “Girl, I might not be able to read minds, but your aura was screamin’ like a screen door in a storm!”

You covered your face. “You are evil.”

Annie went into the kitchen. Sitting in a chair, lips twitchin’ like she was tryin’ hard not to grin. “Mhm. And here I was tryna teach you how to steep tea and light your damn candles proper… meanwhile you out here makin’ blood offerings like it’s some kinda backwoods honeymoon.”

You opened your mouth, scandalized, and she held up a hand.

“Don’t even try to lie, baby. The spirits were clutchin’ their pearls last night, whisperin’ loud as church women in the back pew. I could barely get any sleep with all they fussin’. Talkin’ ‘bout, ‘She done laid herself out like an altar.’”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. Throwing yourself down into a chair next to her.

“Mmhm,” she went on, waggin’ a finger like a mother scolding her child, even as her grin widened. “You better be real careful when you let that white man fuck you. Spirits didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout whether vampires can knock up a human. But if there is a cure you meant to bring into this world?” She paused, eyes wide and dramatic. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if it came crawlin’ out your womb with teeth.”

You slapped her arm. “Annie!”

She cackled, rocking in her seat. “I’m just sayin’! Hell, baby, you been chosen for somethin’. Don’t mean you gotta ride the prophecy.”

She reached over and poked your knee. “Just promise me when you do let him in—and Lord knows it’s only a matter of time—you make sure he earnin’ every inch.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Chapter Text

You and Annie sat in silence for a good while after the teasing died down, the kitchen humming soft around you. Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, catching on the steam from her tea. You picked at the thread on the hem of your sleeve, your body tired but your mind still spinning.

“So,” you asked finally, voice careful, “you don’t got a problem with Remmick anymore?”

Annie didn’t look at you at first. Just sipped her tea slow.

“The spirits don’t seem to,” she said. “And that counts for somethin’.” She turned then, giving you that older-sister side-eye. “Don’t mean I wanna be as close to him as you are.”

You laughed into your cup.

“I’m serious,” she added, though her smirk was still tugging at her lips. “You gettin’ tangled in this thing—whatever it is—you better stay grounded. That boy’s past is a lot older than this country. You best not let his fire burn you.”

You both laughed a little after that. And not long after, she gathered her things, kissed your temple, and said she’d be back 'round Friday with more roots and less commentary.

“Don’t forget your salt lines. And don’t let no man—dead or breathin’—make you forget who you are.”

_

By the time the sun began tipping west, you figured a walk to Bo & Grace’s shop might help settle your nerves—or at least keep your hands from wandering again.

You told yourself you were just going for groceries.

Just needed sugar. Maybe some flour. Butter, if they had it. That was all.

But truth was, you were halfway to Bo & Grace’s before you even realized you’d grabbed a few extra coins in case Grace had something pretty tucked away in the back. Now that you apparently had a night visitor, it didn’t seem ridiculous to consider upgrading your wardrobe.

The bell over the door jingled as you stepped in. Shelves of canned goods, dried noodles, and sweet rice paper candy lined the walls.

Bo was behind the counter, whistling off-key and sweeping the same spot for the third time in five minutes. Grace was counting coins by the register, her brow furrowed like the nickels owed her a confession.

“Store’s empty,” Bo called without looking up. “So unless you bringin’ trouble or a pie, we was about to close.”

“Good thing I am trouble,” you said, dropping your basket with a soft clunk.

“Well hey now!” he said, straightening with that grin of his. “Didn’t expect to see you today. You usually roll in after your Saturday night sinning down at the Juke.

You gave him a little shrug, sliding your basket onto the counter. “Guess I’m tryin’ somethin’ new.”

You didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t exactly tell them you’d spent Monday night on your couch, fingers between your thighs, while a white vampire watched from your porch like he’d paid for front row seats.

You cleared your throat. “By the way… you tell Remmick where I live?”

Bo raised his brows, hands held up like you’d just accused him of theft. “Now hold on! Grace was the one who said y’all were slippin’ out the back of the Juke like two kids skippin’ church. Figured you wouldn’t mind if your mystery man found his way to your porch.”

Grace snorted. 

You rolled your eyes, but your ears burned all the same.

Bo grinned wide. “That Friday game without him was awful, by the way. Nobody’s as good at cards as Remmick. He bluff with his eyelashes.”

You arched a brow. “Aww, Bo… is Remmick your new best friend?”

Bo straightened, puffing out his chest. “That man appreciates a good game and a good ear for back porch gossip. He’s all manners and smooth talk. I like him.”

Grace against the counter, chin propped in her palm. “Mmhmm. You gonna start writing him letters too? "

You cracked up while Bo glared at her. 

You leaned against the counter, keeping your voice light. “I need to see the back. The back back.”

Grace blinked. Then her lips curled like she'd just caught a whiff of good gossip. “Oh?”

Bo's eyes widened. “Wait a second—that back? The scandal drawers and sinful lace?”

You shrugged, playing coy. “Might need somethin’… delicate.”

Grace put her hands on her hips, smirking. “Delicate how? Like Sunday service lace, or like Jesus-wept-and-Mary-blushed just from touchin’ it?”

You grinned. “Definitely the second one.”

Bo let out a low whistle and turned toward the window. “Well damn. Sure glad I told that fella where you live now, huh?”

“Bo!” you scolded.

He just shrugged, all smug like he was doing the Lord’s work. “Man looked all tragic and love-drunk askin’ for directions like he was tryin’ to get to the Promised Land. What was I supposed to do? Be cruel?”

Then he nodded toward the back room, eyes glinting with mischief. “Though from the sound of it, you out here dressin’ up the Promised Land in lace and satin now. He’s gonna think he died and went to heaven twice.”

You flipped him off. 

Grace chuckled and nudged your arm. “So what’s the occasion?”

You looked down, fiddling with a button on your blouse. “Just… thinkin’ ahead.”

Bo mumbled as he pretended to rearrange a shelf. “Mm. Thinkin’ ahead….”

Then he grumbled louder, shaking his head. “Man gonna flirt with you right in front of me, and now I gotta picture your lil fancy drawers every time I deal him a card.”

You snorted. “You’re the one who gave him directions!”

Bo chuckled, shaking his head as he went back to rearranging jars. “Man, I’mma just be tryin’ to play cards, and here come loverboy flirtin’ across the table like always—now he gonna be feelin’ her up and shufflin’. I swear, if I see even one lick of anything you buy in here while I’m dealin’, I’m leavin’ the damn table.”

Grace cackled, already tugging you by the wrist toward the curtain at the back. “C’mon. Let’s go scandalize Bo some more.”

Lisa emerged from the back room just as you started to follow.

She moved slow, quiet. Her eyes looked hazier than usual—half-glossed over like she wasn’t all the way in the room yet, like she was still listening to something you couldn’t hear.

She stopped a few feet from you, head tilted ever so slightly.

“It’s already started,” she said softly.

You turned toward her, brows knitting. “What has?”

Lisa didn’t blink. Didn’t look at Grace or Bo. Just at you.

“You kissed him,” she said, voice low and dreamy. “So now you won’t dream anymore. You're gonna remember.”

The back of your neck prickled.

“Memory hurts worse than longing. That’s what the spirits told me,” she went on, hands folding in front of her like she was reciting scripture. “But that’s what you have to do. That’s the payment.”

Grace glanced up, uneasy. “Lisa—baby, what are you—”

“He’s not danger,” Lisa said. “But he’s not peace either. He’s pull. You feel it? Like tides. Like a tide that smells like iron and sounds like your name.”

You stood very still.

“The soul boat’s already left the dock,” Lisa whispered. “He ain’t the one rowing it—but he knows the ferryman. Knew him in a different country, in a different name. They come from the same place. Not blood, but bond. Both walked out of peat and ash. Both tasted death before they ever lived. But only one was meant to return.”

A shiver crawled up your spine.

“I saw it in a dream before it faded,” she continued. “There was a token. Gold. Old. Not money. Not cursed. Just… owed. Irish men used to carry them to pay safe passage between this world and the next. And he’s been carryin’ it a long time. But he won’t need it.”

Lisa’s eyes locked on yours.

“Because you’re the cure.”

She took another step forward, voice lower now, dreamier. “The ferryman tried to keep you close. Thought he could rewrite the story. But that’s not what the spirits want. That ain’t what nature wants.”

Bo suddenly cleared his throat. “Lisa, baby, uh—why don’t you go check on the bolts of muslin in the back? Make sure the rats ain’t made a home again.”

Lisa blinked, soft and slow. “He’s not gonna hurt her.”

Bo coughed. “That’s great. Go check on the rats anyway.”

Then—like nothing had happened—Lisa turned and slipped behind the curtain to the back room, as quiet as she came.

The silence she left behind was heavy as a sermon.

Bo finally exhaled. “That child scares the hell outta me.”

Chapter Text

Grace led you through the back curtain like she was escorting royalty into a private parlor. The storage room was dim and warm, smelling faintly of cedarwood and rose powder. A long rack of lace and silk hung along the back wall—chemises, slips, garters, and dresses that didn’t belong to any church woman.

She pushed a few hangers aside until she found a deep burgundy satin slip that looked like it could melt off your skin with a single sigh. She held it up with a knowing look.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like molasses. “Mind tellin’ me what kind of occasion calls for sin silk and nothin’ else?”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Can’t a girl want to feel pretty?”

Grace gave you a look so dry it could sand paint. “You? Wantin’ slips and satin just for fun? Nah, baby. This got Remmick written all over it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Grace…”

She held up a navy slip with sheer panels and scalloped edges. “This one’s been waitin’ on you. Just needed the right reason.”

You cleared your throat. “It’s not—like that. Not really.”

Grace gave you a look over the edge of the hanger. “Oh, please. White boy had you all flustered the first time he showed up at the Juke. Then you was sneakin’ out back with him. Next thing I know, you strollin’ in lookin’ loose-legged and blissed out. You ain’t slick.”

You covered your face. “Grace—”

“Don’t you ‘Grace’ me. You was walkin’ like somebody done tuned your piano and played all the right keys.”

You slapped her arm with the back of your hand, but you were laughing now.

Grace grinned. “So what, he finally come callin’ for a second round?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “Well… you know how Bo gave Remmick my address?”

“Ohhhh,” she said, grin blooming wide.

“Well… he came by last night. We just sat out there. Talked. That’s all.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Talked?”

You looked away for a second. “Mostly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Now that’s the look of a girl who ain’t tellin’ the whole story.”

You hesitated.

Then caved.

“We… we didn’t touch, not like that. I didn’t let him in the house. But…” You pulled a hanger from the rack just to have something to fidget with. “I left the door open. Sat on my couch. Made him stay outside.”

Grace blinked. “Wait. Outside outside? Just stood there? On the porch?”

You nodded.

“He ain’t try to push past the door or nothin’?”

You blinked once. “Told him he wasn’t gonna get to cum if he crossed the threshold.” You shrugged. “Said if he wanted a show, he had to follow the rules. Wanted to tease him, ya know.”

It wasn’t the truth. But it sounded like one. Close enough to pass.

Grace blinked twice. Then a third time.

She stared at you for a beat.

Then howled. “You told him he couldn’t cum unless he followed instructions? Girl! You had him posted up beggin’ for scraps?”

You grinned. “I was teasing. Wanted to make him watch.”

“Damn,” she said finally, stepping back like she needed air. “You got that man whipped. He followin’ orders like a damn dog? On a porch?”

You grinned slow. “Mmhmm.”

She put her hands on her hips, laughing now. “I don’t know what you got between them thighs, but it’s got that man actin’ right. You best bottle that and sell it.”

You picked up a black satin slip with a low-cut back. “I just might.”

“So,” Gace said, voice lilting with mischief, “you gonna tell me more or I gotta drag it outta you like last week’s church gossip?”

You snorted. “What else you wanna know?”

She leaned in like you were two girls hiding from mamas on a back porch. “He big? Could ya see?”

“Grace!”

She grinned, wide and shameless. “C’mon now. If you gon’ scandalize the ancestors on your couch, I need a full report.”

You tried to hold out. You did.

“Girl,” you said, looking her dead in the eye, “it swings.”

Grace wheezed, hand over her chest. “I knew it! I knew he walked like he was hidin’ somethin’ in them suspenders!”

The memory his voice, his hand working slow through his trousers, that look in his eye — it all came rushing back.

“He… talked me through it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Ooooh,” Grace dragged the sound like it was honey off a spoon. “Talked you through it? Like how?”

You swallowed, trying not to smile too big. “Said he could hear how wet I was...told me...told me how to treat myself you know.”

Grace grabbed the nearest shelf to steady herself. “Lord have mercy.”

You both laughed until your sides hurt, the silk slips forgotten for a moment.

But then your smile faded, just slightly. “That’s not even the wildest part of the night.”

Grace looked at you, still grinning. “There’s more?”

You nodded. “He said… he bought a house. Between the Juke and my place.”

You gave her a look.

“Oh hell no,” she said, setting the slip down slow. “You tellin’ me that white man bought you and him a house like y’all just jumped the broom and shopped for furniture?”

You nodded, chewing your lip.

She stared at you, mouth open, hands on her hips. “Does he… does he know where he is? This is Mississippi. They lynch folks for lookin’ too long at the wrong damn person, let alone playin’ house with one.”

You said nothing for a long moment. Just looked down at a slip, fingers smoothing it out.

“He said it didn’t matter.”

Grace didn’t speak right away.

Just looked at you—really looked—like she was measuring something that couldn’t be seen.

Then she exhaled. “Damn.”

You both stood there in the quiet, surrounded by silk and secrets.

And for once, Grace didn’t have a joke. Just a hand on your shoulder.

Because the world you were walking into wasn’t soft.
But somehow, you didn’t feel scared.

You felt… chosen.

Chapter Text

Dusk settled soft over the street, casting everything in that bruised purple light that made the world look too still to trust. You rounded the corner with your paper bags tucked against your hip and the long string handles of Grace’s lingerie parcel cutting into your wrist. The weight of the groceries was nothing compared to the ache behind your ribs.

The cicadas were singing louder than your thoughts, but your gut still twisted before you even saw her.

Mary was sitting on your porch.

Like she belonged there.

You stopped. Let the quiet stretch.

Then climbed the steps.

Neither of you said anything as you unlocked the door.

You walked in first, left it open behind you.

She followed.

You set the bags down on the little table in the kitchen, slipped the dresses into the bottom drawer you kept for “pretty things,” then turned.

“Alright,” you said, arms crossing. “Go ‘head.”

Mary shifted awkwardly. “I came to say sorry.”

You raised a brow. “That right? What changed your heart—Stack cussin’ you out?”

Her lips pressed into a line. “That happened, yeah. But that ain’t why. I’m apologizin’ ‘cause I was wrong. I said somethin’ mean, and I shouldn’t have. I was angry. And embarrassed. But that don’t make it right.”

You studied her. “So that’s the only reason you came by?”

She looked around the room. The walls. The floorboards that creaked where y’all used to play jacks. The table where her momma once braided both your heads and told stories about river spirits.

Mary didn’t answer right away.

Shifted again.

“I… well. No.”

You waited.

She sighed. “I been holdin’ off, but we gotta settle the house.”

Your heart stopped. “What you mean settle the house?”

She didn’t flinch. “This was my momma’s place. After she passed, it went to me. By law.”

You stared at her. “You that fuckin’ petty, Mary?”

Her mouth tightened.

You took a step forward, voice going hard. “This the only home I ever had. You really gonna come here, after everything, and talk about settlin’ like I’m some stranger?”

“Jimmy don’t see the point of me keepin’ a Black property.” she said quickly. 

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Excuse me?”

Mary looked down. “He thinks I got it from my ‘white family'. A lie about my daddy’ and paperwork and leases. He said it looks suspicious, me keepin’ this house. Said it don’t make sense, me holdin’ onto some little house folks used to rent out to colored families for profit. ”

“And you agree with him?”

She nodded, like it didn’t cost her a thing. “Y’all wanted me to live that life. So I will. Ain’t no point holdin’ onto a place like this.”

You clenched your fists. “This was your mommas house! The one we all grew up in, Stack and Smokes height marks are carved into the damn wall!"

She looked away.

You huffed. "Then let me buy it, Mary. I ain’t got the money right now, but I can get it. It'll just take me-”

“I already sold it.”

The room tilted.

“To who?”

“The Waltons. I signed the papers yesterday.”

You blinked. “The Waltons? With the four little girls?”

She nodded. “Mama was friends with Mrs. Walton. Good family. Real sweet.”

You swallowed hard. Of course it was them. Of course they deserved a home like this. Their current house was barely holdin’ together, and this one’d be a blessing for ‘em. You always smiled when their littlest came by with her hair in barrettes and asked if you could help patch her favorite sunday dress.

But still—

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said, voice cracking. "Did you even think about me?!"

Mary’s shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t think you’d have the money. And I didn’t wanna drag it out.”

“So that’s it?” you said. “You just gonna take my home away?”

Mary didn’t answer.

Mary looked ashamed. “They had the money. I figured you… you wouldn’t.”

You shook your head, chest heaving, trying to come to a solution. “I ain’t got the funds right now, but I can get ‘em. Work it off, make payments—something, anything...Mary...please.”

“I already signed,” she said, eyes soft but voice firm. “They move in Thursday.”

Your heart stopped. “It’s Tuesday, Mary!”

She flinched again.

“So that’s it?” you snapped. “You just gonna take my home away. Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

Mary’s mouth opened and closed again. Then she gave a half-shrug, half-apology. “You a survivor, right? I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Your voice came sharp and hollow. “You coldhearted bitch.”

Mary flinched. “I am sorry,” she said, finally looking up. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“But it is, huh?”

She nodded once. “Things happen.”

You pointed toward the door. “Get the fuck out.”

She hesitated.

“Now, Mary.”

She turned, walked to the door, and paused on the step like she might say somethin’ that would fix it.

You didn’t give her the chance.

“Your momma’d be ashamed to know what type of bitch she raised,” you snapped. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

And the silence left behind felt bigger than the house itself.

You sank onto the couch, hands shaking, heart breaking loud and slow inside your chest.

You had no plan.

No money.

No place to go.

And nowhere that felt like home anymore.

You buried your face in your hands, and finally—
You cried.

The tears came silent at first. Slow. Angry. Bitter. You covered your mouth to keep from sobbing too loud. Pride was still a heavy thing, even with your world falling down around you.

Because no matter how many spirits whispered your name, how many ancient men called you “the cure” or waited outside your door like devotion made flesh—

Tonight?

You were just a girl that felt lost.

Because Mary hadn’t just taken a house.

She’d taken home.

And come Thursday, you had nowhere to go.

Chapter Text

It was dark now.

The kind of thick, moonless dark that pressed against the windows like a second sorrow. The groceries still sat untouched on the table. Some of it would need tossing by morning.

You hadn’t moved in hours.

Your face felt swollen, raw around the eyes, but no more tears came. You just sat there. Blank. Wrung out.

Your home—your home—wasn’t yours anymore.

And the weight of it made your body feel heavier than stone.

Then—

Knock, knock.

Soft.

You flinched.

You didn’t have to ask who it was.

You stood slow, every muscle stiff like you’d aged a decade in an hour. You opened the door.

Remmick stood there, backlit by moonlight. Shirt wrinkled, suspenders loose, grinning. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, voice thick and cracked.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you said, voice rough, words sticking to your throat like honey left too long in the sun.

His smile fell right off his face. “Oh, darlin’,” he said. “What’s got that pretty face all upset?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the floorboards, then over your shoulder at your home—what used to be your home.

“Mary’s sellin’ the house,” you said. “Didn’t tell me. Didn’t even ask. Gave me ‘til Thursday to get out. It was her mama’s house and now… now it’s mine she’s takin’.”

His jaw tensed. He looked like he didn’t know whether to rage or pull you into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, mo chroí,” he said quietly. “That’s cruel. She’s wrong for it.” His voice was so soft, so mournful, it broke something loose in your chest again.

“Is there… anything I can do right now? To make you feel better?” he asked.

You hesitated. Looked at him long and hard.

Then, finally—quiet as a whisper—you stepped back and said, “Come in.”

He crossed the threshold like he was stepping into church.

You closed the door behind him.

For a moment, you both just stood there in the dim room.

Then you turned to him and asked, quiet: “Can you hold me?”

His face softened like melting wax.

“Course I can.”

You didn’t say anything more. Just curled into his arms, tucking your face into the warm space between his chest and shoulder. He smelled like smoke and something older—like wet earth after rain. His arms wrapped around you firm, grounding.

He guided you both to the couch, settling you into the crook of his arm. 

“You breathe fast when you’re tryin’ not to cry,” he murmured into your hair. “Slow it down, baby. I got you.”

Time passed. Minutes? Hours? You couldn’t tell.

“I got you,” he murmured into your hair. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You sat like that for a long while. His hand stroked your back slow, thumb brushing lazy circles. His voice, when he spoke again, was quiet.

“You got every right to be angry. To grieve it. Home’s not just wood and nails.”

For a long while, you didn’t speak. Just listened to the low hum of his voice as he murmured soft things you didn’t even fully catch. Maybe prayers. Maybe curses.

But it helped.

It helped a lot.

Eventually, your cheek still pressed against his chest, you murmured, “Let me hear you.”

Remmick pulled back just enough to look down at you, brows lifted. “Hear me?”

You let out the barest laugh, still raw. “Not like that. I mean… your real voice. That accent I hear in my dreams.”

He looked at you a beat longer. Then—

“Is this what you want, a chuisle?” he asked, his voice suddenly full of something older, rounder, laced with that rich Irish lilt. “Me talkin’ to you the way I used to? Before America stripped it off me like worn-out clothes?”

You closed your eyes, letting the sound of him settle over you like a blanket. The words didn’t matter. The rhythm did. The sound of him suddenly richer, rounder. It didn’t sound forced. It sounded like home.

You started to nod off, your body heavier now, your mind foggy with exhaustion and comfort.

Remmick shifted slightly, brushing hair from your cheek. “Can I take you to bed?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Promise won't try nothing.”

You nodded.

Remmick stood carefully, scooping you into his arms like you were nothing but breath and bone.

You didn’t even point. Just tilted your chin in the direction of the room, and he carried you there.

Laid you down gentle.

But when he stepped away, your eyes flew open. “Don’t—don’t go.”

He froze.

“Please,” you whispered.

He smiled softly. “Just closin’ the curtains, love. I promise I’ll be right back.”

He did just that, drawing the faded lace against the moonlight, then slipped back beside you.

His arm found your waist. His body curved to yours.

Held you again, this time with legs tangled and your cheek pressed to the space just over his heart.

You looked up at him in the dark.

“Tell me about your home,” you whispered. “What it was like… before.”

He was quiet for a beat.

Then, in that soft Irish lilt, he said, “Remember when I told you I was like Sammie, before I was turned?”

You nodded against his chest.

“I was the songkeeper for my kin. A seanchaí, they’d say. A keeper of stories, memory, rhythm. My clan was small, tucked between green hills and a river so clear you could see the bones of the land under it. We’d gather ‘round fires and I’d sing the old ballads—songs that made folks cry without knowin’ why.”

You closed your eyes as he spoke.

“I sang for births, for marriages, for deaths. And when winter came cruel, and food got scarce, I sang to keep folks warm. My mam said I was born with a tune in my blood and magic in my mouth.”

His voice dipped lower, sleep-warm and thick. “But the songs didn’t keep death away. Not forever...I’d sometimes stand on the stones outside the village—big ones, shaped by wind and worship—and I’d sing to the sky. My people believed music could open the veil. That it could speak to the dead.”

You pressed closer, hand resting on the buttons of his shirt.

His voice softened, slowed.

“And sometimes… I think it did.”

His arm tightened around you.

“I miss the moss,” he murmured. “The way it smelled after rain. The quiet. But you… you feel like home.”

You wanted to say something, but your eyes were too heavy.

He kissed your forehead.

And as you slipped into sleep, his voice followed you there.

Like a lullaby only the dead remember.

Chapter Text

It started as a hush.

Not silence, exactly—but a stillness, like the world had paused just long enough for you to drift somewhere else. The pain in your chest was gone. The ache in your limbs. Even the tightness behind your eyes had melted into the dark.

Then came the scent: something green and wild. Like mist curling over moss and river stones.

You blinked.

Remmick was sitting beside you, one arm draped lazily across his bent knee, his face lit by the soft glow of a low sun. You knew it was a dream, but it didn’t feel like one.

"I thought maybe you weren’t interested in bein’ in my dreams anymore," you muttered, voice still heavy with sleep.

He grinned without looking at you. “And miss the view? Never.”

You rolled your eyes, but you smiled.

He stood up and offered his hand. “C’mon. Wanna show you something.”

You took it.

The dream shifted as you walked. The grass was thick and damp beneath your feet, the kind of green that didn’t exist in real life. It felt untouched. Ancient. A wind rolled through, brushing the wildflowers and lifting your dress around your knees.

Remmick looked proud as he turned to you. “This is my home, sweetheart. Ireland. Or… what it was. Three hundred years ago.”

You were in a village—not like the ones you’d seen in books. Older. Woven into the earth like it had bloomed from it. Thatched-roof cottages lined a dirt path, smoke curling gently from chimneys. Stone walls snaked around the green fields, and animals meandered freely—goats, a few chickens, even a sleepy horse tied to a post. A scattering of children ran barefoot down the lane, and women called to each other in Gaelic from doorways with baskets on their hips.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Aye, it was. Back before the fires and the famine and all the curses men called progress.”

You followed him through the village, your dress rustling at your ankles as you walked. Everyone in the dream passed you like smoke—smiling, but blurry. The only things that felt sharp were the colors: the wild green of the hills, the blue-gray sky above, and the way Remmick's eyes sparkled in this place, like they remembered joy.

He showed you the tiny cottage he once shared with his family. The stone hearth still stood in the middle. He pointed out a mossy boulder where he used to sit and whistle while his younger siblings chased frogs nearby. Then there was the tree near the edge of the hill—the one he'd climb just to see the sea stretching wide and endless in the distance.

The laughter between you came easy here. Lighter. Like even your sorrow didn’t have roots in this soil.

Eventually, night fell—but softly, like the sun didn’t want to leave. You sat beside a fire, its amber glow kissing your skin. Remmick pulled out an old instrument—curved like a teardrop, with strings that shimmered beneath his fingers. A bouzouki, he called it.

And then he sang.

The song was old. Woven with longing and memory. You couldn’t understand all the words, but you didn’t need to. It was a lullaby to the land, to love, to loss. His voice was low and strong, with a lilt that curled around every note like wind through grass.

When he finished, you clapped softly, eyes shining. “You’re somethin’ else, Remmick.”

His face lit up like you’d handed him a whole second life. “That so? I think I just got drunk off the praise.”

You laughed, and he leaned forward, cupping your cheek with warm fingers. His smile softened.

“I’d of loved to have grown up with you in the village. Woulda courted you right—carried your buckets, made your brothers jealous.”

You tilted your head. “Would that even have been possible? Me here? A Black girl in old Ireland?”

Remmick shrugged, still grinning. “Wouldn’t’ve mattered to me. I’d of been the fool followin’ you through the market, beggin’ for one more look. I’d of married you, sure as breath. Had a whole brood’a babies too.” He winked. “Ten maybe. All with your eyes and my stubborn mouth.”

You laughed so hard you leaned into him, and he leaned right back, like the sound was the only thing keepin’ the stars up.

He smirked. “We’d have a little stone house just yonder, with a big bed and no neighbors to hear you scream—”

“Remmick!”

He winked. “What? I’m just sayin’… we’d have a good life.”

You tried to hide your smile, and failed.

The fire crackled between you, and he began to pluck a soft tune. Something gentle. Meandering.

“You ever hear the story of Clíodhna’s bird?” he asked after a moment.

You shook your head.

“She was a goddess of love. Had a pet bird—pure white, with feathers like pearls and a voice sweeter than heaven. This bird could sing folks to sleep… and when they dreamed, they’d see the face of the one they were meant to love.”

You looked at him, smiling gently.

“But the bird didn’t just sing for anyone,” he continued, voice like the fire—low and warm. “Only those who’d been through sorrow. Only those whose hearts had cracked open wide enough to be filled.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“And you?” you whispered.

He paused.

“I think you might be my bird, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “Singin’ me back to life.”

You closed your eyes.

And the music played on.

Chapter Text

You woke up tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that settles in your bones after too many tears and too much change. The curtains were still drawn, keeping the morning—or what little there was of it—out. That was Remmick’s doing. He was still beside you, face relaxed, his hand resting just shy of your waist.

You rolled toward him, just enough to study him.

His lashes were long, mouth soft in sleep, boyish almost. You reached out, gently tracing a fingertip across his jawline, along the bridge of his nose. The kind of face that could look like a prayer or a warning, depending on the day.

You slipped out of bed without waking him.

In the bathroom, you splashed cold water on your face, flinching when your reflection showed eyes still puffy and red. Crying did that—left traces long after the storm passed. Then cleaned up from your period—still tender, still low and achy, but better.

By the time you reached the kitchen, morning had long since turned to afternoon. The groceries were still out, waiting like forgotten company. You sifted through them, separating what could be saved from what needed to be tossed.

Eventually, you made yourself tea. Scrambled some eggs and sat at the little table, chewing slow, thinking slower.

Annie would take you in without hesitation—but you couldn’t do that to her. Not when her and Smoke were finally smoothing the rough edges of their mess. The twins were out, even tho it didn't look like Smoke was gonna be there much longer. You weren’t about to share space with chaos and Sammie’s. 

Bo and Grace? You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head. No offense, but sleeping in the same house as Lisa and her half-dream prophecies sounded like the quickest way to develop a twitch.

You sipped your tea and sighed.

You knew where you were gonna end up. Had known from the second Mary said you had till Thursday. But still—still—you were gonna make him sweat just a little.

Remmick is gonna love this, you thought with an eye roll.

Of course, that came with its own set of problems. How exactly did a Black woman explain living with a white man in 1932 Mississippi—even if he wasn’t exactly alive? Even if nobody saw him during the day, it didn’t take but one nosy neighbor and a runaway rumor to get someone strung up or worse.

You were so deep in thought, you didn’t even notice the sky shift. Dusk had crept in like a slow sigh, painting the windowpanes in gold and ash.

You heard him then—shuffling from the back, bare feet soft against the floorboards.

He appeared just past the light’s reach, one arm braced against the doorframe, suspenders hanging loose, shirt half-buttoned, curls wild like he’d fought sleep all morning.

“Well, if this ain’t the best thing I ever woke up to,” he drawled. “You sittin’ there, lookin’ like a whole dream, and I ain’t even closed my eyes again yet.”

You snorted, wiping your mouth. “You smooth all the time, huh?”

He smirked. “Only when I wake up next to you.”

His voice gentled. “How you feelin’ today?”

You looked at him over the rim of your tea, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Tired. But… alright. I got somebody who offered me a place to stay.”

Remmick froze mid-step, still standing in the shadow just shy of the sun filtering through the window. “Wait—what?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, stretching the moment. “Nice house. Real sweet porch. Big kitchen. Safe too. He said I could move in tonight if I wanted.”

“Who said that?” he asked, voice sharp now.

You lifted your brows, letting the silence hang long enough to be cruel. Then: “Just a fella. Real nice. Said I could even have the bigger bedroom.”

Remmick’s mouth parted like he was about to say something unholy, then shut again, teeth clenched. “A fella?” he finally spat. “Now hold on just a damn—A fella?!”

You shrugged, all innocence. “Sure. Said he wouldn’t even charge me rent.”

“You—” He looked like he might combust. “Now see here—my wife ain’t movin’ in with no man that ain’t me.”

You tilted your head. “Your wife, huh?”

“Damn right,” he growled.

You tilted your head, blinking. “Far as I know, I ain’t got no ring. No vows. No last name change.”

Remmick growled. Actually growled. He pointed a finger at you like it might help him hold onto reality. “Don’t you play me like that, sugar. You know damn well that pussy’s mine.”

Your brows shot up and you gave a small, scandalized laugh. 

His eyes were damn near glowing now, body tense like a drawn bowstring. “You’re mine. That’s all that matters. I offered first. Bought us a whole damn home. Big enough for your brothers, for Annie, hell, for every damn ghost that’s ever watched over you. First come, first served—thought that’s how things worked.”

You couldn’t hold it in any longer. You snorted and started laughing.

Remmick blinked. “...What.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You really thought I was gonna move in with some mystery man? Remmick, please.”

His mouth parted, speechless for a beat, then narrowed into a suspicious squint. “You did that on purpose.”

“Course I did.”

He looked offended. “You’re evil.”

You grinned over your tea. “Yeah. But I’m your evil.”

His whole face softened at that. But even still, he huffed and crossed his arms like a man determined to stay mad.

“Still feels too soon, but looks like fate made that choice for us.” I got up and placed my dirty cup and plate in the sink. Washing them quickly before drying them with a towel.

Relief flooded his face, quickly replaced by cocky charm.

“Well, ‘bout time you saw the light,” he said, crossing his arms. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to stay with me? Handsome, helpful, housebroken... mostly.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath. “Problem is I gotta move all my things. Mary’s got the new family movin’ in.”

Remmick lit up like a firefly. “Oh don’t you worry about that, mo ghrá. Me, Bert and Joan’ll handle everything.”

You blinked. You had completely forgotten about them. “Wait. Joan and Bert? Oh my God—” You smacked his arm.

He looked positively offended. “Ow! What was that for?”

“You didn’t tell me you turned them! You fucker! Why would you do that?!”

“Stop! Ow—stop hitting me!” he rubbed his arm, dramatically pouting. “Come on now, don’t be mad! I did that before I met you, baby.”

You narrowed your eyes, watching him lay the Irish charm on thick like it was gonna fix anything.

Damn him.

It was working.

“You better be glad you’re cute,” you muttered.

He grinned. “I know.”

“We’re all connected, me and them—Joan and Bert. Hive mind, sort of. I don’t even have to call ‘em. Just… think it.” He tapped his temple, giving you a wink. “They’ll be here soon.”

You gave him a wary look.

He grinned. “You just point out what’s comin’ with us, darlin’. I’ll make sure it’s handled.”

You turned slowly, taking in the home that had once felt like the only safe place you’d ever known.

But truth be told, it hadn’t felt like home in years. Not since Mary’s mama took sick. Not since the laughter of Stack and Smoke stopped echoing off the porch. This house held ghosts, not comfort.

So you packed only what still felt like you. All of it bundled in old cloths, tied tight and tucked into crates you’d stored by the back door.

Clothes, worn soft with time. The blanket you’d had since you were small enough to carry it everywhere. Books whose pages carried your thumbprints, dog-eared and underlined like scripture. Little knick-knacks Stack and Smoke had sent from every dusty stop along the rail lines—your brothers never forgot their baby sister.

You wrapped up Mary’s mama’s old recipe books, the protective candles Annie gave you, the chipped plates and teacups you used when you wanted to feel like somebody. Oil lamps, family pictures.

And when Remmick turned his back for a moment—busy tying down one of the crates—you slipped the new things Grace had helped you pick out. The dresses, the lace-trimmed nightgown, the lingerie that still felt a little too daring to admit out loud.

You pressed them into a smaller bundle, wrapping them up quick before tucking them into a crate already half-filled. 

Joan and Bert arrived just as the last cloth was tied, slipping in and out like they’d done it a hundred times. You barely saw more than the blur of motion and the occasional glint of a button in the dark. No questions, no fuss. Just quiet, focused movement, vanishing into the night with your memories in hand.

You stood there a moment, watching it all go, heart twisted. The furniture? You left every piece. Felt like it belonged to another version of you—a girl who didn’t know better. A girl who still thought Mary would come back around.

Remmick came up behind you, sliding an arm around your waist. “You don’t need any of that old stuff,” he murmured against your temple. “You’re mine now, and mine gets what she wants.”

You turned to glance at him—and instantly regretted it.

He wore that smirk again. The one that meant trouble.

“I already bought the bed though,” he added, voice lowering. “Made sure it’s good and sturdy. Real wide too. Wanted to make sure I had enough room to love you the way you need it. Stretch those pretty legs out nice and wide so I can fuck—”

“Remmick!” you hissed, scandalized.

Your eyes darted to the door just as Bert reappeared, calm as ever. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply grabbed the last crate and vanished once again into the night.

You smacked Remmick’s chest, mortified.

He just laughed, devilish grin spreading across his face. “What?” he said, feigning innocence. “I was talkin’ about love.”

Chapter Text

You stood at the threshold of your old house one last time, hands on your hips, heart knocking steady in your chest. The rooms were quiet now, stripped of what little you'd chosen to keep. No ghosts lingered—just the scent of memory.

You nodded to Remmick. “Guess this is it.”

He reached for your hand without a word, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was now.

The night was soft around you, air thick with honeysuckle and summer’s heat. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt like a shift in time. Like one chapter had finally shut, and another was peeking over the edge, whispering Come see.

Then you saw it.

The house.

Your house.

You let out a surprised little squeal, one hand to your mouth, the other gripping Remmick’s tighter. “Oh my god,” you whispered, eyes darting over every detail. “Remmick—it’s beautiful.”

It was sturdy, set back just enough from the road to feel private. The porch stretched wide, boasting two rocking chairs and a swing tucked sweetly into the far corner. Nice windows and a soft yellow glow from a lantern by the door.

Never had a two-story house before. 

And there, just beside the steps, sat your crates. Every single one, stacked neatly like they were waiting for you. Joan and Bert were nowhere in sight. Strange, but you didn’t dwell on it.

Remmick was beaming beside you, watching your expression more than the house.

“You just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty,” he teased, “or you gonna go inside and see the rest?”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You darted forward through the door, feet light with something that felt like hope. Inside was quiet, cool, and new. The wood floors creaked softly underfoot, and the bare walls whispered make me yours.

“Remmick!” you called over your shoulder, turning toward the hall—only to pause.

He wasn’t there.

You doubled back, brows furrowed, and found him standing at the edge of the porch, hands in his pockets.

“What’re you doin’ out there?” you asked.

He grinned sheepishly. “I bought the house in your name.”

You blinked. “What?”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s yours. I mean, yeah—it’s ours—but legally? Yours. Which means I gotta be invited in again, sugar.”

You stared at him, heart thudding.

“Why would you do that?” you asked, voice low.

Remmick’s expression turned earnest, all traces of cocky gone. “Because this is your home. I wanted you to know—nobody, not even me, could ever take from you.” His eyes flickered, catching the weight of everything that had happened. “Told you, didn’t I? No one touches you or takes from you again without your say-so. Not ever.” He nodded hid head like he was confirming that what he had stated was law. 

Your throat went tight. He’d done this before Mary had even said a word about the house. Before everything unraveled.

I hate him. You knew you really meant the opposite of that. 

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words got tangled in the lump in your chest.

“Come in,” you said softly. “Come home.”

He stepped forward, smile blooming slow and wide… only for you to throw a hand up, stopping him.

“And don’t come in empty-handed either,” you huffed, pointing to the crates on the porch. “Got my things sittin’ out here like some kind of heathen.”

Remmick laughed, a full-bellied sound that made your insides warm. “Yes ma’am.”

The next few minutes were filled with playful shoves and soft teasing as the two of you hauled your belongings inside. There wasn’t much furniture, but curtains hung in every room. You noticed them the moment you stepped into the front parlor.

You turned, eyes narrowing. “These curtains look familiar.”

Remmick froze like he’d been caught with his hand in the jam jar.

“Well, funny story…”

You crossed your arms.

He scratched at his temple. “Bo might’ve mentioned you’d been eyein’ them at the shop. Thought you’d like to see them if you ever came over. Then, well… figured you’d want ‘em up if you stayed. He helped me pick the right length and everything.”

You stared. “You and Bo really becoming best friends, huh?”

Remmick smirked, sauntering up behind you. “Man’s got good taste. Plus he liked me when I first showed up!”

You snorted and bumped him with your hip.

He caught you gently by the waist and held on for a moment too long, eyes soft. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

And for the first time in a long while… it really did feel like you had one.

Chapter Text

By the time the last crate had been moved in, you were ready to fall out.

The emotional whiplash of the past few days had wrung you dry—Mary, the house, the packing, the loss, the start of something new. Your bones ached, and your nerves were still raw in places. But there was a comfort now too. A stillness that hadn’t existed before.

You moved through your new room slow, like you were easing into warm water. The big bed took up a comical amount of space—it looked like something a queen might sleep in, or maybe a spoiled cat with ten pillows.

You paused and stared.

“Where you even find a bed that big?” you asked, hands on your hips.

Remmick, leaning in the doorway, grinned. “I’ve been around a long time, honey. Plus, folks’ll build damn near anything for the right amount of money.”

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Show-off.”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “You gonna mind if I get comfortable for bed too?”

You gave him a slow side-eye. “Don’t get cute.”

“I’m always cute,” he said, already unbuttoning his shirt with exaggerated slowness. You tossed a pillow at him.

You changed, cleaned up, and finally curled into the softness of the absurdly large bed. When he slipped in beside you, warm and steady, it took less than a minute for sleep to find you.

-

You sat up, tugging the blanket around yourself for a second before sliding your feet to the floor. You felt his eyes track your every move. When you stood, stretching your arms overhead with a low yawn, he let out a low appreciative whistle.

“If wakin’ up to you like that’s a sin, sugar, I ain’t repentin’,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile as you padded across the room toward the small dresser. “You flirt in your sleep too?”

“Only when the dreams are good,” he said, folding his arms behind his head again. “Which—lately—they always are.”

You got to washing your face with water from the pitcher, patting your skin dry and smoothing down your edges. Slipping into one of your soft blouses, you caught his gaze in the mirror.

“You keep watchin’ me like that, I’m gonna start charging,” you warned.

“Oh, baby, I’d pay every penny.”

You laughed, pulling on your skirt and adjusting the waistband. You didn't rush, letting yourself move at your own pace for once. Once dressed, you grabbed a comb and ran it through your hair, noticing the way Remmick's expression shifted—like he was memorizing every flick of your wrist.

“You planning on followin’ me with that stare all day?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“If you’re offering.”

You glanced back over at him, still lounging shirtless in the bed like some sinner-turned-saint.

“I’m gonna head over to Annie’s,” you said. “Let her know I’m safe. Don’t want her seein’ the Waltons movin’ into the old place and thinkin’ I vanished.”

He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked at you. “I’ll miss you terribly, you know. Sad husband, abandoned at home. Just me and my thoughts—staring longingly out the window.”

You grinned, walking back over to where he sat and tugging gently at a stubborn curl near his temple. “Ain’t nobody told you to play house.”

“No, but I play it real damn well,” he said with a wink.

“Wait.”

Remmick stood, bare chest catching the thin stream of morning light. He moved toward you slow, like he didn’t want to waste a single step.

You blinked up at him as he came close, hands gentle on your waist. He leaned down and kissed you—soft at first, then deeper, lingering. His lips were warm and sure, mouth coaxing, tongue taking control, tasting like sleep and heat and something that made your knees a little loose.

When he pulled back, you looked dazed. “That’s somethin’ to remember me by ‘til you get back.”

You stared up at him, a breath caught halfway to your lungs.

Chapter Text

The moment you opened the door, Annie squinted like she’d just seen a ghost. “What the hell are you doin’ here, girl? I thought—” Her words stalled. “Wait. You alright?”

You nodded, too fast. “Yeah. I’m okay. Just needed to come in person.”

She stepped aside quick and firm, ushering you toward a chair. “Sit. Start talkin’.”

You swallowed. “Mary sold the house.”

Annie’s mouth dropped open. Then her whole face twisted into something sharp. “She what?”

Before you could say more, the front door creaked open and in stepped Stack and Smoke, brushing off road dust and heat like they carried it on their shoulders.

“What’s with the hollerin’?” Stack asked—then spotted you, eyes narrowing.

Smoke’s eyes scanned your face, then moved to Annie’s posture. “What happened?”

You told them. You told them everything.

By the time you were done, the room felt hot and tight with fury.

Annie was pacing and muttering curses that would’ve made a preacher faint. Stack stood stone still, jaw clenched. Smoke’s voice was the calmest—but it was the kind of calm that sounded like thunder rumbling too far off to hear clear. “Told you you should’ve handled her years ago Stack! Knew she had that ugliness under her skin.”

“She gave away your home,” Stack finally said. “And didn’t think twice.”

“I didn’t even know where I was gonna go,” you said, voice low.

They all stopped then—anger cooling into something heavier. Smoke sat down across from you, rubbing his jaw like he needed to stop himself from storming out the front door.

“Now you ain't got nothin to worry about.” he said, tone firm. 

“Yeah,” Stack added. “We'll get you somethin’. Fix it up real nice.”

Annie nodded her head. "In the meantime, you can stay with me."

You hesitated. Embarrassment curled low in your stomach, but you said it anyway.

“Remmick bought me a house.”

Silence.

Stack blinked. “Come again?”

Smoke snorted, sharp. “Fuckin cracker moves fast don't he.”

Annie blinked slow, like a thought had finally clicked. “Damn spirits been whisperin’ about a path shift.”

Smoke stood again, pacing now. “So lemme get this straight. This white man rolls in, gets sweet with you, makes friends with the family, and now he’s settin’ up roots?”

“He gave me the keys,” you said, quiet but steady. “House is in my name. Said it was mine first. That’s the part that matters.”

They were all looking at you, some disbelief still hanging in the room—but it was fading, fast.

“He playin’ husband now?” Stack asked, half-joking.

You smiled, small but real. “Maybe.”

They didn’t laugh much this time. Smoke leaned on the back of a chair, brow low with thought. “You know you gotta be careful. This town’s got eyes. And mouths.”

“I know,” you said. “I ain’t naive.”

Annie stepped closer, hand brushing your shoulder. “We know you ain’t. But just ‘cause you’re strong don’t mean you don’t need watchin’ over.”

You nodded, blinking faster than you wanted to. “I’ll be okay.”

Smoke’s voice went cool again. “She sell your house and run off same day?”

“Don’t know.”

Stack cracked his knuckles. “Guess we’ll go find out.”

You looked up.

“We’ll head into town,” Smoke said. “Ask around. Find out if Mary’s gone or if she’s still lurkin’ after pullin’ this stunt.”

“And if she is…” Stack left it there. His tone said enough.

-

Stack and Smoke left—muttering promises of “just checkin’” and “won’t lay hands on her yet”

Once Stack and Smoke stepped out, the screen door banging behind them, the silence that settled felt different—lighter, but still buzzing.

You didn’t even have to look up to know Annie was staring at you. You braced yourself.

She folded her arms, one brow raised so high it might’ve touched the ceiling. “Mhm.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Oh don’t what me.” She shook her head slow, a grin playing at the corner of her mouth. “Had that man on your porch, scandalizin’ the ancestors. Talkin’ about, ‘I didn't let him in!’” She mimicked you in a sing-song voice. “Out there playin’ touch-and-don’t-cross-the-threshold. I told you the cure was probably you havin’ his vampire babies—now look at you, settin’ up a nursery.”

You snorted, trying not to choke on your own laughter. “It is not like that.”

“Oh it ain’t?” She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Then explain the man buyin’ you a whole house, talkin’ about ‘yours first.’ Girl, please.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “He just… wanted to take care of me.”

“Mmm,” Annie hummed, not quite buying your deflection. “Yeah, and I bet he gonna keep doin’ it too. Mark my words, you’ll blink and that man’ll be buildin’ you a front porch swing with your initials carved in it and a cradle right beside it.”

You felt your face heat up instantly, the warmth crawling all the way to your ears.

You mumbled under your breath, avoiding her eyes, “Porch already has a swing.”

Annie froze for half a second—then let out a cackle that shook the cabinets. “Already?! Lord have mercy!”

She slapped the table, wheezing between laughs. “This man ain’t just buildin’ a future, he puttin’ up fixtures!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. That only made her worse.

You peeked through your fingers just enough to glare. “Annie.”

“Oh, hush now.” she grinned. “You the one out here lettin’ him drink you like communion wine.”

“Annie!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-horrified.

She grinned. “I’mma keep a little holy water on hand—just in case I gotta douse him like a porch fire next time y’all start carryin’ on out at the Juke.”

You choked on your laugh. “Please stop—”

“Well,” she said, sauntering toward the stove, “looks like I need to stock up on sage and holy water.”

Chapter Text

The house was still and quiet when you got back. Curtains drawn tight, not a sliver of light leaking into the bedroom where Remmick slept like the dead—literally. You didn’t bother him. You somehow gotten the feeling he needed rest.

You slipped out of your shoes by the front door and made your way upstairs, curious now that your crates were mostly unpacked. Two stories meant more room than you were used to, and now that it was yours—well, mostly—it was time to start figuring out what you needed.

Room by room, you wandered. Bedroom upstairs was spacious, with old wood floors and a sloped ceiling that gave it character. You could imagine a dresser here, a mirror there. A rug maybe, something soft to keep your feet warm in the winter. Downstairs, the front room needed a sitting set, the kitchen had the bones but not the guts. Cabinets stood half-empty, and your food had nowhere proper to go.

You dug around until you found one of your crates and pulled out a small notebook, the spine soft with age. You started scribblin’ ideas.

Once you’d gotten enough down, your stomach gave a little growl. You checked what was left of the groceries and decided on something simple—eggs fried with bread on the side. It was modest, but warm. You made a mental note to go into town soon. You’d need more than salt and a dream to keep this house running.

After cleaning up, you wandered out onto the front porch and sunk into one of the rocking chairs. A soft breeze rolled through, bringing with it the smell of pine and heat. You rocked slow, sipping on a bit of leftover tea you’d kept warm. For the first time in a while, you felt... settled. Not safe, maybe. But getting there.

You didn’t realize how long you’d sat there until the sun dipped low behind the trees. The air changed, cooler now, shadows stretching long across the yard. And then—

“Evenin’, my lovely bride.”

You turned to find Remmick stepping through the front door like he’d just rolled outta bed, which he had. No shirt. Hair mussed. That grin like he already knew the effect he had on you.

You rolled your eyes, hiding your smile. “You always gotta come out here lookin’ like sin on a stick?”

Remmick froze, like you’d just handed him the moon.

His face lit up in a way that made your breath catch, a little stunned and way too pleased with himself. “Sin on a stick,” he repeated, slow like he was tasting it. “Might be the highest praise I ever got.”

He sat down beside you, still grinning like a fool, and stretched his legs out with a contented sigh. “Only dress like this when I know you’ll be watchin’,” he added with a wink that made you roll your eyes again, harder this time just to balance things out.

“How was your day, Mrs. Not-Yet-Married?”

You told him—about Annie’s slack-jawed surprise, Stack’s pacing, Smoke’s low cussing, the whole room near combusting when you mentioned Mary. The teasing left his face then, replaced by a low frown.

Remmick growls under his breath. "Mary better hope she got on that train, or that stack and smoke get her 'fore I do."

When you mentioned the list you’d made for the house, his expression softened again. “Money’s in the tin behind the kitchen bricks. You get whatever you want, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ cost too much when it’s for you.”

He stood, stretching in that lazy, showy way he always did when he knew you were watching. “I’m headin’ down to the Juke. Stack and Smoke wanna meet up early, start settin’ up for tomorrow night. You comin’?”

You rose too, brushing invisible dust from your skirt. “You already know I’m curious.”

He gave you a once-over and smirked. “Well, then I guess I better get dressed proper. Can’t be out here scandalizin’ the whole damn town before we even christen that porch swing.”

You gasped, hand to chest.

He just laughed, walking backwards toward the door. “Don’t act like that honey." He looked back at you licking his lips slowly. "Know once I get you full a' me you gonna talk filthier than all get out.”

You swatted toward him, but he was already ducking back into the house, still chuckling. A few minutes later, dressed in slacks and a tucked-in shirt that still didn’t quite tame his wildness, he was back at your side, and the two of you strolled toward the Juke beneath a soft twilight sky.

The place was quiet when you arrived—calm in that way that always came before the music started. Inside, the lights were low and warm. Chairs still sat upside down on tables, the floor freshly swept.

Stack and Smoke stood near the bar, speaking in low tones, while Delta Slim leaned against the piano with a toothpick tucked between his teeth, his sharp eyes tracking everything like usual.

Remmick went to join them, clasping hands and nodding at whatever plan was forming between them. You were still weirded out by the smile Delta Slim gave him.

Across the room, Grace and Annie were wiping down the back counter and sorting bottles. Bo stood nearby pretending to help, but mostly making wisecracks that kept Annie rolling her eyes.

Sammie was perched onstage, plucking lazy chords from his guitar, the sound low and thoughtful, echoing through the empty room like it had nowhere else to be.

You made your way over to Grace and Annie. The three of you slipped into rhythm without missing a beat—wiping down bottles, sorting mugs, and chatting in that slow, winding way women do when the day’s still settling.

As you placed another bottle on the shelf, you turned to Annie quietly. “They find her yet?”

Annie shook her head, mouth tightening. “Nah. Said she wasn’t on the early train, but they gonna keep askin’ around. Stack looked like he was ready to knock on every door from here to Jackson.”

Grace blinked. “Wait—why they lookin’ for Mary?”

You looked up, gaze drifting across the room—to Remmick, who was now listening to Sammie on the stage, head tilted like he was listening something sacred.

You swallowed, the weight of it still raw on your chest. Annie must’ve felt it too, ‘cause she waved a hand like she was swatting a fly. “’Cause she sold off her mama’s house right out from under our girl here.”

Grace’s whole face changed—surprise, then disbelief, and then a sharp anger that rolled across her like a storm cloud. “She did what?”

You didn’t say anything, just kept wiping the same bottle that didn’t need any more wiping. Annie saw it, patted your arm once.

“Don’t worry,” she said to Grace, glancing at you with a teasing glint in her eye. “White boy got her a new house. Real nice, too.”

Grace’s jaw dropped, then curved into a smirk. “You mean to tell me—? Oh, those things you picked out at the shop... they really gonna come in handy now, huh? You say thank you yet?”

You shot her a glare. “Mind ya business, Grace.”

Annie hummed. “That means she didn’t!”

“I will,” you muttered, cheeks warm.

Then you glanced back over your shoulder.

Remmick was laughing—shoulders shaking, mouth open—at something Sammie had said. Stack leaned into the counter beside him, and even Smoke had cracked a grin. Bo tossed in a one-liner that made the whole crew snort, and Delta Slim tilted his head in a way that almost looked like approval.

You blinked.

He was fitting in.

He was fitting in just fine.

Chapter Text

The night rolled on with easy laughter and a good rhythm. Eventually, everyone gathered around the bar—Annie, Grace, Bo, Delta Slim, Sammie, Stack, Smoke, and Remmick sliding into place beside you like he’d always belonged there.

Bo clinked a bottle against the counter. “A toast,” he said with that ever-present grin. “To the white boy settlin’ down proper. First one I ever met into a Black woman where it ain’t just jungle fever.”

The whole group burst into laughter, even Remmick, who raised his glass like he was proud of the title.

“Look,” Grace said between giggles, “he ain’t even flinch.”

“He’s tryin’ not to show he nervous,” Annie teased, elbowing you.

Remmick tilted his head, eyes warm as he looked at you. “Don’t reckon I got much to be nervous about. I already got the girl. Just waitin’ on her to let me paint her name on the mailbox.”

“Ooooh!” Grace and Annie hollered in unison, clapping.

You shook your head, hiding your smile behind your drink.

Smoke’s voice cut through the jokes, not harsh but steady. “All fun aside—we wanna say somethin’.”

The laughter died down. Stack nodded beside him, arms crossed.

“When you came around,” Smoke started, looking right at Remmick, “we had our doubts. For obvious reasons.”

Stack added, “You was a white man sniffin’ round our baby sister, sayin’ sweet things. We been down here long enough to know what that usually turns into.”

“But you ain’t been like that,” Smoke said. “You been showin’ up. Helpin’. Steppin’ up. That house you bought her—that’s somethin’ a man does when he’s serious.”

Stack leaned forward, tone firm. “So we just want you to hear it. You family now. Through her.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, not angry—just sure. “But if you ever hurt her, you dealin’ with us. Ain’t gonna be no talkin’ after that.”

The bar went quiet, thick with the weight of it. Your breath caught in your throat, unsure how Remmick might take it.

But Remmick didn’t flinch. He just sat there, chest rising slow, jaw tight with something like emotion.

“I haven’t had a real family in a long time,” he said, voice low but clear. “What y’all just said… that means more than I can explain.”

He glanced at you, then back at the twins. “I’d never hurt her. Never.”

Annie and Grace looked at each other.

Then Bo blurted out suddenly. "Not unless she wanted a lil hurtin' in the bedroom right?"

"Bo!" Grace snapped at him.

Remmick just smirked.

The conversation lifted again after that—lighter now, easy like a summer breeze.

You leaned forward, looking at Grace and Annie. “Hey, y’all wanna come with me in the morning? I need to pick up a few things for the house.”

Annie perked up. “Course. Long as I don’t have to carry anything heavier than a flower pot.”

Grace grinned. “Oh, we shoppin’? Say less.”

Bo groaned, already shaking his head. “Lord help me, I see my coin disappearin’ already.”

The group laughed again as Stack tossed a peanut at Sammie. “How’s Pearline doin’? Or you still too scared to call it a courtship?”

Sammie flushed, muttering something into his drink, making the whole crew crack up again.

Eventually, folks began to tidy up—wiping the bar, stacking stools, sweeping the floor. One by one, they called out their goodnights and promises to be back tomorrow night for another full Juke.

You and Remmick made your way back home under the dark sky, quiet but comfortable beside each other.

On the porch, Remmick pulled you close, brushing a kiss against your forehead. “I’m headin’ out for a bit. Gotta feed.”

You blinked, then pulled back slightly. “Feed—? Oh. Right.” You scrunched your nose. “Almost forgot you was out here drinkin’ folks like sweet tea.”

He grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Blood ain't got nothing on your nector.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Go."

He winked. “I’ll be back ‘fore the moon climbs too high, Mrs. Not-Yet-Married. Don’t want to leave my bride alone too long, now do I?”

You rolled your eyes with a soft smile and watched him disappear into the trees.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet after Remmick left. You listened to his footsteps fade down the porch steps before moving back inside, drawn to the idea of warmth and quiet water after a long day.

You lit the oil lamp in the bathroom and filled the tub, steam curling up as you unwrapped one of the soft nightgowns Grace had helped you pick out. Pale blue with lace along the hem, it wasn’t meant to be scandalous, but there was something about it that made you feel… lovely. A kind of softness you hadn’t allowed yourself in a long time.

The bath eased the tension in your shoulders. You soaked for a while, letting your thoughts drift like dust in the lamplight. Afterward, you dried off and pulled on the nightgown, brushing through your hair slow and easy in front of the bedroom mirror, candlelight flickering across your skin.

You heard the front door creak open just as you set the brush down.

“Sugar?” Remmick’s voice carried through the house and up the stairs, low and casual at first.

You stood and stepped to stand in front of the bed, the hem of the gown grazing your thighs. “Back already?”

You listened to the steady sounds of his steps and watched as he stepped into the bedroom.

He stopped in the doorway when he saw you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

His usual smirk was gone. Something darker flickered in his gaze, something hungry. His eyes burned red around the edges, and when he swallowed, his fangs were out—just barely, but unmistakable. Drool already pooling at the corner of his mouth. 

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, but you didn’t flinch.

Instead, you stepped toward him slowly.

“You’ve been so good to me,” you said, voice soft but sure. “All this time. And I haven’t even thanked you.”

Remmick looked like he was trying very hard to stay still, like one wrong move would shatter his self-control. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you interrupted gently. “But I want to.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the collar of his shirt, slow and steady. His skin was cool under your touch, but the tension in his body burned hotter than fire.

He looked at you like you were the only thing left in the world worth worshipping.

“I’ll be good.” he said, voice hoarse, the Irish in his accent slipping thicker around the edges.

You smiled. “I don’t want you to be.”

Chapter Text

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath your touch.

Remmick's breath hitched, his eyes never leaving yours.

You leaned in and licked the edge of his lips. Catching the drool coming out the side. You hear him groan before you feel him grip you tightly. Your lips finding his in a deep kiss.

You could feel his teeth pressing into your bottom lip. 

When you pulled away, you heard his ragged breath, felt his heart pounding against your hand. You kept eye contact with him as your hand went lower. Gripping him through his pants. 

Shit.

You knew he was big. Had seen it that night on your porch. But seeing and feeling are two separate things. 

Remmick whimpered.

You slowly sank to your knees, your eyes locked onto his. " You gonna finally let me have my turn?" you purred, your voice husky with need.

"Fuck sugar." He growled deeply.

You unbuckled his belt, your hands trembling slightly with anticipation. His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated, as you freed his cock from his pants.

Remmick's cock was a work of art up close. His cock stood tall and proud. The ridges of his veins standing out. He was so hard, twitching in your hand, precum beading from the tip of his length. 

You licked your lips, smirking up at him. "Hmmm. You gonna wanna hold on for this one baby."

Remmick's hands found your hair, not grabbing or guiding. Just anchoring.

"You're driving me wild, sugar," he growled, his voice a low rumble. 

You dragging your tongue along the veined underside, sucking the sensitive tip like it was a lollipop.

He groaned, his hips bucking slightly.

You smiled, taking his cock into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the thick shaft. You could feel the veins pulsing against your tongue, the taste of him sweet and salty.

You began to suck, your head bobbing up and down. Your hand reaches down to cup his heavy balls, rolling them gently.

Remmick's hands tightened in your hair, his hips thrusting up to meet your mouth. "Ple-Please Sugar." he begged, his voice thick with desire. "I want to feel you swallow my cock."

You allowed him to guide you as he thrust his hips upward, his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

The sound of your sucking intensified, your head bobbing faster, your hand working in tandem with your mouth, the wet, slapping sounds of your mouth on his cock, and the low, guttural groans of Remmick's pleasure filling the room.

You felt the sudden shift in Remmick's weight as he pulled out of your mouth, your lips still parted in a soft moan.

You panicked for a moment as he lifted you effortlessly, throwing you onto the bed with a playful growl.

Before you could protest, he was on top of you, his cock at your mouth and his face at your pussy. Your pale blue nightgown was yanked up, revealing your skin to the cool air and his hungry gaze. You were a little embarrassed by the cloth you had pressed between your thighs, still catching the blood you were losing.

The embarrassment didn't last long. 

"Got my pussy all wrapped up like a pretty present tonight." he murmured, his breath hot on your skin. "Been makin' me wait to taste that pussy again. Makin me wait to taste that blood." 

He ripped the cloth away like it was a piece of wet paper. Then leaned in, teasing you, his tongue flicking against your clit, making you squirm. "Shit, baby, needed to this pussy some more." He groaned. "Fuckin' wet. Always so fuckin' wet. My cock in your mouth do that, baby?" You tried to answer, but his cock was in the way, a delicious distraction.

Remmick chuckled, his voice vibrating against clit. He began to lick you in earnest, his tongue exploring every inch of you. You tried to focus on making him feel good, Your mouth still stretched around his cock, the tip battering the back of your throat, but you were having a hard time with the way he was eating you like you were his last meal. Remmick's fingers found their way to your slick entrance, teasing your folds, spreading your juices some more. 

"You were sweet before, but with that blood baby? Shit." 

You thought the feeling couldnt get any better.

Then you felt him spit on your pussy, and you were corrected. 

He chuckled darkly. "Got me droolin so much, honey. Bet you can't even feel it, huh? Pussy squirtin' like a fuckin' waterfall. Gonna get you screaming my name."

His hips began to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock sliding effortlessly into your mouth. His hands gripping your thighs tightly, keeping you open for his mouth. His tongue rubbing thickly into your pulsating walls, and you continue to drip into his eager mouth and down his chin, soaking the bed sheets. Your choked whines are pathetic.

You could feel the heat between your legs, the wetness growing, and you knew you were close to the edge.

Remmick knew it too. He yanked his cock out of your mouth. 

"Why you not giving me that cream? Come on. Give it to me. Give me that fuckin' honey." He damn near lifted you off the bed. Holding your pussy against his face, hands gripping your ass. 

You screamed, body convulsing as you came, your juices coating his face.

Remmick pulled away, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Good girl," he praised, his voice thick with desire. You felt as he turned around, laying next to you on the bed. Kissing your neck softly. 

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours, a dark smirk playing on his bloody lips. "I can't wait to feel you cum again."  He reached down, his fingers tracing the wetness between your legs, a wicked grin spreading across his face. 

"That's it, baby. Take my fingers. I want to feel you squeeze me tight." His voice was low, commanding, and it sent shivers down your spine. You arched your back, your hips moving in rhythm with his fingers, your breaths coming in short gasps.

"You're so fucking perfect," he growled, his fingers moving faster, deeper. "I'm gonna make you come so hard, sugar. I'm gonna make you squirt all over my fingers."

He curled his fingers, pressing against that spot that made you gasp and arch your back. "Fuck, sugar, you're so tight," he groaned, his eyes never leaving yours. "I can feel you clenching." He added a fourth finger, stretching you, filling you.

"You're going to take every inch of me, aren't you, sugar? You're going to take my cock like a good girl." His fingers moved faster, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. 

His dirty talk sent you spiraling, your body tensing as you felt the familiar heat building. "That's it, baby. Cum for me. I want to feel you cum all over me." You cried out, your body convulsing as you came, your juices coating his fingers.

Remmick looked up, a satisfied smile on his face. "That's it, sweetheart. Get the bed wet. I want it soaked by the time I'm done with you."

Remmick's fingers slipped out of you, you watched as he lifted them. Sucking them into his mouth. "Mmm...best Thank You I ever got." 

You'd of laughed if you could feel your lungs. 

He sat up, moving until he was resting between your open thighs. 

Remmick's eyes seemed to glow as he looked at you. "Wan-Wanna fuck ya. Can I baby? Finally let me feel you around me? Know you said I don't need to be good, but I will honey. Promise." He was begging so pretty. Eyes wide and almost wet with tears.

His hands grabbed you all over, possessively, as if he couldn't get enough of your touch. 

"I want to feel you, sugar. I want to know every inch of you," he murmured, his voice thick with need. You could feel his cock, hard and ready, pressing against your thigh, seeking entrance.
"I'm going to make you feel so good, sugar. I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before." 

"Please, Remmick," you whispered.

He groaned. 

Remmick reached between you and teased you with his cock. He smacked it gently against your wet pussy before rubbing it against your slit. Collecting some of your wetness with his tip. He paused, letting his drool drop between you onto his cock, using the mixture of your fluids to slick himself.  

"I can't wait to feel you clench around me." He positioned himself, the head of his cock poised at your entrance. "I'm going to fill you up, sugar. I'm going to make you feel so good."

He pushed in slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, a wicked grin spreading across his face. 

His hips moving forward, filling you inch by inch. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as he began to move, his thrusts hard and deep.

"Shit..Remmick!" 

"That's it. You finally feel that fuckin' cock? This what you need?" he growled, his voice a low rumble. "So tight and wet. I've been dreaming of this, sugar. Of feeling you cummin' around my cock."

He picked up the pace, his body slamming against yours, his fingers tangling in your hair. He laughed breathlessly into your cheek, smearing blood over you. Teeth pressed against your skin. "That's it, baby. Take it. Take all of me." You screamed, your body convulsing as you came again, your juices coating his cock.

Remmick groaned, his thrusts becoming more urgent. "That's it, sugar. Cum for me. I want to feel you cum again."

You gasped as he pulled out, his cock glistening with your wetness, and then he smacked it roughly against your clit again, the contact sending a shiver of anticipation through you.

"Told you I wanted you to soak this fuckin bed," he growled, his voice thick with hunger. He positioned himself again, the head of his cock poised at your entrance. He pushed in hard, his cock filling you completely, and you gasped at the sudden intrusion. Remmick began to move, his hips thrusting against you with a rough, intense rhythm.

It only took two more thrusts to send you over the edge again.

"You're mine, sugar," he growled, his voice low and possessive. "All fucking mine." His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, his cock sliding even deeper inside you. 

Your eyes widened. "Re-Re-Rem-" His thrusts picked back up again.

You didn't know what sound was the loudest. Your pussy, the sounds from your mouth, the sound of ya'lls bodies slapping together, or the sound of the headboard going through the fuckin' wall. 

"My fuckin' wife. Gonna take care of you for the rest of my life." He moved his face down. Yanking the top of your nightgown and tearing it with his teeth. He wasted no time licking and nipping at your breasts. "Been neglecting these titties. So sorry baby. Promise I'll make it up to ya." 

You moaned, your body arching as Remmick's tongue swirled around your nipple, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. Your fingers tangling in his dark hair. 

He slid his hand down, fingers finding your clit, and you cried out, your body writhing as he began to stroke you, his touch expert and confident. "Remmick," you panted, your hips bucking against his hand. "Please baby. Please. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come again." You begged him.

He yanked his head up, trying to look into your eyes, but your face rolled to the side. Unable to control yourself with the pleasure shooting through your body.

His body seemed to drop even lower, pushing you deeper into the bed. You gasped as the hand not on your clit came up and grabbed your face. Making you look at him.  "You wanna come again?"

You tried to answer him. Words caught in your throat. 

He stopped rubbing your clit and sat up. His powerful frame shifting beneath you, and to pull you up until you were straddling his lap. 

Your arms flung around his shoulders, trying to hold on as gravity put you even further on his dick.

The hand that had been holding your face yanks your head back. Holding you to look into his eyes again. They were still bleeding red, still glowing. Teeth sharp as ever and drool pooled onto your breast. 

"I asked you a question, sugar," he growled. The hand not holding your head smacked your ass. 

You yelped as your hips jerked. Causing you to bounce a little.

"Yes! Yes!" You cried out.

"Hmmmm....know you do sweetheart. But your gonna have to earn it now." He smirked.

You whimpered as his hand gripped your ass, guiding you up and down his length, his eyes locked onto yours.

"You was so mean to me honey. Made me wait to feel this fuckin pussy." His grip got tighter. "Why'd you do that huh? Why you make your husband wait? This pussy's mine ain't it?" 

I'm gonna die

He smirked, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to move your hips, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and force. 

"I can feel your pussy clenching around me, milking my cock. You're so fucking beautiful when you bounce on my cock, taking every inch like a good little wife." His grip on your ass tightened, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he began to thrust upward, meeting your movements with a force that made you gasp.

"Fuck, Remmick," you panted, your body on fire with pleasure. "You're so deep inside me."

"Yeah I am. You wanna get me deeper? Come on. Said you wanna cum. Earn it baby. Bounce on that fuckin' cock. Was so mean to me baby, so mean. Didn't want to wait. Wanted that sweet pussy the minute I saw you." Remmick was rambling now. Eyes hazy. 

You held on tightly to Remmick's shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscular frame as you bounced on his lap, your body moving in rhythm with his thrusts.

"I was mean. So mean baby." you panted, your voice laced with pleasure. "You been so good to me. Licked this fuckin' pussy till she was crying. Was so good even when I made you stand outside."

You were huffing now. Out of breath from the force you were slamming yourself down. 

"Got us a house and everything baby. You such a good husband." 

Remmick whined loudly. Both hands now gripping your ass. 

"Wanna be good to you baby. You gonna let me be good? You gonna let me get my husband's cock wetter? I'mma do it too. Gonna cream all over this fuckin' cock."

You tugged on his curls. He whimpered.

"You gonna get me wet too right? Already got your drool all over these titties. Gonna cum in me? Huh? Let me feel ya?" Remmick snarled. Flipping you onto your back again. 

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide as watched his cock disappear into you. He lowers back over you. Trapping you against the bed again. 

“Can feel your pussy lips quivering. You gonna squirt again and make a stupid mess? Get your husband all fuckin’ messy?” His drool slides against your cheek as his arms slide under your back, keeping you firmly against him with every rough grind into your cunt.

“Give it to me again. Come on baby, said you wanted to get me wetter. Want your husbands cum? You gonna have to cream on this cock again. COME ON!" 

You shatter beneath him, crying out loudly as your legs clamp above his ass. You see stars and squirt, convulsing roughly but he doesn’t let up.

You hear as Remmick spits out curses and his hips thrust unevenly. He messily grinds his dick deep into your pussy.

The aftershocks rock through your body, more numbing than the last, you barely have the chance to watch him. 

A slant of moonlight pouring through the window, you caught it—that gleam of his teeth. Not just white. Not just sharp. But something ancient and dangerous glinting under control, like a blade dressed in velvet. It should have frightened you.

Instead, your breath caught in awe.

He’s flushed red, the vibrant colour bleeding down his cheeks to his chest that puffs in and out. His head is thrown back, neck tenses, the tendons visible through his skin. Lips parted to the sky, your name on the tip of his tongue and blood on his chin. 

Your broken utterance of I love you is what finally pushes him over the edge. 

Chapter Text

You weren’t sure when you’d drifted off, but the soft sound of water running somewhere in the house pulled you from sleep. The quiet hush of it, steady and calming, almost lulled you right back under—until you caught the faint scent of soap.

A moment later, Remmick appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of loose sleep pants slung low on his hips. His chest held a light sheen from where you could see he’d washed up, the lamplight catching on the curve of muscle and old scars that spoke more than words ever could.

Even half-drowsy, your breath caught just a little.

He grinned when he saw you blinking up at him. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice still gravel-soft from sleep. “Got a bath drawin’ for you.”

You shifted beneath the blanket, half-ready to protest, but before you could so much as sit up, he was already by your side. “Ah, none of that,” he murmured, sliding his arms beneath you with practiced ease. “Ain’t no reason for my bride to lift a finger if I’m around.”

You let out a sleepy little squeak as he scooped you up, cradled snug against his chest. Arms looped instinctively around his neck, your cheek brushing the bare skin of his collarbone.

“Remmick,” you mumbled, half-laughing against him, “I got two good legs. I can walk.”

He nudged the bathroom door open with his foot, a grin playing at his lips. “Now honey it's not nice to lie. Your body's still shaking." You hated how smug he sounded. "And I got two strong arms, so why not put ’em to use? Besides,” he added with a wink, “bride’s supposed to be carried, ain’t she?”

Remmick softly lowered you into the tub. You moaned at the feeling of the hot water against your muscles. 

You saw Remmicks jaw tick. "I'm trying to clean ya up darlin', gonna waste my hard work you keep making sounds like that." He leers at you, wiggling his eyebrows. 

The giggle escaped before you could stop it. 

"Now you soak here for just a minute honey, I'll be right back." He paused for a moment then leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead — slow and reverent.

Then, in a voice low and honey-warm, he murmured something in Gaelic against your skin. The cadence wrapped around you like a lullaby, soft and solemn.

You looked up at him, caught in the quiet spell of it. “What was that?”

Remmick’s eyes held something distant and tender, a flicker of memory in their depths. “A prayer,” he said after a moment. “One my da used to say to my ma every night.”

Chapter Text

The smell of eggs hit you before your eyes even opened.

For a second, you thought you were dreaming—until the soft clatter of a plate pulled you fully awake. You padded out of the bedroom barefoot, the early light filtering through the sheer curtains you’d left open in the front room.

And there he was.

Remmick stood in the kitchen, shirtless as usual, barefoot in sleep pants, flipping a final egg onto a chipped white plate like he’d been doing it his whole life. He turned as you entered, grinning wide.

“There you are, darlin’. Was gettin’ ready to wake ya. Didn’t want you late meetin’ with Annie and Grace this mornin’. Gotta stay in Annie’s good graces.”

You blinked at him, amused. “You scared of Annie, Remmick?”

He nodded solemnly, like a man admitting to facing a higher power. “She scares the shit outta me. Only thing dangerous to creatures like myself are people like her.”

Then his grin returned. “...and you. But that’s a different danger altogether.”

You laughed and shook your head, settling into a chair at the kitchen table as he set the plate in front of you, twitching a bit like he expected a judgment.

“You cooking eggs?” you asked.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Wanted to make sure you ate before headin’ out. Ain’t cooked in years, so… sorry if it tastes bad.”

You took a bite. Then another. “Remmick... these’re perfect.”

His face lit up like someone just handed him a medal. You finished the meal with him watching like it was the most important thing in the world. When you stood to take your plate to the sink, he beat you to it.

“I got it,” he said quickly, reaching for it.

You arched an eyebrow. “You gonna be my house husband, sugar?”

He smirked, rinsing the plate. “Well, I already bought the house, made the breakfast, do the liftin’ and carryin’... figure I’m halfway qualified.”

You left him at the sink and headed back to the bedroom. By the time you returned to the hallway, dressed and wrapped for the day, he was waiting at the top of the stairs.

“I’m headed off, baby,” you told him. “I pulled the bedroom curtains extra tight, but I’mma open the ones in the front before I go. Just don’t want nobody passin’ by thinkin’ the house is suspicious.”

Remmick nodded, stepping close and brushing your knuckles with his fingers. “Alright. Be careful out there. And don’t forget to grab some coin from the tin—I set it out for you. If somethin’ catches your eye, don’t you hesitate. This is your home now—make it yours.”

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, smiling as his hand brushed your waist.

You pulled back slightly. "Now make sure you get plenty of rest," you murmured, your voice laced with a playful tone. "We've got to go to the juke tonight, but I want that cock again." You bit your lip, your eyes meeting Remmick's, a mischievous glint in them. "And my husband wouldn't want to make me sad, would he?"

He whined. Hands tightening on your waist. "Now why you gotta say stuff like that before you leave baby?!" One of his hands lowered to palm your ass and pull your hips towards the buldge in his pants. "Why you gotta be mean to your husband huh?" 

You wiggled your hips a little. Giving him some friction. "I'm sorry baby, your right." You watch his eyes light up, excited. "But I gotta get to the store now. So you gonna have to take care of yourself." 

His mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You are cruel,” he breathed, eyes wide like you’d just broken his heart and fed it to the chickens.

You laughed, giving him a little wink before heading down the stairs. He watched you go until you turned the corner, then disappeared into the quiet hush of the house, the grin still tugging at his mouth as he slipped into the shadows to rest.

-

Outside, the sun was already rising warm and golden. You cracked open the front curtains just enough to let the light in without compromising anything—and stepped into the day.

At Bo & Grace’s shop, the bell over the door jingled and both women looked up. Grace grinned.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally emerged.”

Annie tilted her head with a smirk. “You get any sleep last night or were you busy finally thankin’ that man?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile. “Y’all need hobbies.”

Together, the three of you set off down the row of shops and market stalls—the ones on your side of the street. In Clarksdale, like most places in Mississippi, there was an unspoken boundary as clear as a painted line. White folks had their stores—fancier, newer, stocked full. Colored folks had theirs—weather-worn but familiar, where the owners knew your name and didn’t flinch when you walked through the door. You stayed where you were allowed, where you were safe.

You stuck close to Annie and Grace, weaving through the midday bustle. The shopping list was long, and between the three of you, it came together fast—tin pans, enamel bowls, cast iron skillets, oil lamp oil, wooden spoons, and a basin or two. Things to make a house livable. Yours.

Annie bartered like she was buying for a kingdom, talking down prices with a raised brow and a sharp tongue. Grace, all smiles and honey, managed to charm one of the younger clerks into offering a mid-afternoon delivery. You all agreed Remmick would stay tucked away in the back room during the drop-off—no need giving anyone a reason to start whispering.

“It’s a solid plan,” Grace said, brushing dust off her skirt. “Still gotta be careful. But you’re makin’ it work.”

While they haggled for lamp oil, you wandered toward a rack of men’s clothes. You didn’t mean to stop—but your hands were already moving, thumbing through crisp button-downs, soft undershirts, and sturdy work pants. You picked out a few pieces you knew Remmick would look good in—deep blues and warm browns that would catch the light in his eyes, whether they were that usual soft gray-blue or burning red. You even grabbed a little pageboy cap you thought would suit him, and a fresh pair of suspenders since his old ones were definitely on their last thread.

When you returned to the girls, your arms full, Annie raised an eyebrow.

“Now look who’s shoppin’ like she’s got a husband to feed and dress.”

Grace smirked, peeking at the pile. “Mm-hmm. Talkin’ ‘bout us, and here you are pickin’ out britches and hats for your man.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but then spotted the fabric bundle tucked under Annie's arm. “Ain’t that a shirt for Smoke?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Mind your business.”

Grace snorted. “Uh-huh. We all playin’ house now.”

You all laughed, shoulders brushing as you made your way back toward the edge of the stalls. As the sun started to dip and stretch shadows long across the dirt roads, the three of you paused to hug goodbye, agreeing to meet up later at The Juke.

Grace leaned in with a sly grin. “Tell that man of yours we expect a fresh outfit tonight. Shirt tucked, hair combed. No excuses.”

Annie gave you a knowing look, tilting her head. “Mmhmm. And ya'll better not be late tonight either cuz you got caught up saying 'Thank you' some more."

You started to protest, but Annie cut you off with a wave of her hand. “Girl, hush. You told us 'bout what you been up to lately. Porch still holdin’ up?”

You nearly tripped over your own feet. “Annie!”

Grace doubled over laughing. “You should’ve seen your face!”

“I’m just askin’,” Annie said, holding up her hands like she was innocent. “That swing got a weight limit, y’know. Don’t want y’all testin’ it too hard.”

“You two are the worst,” you muttered, though you couldn’t stop smiling.

Grace bumped your shoulder. “Just proud of you, is all. That man’s got you glowin’ like a sunrise.”

Annie nodded, a little more serious now. “You deserve good things. Don’t forget that.”

You gave them both a soft look, heart full. “Thanks. For everything.”

Then you glanced around—just a quick flick of your eyes down the row, across the street, toward anyone lingering too long near the stalls. Once you were sure no one was close enough to overhear, you lowered your voice.

“I know it ain’t easy,” you said. “Me bein’ with Remmick. A white man… there’s a lot that could go wrong. And I know folks talk. Or worse. But y’all still ridin’ with me anyway. I don’t take that for granted.”

Grace’s teasing faded into something warmer, gentler. She reached out and gave your arm a squeeze. “We see how he looks at you. Ain’t no fakin’ that.”

Beside her, Annie didn’t say anything right away—but she gave you a look. One of those deep, knowing ones that spoke louder than words ever could. There was weight behind it. Understanding. Like she saw the full shape of what you meant… and maybe even what you didn’t say.

You held her gaze for a second, and something eased in your chest.

“Alright now,” Grace said, breaking the moment with a smile. “That’s enough sap. Go on home." 

You laughed turning.

“See y’all tonight,” you called over your shoulder.

“Don’t be late!” they called back in harmony, still giggling.

Arms full, heart light, you couldn’t help but grin—already thinking of the night ahead.

Chapter Text

You got back just as the sun began to dip behind the trees, golden light streaking across the yard. Inside, the house was quiet. Remmick was still upstairs asleep—curtains drawn tight, casting the bedroom into deep shadow.

You spent a bit of time setting down the items you’d picked up and straightening up the front room in preparation. When the furniture deliveries arrived, you met the men at the porch with a firm tone and a smile.

“Just set it all in here,” you said, gesturing to the front room. “Twins’ll help move it later.”

The delivery boys exchanged a look at the mention of Smoke and Stack, then nodded quickly and got to work. You figured dropping their names might keep any rumors from spreading too far.

Once they were gone, you took a few moments to breathe, watching as the shadows stretched longer. Then you climbed the stairs quietly.

You found Remmick sprawled in the bed, one arm hanging off the side, hair mussed, drool on the pillow. You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh. After a moment of simply watching him, you padded over to the wardrobe to pull out your dress for the night—something a little scandalous for the times, but you felt like showing out.

Just as you were slipping on your shoes, he stirred.

“Aww,” he whined. “I missed the fun part.”

You smirked, pushing the little cap you’d picked up earlier onto his curls. “Not quite. I got you somethin’.”

That woke him all the way up. “What’s that, sugar?”

You sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the shirts and slacks—one a soft white cotton with blue stripes, another dark navy with polished buttons. A light gray pair of trousers to match the new suspenders. "Ya old ones are worn out."

Lastly, you showed him the matching undershirts and another pageboy cap that would look real fine over his curls.

“I figured they’d go with either your blue eyes or the red ones.” you said with a pointed look.

He grinned, delighted. “You’re spoilin’ me, sweetheart.”

“Go wash up,” you told him with a nudge. “We need to get goin’.”

You barely had time to straighten your dress before he came back, fresh from the bath, shirt tucked in crisp and suspenders snapping into place. The new clothes hugged him just right—broad shoulders, trim waist, those sleeves rolled to his elbows like he meant trouble.

His curls were damp, a few soft ringlets curling longer now around his ears. You noticed it right away.

“Hair must be growin’,” you murmured, mostly to yourself.

Then you stepped closer, fingers catching one of the new suspenders. You gave it a gentle tug, watching it snap lightly back into place.

“Look at you,” you said, tilting your head, letting your eyes linger. “Like somethin’ out of a dream—and one of them expensive catalogs too.”

He grinned, slow and easy, eyes sweeping over you. “That so? Guess I’ll let you dress me more often, if it gets me talked about like that.”

“You clean up nice, sugar.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dipping low. “You keep tuggin’ on my suspenders like that and we ain’t never gonna make it to the Juke.”

You laughed, pushing gently at his chest. “Don’t start.”

He winked. “Ain’t startin’. Just sayin’—you make it real hard to behave.”

On the way out the door, Remmick noticed the furniture stacked in the front room. “I’ll move it all tomorrow,” he promised. “You just be the boss and tell me where it goes, darlin’.”

-

The house wasn’t far from the Juke—just a short walk down the winding path and past a stretch of trees that still held onto the last of the summer heat. With your arm linked through Remmick’s, it didn’t take long at all, especially with the moon high and the sound of Delta Slim’s piano already echoing faintly through the night air.

When y’all got to the Juke, Cornbread was perched out front like a guard dog.

“Well look who’s back,” he muttered, squinting at Remmick.

You gave Cornbread a sideways look. “Ain’t nobody asked for commentary.”

Inside, the night was in full swing. Delta Slim was playing the piano so hard, you thought it'd catch fire. Pearline and Sammie spun across the floor, feet quick and faces flushed. All eyes flicked to Remmick when he entered, but no one seemed tense like last time.

Bo popped up out of nowhere and threw an arm around Remmick’s shoulder. “C’mon partner, we got cards tonight.” He pulled him off, Remmick tossing you a grin as he went.

You laughed and turned to spot the twins near a post. You made your way to them.

When you finally spotted Stack and Smoke leaning against a post near the center of the room, you made your way over with a smile already forming.

“Well, well,” Stack drawled, giving you a once-over before glancing past you. “Ain’t our pale boy lookin’ slick tonight.”

Smoke chuckled, nodding toward Remmick. “Shirt all pressed, curls bouncin’ like he just stepped out the picture show. Got that shine like he know he somebody’s favorite.”

“Bet he ain’t pick that outfit out hisself,” Stack added, elbowing his twin. “You dressed him, didn’t you? Had him modelin’ in front the mirror like Sunday church.”

You rolled your eyes, snorting. “Nigga ain’t Annie get you that shirt today?” you shot back at Smoke, raising an eyebrow.

Smoke sputtered and Stack cracked up.

The night buzzed with laughter and music, the kind of joy that sank deep into your bones. People danced with wild abandon, drinks passed from hand to hand, and the rhythm wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.

It was well past midnight when the Juke began to empty. The usual crowd lingered—Annie, Grace, Bo, Delta Slim, Sammie, the twins, and Remmick. The room was quieter, warm with the afterglow of the party.

Then the front doors banged open, and one of Stacks young runners skidded inside, breath heaving. “Somebody comin’,” he gasped.

The mood shifted like a cold breeze.

The twins and you rushed forward. “What is it?” Stack demanded.

“Saw a truck—headin’ straight this way. Some porky white man drivin’. Said his name was—”

“Hogwood,” the twins said together, grim.

They turned toward the door.

“We told that cracker not to come back,” Smoke growled. “He probably the one that sent them folks here last time.”

Remmick joined them, standing beside you, slightly shielding you with his body.

The truck groaned to a stop,headlights slicing through the dark. The door swung open with a rusty creak, and Hogwood stumbled out, bottle still in hand, boots dragging like he couldn’t quite remember how to walk straight. He swayed a little, then stomped forward in a lurching march, all heat and fury and the heavy stench of liquor trailing behind him like smoke.

“You!” he snarled, jabbing a finger at the Smoke and Stack. “This is on you. My boys—dead. You think I don’t know it was you who brought this filth down on us?”

No one spoke. Just the low hum of the Juke’s lights and the faint clink of glass behind the bar.

“You were supposed to fold!” he shouted. “That’s what this place was for! The Juke—this wasn’t no happy little dance hall. It was a warning! A mark on this town to remind your kind where they stood. You think I ain't remember why we let it go up? So y’all could gather like flies, just to be swatted down when the time came.”

He spat on the floor, voice rising with every breath. “You were supposed to lose. Crawl outta here with your heads low and your dreams crushed. Now look at you—livin', laughin', dressin' like you belong.” His glare swept across the room, full of hate and disbelief. “You think you can build something here? Own somethin'? You think this is yours?”

“I am the Grand Dragon,” he bellowed, chest puffed. “You think this ends here?”

He angrily looked around, beady eyes focusing on you. 

"And you," he sneered, his lip curling, "bet my boys would've liked you. Hell, they always had a taste for—"

He didn’t get to finish the sentence.

There was a blur—faster than a blink—and suddenly Remmick was no longer beside you.

He was in front of Hogwood.

Hand clamped around the man’s throat.

Lifting him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing at all.

Hogwood sputtered, boots kicking wildly above the dirt, fingers clawing at Remmick’s grip. But Remmick didn’t budge. His eyes had gone blood-red, glowing like twin coals under moonlight, and when his lips peeled back, his teeth were no longer just teeth.

Gasps rang out like a shotgun blast, cutting clean through the Mississippi night. You could hear everyone shouting and cussing around you, voices overlapping like thunder rolling through a tin roof.

“What the—hell is that?!” Bo hollered, backing up so fast he nearly tripped over Grace’s foot.

“Sweet Jesus, he done snatched him like a chicken hawk!” Delta Slim barked, eyes wide, stumbling back into the porch rail.

Stack growled something low and dangerous, pulling Smoke with him as they moved like they might need to intervene—or at least brace for whatever came next.

Grace’s voice cracked, half a scream, half a prayer. 

Sammie just kept saying, “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” over and over, frozen where he stood, his hands lifted like he was trying to hold the air still.

But you and Annie?

You didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Because you already knew.

Remmick’s voice came out low and sharp, each word cutting cleaner than a blade.

“You don’t talk to her,” he growled, tightening his grip just slightly, enough to make Hogwood's face flush dark. “You don’t breathe in her direction. You don’t speak her name. Understand?”

Hogwood’s only answer was a strangled gasp.

The Juke stood frozen in silence.

The air thick with more than fear.

It was thick with Knowing.

Chapter Text

Remmick stood front and center, still holding Hogthorn mid-air by the throat like he weighed no more than a sack of flour. His red eyes glowed in the lamplight, fangs gleaming, claws curled around Hogthorn’s neck. The man was gurgling, red-faced and kicking like a fool.

Remmick turned toward you, still holding Hogwood like he was a misbehaving dog caught in the neighbor’s yard. Hogwood looked two seconds from crying.

“Now, baby, before you say anything,” Remmick started, voice cautious and hands comically full of angry racist, “I meant to take care of him.”

You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry—what?”

“I was gonna handle it,” he insisted, gesturing lightly with the hand that wasn’t currently wrapped around Hogwood’s neck. “Eventually. You know… before he showed up like a damn-."

You crossed your arms, all the heat of a furious wife and none of the patience. “The fuck you mean you meant to take care of him earlier?”

Remmick winced. “Awww, darlin’... now don’t be mad, but I... kinda knew about Hogwood bein' a problem.” he said quickly, adjusting Hogthorn in his grip like the man was just a crate of produce.

Your jaw dropped. “You KNEW?!”

“Yes, see, look—it ain’t like I was keepin’ secrets,” he said, sounding every bit like he was, in fact, keepin’ secrets. “Ya see, Bert’s his motherfuckin’ nephew! And since me and Bert share a mind a little, I saw it in his memories. Figured I’d get around to it.”

You stared at him like you were weighing the odds of Annie actually having the Holy Water she threatened to bring.

And all the while, Hogwood wheezed between wheezy yells and kicks, and Remmick stood there like it was just another Friday.

Man been doing this for years it probably fuckin' is

“I was gonna handle it!” he whined. “I was just... waitin’ for the right moment!”

“With him strung up like laundry in front of the whole family? That was your moment?” You crossed your arms. 

Smoke’s voice came first — low and furious. “Bert? Yo buddy Bert?”

Stack chimed in. "You brought the fuckin KKK into my fuckin' buildin?!"

Delta Slim stood there wobbling trying to recover his dropped bottle. "Ya'll worried about the KKK, I'm still trying to figure out what the hell is going on?!"

Stack let out a sound like thunder crackin’ spinning to look at me and Annie. “And ya'll seem too fuckin calm!”

Annie cut in, firm. “Now hold on. I wouldn’t keep no man like him around if I thought he was dangerous to us. If he was, I’d have laid his ass flat with a Psalm and a pot of boilin’ water weeks ago.”

Bo blinked, sweat beading on his forehead. “Okay but uh—maybe we handle ol’ Hogwood first? Before he pisses himself and attracts raccoons.”

“Darlin’. My sweet girl. My lawful, rightfully upset wife,” Remmick crooned, laying it on thicker than cane syrup, the Irish in his voice dragging every word soft and sweet. “You just say the word. I’ll tie him up with piano wire, drop him in the bayou, toss him in a hog pen—ain’t no shortage of options.”

He bounced Hogwood lightly, like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. The man choked out a wheeze.

“Could string him up out back with a sign ‘round his neck readin’ ‘I talk too damn much,’ let the night handle the rest.”

He turned back to you, eyes glowing and full of mischief. “Whatever pleases ya, mo chroí. Mo bhean chéile. Just say the word and it’s done.”

And then, quieter, with a tilt of his head and a grin just for you:
“I aim to serve, sugar.”

You shot back, glaring up at Remmick. “You’re still in trouble.”

Remmick tried a pitiful pout. Hogwood whimpered in his grip like he was tryin’ to disappear into the air.

“That ain’t no damn answer,” Stack barked, stomping back toward the group with fire in his stride. “We got the Grand Dragon of the goddamn Klan hangin’ out front like a scarecrow on payday, and you mean to tell me you knew who he was this whole damn time?!”

He jabbed a finger toward Remmick, then swung his glare at you. “And don’t think I ain’t hear you call her your wife—we gon’ circle back to that real soon. But right now? We gotta figure out what the hell to do about Hogwood before this gets worse.”

Remmick winced, shoulders tilting like he was dodging blame. “Ain’t like I planned to tell ya'll.” he muttered. “Would’ve preferred a moment y’all wasn’t two seconds from clutchin’ your chests and meetin’ the Lord.”

Delta Slim shook his head, trying to grab his dropped bottle like it was the only steady thing left. “I still don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on! This man got claws, red eyes, and fangs—what else we missin’? He breathe fire too?!”

You glanced over at Sammie—youngest of the bunch, all wide eyes and stiff shoulders. He looked like someone had smacked him upside the head with a church fan. Poor thing hadn’t moved since Remmick snatched Hogwood up like a rag doll.

“Lord,” Sammie whispered under his breath, like he was trying to process a ghost story that turned real right in front of him.

Annie exhaled, stepping between you and the rest of the crew. “Remmick ain’t feedin’ on nobody here. He ain’t hurtin’ nobody here. He been helpin’ us.”

Bo raised a shaky finger. “Helpin’ himself to real estate too, huh?”

Remmick grinned slightly, “Man’s gotta nest somewhere.”

Grace let out a nervous laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Remmick.” Your voice had an edge that made him snap back to attention.

“Right. Sorry.” He hoisted Hogwood slightly higher like repositioning a sack of flour. “We oughta figure out what to do with this racist bastard before he starts drawin’ flies.”

Smoke grunted, finally finding his footing in the chaos. “If white folk find out Hogwood came out here to cause trouble and never made it back…”

“They’ll burn this whole damn street,” Stack muttered.

Annie stepped up beside you, her voice low but steel sharp. “Then we best make sure they don’t find nothin’ left to come lookin’ for.”

Everyone turned to you and Remmick, waiting for the next move.

And Hogwood just kept hangin’—wheezin’, writhin’, and slowly realizing that this wasn't the night he thought it would be.

You nodded slowly, eyes narrowed like a woman already seein’ the scene. “Annie's right. We drop him on the white side. Make it look like a drunk fool took a bad turn and paid for it.”

Stack rubbed his jaw, voice gruff. “That big general store off Jefferson—the one set off by itself? Folks in town treat it like a damn landmark.”

“Ram the truck right into it,” Smoke added, quick and cold. “Make it loud. Flames, glass, smoke. And long as folks hear Hogwood screamin’ all the way in, they’ll keep their noses turned that way. No one’s thinkin’ about this side of town if they watch a fire tear through their own.”

Bo whistled low. “Just need the bang. That alone’ll get every white man and his dog peekin’ out their doors.”

Grace crossed her arms, grim but steady. “Story writes itself. Big man, too much liquor, went off the rails.”

You glanced at Remmick, brows raised. “Think Bert and Joan can swing that?”

Remmick grinned, still just a little too pleased. “They already halfway there, a chroí. And they got more of my wits in their heads than I’d like to admit.”

Sammie’s voice was quiet. “Y’all really think they’ll buy it?”

Annie didn’t even blink. “White folks like Hogwood don’t ever think they’ll die messy. But when they do, the rest don’t go lookin’ too deep. They’ll mourn him and blame the bottle.”

“And he did reek of it,” you said. “Reekin’ of rotgut when he stepped out that truck.”

“But just in case,” you added after a beat, eyes hard, “we should toss another bottle or two in the cab. Maybe pour some on his coat. Let ‘em smell it and write the rest in their heads.”

Bo gave a slow nod. 

Stack leaned back, tension still in his shoulders. “Long as they don’t come lookin’ for more answers, we’ll be alright.”

Grace muttered, “Let ‘em mourn their monster. Just as long as they don’t come mournin’ on our doorstep.”

“Yeah, but how we gonna make sure he ain’t gonna get away until then?” Smoke asked, jerking a thumb toward Hogwood, who was still dangling and muttering curses like a drunk preacher.

Remmick’s smile returned, slow and knowing. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that, boss. I got it covered.”

Before anyone could ask what that meant, two figures emerged from the tree line behind the Juke—quiet as ghosts, gliding through the dark like they’d been listening the whole time. Bert and Joan. Not a word between them. Just cool expressions, glowing eyes, and deliberate steps.

“Speak of the devil,” Bo muttered, backing up a step.

Grace’s eyes went wide again. 

Bert walked right up and snatched Hogwood from Remmick’s grip like he was passing off a particularly nasty sack of potatoes. Joan flanked him, grabbing the man’s arms like she’d done it before.

“Bert?! You lost your damn mind?!” Hogwood shrieked, thrashing in his captor’s grip. “You gone soft on niggers now? You was raised better’n this—you was raised to know the way!”

Bert didn’t even blink.

Joan just stared, expression unreadable.

Joan and Bert moved without a word—silent, sharp, like they’d done this before. With one heave, they tossed Hogwood into the front seat of his own truck, his boots kicking up dust and curses. He hit the bench hard, still hollering, but Joan climbed in right after him, knee in his chest before he could sit up straight.

Bert slid behind the wheel, calm as ever. Joan didn’t even flinch as Hogwood thrashed beneath her, just held him down like he was nothing more than a sack of mean meat.

The engine coughed to life, headlights flaring in the dark. And just like that, the truck rolled off the lot, rattling down the road toward town—Hogwood screaming bloody murder the whole way, his voice fading into the trees like a dog that finally realized the leash wasn’t comin’ off.

The crew stood in stunned silence.

Remmick turned around slowly, hands in his pockets, his face calm, teeth and eyes back to normal. He rocked on his heels once, then looked over at you with a cheeky grin.

“Well,” he said lightly, “that weren’t how I planned on spendin’ my Friday. Guess I can cross ‘assisted in a white supremacist cover-up with my in-laws’ off my bucket list.”

".....I need another damn drink." Slim muttered. Shuffling back into The Juke. 

Chapter Text

The door to The Juke creaked open like it had been holding its breath, and everyone slowly shuffled back inside like they’d just walked out of a church revival that ended in gunfire.

Smoke led the way, jaw tight, muttering to himself about whiskey.

Stack followed, still grumbling under his breath. 

Bo was the first to belly up to the bar, already pouring himself a shot with shaking hands. He raised his shot glass like it was holy water. “I just wanted to play games tonight. A man can’t even lose money in peace no more.”

Slim grabbed the bottle from Bo’s hand and tipped it straight to his lips like it held absolution.

Grace sat down slowly, eyes darting between you, Annie, and Remmick. “I need someone to tell me, in plain English, what the hell just happened. And it better include the reason his fuckin' eyes glow and shit.”

Sammie was the last one in. He sat at the end of the bar, silent, fingers twitching like he wanted to play something but didn’t quite know the tune.

You slid onto a stool with a sigh, heat still humming behind your ribs. Remmick stood behind you, sheepish like a puppy that just ate the ham. You didn’t look at him. Not yet.

Remmick cleared his throat. “Anybody want a drink? I could make a real good Blood and Sand. Fit tonight's theme.”

Stack turned and gave him a look that could curdle milk. “If you don’t sit your pale ass down and keep quiet…”

Remmick raised both hands and backed toward the end of the bar. “Yessir. Just offerin’. Friendly-like.”

You finally turned to look at him—eyes narrowed, lips pressed into something between annoyance and fondness. “You still in trouble.”

“Oh, I know, love,” he said, all Irish charm and no shame. “But I did handle it. Technically. And no one died.” He paused. “Well—yet.”

Bo snorted. 

Annie grabbed the bottle from Slim and poured three shots in a row. “We gonna need this. All of it. And a prayer.”

Remmick leaned over your shoulder, dropping his voice low just for you. “I promise next time I go wranglin’ white supremacists, I’ll pencil it in proper.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Next time?”

He winked. “You never know what a night in Clarksdale’ll bring.”

And despite yourself—you laughed.

Smoke poured another drink with a heavy hand, muttering something sharp under his breath before pointing his glass in your direction. “We gon’ circle back to all the magic devil shit in a second, but first—why he call you his wife?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Lord, not this.”

Stack tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Nah, go on. We heard him. Said it clear as day. Wife.”

Remmick perked up behind you, full of that infuriating charm. “Aye, ‘cause she is. Heart and soul. My forever. Don’t need no priest for that.”

You snorted. “Boy, hush. I ain’t even got a ring.”

Remmick gasped, hand flying to his chest like you shot him. “That what you need? You want a ring, mo ghrá? I’ll carve one outta starlight if I gotta. I’ll dig one out the earth myself. I’ll melt down moonlight and hammer it with my bare hands. Has to be somethin’ sacred, if it’s gonna touch you. ”

A slow grin curved your mouth, tilting your head just enough to look up at him through your lashes.

“Careful,” you murmured, voice low and teasing. “Sayin’ things like that’ll get you in trouble.”

His eyes darkened — not from danger, but desire, like he was ready to dig that damn ring up right now and swear vows under the nearest lightning bolt.

Annie sighed loud and long, downing one of the shots she’d poured like it was communion. “Sweet baby Jesus, I’m too tired for this mess.”

Smoke turned to her, pointing with his whole arm. “What I wanna know. How you sittin’ there all calm like you knew all this? Ain’t nothin’ you wanna share with the class, Annie?”

Annie didn’t even flinch. Just slid her eyes over to him, lazy and laced with warning. “You think I been sittin’ pretty, lightin’ candles for fun? My altar’s been hummin’ since that man showed. Spirits say he ain’t no threat—and I don’t question what comes through clean.”

Stack blinked. “Wait. So the haints like him?”

Annie shrugged. “They ain’t say they liked him. Just that he ain’t no threat to us.”

Slim blinked. “That ‘us’ feel a lil’ conditional to anybody else?”

You leaned back in your seat, rubbing your temples. “Listen. Can we put a pin in the supernatural Q&A and circle back after the trauma wears off?”

Remmick grinned. “That mean I’m forgiven?”

You and Annie said in unison: “Absolutely not.”

Grace threw back her shot with a mutter. “Lord, protect us.”

Remmick looked at her, visibly offended. “And here I thought I was the divine intervention,” he said, hand pressed to his chest like she’d bruised his pride. “Guess next time I’ll let the Lord handle it and see how quick he shows up.”

You didn’t even look at him. “Remmick, shut up.”

Stack struck a match with his thumbnail, lit a cigarette with a hiss, and took a slow drag before passing it to Smoke. “Ya know what,” he muttered, smoke curling out the side of his mouth. “Let’s just all go the hell home. I’ve had enough goddamn excitement for one night. Whatever that pale-ass fucker got brewin’ under his collarbones, I don’t give two shits ‘bout it long as he ain’t bitin’ or suckin’ on nobody in this room.”

He started muttering to himself as he walked off—something about "white boys with secrets," "blood-drinkin’ dramatics," and "how it’s always his Juke they bring the weird shit to."

Smoke took a long pull from the cigarette, exhaled slow, and didn’t say a word. But the side-eye he gave Remmick said plenty.

Sammie was still seated, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost—and in a way, he had.

Remmick crouched beside him. “You still with us, kid? Need a glass of water?"

Sammie looked up slowly. “Y’all got any idea how hard it is to write a song after somethin’ like this?”

Delta Slim cackled. 

That seemed to break the tension. One by one, everyone started to move—stacking glasses, wiping tables, pocketing stray lighters and matchbooks. The clinking of shot glasses and the dragging of stools filled the space between quiet goodbyes.

Grace & Bo muttered something about dreaming all this up after too much bourbon.

Even Stack just grunted and said, “Ain’t real,” like if he repeated it enough, it might be true.

Slim, grabbing the last slice of cornbread off a plate, sniffed it suspiciously. “Maybe it was them fish fry fumes. Annie must’ve used stale grease again—got all our heads twisted.”

Annie whipped a rag at him without missing a beat. “Say one more damn word ‘bout my fry oil, Slim, I swear to God—”

“Alright, alright!” Slim laughed, ducking as the rag whizzed past his ear. “Damn near got turned into a bat tonight and that’s what gets you riled up?”

“You lucky I like your stupid ass,” she shot back, half-laughing, half-cussing as she shooed him toward the door.

Slowly, the Juke emptied out like the end of a dream no one wanted to admit was real.

Annie tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and made her way toward Smoke’s truck, her boots crunching against the gravel. She paused at the door, throwing one last glance over her shoulder. Her eyes found yours across the lot—steady, sharp, and knowing. That look said we’ll talk later, and you knew damn well she meant it.

Smoke didn’t say a word. Just tipped his hat at you before sliding behind the wheel. The engine sputtered, then caught with a low grumble as Annie climbed in beside him.

Stack was already corralling Sammie toward his own truck, grumbling under his breath about “messin’ up a good Friday.” Sammie trudged along, still dazed, cradling his guitar like it might explain the evening if he stared at it long enough.

“Y’all lucky I got strong nerves,” Delta Slim muttered, climbing into the back seat. 

As their car rolled out of the lot, Bo lingered behind, keys jangling in his hand. “Y’all need a ride?” he asked, glancing between you and Remmick. 

Remmick chuckled. “Didn’t peg you for the chauffeur type, Bo.”

Bo shrugged. “Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t. But you might be some kinda creature with red eyes and questionable hobbies—hell, you are—but you play a damn good game. That’s enough for me.”

Remmick’s eyes lit up, surprised and grateful all at once. “Bo, if you keep talkin’ sweet to me like that, folks gon’ think we’re courtin’.”

Bo scoffed. “Please. I got a wife and a weak back—I ain’t got time for your drama.”

Grace, already climbing into the front passenger seat, leaned out the window. “He also snores like a chainsaw in heat, so don’t get any ideas.”

“You still married me though,” Bo shot back, grinning as he slid behind the wheel.

You and Remmick exchanged a glance before making your way to the back seat. Ever the gentleman—albeit a smug, infuriating one—Remmick opened the door for you and offered his hand. “Let me help you in, mo ghrá. Can’t have you bruisin’ that pretty little knee.”

You rolled your eyes but took his hand anyway, heart thudding like a bass drum in a church choir.

As you settled beside him, Remmick leaned close again, his voice a soft rumble against your ear. “So... that a yes to the ring?”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t say no either.

Bo started the engine with a cough and a sputter. “And y’all better not be kissin’ in the back of my damn car,” he called over his shoulder. 

Remmick leaned back with a smug grin. “No promises.”

Chapter Text

By the time the car rattled to a stop in front of the house, the moon had ducked behind a curtain of clouds, leaving the gravel drive cast in shadows. Bo threw it into park with a grunt, and Grace popped her door open before the dust even settled.

Remmick was out before you could reach for the handle, his hand already extended like a gentleman in some old romance picture show. “Careful now, mo ghrá,” he purred, his Irish lilt thick as honey, “wouldn’t want my best girl takin’ a tumble before I even get to kiss her goodnight.”

You slid your hand into his with a sigh. “Lord, your mouth don’t ever get tired?”

He smirked. “Not in the slightest. You want me to prove it?”

You ignored him, circling around to Grace’s side. “Thank y’all for the ride. For real.”

Grace waved you off, digging around in her bag for another cigarette. “Please. Was either drive y’all home or let y’all go stumblin’ through the dark like a couple of girls after last call.”

Bo leaned across the seat with a grin. “And Lord knows this one—” he jabbed a thumb toward Remmick, “—already look like he crawled outta a haunted picture show.”

Remmick smirked, folding his arms. “A haunted picture show? Bo, I’m hurt. I’ll have you know I was voted ‘Most Handsome’ three years runnin’.”

Grace snorted, nearly dropped her match. “Long as you ain’t voted ‘Most Likely to Bite a Friend,’ I suppose you’re doin’ alright.”

That got all of you laughing.

Grace flicked ash from her cigarette and gave him a once-over. “Just make sure you don’t drag my husband into any of your foolishness, or I’ll be the one puttin’ you in the ground. And it won’t be pretty.”

Remmick just smirked. 

You and Remmick watched them drive off until the car vanished into the dark, then turned toward the house.

The front room was still warm from the late sun, the faint smell of lavender water and iron lingering in the air. Remmick stepped inside and immediately snapped the straps of his new suspenders with a sharp thwap against his chest.

He grinned. “Well. That went smooth.”

You turned and gave him a look. The look.

“What?” he said, arms raised like he was innocent. “I only mildly terrified a room full of folks and dragged one racist off into the night. That’s restraint, love.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped past him, unpinning your hair.

Remmick trailed behind you up the stairs like a sulking hound, his boots heavy against the worn wood.

“You’re sure you ain’t mad at me?” he asked for the third time, dragging the words out like a child begging forgiveness after stealing pie. “You look mad. You walked mad. You exhaled mad.”

You didn’t even turn around. “I exhaled mad?”

“Mhm,” he said, bounding up the last few steps to catch up. “That was a disappointed sigh. I know the difference. I’ve catalogued all your sighs, sweetheart.”

“Sounds like obsession,” you murmured, hiding your grin as you reached the top.

He huffed. “It’s devotion. Whole different category.”

“I fought off hate, kept my fangs to myself, and still got treated like the villain,” he drawled. “Startin’ to feel underappreciated.”

You slipped the last pin from your hair and let it fall, giving him a glance over your shoulder. “Poor thing. Want a medal? Maybe a hug?”

He sat up a little, watching you with a slow grin, eyes dark under the lamplight. “Nah,” he said, voice lower now, “I was thinkin’ more like you sittin' on my face. Maybe let me fill ya again.”

You stepped toward him, slow and steady, close enough that his knees brushed yours.

Instead of kissing him, you leaned in, lips near his jaw, and whispered, “Maybe I’ll let you stay on the bed tonight. Blanket optional.”

Remmick let out a rough, quiet laugh, teeth flashing. “You keep talkin’ like that, mo ghrá, I’m liable to forget how to behave.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning to the dresser. “You ever known how to behave?”

Behind you, the bed creaked as he fell back with a groan, still mumbling nonsense under his breath about “emotional torture” and “gorgeous tyrants.”

You smiled to yourself.

Somewhere outside, beyond the clap of tree branches and the hush of night, another pair of eyes glowed in the dark.

Chapter Text

The banging at the door nearly knocked you out of your skin.

You sat up so fast you got lightheaded, heart thumping like a juke drum. It was mid-afternoon—the kind of hot, lazy hour when folks should’ve been fannin’ themselves on porches or asleep, not pounding like the law come calling.

You threw on your robe and padded downstairs, the wooden steps creaking under your bare feet. Sunlight barely cut through the living room, muted behind drawn curtains you hadn’t opened since last night’s mess.

Another round of knocking. You cracked the door just enough to peek out.

Stack and Smoke stood on your porch, looking half-sweaty and half-annoyed.

“Well damn,” Stack said, squinting past you. “Y’all still alive?”

You opened the door wider. “Barely.”

They stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the low light. Stack looked around, lip curled. “Why the hell is it so dark in here?”

From the stairwell behind you came a familiar voice.

Remmick said, sauntering down barefoot, shirtless, and half-asleep, wearing nothing but a pair of loose sleep pants slung low on his hips. Hair wild. Grin smug. Not a care in the world.“The light hurts my delicate, morally ambiguous skin.”

Smoke just stared, unimpressed. “You come down here half-naked every afternoon or we gettin’ the special treatment?”

Remmick smirked, completely unfazed. “Only for guests I trust.”

Stack groaned. “Remind me next time to knock louder.” He paused, then blinked. “Damn. That shit was real? I thought I dreamed it. Swear to God I woke up sweatin’ like I ate bad catfish.”

Smoke grunted. “Nigga you ain’t ever been that creative a day in your fuckin' life.”

You snorted. “Y’all want to sit down? Got a real couch now. Couple chairs too. Don’t all have to be huddled like prohibition conspirators.”

You waved toward the living room, where the new furniture sat already pulled out. Remmick flopped onto the couch with a dramatic groan and pulled you down beside him, arm draped casually along the back .

Smoke and Stack took the chairs facing you, settling in with the stiffness of men who didn’t sit often unless there was work or whiskey involved.

“So what brings y’all over?” you asked, tucking your legs under you.

Smoke leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Gossip. Real loud gossip.”

Stack nodded. “Town’s buzzin’. Sounds like your plan worked.”

You blinked. “Our plan?”

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Bout sixty folks down in town watched Hogwood’s truck go flyin’ into that damn building ‘fore it blew sky high.”

Stack let out a low whistle. “Fireball big enough to be seen from two streets over." Then he chuckled. “Yeah, said it smelled like a speakeasy exploded. Ain’t nobody even questioned the explosion part—just nodded like, ‘well, that’s what happens when you mix whiskey and dumb.’”

Remmick blinked, then turned to you with a slow, admiring grin. “That was your idea, wasn’t it? The extra bottles & the booze.”

He leaned in, voice dropping just enough to make your skin warm. “Brilliant and beautiful. Dangerous combination, mo ghrá.”

Stack groaned. “Lord, here he go.”

Smoke just shook his head. “Look—I’m real glad y’all found each other, I am. Truly. But I don’t need to hear all that sweet talkin’. I just ate.”

You just smirked, wanting to tease your brothers. “Let the man flirt. He’s been through a lot.”

Stack snorted and leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. “Sheriff went on and on ‘bout the smell of corn liquor and boot polish. Said, ‘Poor bastard must’ve been tryin’ to light a cigar and blew the whole damn place to kingdom come.’”

“Don’t know how Bert and Joan managed it,” Smoke added, glancing at Remmick, “but they did a damn fine job. Clean. Loud. No mess left behind.”

Both men nodded toward Remmick.

Remmick raised a brow and gave a crooked little smile. “Well, I do have a flair for the dramatic. But they were the real artists. I just... handed them the canvas.”

You leaned into his side, both amused and quietly rattled. Smoke reached into his coat and pulled out a flask.

“No witnesses. No questions. And far as anyone’s concerned,” he said, uncapping it, “Hogwood died like he lived—drunk, angry, and in someone else’s way.”

The room settled into a kind of easy quiet after Smoke’s last word, the kind that only comes when the worst is behind you—at least for now.

Stack leaned back in his chair and looked over at Remmick. “So. Speakin’ of clean jobs... We been talkin’ ‘bout some clean money too.”

Smoke nodded, uncapping his flask again but not drinking just yet. “Juke’s doin’ good. Better than most places right now. But we think it’s time to start puttin’ some shine on it. Place still runnin’ off old nails and spit in some corners.”

Remmick leaned forward, all too eager. “Been thinkin’ the same thing,” he said, his voice low and smooth like molasses on a warm skillet. “That back bar? We could tear out that warped wood, open it up. Put in a second rail, maybe new lights. Ain’t no reason The Juke can’t look nicer than them white-only joints they got up on Main. Everyone that steps foot in there’s lookin’ to breathe easy—leave the world outside for a while. We oughta build somethin’ worthy of that.”

Stack raised an eyebrow. “You plannin’ on buildin’ it with your bare hands?”

Remmick smirked. “No, but I’ve got funds and fingers that know how to sign a check. And I got more ideas, too.”

Smoke gave him a long look, interested now.

Remmick continued, tapping a slow rhythm on the couch arm. “Some of them folks comin’ to The Juke? They don’t got real money. They work sunup to sundown for scraps. But what if we opened up a few days a week? Daytime hours. Give people jobs—small stuff. Repairs, cleaning, maybe food prep or music help. Hell, even just space to sell somethin’. Could turn that place into more than just a night joint.”

Stack gave a low whistle. “That’d take some organizin’.”

Smoke, ever the quieter one, nodded slow. “That’d take community.”

Remmick looked at them both, serious now. “That’s exactly what it’ll take.”

You sat listening from the couch, chin resting in your palm, eyes moving between them. Remmick and your brothers—sittin’ there like they belonged in the same room. Same breath. Same beat. It was strange, in that good, heart-twisting kind of way. You never thought you’d see a day where Smoke, Stack, and a pale Irish vampire were planning futures over armchairs and shared flasks.

You smiled and stood, brushing off your robe. “Y’all keep talkin’ big dreams. I’ll get us somethin’ to eat. Ain’t had a thing since last night.”

As you slipped out of the room, their voices picked back up behind you, low and animated—Remmick’s soft Irish lilt weaving in and out of Stack’s drawl and Smoke’s gravel. It was like music, in a way. Unlikely, but real.

You made a quick stop to pull on a cotton day dress with a faded blue print, the hem brushing just above your ankles. You ran a comb through your hair quick as you could, tied a scarf around the top, and gave yourself one quick look in the mirror.

Still breathin’, still standin’. That’s plenty.

You headed into the kitchen, bare feet padding across the worn floorboards, and began pulling out whatever you could find to make a meal—something hearty enough to soak up all that tension and moonlight still lingering in your bones.

Moving towards the kitchen, you flipped your apron off the hook. The rhythm of voices still behind you, sounds of men you loved figuring out how to build something bigger than themselves.

You laid out sliced ham, cornbread leftover from Annie last night, pickled beets, and a cold potato salad you’d made the day before. Fried up some onions and eggs for extra heft, poured cold tea into mismatched glasses.

All the while, your thoughts wandered—new chairs, new plans, new mornings... and one pale, secretive, charming pain-in-your-neck vampire.

You called out, “Food’s ready!” and not long after, you heard boots scuff the wood floor and low conversation tapering off.

To your surprise, Remmick was the first to step into the kitchen and pull out a chair. He sat down like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You blinked. “You gonna watch the twins eat too?”

He grinned, snagging a slice of cornbread off the plate. “Darlin’, I may be undead, but I ain’t uncultured.”

You raised a brow.

He leaned in and whispered, “I don’t need it, but I’ve acquired a taste for a Southern woman’s cookin’. Especially when they glare at me like that.”

You narrowed your eyes, smirking despite yourself. “So you’re the one been sneakin’ off with the food. I was startin’ to think we had a ghost with a sweet tooth.”

Remmick grinned, no shame whatsoever. “Guilty as charged. I usually wake up while you’re gone. Just for a spell. Helps to stretch, move around. Raid the kitchen like a proper undead menace.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “So you’ve been wakin’ up behind my back just to snack like some night-creepin’ possum?”

He placed a hand on his chest, all mock sincerity. “I would say it was for survival, but truth is... you cook like heaven, and I got no shame about hauntin’ the pantry.”

You shook your head and turned back to the stove, trying to hide the way your mouth kept twitching with laughter. Behind you, you heard him steal another piece of cornbread, humming like he’d just won something.

Smoke and Stack took their seats on either side of the table, the wood groaning under their weight and appetites. 

Stack narrowed his eyes at the fork in Remmick’s hand. “Now hold on,” he said slowly. “You mean to tell me you eat? Like real food?”

Smoke looked over with the same expression he might use if someone said their horse could talk. “Annie said y’all types just drank blood and sat in the dark like old ghosts.”

Remmick, without missing a beat, tore a bite off a slice of ham and chewed with exaggerated delight. “Well, Annie ain’t wrong. Blood’s the main course. But I’m more of a... well-rounded spirit. Think of this as an appetizer.”

Stack raised an eyebrow.

You took a seat between Stack and Remmick, and the moment you settled, Remmick leaned in with that crooked grin of his, voice low and silk-smooth. “Careful now, sit any closer and your brothers gonna witness some things."

You shot him a look, but he just laughed.

Stack groaned, reaching for his glass. “Lord, somebody pass me the tea before I throw up.”

You just rolled your eyes and passed the tea pitcher. But in the quiet between laughter and clinking forks, you stole a glance at Remmick.

You were building something new. And it was stranger—and sweeter—than you ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Y’all ate until the plates were picked clean, bellies full and conversation lighter. The tension from the night before had softened, like butter left out in the Mississippi heat.

You reached for your glass, downed the last of your sweet tea, and started to stand.

Stack raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. “Now I know I’m dreamin’. White boy here washin’ dishes?”

Smoke snorted, sipping his tea. “Bet he even hums a tune while he scrubs. He start hangin’ laundry yet?”

Remmick ignored them both, already rolling up his sleeves and collecting plates with the confidence of someone who’d been doing it for years. He moved easily, barefoot and quiet, stacking dishes, wiping the table, and wrapping up leftovers.

You settled back into your chair, eyes drifting to your brothers. “So... y’all ever hear anything else about Mary?”

That name snapped the ease in the room like a twig underfoot.

Stack glanced at Smoke. Smoke didn’t answer right away.

Behind you, the clink of dishes paused for a beat.

Then—low, almost too quiet to catch—a growl hummed from Remmick’s chest. Not angry. Not loud. Just... there.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just turned the faucet on and kept washing, jaw set tight.

Stack shifted in his seat, chewing slow. Smoke was the one to answer first. “Saw her boardin’ the train couple days back. Had that same stiff look on her face she always got when she thinkin’ too hard.”

“Went right back to her husband like she didn’t fuck you over.” Stack said, lips pressed tight. 

Smoke snorted. “Heard talk at Miss Della’s bakery. Word is, he gettin’ sick of Mary. Ain’t been home much. Folks sayin’ he’s got some other woman now. Knocked her up, too. White woman who works at the post office told Della’s cousin—said it like it was just weather news. You know how it go. White gossip don’t stay on their side of the tracks long. All it take is one maid, one driver, one man fixin’ a window, and suddenly the whole South Side know what Mr. So-and-So been doin’ behind his wife’s back.”

Stack sucked his teeth, the sound sharp, like it pained him. He leaned back in his chair, gaze dropping to the table. “Did love her,” he muttered. “Back when we was young and stupid. Thought that white man’d be good for her. Gave her a house, money, name she could be proud of. Thought maybe she’d be safe.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“But with the way she been actin’? The stares, the mouth, that lookin’-down-her-nose thing? I can’t feel but so bad. Hate it turned out this way, but... she made her choices.”

The room settled quiet for a breath, all the voices outside, all the plates on the table, seeming to still with the weight of it. Mary had been a lot of things to a lot of folks—sharp, proud, hurt—but she was still one of theirs, once.

You reached over and gave Stack’s hand a squeeze, just for a second. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders eased some.

Remmick, for once, said nothing. Just passed Stack the last slice of ham without a word.

Chapter Text

After lunch, the four of you lingered a while longer, bellies full, the late sun hanging low in the sky, painting the edges of the kitchen gold through the still pulled curtains. Smoke and Stack swapped stories from the shop and the Juke—some funny, some serious, all part of the heartbeat of the town. You laughed more than you had in days.

Eventually, the twins stood to go, tipping their hats and pulling on their coats. Stack clapped Remmick on the back a little too hard, and Smoke gave you a rare, full smile as they stepped off the porch.

“I still don’t trust him all the way,” Stack muttered on his way down the steps, “but hell, if he’s bringin’ peace and money, I’ll let him stay awhile.”

Once their car had rumbled off down the dirt road, Remmick turned to you in the quiet of the front room and clapped his hands together.

“Alright, my love,” he said, grinning with mischief. “Time for you to boss me around. Where you want this furniture?”

You leaned against the doorframe with your arms crossed, feigning thoughtfulness. “Everywhere. All of it. But we’re startin’ with the living room.”

The couch was the first to move, then the armchairs and side tables. Rearranging the room so it looked more put together. You gave directions while Remmick followed orders—mostly. Every time you pointed to one corner, he’d raise an eyebrow like he was about to argue, then do it anyway, always with that crooked smirk that let you know he liked being told what to do. By you, anyway.

He was barefoot, shirtless, and still in those rumpled sleep pants, his curls a mess from earlier. You watched him bend and lift, muscles pulling under his pale skin, his back flexing easy under the afternoon light pouring through the open door.

You pretended to focus on placement, but truth be told, you lost your train of thought more than once.

“Bedroom?” he asked, turning to you after finishing the front room.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, curls falling across his forehead. “I said—do we move on to the bedroom, or are you just gonna stare at me like I’m cake in the window?” 

That Damn smirk again.

You cleared your throat. “Bedroom. Yes. Right. That.”

He chuckled and followed you, carrying a side table under one arm like it weighed nothin’. You directed him where you actually preferred for the vanity to be placed, the trunk at the foot of the bed, and the beautiful, deep red armchair for the corner.

Next was the guest room—the little one downstairs with just enough space for a cot and dresser. Remmick stepped carefully around boxes you hadn’t unpacked yet, humming what sounded like some old Irish tune under his breath.

Then came the smallest room, just up the hall from yours. The walls were bare, the floor scuffed, and the lone window let in the softest, warmest light in the house.

You paused in the doorway.

“Guess this musta been a nursery.” you said quietly, not looking at him.

Remmick didn’t answer right away. He stood behind you in the doorway, arms loose at his sides, still as a shadow, the kind of still that reminded you he didn’t breathe unless he wanted to.

Then softly, he said, “Been thinkin’... could turn this into a space for your mending work.”

You glanced back at him.

He stepped closer, voice low and sure. “I know you don’t need to work. I got more than enough put away to keep us comfortable. Don’t live as long as I have and stay poor—unless you’re real bad at cards or real good at drinkin’.”

That earned a faint smile from you, but he kept going, gentler now.

“But I know you like it. Helpin’ folks ‘round here. Patchin’ clothes, fixin’ hems, bringin’ life back into things folks thought were done for. It’s a gift, what you do. I could get you a proper sewing machine—good one, not some rattlin’ junk. Bring in bolts of real fabric. You could make new things, not just mend old ones.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded now. “You could charge for it. Or don’t. That’s your call. But I heard about the way folks light up when you hand somethin’ back fixed better than it was before. It ain’t just clothes. It’s dignity. It’s feelin’ seen.”

You swallowed, heart tightening.

Remmick shrugged lightly. “Me? I’m more than happy to help this town. Lord knows it’s helpin’ me. Fellowship matters. It keeps folks goin’. Keeps me goin’.”

Then he leaned in slightly, his voice soft and full of that mischief he just couldn’t keep to himself. “And I gotta admit... the thought of you sittin’ in here, workin’ with your fingers and hummin’ to yourself in that soft little voice? Kinda makes me want to misplace a few buttons.”

You gave him a look—half warning, half amused—and turned on your heel.

Behind you, barefoot and grinning, Remmick laughed. “You keep watchin’ me like that, I’m liable to think I’m furniture too.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nah. Furniture don’t talk back.”

He laughed, low and full. “Furniture also don’t carry itself room to room for the pleasure of a woman wearin’ that little smirk you got.”

The rest of the afternoon slipped by like molasses in summer—slow, steady, and sweet.

You and Remmick spent the next few hours unpacking the last of your crates. He carried each box like it was filled with feathers, setting them down with a wink and a flourish that made it impossible not to smile.

Inside were all the little things you’d collected over the years—faded ribbon dolls from neighborhood kids you’d patched shirts for, a small wooden cross carved by an old widower who swore you’d mended the coat that kept him warm one brutal winter, handkerchiefs stitched with initials from folks who couldn’t pay in coin but gave what they could. They’d meant something then. They still did now.

Remmick held up each piece like it was made of gold. “What’s this one’s story?” he’d ask, and you’d tell him—sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a quiet ache that softened his expression. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t treat any of it like clutter. Just nodded, smiled, and found a spot on the shelf or mantel where each piece could live again.

Smoke and Stack had sent you things, too. A tiny horseshoe from Stack, painted blue, “for luck.” A lopsided picture frame Smoke made in school—long before he learned to fix things with his hands instead of breaking them. You kept it anyway. Held a photo of the three of you from way back when. Smiling. Still whole.

Grace and Bo had given you gifts over the years, too. A teacup with little roses on it, chipped but perfect to you. A lace doily from some estate sale. A small oil lamp you couldn’t afford at the time but Grace just knew you’d been eyein’. You never saw it as charity. Just family, giving where they could, how they could. You always did the same in return.

By the time everything had found its place, the sky outside had turned indigo, and the cicadas had begun to hum.

Remmick moved to the window and pulled back the curtain with a satisfied little sigh. “Well now, would you look at that. We survived a full day without someone burstin’ into flames or cryin’ into their whiskey.”

You flicked on the lamp, casting a soft glow over the room. The place finally looked like home.

You rifled through a drawer in the new cabinet out in the hall and let out a small sound of triumph. “Well look what I found.”

Remmick raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

You held up a deck of cards, slightly worn at the edges but still playable. “Only if you don’t like losin’.”

That earned a full grin from him. “Darlin’, I’ve been playin’ cards longer than this country has had teeth.”

You plopped down cross-legged on the rug while he took the armchair opposite, all lean limbs and lazy confidence. A few hands in, it was clear you weren’t exactly a card shark. Remmick didn’t gloat too much, but his smirks said plenty.

“Is there a reason the Queen of Hearts keeps disappearin’?” you asked, squinting at your hand.

He leaned forward, chin resting in his palm. “Maybe she ran off. Maybe I charmed her. Maybe you’re just bad at this.”

You threw a card at him. He caught it mid-air and winked.

But even as you lost—hand after hand—you couldn’t help laughing. The rhythm of it, the flick of cards, his crooked grin across from you... it felt like home.

Later, you moved into the kitchen together and threw together a light supper—biscuits with molasses, sliced apples, and some leftover beans and greens. Remmick ate with the same enthusiasm he had that afternoon. 

As he polished off the last bite of biscuit, he stood, brushing crumbs from his hands. “Well,” he said, stretching just enough to make the deep V of his hips peek high. “Think I’m gonna step out and grab a bite… literally.”

You arched a brow. “You know you ain’t gotta say it like that.”

He grinned wide, no fangs, just trouble. “But I like sayin’ it like that.”

Before you could reply, he was gone in a blink of motion—only to reappear upstairs in the faintest breeze of air. A minute later, he descended the stairs buttoning up a fresh shirt, suspenders clipped, curls still wild.

He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, his voice low. “Don’t wait up, mo ghrá. I’ll be back ‘fore the moon’s too high.”

And just like that, the front door eased shut behind him, leaving you in the warm hush of your kitchen, a half-empty cup of tea in your hand and your heart full.

Chapter Text

The house settled again once he left. Still and warm, the kind of hush that wrapped around you like a quilt. You padded back through the living room, your fingertips grazing the edge of the armchair he’d moved for you earlier.

He's really makin’ us a home, you thought, amused.

With the dishes washed and the cards stacked back in their drawer, there wasn’t much else left to do but let the evening be what it was.

You stood in the bedroom, lamp casting a warm pool of light across the quilt. Something stirred in you—not quite loneliness, not quite mischief, but maybe a little bit of both.

Your eyes flicked toward the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. Thinking of the new nightwear and lingerie you had hidden from Remmick in there, tucked away under quilts and linens. 

Tonight, the house felt different. Warmer. Yours. His. Y’all’s.

Padding barefoot to the chest, you lifted the lid with care. The smell of lavender sachet and cedar hit you first. Your fingers slipped past lace and silk until they found what you were lookin’ for: a deep green Nesbit slip, smooth as river glass, with a sheer chest and delicate lace that would hide where your nipples would sit. More lace traced along the hem. The matching robe folded right beside it.

You undressed slow, letting the day fall away. Then you pulled the slip over your head and let it settle against your skin—cool, weightless, like being wrapped in sin. The robe followed, tied loosely at the waist, a whisper of matching lace at the cuffs. And because you could, you reached for your best pair of heels—the ones Grace talked you into. Just enough lift to make you feel taller, finer. Dangerous.

You caught your reflection in the vanity mirror and tilted your head.

A thought struck you.

If I keep dressing like this every time he goes to 'eat' he's gonna startin’ associatin' silk and lace with hunger. Not just his—but mine, too.

You smirked, smoothing oil over your legs and arms. 

Wonder what happens when the hunter starts to salivate for more than blood.

You turned off the lamp, letting the moonlight filter in through the curtain slats. The bed waited, made up neat but expectant. And you?

You lounged back in the middle of the bed, arms propped up behind you. One knee up, giving a peek of what was, or better said, wasn’t under your slip and waited.

Chapter Text

The front door creaked open, quiet as breath, and you didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

You heard the sound of his boots first—slow, measured steps on the floorboards. Then the soft scrape as he slipped them off just inside the doorway, like he knew better than to track in dirt when the house looked the way it did now.

You stayed still, bathed in moonlight, framed in shadows and green silk, watching through your lashes as his figure appeared in the doorway.

Remmick stopped cold.

He had his suspenders still on, one shoulder dropped loose, his shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to the sharp lines of his frame. Hair a touch wild from the wind, the flush of fresh blood still warming his skin.

And those eyes?

They locked on you like a man who’d stumbled into something sacred and wasn’t sure if he oughta kneel or run.

You didn’t smile. Not right away. You just tilted your head, let your knee shift a little, letting that slip shift just enough to catch the light—and his attention.

Remmick’s voice came slow and rough, like he’d forgotten how to breathe until now.

“Shit” he whimpered.

You let the robe fall open and off yoru arms then leaned back on your elbows, watching him undo another button on his shirt, slow and sure. 

“Thought my husband deserved a lil treat. Got along so good with my family, helping put our home together. You providing so much sugar. Bein' so good” you teased. 

You pulled your knees up, the soft silk of your slip riding up your thighs, revealing the smooth, warm skin beneath. You reached down slowly, your fingers tracing the hem of your garment before they slipped beneath, teasingly.

Your eyes met Remmick's, a glint of mischief in their depths. You saw the way his gaze followed your hand, the way his breath hitched as your fingers found their target. "You know what I like, baby?" you purred, your voice low and sultry.

"I like it when you're good, when you're so sweet and eager to please." Your hand moved in slow, deliberate circles, your eyes never leaving his face, watching the way his lips parted, the way his tongue darted out to wet them. You felt a thrill at his reaction, at the power you held over him.

You looked into Remmick's eyes, your voice steady and confident. "You listened so well earlier today. You always listen so well." You brought your hand back up and slipped a finger into your mouth, sucking gently on it, your eyes never leaving his.

You felt a thrill at the sight of his reaction, at the way his eyes turned red, his fangs descending, drool already starting to drip out of his mouth.

"I think you can listen some more, can't you, Remmick?" You asked, your voice a sultry purr. "I think you can be good for me, follow my directions." You pulled your finger out of your mouth, your eyes locked onto his, a wicked smile playing on your lips. 

You pulled your finger out, your eyes never leaving his as you moved your hand back to your core, your fingers finding their rhythm. 

Remmick's eyes go wide and he takes a step forward. 

Your knees snap shut around your hand. 

"Uh-uh!" you said, shaking your head, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "I didn't say you get to come and touch, and I asked you a question. Can you be good and listen to me some more?" You tilt your head. 

Remmick's body snaps at attention. Whimpering and nodding. 

"Y-Yeah I can listen some more. Wanna listen so good. Fuck honey." He licked his lips again, eyes still wide, arms at his side like he doesn't know what to do with them. 

You let out a soft laugh, a sound like velvet, and you could see the way Remmick's eyes darkened at the sound. "Good....that's good."

You parted your knees again, giving him a clear view of your hand and pussy again. You traced along your folds, catching the slick that had been gathering. 

"Can you finish takin' off your shirt honey? Don't mess it up." 

Remmick nodded again, fingers blurring as he unbuttoned his shirt quickly but carefully. He shrugged his suspenders off, then tugged the shirt off to reveal his white undershirt.

He threw the button-down onto the chair in the corner. 

"The undershirt too baby?" He asked, head tilted. 

"Yeah sugar." 

You watched the muscles in his arms flex as he pulled it over his head, then tossed it to join the other one. 

He stood there staring at you. Breathing hard and watching your fingers circle your clit. 

"So fuckin' handsome baby. Love seein' those muscles. Made me so wet watchin' you lift stuff today. Pickin' stuff up like it was no big deal, movin' and carrying it for your wife."  

His hands clinched at his side. 

The moonlight caught the glint of his fangs, and his eyes burned with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. You could see the bulge in his pants, growing with each passing moment

"Can ya take yourself out sugar? Let me see how hard you are? Just like you did that night on the porch? When you had me touchin' myself for you cuz you looked so fuckin' good in my dreams."

Remmick's eyes darkened with desire, his fangs descending further as he began to unbuckle his belt, growling as his hands ripped his pants open so fast you were sure he was gonna ruin them. 

As Remmick's pants hit the floor, his cock sprang up, hard and proud, a testament to his desire. You couldn't help but let out a soft gasp, your eyes widening at the sight.

"You're so beautiful," you moaned. 

Remmick's eyes flicked up to yours, a low growl escaping his lips. "I want you so bad," his voice was thick with desire. "I want to taste you, to feel you come all over me." 

You take your fingers out of your pussy. Keeping eyecontact with him as you suck your fingers in your mouth. 

"Mhmmmmm....you right baby, I do taste like honey." You smirked. 

The look of utter disbelief on his face was almost hilarious. 

You sat up, tugging the robe out from under you and throwing it to match his shirts, not wanting it to get messed up. 

You then spread your legs wider. Remmick's eyes never once moved away from your pussy. 

"Now.....tell me sugar." You purred. 

Remmick looked up to meet your eyes, face twisting in confusion. 

"What?"

You grinned, chuckling a bit. "Now you tell me what you want sugar....know I teased ya a bit, but I'm not gonna be mean....at least not tonight." 

His face shifted, a sinful smile gracing his face. 

He shoved at his pants, pushing them past his hips and falling to the floor. His body moved like a panther, stepping out of his discarded pants, crawling up the edge of the bed and over your body until his lips could brush yours. 

His mouth descending on yours for a kiss that stole the breath straight from your lungs. His lips were demanding against yours, fangs clashing against your teeth as his tongue carved out space in your mouth. 

Remmick’s eyes stayed on yours as the kiss broke, like he couldn’t quite tear himself away. He sat up, kneeling over your body. His hands just resting at your knee and along your hip, his thumb gently sweeping the fabric where your slip met skin. Measured. Patient. But everything about him—his breath, the way he leaned in, the stillness—crackled with something waiting to burn.

His voice came low, the kind of low that buzzed in your belly. “This fabric’s soft,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting along the edge of your slip. “But not half as soft as you.”

You looked down and watched as his fingertips went from tracing the rim of lace to the crevice of your thigh. His cock bobbing, the tip glistening with the precum that leaked from it.

"Shit-gonna get your pretty slip all messed up baby, you got me leaking." The hand on your knee moved up to grab his cock. He tugged on it slowly. 

"You sure baby? I can tell ya what I want? You gonna do it for me?" He begged. 

You nodded your head. "Yeah baby, gonna do what you want. You gonna tell me? Gonna make me listen for once."

He groaned and yanked the bottom of the slip up higher. Grabbing each of your legs and spreading them until you were folded in half.

"Hold those fuckin legs baby." He growled, tugging the top of the slip down until both breast were exposed. 

You did as you were told. Hands holding the back of your thighs. 

One hand went back to his cock while the other pinched one of your nipples. 

"Fuckin' hell wanna cum all over you and your pretty little slip. Spread that pussy baby, wanna see that pretty pink."

Your body jumped feeling him smacked the head of his cock on your pussy.

You wrapped your arms around your legs tighter to reach down with both hands and spread yourself for him. 

"Like this baby? This what you want?" You were going to ignore how whiney your voice sounded. 

"Just like that, good fuckin' girl." He notched the head of his cock on your open pussy and spit on both of you. You felt your hips jerk, his tip catching on your clit. 

"Mhmmmm." He rubbed the glob of spit into your pussy then smacked your clit one last time with his tip.

You could feel the slick coming out of you holding yourself open the way you were. It somehow felt even dirtier. 

"Want you to keep holding yourself just like that. Wanna see those titties and my fuckin' pussy while I rub my cock." He snarled.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as the he stroked himself, chest shaking, muscles in his arms shifting like something out of a wet dream.

His eyes flicked back up to yours then moved to your lips. You ran your tongue over your lips, teasing him.

“Yeah, yeah look at that. So sexy baby." The sound of his cock, wet with your slick and his spit, echoed around the room. 

"Rub your clit baby. Keep that pussy open and rub that clit. Wanna see that juice squirt ot of ya." He growled. 

You moaned rubbing your clit in circles with your thumb. 

Spread wide and open, you could feal your juices running down your pussy to under your ass, making you clench. 

Remmicks eyes caught it too. "Look at that fuckin' pussy. She begging? She need me to fill her up again?"

He notched his tip at your opening making your toes curl. He grabbed one of your tits. 

"Asked you a question honey." He groaned. 

You tried to answer him. You really did. 

But despite not being filled, the feeling of your thumb against your clit and his tip teasing your opening had you a bit dumb. 

Luckily for you, he just found it funny. 

"Always have a hard time answering when this cock is out." He chuckled. "Fuckin' mouth always keepin' me on my toes. But the minute my cock is anywhere near this fuckin' pussy it gets so silent." 

He was jerking himself faster now. Tip still notched at your opening. 

"That's alright baby. I know what this pussy needs. Because its my pussy. I know my wife needs to be full." He suddenly pulled away. Climbing up to kneel over your breasts. 

"I promise I'mma fill ya too. But I want these titties first." 

"Remmick fuck!" You cried slightly at the lost feeling of his cock at your pussy. 

"Come hold those titties up honey, let me fuck 'em." He snarled. "Ain't got to spend the time I want with these." 

You obeyed, sadly removing your hand from your pussy to grab your tits. 

"Wrap 'em round me, come on just like that. There you go." He thrust slowly. Feeling the soft skin of your breasts on his cock. 

He paused for a moment and wiped some more spit from his mouth onto his cock. He leaned down further onto his hands to rut into the space between your tits. 

"Open your mouth baby. Let me see that mouth." You opened wide. Tounge flicking out and catching his cock when he thrust forward. 

"Shit! Just like that. Keep lickin' baby. You better keep them titties tight together." 

Remmick's thrusts became more urgent, his hips snapping forward with each movement before he suddenly pulled back and liftied himself up slightly. His arm flexing with how hard and fast he was jerking his cock. 

"Get those legs back up baby. Spread that pussy again." 

You did as he said quick. Listening to his heavy breathing and the wet sounds of the room. 

"Keep that tounge out. Gonna cum all over ya. Wanna mark every fucking part."  

You whine a bit. "Please, ain't I been good? Want that cum."

Remmick moaned cumming all over first your pussy then up your stomach to your tits.

When the last of it was rung from his cock he stayed kneeled there for a moment catching his breath. 

You traced your fingers through his cum, from your pussy to your tits, scooping as you went and sucking them into your mouth. 

He groaned. "Damn sweetheart. Gonna fuckin' kill me one of these days." he chuckled, smirking at you. 

You giggled, delighting in how his eyes watched your boobs bounce with the sound. 

He dragged his teeth across his bottom lip, then let a slow smile curl there—lazy, knowing, and entirely too confident. His gaze found yours, warm and full of trouble.

“…Tell me you ain’t tired yet, sugar,” he murmured. “’Cause I got a few more things I’ve been waitin’ to say—real slow-like.” 

Chapter Text

Remmick smack your thigh. "Get up baby, want you to ride my face."

He threw himself down next to you on the bed, grabbing your ass as you swung one leg over his face, putting your pussy at his eyes. 

"That's it baby." He murmured. "Come on sit all the way, wanna suffocate in that pussy." 

You moaned and grabbed the headboard, sitting down fully on him.

His arms wrapped tight around you. Locking you into place. 

His touch sent shivers down your spine, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, a rhythm that matched the pulsating heat between your legs.

His lips, full and firm, found your inner thigh, leaving a trail of kisses that made you gasp.

"Been watchin' this pussy drip honey all night." his voice a low growl.

Your breath hitched as his tongue flicked out, teasing your clit.

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breaths and the wet sounds of his tongue as he continued to tease you, his praise a whispered mantra against your skin.

You gasped as Remmick's tongue delved deeper, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive strength.

He growled, his breath hot against your damp folds. "Fuckin' drippin baby. Come on, I'm thirsty, give me that juice."

His tongue flicked out again, teasing your lips and diving into your wetness. You moaned, your fingers digging into the headboard as he began to eat you with an intensity that left you breathless. 

He drew is hand back and smacked your ass, leaving a sting. If it hadn't been for his grip on you, you would’ve stood up off of him.

"Told you to ride my face baby. Come on. Take what you need."

Your body arched, your hips grinding against his face as you chased the pleasure that was building inside you.

"R-Remmmiicckk." His name was drawn out of your lips like a quiet prayer into the night. 

His snarl vibrated into you, creating a delicious effect that sent you over the edge.  He didn't let a single drop go anywhere but his mouth. Licking you until you were sensitive. 

You leaned over the headboard. Trying to catch your breath. 

He smacked your ass again. 

“Up, mo chroí. Time to ride this cock.”

I'm gonna pass out

He lifted you effortlessly, his hands gripped your hips as he yanked you, steadying you as you lowered yourself onto his length.

You gasped as you felt him fill you completely, your body stretching to accommodate his size. He was hot and hard inside you, the sensation of him pushing deep into your core sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. 

Your hand smacked against his stomach as you began to move, your hips rising and falling as you rode him, your body adjusting to the rhythm.

Remmick's hands moved to your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your nipples as you moved, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "Ride me, darlin'. Wanna feel that pussy gripping me."

You moaned, your body moving faster, your hips grinding against his as you chased the pleasure that was building inside you. 

Remmick grabbed your slip, still hanging around your waist and used it like a rein. Holding it in his fist as he pulled you to grind on his cock.

"That's it." His eyes roamed over you from your pussy up to your lips. One of his hands reaching up to cup your face and slipping his thumb into your mouth. 

"Suck on my thumb baby, let me see that pretty tongue again." 

You moaned. Sucking his thumb deep in your mouth. 

"Got the best fuckin' wife in this fuckin' world. Look at you, bouncin' on that cock, suckin' my thumb." He growled. "You gonna give me what I want baby? You gonna give me some more of that honey? Drip it all over me." 

You nodded your head, moaning around his thumb.

"Feel it drippin down my fuckin' balls sugar, your so fuckin' wet. Hear it? You Hear us?" 

And you sure as fuck did. The sounds of your slick, the slapping of skin, the headboard hitting the wall and the creaking of the bed swirled around in your ears. 

"Shit baby. You like seeing me like this?" you asked, your voice muffled by his thumb.

Remmick's eyes flashed with a wild intensity, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "Fuck yes, darlin'" he murmured, his voice a husky growl. "I fucking love it."

His hips lifted up to meet yours. Driving himself even deeper. 

Your hands clawed down his chest, trying to find purchase one something.  You could feel yourself close to the edge again. 

"Goddamn baby, you close? You gettin' tighter. Can feel it." He spit out. 

He suddenly stopped thrusting, holding you still against him. 

"Wh-what? Why you stop?" You cried out. 

He smirked, pulling his thumb out of your mouth and trailing his hand down your neck. He grinned widely, making his fangs twinkle. 

"Wanna do something sweetheart....know I'd never hurt ya. Wanna taste that blood of yours again."

Your eyes widened. 

"Just a bite honey, promise I won't bite too hard." He licked his lips. 

You hesitated for a moment. 

"Don't have to honey, don't wanna do anything your not comfortable with." He shook his head, worried he'd scared you. 

"I-It won't change me right? D-Don't wann be like you...yet." His eyebrows shot up at that. 

"No honey, not unless I want it to. But I'd never force that on ya. Just want to taste." 

You nodded your head yes. " Yeah baby, go 'head and taste me." You clenched your pussy around him. 

He sat up and kissed you deep and slow. Hands guiding you into riding him again. 

You tilted your head back exposing your neck to him. His tongue flicked out tasting your skin, mouthing at your neck, sucking it. 

He's gonna leave fuckin marks

You were suprised when he continued to kiss town to the top of your breasts, taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking hard. Remmick's eyes seemed to get even redder.

He restarted his thrusting, slapping your hips together harder, and let go of your breast, his mouth leaving with a loud 'pop'. 

He pulled away, his breath ragged, "You taste like sin, and I can't get enough," he growled, his voice a low rumble. Kissing the top of your breast again. You moaned as you felt the sting of his teeth digging in. 

You gasped, a mix of pain and pleasure coursing through you as you felt the warmth of his blood entering your mouth. He drank deeply, his body shuddering against yours, his hips grinding against you in a rhythm that was both primal and intoxicating. 

"Remmick," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"Please." He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a dark, hungry desire.

"Please what?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "thought it was my turn to tell you. You trynna tell me what to do again?" He chuckled as you begged, your body aching for release. 

"That's ok baby, always wanna listen to you. Listen to you boss me around for the rest of my fuckin' days. Got me trained like a dog you know that. Obeying commands just for the lil treat you got between them fuckin' thighs." His thrust were wild now. 

You weren't even riding him anymore, just holding on for dear life as you felt the start of your orgasm rip through you. 

"Good girl, let go. Squirt on me. get me fuckin' wet. Gonna add to what's drippin' down my balls?"  He whimpered.

Your orgasm seemed to go on and on. You fought in his grip to lift off of his dick. 

"Where you goin' huh? Why you trynna run from your husbands dick?" 

"B-B-Blockin' it. Can't." Your spit out through clenched teeth. 

He suddenly ripped you off of his cock. Holding you slightly above his lap as you started to squirt all over him. 

"Shit baby. Look at that. You had so much didn't ya." His fingers slipped to your clit. Rubbing you in quick circles. "Come on, better give it all to me." 

You finally finished gasping and clinging to his shoulders. Face tucked into his neck. 

He laughed cruelly. "Wanna put you back on that cock baby. Want you to take my cum in ya this time."

This wasn't the game you had been playing earlier. You knew he was asking real permission, not wanting to push your boundary’s.

"I-It's your pussy." You whined into his neck. 

He cursed loudly. "Fuckin' right it's my pussy." You didn't have to wait before you were being shoved back down onto him. Your walls sensitive and wet. 

You didn't have to suffer for long before he was coming deep in you. Falling back onto the bed and taking you with him. Hands pressing your ass down so his cum could reach the deepest parts of you. 


-

You both laid there quietly for a moment trying to catch his breath. Remmick gently pulling out of you.

His hand slid to the small of your back, rubbing it up and down.

“You got me ruined,” he whispered into your head. “Utterly.”

You hummed. “Guess I’ll have to keep you that way.”

Chapter Text

The days passed like honey—thick, golden, and sweet if you were patient enough to let them stretch.

Remmick slept through most of the daylight hours, tucked into the cool dark of your shared room, limbs tangled in the sheets and one hand always stretched toward your side of the bed—even when it was empty. But sometimes, in the middle of the afternoon when the house was quiet and the heat rolled low through the floorboards, he’d rouse just enough to join you for a late lunch or sit barefoot on the porch steps, blinking against the light.

“I don’t know how y’all do it,” he’d mutter, sipping sweet tea like it was a sacrament. “This sun tries to kill me faster than any preacher ever did.”

Still, he’d grin and reach for a second helping. Remmick loved human food more than he’d admit. Stewed greens, fried okra, ham hock and molasses cornbread—he cleaned his plate more often than not, even if his appetite came and went like the moon. When it was your cooking, though, he made an exception. Said it gave him strength. Said it tasted like you.

One weekend, you brought back a mandolin from town—a dusty old thing you found for next to nothing at the market. You cleaned it, polished it, and left it on the bed like a surprise.

Remmick held it like it was made of gold.

“Had one just like this,” he murmured. “Back long before I traveled here. Played it under moonlight for girls who couldn’t decide if I was charming or cursed.”

You raised a brow. “And which were you?”

He winked. “Both.”

He played most evenings now, fingers dancing over strings, notes floating down the hallway like lullabies with teeth.

Smoke and Stack came by during the day when they could, leaning on the porch rail with ledgers and gossip in hand. They’d update Remmick on permits, supplies, folks volunteering work shifts. Some days they’d stay long enough for tea and biscuits, shooting looks at the stairs where Remmick sometimes sat shirtless and groggy, listening like a sleepy cat in the sun.

Sammie tagged along more often than not—bright-eyed and eager, clutching his guitar like a third arm. He watched Remmick like some wide-eyed little cousin, hanging on every word.

“You felt it too, that surge when you sang in Ireland?” Sammie would gasp, eyes wide.

Remmick would lean in, all smoky charm. “All the time. That surge, it's sacred.”

He taught Sammie tricks on the strings, little flourishes that made the boy’s eyes light up. They’d sit on the back steps sometimes, trading verses and laughing like brothers separated by time.

Friday nights belonged to The Juke.

Once there, he lit up like one of the stage bulbs. Laughed with folks, played cards with Bo, held court over dominoes and whiskey. You’d never seen two men get along so quick and so loud—Bo called him that strange white cousin from the attic and Remmick called Bo King of the Cheatin’ Shuffle, and somehow that made them family.

Some nights at The Juke, when the music died down and only the core folks remained—Smoke, Stack, Annie, Slim, Bo, Grace, Sammie and you—you’d glance over and find Remmick and Slim in the corner, voices low. Talking about things that weren’t for the rest of the room.

Their gifts, they called them.

Slim talked about hearing what wasn’t said, hearing the songs of friends he'd lost, why he drank himself away. Remmick spoke quieter—how his song had been stolen from him the day he was turned. How it haunted him still. Sometimes they’d just sit together in that shared quiet, nodding. Not needing to explain it all.

Annie, who once wouldn’t look at Remmick longer than a second, now made a show of blessing him whenever he walked into the room.

She’d mutter to herself, smudging smoke near his shoulder. “I’m still watchin’ you.”

Remmick would grin, trying to lean into the warmth of her touch. “You bless me too often, Annie. Folks’ll think you like me.”

She’d shove him away with a bark of laughter. “Please. I ain’t tryin’ to raise no ancient man with emotional issues.”

Still, her eyes softened. She’d given him a little satchel once—worn leather, filled with dried herbs and red thread. “For strength,” she’d said. “And protection. Since you too hard-headed to ask for it.”

Grace and Remmick had formed their own kind of alliance too—equal parts gossip and unholy eavesdropping. Grace heard everything in town, and Remmick? Well, vampires had a way of slipping through places unnoticed.

They'd sit on the porch some nights, sipping tea and trading intel like spies.

“You hear Miss Clara’s husband got caught in the woods with the handyman Eli?” Grace would say.

Remmick would grin. “Saw the whole thing. They ain’t know I was in the tree.”

She’d gasp. “You are horrible. Tell me everything.”

And you?

You watched it all—the rhythm of it, the way your strange little life had become a home. Laughter in the halls. Cards on the table. Music from the back room. Salt in the beans, sugar in the bread.

A vampire in your bed.

And peace in your bones.

Chapter Text

The night was warm and quiet, thick with summer stillness. Crickets hummed outside the window, the slow creak of the porch swing swaying in rhythm with the breeze.

You sat curled up in the living room, book resting on your knee, the lamp casting soft golden light across the room. Remmick had gone out just before sundown to feed, promising to be back by midnight. He’d kissed the top of your head, fingers brushing your chin with a little grin. “Don’t wait up. I’ll come home full and friendly.”

You didn’t mind the waiting. It wasn’t new anymore.

But you did mind the sudden creak on the porch.

You paused mid-sentence, holding your breath.

The swing had already stilled.

You listened hard—nothing for a moment. Then came the sound again: a soft step on the porch boards. Too light to be Bo. Too smooth to be Stack or Smoke. You leaned forward, book forgotten.

“Remmick?” you called, not loud, but clear.

No answer.

You stood slowly, hand brushing the mantle as you moved toward the door. Another creak. Another footstep. You reached for the curtains, fingers trembling before they even touched the fabric.

You were just about to call out again when the first knock hit.

It was fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Your breath caught.

Then came the second, third, fourth—raining against the wood like fists drumming a warning. Too fast to be human. Too rhythmic to be desperate.

Too unnatural.

You stumbled back, heart kicking up hard. Then, stupid or not, you inched toward the window beside the door and peeled back the curtain just enough to see.

And saw them.

Eyes.

Glowing faintly yellow. Not like Remmick’s. Different. Pale and wide and staring straight at you, unblinking through the dark glass.

You gasped and dropped the curtain.

They hadn’t moved.

The knocking started again—harder this time, frenzied. Like whatever was out there didn’t care about being invited in—it just wanted in.

You spun on your heel and bolted up the stairs, your bare feet loud against the wood. Your chest tightened with every step. Your mind raced through everything Annie had taught you. Everything Remmick had told you.

They can’t come in. Not unless you invite them. Not unless—

You reached the bedroom, slammed the door, locked it out of instinct. It wouldn’t help much if the thing outside broke a window, but the ritual of it made your hands stop shaking. You grabbed the iron scissors from under the bed. Old Hoodoo trick. Didn’t know if it worked on his kind, but it was better than nothing.

Then silence.

Total.

Long enough that your heart had started to slow again when the front door finally creaked open.

You didn’t breathe.

Then came a voice. Familiar. Panicked.

“Darlin’?” Remmick’s voice echoed through the house. “Are you alright?”

You ran to the landing. “I’m here! Upstairs!”

He blurred into the hallway in less than a second, eyes wild, chest rising and falling. His hands touched your arms, your waist, your face, like he had to make sure you were real.

“I smelled it,” he said, voice raw. “Something was on the porch. One of mine—but not mine. You didn’t let anyone in?”

You shook your head hard. “No. I ran. But I—I saw the eyes. It wasn’t you.”

Remmick’s face darkened, fangs just visible at the edge of his mouth. “You did good. Real good.”

You hesitated, chest still heaving. “Have you... turned anyone else?”

His gaze snapped to yours. “No. Never. Only Bert and Joan. That’s it.”

Your stomach knotted. “You think they came ‘cause they could smell you? Like they were followin’ your scent?”

Remmick’s jaw tightened. “Could be. That’s how some of ‘em hunt—follow blood lines, old ties, instincts. But that kind of knockin’? That wasn’t curiosity. That was claimin’.”

He looked back toward the stairs, fists clenched at his sides.

“I don’t like that they came here. But I hate that they scared you, my wife.”

He turned to you again, voice low and dangerous. “Ain’t nobody got the right to make you feel afraid in your own home.”

His eyes darkened just enough to remind you what he was beneath the softness.

“I swear, mo ghrá... next time they try that?” His lip curled into something close to a snarl. “I’ll put my damn foot so far in their ass, they’ll be coughin’ boot leather for a week.”

You almost laughed—almost—but the heat behind his words wasn’t for show. He meant every word.

And somehow, that was the part that steadied you most.

He pulled you close for a moment, hand at the back of your head. Then he stepped back and tilted his face toward the open window, nose flaring.

“I already called Bert and Joan. They’re on their way. I can still smell it—the trace on the porch. We’ll follow it. Whoever it is, they will not come back.”

You nodded, trembling but steadier than before.

He looked at you again, something fierce behind his eyes—something ancient and sharp, honed by years you could barely fathom.

And just beneath it, something else stirred.

Something that didn’t knock for courtesy.

Something that wanted to be invited in.

Chapter Text

They arrived just past midnight.

The knock this time was soft, deliberate. Two taps, then a pause. Familiar. You opened the door and found Annie already stepping inside, her eyes scanning the house before you could even greet her.

“The spirits told me to come,” she said before you could ask.

Behind her, Bert and Joan hovered near the porch steps. Their eyes weren’t glowing, but they were sharp—wide-awake in that unearthly, alert way they had when something wasn’t right.

You pulled them all inside, and Annie didn’t wait. She walked straight to Remmick where he stood by the stairs, his posture stiff with tension.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

So you did—voice low, hands shaking just a little as you recounted the knock, the eyes, the way you’d run upstairs clutching iron like it could save you.

Annie didn’t flinch. Just nodded like she’d heard it before. Like she’d expected it.

Bert and Joan said nothing at first. They slipped back outside, crouched low to the floorboards, breathing in slow through their noses. You watched from the doorway, arms crossed tight over your chest as they sniffed along the porch rail and the steps.

After a few minutes, Bert stood straight and turned toward you. Joan followed a second later.

“We’re glad you’re alright,” Bert said simply. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out who did this.”

Joan nodded, eyes meeting yours with a rare warmth. “Ain’t nobody allowed to come knockin’ like that ‘cept family. And this”—she gestured to the house—“this is your place. We’ll handle it.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Thank you.”

The rest of the night slipped by soft and slow.

You sat beside Remmick on the couch, your body sagging against his side as sleep pulled at your eyelids. The conversation between him and Annie dipped quiet, down to a hush you could barely make out—just whispers about wards, doorways, the smell on the wind.

At some point, Remmick shifted beneath you, and you felt his arms slide under your legs and shoulders.

“C’mon, mo ghrá,” he murmured. “Time to rest that brilliant head.”

You were half-asleep as he lifted you, the scent of his shirt and the hum of his voice pressing against your cheek like a lullaby.

“Annie,” he said over your head, “you’re more than welcome to take the downstairs room.”

“I plan on it,” she replied without looking up. “Gonna bless the house properly come morning. See what else the ancestors got to say ‘bout all this foolishness.”

He paused on the stairs. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me till they speak.”

Then you were carried upstairs, tucked into bed with care, your last memory of the night being the creak of floorboards and the sound of Annie lighting another candle downstairs.

-

Morning crept in slow, like it wasn’t sure it was welcome. Light filtered through the curtains, brushing over the walls with that gentle warmth that usually made you feel safe. But not today.

You woke disoriented, your body heavy with the weight of the night before. The knock. The eyes. The scent Remmick had tracked through the doorway. Sleep had come only after Remmick wrapped himself around you like a second quilt, whispering soft nothings until your heart finally slowed.

Your feet touched the floor with a dull ache. You moved quiet through the house, the wooden boards cool against your skin, trailing the scent of coffee and something frying.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive.

Annie stood at the stove, flipping cornbread cakes with a practiced hand, her braid tucked into a scarf and her sleeves rolled high. The smell of butter, eggs, and chicory coffee filled the air.

Remmick was leaning against the counter, barefoot and rumpled, eyes soft when they found you.

“Morning, mo ghrá,” he said gently. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

Annie gave you a once-over without missing a beat on the pan. “You look like a ghost coughed on you.”

You huffed and sank into a chair. “Feels about right.”

Remmick moved to sit beside you, brushing his hand over your back before speaking. “Bert and Joan followed the scent for a while... got as far as the creek near the train tracks, but then it vanished. Like they’d been swallowed up.”

You nodded slowly. “Still... I appreciate them tryin’. Both of y’all.”

Remmick’s jaw tensed, but he softened again when you met his eyes. “I’m stayin’ closer from now on. Even when I have to go hunt, one of them’ll be here. I ain’t leavin’ my wife unprotected.”

Annie slid a plate in front of you with a sharp clatter. “Eat somethin’ before you start makin’ declarations. I ain’t got time for romance on an empty stomach.”

You smiled weakly. “Thank you, Annie. This smells real good.”

Remmick leaned over and inhaled dramatically above his plate. “Mm. Ain’t she just the sweetest dark priestess in the Delta.”

Annie narrowed her eyes. “You call me sweet again and I’m pourin’ grits in your boots.”

Remmick grinned. “Aw, c’mon, Annie. Give me a break. When I was human, I was a white boy livin’ in Ireland. That was before England started stealin’ spices. Excuse me for likin’ flavorful food now.”

That earned him a short laugh—even Annie cracked a grin, shaking her head as she handed him his coffee.

You picked at your food for a bit, eyes growing heavy again.

Remmick noticed right away. He reached over and brushed his knuckle along your jaw. “You good, sweetheart?”

You gave him a soft nod. “Just tired. Think I’m gonna head back to bed.”

Remmick perked up, eyes twinkling as he straightened in his chair. “Want some company? I’m real good at sleepin’ the day away. Got centuries of practice.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at you, and you groaned, pushing your plate back.

Annie waved a dish towel in your direction. “Y’all better shut that mess down before I throw salt at both of you.”

You laughed and stood, Remmick already sliding his hand into yours.

By the time your feet hit the stairs again, your eyelids were already drooping. Remmick followed close behind, and when you collapsed back into the bed, he wrapped himself around you without question—one arm tucked under your head, the other lazily curved around your waist.

You could’ve slept through the evening. Maybe even longer.

But it was Friday.

And you hadn’t missed a night at The Juke yet.

Chapter Text

Annie was already long gone by the time you and Remmick stepped out the front door, twilight laying soft blue over the yard. But something caught your eye right away—a truck parked at the edge of the drive. Sturdy. Matte black. Looked like it’d been cleaned just for you.

You glanced over at Remmick, brow raised.

“That yours?”

He shook his head, then gestured with his chin. “Yours.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I had Bert bring it over this afternoon. Bought it for you.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Ain’t lettin’ you walk to The Juke no more. Not ‘til we figure out who or what that other bloodsucker was.”

Your mouth opened to argue—this was overkill, surely—but you paused. And as you looked at the cab, solid steel and safe with doors that locked, you just nodded.

“Guess I’m ridin’ in style now,” you murmured, sliding into the passenger seat.

Remmick grinned and circled around to the driver’s side. You looked over at him with a raised brow.

“You can drive, right?”

He put a hand to his chest like you’d just insulted his ancestors. “Now I don’t like that tone, darlin’. Implies there’s somethin’ out there I can’t do.”

You smirked as the engine rumbled to life, and the two of you took off down the road.

The Juke was alive by the time you arrived—smoke curling from the back, voices already bubbling up through laughter and clinking glasses. The band had started tuning up and Delta Slim was arguing with a jukebox that wasn’t plugged in.

Everything felt normal again. Safe.

Until it didn’t.

You were just coming back from behind the bar with a glass of tea when Remmick pushed through the crowd toward you, sharp and fast, his shoulders tense, eyes flickering red at the edges.

Your heart jumped. “What’s wrong?”

He leaned in close. “I smell another one. A vampire. Different from the one on the porch.”

Before you could respond, Bo appeared at your side, breathless.

“Y’all—come on. Now.”

He ushered you both toward the back hallway, cutting through the laughter and music like a blade. The moment your feet hit the hallway floor, a blur of motion caught your eye.

Mary.

Running out the back, her dress soaked in blood, blue eyes glowing like gas flames in a storm. She turned over her shoulder with a smile that didn’t belong on any human face.

“See y’all real soon!” she called, voice like glass shattering.

Your chest went cold.

You tore forward ahead of Bo, skidding to a stop just inside the doorway to the back room—just in time to see Smoke kneeling on the floor, his hands pressed desperately to Stack’s neck.

“Stack!” you cried, rushing forward—only for Remmick’s arm to catch your waist, pulling you back.

“Don’t!” he said, voice hard. “Not yet. He’s changin’. Smoke—get back. Now.”

Annie pushed into the room behind you, grabbed Smoke by the back of his shirt, and yanked. “Out. Now. Don’t care if you love him—you can’t help him right now.”

Delta Slim’s voice rang out from the main floor. “Alright now—party’s over! Get your drink and get out. We closin’ early tonight!”

There were groans, confused complaints—but Slim’s voice didn’t leave much room for argument. The patrons slowly filtered out.

Sammie stumbled into the hallway. “What the hell happened? Is Stack gonna be okay? And—did anyone else see Mary? She looked like—like Remmick.”

You didn’t answer, too busy pulling Smoke into a hug. He collapsed against you, shaking.

“I didn’t see her comin’,” he muttered. “I didn’t see it—”

You held him tighter. “It’s not your fault.”

Sammie hovered, wild-eyed and unsure. “She looked just like him. The same eyes. The same walk. I thought—I thought you were the only one, man.”

You turned to Remmick. “How long does it take?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A few minutes, maybe less. But I didn’t turn him. He won’t listen to my voice. All he’s gonna know is hunger.”

That sank deep. You nodded slowly.

Grace was staring at the blood on Smoke's shirt eyes wide.

Slim looked around. “Where’s Bo?”

Annie turned. “He was just here a sec ago—”

“I sent him out front. Told him to get the car, take me home. We got Lisa waitin' on us.” Grace’s voice cracked. “He ain’t back yet.”

Remmick went still. His gaze snapped toward her.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, voice sharp as iron, “he ain’t outside right now, Grace.”

Before she could answer—two knocks.

One behind you, from the room where Stack’s body lay.

The other, at the front door.

Sammie whined behind you. “If we make it outta whatever the fuck is happenin’ tonight, I’m takin’ my ass somewhere it’s daylight twenty-four seven. My daddy told me to stop playin' that music.”

Smoke pulled out of your arms and stepped up to the door Stack was behind, pressing his ear gently to the wood.

Then—a sharp crack.

A knife pierced through the door beside his head.

Smoke jumped back, cursing. A second later, an eye appeared in the slit.

“Stack… that you?” Smoke asked, breath shallow.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Naw, Nigga it’s Jim Crow. Yeah, it’s me, open up.”

Before you could even process it, another knock—louder, this time—rattled the front door.

You look at Remmick. “I think it’s the one from the porch.”

He nodded, stepping forward slowly. 

“Aye! Y’all plannin’ on lettin’ me out, or I gotta chew through the wall?” Stack shouted.

Remmick waved him off. “Hold your horses, Stack. Jesus. Let me make sure we ain’t openin’ the door to Satan himself.”

You all held your breath as Remmick crossed the room and slowly reached for the front door handle.

He opened it a crack.

Then froze.

Standing there was a figure in dark clothes, short curls, glowing red eyes, and a smirk that felt familiar in a way that made your stomach turn.

Remmick stared. His mouth parted, voice barely a whisper.

“…Cook?”

Chapter Text

“...Cook?”
Remmick’s voice barely made it past his throat, ragged and raw like he’d just seen a ghost.

The man on the porch leaned against the doorway like he owned it. Pale curls tousled from the road, glowing red eyes beneath brows too familiar. Same crooked grin. Same sharp jaw. Same tension behind the shoulders. A mirror with just enough dust on it to feel wrong.

“‘Course it’s me,” the man said, smirking. “Took you long enough.”

Remmick stared, mouth working for a moment. “You—How? You died, Cook.”

“Apparently not well enough.” He grinned wider, then tilted his head toward the threshold. “So... you gonna invite your baby brother in, or what?”

Remmick didn’t move. His eyes were hard now. “Not yet.”

Cook raised a brow, amused. “Oh, come on, Rem. I’m family.”

“That ain’t the same as trust,” Remmick said, voice low and firm. “Might be my blood, but I don’t know what you are now. And I sure as hell don’t know if you can control yourself around humans.”

Cook blinked. That smile faltered, just a flicker. “Right,” he said softly. “Guess I earned that.”

You stood behind Remmick, heart still pounding. The chaos of the night before flooded back, and the adrenaline that had dulled finally snapped like a wire.

“You think knockin’ like a demon at midnight was funny?” you snapped, stepping forward. “What the hell were you tryin’ to prove, scarin’ folks like that?!”

Cook glanced at you, sheepish now, hands up like a boy caught stealing pie off the windowsill. “Was followin’ Remmick’s scent. Just meant to mess with him a little, y’know? Show up, get under his skin.”

You folded your arms. “You scared the life outta me.”

His face softened. “I didn’t know. Honest. When I figured out it was a human in there—I felt bad. Really. I wouldn’t’ve done that if I’d known.”

Remmick still hadn’t taken his eyes off him. He looked like someone had punched a hole in something buried deep.

“You’re not just alive,” he said. “You’re like me. Who turned you?”

Cook gave a tired shrug. “Don’t know. Don’t remember much from back then. Just woke up in the dirt hungry and angry. Took me years to find my name again. Took even longer to find your trail.” He looked around. “And when I did, you were here. In a house.”

The room stayed quiet for a beat.

Remmick's jaw ticked. He looked at you, then back at his brother.

“I ain’t sayin’ you can’t stay in town,” Remmick said slowly. “But you’re not comin’ through this door. Not until I know you ain’t a danger to her—or anyone else.”

You crossed your arms and gave him the kind of look usually reserved for little brothers who broke something and tried to hide it behind the couch. “Well, next time you feel like knockin’, maybe don’t do it like a horror picture come to life.”

Cook scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah… fair.”

You shook your head, sighing like someone who was already halfway to forgiving him. “Uh-huh. Don’t make me start keepin’ a broom by the door just for you.”

Cook’s eyes lit up again. “She’s feisty. I like her.”

From beside you, Remmick groaned, rubbing his chin. “Great. That’s exactly what I needed—two of you.”

Still, you caught the flicker of something warm in his expression as he glanced between the two of you. He didn’t say it, but you could tell.

He liked that you and Cook were starting to get along.

Even if it stressed him the hell out.

Annie suddenly jolted like someone had run lightning through her bones, hand slapping the wall to steady herself.

“Annie?” Smoke asked, stepping forward quick. “You alright?”

She blinked, chest rising and falling, like she’d just been yanked through water. “I’m fine,” she said slowly. “But nobody else ‘bout to be.”

Everyone turned toward her.

She inhaled deep, eyes sharp now with something not-quite-earthly behind them. “Ancestors just told me... this fool’s part of a bigger plan. He’s safe. Stupid but safe.”

Delta Slim, sitting in the corner with his boots kicked up, grabbed the nearest bottle, uncorked it with his teeth, and muttered, “Yay. More white people.”

Cook’s eyes widened, grinning as he turned to Slim. “Oi, I like him.”

Remmick muttered something in Irish under his breath, already looking like he regretted opening the damn door. Cook bounced on his heels, soaking in the attention like he’d been starved for it.

Grace stepped forward, face flushed and eyes wide. “Did you—did you see an Asian man out there?!”

Cook scratched his head. “Uh… no man, no. But I did smell another vampire not too far off. Saw a glimpse of her. Pale dress. Smirkin’ like she’d just won a game no one knew they were playin’.”

You all froze.

Mary.

It had to be.

From behind the door came a muffled, exasperated voice. “Can someone explain why I’m still locked in this damn room?!”

Cook raised a brow. “Who’s that?”

“That’d be Stack,” Smoke said dryly.

“The better-lookin’ Moore brother,” Stack added proudly through the wall.

"Nigga you ain't ever looked good, much less better than me." Smoke yelled through the door.

Brothers to the very end

Cook blinked. “And he’s locked up? What, he bite somebody’s grandma?”

Delta Slim didn’t even glance up. “Boy couldn’t stay away from a toxic woman for a lil nookie. Now he’s fresh-fanged and grounded like a disobedient house cat.”

Cook let out a bark of laughter. “Damn. Wish I’d gotten turned here. Y’all are a whole show.”

“Focus,” you snapped, stepping between them. “Can we all just—please—circle back to the part where Mary’s out there sniffin’ around?”

Smoke turned to Annie, jaw set. “It safe to let him in for real?”

Annie gave a slow nod, still listening to something none of you could hear. “For now, yeah. He’s a storm—but he ain’t the one the spirits worried about.”

Remmick sighed and tilted his head back with his eyes closed, like his patience had been on backorder since 1302. “Come in, Cook. But I swear, you pull one wrong move—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cook said, grinning as he crossed the threshold. “You’ll throw me into the sun, or whatever dramatic punishment you’ve got loaded up.”

Remmick ignored him and gestured around the room. “That’s Annie, Smoke, Grace, Delta Slim, and Stack—though he’s currently grounded. You know me. This here…” He glanced at you. “This is my wife.”

Cook’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Your wife? Well, hell. You’ve really settled in.” He looked at you, full charm. “You’re stunning. What’s your eyesight like, sugar?”

You blinked, torn between slapping him and laughing.

Remmick smacked him upside the head without looking. “Enough.”

Before Cook could say anything else, Grace gasped and looked out the door. “Bo?!”

You all turned.

Bo stood in the doorway, backlit by the moon, lighting a cigarette with slow ease. “Got the car all ready baby.”

Grace’s smile broke across her face. “Thank God,” she breathed, taking a step forward.

Remmick and Cook moved at the same time—each grabbing one of her arms to stop her.

“What the hell are you doin’?!” she snapped, startled and furious.

They didn’t answer.

They just stared at Bo.

Bo leaned in the doorway, exhaling smoke. “Don’t know why you didn’t tell me, Remmick,” he said casually. “Bein’ like this... everything’s so damn clear.”

You felt the air go still. Dead still.

Grace gasped. “No.”

Stack’s voice rang out from the other room. “You too?!”

Bo grinned, flicking ash off the edge of his cigarette. “Yep. Joined the vampire club. Got a cool ring and everything.”

Stack laughed. 

Grace was crying now—confused, heartbroken, shaking her head as she backed away. Cook’s grip on her arm softened, eyes suddenly heavy.

And then—

Mary walked up behind Bo.

Pale dress, hair curled, smirking like the devil’s favorite daughter.

She stopped just short of the porch.

Remmick’s eyes sharpened. “Try to step through that door, Mary, and I’ll rip out your throat and bury it separate from the rest of you.”

Mary laughed—low and lovely like sugar in tea. “That’s not part of the plan... yet.”

Her eyes moved across the room. Landed on Sammie, who stood behind Smoke, wide-eyed and frozen.

She smiled wider.

“He’s the one,” she said, like she was naming a secret. “He’s what he wants.”

The room fell dead silent.

Annie stepped forward, her voice calm but threaded with steel. “Who’s he, Mary?”

Mary just tilted her head, still smiling.

And said nothing.

Chapter Text

Mary and Bo began to step backward, feet light like dancers in some dark parade. Mary never took her eyes off Sammie. Bo gave one last look at Remmick and winked.

“Hope my buddy’ll still let me in when I knock,” Bo said, that sly grin still intact.

Remmick slammed the door so hard it shook dust from the rafters.

The silence that followed was sharp and tight. You barely breathed as he turned to look at you, eyes flashing.

Grace had stopped sobbing. Her face was dry now, mouth set like stone, fury radiating off her like heat. Smoke stood stiff with his jaw clenched, one hand resting lightly near the gun on his hip.

“What now?” Smoke asked, voice low but firm.

“I’ll tell you what now,” Stack hollered from the back room. “Somebody let me outta this room already!”

Annie narrowed her eyes in that way that made grown men and spirits think twice. “And how do we know you ain’t just gonna run straight into whatever trap they laid out there? Huh?”

“Mind your damn business,” Stack shot back.

“You better watch your mouth,” you snapped, whipping toward the door. “You might’ve changed, but I ain’t forgot how to whoop your ass.”

“Seconded,” Smoke added. “Keep it up, you’ll stay in there longer than that woman stayed married.”

Remmick raised his hand, silencing everyone. “Y’all. By the stage. Now.”

You hesitated, but the tone in his voice left no room for argument. One by one, you, Annie, Grace, Smoke, Sammie, and even Delta Slim shuffled toward the stage, watching with tight nerves as Remmick moved to the locked door.

“Remmick…” you warned, but he opened it anyway.

Stack burst out, tearing down the hallway, straight for the front door and into the night.

“What the hell—” you spun on Remmick. “Why?!”

“Why did you do that?!” Smoke shouted. 

Even Annie looked ready to drag Remmick by the ear.

But Cook stepped in between you all, arms raised like he was breakin’ up a Sunday brawl. “Oi! He had to let him go. Can’t keep a vampire caged forever—'specially not one tied to someone like her. Until Mary’s master is ash, Stack’ll stay a danger to everyone in here.”

Remmick didn’t speak, just walked toward the busted chairs and started tearing one apart. Cook joined him, grabbing chair legs and humming off-key.

“Gonna need stakes,” Cook said, like they were making dinner. “And rope. And holy water. And maybe a nice fruit tart for morale.”

Remmick didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. “Me and Cook’ll go out first,” he said. “See what we’re dealin’ with. The rest of you stay here. Lock it down.”

“The hell I will,” you snapped, stepping forward. “You don’t even know what’s out there. I ain’t about to be no widow before I’m a wife.”

He looked at you—truly looked—and didn’t make a single joke. Just walked over, pulled you close by the waist, and rested his forehead against yours.

Grace wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “Nothing happens to Bo,” she said firmly. “You bring him back.”

Remmick nodded. “I will. I swear it. Ain’t gonna leave my best friend and my Brother-in-Law runnin’ around feral.” He smiled faintly. “It’s bad for the brand.”

Annie reemerged from the back with a large jar of garlic. “Alright. Everyone who’s breathin’, take some.”

She shot a look at Cook and Remmick, both grinning.

“I swear to the spirits,” she growled, “I’ll throw cloves at both your asses.”

You, Grace, Smoke, Sammie, and Annie all took a clove and bit down. The sharp burn was immediate.

Delta Slim, not one to be left out, shoved a piece into his mouth. Three seconds later, he choked violently and bent over, hacking into a bucket.

“Slim?!” Grace yelped, stepping back.

Remmick and Cook just stared at him, brows raised.

Slim wiped his mouth. “My bad. I drank too much whiskey tonight. Stomach ain’t made for flavor right now.”

No one said anything.

You all got to work.

Chair legs were carved into sharp stakes. Smoke opened a hidden trapdoor in the floor and pulled out two old rifles and a wooden crate of ammo. “Won’t kill ‘em. But’ll slow ‘em down enough to stake ‘em.”

Remmick grunted. “Hurts like hell, too.”

Cook dug around the supply bins until he pulled out a dented tin flask and some glass bottles. “I can bless some water.”

Everyone turned to stare.

“What?!” he cried, looking offended. “I was a priest a couple of years ago!”

All eyes turned to Remmick.

He sighed. “It’s probably the best we’ve got.”

You raised a brow. “Will it still work if the priest’s a vampire?”

Annie, who’d been lighting a candle and muttering to the spirits, nodded without looking up. “Water don’t care who speaks the blessing—just that the spirits agree.”

Sammie blinked. “The laws of nature sure don’t make no damn sense.”

Remmick chuckled, walking over and giving Sammie a nudge. “You alright, Preacher Boy?”

Cook perked up. “Preacher Boy? That your nickname? Hell yeah, you and me ‘bout to start a ministry.”

As the others chuckled and returned to their work, Remmick leaned in close, his voice low at your ear.

“I’m gonna do everything I can to protect you. Everything.”

Before you could answer, Sammie’s head snapped up.

“Y’all hear that?”

Everyone paused.

You strained your ears.

Soft, eerie... singing. Like a hymn. But wrong. Warped.

Smoke and Remmick were already moving.

They reached the barn doors and flung them open wide.

The night beyond stared back at you.

Chapter Text

The barn doors groaned on their hinges as Remmick and Smoke pushed them wide open, moonlight spilling into the open space like a divine spotlight. But what it illuminated was no holy scene.

Out in the field, just beyond the threshold, the townsfolk who had once danced freely at The Juke now moved in eerie synchronicity, caught in some hellish waltz. Their arms linked, their feet tapping to a melody none of you could hear—until you did.

“I cut a stout blackthorn… on the Rocky Road to Dublin, one, two, three, four, five…”

The lyrics drifted like smoke on a hot night, sung in cheerful harmony by a crowd bewitched. Bo and Stack spun in place, eyes glowing, expressions vacant, singing along. Mary swayed at the circle’s center, her mouth curling around each lyric like she’d been born into the tune.

And in the middle stood him.

The vampire was tall, red-eyed, dark-haired, smug in the way only monsters who know they cannot be stopped ever truly are. He watched his orchestra perform with something close to glee. You could feel Remmick stiffen beside you.

“What the fuck?” Smoke’s voice cracked the silence like a dropped glass. He stepped forward, disgust curling his lip. “What kinda nightmare circus is this?”

You were too transfixed to answer. Cook, however, was not. He bobbed his head to the music, body already halfway into a jig before catching your look.

“What?” he asked sheepishly. “It’s a good song.....from back home.”

“Now ain’t the time to line-dance with the undead,” you hissed.

“Right, right,” he said quickly. “Apologies. Sincerely. Very inappropriate.”

Out of the corner of your eye, movement flickered near the rear entrance. You turned, heart momentarily seizing—until you saw Joan and Bert slip in, silent as shadows. Reinforcements. Remmick’s idea, no doubt.

Sammie’s voice cut through the tension. “Remmick… do you know what they’re doing?”

Remmick’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. What thieves of ‘the gift’ always do. Mimicking power. He wants you, Sammie. Wants what you got—so he can see what’s lost to him. His people. Maybe his family.”

He paused. “It’s why he turned me.”

The music stopped. Dead silence.

The vampire in the center began to walk toward the barn, arms wide in mock welcome. His voice was velvet and venom.

“Well now,” he called. “Aren’t you two going to greet your sire?”

Cook made a rude gesture. “Póg mo thóin.”

Remmick added, “Go fuck yourself.”

The vampire tsked. “Such hostility. I had hoped for a warmer reunion. Might’ve even made claiming the boy easier.”

Your voice rang out before you could think. “You’re not getting Sammie.”

His red eyes landed on you, flickering like candlelight. Then they brightened—too fast to be anything but dangerous amusement.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice as smooth as aged whiskey. “The one that blooms.”

Everyone stilled. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The vampire bowed low, the gesture mocking in its grace. “Forgive me. I’ve not introduced myself. Tadhg O’Catháin.” He pronounced it slowly, letting each syllable linger in the air like a spell.

Remmick went rigid. 

Tadhg’s grin widened. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“First thing I noticed when I arrived in this little town. You. You shimmer, love. You vibrate on an older frequency. Even the dirt around your feet leans toward you.” His tone curled around the words, half wonder, half hunger. “A deeper power, ancient and sacred. I was planning on taking you, you know—before my runaway child started sniffing around.”

You felt Remmick shift, fury radiating from him like heat.

Tadhg tilted his head, gaze cutting like a blade. “But then I saw his scent was already on you. Tch. Naughty of you taking what should’ve been mine.”

He took a slow step forward, unbothered by the weapons in your hands or the fury in the room.

“I’ve seen the girl’s visions,” he went on, as if discussing the weather. “Lisa. A gifted little mouthpiece, that one. Her mind’s loud—especially when them spirits get to talking. Every vision. Every warning. That lovely fire and shadow, the split paths, the door between here and there.”

Your heart thudded so hard it echoed in your ears.

“You still don’t see it, do you?” Tadhg’s voice dropped into something near reverent. “I am the ferryman.”

The room seemed to ripple around his words.

“I don’t just cross between life and death,” he said. “I make the crossing possible. In the old ways, we called them an lucht siúil—the ones who walked between. Fairy folk, yes, but not the kind you tell your children about. I was one of them before I was ever bitten. Marked from birth. You could say vampirism was just... the next evolution.”

He paced slowly, boots crunching gravel like bones underfoot.

“The ferryman holds the door,” he said. “I carry the souls, the magic, the hunger. I take the gifted. Consume them. Become them. The old stories left that part out. Too frightening, maybe. Or too true.”

His smile dimmed slightly. “You were supposed to be next. You would’ve made me unstoppable. And if I couldn’t have you, I’d take the boy. Take his gift and unlock every threshold the dead still knock on.”

Tadhg’s eyes glowed brighter now, like embers before a storm.

“That’s what this was always about. Not just domination. Not just blood. Legacy. The bloom. The song. The door.” He paused, voice almost tender. “You were the first thing in two hundred years that made me want to believe in fate again.”

Remmick growled low in his throat, stepping forward.

But Tadhg’s gaze stayed fixed on you. “And now I see it. You weren’t just blooming. You were blooming for him.”

You felt the shift in the air. A pressure. A reckoning.

And for the first time since he walked into view, Tadhg’s eyes didn’t flash with amusement.

They burned with wrath.

Remmick’s snarl ripped through the night like a blade drawn from bone. It was low and guttural, the kind of sound that belonged to wolves, not men. His shoulders were coiled tight, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. Even the night air seemed to hold its breath.

“You sure as hell ain’t touchin’her,” Remmick growled, voice thick with venom. “And you not gettin’ Sammie.”

Tadhg simply laughed, slow and infuriatingly calm. “Oh, you poor thing,” he said with a mock pout, brushing invisible lint from his lapel. “Still clinging to the idea that you can stop me.”

Cook rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Jesus, mate, you ever shut up?"

Tadhg glanced at him with mild disdain. “If I’d known how chaotic you two would turn out,” he mused, gesturing lazily between Remmick and Cook, “I might’ve rethought the whole immortality gift. But alas, hindsight. When I arrived in your village, I was just looking for something to pass the time. A little fun. A little colonizing. I thought converting the lot of you to Christianity would be amusing.” His eyes flickered dark. “Didn’t expect you to bite back. Quite literally.”

Remmick’s fists clenched at his sides. Cook made a rude gesture and half-laughed, half-spat, “Joke’s on you. I still can’t name all the apostles.”

“You’re a disgrace,” Tadhg said with a smirk.

“Aye,” Cook shot back, “but I’m your disgrace.”

Before the tension could snap, Smoke stepped forward from the shadows, shoulders square, jaw clenched. “You twisted Stack’s mind,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You turned Bo. You dug Mary up just to send her crawling back here to finish what you couldn’t. And now you’re after a child?” His voice sharpened to a knife. “You think we’re gonna let that slide?”

Tadhg cocked his head as if considering it, then gave a casual shrug. “I think you don’t have a choice.”

Then Bo stepped out from the ring of vampires, his eyes glassy and unreadable. His voice, when it came, was cold and familiar.

“Grace.”

The name landed like a slap.

“Let us in,” Bo said. “Or we’ll pay Lisa a visit instead.”

A sharp gasp cut through the night. Grace stepped forward without thinking, horror twisting her face. “No—!”

Annie’s arms wrapped around her before she could move again. “Grace,” she said firmly, “don’t you dare.”

You moved fast, slipping in front of them and pressing your hand to Grace’s mouth before she could speak a single word more. Her eyes burned into yours, wide and panicked, rimmed with tears, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t risk it.

Then Stack’s voice floated across the field—softer than Bo’s, but somehow more haunting.

“Just let us in,” he pleaded. “Or send Sammie out. That’s all he wants.”

Delta Slim’s voice erupted like a gunshot.

“Lemme tell you somethin’—” he snapped, voice raw, eyes flashing like firelight off whiskey glass. “Lemme tell you goddamn somethin’, Stack. Ain’t NOBODY gettin’ Sammie. Not now. Not ever. You hear me? I swear to God I’ll put you in the ground myself.”

A long silence followed. Even the wind seemed to still.

Tadhg let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as if bored by the whole thing. “Always so dramatic, these mortals,” he muttered, then waved a hand as if brushing away a thought.

As one, the circle of vampires turned. Slowly. Methodically. And began walking back across the field—like a procession of shadows slipping away under moonlight.

Their steps were unhurried. Eerie. You could still hear the rustle of their boots against the grass. See the curve of Mary’s smile. The way Stack kept glancing back, as if hoping Grace would break and call them in.

Annie grunted behind you, still struggling to hold Grace, who was crying now. Not sobbing, just that silent kind of grief that splintered in the chest. You kept your hand firm over her mouth. You could feel her trembling beneath your palm.

“I know, I know,” you whispered against Grace’s temple, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “But don’t you dare. Don’t let them win.”

Your arms held tight around her, Annie gripping her shoulders from behind. Together you formed a fragile dam against a rising flood. But Grace was trembling, her grief bubbling up, threatening to break free.

Then, just before the shadows at the far end of the field swallowed them whole, Bo turned back. His eyes locked on Grace—and with a smug grin, he blew her a kiss.

That was all it took.

“Grace, no—” you started, alarm spiking—but too late.

Pain bloomed sharp and sudden.

“OW—shit!” you yelped as her teeth sank into the base of your palm. Instinct made you recoil, grip faltering for just one second—but it was enough.

She broke free like a shot.

“COME ON IN, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!” she screamed toward the darkened field.

And just like that—

Time stood still.

Chapter Text

Remmick’s face twisted into something feral—red eyes glowing, fangs peeking beneath his snarl. “Weapons. NOW.”

Your feet moved before your mind caught up, heart jackhammering against your ribs as you sprinted for the table. You grabbed the nearest stake—hand-carved and still stained from past battles—then snatched up a jar of holy water so fast it nearly slipped from your fingers.

Behind you, Remmick appeared in a blur, hands steady as iron. He caught your face in both palms and kissed you—hard, urgent, like it might be the last. His lips lingered just a moment too long, breath warming your skin.

“Stay safe,” he breathed, voice trembling just beneath the surface. “You got me?”

“I got you.”

Tadhg’s laughter pierced the tension like a cannon blast—sharp, giddy, and unholy. He threw his head back, arms wide, and the night responded. Shadows poured into movement. A tide of fangs, claws, and snarling eyes surged across the field, crashing toward the Juke's doors like a rising hell.

The battle began.

Smoke roared as he tackled Stack, both of them going down hard, limbs flying and scraping across the wooden floor. Bert was already there, trying to pin Stack’s legs, dodging a feral swipe.

Cook let out a yell and dove for Bo, their bodies colliding in a spray of dust and fists. Their fight was brutal, less like brothers and more like beasts, Cook swinging wild, Bo dodging with unnatural grace.

Joan caught Mary mid-charge, their impact sounding like thunder. The two women spun together in a whirlwind of fury, their movements fast, dirty, personal.

You ducked under a broken chair leg and spun, holy water flying from your hand. A vampire lunged—fangs out, eyes hungry. The liquid hissed as it hit, smoke rising from his chest.

He shrieked.

You didn’t wait. You drove your stake into his heart. Hard.

Ash.

Gone.

Delta Slim roared behind you, firing round after round into the oncoming horde. “Y’all fuckers want more? Come get it!”

Two vamps hit the ground beside him, twitching, slowed by silver and grit.

A vampire broke from the pack, charging toward Annie, snarling.

Annie didn’t flinch.

She turned, snatched a burning root from the small fire she’d lit by the stage, and flung it into the creature’s path. The root exploded into flame mid-air, forcing the vampire to screech and burn.

The clash in the center of the barn drew all eyes—Remmick and Tadhg, locked in a war that was centuries old. Their bodies crashed into beams, knocking dust loose from the rafters. Blurs of teeth, fists, rage. Cook barreled in seconds later, catching Tadhg in the ribs with a crunch that made the vamp hiss and retaliate. It was primal. Savage. Nothing held back.

Then Mary broke free.

She came for you.

“YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!” she shrieked, her eyes crazed, her fangs fully extended. “Always gotta be important—Mama was MINE, and Stack always looked at YOU!”

You gritted your teeth, swinging your stake, barely deflecting her clawed swipe.

“You’re insane,” you hissed. “Stack’s my brother—he loved you, and your mama did too. But you—” you dodged another blow, barely missing her claws “—you threw it all away.”

Her scream cracked through the barn rafters. “You stole my life!”

“No,” you growled. “You burned it.”

You raised your hand and fired. One shot. Clean. Straight into her shoulder. She staggered back, stunned—but not for long.

You lunged. The stake slid in deep.

She gasped. Eyes wide.

Ash.

Gone.

You stood over the pile, chest heaving, trembling. “Rest in pieces, Mary.”

Near the stage, Grace, Annie, and Joan were still struggling to keep Bo pinned. His face was half-buried in the floorboards, but he wasn’t fighting anymore. Just groaning.

Smoke and Bert had Stack cornered near the back, holding him down without injuring him. Slim hovered nearby with another round loaded, just in case.

Tadhg shrieked, fangs dripping as he shoved Remmick back. “I gave you eternity! ” he screamed. “And you repay me by standing with them?”

Remmick wiped blood from his lip, snarling as he threw his body forward, tackling Tadhg out of the barn doors and into the shallow lake near The Juke. Water exploded upward, steam rising where Tadhg’s skin touched it.

“You should’ve left my wife alone,” Remmick said, voice low, dangerous.

Tadhg lunged. They fought like demons—claw to fang, fist to jaw. Mud and water sprayed as their bodies collided again and again.

Cook came bounding from the shadows, soaked and furious.

One perfect opening.

Tadhg raised his arm to strike—Cook tackled him low.

Remmick went high.

The stake drove clean through.

Tadhg’s scream wasn’t human. It cracked the night wide open.

Remmick and Cook flew back, sprinting toward the barn. 

You yanked him back just as the first golden ray hit the edge of the Juke. Cook dragged Smoke deeper into the shadows. Bert, Grace, Joan, and Annie wrestled Bo toward the stage’s overhang. Slim and Sammie stood by what used to be part of the bar.

Out in the lake, the sun caught Tadhg like a fuse. His hands wrapped around the stake, eyes wild.

And then—

He ignited.

A tornado of fire whirled around him, howling. The barn shook with its force. Screams, howls, fury—all swallowed in flame.

And then…

Ash.

Gone.

Silence fell like snow.

You looked around—heart racing, stake still in hand.

Bo lay dazed under Joan’s grip. Stack slumped between Bert and Smoke, eyes blinking.

They were back.

“…Can y’all get off my back now?” Bo croaked, face still mashed into the wood.

Chapter Text

You let out a breathless laugh—part joy, part relief, part raw survival still buzzing in your bones.

Remmick was on you in an instant, cupping your face in his rough, calloused hands, scanning your eyes like he needed proof you were real. His thumbs smoothed your cheekbones. His eyes were wild—half feral, half soft—and his voice trembled low in his throat.

His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek, and then finally found yours in a kiss that was all breath and desperation and victory.

“You okay?” he rasped, brushing back strands of your hair that had come loose in the chaos. “You good? I swear, if anyone touched you—”

“I’m good,” you whispered, voice cracking as you leaned into him. “I’m good, baby.”

The moment barely had time to settle—your breath still syncing with his, hearts still pounding in post-battle rhythm—before Cook hurled himself onto both of you with a theatrical grunt.

“Bloody hell, that was a nightmare,” he exclaimed, practically draping himself over Remmick’s back like an oversized golden retriever. “Who lets their sire turn into a bloody choir director and organize a death waltz? We had drama, opera, pyrotechnics—next time I want a script and a goddamn spotlight.”

You wheezed a laugh as Cook smushed himself into your shoulder, limbs akimbo. He smelled like smoke and holy water and maybe a little whiskey someone had snuck mid-fight. Remmick groaned into your neck, half in relief, half in pain, then lifted his head again with a long, loud sigh.

“Cook,” Remmick growled, teeth clenched. “Get your lanky ass off my wife.”

“I am comforting your wife,” Cook said, scandalized. “Ever heard of shellshock cuddles? It’s a public service.”

He dramatically patted your shoulder like he was being noble. “Poor darling’s been through hell. What she needs is a warm embrace and a charming Irishman—not a brooding scarecrow with fangs and trust issues.”

Remmick rolled his eyes so hard you heard it. “Keep talkin’, I’ll show you a warm embrace—with a shovel.”

Cook gasped. “Violence? In front of your missus? Tsk, no wonder she likes me better.”

“Cook!” Remmick lifted his head, squinting.

“I’m nurturing, Remmick!" Cook whined, still very much attached to both of you like a heat-seeking sibling missile. “You’re just jealous she likes my cuddles more. I’m warm. I’m comforting. I smell amazing.”

“Like smoke, garlic, and regret,” Remmick growled.

“Exactly. Like home.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again, breath hitching as the tension finally began to ebb. Cook eventually peeled himself off with exaggerated flair, muttering about ungrateful bastards and no appreciation for long-lost brothers.

On the other side of the room, Smoke rounded on Stack, arms flailing with pure rage. “What the hell were you doing even looking at Mary, huh?! You just had to get turned?!”

Annie stood next to him. Arms crossed and lips tight together, shaking her head at Stack. 

Stack stood there like a kid who just broke the front window and knew the whooping was coming. His eyes were huge, his hands halfway in the air like he was surrendering to a cop.

“Yeah…” he muttered, kicking the toe of his boot into the floor. “I really messed up.”

“You think?!”

“I mean, she said she’d changed—”

Smoke damn near roared, “She did, boy. Into a VAMPIRE.”

Stack flinched and looked like he wanted to crawl under the floorboards. To his credit, he looked wrecked—like the glamour was gone and all that was left was shame, regret, and a faint bloodstain near his collar.

Bo and Grace clung to each other like they were trying to stitch time back together. His arms wrapped tight around her, forehead pressed to hers.

“I’m sorry,” Bo murmured, voice thick. “I should’ve been stronger. Should’ve fought it.”

Grace shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “No, I—I never should’ve sent you out there.”

At the makeshift bar, Delta Slim poured two fingers of something brown and strong into a chipped glass, handing it to Sammie like it was communion.

Sammie took it with trembling hands and sipped like he’d aged ten years in the span of an hour.

You watched him quietly, heart twisting. His eyes were wide, unfocused, like he was still seeing something the rest of you couldn’t. Firelight flickered in his curls.

“I ain’t never seen anything like that,” he whispered.

“None of us have,” Slim said, handing him another drink. “But we sure as hell ended it.”

Remmick wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warming your neck.

“We made it,” he murmured, barely audible.

You nodded, eyes scanning the room.

The smell of burned wood and ash lingered in the air. Blood—human and otherwise—coated the floorboards in places. But everyone still standing was accounted for. Bruised, scarred, shaking.

But alive.

Family. Bound by blood, battle, and something even older.

Love.

Chapter Text

Peace didn’t return all at once. It came in soft pieces—sunlight through broken shutters, laughter echoing through a room once lined with fear, hands clasped not in battle but in comfort. The town that had almost been torn apart by shadows now shimmered with something stronger. Light. Family. Healing.

Bo and Stack, both fully themselves again, learned what it meant to be vampires under the careful—if slightly chaotic—guidance of Remmick and Cook. There were… setbacks. Stack burned his tongue on garlic mashed potatoes once and Bo almost tried to "test daylight" with a wide-brimmed hat and nothing else, but they made progress. In time, their new strength became a gift, not a curse.

The Juke had been rebuilt. Smoke, Stack, Cook, and Remmick spent weeks hammering and painting, fixing every scorched beam and shattered window until the place looked not just restored—but reborn. Gone were the shadows of battle. In their place: music, laughter, light. A stage twice as wide, chairs carved by hand, and a bar stocked fuller than ever. Annie's painted symbols of protection into the beams. Folks said it pulsed different now—like something sacred had rooted itself in the floorboards. Maybe it had.

Smoke had moved in with Annie again, settling into the rhythm of a home they’d both once thought lost. They bickered like old lovers, laughed like new ones, and somehow made room for Sammie, who had taken up the spare room with his guitar, his notebooks, and a promise to chase music instead of nightmares. Annie fussed over him like he was her own, Smoke pretended not to, and the boy—man now—was thriving.

Cook had claimed Stack and Sammie’s old spot at the twins’ place. “Found family,” he said with a wink, lounging across their couch like a king without a throne. He and Stack argued like two dogs in a sack, but they shared chores, swapped secrets, and made it a point to show up unannounced at your porch just to eat Remmick’s food and leave dirty dishes. They were a chaos tornado, and oddly enough, you loved them for it.

Bo & Grace's shop was doing better than ever. Grace took mornings slow, let herself breathe deep into the afternoons, and opened the doors at dusk. Business boomed—folks loved a place with light in the windows when the rest of the town went quiet. Bo worked behind the counter or just outside, helping with deliveries, pranking Lisa when she was tired, and sometimes sitting by the window, waving people in.

Lisa was lighter now. She’d seen it—everything. The fire, the ash, the moment the sky cracked open and swallowed darkness whole. But she no longer feared what she saw. She danced in the store when no one was watching and hummed songs that hadn’t been written yet. “Everything’s good now,” she’d said one night, matter-of-fact. “I don’t have to worry anymore.”

And as for you and Remmick?

You had peace.

You had each other.

He got you a ring.

Not carved from starlight, not stolen from a banker, but chosen by hand from a tiny shop in town. A simple gold band, engraved inside with the words: Mo ghrá go deo — My love forever.

You had your ceremony at The Juke. Slim and Sammie played the music. Annie lit every candle she could find. Grace brought flowers. Bo wore a too-tight suit and tried not to cry. Cook officiated, barely keeping a straight face through the whole thing, quoting scriptures that may or may not have been real and offering marital advice no one asked for.

“I now pronounce you cursed and blissfully wed,” Cook said, raising a glass. “Till sunlight do you part—or until she drives a stake through your heart because you left your socks on the floor.”

Annie stood beside him, eyes misty, laying her hand on both of your shoulders as a final blessing. “The spirits are pleased,” she whispered. “You’ve brought balance back to this land.”

Afterward, Remmick whispered to you beneath the moonlight, holding you close by the stage.

“I saw her,” he said. “Just for a second while Sammie was singin'. Me mam. She was smilin’. Said you looked beautiful. Said I finally got it right.”

You kissed him until the stars blurred, until the music swelled again and you were both pulled into the dance floor—spinning, laughing, alive.

Lisa twirled with Sammie, her dress glowing like fog in moonlight. Grace and Bo danced slow, arms around each other. Slim toasted everyone who’d survived and poured two glasses for the ones who hadn’t.

Stack and Smoke leaned against the back wall, nodding in rhythm to the beat, both pretending they weren’t watching every move of the people they loved most.

The room was filled with clapping, stomping, laughter. There were no shadows in the corners. No fear in the cracks.

Just joy.

Just peace.

Just family.

And outside, somewhere in the quiet fields of Mississippi, the night stood still—for once, not waiting to take, but giving back.

The Juke was whole again.

And so were you.

THE END.

Chapter Text

The dust hadn’t even settled. Ash still drifted lazy through the air like snow made of secrets. Everyone stood where they'd landed—panting, bruised, bloodied, blinking up at the first fingers of morning light stretching through the busted barn doors.

It was over.

Dead silent.

Until a too-familiar voice rang out from the side of the barn:

“Hey! Y’all got any biscuits left or what?”

You nearly dropped your stake.

“CORNBREAD?!” half the room hollered in utter disbelief.

And there he was—Cornbread. Tall, scrappy, pants only half-buttoned, barefoot, looking like he’d just crawled outta a broom closet instead of a horror show. Not a single scratch. Not even dusty.

He strolled in like he’d been invited. Like nothing had happened. Like vampires hadn’t just ransacked half of Clarksdale.

You blinked at him, chest still thudding from the fight. “Cornbread… where the HELL you been?”

He looked around, eyebrows up like he was the one who oughta be concerned. “I was peein’.”

“Peein’?!” Annie barked. “The whole damn night?!”

“Yeah, well, I had a lotta moonshine earlier,” he said, completely serious. “It hit me slow at first, then sudden. Like a river breakin’ through a dam.”

Remmick, shirt still damp with vampire blood, blinked slowly. “You left your post.”

You rubbed your temple. “Nigga did everything but guard the damn door.”

Cornbread glanced around, finally noticing the busted chairs, the piles of ash, the half-burned floorboards, and the lingering smell of roasted something-or-other.

“Was there a fight or somethin’? Somebody steal money?”

A beat.

Then you, Remmick, Cook, Annie, Smoke, Grace, Bo, Stack, Slim, Sammie—everybody—locked eyes in exhausted silence.

And answered in perfect unison:

“…Yes.”

Cornbread let out a long whistle. “Damn shame. Folks’ll do anything for a dollar these days.”

He made his way to a half-busted table, flopped down with a sigh, and reached for a drink like the barn wasn’t half rubble and the apocalypse hadn’t just left scorch marks on the stage.

Smoke wiped his face with a rag and muttered, “Nigga's bladder’s stronger than half the folk in this town.”

Stack groaned from where he was still sprawled on the floor. “Man, I fought my own brother tonight and Cornbread was out takin’ a leak?!”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “He ain't got one bruise. Not one. Lord must love fools.”

Bo nodded solemnly. “That or his piss’s blessed.”

Slim poured himself a drink and held it up. “To Cornbread: missin’ the end of the world ‘cause he had to drain the dragon.”

Cornbread lifted his own glass, not understanding what he was toasting.

You leaned against Remmick’s shoulder, breath finally coming easier. Then it hit you.

You laughed.

Not just a chuckle—no, this was full-belly, bent-over, wiped-out laughter. The kind that comes only when you’re alive and know you almost weren’t.

Because of course Cornbread survived.

Of course.