Layla took a long drag and held it. “You said that last week.”
She scrolled his Instagram. New city. New girl. Same cologne commercial captions: “Blessed. Focused. Paper chase only.”
Marcus was the kind of trouble that wore good cologne. He leaned against his Charger, a blunt dangling from his lips, the smoke curling like a question mark. When he saw her, he grinned—slow, easy, dangerous. wiz khalifa promises
And somewhere on a highway, speeding toward nothing, Marcus probably had Wiz playing through his car speakers. But the difference was: Layla had finally stopped waiting for the chorus to mean something.
Her thumb hovered over the block button, but instead, she opened Spotify. She typed the song—the one from the hood of his Charger, the one he’d played like a sacred vow. She pressed play. Layla took a long drag and held it
“You know. A ‘stay down, ride with me, we gon’ be alright’ kind of promise.” He pulled out his phone, scrolled, and pressed play. Through the tiny speaker, Wiz Khalifa’s voice floated out— “And I’ll never be the same, no lie…”
“I’m serious this time,” he said, passing her the blunt. “No more games. No more disappearing.” New girl
She closed her eyes. The smoke from that night came back—sweet, thick, a temporary religion. But this time, she didn’t feel the ache. She felt the lesson.
