Ride For Me, Die For Me.

There was a certain kind of silence on the West Side—one that felt less like quiet and more like eyes on the back of your neck. Waiya felt it first in her ankles, then in her spirit. She stood outside her auntie’s house, squinting at the cracked sky while sage smoke curled around her fingers. A blunt rested between her knuckles, a bottle of Florida Water dangling loosely in her other hand. Detroit wasn’t just a city—it was a battlefield, spiritual and otherwise. And today, the air wasn’t speaking. It was screaming. Somebody done woke up the ugly spirits today, she thought with a roll of her eyes toward the sky. The neighborhood was too still. No kids weaving through potholes on bikes, no arguments leaking from porches, not even the ice cream truck daring to creep down the block. It was as if everything, even the streets, knew to hold its breath. She brought the blunt to her lips, inhaling slow. That’s when she saw him. Hood up. Head low. A face she didn’t know. Thick hands. Pain riding his shoulders. He moved like a man who’d seen too much and trusted too little. She caught it all in a heartbeat. He stopped outside the corner store and drew a pack of gum from his coat like it was something sacred. He didn’t glance around. Didn’t flinch. Just moved like he belonged—even if the city hadn’t decided whether to accept him. Great, she scoffed inwardly. Another trauma magnet. God, please—she asked for peace, not a fine man with a record and a mysterious backstory. The wind rose. On the porch rail, the candle she’d tucked inside a chipped coffee mug bent flame to the side. Waiya narrowed her eyes. That wasn’t wind. That was warning. She tapped ash from the blunt and leaned against the porch railing, watching him through a slit-eyed stare. He didn’t notice her—at least not at first. Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care. Either way, he moved like someone who’d fought enough fights to never fear another. You ever seen a man look that tired and that fine at the same time? The thought slipped through her mind with dry amusement. If he says his name is something Biblical or sexy like Malik, I’m packing a bag. But when he finally looked up—just a flick of his eyes, nothing more—she saw it. That same brand of broken that lived beneath her own skin. She stepped off the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her. The sage burned low in her pocket, pressed beside her switchblade. Just in case. She didn’t walk toward him. She didn’t have to. He was already making his way to her. Slow. Careful. Respectful. Like a man who knew he was approaching a woman who’d seen blood and bad intentions. “You lost?” she asked, lifting a brow. His voice came deep and smooth, like warm bourbon laced over gravel—gravel formed from years of yelling in the dark. “Nah. Just moved out here. Lookin’ for somethin’ to eat.” She snorted. “Yeah, well, you won’t find peace or Popeyes on this block. Good luck with that.” That dragged a sliver of a smile from him. Just enough to prove he still could. “You from here?” he asked. “Grew up two blocks over. Still here. Still hood. Still healing.” A beat. “You?” “Out the system. Bounced around. Needed to disappear for a while.” Her body went still. Just for a breath. Instinct—wolf instinct—pricked sharp under her skin. Disappear from what? “Everything,” he said. “The past. The pain. The people who think they still got claims on my soul.” Dangerous words. Honest ones. She respected that more than any cheap weather talk. She extended a hand, nails painted deep midnight purple. “Waiya.” He took it—solid grip, warm palm, calloused fingertips. “Justin.” Not Biblical. Not flashy. Just real. Across the street, her candle hissed out. Her gut twisted. A whisper uncoiled in her ear, born from the place the old spirits slept: He’s not like Donquavious… but he’s not clean either. Her jaw hardened. She pulled her hand back. “Alright, Justin,” she said, turning toward the steps. “Welcome to the West Side. Don’t get possessed.” He blinked. “Excuse me?” She smirked. “You’ll see.” And with that, she disappeared inside—door left cracked, energy humming, the air held unnaturally still.