Chapter 5: Live Mic Confession
The leather of the podcast couch was cold against the backs of Anaijiah’s thighs, even through her jeans. She felt absurdly underdressed in her simple tee and hoodie, a stark contrast to Nevaieh’s crisp, black button-down and Brooklyn’s ostentatious, sequined jacket. Dove, looking anxious in a pastel sweater, fussed with the gain on the large, fuzzy microphones suspended between them.
“Just act natural, it’s just a convo,” Brooklyn said, not looking up from her phone. Her voice was a studied casual. “The ‘fans’ eat up this behind-the-scenes, ‘get-to-know-the-crew’ shit.” She made air quotes with one hand, the sequins on her sleeve catching the harsh studio lights.
The studio was a small, soundproofed box. Posters of past collabs and energy drink logos covered the walls. A thick window looked out into a dim control room where a bored-looking guy in headphones gave a thumbs-up. Anaijiah’s mouth was dry. Natural.Right.
Nevaieh sat beside her, a solid, relaxed presence. Her knee just barely brushed Anaijiah’s. A static point of contact in the swirling unease.
“You good?” Nevaieh murmured, her voice too low for the mics to pick up.
Anaijiah nodded, a tight little jerk of her chin. She wasn’t. The memory of the sound booth, of being bent over in the dark, was a fresh brand on her mind. Her body still hummed with the aftershocks, a secret tremor beneath her skin.
“We’re live in five, four…” Dove counted down, her finger in the air, eyes wide. She pointed at Brooklyn.
“Hey, demons! It’s your girl Brooklyn, back with another piping hot episode of ‘House Rules,’ and today we’ve got a full couch!” Brooklyn’s on-air voice was a different creature—higher, brighter, laced with a performative energy. She introduced Dove, then Nevaieh, who gave a lazy, “What’s up,” into her mic.
“And we’ve got a very special guest… Anaijiah! Some of you might have seen her pop up in our lives. She’s the talent behind the lashes, the ink… and apparently, other things.” Brooklyn winked, a gesture that felt like a needle. “So, Ana. You and Nev. Miami’s newest power couple or what? The chat is going nuts.”
Anaijiah felt the heat crawl up her neck. The microphone in front of her seemed to grow, a black insect waiting to devour her words. “We’re… hanging out,” she managed, forcing a smile. It felt like a rictus grin.
“Hanging out,” Brooklyn repeated, drawing the words out. She tapped a few keys on the laptop beside her. “See, that’s interesting. Because last night, the audio on my ‘ambient sounds’ recording for my meditation stream picked up some… let’s call it compelling background noise. From the hall bathroom.”
The air left the room. Dove froze, her hand hovering over her own mute button. Nevaieh went perfectly still. Anaijiah’s heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.
“It was probably just a pipe, B,” Nevaieh said, her voice a low warning. But her eyes were locked on Brooklyn, cold and flat.“Maybe! Let’s check.” Brooklyn’s finger hovered over the trackpad. A wicked, gleeful smile played on her lips. “For science.”
She clicked.
The sound that filled the studio monitors was unmistakable. Muffled, yes, filtered through a door, but crystalline in its meaning. A sharp, bitten-off gasp—Anaijiah’s. A low, throaty murmur—Nevaieh’s. “You gonna be quiet for me?” Then a soft, rhythmic thumping against a wall, followed by a high, desperate whimper that was abruptly silenced.
It lasted six seconds. It felt like a lifetime.
Anaijiah’s world telescoped. The studio lights became a white-hot blur. She could feel every pore on her skin, every thread of the cold leather beneath her. Humiliation, scalding and complete, flooded her veins. She was a specimen, pinned under glass for an invisible audience to dissect.
Dove made a small, horrified noise. “Brooklyn, what the hell? Cut it!”
But Brooklyn was watching Anaijiah’s face, the smile now fully formed.“So. ‘Hanging out.’ That’s a new one. You wanna clarify for the listeners? Are you guys, like, a thing? A situationship? Friends with… very loud benefits?”
The control room guy was gesturing wildly through the glass, making a slashing motion across his throat. Dove was frantically pushing buttons on the mixer.
Anaijiah opened her mouth.Nothing came out. Her tongue was lead. She saw the titles in her mind, the clips, the memes. Her business, her private life, her body’s most vulnerable sounds, all turned into content.
Then, movement.
Nevaieh moved with a shocking, controlled violence. She didn’t stand up. She simply reached over, hooked her hands under Anaijiah’s thighs, and hauled her across the space between them, dumping her squarely into her lap. Anaijiah yelped, her body stiff with shock, her back now pressed against Nevaieh’s chest.
Nevaieh’s arms wrapped around her waist, locking her in place. She pulled the swing-arm of her own microphone down until it was level with her mouth, her other hand coming up to grip Anaijiah’s hip, hard enough to bruise. Anaijiah could feel the steady, furious beat of Nevaieh’s heart against her spine.
Nevaieh leaned into the mic. Her voice, when it came, was not the cool warning from before. It was a raw, possessive growl, stripped of all performance, vibrating through Anaijiah’s entire body.
“She’s mine.”
The two words dropped into the silence like stones.Absolute. Final.
Nevaieh’s gaze was fixed on Brooklyn, who had finally stopped smiling. “You got a problem with that? You want more details? Or is your petty, clout-chasing ass satisfied?”
Brooklyn’s mouth opened, then closed. The color drained from her face.
Nevaieh’s eyes flicked to the window of the control room, to the stunned technician. “Next question.”
For a second, there was only dead air, a vacuum of pure shock.
Dove snapped out of her paralysis. She lunged for the main board, her hand slamming down on a large button. A jingle for a VPN service, absurdly cheery, blared through the studio speakers at ear-splitting volume.
“We are… we are back after this!” Dove squeaked, her voice cracking. She held the button down, her knuckles white. The jingle looped.
In the bizarre, corporate-music bubble, Nevaieh didn’t let go. Her grip on Anaijiah tightened, her face buried for a second in the crook of Anaijiah’s neck. Her breath was hot, uneven. Anaijiah, trapped in the cage of her arms, was trembling. The humiliating fire of the audio clip was gone, burned away by a newer, more terrifying heat.A public branding.
Brooklyn finally found her voice, a harsh whisper cutting under the jingle. “What is your damage, Nev? That was gold! The engagement would’ve—”
Nevaieh lifted her head. The look she gave Brooklyn was pure venom. “You recorded us. You played it. In my house.” Each sentence was a hammer blow. “You ever pull a stunt like that again, you won’t need a podcast. You’ll need a surgeon to find that sequined jacket.”
The control room guy was banging on the glass now, his face a mask of panic. Dove was crying, silent tears streaking her makeup as she kept the ad roll going.
Nevaieh shifted, her mouth close to Anaijiah’s ear. The growled possession was gone, replaced by a tense, urgent command. “We’re leaving. Now.”
She maneuvered them both off the couch, keeping Anaijiah tucked against her side, a human shield against the room. Anaijiah’s legs wobbled, but Nevaieh held her up. They left the studio, the cheerful ad jingle following them into the hallway like a cruel punchline, the door swinging shut on Brooklyn’s stunned silence and Dove’s silent weeping.
Nevaieh didn’t stop in the main living area, where a few other streamers glanced up from their setups, sensing a disturbance. She marched them straight to her bedroom at the back of the house, kicked the door shut, and locked it.
Only then did she release Anaijiah, who stumbled forward, her breath coming in ragged gulps. The room was dark, utilitarian. A large PC setup, a simple bed, clothes piled on a chair.
“Are you okay?” Nevaieh’s voice was rough.
Anaijiah turned. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving a hollow, shaky void.“Okay? She… she had a recording. She played it. For everyone.” A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. “I’m a soundbite.”
“She’s handled,” Nevaieh said, but her jaw was tight, a muscle ticking. She was pacing, a caged animal. “That was a line. She crossed a fucking line.”
“And you! You just… you said that. On air.” Anaijiah wrapped her arms around herself. “‘She’s mine.’ Like I’m a thing. A fucking prize you won at the fair.”
Nevaieh stopped pacing. She looked at Anaijiah, really looked at her. The fury in her eyes softened, just a fraction, into something more complicated. “What did you want me to do? Let her dissect you? Let them all speculate? I shut it down.”
“By claiming me? You didn’t shut it down, you just changed the narrative! Now instead of a slutty audio clip, it’s… it’s a trailer for whatever this is!” Anaijiah gestured wildly between them. Her whole body was buzzing with a volatile mix of shame, terror, and a dark, unwilling thrill at the memory of being pulled into Nevaieh’s lap, of that voice in her ear.
Nevaieh crossed the space in two strides. She didn’t touch Anaijiah. She stood very close, her presence a physical pressure. “Tell me you don’t want that,” she challenged, her voice low. “Tell me you didn’t feel relief when I did it. Tell me you’d rather have been out there alone, answering her fucking questions.”
Anaijiah’s defiance crumpled. Because she couldn’t. The alternative—sitting there, exposed and stammering—was a worse horror. The truth was a sickening drop in her stomach. In that moment of utter violation, being called ‘mine’ had felt like sanctuary. It had felt like rescue.
She looked away, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t know what I want,” she whispered, the fight gone.
Nevaieh’s hand came up, not to grab, but to gently tip Anaijiah’s chin back up. Her touch was surprising in its softness. “I know you’re scared. I know that was fucked up. But listen to me.” Her thumb stroked Anaijiah’s jaw. “No one gets to do that to you. No one gets to make you feel small.Not her. Not anyone.” Her eyes were dark, intense. “If the price of that is them knowing you’re with me, then fine. Let them know. Let them be afraid of what happens when they forget.”
Outside the door, the muffled chaos of the Stream House continued. A world of clout and content and casual cruelty. In here, there was only the sound of their breathing, the faint hum of Nevaieh’s PC, and the stark, terrifying territory of what had just been declared.
Anaijiah leaned forward, her forehead coming to rest against Nevaieh’s chest. The solidity of her was an anchor.A claim. A trap. She didn’t know which. Maybe it was both.
Nevaieh’s arms came around her, holding her this time without possession, with something that felt, terrifyingly, like protection. “You’re staying here tonight,” Nevaieh said into her hair. It wasn’t a question.
This time, Anaijiah didn’t argue.
This time, Anaijiah didn’t argue. The silence in Nevaieh’s room was a thick, sound-absorbing blanket, so different from the acoustic booth’s intimate darkness or the studio’s exposing glare. She just stood there, forehead pressed against the worn cotton of Nevaieh’s shirt, breathing in the scent of her and the faded residue of studio microphone foam. Her mind was a blank, staticky screen.
A sharp rap on the door made her flinch.
“Nev? It’s Dove. Please.” The voice was small, frayed at the edges.
Nevaieh’s hand, which had been slowly stroking Anaijiah’s back, stilled. She didn’t let go. “What.”
“Brooklyn’s… she’s out here. She wants to… talk. To Ana.” A pause. The doorknob rattled softly, uselessly against the lock. “I think you should come out. Before it gets weirder.”
Nevaieh exhaled, a long, controlled stream of air that stirred Anaijiah’s curls. She pressed a hard, swift kiss to the top of her head. “You don’t have to say a word to her. Not one.” She unlocked the door and pulled it open, keeping her body between Anaijiah and the hallway.
Brooklyn stood there, her sequined jacket gone, looking younger and oddly deflated in a simple hoodie. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Dove hovered behind her like a nervous ghost, wringing her hands.
“Look,” Brooklyn started, her voice lacking its usual glossy confidence. It was just a voice now, scratchy and unsure. “That was… I fucked up. Majorly. I don’t even know why I did that. It wasn’t cool.”
Anaijiah stared at a point just past Brooklyn’s shoulder, at a smudge on the hallway wall. The anger was there, a hot coal in her gut, but it was buried under layers of numb exhaustion. She said nothing.
“The clip’s deleted. The whole recording from today is scrubbed. Tech guy promised. No backups.” Brooklyn shifted her weight, her gaze darting to Nevaieh’s stony face and then back to Anaijiah. “I’m sorry, Ana. Really. It was a shitty, invasive thing to do.”
The apology hung in the air, waiting. Dove bit her lip, her eyes pleading with Anaijiah to say something, anything, to dissolve the awful tension.
Anaijiah felt Nevaieh’s attention on her, a silent question. She knew what was expected. A nod. A strained ‘it’s fine.’ The social lubrication that would let everyone move on. The words sat in her throat like stones. She couldn’t dislodge them. ‘It’s fine’ was a lie so enormous it would choke her.
Her silence stretched, becoming its own articulate response.
Brooklyn’s face fell further. “Okay. Yeah. I get it.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’ll… I’ll be offline for a couple days. Head to my mom’s in Naples. Give you space. Give the house space.”
“Good,” Nevaieh said, the single word a period at the end of the sentence.
Brooklyn nodded, a jerky motion, and turned away, her shoulders slumped. Dove gave Anaijiah one last, pained look before scurrying after her. The hallway emptied.
Nevaieh guided Anaijiah back into the room and shut the door again, but didn’t re-lock it. The battle was over. “You want water? Something stronger?” She moved to a small mini-fridge under her desk.
“Water,” Anaijiah said, her own voice sounding foreign to her. She sat on the edge of the unmade bed, the comforter bunching under her hands.
Nevaieh handed her a cold bottle and sat beside her, not touching, but close. The ice-cold plastic in Anaijiah’s hand was a sharp, real sensation. She focused on it.
“Silence is a weapon most people don’t know how to use,” Nevaieh said after a while, twisting the cap off her own water. She took a long drink. “They always want to fill it. To explain. To make nice. You just held it. Let her sit in what she did.” She glanced at Anaijiah, a flicker of something like respect in her eyes. “It was better than screaming.”
“I didn’t do it to be better,” Anaijiah murmured, finally taking a sip. The water was shockingly cold, clearing a narrow path through the fog. “I just had nothing to give her.”
“Exactly.”
They sat in the quiet. The distant echo of a game launch trailer bled through the walls, then was muted. Anaijiah thought about the audio clip, the public ownership, the planned trip to L.A. The threads were knitting together into a future she hadn’t consciously chosen. It should have felt like a trap. Part of her was still terrified that it was.
Another part, the part that had melted against the sound booth wall and now sat quietly on this bed, felt a treacherous sense of calm.
“My flight’s at ten a.m.,” Nevaieh said, her tone shifting into practical planning. “Wednesday. I’ll send you the details. Pack for three days. Studio stuff, but also… something for a nice dinner. Maybe.”
It wasn’t a demand this time. It was an itinerary. A fact.
Anaijiah looked at her, at the strong profile, the ink disappearing into her collar. “Why?” The question was small, encompassing everything—the defense, the claim, the invitation, the relentless pull.
Nevaieh turned her head, her gaze locking onto Anaijiah’s. There was no glib answer, no charming smile. Her expression was stark, honest. “Because when that clip played, I didn’t want to ruin her. I wanted to destroy her.” She said it calmly. “That’s not a me I usually let out. You pulled her out. And when I looked at you, all I wanted was to put you back together where she couldn’t touch you.”
She reached out and brushed a single tear from Anaijiah’s cheek that Anaijiah hadn’t even felt fall. “That’s the ‘why.’ For now. So you’re coming to L.A.”
Anaijiah didn’t nod. She didn’t argue. She finished her water, the empty bottle crackling in her grip. The humiliated sting of the podcast was fading, replaced by the profound fatigue that follows a storm. The landscape of her life was altered, unfamiliar.
“I should go home,” she said, standing. “To pack.”
Nevaieh stood with her. “I’ll drive you.”
“I have my car.”
“I’ll follow you, then.” It was non-negotiable. A guardian seeing a charge to a gate.
The drive was a silent caravan through Miami’s neon-washed night. In her rearview mirror, Anaijiah could see the sleek shape of Nevaieh’s car, two headlights holding a steady, unwavering distance. It felt less like being followed and more like being anchored.
At her door, Nevaieh didn’t try to come in. She leaned against the doorframe, a solid silhouette against the porch light. “Wednesday. Ten a.m. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Anaijiah just looked at her, this force of nature that had capsized her world. The anger was gone. The fear was a background hum. What remained was a raw, bewildered curiosity. She touched Nevaieh’s arm, just a brush of her fingers against the ink. A tacit acceptance. A silent ‘okay.’
Nevaieh caught her hand, turned it over, and pressed a kiss to her palm. A promise. A seal.
Then she was gone, her car’s taillights disappearing around the corner. Anaijiah stood alone in her quiet doorway, the ghost of a kiss burning in her hand. Inside, her empty suitcase lay open on the bedroom floor, a blank canvas waiting.
Inside, her empty suitcase lay open on the bedroom floor, a blank canvas waiting. She stared at it for a full minute, the plastic handle digging into her palm. The quiet of her house was a tangible presence, thick and judgmental.
She moved on autopilot, yanking drawers open. She tossed in jeans, a few tops, the silky dress she’d worn that first night at the lounge. Her hands shook. Every piece of clothing felt like a decision she wasn’t qualified to make. Studio stuff. Something for a nice dinner. Nevaieh’s directives echoed, a checklist for a life that wasn’t hers yet.
A soft knock at the front door shattered her focus. It wasn’t the assertive rap from before. This was hesitant. Anaijiah froze, a black lace bralette dangling from her fingers. Nevaieh wouldn’t knock. She just appeared.
“Ana? It’s Dove.”
Anaijiah exhaled, a shaky release of breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She padded to the door and opened it. Dove stood on the step, clutching two iced coffees from the place down the street, her face pale in the porch light. “I didn’t think you’d answer. I just… I needed to.”
“You could’ve texted.” Anaijiah’s voice was flat. She stepped back, letting her in.
“It didn’t feel like a text thing.” Dove held out a coffee. “I brought you this. Extra shot. You look like you need it.” She hovered just inside the doorway, her eyes taking in the open suitcase on the bedroom floor visible from the hall. “You’re really going.”
Anaijiah took the coffee, the condensation cold on her skin. “Seems like it.”
“I should have stopped her. I saw her cueing the clip. I thought it was a bit, you know? Some stupid drama for engagement. I didn’t think she’d actually…” Dove’s words tumbled out, tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry, Ana. I froze. I’m a fucking coward.”
“You hit the ad break.” Anaijiah took a sip. The coffee was bitter, sharp. “That was something.”
“It was the least. The absolute least.” Dove wrapped her arms around herself, despite the Miami heat still clinging to the night. “Brooklyn left. She’s actually going to her mom’s. The house is… quiet. It feels wrong.”
“Good.” The word was a stone. Anaijiah meant it.
Dove nodded, accepting it. Her gaze drifted back to the suitcase. “Are you okay with all this? With… her?” She didn’t say Nevaieh’s name, as if it were a spell she was afraid to invoke.
Anaijiah laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Define okay.” She walked into the living room, dropping onto the sofa. Dove followed, perching on the arm. “She solves problems by creating bigger ones. She declares things. She doesn’t ask.”
“And that’s… working for you?”
“I don’t know.” Anaijiah looked at her hands, at the intricate line work of sea turtles on her wrist. “When Brooklyn played that clip, I wanted to disappear. To vaporize. Then Nevaieh pulled me into her lap and told the whole world to go to hell.” She met Dove’s worried eyes. “Part of me is screaming that’s not healthy. The other part… the other part has never felt that safe.”
Dove was quiet for a long moment. “It’s intense.”
“That’s one word.”
“Just… be careful, okay? Power imbalances and all that.” Dove gestured vaguely. “She’s a whole force of nature. And you’re in her hurricane.”
“I’m already in it.” Anaijiah finished her coffee, the ice cubes clinking. “The question is whether I build a house in the eye.”
Dove didn’t have an answer for that. She stood, placing her untouched coffee on the table. “I’ll let you pack. For what it’s worth… I’m glad she shut it down. The way she did it was nuclear, but Brooklyn deserved nuclear.” She offered a weak smile. “Text me when you land in L.A.?”
“Yeah.” Anaijiah walked her to the door. “Thanks for the coffee, Dove.”
After Dove left, the silence felt heavier. The coffee buzzed in Anaijiah’s veins, a false energy. She went back to the suitcase, folding clothes with a military precision she didn’t feel. Her mind replayed the feel of Nevaieh’s chest against her back, the growled words in the mic. She’s mine. A shiver that wasn’t revulsion traced her spine.
She needed air. The walls were closing in. She shoved her feet into sandals and stepped out into her small backyard, a concrete square with a struggling palm in a pot. The night was humid, the air tasting of salt and distant rain. She leaned against the cool stucco, tilting her head back to a sky bleached orange by city lights.
The gate latch clicked.
Anaijiah’s heart stuttered. Nevaieh stood there, backlit by the neighbor’s security light. She’d changed into a worn tank top and sweatpants, her hair piled in a messy bun. She looked younger. Softer. Real.
“You’re back.” Anaijiah’s voice was quiet.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Nevaieh walked over, her movements less like a prowl now, more like a drift. She stopped a few feet away, her hands in her pockets. “Wanted to make sure you were still breathing. That you hadn’t bolted.”
“My suitcase is half-packed on the floor.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Anaijiah looked at her, at the familiar-unfamiliar woman in her dark yard. “I’m still here.”
Nevaieh nodded, a simple acknowledgment. She seemed to be wrestling with words, an unusual sight. “What I said on the mic… it came out like that. Like a threat. To her. To everyone.” She took a step closer. The scent of her—soap and skin—cut through the humid night. “It wasn’t a threat to you.”
“What was it?” Anaijiah asked, her breath tight.
“The truth.” Nevaieh’s gaze was unwavering. “My truth. I don’t do halfway. I don’t do casual. Not with this. Not after… everything.” She gestured vaguely, encompassing the sound booth, the studio, the bite marks fading on Anaijiah’s skin. “So yeah. You’re mine. And that means something. It means I look out for you. It means I lose my goddamn mind when someone hurts you. It’s not a cage, Ana. It’s a claim.”
The raw honesty of it was disarming. There was no script, no performance. This was the engine beneath the furious, possessive exterior. Anaijiah felt something unlock inside her chest, a tension she’d been carrying since the moment they met.
“It’s a lot,” Anaijiah whispered.
“I know.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“I know that, too.”
Anaijiah took a step forward, closing the distance between them. She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of Nevaieh’s jaw, feeling the tension there. Nevaieh’s eyes fluttered shut for a second at the touch.
“Just so we’re clear,” Anaijiah said, her voice gaining a strength she didn’t know she had. “If I’m yours… then you’re mine, too. That’s how this works. No other surprises on air. No unilateral declarations. We’re in the hurricane together.”
A slow, genuine smile touched Nevaieh’s lips, the first Anaijiah had ever seen that wasn’t edged with predation or smugness. It was just relief. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
They kissed.
It was nothing like before. It wasn’t a conquest or a distraction or a frantic prelude. It was slow. Deliberate. A deep, searching press of lips that felt like a signature on a contract they’d just negotiated. Nevaieh’s hands came up to cradle Anaijiah’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheeks. Anaijiah’s fingers curled into the soft cotton of Nevaieh’s tank, holding on.
There was no urgency, only a profound sense of arrival. The taste of coffee, the salt of the air, the simple warmth of another person choosing to stay. When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, the world felt recalibrated. The silence was comfortable now.
Nevaieh pulled back just enough to look at her. “Seven a.m.,” she said, her voice husky.
“I’ll be ready.”