Chapter 2: Chasing Her Down the Stairwell
The stairwell swallowed sound like a grave.
Zay's footsteps cracked against concrete, sharp and deliberate, each one a countdown. He'd caught the flash of mustard yellow disappearing through the door at the end of the hallway, and something in his chest had pulled tight, a wire winding itself around his ribs.
He didn't chase people. He didn't need to. People came to him, or they didn't, and either way the world kept spinning.
But here he was. Moving fast. Taking the stairs two at a time.
Nova was halfway down the first flight when he called out.
"Yo."
She didn't stop. Didn't even flinch. Just kept walking, her curls swaying with each step, the sound of her boots against the concrete a steady rhythm that matched his pulse.
"You heard me."
She paused then. One hand on the railing, body angled just enough that he could see the curve of her jaw, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
"I heard you," she said. "I just don't always answer when people yell at me like I'm a dog."
Zay closed the distance between them, stopping a few steps above her. The stairwell was narrow, the walls close, and the faint thrum of bass from some classroom above bled through the concrete like a heartbeat.
"You defended Michael Jackson," he said.
"And?"
"And you knew better."
Nova turned then, fully, her back against the railing, her eyes meeting his with that same steady challenge from the lecture hall. The neon from the exit sign above cast her face in red and shadow, and Zay felt something shift in his chest.
"That's a bold assumption," she said.
"It's not an assumption. I saw it in your face."
She laughed. Not a nervous laugh, not a dismissive one. A real laugh, low and warm, like she was genuinely enjoying herself.
"You saw it in my face," she repeated. "What else did you see?"
Zay didn't answer that. He stepped down until he was on the same landing, until the space between them was measured in inches instead of feet.
"You like Prince more than Michael," he said. "Don't you?"
Nova's smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew.
"Maybe."
"Then why?"
She shrugged, a casual roll of her shoulders that didn't match the sharpness in her eyes. "Because the debate called for strategy. Not honesty."
"So you played the room."
"I played to win." She tilted her head, studying him like he was a puzzle she'd already solved. "There's a difference."
Zay felt his jaw tighten. He knew that game. He'd played it his whole life—saying what people needed to hear, being what they needed to see, all while keeping the real version of himself locked away somewhere they'd never find it.
But hearing her say it out loud, watching her own it without flinching—
It did something to him.
"You think you're clever," he said.
"I know I'm clever." She pushed off the railing, closing the gap between them until she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze. "The question is whether you're smart enough to keep up."
Zay stepped forward.
Nova's back hit the railing.
Not hard. Not rough. Just enough that she felt it, that she knew exactly how much space was left between her and the edge. His hand came up, settling on the rail beside her hip, caging her in without touching her.
The bass from above thumped steady. The neon flickered, buzzed, hummed.
"You're used to people backing down," he said. His voice was low, pitched for her ears only. "Aren't you?"
Nova's breath caught—just for a second, just enough that he noticed.
"I'm used to people thinking they can intimidate me," she said. "And I'm used to being right when I prove them wrong."
Zay leaned in. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that he could count the flecks of gold in her irises, close enough that the scent of vanilla and honey wrapped around him like a warning.
"Next time," he murmured, "I won't go easy on you."
Nova's eyes widened, just slightly. Then she laughed.
"I'm not scared of you, Prince. You might look like you run these streets, but I've seen your eyes when you talk about music. You're soft."
"Say that again."
"You're soft," she repeated, slower this time, like she was tasting the words. "The way you defended Prince—that wasn't about winning a debate. That was about protecting something you love."
Zay's hand tightened on the railing. "You don't know me."
"I know enough."
He leaned in closer. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and he felt her shiver—a small, involuntary thing that she tried to hide by squaring her shoulders.
"You sure about that?"
Nova went still.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant bass and the hum of the neon and the quick, shallow rhythm of her breathing.
Then she stepped back.
Just one step. Enough to put space between them, enough to break the spell. But she didn't look away. She held his gaze with a steadiness that made his chest ache in ways he didn't want to name.
"I'm sure," she said. "You're a lot of things, Zay. Intimidating is not one of them."
She turned and walked down the stairs.
Zay stood there, watching her go. The mustard yellow of her sweater disappeared around the corner, and then she was gone, her footsteps fading into the echo of the stairwell.
He exhaled. Ran a hand over his face. Let out a laugh that was half disbelief and half something else.
She'd called him soft.
She'd called him soft, and she'd meant it, and she hadn't even flinched when he'd invaded her space like he owned it.
And then she'd walked away.
Zay leaned against the railing, staring at the spot where she'd been standing. The air still smelled like vanilla. The neon still flickered, less like dying now, more like mocking.
He pulled out his phone, typed a quick message to Marcus.
Everything good with the Friday drop?
The reply came fast. Yeah. You good?
Zay stared at the screen.
Was he good?
He didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd ever been less sure of anything in his life.
He typed back. Yeah. Just dealing with something.
Something or someone?
Zay didn't answer.
He pocketed his phone and took the stairs slow, one at a time, letting the echo of Nova's laughter and the weight of her words settle into his bones.
She wasn't wrong. That was the worst part. He was soft, in the places that mattered, and she'd seen it within seconds of meeting him. She'd peeled back the layers like they were nothing, like he was nothing, and she'd done it with that honeyed voice and that unapologetic smile and those eyes that said I see you, and I'm not impressed.
He should've been angry.
He should've been annoyed.
Instead, he found himself smiling.
Zay walked out into the fading afternoon light, the campus sprawling around him in a haze of faces and footsteps and conversations he didn't care to hear. He had places to be, people to see, money to count.
But for the first time in years, he wanted to be somewhere else.
He wanted to be in that stairwell.
He wanted to hear her laugh again.
He wanted to see if she'd step back next time—or if she'd stand her ground and make him come to her.
The thought was dangerous. Everything about Nova was dangerous—her sharp tongue, her steady gaze, the way she made him feel like he was the one being studied, cataloged, filed away.
She wasn't a connection that served a purpose.
She was a complication.
And Zay didn't do complications.
But as he walked to his car, keys in hand, phone buzzing with texts he ignored, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just met someone who could see right through him.
And worse—someone he might actually want to let in.
He got in the driver's seat, started the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then he pulled out his phone and typed one more message.
Not to Marcus.
To the group chat.
Who's good with sound systems? Need a favor.
The replies came in fast, confused, curious.
Zay ignored them all.
He put the car in drive and pulled out of the lot, the campus disappearing in his rearview, Nova's voice still echoing in his head.
You're soft.
Yeah. Maybe he was.
But he was about to prove he was a whole lot more than that.
The parking lot behind the warehouse had turned into a graveyard of red cups and broken glass by the time Zay pulled up. Bass thumped through the walls, rattling the chain-link fence that separated the lot from the train tracks. His crew was already there—Marcus leaning against a tricked-out Civic, Dee and Rafael passing a blunt between them, a few others scattered like shadows against the brick.
Zay killed the engine and sat for a moment.
The text he'd sent earlier still bugged him. Not the words themselves—he'd kept it vague enough—but the why behind them. He didn't do parties. Didn't do crowds. Didn't do anything that wasn't calculated to serve a purpose he could name.
But here he was. At a party. Looking for someone.
He grabbed the bottle of Hennessy from the passenger seat and stepped out.
Marcus spotted him first, pushing off the car with a grin that said he already knew something was up. "Look who decided to show his face."
"Shut up."
"Nah, for real. You never come out. What's the occasion?"
Zay didn't answer. Just dapped him up, then Dee, then Rafael, letting the rhythm of it ground him. The blunt came his way, and he took it, pulling deep, letting the smoke settle behind his eyes.
The world softened at the edges. Not enough to dull his senses—just enough to take the sharpness off.
"You good?" Marcus asked, quieter now.
"Yeah."
"You lying, but aight."
Zay passed the blunt back and walked toward the entrance. The warehouse doors were propped open, spilling light and noise into the night. People spilled out too—couples arguing, girls laughing, guys posturing like peacocks.
He stepped inside.
The place was packed. Bodies everywhere. Sweat and perfume and cheap cologne mixing into something that wasn't quite unpleasant. The DJ had the crowd moving, a remix of something old flipped into something new.
Zay's eyes adjusted slow. The weed had them low, heavy, like curtains half-drawn. He scanned the room without meaning to, without trying.
Then he found her.
Nova.
She was on the dance floor with a group of girls, all of them moving together like they'd been dancing since before they could walk. Her hair was down tonight, wild and free, catching the strobe lights in ways that made it look alive.
She was laughing. Head thrown back, mouth open, hands in the air.
Zay felt something tighten in his chest.
He smirked before he could stop himself.
"What?" Marcus asked, following his gaze. "Oh. Oh, you serious?"
"Mind your business."
"Nigga, you never look at anybody like that. Who is she?"
Zay didn't answer. He just started moving, weaving through the crowd, leaving Marcus and the rest behind. Bodies bumped against him, hands clapped his shoulder, people called his name.
He ignored all of it.
Nova didn't see him coming.
She was too busy dancing, too busy laughing at something one of her friends said, too busy being the center of a gravity he couldn't explain. Her girls noticed him first—one of them nudged Nova hard, eyes wide, mouth forming words he couldn't hear over the music.
Nova turned.
Their eyes met.
Zay stopped a few feet away, letting her take him in. The hoodie. The chain. The low-lidded gaze that told her exactly what he'd been doing before he walked in.
"Zay," she said. Not a question. Not surprised.
"Nova."
Her friends were whispering, giggling, pulling at her arm. She shook them off without looking away from him.
"You following me?"
"Don't flatter yourself." He stepped closer, close enough that the space between them was measured in heartbeats. "You gonna dance with me or what?"
Nova raised an eyebrow. "Or what."
"I wasn't really asking."
She laughed. Short, sharp, like he'd said something funny. "That's not how this works."
"How does it work?"
"You ask. I decide. That's the whole thing."
Zay shook his head. Then he reached out and took her hand—not rough, not gentle, just certain. His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and firm, and he pulled her toward him.
Her breath hitched.
He leaned down, lips brushing her ear, voice low enough that only she could hear. "I wasn't really asking."
Nova's eyes widened. "That's not gentlemanly behavior."
"I never claimed to be a gentleman." He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, that smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm far from it."
Her friends giggled behind her. One of them whispered something that sounded like girl, you better.
Nova held his stare for a long moment.
Then she let him lead her to the dance floor.
The DJ switched tracks—something slower now, something with a groove that made bodies move like water. Zay pulled her close, one hand settling on her waist, the other still holding her hand.
She fit against him like she'd been designed for it.
They moved together, slow and deliberate, her hips finding the rhythm like she'd been born to it. His hand tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, until there was no space left between them.
"Where'd you learn to dance?" she asked, her voice a little breathless.
"Same place I learned everything. The streets."
"Hmm." She tilted her head, studying him. "You're better at dancing than debating."
"I'm better at a lot of things."
"Like what?"
He leaned in again, lips grazing her ear. "If you want to find out, all you gotta do is ask."
Nova shivered. She tried to hide it, tried to play it off, but he felt it—the way her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
She opened her mouth to respond, something sharp and clever probably, but Zay didn't give her the chance.
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not tentative. He kissed her like he'd been thinking about it since the stairwell, like he'd been waiting for this exact moment, like he wasn't going to waste another second pretending he hadn't.
Nova's hands came up, gripping his shoulders. Her knees buckled—actually buckled—and she would've stumbled if his arm hadn't been there, holding her up, keeping her steady.
He pulled back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes were wide. Her lips parted. Her chest rising and falling like she'd just run a mile.
"You good?" he asked.
Nova blinked. Once. Twice.
Then she laughed.
"You are something else," she said.
"I know."
"You're also still not a gentleman."
"I told you." He pulled her closer again, and this time she didn't resist. "I'm far from it."
Zay held her there, one hand firm on her waist, the other still laced through her fingers. The party moved around them in a blur of bodies and bass, but none of it touched the space they occupied. She fit against him—small, warm, sharp-eyed—and she wasn't pulling away, and that was something.
"You're gonna mess up my hair," she said.
"I don't see you stopping me."
She made a sound low in her throat. Half warning. Half invitation. The strobe light caught the sweat on her collarbone, and Zay's eyes followed the path of it before he dragged his attention back up to her face.
"How high are you?" she asked.
"Enough."
"Mm." She slipped her hand free and pressed it flat against his chest. Not pushing. Just there. "I know you won't believe this, but I don't usually do this."
"Do what?"
"Let a man I barely know drag me across a dance floor in front of my girls."
Zay looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, a small cluster of women stood at the edge of the crowd, watching with expressions ranging from scandalized to delighted. One of them—tall, braids swinging—raised both thumbs in the air.
"Your girls seem cool with it."
"My girls are traitors."
He let out a low laugh, the kind that rumbled somewhere behind his ribs and escaped without permission. When was the last time he'd laughed at something that wasn't a joke he told himself? He couldn't remember.
Nova tipped her head, her curls brushing against his arm. She didn't move away. If anything, she leaned in, nose wrinkling like she was trying to figure him out.
"You keep looking at me like that," he said.
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to see under my skin."
"I am." No hesitation. No apology. "You're interesting, Zay. A college student running a record store, who argues about Prince like somebody insulted his mother, who walks into parties with hooded eyes and hands that don't shake." She smiled. "I know what a normal rich kid looks like. You aren't it."
Something in his chest went still.
"Rich?" he repeated.
"Did I say rich?" She met his eyes. "I meant comfortable. You've got soft hands for a man who talks like he's from the trenches."
He couldn't help it. He laughed again, louder this time, and it surprised him enough that he had to look away. When he looked back, she was watching him with that same assessing tilt to her chin.
"They're soft because I wear gloves when I work," he said.
"Doing what?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm a music major. We file everything away."
He leaned down. "You planning to write a song about me?"
"Maybe." She turned her body slightly, and the light shifted, catching her cheekbone, the line of her throat. "Depends on how the story ends."
The track changed. Something slower. The bass dropped into a groove that tightened the air around them. Zay let his hand drift from her waist to the small of her back. Nova's breath caught for the second time that night.
She didn't step away.
They stayed like that for a long while. The party's energy thrummed around them, but they'd found their own pocket of stillness inside it. When the song shifted again, she laid her palm flat against his chest and pushed back gently.
"Alright. You got your dance. Don't be greedy."
"Greedy is kind of my thing."
"Figured that out about you." She stepped out of his reach, and the loss of her warmth hit harder than it should have. "I'm gonna go find my girls before they start spreading rumors."
"What's the matter? Don't want people talking about you?"
Nova glanced back over her shoulder. "I don't care what people say. I just prefer to be there when they say it."
Zay stayed where he was for a beat, watching her move. The crowd parted for her without seeming to know it. When she reached her friends, they swarmed her immediately. The tall one with braids threw an arm around her neck. The others pelted her with questions. Nova laughed, said something Zay couldn't hear, and the whole group turned to look at him.
He lifted his chin. Kept his expression level.
The tall one beckoned.
Zay pushed off the wall and crossed the room. A handful of people recognized him on the way—nods, daps, one guy who said what up, Zay like they were old friends when he was pretty sure they'd never met. He gave them nothing but a half-smile.
When he reached the group, Nova was already rolling her eyes.
"Here he comes," she sighed. "Girls, behave."
"No promises," the tall one said. She extended a hand. "I'm Trinity. These are Cass and Maya. We rode together."
"Zay."
"We know who you are." Trinity's handshake was firm. She looked him up and down in a way that was equal parts appraisal and warning. "So. You gonna stand here looking pretty, or you got something to say?"
Zay's mouth tugged. He liked her. "I came over here to offer something, actually. My truck's parked out back. I can run you all home."
The three friends exchanged a look. It wasn't subtle. Not even close. Cass nudged Maya with her elbow, Maya bit her lip to keep from smiling, and Trinity let out a knowing hum.
"See, that's sweet," Trinity said. "But we're good. Nova should take the ride, though."
"I should—" Nova stopped herself. She turned a flat stare on her friends. "Are you serious right now?"
"Nova." Trinity laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. "You got class at eight. You been drinking since nine. We were gonna split a car four ways and squeeze into something that smells like feet." She gestured at Zay with her chin. "Take the nice man's truck."
"Nice man," Nova repeated. "You've known him for ten seconds."
"Takes me five." Trinity winked. "Anyway, we already called an Uber."
"You did not."
"We just did." Cass held up her phone. "It's two minutes out."
Nova stared at them. The kind of stare that said this betrayal would be remembered for years. She looked at Zay, then back at her friends, then back at Zay. Her jaw worked.
"I see what you're doing," she said.
"I don't know what you mean," Trinity said, grinning.
Nova rolled her eyes hard enough that her whole head moved. She looked at Zay, who stood there with one hand in his pocket and a smile he wasn't trying very hard to hide.
"You're enjoying this," she said.
"A little."
He laughed then, low and real, and something in Nova's face softened despite herself. She made a big show of sighing, hitching her bag up onto her shoulder.
"Fine. But if you try anything, I'll walk."
"From a moving truck?"
"I'm resourceful."
Trinity whistled. Cass pretended to wipe a tear. Maya was already scrolling her phone, probably ordering the actual Uber they had never called. Nova shot them a look that said we'll talk later and then turned to Zay.
"Lead the way."
He did.
The night air hit them as soon as they stepped through the warehouse door. It was cold this late, the kind of cold that settled into your collar and stayed there. Nova pulled her jacket tighter. Zay noticed, and for half a second thought about giving her his hoodie, then decided she'd probably throw it in his face.
The truck waited at the end of the lot. Black, lifted, with tinted windows that reflected the streetlight like two dark eyes. There was no hiding what it was. It stood taller than anything else in the lot, clean and patient and heavy with the kind of luxury that didn't announce itself, just sat there being expensive.
Nova stopped walking.
"What?" Zay asked.
"That's not a truck. That's a building."
"It's a truck."
"With what—a living room in the back?"
"It's got a backseat." He opened the passenger door for her. "That's where the living room is."
She looked at him, then at the open door, then back at him. Her mouth curled.
"A big truck with tented windows and a nice sound system. How very subtle of you."
"I don't do subtle."
She climbed in.
The inside swallowed her up. Leather seats, cold and dark, the whole cabin dressed in black and amber light from the dashboard. A faint smell of cedar and something cleaner, like the truck had just been detailed. The speakers were aftermarket. She could tell by the way the door thudded shut, solid, all that weight making a sound like a vault closing.
Zay got in on his side and started the engine. It came to life with a low growl. He reached back and pulled a bottle of water out of a center console, dropped it in her lap.
"Drink."
"I'm not a child."
"Didn't say you were." He pulled out of the lot. "But you've been drinking, and I don't feel like getting pulled over with you in my passenger seat."
Nova twisted the cap off and took a sip. The water was cold, and it grounded her. She hadn't realized how much of a fuzzy edge the night had taken on until now. She set the bottle between her thighs and watched the streetlights flick past the window.
Zay drove with one hand. The other rested on his jean-clad thigh, thumb tapping against the fabric. He wasn't a fast driver. He wasn't slow either. The kind of driver that made you feel like he'd already decided how the ride would go, and nothing on the road was going to change that.
"So," he said.
"So."
"You gonna tell me your address?"
She typed it into her phone and read it off to him. He repeated it and it was clear he already knew the neighborhood. There was a beat.
"Big East side, huh. Nice area."
"Says the man with the armored truck."
"It's not armored."
"The windows are."
He looked over at her. There was something tickled in his face, like he was actually considering that. "You'd be surprised what for."
"I really wouldn't." She let her head fall back against the headrest. "You're not as mysterious as you think."
There was a pause. She could feel him watching her before he turned his eyes back to the road.
"I'm a lot of things," he said finally. "Mysterious isn't what I'd pick."
"No?"
"No. I'm just a guy with a truck who likes Prince."
She snorted. "And yet you're driving me home in a truck with wheels worth more than my car."
"I didn't say I was poor."
Nova turned her head against the headrest and looked at him. His jaw was relaxed, but his eyes were on the road and there was a tightness around his mouth that he probably thought he was hiding.
"Why'd you come to the party tonight?" she asked.
"I was in the neighborhood."
"You weren't."
"Maybe I wanted to see you."
"Maybe I believe that." She sat up, rested her elbow on the door. "But maybe you wanted to see if I'd still be rude to you after you put me against the railing in the stairwell."
He flinched. Barely. A blink too slow. "You've got a memory."
"Like I said. Music major."
He changed lanes, slower than he needed to. The cab went quiet except for the low hum of the tires and the radio underneath it, some old R&B station playing something she half-recognized from her mama's kitchen.
"You got anything to say for yourself?" she asked.
"That was out of pocket."
"A little." She watched his profile. "You also kissed me at the party."
"I did."
"So which one is you?"
He took his time answering. They passed a stretch of dark street and a closed gas station, and another block of houses done up in Christmas lights that were weeks away from their season.
"The one at the party," he said. "The one in the stairwell was—"
"An act."
"No." He shook his head. "Not an act. Just the part of me that doesn't like being told I'm soft."
Nova let that sit. She took another sip of water and watched the street signs scroll by.
"That's fair," she said. "For the record, I wasn't trying to insult you."
"Felt like it."
"Felt like a compliment to me." She tipped her head. "Soft is underrated. Everybody wants to be hard. Hard men don't bend, so they break."
He didn't answer right away. They turned onto a quieter street, wide and tree-lined, the houses set back with porches and small lawns.
"You think I'll break?" he asked.
"I think everybody breaks." She shrugged. "Question is what you do after."
He pulled to a stop at the light and looked at her. Really looked. The low glow of the dash turned his eyes into something close to black. He opened his mouth—maybe to push back, maybe to agree.
Nova didn't give him the chance.
"You're high," she said.
"What?"
"You heard me." She waved a hand between them. "You came out tonight with your boys, you smoked whatever you smoke, you danced, and now you're out here being all philosophical in a truck that costs more than my degree." She smiled, slow and lopsided. "If you weren't high, you wouldn't be saying half this stuff."
Zay's eyebrows went up. "You don't know that."
She leaned across the console. It was a small distance, no more than a foot, but it felt like the whole truck had tilted toward him.
"You're right," she said. "I don't."
Then she kissed him. Quick. Almost nothing. Just a tick of contact, her lips soft against his, no hesitation and no follow-through—so brief it barely counted.
She pulled back before he could even lift his hand off his thigh.
She was already opening the door. Cold air poured into the cab, sharp and bracing, and she stepped down with a hand on the frame.
"Prove it," she said.
Then she shut the door and walked up the path to her building. Her heels clicked on the concrete, steady and unhurried, and she didn't look back even once.
Zay sat there with the engine idling, staring at the dark door she disappeared through. Some porch light flicked on. A shape moved behind a curtain. Then the light went out.
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip.
Still tasted like vanilla.
A long minute passed before he put the truck in gear. His foot came off the brake slow. The whole ride home, the radio played soft and endless and he couldn't have repeated a single lyric if someone paid him.
He parked outside his building, cut the engine, and sat in the dark.
Prove it.
The words sat in his chest like a nail. Everything about Nova was a test. She didn't move the way people moved around him—careful, with eyes down. She moved like nothing about him scared her. Like the worst thing he could do was be boring.
His phone buzzed. Marcus.
You still out?
Zay typed back with one thumb. Just got home.
How'd it go?
He didn't answer. Instead, he thought about the kiss. The quick one. The one that would have been nothing if she hadn't held his eyes right before she gave it to him.
She'd kissed him like she was proving a point. Like she wanted him to know it wasn't going to be his move to make.
He found himself smiling in the dark.
I'll show you soft, he thought.