“Yeah,” she murmured, stopping with him at his door. “But we keep finding ourselves in the same space. Same late hours. Same...looks.”
Adair opened the door but didn’t step in. Instead, he leaned against the frame, finally letting his gaze meet hers head-on. “I don’t do sloppy, Corrine.”
Corrine shrugged one shoulder. “Neither do I. But I also don’t do fake. So, if you ever want to stop acting like you’re not still thinking about it…you know where to find me.” She walked away without waiting for a response. He watched her go, jaw tight.
Adair stepped into his office, the door clicking shut behind him. He loosened his tie a little more and finally checked his phone.
Still no text from Sabine.
But her silence echoed louder than Corrine’s heels ever could.
The day moved by slow, like it knew his mind was somewhere else. Contracts came across his desk, meetings were held, notes taken, hands shaken but his thoughts kept sliding sideways. Back to Sabine. Back to the silence.
Adair was supposed to be used to it by now.
By four-thirty, the sky had started to shift, sunlight fading to a low amber glow against the windows of his corner office. He packed up, clicked his laptop shut, grabbed his jacket, and texted Tate.
Adair:You sliding to Fat’s? 6:30.
Tate hit back with a thumbs-up and a middle finger emoji. Classic.
By the time Adair pulled up to the low-lit spot tucked between a Jamaican takeout joint and a smoke shop, the parking lot was already full of loud laughter. Inside, the air was thick with fried food, brown liquor, and old-school R&B.
Tate was at the back, posted up in a booth with a Hennessy already sweating on the table. He wore a crisp white tee, chain sparkling under the low lights, and looked like somebody who didn’t lose sleep about much but Adair knew better.
“Look who finally showed,” Tate said, grinning like always.
“You act like I’m late,” Adair muttered, sliding into the seat across from him. “You just early, prolly was all happy to see me and shit.”
“Fuck you nigga.”
They dapped up. Drinks came. Orders placed. Adair got a grilled shrimp salad, Tate went for wings all flats, lemon pepper like always.
The waitress had just dropped their food, and the table filled with the scent of garlic butter, fried lemon zest, and fresh pepper. The buzz of Fat’s grew around them; dice hitting a corner table, someone arguing with the bartender about a tab, Babyface crooning.
Adair cut into a shrimp, picking up a little salad with it, chewing slow. Tate was already halfway through his wings, fingers glistening, licking his thumb.
“Damn,” Tate muttered, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Money really changed your plate, huh?”
Adair smirked. “You probably got more money than me.”
“Yeah, but mine come with risk and ankle monitors,” Tate shot back, grinning. “Yours come with HR and catered lunches.”
“You don’t clock in, don’t report to nobody, and youdamn suredon’t pay taxes.”
Tate snorted, tearing a piece of chicken. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the one dodgin’ potholes on 83rd while you out here gettin’ your suits tailored and shit.”
“Perks of billable hours,” Adair smirked, but his voice was half-tired. The kind of tired that wasn’t about sleep.
They both sat in a booth at the back of Fat’s—one of the same booths they’d posted up in since high school. Back when they were too young to drink but still knew how to sneak in through the side door if they timed it right with the kitchen deliveries. Later, it became the spot they’d hit after long nights of chasing girls and ducking drama, ordering fries they barely ate and talking big dreams they hadn’t yet lived. The place hadn’t changed much—still dim lights, sticky floors, smelling like Henny spills and stale ambition. But now, they came with more weight on their backs and less bullshit in their mouths. Mostly.
Tate took another sip, licking the sauce off his thumb. “But for real, man…you good?”
Adair didn’t answer right away. Just sat back and stared at the table, watching the condensation slide down the side of his glass. That quiet look settled over him, the one Tate had seen too many times before. The one he wore when his thoughts were heavy, and his pride was in the way.
Tate wiped his hands on a napkin, studying his boy like he was trying to read a play he already knew by heart. “Man…it’s Sabine?” he asked. “Again?”
Adair cracked the smallest smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.