Page 71 of Heavy Is The Crown

Musa let out a deep, unimpressed yawn; his jowls stretching before he smacked his lips and shifted, his disinterest evident.

Krys shook her head. Unbothered as always.

She crossed the living room, pausing again at the windows, but this time, it wasn’t the estate she saw.

It was a vision.

A dangerous one: Kenyatta here, in this space. Moving through her kitchen, his inked-up, shirtless frame standing at the stove, fixing breakfast like he belonged there. The deep rumble of his voice teasing her in the morning, lazy and familiar. Kaliyah’s backpack hanging by the entryway, a pair of tiny sneakers kicked off near the door. She didn’t even know what Kaliyah looked like, but somehow, the vision still played out. A family. Stability.

The image was too vivid. Too real. And she hated it.

Krys inhaled sharply, shoving the thought away before it could settle. Hell no.

She turned on her heel, heading toward the primary bedroom, pushing through the double doors. The California king-sized bed, draped in plush Egyptian cotton sheets, felt too big. Too empty. That was a problem.

Dropping onto the edge of the bed, she pressed her hands against her face, forcing herself to stop. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t about to sit here, fantasizing about playing house with a man she barely knew. A man who, if she was being real, still had one foot in the streets.

Musa padded into the room behind her, his nails clicking lightly against the floor as he came to sit beside the bed, watching her.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” she muttered, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. “You’re the only man I need, right?”

Musa gave a slow blink, then nudged her hand in agreement.

Krys chuckled, shaking her head before checking the time.

“You’re a mess, Musa” she murmured, running a hand over his massive head.

Musa responded with a lazy stretch before lowering himself onto the floor beside her, his warmth grounding her in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Krys reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. Impulsively, she wanted to call Kenyatta, but for what reason?

Her eyes drifted toward her walk-in closet, ideas already forming in her mind. Like… what the hell was he wearing to the graduation? And why did she care? She did, but she didn’t; this was just an excuse to make contact with him.

She tapped Kenyatta’s name in her messages and hovered over the keyboard.

What was the most casual way to ask a man his clothing size without making it weird?

Forget it.

[Krys] 8:23PM— What size you wear?

She hit send and immediately regretted it. Because why did that sound so blunt? She barely had time to think before he responded.

[Kenyatta] 8:23PM— Damn. You tryna buy me lingerie or sum?

Krys’ mouth dropped open. She sat up straight, typing fast.

[Krys] 8:24PM— Shut up. Just answer the question.

[Kenyatta] 8:25PM— You first. What size you wear?

[Krys] 8:26PM— Are you serious right now?

[Kenyatta] 8:26PM— I’m just sayin. Fair exchange.

She groaned, rubbing her temple.

[Krys] 8:26PM— Large or XL?

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