Page 87 of I See You

“I told you, I’m not doing that talking shit.” His voice was clipped, final.

But he was lying.

Sevyn had already pried open parts of him he thought were locked down for good. He hated that she had, hated that he let her. She wasn’t even trying, and that pissed him off even more.

Helen studied him for a long moment, then just shook her head, letting it go.

“I need you to keep a closer eye on Harper,” she said, her tone heavier now, more serious.

His gaze hardened, suspicion creeping in. “Why?”

Helen exhaled, like she was preparing for the backlash. “Hendrix is moving back to the city. And he wants to see her.”

A slow, deadly tension coiled in Hassan’s chest at the sound of that name. Hendrix. His uncle. Harper’s father. A man who, in Hassan’s eyes, didn’t deserve either title. The name alone made his blood boil. Hendrix moved out to Mississippi a few years ago, thinking a newzip code could wash off all the shit he left behind. But Hassan knew better. A different state don’t make a different man.

“What—he run outta hoes to pimp in Mississippi?” Hassan snapped, his jaw tight with frustration.

“He’s changed, Hassan,” Helen said softly. “He’s really trying to make things right. I just… I just want Harper to sit down with him. Just once. He really wants to see her.”

Her voice shook, the weight of years behind it. Not just as a mother hoping her son could be something more—but as a grandmother, desperate to fix what was broken before her time ran out.

His hands curled into fists at his sides as he fought to keep his expression unreadable. He knew exactly what kind of man Hendrix was, knew what Harper had gone through because of him. He had wanted to put a bullet in him more times than he could count, but Helen—and the simple fact that Harper was his blood—always stopped him.

“She don’t want nothing to do with that nigga, Madea.” His voice was sharp, but Helen nodded, already knowing that.

“Yeah, but I really think they should talk. I know how hard that’s gonna be on her once she sees him.” There was worry in her tone, a mother’s concern woven into every syllable.

Hassan sighed, the frustration in his chest bubbling up. “Madea, you gotta stop tryna fix us.”

“I’m not trying to fix—”

“Yes, you are.” His voice was calm, too calm, but firm, unwavering. “You told that nigga to bring his ass here so he and Harper could talk, like it’s gon’ fix whatever daddy issues you think she got. You keep tryna fix me too, like I’m some broken-ass nigga that needs therapy to function.”

Helen’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by his bluntness. He could see the emotion stirring behind her eyes, but he wasn’t done.

“I just want you two healed before I leave, Hassan,” she said, her voice small, fragile, breaking under the weight of her own words. Tears welled in her eyes, and for a second, just a second, Hassan felt his chest tighten. “I can’t leave this earth not knowing that you two are gonna be okay.”

His throat tightened, but his face stayed cold. Detached.

“No disrespect, Madea, but we already fucked up,” he said, voice lowbutfirm.“Inourownway,ofcourse.Butthereain’tshityoucan do tochange that.”

With that, he stood. The conversation was over.

He had come to check on her, to make sure she was good. And now that he saw she was, he was ready to leave. Because sitting here, under the weight of her eyes, knowing she saw him as something that needed fixing? That was something he couldn’t sit with any longer.

Hassan gripped the wheel tighter as he sped through the streets, his mind racing despite the steady calm he portrayed. His grandmother’s words still sat heavy in his chest, but it was Sevyn who had burrowed her way into his thoughts, slipping through the cracks of his restraint like she belonged there. It pissed him off.

She saw him—really saw him. And instead of running the other way like any sane person should, she kept stepping closer. That kind of shit was dangerous.

His phone rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering. Von. His hacker, the man who could find out anything about anyone with a few keystrokes.

“What’s the word?” Hassan answered, his voice sharp as he switched lanes.

“I’m still digging into that Braxton nigga,” Von started. “So far, it’s just what we already know. But you know every nigga got skeletons, no matter how clean his record looks.”

Hassan didn’t respond. If Von didn’t have anything useful yet, he wasn’t interested in the filler.

“Now, about the bitch—”

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