Darius didn't expect her to write anything. Most women smiled, tucked the napkin away, and never called. Alana, though—she leaned into the bar, hair falling forward, lips pursed while she tapped the pen like she had all the time in the world. Then, with one quick flick, she scribbled something across the napkin and slid it back.
"Tomorrow," she said, standing up. "Coffee. Ten a.m. Don't be late."
"Coffee?" Darius arched a brow. "That don't sound like your style."
"It's not," Alana said. "That's why I picked it. If you can't handle me sober, you won't handle me at all."
Tiana tugged her arm, already steering her toward the door. "Girl, let's go."
Alana didn't look back. Just left the napkin and a trace of perfume hanging in the air like smoke after a gunshot.
⸻
Kareem slid back into the booth as soon as they were gone. "You serious right now? Coffee? In daylight?"
Darius smirked, folding the napkin once and slipping it into his pocket. "What's wrong with daylight?"
"Everything. Broad day, ain't no music, ain't no drinks. Ain't nothing to hide behind. That's interview hours, not game hours."
"Good," Darius said. "I want the interview."
Kareem sucked his teeth, shaking his head. "Man, you letting this one run the play. That's backwards."
Darius just leaned back, sipping the last of his drink. Manchester taught him a lot growing up—who you trust, who you don't, when to move, when to wait. He'd seen dudes chase women for weeks, spending money like fools, only to find out she was somebody else's problem the whole time. Alana was different. She wasn't chasing, she was testing. And Darius? He loved tests.
⸻
The next morning, the Strip District smelled like roasted beans and fresh bread, trucks unloading at the markets, vendors yelling prices before most of the city was awake. Darius parked his Charger two blocks away, walking slow with his hoodie up. Coffee shops weren't his lane—his mornings usually started with phone calls and problems.
Alana was already inside, seated by the window. No black dress today. Jeans, white blouse, hair tied back. Simpler, but it only made her stand out more. She looked like the type who knew she was fine no matter what she wore.
"You're early," he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
"You're almost late," she countered, eyes sharp. "Sit. Let's see if you're more than a one-liner and a credit card."
He laughed low, leaning back. "And let's see if you more than a smile and a warning sign."
Her lips curved just slightly. "Fair."
The waitress came, dropped menus neither of them touched. Darius ordered black coffee. Alana, caramel latte with oat milk—said it fast, like she'd been rehearsing it.
"You from the North Side?" she asked once the waitress walked off.
"Manchester," Darius said. "Born and raised. You?"
"Penn Hills. Grew up quiet. Not too quiet, though."
"Explains a lot."
"Explains what?" she pressed.
"That you like noise now."
She smirked. "And you think you're noise?"
"I'm the whole block," he said.
The coffees came. Neither touched them right away. For a few beats, they just looked at each other, both pretending not to measure, both knowing they were.
"You ever think about love?" Alana asked suddenly.
Darius tilted his head. "This the part where you say you don't believe in it?"
"This the part where I ask if you confuse it with lust," she said.
He leaned in, elbows on the table. "Difference is lust makes you move fast. Love makes you stay."
"And which one are you after?"
"Depends what you're offering."
Her smile didn't break, but her eyes sharpened. She sipped her latte, slow and unbothered.
"Then I guess we'll find out," Alana said.
And for the first time since he walked in, Darius felt the game tilt—not in his favor, not in hers, but like the table itself was moving, and he was strapped in for the ride.