The kitchen smelled like burnt shea butter and regret.


Maya Carter stood barefoot on the faded tile floor of her grandma’s house, one hand swirling hot oil in a pan, the other bouncing Zaire against her hip. The toddler’s soft whimper pressed against her eardrum like a warning, but she couldn’t stop. If she let the oil cool, the gloss base would congeal. If it congealed, she couldn’t pour it. And if she couldn’t pour it—there’d be no money to buy more containers.


“Almost done, baby,” she whispered, more to herself than him.


The countertop was cluttered: coconut oil, castor oil, beetroot powder, syringes, a dented notebook filled with recipes and crossed-out names. Lavender Kiss, Cherry Reign, Gold Teeth Glow. None of them sold more than a few tubes, but they were hers. Her little army of shine and color.


Zaire whimpered again.


She placed him gently into his high chair and handed him a cold waffle. He bit it like it was steak. Maya poured the mixture into lip gloss tubes with a trembling hand. She’d stayed up until 3 AM labeling yesterday’s batch and barely slept. But tired didn’t matter when bills were due and Darius was texting again.


Where you at?

I know you home. Stop playin with me.


She swallowed hard and didn’t respond.


A knock hit the front door — soft but steady.


Zaire froze. Maya tensed. Another knock. Then—


“May May? It’s me. Devin.”


Her chest loosened. She exhaled hard and wiped her hands on her hoodie before opening the door.


Devin Price stood on the porch in his CPD uniform, rain dotting the brim of his hat, a ghost of their old block boy days under the badge.


“You alright?” he asked.


Maya nodded, but her eyes told the truth.


He looked past her into the house. “You sure?”


She stepped aside. “Come in.”