Jabari

The first breath of free air hit Jabari like a punch and a blessing at the same time. Cold, dusty, wide. Too wide. Five years of concrete ceilings made the sky feel like it was mocking him. He blinked against the sun, eyes adjusting to color again, real color, not the washed-out gray he'd lived in. He didn't get far before he heard it. "'Bari? That you, nigga?" Three men were waiting outside the lot in a beat-up burgundy Chevy—OG Deuce, young Jax, and Reek, all still wearing traces of the yard on their faces. Jax and Reek had gone in with him but were still serving longer bids. They were out for the day on some technicality the crew had pulled strings for. They weren't free, not like him, but they came anyway. They stepped out one by one. No running. No yelling. Just that heavy, quiet respect the set was raised on. Deuce nodded first. "Good to have you back on the soil, nephew." Jabari didn't smile, but something loosened in his chest. "Ain't nothin' changed?" "Everything changed," Deuce said. "But the hood still yours." Reek grabbed him in a one-armed hug, pressure tight, like checking if he was real. Jax punched him in the shoulder, trying to hide the shine in his eyes. "Damn, nigga," Jax muttered, "you look smaller." Jabari huffed through his nose. "That's 'cause y'all niggas got fat." For a moment, it felt normal. Solid. Like the ground stopped shifting under him. They drove him home—same streets, same liquor stores, same murals, same bullet holes patched over and repainted. Kids he used to know were grown now. Some weren't around at all. The hood kept moving. The hood always kept moving. At his building, the boys walked him upstairs like a silent procession. Jabari pushed open the apartment door, bracing for dust, mildew, emptiness—but the place looked lived in. Clean. Bed made. Shoes lined up. Even food in the cabinets. "Lil homies kept watch," Deuce said. "Didn't let nobody loot you." Jabari swallowed around a knot. "Appreciate it." Jax tossed him the keys to a clean sedan. "You at the safe house tonight?" Jabari pocketed them. "Got somewhere to be." Reek grinned knowingly. "Thought so." Deuce elbowed him. "You think she gon' let you in?" Jabari didn't hesitate. "Don't matter." They all went quiet for a second—not judging, just… knowing. Jabari wasn't delusional; he was loyal. His heart had decided something years ago and prison didn't change it. Jax slapped his shoulder. "Go handle it." They didn't stay long after that. A few claps on the shoulder. A couple jokes. A reminder to swing by the block later. Then he was alone. Really alone. Jabari walked into the bathroom and caught sight of himself in the mirror. Jaw harder. Eyes darker. Shoulders broader. Prison didn't take weight off him—it carved him into something sharper. He turned on the shower and stepped in, letting hot water hit his skin like it was trying to wash five years off him. It couldn't, but it helped. He stood there a long time. Head down. Hands braced on tile that wasn't cracked or peeling. Afterward, he wiped steam off the mirror and stared again. His nose stud still glinted under the harsh light. Tattoos had darkened with time and ink. His son's name across his chest looked bigger now—like Jabari had grown around it. He got dressed slow: fresh white tee, sagged jeans, chain, rings, bandana. He sat on the bed, rubbing the tattoo over his heart unconsciously, thumb moving like muscle memory. He hadn't seen his son in half a decade. The thought made something painful twist inside him. He ate a little. Walked the apartment to reacquaint himself with it. Sat in silence for a few minutes just listening to the hum of his refrigerator—something he didn't realize he missed. And then the quiet got too loud. The only thing left pulling at him was you. Not with hope. Not with expectation. Just with gravity. When the sun dipped low, casting orange through the blinds, he finally stood up, grabbed his jacket, and walked out. The journey to your place felt longer than the walk from the prison gates, even though his stride was steady. Slow. Controlled. Every corner held a memory. Every step held a weight. By the time he reached your building, the streetlights had flickered on. He stopped at the bottom of your stairwell, looked up, let out one long breath. His heart didn't race. Jabari wasn't the type to shake. But something in his chest locked up tight. He lifted his hand and knocked. Two slow taps. A pause. A shift inside. The click of the lock.The door opened. He didn't let himself look away. His voice came out low, rough, thick with five years' worth of swallowed words. "Hey, baby."