my eyes only

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ⏯️: ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀsᴛʏ ꜰᴛ.sʜᴀʀᴄ

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 📍 𝓚𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓪 𝓛𝓾𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓪 𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓽í𝓷𝓮𝔃

The night had a chill to it — the kind that clung to the brick walls and made the city lights look colder than they really were. Chicago in early October never slept; the distant hum of traffic mixed with the occasional shout, the sound of bass rattling from a passing car. From your window, the skyline looked like it was breathing — alive, restless, pulsing with noise. Inside, your apartment felt too quiet except for the faint sound of your phone buzzing on the table, screen flashing with notifications.

You hadn’t planned for that TikTok to blow up. It was supposed to be harmless — just you in your living room, music low, the camera catching that effortless sway you’d been feeling that night. You’d laughed at yourself after you posted it, figuring a few of your friends might drop a comment or two, maybe a heart emoji. But by the time you went to pour yourself a drink, your mentions were full of strangers thirsting, flirting, and saying things that made you blush even when you tried not to.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was just social media. You had every right to feel good, to look good, to show off a little. But somewhere between scrolling the comments and watching the likes climb past ten thousand, that little thought crept in: What’s Karma gonna say?

Karma wasn’t the type to keep her feelings quiet — not when it came to you. That girl had a temper that burned slow but hot, and she wore it in her eyes before she ever opened her mouth. Even when she tried to play it cool, you could always tell when something was brewing. The two of you had spent months blurring lines — late nights, sleepovers that always ended tangled up under the same blanket, her voice low in your ear saying, “Don’t think too hard about it, ma.” You both swore it was casual, but it never felt that way. Not when she’d get quiet if another girl looked at you too long. Not when she’d pull you in by the waist just to whisper, mine, like it was a fact. Your phone buzzed again. One text.

“Delete that shit.”

You froze. You could almost hear her voice when you read it — that mix of grit and honey, the kind that made her sound calm even when she was two seconds from snapping. You typed out a laugh, a “relax,” something lighthearted to ease the tension, but before you could hit send, another message came through.

“I’m outside.”

For a second, you just stared at your phone. Then you heard it — the familiar low rumble of her car outside. You peeked through the blinds and there she was. Karma Martínez, leaning against her hood like she owned the block. Her hair fell in dark waves around her face, her cheek dermal catching the streetlight. That black puffer hugged her curves, hood pulled low, her hands buried in her pockets like she was fighting off more than just the cold. Even from up there, you could see that look on her face — the one that meant trouble. You hesitated, but you already knew she wasn’t going anywhere until she saw you. So you buzzed her in.

The door barely clicked open before she stepped through, her presence filling the whole room instantly. That vanilla-and-spice scent hit you first, familiar and dangerous all at once. She didn’t speak at first — just scanned the apartment like she needed to remind herself what kind of space you lived in when she wasn’t around. Her bag hit the couch, her hood came down, and those brown eyes locked on you with a mix of irritation and something softer hiding beneath.

“So that’s what we doin’ now?” she said finally, her voice low, steady, every word deliberate. “You really had your whole ass on the internet like you ain’t got somebody that’ll lose they mind over you?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come fast enough. Karma’s gaze drifted toward your phone still glowing on the counter, screen full of hearts and comments. Her jaw tightened. She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until you could smell her perfume, feel the warmth radiating off her. “You looked real good, though,” she muttered, her tone shifting — still sharp, but lower now, heavier. “Real good. Had half the city in your comments tryna see what’s not theirs.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast. You wanted to be mad, to tell her she was overreacting, but her hand came up before you could. Her thumb brushed under your chin, forcing your eyes to meet hers. “You like that attention, huh?” she whispered. “You like seein’ people thirst after what’s mine?”

That word — mine — hit harder than you wanted to admit. You could feel her breath on your skin, her thumb dragging against your bottom lip before she let go. “Keep playin’ with me, mamas,” she said with a low laugh that didn’t quite hide the jealousy underneath. “Chicago ain’t big enough for me to not find whoever double-tappin’ your shit. Don’t test me.”

You tried to laugh it off, stepping back just to catch your breath. “You really drove all the way here for a TikTok?” you asked, but even you heard the softness in your voice. She tilted her head, smirking like she already knew you weren’t mad — not really. “I drove here ‘cause you mine,” she said, her tone dropping. “And I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine with no camera, no comments, no strangers.”

The words hung between you like static. For a second, neither of you moved. The air was thick with that familiar push and pull — anger tangled with desire, love wrapped in control. You hated that it always felt like this, that she could make you feel wanted and cornered at the same time.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere down the block, the city alive and noisy as ever. But in that tiny apartment, everything slowed down. Karma took a step closer, close enough that your bodies almost touched. Her voice softened, her gaze searching yours, the jealousy in her eyes melting into something rawer — something real.

“Tell me somethin’, mamas…” she murmured, her hand resting lightly on your waist now. “You post that video ‘cause you was feelin’ yourself… or ‘cause you wanted me to see it?”