Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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✰ 1987 Detroit, MI Word Count: 13.5k
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It was late, the kind of late where the world felt like it had fallen into a deep, suffocating silence. The streets of Detroit lay still, no cars rumbling by, no distant shouts echoing from alleyways—just the hollow sound of the night air whispering through the empty streets. The wind carried a faint howl, almost like a mournful call, dragging along with it the rustling of fallen leaves, their copper and auburn hues scattered across the pavement like nature's forgotten confetti. They coated the ground in a brittle blanket, crunching underfoot with each gust.
The air was biting, crisp against the skin, but it wasn't unbearable. Not tonight. The cold clung to him, wrapping around his wool trench coat, seeping through the fabric and into the gray hoodie he wore beneath. The hood was pulled low over his face, shielding him from the few curious eyes that might have glanced out of windows or lingered in the shadows. He wanted to stay hidden. No one needed to know. The leaves crunched beneath his worn loafers as he crossed the street with deliberate steps, each one careful, almost calculated, as if the sound of them could betray his presence.
As he reached the sidewalk, his pace slowed, the pebbles underfoot grinding against the worn leather soles of his shoes. The street was deserted, dark except for the faint glow of streetlights casting a pale, sickly light over the pavement. He moved past the rows of apartment buildings, his figure blending into the night, just another shadow slipping between the pools of light. His breath fogged in front of him, dissipating quickly as he approached a familiar set of metal stairs, their cold surface catching the light in sharp reflections.
He climbed the steps quietly, each creak of the rusted metal etched into his memory. He knew exactly where to step, where the sound would be softest, where the metal would groan under his weight. It was a sound he had come to know intimately, much like the woman who lived here. Her image was burned into his mind, a permanent imprint that refused to fade. He took the stairs slowly, one foot after the other, mindful of the routine he had perfected. It was as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.
