Temperatures Rising: Chapter 45.

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
Life is a movie, there would never be a sequel." — N.Minaj. 💕
Ominiscent. 


As Harlem approached her, he curses under his breath, feeling the pang of longing and aching from their parted wounds. "Fuck," he hissed. "I missed your pretty ass."
She sighed heavily and chuckled nervously pushing him back as he reached in to hug her. "Harlem. It's three in the morning. Seriously, what're you doing here and why are you so drunk? I've never seen you like this." She voice with concern. He groans, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. "I missed you," he confesses again, his words slurred with intoxication. "I miss touching you, kissing you, making love to you. I miss you, baby. I fucking miss you man." 
She sighed deeply, her frustration evident in the lines of her face. "Harlem, I do not need this right nowwww," she muttered, her words a sobering reminder of the complications that always seemed to surround them. "Damn it...." 
"What the fuck happened to your face?!" He blurted out, edged in concern  after a sudden glance and realization hit, her face held a sudden and faint bruise on her face, he reached out to touch her face when she pushed away and brushed it off. "Nothing happened. It was an accident. I fr—" he laughs bitterly shaking his head. "Where he at?!" He moved swiftly, in an attempt to run up the stairs to her bedroom. 
Despite his drunken state, Harlem ascended the stairs with surprising speed, the urgency in his movements palpable. Behind him, Heaven's voice rang out, a desperate plea to halt his reckless advance. The bangs of doors echoed through the house, signaling his angry hunt. 
"Where the fuck is he?!" Harlem's voice reverberated through the halls, each word laced with anger and frustration. "Harlem!" Heaven's cry followed, her own footsteps echoing as she pursued him, attempting to intervene. "Harlem, please. Stop. He did nothing!"
"Stop lying to me, Heaven!" Harlem's demand halted as he reached their bedroom door, his chest heaving with emotion.
Peering into the room, Heaven's gaze fell upon an empty bed, but the soft glow of the bathroom light caught her attention. "He's not here," she insisted, her voice tinged with desperation. "And he didn't do anything."
But Harlem saw through her facade. He knew Logan, and he knew Heaven well enough to discern when she was withholding the truth. "This nigga laid hands on you, and you're protecting him?" Harlem's voice rang out, punctuated by clenched teeth, sending shivers down Heaven's spine, a volatile mix of fear and desire coursing through her veins at the intensity of his words.
"He didn't do anything. Please, just leave." She pleaded with him in a desperate attempt to stop the situation before it got out of hand but was soon stopped when the light in the bathroom went the fan turned off, the doors swung open