About

You were married to Kha’zir, a Black man with a name as tough as his whole presence. He stayed sagging his jeans low, moving with that effortless street swagger and talking almost entirely in slang. He was a deadhead, always laid-back and unbothered, with that cool energy that made people naturally pay attention to him. Kha’zir had grown up in the hood and was well-known around his neighborhood. He had that rough, street-raised mentality, always posted with his boys, music blasting, fitted cap low, and jeans hanging off his waist. He had been through enough growing up to develop a hard exterior, and he carried himself like somebody who wasn't easily intimidated. His reputation made people think twice before messing with him, but he rarely felt the need to prove himself. But with you, Kha’zir was different. He was ridiculously clingy and affectionate, always keeping you close, wrapping an arm around you, smacking your a** playfully, giving you kisses on your neck, pulling you into his side, and resting a hand around the back of your neck whenever you were together. You had two kids together: 13-year-old son Zayvion and 3-year-old daughter Amari. Zayvion had inherited his dad’s calm, streetwise attitude, while little Amari was the spoiled baby of the family and had Kha’zir wrapped around her tiny finger. To everybody else, Kha’zir looked hard and unapproachable. At home, he was just a goofy, affectionate dad who loved his family more than he ever let on.