I thought about his parents’ accident, and my heart ached—no pity, just empathy. I pictured teen Roman in that hospital hallway, hands shaking, learning to hold his sisters and his grief at once. His protectiveness made sense then. He wasn’t controlling life; he was refusing to lose more than he already had.
“I’m okay, Roman. Don’t worry. I just pulled into the parking lot. I’ll talk to you later. Mmmwah!” I blew a kiss through the phone with my dorky ass.
Oh my God. He’s going to think I’m such a nerd.
I palmed my face slightly and shook my head in disbelief. Why was I so corny? But then, right under the embarrassment, there was sweetness. A tiny thrill. The realization that I did it because I felt safe. Because for a moment, I forgot to guard myself.
He chuckled lightly. “Cute ass. I want a real one later. Have a good day, Connie.”
“You, too, handsome.”
I hung up and sat there for a second, breathing, letting the quiet return to the car. The steering wheel felt cool under my palms. The air smelled like my vanilla gloss and the faint cinnamon I carried from The Pour House. I checked my mirrors like muscle memory, then whispered to myself to get it together. Life still had responsibilities. Students still needed me. Nan still needed me. My heart still needed me, too, even if I didn’t always know how to take care of it.
When I walked in, I groaned. It was Mr. Harris Henderson, who was posted up like he had an appointment with my peace. The Social Studies teacher never took the hint, always in my orbit, staring too hard and lingering by my door like the hallway was his.
And the truth was, Harris Henderson was not my type, not even a little.
It wasn’t just that he was a co-worker; it was how he moved, like boundaries were suggestions. The creepiness was quiet but persistent, heavy enough to tighten my shoulders and still my stomach.
His compliments never made sense. They were never about my work, always my body. Hips, legs, waist. Once, mid-talk about testing, he said my perfume smelleddangerousand laughed like it was clever instead of inappropriate.
He always lingered at my door with fake questions, leaning on the frame and talking too slowly while his eyes wandered my body. He’d stretch my name out like it meant more than it did, and my skin still feltwatchedafter he walked off.
Mellonie told me to curse him out, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t built for cruelty, even when it was justified. I knew how words could bruise, and I didn’t want to harden into somebody I didn’t recognize or start a war in a place I had to show up every day.
So, I did what I always did. I turned him down gently, voice polite, smile small, repeating my shields.
I’m not interested.
I don’t date co-workers.
I’m focused on work.
I redirected to students and curriculum, anything to remind him my body wasn’t a topic. Still, he kept testing it, like persistence could rewrite myno.
It reminded me how women were expected to soften rejection to protect a man’s ego. I hated managing his feelings while my unease sat like a stone. Some days, I could handle it. Other days, I heard Mellonie:Stop being so nice.
And today? I wasn’t in the mood. My heart was tender and hopeful, Roman’s care still fresh. I was holding onto softness without letting anybody confuse it for access, keeping my peace, my boundaries, and my name clean.
I kept it moving, slipped past him, and made it to my classroom, grateful for the win and the reminder:I deserve to be here without strategizing around entitlement.
I unlocked my door and exhaled into my space—paper, sanitizer, pencil shavings, and essays stacked like a quiet threat. As hallway voices drifted by, I pressed a palm to my chest and thought of Roman walking into that interview, shoulders squared, responsibility on him like a suit.
Let it be his.
He didn’t need saving, but he deserved reward. Good men who carried weight deserved moments where it got lighter. And quietly, selfishly, . . . I wanted to celebrate with him afterward.
I smirked to myself at the ladies in the hallway gossiping over my man.
Oh my God, . . . is he my man?The thought slid in softly and suddenly, and my cheeks heated like my spirit couldn’t hide. I didn’t want to claim what hadn’t been given, but Roman moved as if he’d already chosen me. He was steady, intentional, saying my name like it mattered. And right behind the swoon camedisbelief.Why would a man like that want me . . . and why does he seem so sure?
Nothing was official, but we had roots. We talked every day because his voice felt like exhaling. He’d show up at the shop, help Nan, and slide into our routine like he belonged. And he even tried to get me to call him Kingdom after ourThug Therapybuddy read, like I could say that with a straight face. He was a funny, disarming mess, keeping me grinning, even when I tried to be serious.
The truth was, I had not always been this open to possibility. My only serious relationship was in college, and he cheated. Mellonie and I walked in at the wrong moment and caught him kissing up on some woman. She tried to get loud, but I didn’t have beef with her. My anger belonged to him. I refused to misplace my pain just because it was easier.
After that, I got independent in a way that was really avoidance—work, tutoring, The Pour House, Nan, my schedule as a shield. The last man who tried me was a student’s dad. I shut it down quickly. At work, only Mr. Henderson lingered with uneasy energy, but I always turned him down. My peace and professionalism already carried enough.
Now I was trying to figure out how to navigate whatever Roman and I were building, especially with him possibly becoming my co-worker, even though we met before that was on the table. What mattered was that he never treated me like a convenience; he saw me as a woman, not a hallway opportunity.
