He picked up on the second ring. “What you on, DeLane?”
“I messed up,” I said. And my voice sounded like humility, like gravel, like truth with no polish.
There was a pause, then Ahmad exhaled slowly. “Yeah, . . . Jazz told me.”
He didn’t clown me. That was how I knew it was serious.
“I’ma keep it a buck. You were moving like you was mad at Solè for being the one harmed.”
“I know,” I admitted, staring at the road like it could absolve me. “I hated myself the second it left my mouth.”
“Fear makes men stupid,” Ahmad said. “But love requires discipline. You can’t be out here scaring the very person you’re trying to keep safe. That’s backwards.”
His words cut me because they were true.
“And you better not do nothing street behind this,” he added, voice sharpening. “I know you got ties. But you move sloppy, you make it worse for her. You hear me?”
“Yes. I’m moving smart. I’m moving legally. But I’m moving.”
“Good. Now apologize properly. Not just ‘my bad.’ Own the impact. Create a new pattern. Prove her safety with you doesn’t come with emotional bruises.”
That sentence sat in my chest like a commandment. Elias called right after, like he’d been listening.
“What happened?” he asked, voice low, steady.
“I snapped,” I said. “And she stepped back from me.”
Elias was quiet for a beat, then he said, “You do realize the most dangerous thing you did today wasn’t punching Henderson.”
“I didn’t?—”
“I know,” he cut in. It was calm, precise. “I’m saying the most dangerous thing was making your woman feel like she had to brace for you. You can’t be her shelter and her storm. Pick one.”
My throat tightened.
“And listen,” he continued. “Tell her what you know. All of it. She can’t make informed choices if you are holding information.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And don’t go over there demanding access,” Elias added. “Go over there offering repair.”
That was the language. Repair. Not control. Not pressure. Repair.
I pulled up to Nan’s house and saw her on the porch, reading, like peace had a schedule. I got closer and saw the cover:Leak It: An Erotic Novellaby A. Blossom.
I laughed despite myself. NanNan was wild with her leisure.
“What’s up, my ol’ girl? You mad at me too?” I asked.
She looked up, smiled, and waved me off like I was an inconvenience. “You messing up, but not like you think. She’s been here looking sad. Listening to music, singing all loud. Walking around all pitiful. Go fix it. I got a wedding to attend, and she is not about to burst my eardrum. Whew, this one spicy.”
I shook my head, pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead, and crossed the threshold, but my laughter did not follow me. The hallway held a calm that felt earned, lavender and old books and something unmistakably clean, the scent of a home that knew how to hold people gently.
Then my eyes caught the photographs. Nan was beaming beside a woman who wore Solè’s softness in a lighter shade and a man with Solè’s same eyes—her parents, her people, the ones whose absence had made her memories sacred and her grief constant.
Something in my chest cinched tight. She had already buried too much, already learned too early what it cost to love and lose. I, after being granted entry, after being trusted, had still managed to bruise her with my voice, as if her heart had room for any more careless weight.
I stood beneath the framed smiles of the people she missed, and remorse felt physical. I made myself a quiet vow: repair what I cracked, not with gifts or charm, but with change.
