I needed a softer voice when fear rose, full truth instead of convenient fragments, questions in place of assumptions, and patience over control. Her feelings set the tone; her heart was the room we were in, and I didn’t get to enter it as if I ownedit. If I was going to protect her, it had to register as peace, not pressure.
I moved further down the hall, and Bryson Tiller bled through the door, low and warm like the house was trying to soften me before I stepped into her space. The door sat slightly ajar, and that small opening felt like mercy I hadn’t earned.
Inside, she stood with the flat iron to her mouth like a mic, hips swaying to that quiet rhythm she carried even in ordinary moments. The room smelled of heat, vanilla, and cleanliness. She looked perfect, the only way real life got to be—unstaged, unperformed—just her: soft, luminous, and deliberately composed, even with a tender heart.
She was singing, too, voice airy and sure, as if she believed the lyrics could rearrange the atmosphere.
“This is not the place for all this
Is there a reason why you’re saying all this?
And can we talk about it laaaatter?
I’ve gotta riiiiiight my wroooongs
And my chest did that thing it did when I realized I was the villain in a scene I never meant to write.
I eased the door open and stepped in quietly, moving with care that proved gentleness instead of announcing it. I slid behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, soft, steady, almost confessional.
She startled, a sharp inhale catching in her throat, and guilt bit down because I knew my earlier tone helped teach her that flinch. Still, I didn’t release her, not to trap her, but to ground her, to let my body say what my mouth failed to earlier: I’m here, and I’m calm now.
I joined in, my voice low and steady, eyes locked to hers in the mirror so she could see me while she heard me.
“Girl, I never meant to put you through it twice, nooooo
Tell me how can I riiiiiight my wrongs
That’s sooomething that I should know.”
Her lips twitched, an almost-smile that never fully blossomed, yet it still felt like mercy. I pressed my forehead to hers and breathed her in, warm and unmistakably real, while a sobering truth settled in my chest. I nearly turned the love of my life into a cautionary tale.
She paused the song, and the stillness that replaced it carried more weight than the music ever did. I took her hand and guided her to the bed with careful reverence given to anything you refused to damage, set her down gently, then kneeled. Because if I was sincere about her, my pride couldn’t remain standing where my apology needed to be.
“My Constellation,” I started, voice quieter than my shame, “my love, . . . I owe you a real apology.” I swallowed. It felt like trying to swallow a stone. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice, and I damn sure shouldn’t have dropped my fear in your lap like it was yours to hold. That’s not the love I saw growing up, and it’s not the love I’m building with you. Not one where you ever have to brace for me.” I looked up at her and the way her eyes were shiny but steady made my chest ache.
“I was angry at him, but I misdirected it, and that’s on me. You didn’t invite anything; you were simply existing, and he decided your body was up for debate. I saw that, knew better, and still spoke to you as if you were the issue.” My voice cracked just enough to tell the truth. I took her hands, holding them like they were sacred because they were. “I’m not perfect, but I am deliberate. So let me be plain, right here in your house while your eyes hold me to it. I won’t ever speak to you that way again, public or private, scared or heated. You deserve steadiness, Solé, and I’m committed to becoming that man.” I paused, then askedit like I was asking permission to breathe. “Do you forgive me, baby? Truly?”
She didn’t rush or perform forgiveness to soothe me. She sat with soft shoulders and a solid spine, and I respected it. I needed the weight of what I did, not the shortcut of her grace.
“You hurt my feelings,” she said softly. Four little words, and it felt like a whole brick dropped on my chest. “And you made it sound like I invited him. I know that wasn’t your intent, but being corrected like that publicly . . . it hurt.” Her tone was gentle, yet it held. “I love you, Roman, but our communication has to stayhealthy,safe, and respectful, both ways. I won’t speak to you with cruelty, and I need the same. I accept your apology.”
I nodded slowly, taking in every word the way you’d take in sound doctrine—carefully, reverently—because it was. This was the standard for the kind of love I intended to build.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “And you’re right. Add honesty and full disclosure, too. No more withholding heavy details. You deserve the whole truth so you can move with clarity.”
I took a breath, hating the next part, but I said it anyway because love that hid information wasn’t love. It was control.
“During the investigation, it came out that he wasn’t only targeting you. He’d made other teachers uncomfortable, too. He was saying explicit, obsessive things about you—sex, your underwear, all of it. And two students reported hearing him in the bathroom doing something inappropriate while using your name.”
Her face flushed, and goosebumps lifted like her body trying to armor itself in texture. Her eyes widened, then went distant, her mind searching for a place to file what didn’t belong. She hugged her knees to her chest, staring past my shoulder, and she finally spoke like confessional instead of survival.
“Ro, baby . . . I need to tell you something too.”
That did it. I sat up straight, attention clicking into place like a seat belt, eyes locked on the fear she was trying to tuck behind composure. “What is it, Connie?” I asked calmly while my body braced like a storm behind glass.
She swallowed. “After everything, . . . Henderson started calling. A lot. Threatening me. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb because I couldn’t keep hearing it.”
His name hit my chest like a fist. My jaw tightened, my ears went hot, and my hands curled into fists I hadn’t authorized. My foot tapped like anger needed somewhere to live that wasn’t my actions. Because there were lines, and he crossed one.
