“And . . . I saw him,” she added.
I stilled. “Where?”
“Outside The Pour House,” she whispered. “Parked. Watching.”
My mind went strategic on instinct—cameras, plates, dates, witnesses, reports, a safety plan with no gaps—while something older in me stood up and made a vow:not her, not anywhere, not ever.
“I talked to Jonay,” Solè rushed, eyes wide. “I didn’t want you getting in trouble because of me. She said you’re a protector, . . . and you’ll do what you must to keep me safe.”
That made my chest go tight for a different reason. Because, even afraid, she was still trying to protectme, still trying to carry weight like it was her job.
I nodded once. “Jonay’s right.” I took Solè’s hand, thumb sweeping her knuckles like an anchor. “Don’t carry this alone, love. We’re not moving on feelings. We’re moving on evidence. Call logs, screenshots, times, locations.”
Her shoulders trembled. “Okay.”
“And you’re not walking to your car alone,” I said, already building it. “Not from school, The Pour House, from anywhere.If you see him, you call me, and you go where there are people and cameras.”
She blinked hard, relief and fear tangling.
“Connie,” I murmured, voice steady—hood-intellectual calm with steel underneath. “You’re not dramatic, and you’re not overreacting. A man who ignores boundaries is dangerous. We handle this the right way with calm hands, sharp minds, and tight boundaries.”
I reached for her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth like I was trying to wipe away the last of the hurt I caused.
“There’s no need to get alarmed,” I told her, but my voice didn’t have the luxury of being casual. It came out measured, like I was stacking bricks with my tongue, building something sturdy enough for her to stand on. “I’m going to take care of this. I just need to know we are good. I love you, baby, and I never meant to bruise your feelings. You got my soul.”
When I said it, I meant it. I finally understood love wasn’t just desire; it was responsibility, restraint, and choosing peace on purpose.
Her eyes stayed on me, scanning my face like she was reading what I wouldn’t dare lie about. I watched her swallow, watched the tension in her shoulders loosen by a single thread, not full trust yet, but a door unlatched instead of locked, and I held still like I couldn’t afford to jostle it.
Then she looked up, and a small, surprised smile slipped out, soft as morning light through blinds because she caught the quote, the Bryson reference, the way my apology came out. My chest eased, not from winning, but from feeling her spirit lean toward me again.
“I’m all gas, no brakes behind you,” I said, softer this time, my tone sitting where it belonged, low and warm, not sharp. “And I got you.”
She blinked at me, lashes fluttering like she was trying to gather courage in small motions. “Can I make a request?”
My heart tugged because I knew I was going to let her down. Her big heart was too pure for folks that never should’ve experienced it.
“If it’s for me to ignore danger, nah,” I said, half a smile tugging at my mouth, trying to keep it light while my instincts stayed on high alert. “You know I can’t do that. I’m not sparing a threat, baby. I’m just promising you, I’m not ever going to become one to you.”
She hit me with those puppy-dog eyes that should’ve been illegal. My resolve wobbled for half a second until my mind flashed a picture I couldn’t stand—her arm bruised worse, her spirit shaken worse, and her softness punished for existing.
And the fear sobered me.
“I love your big heart,” I murmured, thumb brushing her cheek like I was apologizing again without words. “But if you worried about me, I’ll be straight. What I can’t survive is you getting hurt and me knowing I could’ve prevented it. I would lose my mind behind that, Solè. And you don’t fully realize what you are to me, Pretty Little Dipper. You don’t.”
I paused, letting my eyes do what my pride couldn’t. Beg.
“Don’t carry this in your head. Don’t worry that little mind into knots. You hear me?”
“Yes, baby,” she whispered. “I hear you.”
Relief moved through me slowly, like a deep exhale after holding your breath too long.
“Good girl,” I said, and it came out tender, not commanding, because I was mindful now. Mindful of how easily a tone could become a trigger. “Are you coming home with me? I miss you.”
She laughed, the sound soft and sweet, like a ribbon tied around a heavy day. “Baby, this is my home. You just be kidnapping me.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, grinning because the truth was embarrassing and holy at the same time. “I like you up under me. I do. Come on. Let’s roll. You know the girls been at the house giving me the silent treatment, cutting they eyes like I smell like defeat.”
