“Thank you.”
Ronan nodded and gestured toward the hallway. “Go on, make yourself at home. I’ll see what I can pull together for food.”
I didn’t argue. The bathroom continued with the same aesthetic: natural materials and clean lines. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. My locs were a mess, my eyes were bloodshot from tear gas, lack of sleep, and my face dirty. I looked like I’d been through a war, which in some ways, I suppose I had.
I cranked the hot water up and let it run till it fogged up the mirror. Then I stepped under the spray. The shower felt like salvation as I grabbed the soap. There was a gentle knock on the door.
“I need to run to the market. There’s nothing in the fridge.”
I paused with the soap in my hand. “Okay.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Alright. I’ll be fine.”
Realizing I was alone in his house, it hit me how personal this was—showering in Ronan Banks’ bathroom, about to put on his clothes—when only a day ago, he was the enemy, a symbol of the system I’d fought. Now I was using his soap and breathing in his scent I’d recognized from being close to him in the holding cell.
I finished washing quickly. With one of his fluffy towels wrapped around me, I was suddenly anxious to explore the space that revealed the side of Ronan I never expected to see. I headed to the bedroom with the towel secured tightly around me.
In the bedroom, there was a large bed with a blue comforter and wooden nightstands. A dresser was against one wall, where I found T-shirts in the top drawer. My fingers hesitated over the soft fabric before I closed it again, oddly reluctant to get dressed just yet. The hot shower had cleared my mind and warmed my skin, and I wanted to hold on to that sensation of renewal for a few more moments before covering myself in anything, even his clothes.
Instead, I explored Ronan’s house, noticing details I’d missed before. Bookshelves lined one wall of the living room, with titles by Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni, and Audre Lorde. Not what I expected from Birmingham’s chief of police.
There was something deeply revealing about seeing these pieces of Ronan that existed outside his public persona.
On the mantle were a few fishing trophies and a photo of a younger Ronan with an older man, whom I guessed was his grandfather. Both were smiling widely. I picked up the photo and studied the open happiness on his face.
In another photo, Ronan appeared very young in a military uniform. In a third, he stood outside what looked like a church, with an older couple, probably his parents, his father wearing a clerical collar. Seeing these parts of his life made him feel more real to me, in ways our talks had only started to. His books and photos showed a man more complicated than the symbol I’d made him out to be.
I was still holding the family photo when I heard Ronan coming back. I set it down carefully, suddenly aware that I was barefoot, with wet hair, wrapped in only a towel, in his living room. I should have used the time to get dressed instead of looking through his things, but now I was stuck between going to the bedroom or facing him like this.
The engine cut off, the car door slammed, and footsteps approached the front door.
I stayed frozen in the center of the room as the door handle turned. I decided not to run, not to hide, but to stand in my vulnerability, let him see me as I truly was in this moment with my guard down, wearing nothing but a towel and the strange, unexpected truth building between us since the first moment in the holding cell.
Whatever was happening between us made little sense. Our backgrounds and choices didn’t matter anymore; it was already beyond my control. When the door opened, I realized that for once, I would not fight it.
8
RONAN
When I entered the cabin, Nia stood in the center of my living room, wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, water droplets trailing down her skin. My mind went blank. Blood rushed south to the wrong head with such force I nearly dropped the bags.
“Better?” I asked.
Nia nodded. “Way. Thought you might need help.”
I’d seen beautiful women before, had dated my share of them, but something about Nia in this moment hit different. The raw intimacy of her damn near nakedness blindsided me.
Water from her shower had darkened her locs to a deep mahogany, hanging loose around her shoulders instead of pulling them back from how she’d previously worn them.
Droplets collected along her collarbone before tracing lazy paths downward, disappearing beneath the edge of the white towel. My eyes followed one particular droplet’s journey before I caught myself and deliberately looked away.
“Nah, I got it. Should be enough for a couple of days,” I said unnecessarily, lifting the grocery bags like she couldn’t see them.Smooth, Ronan. Real smooth.
Her lips curved into a smile that held a touch of amusement, like she’d read every inappropriate thought crossing my mind. “Thank you.”
I had to move. Standing there staring wasn’t just awkward; it messed with my self-control. I walked past her to the kitchen, catching a faint whiff of my soap on her skin.
