13. Ro #4
Her gaze softened for just a second. “Grace don’t mean I forgot, Ro. It means I’m letting God turn what broke us into something that won’t break her.”
I swallowed hard, nodded once, and started to leave before my knees gave out.
But I didn’t get far.
Nova’s voice stopped me cold. “Ro…”
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even pain. It was soft—too soft. That voice used to pull me back from some of my darkest nights. Tonight, it did the same.
I turned, and she was standing there, one hand on the doorframe, that chain around her neck catching what little moonlight crept in through the blinds. Her eyes weren’t fire—they were something heavier, something that burned without heat.
“Come here,” she whispered.
I stepped back in, slow, boots heavy on the old floorboards. The air in that apartment was thick—vanilla and floral from her lotion, a hint of incense, rain seeping through the cracked window. It smelled like home, like all the years I’d been starving for this moment.
She closed the distance between us, her hand brushing mine, fingers cold from holding herself together all night. I caught her wrist, gently, like she might vanish if I grabbed too hard. She didn’t pull away.
“Nova…” My voice broke more than I wanted. I wasn’t used to breaking in front of anyone, but her? She’d always been the one person I couldn’t armor up against.
“Shh.” She touched my jaw, thumb tracing the scar I’d picked up after I left her. “You’re here now.”
Those words hit like a confession. I leaned into her palm, eyes closing for just a second, soaking in her warmth. When I opened them, she was closer. Close enough that I could see the reflection of myself in her eyes—and I hated what I saw.
“I don’t deserve this,” I muttered, voice gravel.
She cupped my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her. “You don’t,” she admitted softly. “But you’re still mine.”
The way she said it—calm, certain—broke something in me. My hands found her waist, hesitant at first, like I didn’t have the right. She leaned into me anyway, melting against my chest, her breath warm against my neck.
I buried my face in her hair, inhaling that familiar scent, a mix of jasmine and rain.
My hands slid up her back, feeling the strength in her frame, the softness she never let the world see.
She tilted her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, and that was it.
Years of regret, shame, love—it all came pouring out.
I kissed her. Not like I was claiming her. Not like I was begging for forgiveness. Just like a man drowning, finally breaking the surface.
She kissed me back, fingers curling into the back of my hoodie, pulling me closer. The years between us evaporated. The arguments, the pain, the distance—they didn’t matter. Not here. Not now.
I picked her up, slow, reverent, carrying her to the bedroom we used to share. She didn’t protest. She didn’t need words. The way she held on to me said everything.
The door shut behind us with a soft click.
The bedroom was small but warm, a kind of lived-in peace that didn’t match the chaos outside.
The walls were painted a soft, faded cream, edges peeling where years of humidity kissed the corners.
A single lamp glowed dim on the nightstand, its light casting long shadows over the hardwood floor.
The scent of lavender oil clung faint in the air, layered with baby powder and Nova’s vanilla and floral perfume.
I stood there for a second, just taking it in—the way this room felt like a heartbeat, steady and soft, even while the world outside roared. My chest tightened, that kind of ache that comes when you know you don’t deserve peace like this but crave it anyway.
Against the wall by the window sat Aaliyah’s crib.
A small white frame, chipped at the corners but clean, draped with a quilt that looked handmade, tiny crowns stitched into every square.
She slept sound, cheeks round, pacifier barely hanging on between her lips.
Her tiny fist clutched the edge of a pink blanket, her chest rising slow and steady.
That little star-shaped nightlight on the dresser threw a halo around her, like even God Himself was standing guard. I felt my throat close up. How many nights had she slept here without me even knowing she existed? How many lullabies I missed?
The bed wasn’t big, but it was neat, sheets pulled tight but soft from being washed a hundred times.
Nova’s Bible rested on her nightstand, pages worn and full of sticky tabs.
On mine sat nothing but the Glock I’d just unloaded and the chain she gave me years ago, heavy with memories I still carried.
In the corner, a wooden rocking chair sat angled toward the crib, a blanket tossed over the back. I could picture her sitting there on nights when the world was too loud, rocking our daughter while whispering prayers I didn’t even know I needed.
The window was cracked just enough to let in the faint hum of Lyon Crest at night: a distant siren, laughter from a porch two blocks away, the low rumble of a bike rolling past. But in here? It was calm. Sacred. A sanctuary carved out of a warzone.
The rain tapped against the window, a steady rhythm. My hands trembled as I laid her down, but not from fear. From knowing this was holy.
We moved slow, like we were relearning each other, like every touch was sacred. Her lips trailed along my jaw, her breath warm on my skin, and for the first time in years, I felt… peace. Not because the world outside stopped being dangerous, but because I was finally where I belonged.
Then Nova froze.
Her hands cupped my face, eyes closed tight, and I felt her body tremble—not from fear, but from something heavier. “Wait,” she whispered, voice thick but steady.
I leaned back, breath uneven, heart pounding loud enough I swore she could hear it. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, tears gathering but not falling. “I can’t… we can’t— not like this. Not with all that’s still tied to us.”
I swallowed, unsure, watching her climb off the bed and kneel right there on the worn rug. Her hands lifted, palms open, chain glinting in the dim light.
“Father God…” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.
“I come before You broken, but Yours. And I lift this man before You—the husband You gave me. Lord, I break every soul tie, every bond, every chain that was never meant for us. I renounce every spirit, every shadow that tried to take what You made holy. I cover us in the blood of Jesus, from our heads to our feet. Wash us, Lord. Make us new. Give us clean hands and pure hearts.”
I felt a lump in my throat so thick I couldn’t speak.
Her voice grew stronger, authority threading every word.
“No more shame. No more guilt. No more curses over this bloodline. We break every assignment of the enemy in Jesus’ name.
Every Jezebel, every Delilah, every spirit of death, lust, and betrayal—gone, right now, in the name of Jesus Christ. This marriage belongs to You, Lord. This family belongs to You.”
Tears burned my eyes, but I stayed quiet, listening to her pray over me like she was fighting for my soul.
She reached for my hand, fingers lacing through mine, and bowed her head. “We’re not perfect, Lord. But we’re Yours. Clean us. Heal us. Redeem us. Tonight, we start fresh. A covenant renewed under Your covering.”
The air in the room shifted. Heavy. Holy. Like the weight of everything I’d done, everything I’d carried, had just been placed in Someone else’s hands.
I sank to my knees next to her, forehead pressed against hers, both of us trembling. I couldn’t find the words, but she prayed them for me. She always did.
When she finally whispered “Amen,” it felt like chains snapped in the air around us.
I pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in like I’d been drowning for years.
“Nova…” My voice broke, but she didn’t flinch. She just held me tighter.
“I love you,” she whispered, tears finally spilling onto my shoulder.
“More than life,” I rasped, and meant every word.
And when we kissed again, it wasn’t desperation anymore.
It was healing. I climbed from the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on Aaliyah.
That weight on my shoulders felt heavier in here.
This was home. My home. But I was a stranger walking back into it, carrying ghosts like they were part of my wardrobe.
Nova came over quietly, a glass of water in her hand, wearing a simple oversized tee that made her look softer than I remembered.
She looked into my eyes with love that I knew shouldn’t be there.
Her finger curled under my child. Our gaze locked.
She gazed at me, then at Aaliyah, a small smile pulling at her lips even through the exhaustion in her eyes.
“This is what you almost missed out on,” she whispered, her voice cutting through me sharper than any bullet ever could.
I swallowed hard, nodding once. My fingers traced the chain at my neck as I leaned back, the smell of baby powder and lavender filling my lungs. This was everything I never thought I’d deserve, sitting right in front of me.
My hands moved to her waist, sliding her night shorts down slowly, my touch careful, reverent. She allowed me access to her again, and I didn’t want to mess this up.
She pulled at my shirt, tugging it over my head, exposing a chest she hadn’t seen in years. Her name rested over my heart in big, bold letters, the ink darker than the room’s soft glow.
Her fingertips brushed over it, trembling but sure, tracing every letter like a promise I’d broken but never erased. I kissed her wrist, then her shoulder, breathing her in like a prayer I didn’t deserve to pray.
The lamp’s warm light painted her skin gold, shadows pooling in the curve of her collarbone as she looked at me with that fire and grace that always made me weak. She didn’t speak, but her touch told me everything—years of love, loss, and forgiveness woven into every slow movement.
I held her close, hands anchoring her like I was afraid she’d vanish again. The lavender-scented air was thick with tension and need, but it was more than that—it was home.
The world outside faded away as our breaths tangled, the storm in the Crest quiet for once. And in that stillness, it was just us—two souls finding their way back, one touch at a time.