Chapter 8 #3
Heat and humor.
Softness and slick comments.
Love walking around barefoot, acting like it had been invited but still asking where the snacks were.
I kissed her shoulder. “You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“You want breakfast?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Do you make pancakes from scratch or from a box?”
I gave her a look. “From scratch.”
She stared. “Who are you?”
“Your meal prep boyfriend.”
She gasped. “You remembered that?”
“I remember what matters.”
Her face did that soft thing again.
Then she pointed at me. “Do not start being romantic before I brush my teeth.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I heard the voice.”
“I know.”
We got up eventually, though it took longer than it should have because Monica moved slow in my T-shirt, and I was only so strong.
She looked good in my kitchen.
Too good.
Standing at the island, hair messy, face bare, wearing one of my shirts and holding a mug of coffee with both hands like she was trying to convince herself she didn’t belong there.
But she did.
At least to me.
I made pancakes, eggs, turkey bacon, and fruit. She watched me like she was suspicious of my domestic skills, then ate two pancakes and accused me of witchcraft.
“This is manipulation,” she said around a bite.
“It’s breakfast.”
“It’s a trap with syrup.”
“You staying?”
She looked up.
The question came out gentle, but we both heard what was underneath it.
Not staying today.
Staying.
With me.
In this.
She set her fork down slowly.
“I want to,” she said.
My chest warmed.
“But I need us to be real,” she continued. “Not just romantic. Real.”
“Okay.”
“That means if something messy happens, you tell me before the internet does.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll try to ask before I assume.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And if your brother brings drama again—”
“He won’t.”
“Eric.”
I nodded. “If he does, I’ll be honest.”
“Good.”
“And if Latrice pops up again?”
Monica leaned back. “I will pray first.”
I smiled. “And then?”
“Depends how fast God responds.”
I laughed.
She smiled too, then grew serious.
“I’m not asking for perfect,” she said. “I’m asking for safe.”
I reached across the island and took her hand.
“That’s what I’m offering.”
She looked down at our hands.
Then she squeezed mine.
“Okay,” she whispered.
That okay felt bigger than yes.
After breakfast, my phone rang.
Quan.
I almost ignored it, but Monica nodded toward the phone.
“Answer.”
I answered on speaker. “Yeah.”
Quan’s voice came through quieter than usual. “You at home?”
“Yeah.”
“I went to the shop.”
I glanced at the clock. It was barely nine.
“You early.”
“Yeah. Dre said if I was late, Monica might come supervise me.”
Monica smiled into her coffee.
I looked at her. “She might.”
Quan cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. For real. I ain’t mean for nothing to touch the lounge or your girl.”
Monica’s eyes lifted to mine at your girl.
This time, she didn’t flinch.
I held her gaze. “I know.”
“I’m going to work it off.”
“Yes, you are.”
“And I’m going to talk to Ma later.”
“Good.”
Quan hesitated. “Monica there?”
I raised an eyebrow.
Monica shook her head quickly.
I ignored her. “Yeah.”
She glared at me.
Quan said, “Tell her my bad too. I know she was helping clean up my mess.”
Monica leaned toward the phone. “Apology accepted. But if I ever have to scrub graffiti before coffee again, I’m charging your brother and adding emotional damages.”
Quan laughed softly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Go wash something.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I ended the call and looked at her.
She shrugged. “What?”
“You just put my brother to work from my kitchen.”
“Somebody had to.”
“You fit here.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Monica went still.
I didn’t take it back.
She looked around the kitchen, then back at me.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“I know.”
“You trying to scare me before noon?”
“No. I’m telling you the truth before fear starts talking.”
She swallowed.
I walked around the island and stood in front of her.
“I’m not asking you to move in today,” I said.
“Good, because my laundry basket has rights.”
I smiled. “I’m saying I want you here. In my life. Not halfway. Not hidden. Not guessing.”
Her eyes got shiny again.
“You want commitment?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“We met at Big Ray’s less than a week ago.”
“I remember.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
“People are going to talk.”
“They already do.”
“My family is going to be annoying.”
“They already are.”
“I might still get scared.”
“I know.”
“I’m not easy.”
“I didn’t ask for easy.”
Her breath caught.
I took both her hands.
“I want you, Monica. Your mouth. Your heart. Your overthinking. Your bossy leadership. Your fake plant. Your car with anxiety. Your whole life, as much as you choose to share with me.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She looked mad about it.
I wiped it away with my thumb.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
I smiled. “No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
She laughed through the tears, and I pulled her into my arms.
She held on tight.
Not like she was afraid.
Like she was finally letting herself be held.
“I want you too,” she said against my chest. “All of it. But if you embarrass me, I’m moving to another state and becoming mysterious.”
“I won’t embarrass you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I can keep that one.”
She leaned back and looked at me. “Then I’m yours.”
My heart stopped for half a second.
Then started again different.
“And you’re mine,” she added, pointing at me. “Don’t just stand there looking handsome. Confirm.”
I laughed and kissed her.
“I’m yours,” I said against her mouth.
That was the moment everything settled.
No ring. No big speech. No audience.
Just morning light, pancakes getting cold, and a woman who had every reason to run choosing to stay.
Later that afternoon, we went back to Loyalty for the community brunch.
Not because we had to.
Because Monica said, “If people want to talk, let’s give them something accurate.”
So we walked in together.
Hand in hand.
The lounge was still glowing from the night before. Staff moved around resetting tables. Dre stood at the bar wearing sunglasses indoors like he had survived war.
When he saw us, he lowered the glasses.
“Oh,” he said. “Y’all got morning-after peace.”
Monica pointed at him. “Do not start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m observing.”
Tameka came from the VIP section, took one look at our hands, and screamed without sound.
Kee-Kee smiled like she had already prayed this into existence.
Mrs. Pearl lifted her mimosa and shouted, “I knew it! That man had mortgage eyes!”
The entire lounge looked at us.
Monica sighed beside me. “I should’ve worn a hat.”
I squeezed her hand. “Too late.”
She looked up at me, trying not to smile.
I leaned down and kissed her cheek in front of everybody.
The room erupted.
Clapping. Laughing. Tameka yelling, “That’s enough!” while clearly loving it. Dre acting like he was wiping tears. Mrs. Pearl asking if this meant she could start a registry.
Monica covered her face with one hand.
But she didn’t let go of mine.
That was all I needed.
As brunch started, I stood back for a moment and watched her move through the room. Laughing with Tameka. Hugging Kee-Kee. Letting Mrs. Pearl fuss over her plate. Rolling her eyes at Dre. Looking over at me every few minutes like she was checking to make sure I was still there.
I was.
I would be.
The block had given me a lot.
Lessons. Scars. Hustle. Grief. Pride. Trouble.
But somehow, in the middle of lemon pepper wings, bad parking, public drama, family mess, and a rooftop that almost got ruined by lies, the block had given me Monica.
A woman with a sharp tongue, a soft heart, and enough love in her to scare herself.
I loved her from the block.
But I planned to love her way past it.
All the way home.