Submerged in You (BLP Breeds #13)

Chapter 1

The soft hum of my bedside lamp was the only sound in the room, warm and steady, laying a quiet glow across my Kindle.

I lay stretched across my bed with my ankle tucked under a pillow, deep in AshleyNicole’s The Sweetest Thing I’ve Known.

The sheets were cool against my legs. My comforter was pulled up to my waist, and the house sat still around me.

I kept whispering, Girl, leave him, every time Choyce’s toxic boyfriend ran those same tired circles—gaslighting her until she questioned what she saw and knew. My jaw stayed tight, fingers clenched around my Kindle.

But when Simeon showed up—steady, intentional, present—my chest eased. Not because he saved her, but because he didn’t play with her. He showed up like love isn’t a performance; it’s a daily decision.

Maybe that was why the book hit me so hard.

Choyce’s loneliness felt familiar. It was not because I had lived her exact heartbreak, but I knew that kind of realization, the one that hit the moment you woke up.

It felt heavy to realize that only one other person in the world shared my blood.

I truly empathized with her. She had no one.

When pancreatic cancer took my daddy last year, I felt the ground shift beneath me.

Everything familiar slid out from under me so violently that some days, it felt like I was still steadying myself.

Some mornings, I woke up reaching for my phone to text him before the grief reminded me what time it was.

Some afternoons, I’d hear a laugh in a grocery store aisle and turn too fast, heart leaping like it didn’t know the truth yet.

My room was my safe place, decorated in blush, cream, and lavender tones with a hint of glitter around the framed quote on my dresser—Be soft.

Be still. Be solid. Daddy used to say it every time I got overwhelmed as a kid.

He said it like a command and comfort, strength, and wisdom.

I blinked away the ache forming in my throat just as a soft knock tapped my bedroom door.

“Baby girl, are you decent?”

NanNan’s voice floated through the door, tender and tired, the way it had been ever since the stroke slowed her down. It carried effort now. It carried time and truth that nothing stayed, no matter how much you loved it.

“Yes, ma’am. Come in,” I said, setting my Kindle aside and sitting up against my pillows.

The door creaked open, and there she was—Nana Nan, also known as NanNan, better known to everyone in Self Ridge as the backbone of The Pour House.

She still carried the grace of a woman who once ran three ovens, a payroll, and a prayer line all in one day.

Her robe hung loosely over her nightgown.

The silver curls in her hair were perfectly fluffed.

Her face glistened with Vaseline and shea butter, and her skin shone like she refused to let life dull her.

Even now, standing before me, she smelled like nutmeg, fresh dough, and love.

She looked at me like she was seeing every version of me at once—little girl, teenager, grown woman who kept trying to carry more than she needed to.

“Chile, I swear you got my eyes and your mama’s posture. You sittin’ there all quiet and pretty like I used to dress you for church on Sunday mornings,” she said, leaning on her cane as she walked in.

Your mama’s posture. I’d heard that my whole life, but it never stopped stinging, never stopped feeling like a door that wouldn’t fully open.

My mother didn’t get to teach me how to stand, how to walk in a room, how to soften my shoulders when the world made them tight.

She didn’t get to brush my hair or fuss at me for rolling my eyes or tell me to stop slouching at the table.

She gave birth to me, . . . then she was gone.

I laughed softly, motioning her toward the bed, like I didn’t feel my throat tightening. “You’re supposed to be resting, NanNan.”

“And you’re supposed to be twenty-nine and outside instead of holed up in this house, readin’ other people’s love stories,” she shot back, lowering herself onto the edge of my bed.

Here we go.

She studied me for a long second, her head tilted slightly. Her gaze moved over me slowly—my face, my shoulders, my hands. It was as if she could see how tired I was, even when I smiled, and she could see where I was grieving, even when I laughed.

“You know, I thank God for you every day, baby. You got such a good heart. You have made somethin’ beautiful outta all the broken.” Her voice thickened just a little. “But I worry ’bout you. You out here workin’, teachin’, runnin’ behind me, and you never make time for Solé.”

My name rang tenderly with care and emphasis like she was calling me back to myself.

I looked down at my hands. The polish on my nails was chipping, something I’d meant to fix last weekend.

I’d noticed it. I’d ignored it. A small thing, but it said a lot.

The little parts of me were always the first to get postponed.

“I’m fine, Nan. Really,” I murmured, though I knew the worry in her eyes wasn’t going anywhere.

She lifted her brow the way she always did when she didn’t believe me.

“Are you? Because you work, you come home, you read these little love stories, and you go right back to working. I know your daddy’s passing changed you, but I don’t want it to make you hide from the world.

” Her voice stayed gentle, but she didn’t budge.

I swallowed before answering. “I don’t hide,” I said, then paused because the truth wouldn’t let me keep lying so smoothly. “I just . . . stay busy.”

Busy was my safe word. Busy was my shield. Busy kept my mind wandering into rooms it couldn’t handle. Busy kept me from staring too long at the empty chair in my memory. Busy kept me from admitting how quiet grief could get when it sat down and made itself comfortable.

NanNan leaned closer, her hand warm when it covered mine.

“Solé, don’t you ever get lonely, baby girl?” she questioned softly.

The question rang heavier than she intended, and we both felt it.

The room seemed to hush, like even the lamp knew not to flicker.

I looked at her, . . . this woman who raised me together with my granddaddy and daddy, who taught me how to braid, how to pray, and how to keep a home steady, even when the world wasn’t.

She was the only family I had left. Of course, I didn’t want her worrying about me.

“I have you, and that’s plenty,” I said, reaching for her hand.

Her smile held, but grief shadowed it. “You remind me so much of your mama,” she murmured.

“She was a breath of fresh air, even when life tried to smother her.” NanNan’s thumb stroked my knuckles, slow and steady.

“And you deserve more than the routine you’ve turned into a cage.

You even sound like her. She used to fuss at me about ‘not needing anybody.’”

NanNan’s eyes drifted toward my dresser for a second, toward Daddy’s quote, and her voice softened.

“I told her what I’m telling you. Life’s too short to stay comfortable.” She inhaled. “She listened, . . . and that’s when she met your daddy.”

The irony stung. The world handed my mama a love that finally felt safe, then stole it back, as if joy had a limit.

I hated how grief made blessings feel borrowed, how love could be undeniable and still not last. Still, I heard what NanNan was insisting on beneath the ache: love found us once, and it could find me, too.

I smiled to myself, thinking about my parents and the love they shared, wanting the same thing for myself one day. Wanting it without feeling guilty for wanting it.

“I’m not trapped,” I said, though my voice lacked the conviction I wanted it to have.

NanNan’s mouth curved like she heard what I didn’t say. “Then live a little. Go out with that funny little friend of yours. What’s her name again? Maleficent? Wait. That ain’t right, is it?” She chuckled, knowing she’d butchered my bestie’s name unintentionally.

I laughed, a real laugh from the depths of my soul. NanNan had a knack for calling things the wrong name like it was her ministry, and it was always funny. She reminded me of Barbara from Abbot Elementary, serious and silly in the same breath.

“Y’all two need to find some trouble,” she continued, patting my hand. “Go out, dance, live a little. Lord knows she’d drag you outta that classroom if she could.”

That made me smile. “Mel is always trying to play matchmaker. She swears I’m allergic to fun.”

“Exactly! Let her be your antidote. You are a breath of fresh air, baby, just like your mama. Let that girl drag you out the house. Let somebody love on you the way Simeon loves on that girl in your book you always reading repeatedly.”

My cheeks warmed, and I looked away, suddenly shy like she hadn’t just read me perfectly.

“Stop telling yourself it’s too much, too soon, or too complicated,” NanNan teased, patting my hand.

“You’ve been carrying grief like it’s your job. You can lay it down sometimes. God ain’t gon’ be offended if you laugh.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just squeezed her hand again, holding on to her warmth like it was medicine. “Let me go start dinner, okay? I’ll make something light for you.”

She patted my leg. “You’re a good girl, baby. Too good sometimes.”

Caring for her had settled into reflex, an instinct written into my body.

It lived in my hands, in how I listened for her steps, kept her water close, counted her pills with steady tenderness so it never felt like a weight.

It was love, yes, but it was also fear—fear of losing the last living thread of my family.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, the air filled with the sweet scent of rosemary and garlic.

I’d already started dinner—baked chicken, string beans, and mashed potatoes—something soft enough for NanNan’s appetite.

I moved through the motions on autopilot—season, stir, taste, adjust, and pray it’s right.