Chapter 8 Solé #2
I nodded, but my throat burned. My arm ached where he grabbed me. The ache wasn’t just physical. It was the insult of it, the audacity of someone thinking he could touch me to move me, like I was furniture.
Mr. Henderson held his face like he couldn’t believe reality had hit him. “This is harassment,” he whined. “He assaulted me!”
Roman didn’t even look impressed. He looked .
. . hungry, dangerous, like the air itself was disrespectful for existing near me.
And that was the first time my love for him flickered into something else, not doubt or disgust, just .
. . awareness. Because Roman’s protection had always felt like a blanket, warm, heavy in a good way, as if being covered without being crowded.
But right then, it looked like a storm. Storms didn’t always ask where you wanted to stand.
Elias stepped in like the badge was a blade, and the law was already sharpened, voice calm but carrying that I write reports for a living, and I do not miss details weight.
“When I approached this scene,” he said, eyes locked on Harris like a case file he’d already highlighted, “you were actively harassing this woman. You were crowding her space, escalating your tone, and you put your hands on her. That part matters.”
He pointed, not dramatically, just precisely and surgically.
“And you have the nerve to say assault like you don’t understand definitions. The force used to stop you was the least restrictive amount necessary to create distance and restore safety. Period. You want to talk injuries? Let’s talk injuries.”
His gaze slid to my arm, then back to Henderson, jaw tightening.
“You bruised her. Look at her arm. Look at her body language. Look at her face. She is not dramatic. She is regulated. That’s what women do when they’re trying not to get hurt in public.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, colder, like a door closing.
“I’m calling this in. Right now,” Elias decided, then his eyes cut toward Jonay for half a second, and when he spoke again, it came out with that controlled fury that only showed up when somebody disrespected who a man loved.
“And you called my wife out her name. You really did that. In a mall. In front of witnesses. You are lucky I’m choosing professionalism over impulse because you don’t deserve that grace. ”
Elias pulled his cuffs. “So, here’s what we not gon’ do.
You not gon’ raise your voice. You not gon’ posture.
You not gon’ pretend this is confusion. You’re not a victim; you’re a liability.
” He angled his head, that slight tilt that said he’d already decided how this ended.
“Let’s go. And don’t you dare resist.” His mouth twitched, humorless.
“You got me cutting my time with my baby in half to deal with your unhinged, can’t-take-no-for-an-answer behavior.
Congratulations. You just made yourself my problem.
” Then he looked at me, his tone softening just enough to feel like a hand on my shoulder.
“Baby sis, . . . please press charges on him. Don’t protect his comfort with your silence. He earned paperwork.”
Elias shifted closer to Roman and lowered his voice. “She needs a restraining order,” he said matter-of-factly, but his eyes flicked to Roman’s face. “And you . . . you got that look.”
Roman didn’t speak, and the silence was deafening. It had weight. His jaw was set, shoulders squared, that dangerous stillness clinging to him like a fitted suit. He looked like a storm passing, not a finished one, but one still choosing.
I stepped toward him because that’s what I did.
I moved toward the people I loved when they were unraveling.
I reached. I soothed. I tried to soften sharp edges with gentle hands, like tenderness was a language everybody understood.
And I needed to check his temperature because Roman, hot enough, could burn the whole mall down without touching a lighter.
“Baby,” I said softly, touching his forearm. “Are you—”
He snapped. “Why you still giving him air, Solè?” Roman’s voice came out rough, clipped, too loud for how close he was standing.
Heads turned. A couple of people slowed down, treating a wound like a show.
“I step away five minutes, five, and he comfortable enough to put his hands on you?” His jaw tightened, anger spilling sloppily.
“You know you gotta shut that down. You know you can’t let folks get that familiar with you. ”
His words hit hard, heavy and misplaced. He threw a shield and still managed to cut me. The same man who made me feel safest had suddenly become the loudest thing in the room, and I was standing under that volume, blinking like I’d been pulled from warmth and into winter.
I understood his fear. I did. But I refused to be anybody’s punching bag. I would never talk to him like that, never turn my worry into a public correction, and I needed that same care in return.
I took one step back. My heel scraped the polished floor, a small sound that felt louder than the mall music. Something in our bond—our communication, our safety, our respect—cracked right there. In Roman’s eyes, I saw remorse bloom. Not for the bruise on my arm, but the one on my dignity.
He caught me by the waist, gentle but firm, pulling me into him like he couldn’t stand the distance. The space between us scared him more than any man ever could.
“Baby,” he said, breath uneven now, the anger cracking open to show what it was really guarding. “Baby, listen. I am so sorry. I’m sorry I came at you like that.”
His forehead brushed mine, and I wanted to melt into that familiar warmth.
I wanted to pretend the last ten seconds never happened.
I wanted to rewind time and replace his tone with the version of him I knew best, the one that handled me like something precious, my porch, my safe space.
But my heart didn’t rewind that fast. It stayed stuck on the sharpness, on the way his voice had turned me into a problem that needed correcting.
“I am not mad at you,” he said, voice lower, more Roman now, still rough but honest. “I’m mad at myself.
I’m mad at the fact that I let you be out here for even a second without me right there.
I’m mad I wasn’t quicker. I’m mad I saw him reach, and for a split moment, my brain started showing every headline I ever read, every story I ever heard, every ‘if only’ that doesn’t bring somebody back. ”
His grip tightened just enough to say he was trying to keep himself steady.
“I have two sisters,” he continued, swallowing like the words had edges.
“And I’ve been their shield since I was barely grown myself.
That’s my default. Protect first, ask questions second.
And when I saw him touch you, it felt like the same threat.
Like the world was testing me again. Like God was daring me to stand still. ”
He exhaled hard through his nose, fighting with himself in plain sight.
“And I hate that my fear settled on you,” he said, forehead still pressed to mine. “I hate that I embarrassed you. You didn’t do nothing wrong. You hear me? Nothing. That man was wrong. He was disrespectful. He was dangerous. My job is to put that where it belongs, not put it on you.”
His voice softened, but the tremor in it gave him away. He wasn’t just angry. He was terrified.
“I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to earn my softness,” he said. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to be perfect to be protected. I was wrong, love.”
The apology was real. I could feel it in the way his arms trembled just slightly, like he was holding back the version of himself that would’ve turned the mall into a crime scene.
And still, the sting stayed. Because I had already been violated by Mr. Henderson, and then I had been publicly scolded by the man who called me his peace.
It was like getting pushed into the ocean and then being asked why I was wet.
My throat burned. My eyes watered, but I blinked it back. I was tired of being watched and tired of being a moment.
“I know you’re protecting me,” I managed, and my voice came out too small for how big my feelings were. “But you can’t protect me by hurting me.”
He closed his eyes like that sentence punched him.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know, and I’m sorry.
His hands lifted to my face, thumbs gentle against my cheeks, like he was trying to soothe the part of me that had just flinched away from him. He kissed my forehead with a slow, reverent kiss that usually made me feel cherished.
This time, it just made my chest ache. Because love had never scared me with him before.
Elias stepped in, voice firm and brotherly, pulling Roman’s attention the way you pulled a man off a ledge.
“You got that look in your eye like you finna do something dumb. I get it. I do. That’s your woman.
Your heartbeat in human form. Your peace.
” Roman didn’t deny it, and that silence said everything.
Elias kept going. “But peace doesn’t survive if you scorch it yourself.
We handle this the right way. Get him on paper.
He already lost his job, which means he has time now.
Too much time. We go to the station. We file the report.
We get the restraining order. Then we move smart. ”
He patted Roman’s back, steady as a rail. Jonay met my eyes, soft and knowing. In the distance, the twins and Bryce stayed untouched by the ugliness—Reagan loud, Reece calm, Bryce a wall.
Roman wrapped an arm around my waist and guided me forward, leaving no room for Henderson to get close again. We moved toward the exit, the parking lot, whatever came next.
Ahmad’s voice rang out behind us, loud and irritated and familiar. “I can never go nowhere with y’all heathens and have peace. I’m always swinging on somebody, arresting somebody, or bribing somebody. I’ma stop hanging with y’all.”
Even through the shaking in my bones, I laughed a little because community did that.
Family held you up. It made room for fear and still gave you something warm to stand on.
Roman’s hand stayed at my waist the whole way to the station, like he was terrified the world might snatch me again if he loosened his grip.
The paperwork took forever. Bright fluorescent lights. Plastic chairs. A receptionist who spoke too calmly for the kind of day I’d had. My arm ached where Mr. Henderson grabbed me, the bruise blooming like a dark flower under my skin.
Roman hovered the entire time, quiet now, jaw still tight, eyes restless.
He kept glancing at my arm like he wanted to rewind time with his bare hands.
When it was finally done, when the report was filed, and the restraining order process was moving, the air outside the station felt colder than it should have.
The night pressed on, and I realized my body was exhausted in a way sleep didn’t fix.
Roman opened his mouth. I could tell he was about to say, Come home with me. I could see it in the way he reached, hopeful, as if love could patch a bruise instantly if he held it long enough.
My heart wasn’t ready to be held like that.
Not tonight. Not after one man grabbed me and another reprimanded me.
I stepped back before Roman could touch me again.
The hurt in his eyes flashed, quick and boyish.
That big-dog energy, so loud a second ago, looked like a sad puppy when he realized his bark had bruised me.
“Connie . . .”
My throat tightened. I folded my arms around myself, not dramatically, just instinctively, like my body needed to be its own shelter for a second.
“I need to go home,” I said, soft but final. “To my bed. I need quiet. I need my feelings to belong to me again.”
His lips parted like he wanted to fight the distance, fix it with closeness, with presence, with promises. I shook my head once.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, soft and careful, like he was laying a promise at my feet. “I hurt you. I showed my fear the wrong way.”
His hand hovered near mine, not claiming but asking. “Can I at least drive behind you . . . make sure you get home safe?”
I nodded once, even though my chest still hurt. Even though something inside me feared what this moment meant. Because the truth was, the rift between us wasn’t loud. It was small and quiet, which made it more frightening. It was a crack you could ignore until it spread.
Under the streetlight, he stood broad-shouldered, remorse in his eyes, love and protectiveness twisted tight in him, and my heart ached.
It loved him. What scared me wasn’t him; it was what loving him might cost us.
That his sharp edges and my good nature would keep colliding until our tenderness started bruising.
So, I turned to my car, keys clenched like an anchor, and I didn’t go home with him.