Page 67 of The Street Disciples
I stepped back, my boots creaking against the old hardwood, the apartment feeling smaller with every breath. “I’ll be here tomorrow. For her.”
Nova gave a single nod, chin high, face unreadable. “For her.”
I turned toward the door, hand trembling as I reached for the knob.
“Ro.”
I froze, looking back.
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 Iopened 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.
