Page 21 of Cuffed By Your Love

She blinked, caught off guard. Then she smirked, as if trying to figure out if I was being sincere or flirting on the clock.

I was doing both.

“Are you always this smooth?” she inquired, a playful arch to one brow as a mischievous smile danced across her lips.

“Only when I mean it.”

We stood there for a second too long. The silence between us stretched like elastic about to snap.

She then took a step back.

“I gotta finish my reps.”

I nodded. “I’ll let you get to it.”

She turned and walked away. But halfway down the row, she stopped, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her pretty face. She turned back and said, “Elias, right?”

I nodded slowly in agreement.

“Let me give you my number,” she said, her voice casual, but her eyes were focused on me as if she were testing my reaction, trying to see if I would fumble or flex.

“Are you sure?” I asked, eager as fuck and trying not to seem too excited as I pulled out my phone.

She smirked. “I’m not sure about anything except that you’re consistent and quiet.”

I chuckled as I handed her the phone. She typed slowly, paused after entering her name, then looked up.

“Don’t blow me up.”

“I won’t,” I said. “Just a ‘you good?’ type dude.”

She handed it back and started walking.

Then she turned, glanced over her shoulder, and added, “Elias?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember things that feel real, genuine. Don’t make me regret that.”

I watched her leave, my jaw clenched. I didn’t know what this feeling was, but I knew one thing for certain: Jonay Jacobson was a storm I was ready to face.

As I slipped into the cozy booth at Crème & Chill with EJ, I felt as though I was about to take flight from sheer exhaustion. Yet, despite the weariness weighing on me, I kept a smile on my face and made an effort to be present. That was the essence of fatherhood. It was about showing up, even when your spirit felt heavy and your energy was spent.

The shop was a Black-owned gem in the heart of Self Ridge, Texas, alive with flavor and culture. Murals of legendary jazz musicians and Black authors stretched across the walls, painted in bold purples, deep golds, and strokes of midnight blue. The air was thick with the scent of brown butter waffle cones crisping on hot irons, roasted pecans drenched in caramel, and fresh strawberry purée that made the whole place smell like summer. Behind the counter, two sisters in matching tees that readScoop Dreams Are Made of Thislaughed with a customer, their energy warm enough to melt even the hardest heart.

EJ bounced beside me, his little hand still gripping mine like I was his favorite security blanket. He wore his Spider-Man hoodie zipped all the way up, his cheeks flushed with excitement, as if trauma had never tapped on his window. That was because I made sure it never got close enough to knock.

“Daddy,” he whispered with sticky lips, “can I get sprinkles and the gummy worms?”

I feigned a frown, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Are you tryna have a sugar stroke before bedtime?”

He chuckled softly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I promise I’ll brush for real this time,” he declared with a playful grin.

“You ain’t even brush your tongue this morning.”

“I did!”

“Boy, your breath smelled like broken promises and Capri Suns.”