Page 7 of Cuffed By Your Love

His voice was warm and deep, hood-educated, and wrapped in Sunday morning manners.

“You good, queen. You okay?”

I looked up.

Lord…

If grief had a nemesis, it was standing in front of me wearing an SRPD badge and a plain black tee stretched across his chest like it signed a nondisclosure agreement.

He was…fine. Not just “Instagram fine”, but real-life, tax-paying, could-fix-your-sink-and-your-spirit fine. His skin resembled the shade of good, rich soil. His beard was neatly trimmed but not too perfect, and his deep brown eyes were like warm coffee with too much sugar. His energy was quiet yet powerful, like thunder that didn’t have to announce itself.

I blinked, trying to shake the fog. “You, uh… work here?”

He smirked a little. “Nah. I just came to check on somebody. I was first on scene for a bad wreck earlier today.”

My stomach clenched.

“Mama…?”

“You’re Jeanette Jacobson’s daughter?” I nodded slowly. He softened. “She’s stable. Banged up, but she’s a fighter. I stayed until they got her back from scans. I didn’t wanna leave till I knew she had somebody coming to check on her.”

I swallowed hard.

“Thank God you were there.”

He nodded. “She had a cross in her hand. She held it the whole time. I think she was praying for you.” And just like that, my legs damn near gave out. “Come sit down,” he said gently, guiding me to the empty bench by the vending machine. He didn’t touch me, just walked beside me like a guardian angel with tattoos and a gun license.

I sat, my hands trembling.

“Had she been drinking?” I whispered lowly to myself, embarrassed, thinking about how Mama had been struggling with the recent loss of my uncle, her little brother, who was killed during a home invasion in South Self last month. She hadnot been herself and was dealing with not having her best friend in her life anymore.

“She wasn’t the drunk one,” he corrected, voice low. “But if she had been, it’s not my place to judge. My mama used to be in a lot of pain after my pops passed.”

I looked at him sideways. “You’re a cop, and you have empathy? That’s rare.”

He chuckled. “I’m a detective. Not a robot.”

“Still.”

His mouth curved into a full-blown smile then, and I swore the hallway lights dimmed like they were jealous. “I’m Elias,” he said. “Detective Elias Edmonds.”

“Jonay,” I replied, barely above a whisper.

“Jonay.” He repeated it like it was his favorite thing to say.

When I say the way he said my name made me want to throw all my heartbreak in the trash and start over, I was not lying. But I didn’t show it. I kept it together, broken but still cute. A nurse walked up and told me that Mama was asking for me. I stood up slowly.

“Thank you… for staying with her.”

He shrugged humbly. “It was no trouble. You seem like the kind of daughter worth waiting for.”

I didn’t respond; I couldn’t. My throat was too thick with emotion.

Yet, as I walked away, I felt it. There was an undeniable thump in my chest. Not from pain, nor from grief, but from something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Hope.

Mama looked like a version of herself I wasn’t ready to meet.