Page 6 of Cuffed By Your Love
He’d been calling us his jewels since we were kids; he always said Mama gave birth to treasure, and it was his job to guard us since we were so precious and rare. He called me Diamond, because I was rare, unbreakable, and too precious to be dulled by anything this world threw my way, had a heart of gold, and saw the good in everybody. Jonell was Ruby because she carried her strength quietly, deep red and steady, shining even when she thought she didn’t.
When he leaned back, his eyes locked on mine. “Diamond, stop stressin’. Mama built differently. Her ass too damnstubborn to fold and leave us too prematurely. Same fight she put in you, she still got in her. She ain’t about to check out before she gets her damn grandbabies she always fussing about any fucking way. She called me and Leila just a day ago talking shit, talking about, ‘I’m ready when y’all ready now. Get on that, or more so, get on ya wife, with her wild ass.’ Y’all the same breed, warriors to the bone.”
Tears slipped down, but he had me laughing too because that was Jason’s silly with slight hood logic.
Then he turned to Jonell with a crooked grin. “Ruby, quit hiding behind that tough face. Mama gon’ be alright… gon’ be here to continue to be proud of both of y’all. Watch. Even though I’m her favorite.”
When he finally let us breathe, his eyes found Leila. He slid into her arms like it was the only place that made sense. “Lady J,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on her lips.
She cupped his face, searching him harder than anyone else dared. “How you really holding up, love?” she asked, soft but sharp because Leila never took half-answers.
Jason didn’t say much. He just pressed his forehead to hers, holding her gently by the waist.
That was when Daddy stepped forward again, pulling me close a second time. Big, broad, and dark as ever, he didn’t bother with words; he never needed them. He just wrapped me up like he could muscle grief into submission before it ever laid hands on me.
That was when I first noticed him.
He stood across the room by the vending machine, accompanied by a little boy with curly hair who was tugging at his sleeve. Next to them, an older woman watched with eyes filled with a sadness that seemed to stem not from just one bad day, but from years of quiet heart-wrenching pain.
He was tall. His physique was a testament to dedication, sculpted by countless hours in the gym. He had deep mahogany skin and a low, close-faded haircut that reflected his discipline. His beard was so neatly groomed that it appeared styled by angels. He possessed an attractiveness that made you question your vows of celibacy, swearing off men, and your commitment to therapy all at once. He had the prettiest light-brown eyes I had ever seen in my life; they reminded me of the cereal Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
It wasn’t just his looks; it was his presence. Calm and protective, a man who had weathered many storms yet chose to shield others from the downpour. A true lighthouse guiding us through life’s chaos with grace and strength.
In that brief moment, our eyes met, and my heart fluttered with a curious ache. I could barely catch my breath as I spotted the badge gleaming on his hip.
SRPD.
Self Ridge Police Department.
A city cop.
He wasn’t like those down at the county jail. He was one of the big heroes—the street responders. He was like who I was about to go to the police academy to try to be. They were the ones who arrived when gunshots were fired or when mothers went missing. They risked their lives by walking into dangerous situations, hoping to come out unscathed. The way he stood there, calm and steady, made it clear that he had seen a lot yet still chose to show up and face whatever came his way.
His son whispered something to him, wide-eyed and wearing a Spider-Man hoodie. He leaned down to listen, smiling softly in a way that made one feel safe, even if the world was falling apart.
Then the boy looked up and shouted, “Daddy, look! She’s pretty like a supermodel!”
My lips curled into a smile as my heart finally allowed it. It was a real, honest smile, my first in days. It caught me off guard, like a breeze coming through a broken window.
His father looked at me—just looked. It wasn’t as if he was trying to undress me with his eyes or figure out how to slide into my DMs. He simply saw me. He saw past my exhaustion, my trauma, my hoodie, and my grief, acknowledging the weight I carried.
Then, unexpectedly, he walked ahead and held the door open for me.
Not because I asked him to, nor because he wanted anything in return, but simply because it needed to be done.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He didn’t reply. He just nodded like a man who had experienced that moment a thousand times before. It felt as if we had crossed paths in another life, in a hallway, during a heartbreak, or perhaps even in a moment of healing.
Eventually, we went our separate ways. However, something inside me, something small, soft, and still alive, whispered,“This won’t be the last time you meet.”
A couple of hours later, I went back to the nurse’s station to ask about getting my daddy’s food delivered. By the time I finished chatting with her, I turned the corner too quickly, my body moving on autopilot, and crashed straight into a giant wall of mahogany.
It washim.
He was strong and tall. He smelled like cedarwood, beard oil, and God’s favorite creation.
I stumbled back. “Damn, my bad?—”
