Azariah - God Has Helped

Chapter 22

Kiara woke up before the sun, long before the tiny room buzzed with the usual morning noise of Emmanuel getting ready for school and the rest of the house stretching awake. Her alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but her nerves had—loudly. Today was her first day of work, the first real step toward standing on her own feet again, and she refused to greet it looking anything less than prepared.

She slipped quietly from the tiny bed, careful not to wake Dantae, who was curled up beside her, his soft snores the only peaceful sound she had been hearing over the tension in her own chest these past few days. She tiptoed toward the dresser—the same small, wobbling dresser that belonged to Kevaughn—pulling out the bag she had packed the night before.

Her black slacks, neatly folded.
Her simple blouse, ironed to perfection with the borrowed iron she used last night.
Her shoes, shining but slightly pinching—she'd break them in somehow.

She moved around the room with the precision of someone who didn't want to disturb the ground she walked on, and yet somehow everything she did disturbed him.

She didn't notice Kevaughn was awake until she felt eyes on her back.

She turned carefully, and there he was—still stretched out on the ragged couch, the sheet tangled around him, watching her with an expression she couldn't read. Not fully. Not anymore.

"You're up early," he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

"I have work," she whispered sharply, pulling her blouse over her head. "I have to be early."

Silence followed, but it wasn't a comfortable silence. It had weight. Shape. Edges.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, making the curls even more untamed. For a moment, he looked like the boy she once knew—the one who kissed her hand without hesitation, who promised her things he had never delivered. But now, the man in front of her carried something else... something heavier.

"Nervous?" he asked.

She scoffed softly. "About work? No."
About everything else? Absolutely.

He stood, stretching, and she tried not to look, tried not to let the familiarity of him stir things she had buried years ago. She didn't want to be that girl again. She didn't want to be vulnerable. Not with him. Not ever.

"You don't have to act like I'm a stranger," he said suddenly, leaning against the dresser as if he had the right to be that close to her. "We're sharing a room, Kiara. You can at least talk to me."

Her jaw tightened.
Talk? To him?
When for days now, the tension between them was thicker than the heat in Kingston?

She picked up her comb and faced the tiny mirror pinned to the wall.

"I'm not here to talk," she said quietly, combing her hair back into a sleek bun. "I'm here to work, take care of my son, and mind my business."

"And I'm part of your business," he shot back gently—but with something underneath, something she didn't want to acknowledge.

She paused. The comb stilled in her hair.

"No," she replied firmly, turning to face him. "You're helping me, and I'm grateful. But don't confuse that with anything else. I—"

Her voice thinned.
She hated how easily emotions crept up on her around him.

"I don't want any tension."

He chuckled softly, stepping closer. "Kiara, tension is exactly what's here."

She stepped back, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve.