Captured by the Canadians

I don't come undone.

I manage. I plan. I keep moving.

I'm a Black woman.

That's what we do.

But when my car dies on a Canadian roadside on the way to a romance conference, panic hits before logic can catch up.

I'm the one people call when things fall apart. I don't know what to do when there's no one to hand the problem to.

Then Eli shows up.

Too good to be true.

Book-boyfriend good.

Quiet. Observant. Built like he fixes problems with his hands instead of words. Skin so rich and carefully tended it makes a woman wonder what else he takes his time with.

So when he offers me a deal I can't refuse-one week with no armor, in exchange for my tech brain solving a problem he can't muscle through-I do something I've spent years avoiding.

I give in.

I let go.

I tell myself it's temporary. A detour. Something to escape into, not be consumed by.

But since Eli is the kind of man who doesn't push. Doesn't rush. He simply makes space and allows the quiet to invite you in. In that space, I remember what it feels like to stop bracing for impact.

I agreed to release my cape for one week.

I calculated the risk of staying.

What I didn't calculate or account for was the cost of leaving.