Pressure Always Finds the Cracks
The sun rose hot and mean, like it had something to prove. Zariah stepped into the backyard barefoot, the grass slick under her soles, a damp sheet slung over her shoulder. Malik's T-shirt hung off one side, the neck wide enough to show the kiss he'd left on her collarbone. Her thighs still ached. Her lips were still swollen. Her soul still trembled.
She should've felt safe.
But peace had a short fuse, and hers was already sparking.
She reached into the laundry basket, grabbed a wet pillowcase, clipped it to the line. The breeze barely moved--it just pressed against her like a sweaty hand. Cicadas buzzed. A neighbor's dog barked.
Then her phone vibrated on the porch rail.
Blocked number.
Her stomach dropped.
She stared at the screen for three long seconds before hitting "play."
"I know you're there. I saw your car. Cute little reunion. But you know what happens when you ignore me, Z. You know I don't like to be embarrassed."
Her breath caught.
The voice was calm. Low. Familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.
She hit pause just as the screen door creaked.
Malik stepped outside, shirtless again, his sweatpants hanging low, body still golden from the morning sun.
He froze mid-step.
"You know I don't like to be embarrassed."
The words hung in the humid air like a noose.
His eyes found hers. Dark. Questioning. Already coiled.
Zariah fumbled the phone, yanked the Bluetooth speaker from the porch rail, dropped it in the basket like it burned.
"I didn't know it was gonna play out loud," she whispered.
"That him?" Malik's voice was quiet. Too quiet.
Zariah nodded once.
Malik's jaw flexed. He looked past her to the backyard like he was calculating something. Like he was trying to swallow fire.
"Did he hit you?" he asked.
"No."
"Did he threaten you?"
"Not with words," she said. "But... yeah. In the way he made me feel."
Malik stepped forward, slowly, like he didn't trust himself. His hands clenched at his sides. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted one night where he didn't live in my head," she snapped. "One night that was just us. You and me."
His nostrils flared.
She stepped toward him, barefoot and trembling. "Please don't shut down. I didn't lie to you. I just--"
"You didn't trust me," he cut in. "And you still don't."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Her defenses rose like storm clouds. "You think it's easy, Malik? Coming back here? Letting you touch me like I never left? You think that was simple?"
He stared at her. His face unreadable. "No. I think it was perfect. Until you dragged him into it."
She was shaking now. Not from fear. From fury. From the weight of holding it all in.
"I didn't drag him here," she whispered. "He followed me."
A pause.
Then Malik said, "I need to know what I'm fighting. And if you're going to let me fight it."
Zariah didn't answer.
And that silence?
It was louder than any scream.
They didn't speak for the next hour. Not in the kitchen. Not while she rinsed out the sheets. Not when she passed him the plate with buttered toast and eggs.
But the tension crackled like the static before a thunderclap.
When she passed behind him to reach the fridge, he grabbed her wrist.
Not hard. Not soft either.
She turned.
He stood.
And just like that, his mouth was on hers--rough, urgent, all tongue and need. He backed her into the counter, his hips grinding into hers. She moaned, but it wasn't sweet. It was a dare.
He spun her around, bent her over the edge, pulled her shorts down to her knees.
"Say stop," he growled against her neck.
She didn't.
He slid inside her in one hard thrust.
She gasped, hands braced against the counter.
He fucked her hard, deep, punishing--every thrust a word he wasn't saying.
You should've told me.
You let him linger.
You're still mine.
Zariah clawed at the edge, moaning, her body catching fire all over again. He reached around, pinched her nipple through the shirt, then gripped her throat and pulled her upright.
"You want me gone?" he asked.
"No," she breathed.
"You want him back?"
"Hell no."
"Then don't you ever keep shit from me again."
She came with a scream, pussy clenching around him so tight he had to grit his teeth.
Malik pulled out, turned her to face him, lifted her onto the counter. He shoved back in and kissed her hard, their bodies locked, sweat beading.
When he came, it was with a grunt and a whisper.
"My name. Say it."
"Malik," she gasped.
He held her there, inside and out, until the silence between them turned soft again.
Simone Always Knows
Zariah didn't expect to see anybody she knew at the corner store. She was just trying to grab a bottle of ginger ale and some ibuprofen--her body was sore, her mind worse.
But of course, fate had a sense of humor.
"Didn't know he passed that one down."
The voice came from behind her in line. Smooth. Sharp. Female.
Zariah turned slowly.
Simone Baptiste.
She remembered her vaguely--always around Malik, always in something tight and black, eyes lined sharp enough to cut. Today was no different. Crop top, gold hoops, inked-up thighs, and a smirk that curled like smoke.
Simone tilted her chin toward the hoodie Zariah was wearing. Malik's. "Looks better on his floor."
Zariah raised a brow. "You been keeping inventory?"
Simone smiled without warmth. "Just funny seeing history repeat."
The cashier handed Zariah her change. She took it slow, deliberate. "If you're here to mark your territory, you're late."
"I'm not marking anything," Simone said. "Just reminding you: some men don't do closure. They do rotation."
Zariah stepped close. Too close. "Malik doesn't spin. He chooses. And he chose me."
