Introduction
Love can't grow in a garden full of secrets.
Zariah and Malik both came into this with scars--but this act? This is where the wounds get
touched
. Exposed. Tested. Where trust becomes a battleground, and the sex? It's not healing anymore. It's survival. It's
proximity therapy
. It's using bodies to say what hearts are too afraid to speak.
Simone strikes with a sharp tongue and a deeper truth.
Jared gets too close. Too bold. Too dangerous.
And when Zariah hides something Malik needed to hear first?
They don't fall apart.
They
crack
--just enough to question everything they've rebuilt.
Because sometimes, the break has to happen before the bend.
And sometimes, the people you love most are the ones who make you face your worst truths
Zariah Walks Out to Reclaim Herself
The light through the blinds was soft--almost apologetic.
It slipped between the slats like a secret trying not to wake her.
But Zariah was already awake.
Had been for hours.
She didn't move. Just stared at the ceiling and listened--to the drip of a faucet in the bathroom, to the dull buzz of Malik's old shop radio through the floorboards. The house felt heavy again. Not with heat this time, but with
unspoken things
.
Her body was sore in that good, aching way, but her chest?
That was something else.
Tight. Knotted.
Like her soul was trying to unlearn the way it curled around his name.
She rolled out of bed quietly. No ceremony. No goodbye.
Just jeans, a tank, her sneakers. A bottle of water grabbed from the fridge.
She didn't look toward the garage.
Didn't knock on the door.
She just left.
The morning air hit her like a balm.
Still humid, still clinging--but cleaner somehow.
No walls. No whispers. Just sidewalk and sky.
She walked past the Jenkins' place--same crooked porch swing, same loud gospel pouring through the screen.
Old Mr. Daniels waved from his lawn chair.
Kids she didn't recognize rode rusted bikes with spokes clicking like applause.
And just for a second, she felt invisible.
Not forgotten.
Unburdened.
Halfway down Sycamore Street, she passed the house where she'd had her first kiss.
Not Malik.
Derrick Lattimore, sixth grade, behind the azalea bushes.
She remembered his breath stank of grape Now & Laters and nerves, and that they both ran the second their lips touched.
She smiled.
Small memory. Big reminder.
She'd lived a whole life before this mess.
The swing set behind Mt. Calvary still groaned when she sat.
She let her legs dangle, kicked gently, watched a bird pick at a busted potato chip bag near the fence.
She didn't cry. Not yet.
But she did
feel.
Every raw edge inside her. Every hope she hadn't dared name. Every version of herself that had been too scared, too silenced, too
sorry.
Mrs. Geneva sat beside her without asking.
"You remember when I caught you skipping class in tenth grade?"
Zariah glanced over. "I was hiding behind the bleachers."
Geneva nodded. "You were cryin'. Told me you didn't know how to be good at anything that didn't involve running."
Zariah chuckled, tears prickling now. "You told me maybe that was my gift."
"No. I told you maybe you needed to figure out
what
you were running toward before you kept burning up all that good energy."
They sat quietly.
Then Zariah said it, finally, like it was being peeled from her chest:
"I don't want to run anymore."
Geneva nodded, gentle. "That's the first step. The rest? That's breath work, baby. That's showing up, even when your knees shake."
"I'm scared of breaking him," she whispered. "Of breaking us. Again."
"Then stop using guilt as your compass. Start using love."
Zariah blinked. "I don't know how."
"You do. You just ain't trusted yourself to do it."
She stood. "Go on home. Don't apologize. Just tell your truth. Then hold his hand and walk through the fire
with
him."
Zariah took the long way back.
Past the football field.
Past the liquor store where she once slapped a man for grabbing her ass.
Past the bridge where Malik kissed her wrist once, and it made her knees weak for a week.
She came back into the yard like she belonged there.
Not because he asked her to.
Not because sex had tied her up.
But because
she chose it.
She opened the front door.
Malik was on the couch.
Shirtless. Remote in hand. Looking like worry and restraint wrapped in skin.
He stood when he saw her.
Didn't speak.
Didn't scowl.
Just waited.
Zariah dropped her keys on the table.
"I needed air," she said softly. "Not space. Not distance. Just air."
He nodded once.
"I don't know how to do this right," she continued, stepping closer. "But I want to learn. And I want to learn
with you.
"
Malik stepped forward.
Still didn't speak.
But his hand cupped her cheek like a yes
Malik's Quiet Confession
The swing creaked beneath them, slow and steady. A rhythm older than apologies. Older than the hurt sitting between them like a ghost they hadn't exorcised yet.
Zariah didn't speak. She sat with her legs pulled under her, eyes trained on Malik like she could will the weight off his shoulders if she just waited long enough.
He stared straight ahead--out at the empty stretch of yard, out past the place where the porch light couldn't reach.
Then, voice low and dry as old paper, he said, "My father taught me everything I needed to know about being a man... by not being one."
Zariah blinked. the words landed in her chest before she fully processed them.
