Introduction
This is where passion finally puts its armor down.
Zariah and Malik have survived the bruising fights, the ghosts of past lovers, the brutal honesty that almost tore them apart. But healing doesn't come wrapped in clean sheets and pretty words.
It comes in
shaky mornings
and quiet meals.
It comes in the moment you stop touching someone like a threat...
and start touching them like a
choice.
Here, they learn that
love isn't loud.
Sometimes, it's a breath. A hand on a waist. A vibrator pulled from a drawer not to dominate, but to
devour.
It's worship.
It's sweat.
It's two people learning to hold each other without hurting.
But peace doesn't last long when the past is persistent.
And the world doesn't care how good you fuck--it still wants a piece of your soul.
So yes, they'll finally touch each other like they mean it...
But now the question is--
can they
keep
meaning it when everything outside the bedroom comes crashing in?
One Breath Apart
The morning crept in slow.
Golden and quiet, like it was trying not to startle them. The light hit the hardwood floors in soft streaks, catching on dust motes and the edge of Malik's boots by the door.
Zariah lay in the bed, eyes half-lidded, body curled into the space he'd left behind.
The sheets were still warm.
But Malik was gone.
Her hand drifted over the pillow, fingers brushing the dip where his head had rested. The smell of him--cedarwood and sweat, a hint of last night's broken moans--lingered like a ghost.
She didn't cry.
But she felt the ache in her bones.
That sex? That fight? That
need
?
It hadn't solved anything.
It had just reminded them how much it hurt to need someone that bad.
She found him in the kitchen.
Standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping eggs like he hadn't shattered her the night before. Like she hadn't begged for him with both her body and her silence.
"Morning," he said without turning.
Zariah leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.
"Mmm," was all she gave him.
He plated the eggs. Toast. A piece of bacon curled at the edge. No conversation.
She sat. Ate. Quiet. Every bite chewing through the things they weren't saying.
Finally, she set her fork down. "You just gonna pretend last night didn't happen?"
Malik looked up, expression unreadable.
"I'm not pretending," he said. "I'm processing."
Zariah scoffed. "That's convenient."
He pushed his plate away. "You want me to apologize?"
"I want you to say something," she snapped. "Anything that proves we're not just repeating the same old cycles."
"I'm here, ain't I?"
"Physically," she said. "But you haven't looked me in the eyes all morning."
He stood. Leaned on the table. "Because if I do, I might say some shit I can't take back."
Zariah's throat tightened. "Like what?"
"Like I don't know if we can keep doing this. Fighting. Fucking. Forgetting. Fighting again."
The silence stretched.
Then--
"Then stop fucking me like it's the only way you know how to hold me."
That landed.
Malik's jaw tensed.
He walked around the table and stood in front of her. Close. Closer than breath.
"I don't know how else to touch you when I'm scared," he said. "And I've been scared since the day you came back."
She looked up, eyes shining. "Then learn. With me."
His hands trembled at his sides.
He nodded.
And just like that, they weren't breaking apart.
They were breaking
open.
They didn't kiss. Not yet.
They cleaned up together. Dishes. Counters. The mundane parts of a life shared.
She folded his shirt. He hung up her jacket.
They moved through the house in silence--not heavy, not angry, but reverent. Like they were walking through a church built from every fight they survived.
One breath apart.
Not because of distance.
Because of
choice
.
Because closeness now meant something more.
Later that night, she brushed her teeth while he laid out fresh sheets. He left the window cracked open for air. Lit the candle on the nightstand.
She climbed into bed beside him, turned off the light.
No kiss. No reach.
But when she shifted, his hand found her waist.
Not to pull.
Just to be there.
And Zariah, for the first time, didn't flinch.
They didn't say goodnight.
They didn't need to.
Because tonight, they were both still there.
And that was everything.
Worship Without Words
The morning passed in quiet rhythms.
Malik fixed a loose hinge on the screen door. Zariah swept the hallway. Neither of them said much. Not because there was nothing to say--but because the
need
to fill silence had finally faded.
It was late afternoon when it happened.
Zariah stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom, lotioning her thighs. The sunlight caught on her skin like it had a crush. Malik leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, just
watching.
No hunger in his eyes.
Not yet.
Just
reverence.
"You always been that soft?" he asked.
She looked over her shoulder. "You always been that patient?"
They didn't smile. But something
tender
passed between them.
She set the bottle down. Turned to face him.
And he stepped inside like he'd been invited with her breath.
He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could smell the heat on his skin. She tilted her chin up slightly, testing him.
"I don't need to be punished tonight," she said softly. "I need to be
held.
"
His hands came up--slow, deliberate--and touched her sides. Not grabbing. Just
cradling.
"You'll get both," he whispered. "But this time... you won't have to earn it with pain."
He lifted her shirt--inch by inch--like he was unveiling something sacred.
She didn't raise her arms until he was ready.
And when the shirt hit the floor, he kissed her collarbone.
One kiss.
Then another.
Each one soft as a confession.
They moved to the bed without urgency.
No pushing.
No pulling.
Just hands and eyes and breath syncing like waves.
He laid her back gently, then climbed in beside her.
They faced each other, lying on their sides, noses brushing.
No one moved first.
No one had to.
They were already inside each other.
Zariah's hand slid up Malik's arm, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck.
She tugged him in, kissed him slow--tongues barely touching, lips lazy and soft. No war in this kiss. No taking.
Just
being.
Malik groaned into her mouth, one hand slipping beneath the sheet to grip her hip.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured.
She kissed his jaw. His neck. "I want to feel like this means something."
"It does."
"I want to come because I'm safe," she said. "Not because I'm scared I'll lose you."
"You're not," he said. "You won't."
He rolled her onto her back, pulled the sheet down.
His hands skimmed her skin like he was learning a language.
He kissed down her chest, circled one nipple with his tongue, then the other. She gasped, back arching slightly. But it wasn't frantic.
It was
intentional.
He worshipped her.
Tasted her like she was the prayer and the answer.
By the time he slid down between her thighs, she was trembling--not from urgency, but from the ache of being
seen.
His tongue was slow. Languid. Not teasing, but tasting.
He licked up her folds with long, reverent strokes. Dipped his tongue inside her, then back up to suck her clit with a rhythm that said
I know you now.
Zariah's hands curled in the sheets.
Her breath hitched.
And when she came--slow and full--her whole body went weightless.
She cried out, but it wasn't a scream.
It was a release.
A surrender.
Malik kissed her thighs, her navel, the curve of her breast.
Then he kissed her mouth, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his lips.
"I need you," he said against her skin.
She nodded. "Then take your time."
He entered her in one smooth, slow thrust.
They both exhaled.
And neither of them moved for a beat.
Just
held.
Inside each other.
Inside that breath.
Then he moved--long, slow strokes that rolled through her like ocean waves. She clung to his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his waist.
Every moan was a yes.
Every stroke was a promise.
There was no pounding. No slapping skin. No urgency.
Just
worship.
He whispered her name. Again and again.
She cried. Just a little.
Not from sadness.
From recognition.
From feeling, for the first time, like she could fall into someone and not disappear.
When they came, it was together.
Her back arched. His body tensed.
And the sound that left them was part pleasure, part prayer.
He didn't pull out.
Didn't roll away.
He held her.
Sweaty. Sticky. Sacred.
And they stayed like that long after the sun dipped behind the trees.
He kissed her temple.
She kissed his chest.
And the silence that followed was the kind that lovers build
homes
inside.
Echoes from the Outside
The porch had never felt so still.
Zariah stood barefoot, tea cooling in her hands, eyes on Malik's back as he worked under the hood of his Chevelle. The late sun turned his skin to bronze, the shadows catching in the valleys between his muscles. Every so often, he'd hum--deep, melodic, like he was tuned into something ancient.
The sound of it used to settle her.
Now it felt distant. Like something from a life she hadn't quite earned yet.
She let her eyes drift shut and took a breath.
Then her phone buzzed.
One vibration.
Another.
