Introduction
Healing behind closed doors is one thing.
But what happens when the door opens... and your past is waiting on the porch?
Zariah and Malik have built something intimate, raw, and real--but now they have to carry that softness out into a world that still wants to break them.
The texts have stopped, but the tension hasn't.
The sex was sacred, but silence doesn't mean safety.
And Jared? He's not done. He's just changed tactics.
This act isn't about seduction.
It's about
exposure.
Zariah will speak louder than she ever has.
Malik will let himself be held for once.
And both of them will learn that
real power isn't in possession--it's in protection.
Because after the quake comes the reckoning.
And love that survives the tremors?
That's the kind that leaves
legacy.
Back to Routine, But Not the Same
Zariah hadn't put on slacks in over a week.
The waistband pinched like it resented her new softness--softness that had nothing to do with weight and everything to do with vulnerability.
Her curls were up, clipped messy. Lip gloss, mascara. No foundation. Just enough to say
"I'm functional"
without lying.
The mirror in the hallway caught her as she reached for her keys.
She looked like herself.
But she didn't
feel
like her.
Because the woman in that reflection?
She'd cried in Malik's mouth.
Begged under his hands.
Climaxed so hard she forgot her own name.
And still...
Still, she didn't know if she could trust this quiet.
The office smelled the same.
Old coffee. Paper. Recycled air. Jasmine from the front desk girl's diffuser.
"Zariah," someone said brightly. "Good to see you back!"
She smiled. It didn't touch her eyes.
"Thanks, Gina."
Her heels clicked down the hallway. The walls were too white. Too narrow. Her breath shallow.
She got to her office. Closed the door behind her. Sat down. Breathed.
Checked her phone. No messages. No missed calls. No Malik. No Jared.
Just... silence.
But silence didn't mean safety anymore.
Malik's hands were deep in an engine before the sun hit noon.
He liked it that way--flesh in grease, sweat dripping down his chest, no time to think.
But today, the socket wrench felt heavier.
His body moved like muscle memory.
But his mind?
It was still in their bed.
Still tangled in Zariah's thighs.
Still hearing her say
"Don't stop. Don't ever stop."
And now here he was--covered in oil, rage simmering just under the skin, waiting on a past that hadn't learned how to let go.
He hated that she went back to work alone.
Hated that he hadn't driven her, walked her to the damn door like a soldier on post.
But he also knew--
She didn't need a bodyguard.
She needed to walk into that building like she owned it again.
Still, his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not until she texted.
Not until he knew she made it through the day without a shadow.
Lunchtime came. Zariah sat in her car with the air blasting, the radio off, one hand gripping the wheel.
She stared at the cracked screen of her phone.
No new messages.
She wanted to text Malik.
She wanted to say
"Hold me later."
But that felt like weakness. And today... she didn't have room to be soft.
Her boss walked by, nodded. She nodded back.
Smiled again. Again it didn't reach.
Something about being back here, after all that intimacy, felt like emotional whiplash.
She'd screamed in ecstasy forty-eight hours ago.
Now she was typing emails and sipping bitter coffee.
The disconnect was dizzying.
At the garage, a man stopped by the edge of the lot--suit too crisp, smile too thin.
Malik saw him from the corner of his eye.
Didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Just waited.
The man didn't come closer. Just smirked. Tapped a cigarette from a silver case. Lit it. Watched.
Then left.
No words.
Just presence.
Just enough to make Malik's neck itch with warning.
Zariah got back home before Malik.
She dropped her keys in the dish. Toed off her heels.
Stared at the couch where he'd eaten her out like prayer.
At the wall where she'd sobbed against his chest.
The house was too quiet.
She sat down. Exhaled.
Her phone buzzed.
Malik:
Shop's quiet. You okay?
Zariah:
I'm home. But everything feels louder now.
Malik:
That's how you know you're alive, Z.
She stared at the screen.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
I missed you today.
Malik:
I missed you harder.
She smiled.
This one reached.
He got home an hour later.
Didn't knock. Didn't call out.
Just came up behind her on the couch, pulled her back against his chest.
They didn't speak for a long time.
But this silence?
This one meant safety.
A Knock That Shouldn't Have Come
It was Sunday.
That slow, heavy kind of quiet. The kind that made every creak sound louder. The kind that made coffee feel sacred. The kind that made you think maybe the world was finally giving you space to breathe.
Zariah stood in the kitchen, barefoot in Malik's boxers and her favorite tank.
The sunlight hit the floor like honey.
The kettle hissed.
She stirred her tea with a slow rhythm, already imagining the heat of Malik's arms around her neck as he came up behind her.
He was outside--washing the car. Shirtless. Locs tied back. Music playing low from his phone in the window.
Safe.
Still.
Simple.
Then came the knock.
Not the doorbell.
Not a friendly tap.
A
knock.
Heavy. Singular. Final.
Zariah froze.
Every muscle in her body turned to wire.
It wasn't fear. Not yet.
It was recognition. Like her soul already knew something her mind hadn't caught up with.
She moved to the front door.
Didn't open it.
Looked through the peephole.
And there he was.
Jared.
Standing on her porch like he belonged there.
Black sunglasses.
Gray slacks.
That damn smirk.
One hand behind his back like this was a presentation, not a confrontation.
She didn't open the door.
She didn't speak.
She just stared through the glass.
