Introduction
Love isn't loud here.
It doesn't knock things over or scream down the hallway.
It tiptoes in the back door with groceries, kisses your neck while you're brushing your teeth, and learns how to say "I'm sorry" before the silence sets in.
Zariah and Malik are finally building something solid.
Not flawless. Not fireproof. But
real.
No ghosts, no games--just the day-to-day choice to stay when it would be easier to run.
To reach for each other when distance feels safer.
To love softly... but with intention.
This isn't about whether they'll make it.
It's about how they will
keep making it
--through awkward silences, messy breakfasts, late-night sex that's more healing than hot.
Simone gets her goodbye.
Jared stays gone.
And Zariah? She starts teaching others how to write through their wreckage.
Malik offers her the biggest thing he's got: not a ring, but
roots
.
Because the biggest commitment isn't marriage.
It's
staying soft in a world that rewards hard love.
And when they fuck one last time?
It won't be primal.
It'll be
home.
Life, Rewritten (The Change That Sticks)
The morning light didn't sneak in--it
strolled
.
Confident.
Warm.
Low and gold like it knew this was a house that had earned peace the hard way.
Zariah stretched across the bed with a lazy moan, her limbs tangled in the sheet, her curls a wild halo on Malik's pillow.
He was already up.
She could smell him in the air--cedar soap, black coffee, engine grease.
And cinnamon toast?
That man was trying to seduce her with
carbs
.
She smiled into the pillow.
This was what healing looked like now.
Not declarations.
Just breakfast and space and the quiet miracle of still being here.
In the kitchen, Malik stood shirtless at the stove, boxers low on his hips, two mugs already waiting beside the toaster.
He heard her pads on the floor before she rounded the corner.
"Good morning, Sunshine."
Zariah leaned in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts and the satisfied glow of a woman who finally believed her house wouldn't burn down if she let herself be happy.
"You're cooking now?" she teased.
He didn't turn. "Only on days that end in 'why the fuck not.'"
She walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, laid her cheek between his shoulder blades.
"You're warm," she mumbled.
"You're clingy."
"I'm evolving."
He chuckled low in his throat. "That what we're calling it now?"
They ate at the small table--legs touching, toast splitting, phones off.
She told him about the community writing center that offered her a guest workshop slot.
He told her about a kid at the shop who asked to intern and called him
OG
.
They laughed. Teased. Shared a single piece of bacon like it was foreplay.
And maybe it was.
Because when she stood to rinse her plate, Malik followed her into the kitchen like her shadow had a hard-on.
"You got somewhere to be?" he asked, voice low against her neck.
"I was gonna shower."
He slid his hands under her shirt. "Do it later."
She turned. Raised a brow. "You want me to be late for my first real job since writing again?"
He dropped to his knees.
Kissed her thigh. Then the other.
Then higher.
"You'll walk in late, glowing," he murmured, lifting her shirt slowly. "Tell them your man needed to taste his wife's peace before she left the house."
Zariah gasped as his tongue slipped between her folds--
no warm-up, no warning
, just full tongue on clit like a benediction.
She braced her hand on the sink.
"Malik--baby--shit, it's too early--"
He looked up, eyes dark. "It's never too early to remind you who you are."
He ate her like it grounded him.
Licked. Sucked. Moaned against her.
She came so fast her knees buckled.
He caught her.
Held her like a prayer answered.
Then stood, picked her up by the thighs, and sat her on the counter.
Unzipped himself.
No teasing.
Just
flesh. Desire. History.
He entered her with one long, slow push.
She clenched around him, eyes wide, lips parted.
He rolled his hips--slow and deep.
"Every time I'm inside you," he whispered, "I remember why I stayed."
She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Then stay longer."
He did.
They didn't fuck hard.
They
fucked soft.
Slow. Sweaty. Silent.
The kind of sex where no one's chasing orgasm--they're chasing
closeness.
And when they came?
They did it together.
Messy. Muted. Miraculous.
He stayed inside her while they kissed--long and slow, like
thank yous
with tongue.
Later, she pulled on leggings and her favorite jacket, kissed his jaw, and headed out.
He watched her leave from the porch.
Coffee in one hand.
Love in the other.
And the morning?
It just kept on moving.
But now, so did they.
Together.
Simone Returns (But Doesn't Stay)
The heat outside was the kind that sat on your chest like unpaid debt.
Zariah stood behind the counter at the writing center, arms bare, lips glossed, and earrings heavy enough to tell the room
she came dressed for clarity
.
Malik had warned her:
"She's coming through."
Zariah didn't ask why.
Didn't need to.
When a woman like Simone reappeared, it wasn't to tie bows.
It was to
scratch itches.
The bell above the door jingled.
Zariah didn't look up.
She smelled the perfume first--sweet and heavy like revenge in bloom.
Then the voice:
"Still got the nerve to glow like you didn't walk through hell."
Zariah looked up, slow and surgical.
Simone stood in the doorway like a sermon dressed in lemon chiffon--tight dress, tighter smirk, posture like she was
daring
someone to challenge her audacity.
Zariah didn't blink.
She set her iced coffee down like a mic drop.
"You still got the nerve to show your face like shame ain't free."
