Introduction
This isn't the end.
It's the
beginning you only earn after bleeding out every version of yourself that wasn't ready.
Zariah and Malik have changed. Not into something perfect--into something
possible.
There are no more fights to win.
Just a home to tend.
A rhythm to share.
A love that doesn't ask to be explained--just practiced.
This act won't give you fireworks.
It'll give you
flame
.
The kind you cook by. The kind you light candles with. The kind that keeps the house warm long after everyone else has left.
There might be sex.
But more than that?
There will be
presence.
Soft mornings.
Real laughter.
And the silence that finally feels like
belonging.
Because the new normal isn't about
never breaking again.
It's about knowing you will--and
they'll stay anyway.
Soft Mornings and Small Miracles
The alarm didn't wake her.
Malik did.
His chest was warm against her back, his leg slung heavy over hers, his breath slow and even at the base of her neck.
Zariah blinked slowly, caught between sleep and safety, her hand resting over his without realizing it.
Outside, birds chirped.
The neighbors' sprinkler hissed to life.
The world was awake--but inside their bedroom, time moved
deliberate
.
She turned carefully, not to escape his grip but to see him.
His locs were splayed across the pillow.
Lashes long.
Lips slightly parted.
She reached up and touched the scar near his collarbone--the one she used to kiss after sex, when she was too raw to speak.
Now?
She just traced it with her thumb.
Not for comfort. Not for apology. Just because it was
his.
Malik stirred.
Eyes opened halfway.
"Mm," he hummed. "You watchin' me sleep like I'm a dream?"
Zariah smiled. "No. Like I can't believe I get to wake up like this and not feel scared."
He kissed her wrist.
"You always had the right to peace, Z. You just needed somewhere it could bloom."
They got up slow.
No rush.
No alarms, no deadlines.
He made coffee, shirtless, boxers riding low.
She made eggs, stealing bites straight from the skillet.
They passed each other in the kitchen like dancers.
A brush of hip.
A kiss on the shoulder.
A hand sliding along the small of her back, just because it
could.
"You've got ink on your cheek," Malik said, wiping it gently with his thumb.
Zariah blushed. "Notebook fell open while I was sleepwriting again."
"Sleepwriting?"
She nodded. "Happens when the muse is rude."
After breakfast, he cleaned the dishes without her asking.
She watered the succulents in the windowsill.
They didn't talk the whole time.
They didn't need to.
The house held their rhythm now.
A silence that wasn't awkward.
A quiet that said:
we made it.
In the afternoon, Zariah walked barefoot across the porch, holding a glass of sweet tea, wearing a soft robe that still smelled like Malik's cologne.
She sat in the rocking chair.
Watched the wind push through the trees.
Malik came out with a small envelope in hand.
"Got something for you."
She raised an eyebrow. "If it's another flyer about garage co-owner duties, I swear--"
He smirked. "No business. Just joy."
She opened it.
Inside was a poem.
Typed on an old typewriter.
Title:
"The Morning After Forever"
Zariah blinked, reading it once, then again.
She didn't speak right away.
Just reached for his hand.
"You wrote this?"
He nodded.
"I thought I was the writer," she whispered.
"You are," he said. "But sometimes, love deserves more than just being felt. It deserves being
named.
"
She stood.
Set the tea aside.
Climbed into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Name it again," she said.
He kissed her shoulder.
"Home."
They stayed like that for a long time.
Rocking.
Breathing.
Alive.
No Storms Left to Chase
The rain came light.
Not a storm--just a hush over the roof.
The kind of drizzle that felt like background music to a day meant for doing nothing.
Zariah curled up on the couch, oversized hoodie, legs bare, journal open on her lap but untouched.
She wasn't writing.
She was watching Malik.
He sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, laptop open, invoices spread out, black-rimmed reading glasses low on his nose.
Every now and then he muttered something about taxes.
Every now and then he scratched his chest absently.
And every now and then?
