Act II - Old Flames and New Fire

Pressure Always Finds the Cracks

The sun rose hot and mean, like it had something to prove. Zariah stepped into the backyard barefoot, the grass slick under her soles, a damp sheet slung over her shoulder. Malik's T-shirt hung off one side, the neck wide enough to show the kiss he'd left on her collarbone. Her thighs still ached. Her lips were still swollen. Her soul still trembled.

She should've felt safe.

But peace had a short fuse, and hers was already sparking.

She reached into the laundry basket, grabbed a wet pillowcase, clipped it to the line. The breeze barely moved--it just pressed against her like a sweaty hand. Cicadas buzzed. A neighbor's dog barked.

Then her phone vibrated on the porch rail.

Blocked number.

Her stomach dropped.

She stared at the screen for three long seconds before hitting "play."

"I know you're there. I saw your car. Cute little reunion. But you know what happens when you ignore me, Z. You know I don't like to be embarrassed."

Her breath caught.

The voice was calm. Low. Familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.

She hit pause just as the screen door creaked.

Malik stepped outside, shirtless again, his sweatpants hanging low, body still golden from the morning sun.

He froze mid-step.

"You know I don't like to be embarrassed."

The words hung in the humid air like a noose.

His eyes found hers. Dark. Questioning. Already coiled.

Zariah fumbled the phone, yanked the Bluetooth speaker from the porch rail, dropped it in the basket like it burned.

"I didn't know it was gonna play out loud," she whispered.

"That him?" Malik's voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Zariah nodded once.

Malik's jaw flexed. He looked past her to the backyard like he was calculating something. Like he was trying to swallow fire.

"Did he hit you?" he asked.

"No."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Not with words," she said. "But... yeah. In the way he made me feel."

Malik stepped forward, slowly, like he didn't trust himself. His hands clenched at his sides. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wanted one night where he didn't live in my head," she snapped. "One night that was just us. You and me."

His nostrils flared.

She stepped toward him, barefoot and trembling. "Please don't shut down. I didn't lie to you. I just--"

"You didn't trust me," he cut in. "And you still don't."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Her defenses rose like storm clouds. "You think it's easy, Malik? Coming back here? Letting you touch me like I never left? You think that was simple?"

He stared at her. His face unreadable. "No. I think it was perfect. Until you dragged him into it."

She was shaking now. Not from fear. From fury. From the weight of holding it all in.

"I didn't drag him here," she whispered. "He followed me."

A pause.

Then Malik said, "I need to know what I'm fighting. And if you're going to let me fight it."

Zariah didn't answer.

And that silence?

It was louder than any scream.

They didn't speak for the next hour. Not in the kitchen. Not while she rinsed out the sheets. Not when she passed him the plate with buttered toast and eggs.

But the tension crackled like the static before a thunderclap.

When she passed behind him to reach the fridge, he grabbed her wrist.

Not hard. Not soft either.

She turned.

He stood.

And just like that, his mouth was on hers--rough, urgent, all tongue and need. He backed her into the counter, his hips grinding into hers. She moaned, but it wasn't sweet. It was a dare.

He spun her around, bent her over the edge, pulled her shorts down to her knees.

"Say stop," he growled against her neck.

She didn't.

He slid inside her in one hard thrust.

She gasped, hands braced against the counter.

He fucked her hard, deep, punishing--every thrust a word he wasn't saying.

You should've told me.

You let him linger.

You're still mine.

Zariah clawed at the edge, moaning, her body catching fire all over again. He reached around, pinched her nipple through the shirt, then gripped her throat and pulled her upright.

"You want me gone?" he asked.

"No," she breathed.

"You want him back?"

"Hell no."

"Then don't you ever keep shit from me again."

She came with a scream, pussy clenching around him so tight he had to grit his teeth.

Malik pulled out, turned her to face him, lifted her onto the counter. He shoved back in and kissed her hard, their bodies locked, sweat beading.

When he came, it was with a grunt and a whisper.

"My name. Say it."

"Malik," she gasped.

He held her there, inside and out, until the silence between them turned soft again.

Simone Always Knows

Zariah didn't expect to see anybody she knew at the corner store. She was just trying to grab a bottle of ginger ale and some ibuprofen--her body was sore, her mind worse.

But of course, fate had a sense of humor.

"Didn't know he passed that one down."

The voice came from behind her in line. Smooth. Sharp. Female.

Zariah turned slowly.

Simone Baptiste.

She remembered her vaguely--always around Malik, always in something tight and black, eyes lined sharp enough to cut. Today was no different. Crop top, gold hoops, inked-up thighs, and a smirk that curled like smoke.

Simone tilted her chin toward the hoodie Zariah was wearing. Malik's. "Looks better on his floor."

Zariah raised a brow. "You been keeping inventory?"

Simone smiled without warmth. "Just funny seeing history repeat."

The cashier handed Zariah her change. She took it slow, deliberate. "If you're here to mark your territory, you're late."

"I'm not marking anything," Simone said. "Just reminding you: some men don't do closure. They do rotation."

Zariah stepped close. Too close. "Malik doesn't spin. He chooses. And he chose me."

Simone's smile didn't falter. But her eyes? Icy. "We'll see."

A Gift Left Wrong

The box was small. No name. No card. Just a pink silk ribbon and a familiar scent Zariah hadn't smelled in months.

Amberwood and obsession.

Malik found it on the porch, set just outside the screen door. He called her out, handed it to her like it was radioactive.

"What the fuck is this?"

Zariah's stomach turned before she even opened it.

Inside: her old keychain from Atlanta. And a worn paperback--The Coldest Winter Ever--with her name scrawled in the margins.

A chill skated up her spine.

Malik's jaw was set like concrete. "He came here?"

"I--I don't know. Maybe he mailed it. Or dropped it off while we were out."

"You still think he's not dangerous?"

"I didn't say that," she snapped. "I just didn't want to throw gasoline on this."

"Well congratulations," he said, stepping back. "The whole porch is on fire now."

Simone's Second Strike - "The Backyard Trap"

The scent of grilled ribs, charcoal, and brown sugar barbecue sauce hung thick in the air. Kids ran wild in the yard, old heads played spades under a pop-up tent, and Frankie Beverly was crooning over a Bluetooth speaker that crackled every few beats.

Zariah stood near the folding table lined with red cups and potato salad, wearing a short sundress with bare shoulders and box braids pulled high. She hadn't been sure about coming--hell, she wasn't even sure what she and Malik were right now--but he'd asked, and she couldn't say no to that look he gave her.

Malik stood across the yard, laughing with his cousin. Shirtless, again. Sweat gleamed on his chest, and the tattoos on his biceps flexed every time he moved. She caught herself watching too long, and smiled. She felt it--how good it was to belong beside him.

That's when she heard her.

"Well damn. I thought that hoodie looked familiar, but I didn't realize you were taking over the whole inventory."

Simone.

Zariah turned, calm. "Hey, girl. Didn't realize you were still in town."

Simone sipped from her red cup. "Oh, I'm around. Malik's got a way of keeping people in orbit, doesn't he?"

Zariah crossed her arms. "Some of us aren't satellites."

Simone grinned. "No, baby. You're the comet. Bright. Fast. And probably gone by next week."

Someone laughed from behind them. Zariah didn't bother to look. She could feel the eyes now--neighbors who remembered Simone and Malik from a couple summers ago. Old stories curling in whispers like smoke.

Simone leaned closer. Her voice dropped. "You know he used to leave cookouts like this with me, right? Back seat of his car. Windows fogged up. Same playlist every time--'Slow Jamz' on repeat. You ever wonder if he's still got that rotation queued up?"

Zariah didn't flinch. She smiled, slow and syrupy.

"That all you got? Memories and mixtapes?"

Simone blinked.

Zariah stepped forward, eyes locked. "I don't live in flashbacks, sweetheart. I'm in his bed now. In his head. You had a moment. I've got momentum."

Simone's jaw twitched.

Malik appeared then, like he felt the heat rising across the yard. He wrapped an arm around Zariah's waist and kissed her temple.

"Everything good over here?"

Zariah looked at Simone, then up at Malik. "Perfect."

Simone drained her cup and smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes.

"Y'all have fun now," she said. "Don't let the past catch up too fast."

And just like that, she sauntered off, hips swaying, leaving behind a silence Zariah had no interest in filling.

Malik squeezed her hip. "She's baiting you."

"I know," Zariah said.

"You ain't gotta play."

"I'm not playing," she whispered. "I'm winning."

Jared's Physical Escalation - "Closer Than Comfort"

It started with a scent.

Amberwood and obsession.

Zariah was walking back from the mailbox, barefoot in Malik's yard, when the breeze shifted and her stomach flipped. It was cologne she hadn't smelled in months. Familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.

She stopped.

Turned.

No one there.

But her pulse had already doubled.

She told herself she was imagining it.

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday, she found the deadbolt jammed.

Not broken. Not forced. Just... shifted. She hadn't locked it the night before--Malik had, after they made love on the living room floor, too lazy to drag themselves to the bedroom.

But that morning, the bolt had been turned halfway. Like someone had tried to slip in, but paused. Or watched.

She didn't tell Malik.

Not yet.

By Friday, she had the lie rehearsed in her mouth like a hard candy.

Malik had gone to work on a friend's truck across town. She stayed behind to clean. Opened the windows. Played Erykah loud enough to distract herself.

It worked--until her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number

1 image attachment. No message.

Her fingers hovered over it.

Then she tapped.

The photo opened.

Her. Malik. On the porch swing that morning. His arm slung around her waist. Her head on his chest. Sunlight draping them in golden quiet.

The angle wasn't random.

It was close.

Too close.

From the yard? The side gate?

She dropped the phone. It clattered across the hardwood.

Zariah's breathing went shallow. Panic rising like heat under her skin.

She backed away from the window. Closed it. Drew the curtain. Moved to the kitchen and checked the back door. Locked. Still, she twisted the bolt again. Then again.

Her phone vibrated.

Another text.

Unknown Number

"You look happy. But you don't look safe."

That was when the knock came.

Not the door.

The window.

Soft. Deliberate. Knuckles on glass.

She turned. Slowly.

There he was.

Jared.

Standing on the other side of the window. Smiling.

Not wide. Not warm. But knowing.

Zariah's heart thudded so hard it hurt.

He lifted his hand. Pressed his palm flat to the glass. Just stared.

Like he had all the time in the world.

She didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't breathe.

And then--he turned. Walked away like it was just another visit.

Gone.

She waited. Counted sixty slow, ragged seconds. Then grabbed her phone and called Malik.

He answered on the first ring.

"What's wrong?"

Her voice cracked. "He's here."

Silence.

Then Malik's voice, low and lethal: "Did he touch you?"

"No. He just... stood there. Knocked. Like it was normal."

"I'm on my way."

When Malik pulled into the driveway, tires squealing, door half-open before the car stopped, Zariah was on the porch, hands wrapped around her mug like it could protect her.

He didn't say a word. Just came to her, looked her over, checked her arms, her face.

Then pulled her into his chest and held her so tight she couldn't think.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No," he said. "Don't."

"I should've told you sooner. About the photo. The message."

His arms stiffened.

"You deleted it?"

"I panicked."

"You didn't trust me to protect you."

"I didn't trust him not to make things worse."

He pulled back, jaw clenched. "It's already worse, Z."

She nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I know."

He wiped them away with the back of his hand. "You're not staying here alone again."

"I wasn't planning to."

That surprised him. The way she said it. Soft. Certain.

Malik's eyes darkened. "You're mine now. He can look, but he doesn't get to touch."

She nodded. Then pressed her forehead to his.

"But what if looking's not enough for him anymore?"

"The Way You Touch Me When You're Not Mad"

The house was quiet again.

Malik had double-checked the locks, walked the perimeter twice, and poured them each a small glass of bourbon--even though he wasn't in the mood to drink.

Zariah sat curled on the couch, knees drawn up, wrapped in a blanket she hadn't realized was the same one her grandmother used to keep folded at the end of the bed. It smelled like memory. Like lavender. Like before everything broke.

Malik handed her the glass, then sat beside her, but didn't touch her. Not yet.

"I'm not mad," he said softly, staring straight ahead.

"I know," she said.

"I'm scared. And that shit makes me feel violent. I don't like feeling violent around you."

She turned her head. "You've never scared me."

He looked at her finally. And the ache in his eyes made her chest tighten.

"Maybe not yet," he said. "But if he keeps pushing, and I don't handle it right--"

"You will," she cut in. "You always do."

They sat in silence. Bourbon untouched.

Then she slid out of the blanket and into his lap, legs straddling his thighs. She cupped his face, eyes searching his.

"Malik," she whispered, "touch me the way you do when you're not mad."

His hands slid up her thighs, slow and reverent. He pulled her closer, let his forehead rest against hers.

"You sure?"

She nodded. "I need to feel something real. Not fast. Not rough. Just... real."

He kissed her. Gentle. Deep. No teeth. No tongue fight. Just warmth. Just lips breathing together.

Zariah sighed into his mouth, hips rolling slowly against his. Her cotton shorts grew damp where they touched. His hands moved under her tank top, palms flat against her back, fingertips tracing her spine like prayer beads.

"You're so soft," he murmured, dragging his mouth along her jaw, down her neck. "I could stay lost in you forever."

She leaned back, peeled her tank off, baring her breasts to him. No bra. No hesitation. Just vulnerability.

He looked at her like she was sunlight in the dark. Then dipped his head and kissed between her breasts. Then one nipple. Then the other. Sucking gently. Teasing with the flat of his tongue until she gasped.

"I love when you take your time," she breathed.

"I'm not in a rush tonight."

She stood long enough to pull her shorts and panties down. Then slid back into his lap, skin to skin now, her heat against the hard line of his cock, still caged behind his sweats.

She reached between them, freed him, and held him in her hand. Just held. Not stroked. Just felt.

"Still mine?" she whispered.

"Every fucking inch."

She rose up slightly, guided him to her entrance, then sank down slow--so slow she moaned the entire way.

He filled her like she'd been carved out just for him.

They stayed still for a moment. Just breathing.

Her forehead pressed to his. His hands gripping her hips.

Then she moved. Slow circles. A grind that made his jaw clench and his eyes flutter.

"Shit," he whispered. "You feel like heaven."

She rocked, soft and deep, her moans like water over stone. She kissed him again, this time deeper, hungrier, but still without rush.

Malik slid a hand between them, found her clit, and rubbed slow circles to match her rhythm.

"I want you to come like this," he murmured. "Right here. In my lap. Looking me in the eyes."

She bit her lip. The build was sharp and slow, delicious and dangerous.

"I'm close," she whispered.

He kissed her temple. "Don't fight it."

Her body trembled. Her movements stuttered. Then her mouth fell open and she came--soft but powerful, a moan pressed against his chest, her pussy gripping him so tight it made his own release tear through him seconds later.

He groaned low and deep, emptying inside her, his arms locked around her back like he'd never let her go.

She stayed there. Warm. Full. Safe.

Afterward, he laid her on the couch, cleaned her gently, kissed the insides of her thighs like they were sacred.

He covered her in the blanket, then lay beside her, hand over her heart.

And for the first time in weeks, Zariah fell asleep without fear.