Act III - The Break Before the Bend

The Lie Comes to Light

The night air was thick with August heat, but the house was cool--almost too cool. Zariah sat on the couch in one of Malik's tees, bare legs folded under her, hair wrapped, eyes closed. Her body still hummed from the way he touched her that morning. Soft. Unhurried. Like he was sculpting something sacred from skin and memory.

But Malik wasn't beside her now.

He was in the garage.

Too long.

She should've gone to him.

Instead, she waited--until the screen door creaked, and the weight of his steps hit different.

Slower.

He didn't say a word when he walked in. Just dropped his phone onto the table with a quiet thud.

Zariah looked up. "Everything okay?"

Malik nodded once. Then turned the phone around so she could see the screen.

Her stomach dropped.

It was the photo.

The one Jared sent. The one she'd deleted.

The one she never told Malik about.

"Found it in your deleted folder," he said, voice even. Too even. "You forgot to empty the trash."

She sat up straighter. Heart pounding. "Malik--"

"Don't lie to me now."

Her mouth went dry.

"I was going to tell you," she said.

"When?"

She swallowed. "That night. But then you were already so angry. And I didn't want to make it worse."

"You didn't want me to be worse," he said. "You didn't want me to blow up. Scare you."

Zariah looked away.

Malik let out a dry laugh. "So you decided for both of us. Again."

"It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that."

He stepped back. His hands were on his hips now, head down like he was trying to breathe through it.

"I thought we were building something," he said quietly. "But maybe we're just dressing up the same old fear in new clothes."

Zariah stood, the room spinning a little. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't act like this is one-sided. Like I'm the only one who's scared. You never said you loved me either."

His head snapped up. "Is that what you're waiting for? A three-word spell to make you feel safe?"

"I'm waiting for you to be honest. About what you want. About what this is."

He stared at her for a long, heavy beat.

"I want you," he said. "That's never changed. But I also want to know I'm not putting my life on the line for someone who's still got one foot out the door."

Zariah stepped closer, voice tight. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that," Malik said. "But every time it gets real, you shut down. You hide things. You don't let me protect you, Z. That's not strength. That's survival. And I don't want to be someone you survive."

Her breath caught.

"I'm not trying to survive you," she whispered. "I'm trying not to lose myself in you."

They stood there in the tension, hearts exposed and bleeding, words like knives too dull to cut, too sharp to hold.

Then she said, "I'm sorry."

Malik looked at her--really looked. And the hurt in his eyes was deeper than anger.

"I know," he said.

But he didn't step closer.

He just walked past her. Down the hall. Into the bedroom.

The sound of the door closing behind him felt like a verdict.

Simone's Final Strike - "It Wasn't Just Sex"

Zariah wasn't trying to see Simone again.

Not today. Not after the night she just had--Malik sleeping on one side of the bed like she wasn't there, like the space between them wasn't filled with everything they hadn't said.

She'd spent the morning pacing the porch, sipping lukewarm coffee and telling herself she didn't care. That it was fine. That not every wound needed a Band-Aid.

But her reflection in the window didn't buy it.

So she went to the café. For caffeine. For silence. For air that didn't smell like guilt and unsaid things.

She was halfway through the line when the bell over the door jingled and in walked a storm.

Simone.

Different outfit, same energy. Denim romper hugging her curves, nose ring sparkling, locs in a pineapple bun that said unbothered even as her eyes zeroed in like a sniper.

Zariah stiffened. Too late.

Simone's voice slid down her spine like a blade dipped in sugar.

"Well, if it ain't Malik's new beginning."

Zariah turned, slow. Gave her the flattest face she could muster. "Girl. Not today."

Simone offered a crooked smile. "I just came for a latte. You're the one looking like you lost something."

Zariah snorted. "What would I have lost?"

Simone leaned on the counter. "Confidence. Sanity. Dick on demand." She grinned. "Take your pick."

Zariah faced front. Ordered her drink with a calm she didn't feel.

Simone stepped closer. "You know, it's funny. Y'all act like Malik's some prize. But that man? He's got a way of breaking people in ways they don't realize until they're bleeding."

Zariah's hand tightened around the strap of her purse. "If you came to play therapist, book a session."

"Nah. I'm just saying." Simone's voice dropped lower. "It wasn't just sex between me and Malik."

Zariah turned her head slowly. "Oh?"

"He stayed the night. Made me tea when I was on my period. Held me when my sister died." Her eyes narrowed. "You think what you have is special just 'cause he puts it down good and kisses your forehead after?"

Zariah didn't blink. "I think what we have ain't your business."

"That's cute," Simone said. "But you should know--he told me something once. Something I don't think you've heard yet."

Zariah hated how her stomach twisted.

Simone smiled like she could see it. "He said forever was just a long way to spell inevitable heartbreak. Said people cling to the idea because it sounds prettier than the crash."

Zariah felt the blood drain from her face.

Simone stepped back like she'd fired her last shot. "So while you're there playing house, you might want to ask him if he even believes in the story you're writing."

The barista slid Zariah's drink across the counter. She didn't reach for it.

Simone walked past her, pausing just long enough to murmur, "Good luck, pretty girl. You're gonna need it."

Zariah sat in her car for twenty-three minutes.

Drink untouched.

Face numb.

She replayed Simone's words like a skipping record. Inevitable heartbreak. Forever don't mean shit.

The worst part?

Zariah could hear Malik saying it. Clear as day. That lazy baritone, casual and cruel in the same breath.

He'd never said those words to her. Not directly. But he hadn't said the other ones either.

Not "I love you."

Not "I want to build something that lasts."

Not "Forever."

She'd filled in the blanks because the sex was good, because he held her close, because he looked at her like maybe--just maybe--she was the only storm he'd ever wanted to chase.

But now...

She didn't know.

She went home and didn't speak. Didn't cry either.

Just showered.

Scrubbed her skin harder than necessary.

Tried to scrub off the voice in her head that sounded too much like Simone and not enough like truth.

That night, when Malik walked in, she didn't say anything. He smelled like grease and sweat and soap--like the life he was trying to build--and it made her ache.

He kissed her cheek, didn't notice the stiffness.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe they were both playing pretend now.

Zariah lay awake long after he fell asleep.

Staring at the ceiling.

Rehearsing questions she might never ask.

Did you mean it?

Do you believe in us?

Or am I just the newest stop on your road to nowhere?

Jared Corners Malik - "Don't Mistake My Calm"

The sun was dipping low, bleeding burnt orange over the skyline. Malik was bent over the hood of a rusted-out Cutlass, grease on his knuckles, sweat glistening across his back.

He didn't hear the footsteps right away.

Didn't feel the air shift.

But something made him look up.

A shadow moved across the gravel driveway. Tall. Smooth. A little too clean for a place like this.

Jared.

Wearing black-on-black like he thought he was still in Atlanta, like his fresh fade and perfect teeth made him immune to ass-whippings.

Malik didn't move. Just stood slowly, wiped his hands with a rag, and said nothing.

"You Malik?" Jared asked, hands tucked in his pockets, voice casual as a pickup line.

Malik stared.

"I figured," Jared said. "You got the whole rough-around-the-edges thing going. That must be what she likes now."

Still, Malik said nothing.

"I just wanted to see the man who's been keeping her busy. She been hard to reach lately."

Malik stepped around the car. Not fast. Not slow. Just deliberate.

"Don't know who the fuck you think you're talking to," he said quietly. "But if you're trying to provoke something, you might want to think that through."

Jared smirked. "Nah, see, I don't provoke. I observe. I just like to see who's playing with what used to be mine."

Malik's jaw flexed. "Zariah ain't a thing. And she damn sure ain't yours."

"Maybe not," Jared said, lifting his chin. "But we've got history. And history don't die just 'cause you lay some pipe and tell her she's pretty."

Malik stepped closer.

"You touched her again?" he asked, voice low.

Jared laughed once. "You worried?"

"I'm warning."

That smirk faltered just a hair.

Malik dropped the rag on the hood. "I know men like you. Smile too much. Talk slick. Threaten without saying the words."

He took another step. Close enough to smell Jared's cologne.

"But let me be clear, since you seem confused," he said. "You come near her again--physically, digitally, emotionally--I won't raise my voice. I won't make a scene. I'll just make sure you can't do it again."

Jared blinked. Chuckled. "You really think you're that scary?"

Malik leaned in, close enough for Jared to feel the heat rolling off him. "No. I think you are that weak."

For a split second, Jared's eyes darkened. Then he stepped back.

"Don't say I didn't try to be civil," he muttered.

"You weren't being civil," Malik said. "You were being calculated. But this ain't chess. This is my fucking life. And you don't get to play here."

Jared turned to go.

Stopped halfway across the gravel. Looked back.

"You might want to ask Zariah what she left out. You know women like to rewrite history."

Malik didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Just stared until Jared was gone.

He didn't go back to the car. Didn't even pick up the rag. He just stood there, heart pounding, hands shaking--not with fear, but with the effort it took not to react.

Because Jared wasn't just a ghost.

He was a fuse.

And Malik was already burning.

Back inside, Zariah was chopping peppers in the kitchen, barefoot in gym shorts, humming a song she hadn't realized was playing in her head.

When she heard the door, she turned with a smile that died halfway across her lips.

Malik looked... different.

Still Malik. But tighter.

Pulled thin with something heavy.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

He walked past her. Washed his hands. Dried them.

Then looked up.

"Jared stopped by."

Her stomach dropped.

"Malik..."

"He came to my job. Said he wanted to 'meet the man taking care of what used to be his.'"

Zariah dropped the knife. It clattered against the counter.

"Did he touch you?"

"No. He was just... him."

"Did you call the police?"

"And say what? That a man stood too close and talked too slick?" Malik's eyes met hers. "You want me to handle this the right way? Then I need all of it. No more filters. No more deletions. I need to know what the fuck I'm up against."

Zariah swallowed. Hard.

Then she said the words she hadn't wanted to say since the beginning.

"He never hit me. But he used to... show up. Uninvited. Wait outside. He knew how to get in my head."

Malik clenched his jaw. "You should've told me."

"I was ashamed."

He stepped forward. Slid a hand under her chin.

"Don't ever let shame keep you from protecting yourself."

Her voice cracked. "I didn't want to drag you into it."

He nodded. "Too late."

Here's the extended, raw, explicit, and gritty Scene 4 of Act III:

Scene 4: The Blow-Up Fight - "Say It With Your Chest"

The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that came after something violent--even if no fists had flown, even if the only thing broken was trust.

Zariah stood at the sink, hands buried in soap suds, but her thoughts were boiling over.

Malik was on the couch, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it had answers. He hadn't said much since she told him the full truth about Jared.

And maybe that should've been enough.

But it wasn't.

Because silence, even from a man like Malik, could cut deeper than any curse.

She dried her hands slowly. "You're not gonna say anything?"

Malik looked up. His eyes were low and unreadable. "What do you want me to say?"

She folded her arms. "Anything. Something. Just stop looking at me like I'm the problem."

"I'm not looking at you like that."

"Yes. You are."

He stood. "No, Zariah. I'm looking at you like someone I'm trying to fucking understand."

"Oh, so now I'm confusing?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She stepped toward him, fire catching in her chest. "Ever since Jared showed up, you've been pulling away. Like I'm dirty. Like I brought something into your house that you can't wash off."

Malik's voice sharpened. "Don't put that on me. I've been here. I've stayed. Even when you've been lying to my face."

"Lying? Are you serious?"

"You deleted the photo. You held onto that man's shadow like it was your secret to protect. You think that's not a lie?"

"I was scared, Malik!"

He threw his arms up. "Then say that!"

"I just did!"

"No, say it like you fucking mean it!" His voice cracked through the air like thunder. "Say it with your chest, Z. Say you're scared. Say you don't trust me. Say you don't know how to love me without running."

She blinked, stunned.

He kept going, voice lower now. Darker.

"'Cause every time it gets real, you go quiet. Or you go cold. Or you go away. And I'm supposed to just be here. Holding the damn door open, waiting for you to stop flinching."

Zariah's chest rose and fell like she'd been sprinting.

Then: "You think you're so righteous?"

Malik's brows lifted. "Excuse me?"

"You think you're this stable, grounded savior--but you've got your own ghosts, Malik. You let Simone walk around like she still got a key to your body."

"Oh, so we dragging Simone into this now?"

"She came for me. Twice."

"I didn't invite her."

"But you never checked her either."

"I never touched her since you got here!"

"Doesn't mean she wasn't still hovering."

Malik took a step toward her. "I've been loyal."

"Physically. Maybe. But emotionally? You're just like me--scared shitless."

He stopped cold.

She knew she hit it.

"You never said you loved me," she said quietly. "Not once."

His jaw twitched.

"You never promised anything. You just fucked me like it meant something and looked at me like I was supposed to understand."

"I don't make promises I can't keep."

"And there it is," she whispered. "You really don't believe in forever."

Malik's eyes burned. "You want the truth?"

"Always."

"I've loved you since we were kids. Since you kissed me on that hood and ran away like it meant nothing. I never stopped. But love don't mean shit if you won't let me be in it."

Her lip trembled.

He stepped closer, heat rolling off him. "I love you so much it makes me crazy. Makes me jealous. Makes me scared that one day I'm gonna come home and you'll be gone again, and I won't survive that a second time."

Zariah reached for him.

He grabbed her wrists. Not hard. Just tight enough to hold her still.

"I can't keep fighting for us if you won't fight back."

"I am fighting," she breathed. "I just don't know how to win yet."

They stared at each other--breathless, bruised by words they didn't want to say.

Then something cracked between them.

And they lunged.

The kiss wasn't tender. It was violent. Teeth. Tongue. Hands everywhere.

He shoved her against the wall, one hand gripping her jaw, the other yanking down her shorts.

She gasped as he dropped to his knees, spread her thighs, and buried his face between them.

No teasing. No foreplay.

Just hunger.

His tongue was rough, relentless. He licked and sucked like she'd betrayed him with silence and he needed to drown it out with her moans.

"Fuck, Malik--"

He didn't stop.

She came fast--hard--shaking.

And he didn't stop.

He stood, unzipped, and lifted her like she weighed nothing.

She wrapped her legs around his waist just as he slammed into her--deep, brutal, beautiful.

He fucked her like he was erasing every word they'd shouted. Like the only thing that mattered was the sound of her crying out his name.

She bit his shoulder. Clawed his back. Pulled his hair.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"No you don't," he growled, thrusting harder.

She kissed him like she was drowning. Like her mouth had more to say than her pride would allow.

"I need you," she sobbed.

"Then stay."

"I'm trying."

He hit her spot so deep she screamed, her orgasm crashing like a wave she couldn't outrun.

Malik came with a shudder, holding her so tight they might as well have been one body, one heartbeat, one desperate hope.

Afterward, they collapsed to the floor, tangled in sweat and breath and unsaid things.

Neither spoke.

Because sometimes, the realest things live in the silence after the war.

Desperate, Raw Sex That Heals Nothing (But Changes Everything)

The rain came fast--slamming the porch roof, blurring the windows, turning the yard into a muddy mess of steam and storm.

Inside, the silence was worse than the thunder.

Zariah sat on the edge of the bed, body wrapped in nothing but a towel, skin still damp, lips swollen from everything they said and did an hour ago. Her fingers trembled as she twisted the edge of the fabric.

Malik leaned against the doorway, jaw tense, chest bare, sweatpants hanging low like he hadn't finished getting dressed or undressed or decided which one he was doing.

"I can't do this," she said, barely above a whisper.

He stepped forward. "Then go."

She didn't move.

He clenched his fists. "I'm not holding you hostage, Z. If you wanna run, run. But don't stay here looking at me like I'm the one breaking you."

"You are," she snapped. "You make me feel like I can breathe and drown at the same time."

He laughed, bitter. "That's not on me. That's your shit."

"Fuck you."

"You already did."

The silence after that wasn't empty.

It was charged.

She stood, towel falling to the floor.

"I hate you," she said again, stepping toward him, naked and shaking.

"You keep saying that," he said, closing the space between them, "but your body don't listen."

Their mouths crashed like a car wreck--violent, sudden, devastating.

He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off the ground, slammed her back against the wall. Her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his thighs.

He slid his hand between them, fingers spreading her wetness, then rubbing her clit with no finesse--just pressure. Just pain and pleasure tangled.

"Say it again," he growled. "Say you hate me."

"I fucking hate you."

"You moan pretty when you lie."

He turned, threw her onto the bed like he wanted to break it. Yanked his sweats down and climbed over her, not kissing her this time, just watching her chest rise and fall, her eyes flash with anger and hunger.

He grabbed her by the throat--not tight, but enough to make her still.

"You want this?"

"Take it."

He slammed into her without warning.

No stretch. No tease.

Just deep.

She screamed.

He didn't stop. Didn't ask. Just fucked her like she was his last chance to forget who he was.

Their bodies slapped like thunder. The rain beat against the glass.

He pulled out, flipped her over, yanked her hips up, face to the mattress.

She was soaking. Sobbing.

Not from pain.

From everything.

He leaned down, breath hot on her ear. "This gonna fix us?"

She shook her head. "No."

He grabbed her hair, pulled her up just enough to make her arch, and pounded harder.

"Then why can't we stop?"

She couldn't answer.

He reached around, rubbed her clit fast, and she came again--messy, loud, broken.

He flipped her again, climbed between her thighs, and kissed her--finally.

Not sweet.

But desperate.

Mouths crashing. Teeth clashing. Like if they kissed hard enough, they could erase the war.

He whispered, "Tell me this means something."

She cried it out: "It means everything."

He buried himself inside her, grunted low and raw, and came hard--hips jerking, breath stuttering, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest.

They stayed like that.

Connected.

Cursed.

Changed.

He pulled out and collapsed beside her, both of them too tired to speak, too sore to move, too lost to know what came next.

Her eyes stayed open long after he fell asleep.

Because no matter how deep he went, she still wasn't sure he'd ever reach the part of her that still believed in forever.