Act V - Touch Me Like You Mean It

Introduction

This is where passion finally puts its armor down.

Zariah and Malik have survived the bruising fights, the ghosts of past lovers, the brutal honesty that almost tore them apart. But healing doesn't come wrapped in clean sheets and pretty words.

It comes in shaky mornings and quiet meals.

It comes in the moment you stop touching someone like a threat...

and start touching them like a choice.

Here, they learn that love isn't loud.

Sometimes, it's a breath. A hand on a waist. A vibrator pulled from a drawer not to dominate, but to devour.

It's worship.

It's sweat.

It's two people learning to hold each other without hurting.

But peace doesn't last long when the past is persistent.

And the world doesn't care how good you fuck--it still wants a piece of your soul.

So yes, they'll finally touch each other like they mean it...

But now the question is--

can they keep meaning it when everything outside the bedroom comes crashing in?

One Breath Apart

The morning crept in slow.

Golden and quiet, like it was trying not to startle them. The light hit the hardwood floors in soft streaks, catching on dust motes and the edge of Malik's boots by the door.

Zariah lay in the bed, eyes half-lidded, body curled into the space he'd left behind.

The sheets were still warm.

But Malik was gone.

Her hand drifted over the pillow, fingers brushing the dip where his head had rested. The smell of him--cedarwood and sweat, a hint of last night's broken moans--lingered like a ghost.

She didn't cry.

But she felt the ache in her bones.

That sex? That fight? That need?

It hadn't solved anything.

It had just reminded them how much it hurt to need someone that bad.

She found him in the kitchen.

Standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping eggs like he hadn't shattered her the night before. Like she hadn't begged for him with both her body and her silence.

"Morning," he said without turning.

Zariah leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

"Mmm," was all she gave him.

He plated the eggs. Toast. A piece of bacon curled at the edge. No conversation.

She sat. Ate. Quiet. Every bite chewing through the things they weren't saying.

Finally, she set her fork down. "You just gonna pretend last night didn't happen?"

Malik looked up, expression unreadable.

"I'm not pretending," he said. "I'm processing."

Zariah scoffed. "That's convenient."

He pushed his plate away. "You want me to apologize?"

"I want you to say something," she snapped. "Anything that proves we're not just repeating the same old cycles."

"I'm here, ain't I?"

"Physically," she said. "But you haven't looked me in the eyes all morning."

He stood. Leaned on the table. "Because if I do, I might say some shit I can't take back."

Zariah's throat tightened. "Like what?"

"Like I don't know if we can keep doing this. Fighting. Fucking. Forgetting. Fighting again."

The silence stretched.

Then--

"Then stop fucking me like it's the only way you know how to hold me."

That landed.

Malik's jaw tensed.

He walked around the table and stood in front of her. Close. Closer than breath.

"I don't know how else to touch you when I'm scared," he said. "And I've been scared since the day you came back."

She looked up, eyes shining. "Then learn. With me."

His hands trembled at his sides.

He nodded.

And just like that, they weren't breaking apart.

They were breaking open.

They didn't kiss. Not yet.

They cleaned up together. Dishes. Counters. The mundane parts of a life shared.

She folded his shirt. He hung up her jacket.

They moved through the house in silence--not heavy, not angry, but reverent. Like they were walking through a church built from every fight they survived.

One breath apart.

Not because of distance.

Because of choice.

Because closeness now meant something more.

Later that night, she brushed her teeth while he laid out fresh sheets. He left the window cracked open for air. Lit the candle on the nightstand.

She climbed into bed beside him, turned off the light.

No kiss. No reach.

But when she shifted, his hand found her waist.

Not to pull.

Just to be there.

And Zariah, for the first time, didn't flinch.

They didn't say goodnight.

They didn't need to.

Because tonight, they were both still there.

And that was everything.

Worship Without Words

The morning passed in quiet rhythms.

Malik fixed a loose hinge on the screen door. Zariah swept the hallway. Neither of them said much. Not because there was nothing to say--but because the need to fill silence had finally faded.

It was late afternoon when it happened.

Zariah stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom, lotioning her thighs. The sunlight caught on her skin like it had a crush. Malik leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

No hunger in his eyes.

Not yet.

Just reverence.

"You always been that soft?" he asked.

She looked over her shoulder. "You always been that patient?"

They didn't smile. But something tender passed between them.

She set the bottle down. Turned to face him.

And he stepped inside like he'd been invited with her breath.

He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could smell the heat on his skin. She tilted her chin up slightly, testing him.

"I don't need to be punished tonight," she said softly. "I need to be held."

His hands came up--slow, deliberate--and touched her sides. Not grabbing. Just cradling.

"You'll get both," he whispered. "But this time... you won't have to earn it with pain."

He lifted her shirt--inch by inch--like he was unveiling something sacred.

She didn't raise her arms until he was ready.

And when the shirt hit the floor, he kissed her collarbone.

One kiss.

Then another.

Each one soft as a confession.

They moved to the bed without urgency.

No pushing.

No pulling.

Just hands and eyes and breath syncing like waves.

He laid her back gently, then climbed in beside her.

They faced each other, lying on their sides, noses brushing.

No one moved first.

No one had to.

They were already inside each other.

Zariah's hand slid up Malik's arm, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck.

She tugged him in, kissed him slow--tongues barely touching, lips lazy and soft. No war in this kiss. No taking.

Just being.

Malik groaned into her mouth, one hand slipping beneath the sheet to grip her hip.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured.

She kissed his jaw. His neck. "I want to feel like this means something."

"It does."

"I want to come because I'm safe," she said. "Not because I'm scared I'll lose you."

"You're not," he said. "You won't."

He rolled her onto her back, pulled the sheet down.

His hands skimmed her skin like he was learning a language.

He kissed down her chest, circled one nipple with his tongue, then the other. She gasped, back arching slightly. But it wasn't frantic.

It was intentional.

He worshipped her.

Tasted her like she was the prayer and the answer.

By the time he slid down between her thighs, she was trembling--not from urgency, but from the ache of being seen.

His tongue was slow. Languid. Not teasing, but tasting.

He licked up her folds with long, reverent strokes. Dipped his tongue inside her, then back up to suck her clit with a rhythm that said I know you now.

Zariah's hands curled in the sheets.

Her breath hitched.

And when she came--slow and full--her whole body went weightless.

She cried out, but it wasn't a scream.

It was a release.

A surrender.

Malik kissed her thighs, her navel, the curve of her breast.

Then he kissed her mouth, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his lips.

"I need you," he said against her skin.

She nodded. "Then take your time."

He entered her in one smooth, slow thrust.

They both exhaled.

And neither of them moved for a beat.

Just held.

Inside each other.

Inside that breath.

Then he moved--long, slow strokes that rolled through her like ocean waves. She clung to his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his waist.

Every moan was a yes.

Every stroke was a promise.

There was no pounding. No slapping skin. No urgency.

Just worship.

He whispered her name. Again and again.

She cried. Just a little.

Not from sadness.

From recognition.

From feeling, for the first time, like she could fall into someone and not disappear.

When they came, it was together.

Her back arched. His body tensed.

And the sound that left them was part pleasure, part prayer.

He didn't pull out.

Didn't roll away.

He held her.

Sweaty. Sticky. Sacred.

And they stayed like that long after the sun dipped behind the trees.

He kissed her temple.

She kissed his chest.

And the silence that followed was the kind that lovers build homes inside.

Echoes from the Outside

The porch had never felt so still.

Zariah stood barefoot, tea cooling in her hands, eyes on Malik's back as he worked under the hood of his Chevelle. The late sun turned his skin to bronze, the shadows catching in the valleys between his muscles. Every so often, he'd hum--deep, melodic, like he was tuned into something ancient.

The sound of it used to settle her.

Now it felt distant. Like something from a life she hadn't quite earned yet.

She let her eyes drift shut and took a breath.

Then her phone buzzed.

One vibration.

Another.

Then a pause.

She opened her eyes.

The screen lit up with a number she didn't recognize.

Her stomach turned.

Zariah didn't answer. She didn't have to.

The text preview said it all:

"You think I'm just gonna let you walk away?"

--J.

Her breath caught.

Not from fear.

From fury.

That familiar spike in her throat, the one Jared always stirred--like guilt wearing a tuxedo. He always knew how to coat possession in poetry.

Her fingers wrapped tight around the phone.

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

Until Malik glanced up from the engine and caught her stillness.

The wrench in his hand paused mid-turn.

"You good, Z?"

She didn't answer.

Just turned the screen facedown on the porch rail.

"Spam," she lied.

But her voice wobbled like wet glass.

Malik wiped his hands on a rag and closed the hood slowly.

He said nothing else. Just watched her the way a man watches storm clouds gather over a place he swore was finally safe.

Inside the house, the air had changed.

It wasn't hot. But it was thick.

Zariah sat on the edge of the bed, fingers laced tight, legs bouncing slightly.

Malik stood across the room, towel over his shoulder, shirtless, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to breathe around a weight he couldn't see.

"You sure it was him?" he asked.

She nodded, jaw locked tight. "Yeah. Same tone. Same venom. Different number."

He rubbed his palm across his beard. "You want me to handle it?"

"No."

Her answer was quick. Too quick.

She took a breath. Softer this time. "No. This isn't that kind of threat. It's not fists. It's presence. It's pressure. And he knows how to make me carry it, even when he's not around."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "That's still a fight. Just a different ring."

Zariah looked down at her hands.

"I'm so tired of looking over my shoulder," she whispered. "Of wondering if I'll bump into him at the store. Or find a letter in my mailbox. Or worse... see him watching from across the damn parking lot like he used to."

Her voice cracked. "I hate how small I feel when I think about him."

Malik didn't speak.

Instead, he knelt in front of her, his hands resting gently on her thighs.

She looked into his eyes.

Dark.

Focused.

Fierce.

"You're not small," he said. "He just made you feel that way so you'd stop taking up the space you were born to own."

Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall.

"I'm with you," he said. "And I'm not scared of him. I'll burn every bridge between him and this house if I have to."

She shook her head. "I don't want you to fight my battles."

"I'm not," he said. "I'm just here when you need backup. Or silence. Or arms."

That night, while Malik showered, Zariah sat on the couch with the lights dimmed.

The TV was off.

The air conditioner hummed.

But her thoughts were screaming.

She picked up her laptop and typed her name into the search bar.

First name. Last name. The city.

She knew better.

But still.

One of the top results was a blog. One she thought had died years ago.

She clicked it.

"The Woman I Can't Forget" it was called.

She didn't even have to read the byline.

It was Jared's.

There were new entries. New poems. New twisted dedications.

"She moves like a whisper, loves like a storm, disappears like guilt."

He always wrote like he owned the idea of her. Like she was a chapter he refused to close.

She scrolled further.

Found the comments section.

"Is this about Z again?"

"She's back in town??"

"Heard she's with someone. Must be temporary."

Her throat tightened.

She slammed the laptop shut.

It wasn't just about Jared's obsession anymore.

It was about access.

He still had a line into her life. Into people's mouths. Into memory.

And memory can be a violent thing when it's wielded like a weapon.

She didn't realize she was crying until Malik's hand touched her shoulder.

He was behind her now, fresh from the shower, towel draped low on his hips.

She didn't speak.

Didn't explain.

She just folded.

Right into his arms.

He held her.

Rocked her slowly like a child in a storm.

And when she whispered, "What if he never stops?"

Malik's voice was thunder in velvet.

"Then we don't stop either."

She buried her face in his chest. "I want to be free of him."

"You will be," he said.

"Even if he doesn't leave?"

Malik pulled back, cupped her face in both hands.

"You're already free," he said. "You're just still learning how to believe it."

They slept close that night.

Not for protection.

But for peace.

And while Malik drifted into the soft rhythm of sleep, Zariah stayed awake for a while longer--watching the moon through the window, hand on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her palm.

And she knew--

Even if the echoes kept coming...

She wasn't haunted anymore.

She was held.

Touch Me Like You Mean It

The storm had passed again--but this time, it hadn't touched the sky.

It lived in her body.

In the way she slammed the bathroom cabinet after brushing her teeth.

In the quiet click of her phone being powered off.

In the low, smoldering look she gave Malik when she stepped into the bedroom.

She wore one of his button-downs. Nothing underneath.

And rage smoothed into resolve with every step she took toward the bed.

Malik was already there--leaned back on the pillows, watching her like a man who knew what was coming but didn't dare rush it.

Zariah crawled onto the bed.

Straddled him.

Didn't kiss him.

Just stared.

"I need to feel it," she said. "All of it."

He blinked. "What are we feeling tonight, Z?"

"That I'm safe. That I'm owned. That I'm not running and neither are you."

He sat up, chest brushing hers.

"You want to be claimed, baby?"

"Hard. Deep. Real."

He didn't hesitate.

He flipped her onto her back and yanked the shirt open, buttons popping like they'd been holding in too much truth.

Her breasts spilled free, nipples tight, breath shallow.

Malik grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head.

"You're mine tonight."

"I'm yours always."

He kissed her hard, deep, rough--like he was diving inside her mouth to drown in her honesty.

Then he pulled away.

Opened the drawer.

Pulled out the toy she didn't know he'd bought: a slender, black silicone wand vibrator, quiet but deadly.

Her eyes widened.

He grinned. "You trust me?"

She nodded, panting.

He pushed her thighs apart.

Let the cool hum of the toy kiss her clit.

She gasped.

Back arched. Toes curled. Eyes rolled back.

Malik licked her neck, his voice a dark whisper. "That feel good, baby?"

"Yes... yes, fuck, don't stop--"

The wand circled, teased, then pressed just right.

She writhed. Whimpered. Cursed.

Malik slipped two fingers inside her, curling them like he was searching for every secret she hadn't told him yet.

"Come for me like this," he growled. "Before I even put my dick in."

Zariah shook her head. "I can't, it's too much--"

"You will."

And she did.

Hard. Loud. Wet.

The orgasm hit like a truck. Her thighs shook. Her moans went breathless. Her body damn near levitated.

Malik didn't stop.

He kept the wand there, pushed her further, until she came again--shorter, sharper, wetter.

"Malik--oh my GOD--stop, I can't--"

He turned it off.

Licked her clean like she was dessert.

Then he stood. Dropped his briefs.

And god.

He was already hard. Leaking. Ready.

He crawled back on top of her.

"No running," he said.

"No hiding," she answered.

He slid inside her slow--just the tip, teasing.

She was soaked.

He sank deeper.

She clawed his back.

He hissed.

"Say it," he demanded.

"I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I'M YOURS."

He snapped his hips forward and buried himself to the hilt.

Zariah screamed. Clutched him with everything inside her.

And Malik fucked her like a promise kept late.

Hard. Deep. Grinding.

He pounded her into the mattress, one hand gripping her throat--not choking, just claiming.

The other flicked the wand back on and pressed it against her clit again.

She came mid-stroke, body spasming, legs shaking, tears running from the corners of her eyes.

He didn't stop.

He flipped her.

Face down. Ass up.

Spit on her back.

Slapped her ass twice.

"Still mine?"

"Yes, yes, please, don't stop--"

He rammed back in from behind.

Hit every wall.

Made her drip. Moan. Shake.

And when she reached back, desperate to grab anything, he laced their fingers together and pulled her arm back behind her like a twisted prayer.

"I got you, baby. You ain't gotta hold on to anything but me."

Zariah sobbed from pleasure.

From love.

From being undone and rebuilt in real time.

He pulled out.

Stroked himself fast.

She turned over just in time for him to cum--thick, heavy ropes across her belly, her breasts, her lips.

He groaned low. Deep. From somewhere ancient.

And when the last pulse left him, he collapsed beside her.

Sticky.

Spent.

Sated.

They didn't speak for a long time.

She turned to him, kissed his jaw.

He pulled her close, dragged the sheet over them.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.

"I know," she said, smiling, messy, radiant.

"I just needed you to feel that."

"I felt it everywhere."

They kissed again.

And this time?

It wasn't about claiming.

It was about keeping.