Act VI - Aftershocks

Introduction

Healing behind closed doors is one thing.

But what happens when the door opens... and your past is waiting on the porch?

Zariah and Malik have built something intimate, raw, and real--but now they have to carry that softness out into a world that still wants to break them.

The texts have stopped, but the tension hasn't.

The sex was sacred, but silence doesn't mean safety.

And Jared? He's not done. He's just changed tactics.

This act isn't about seduction.

It's about exposure.

Zariah will speak louder than she ever has.

Malik will let himself be held for once.

And both of them will learn that real power isn't in possession--it's in protection.

Because after the quake comes the reckoning.

And love that survives the tremors?

That's the kind that leaves legacy.

Back to Routine, But Not the Same

Zariah hadn't put on slacks in over a week.

The waistband pinched like it resented her new softness--softness that had nothing to do with weight and everything to do with vulnerability.

Her curls were up, clipped messy. Lip gloss, mascara. No foundation. Just enough to say "I'm functional" without lying.

The mirror in the hallway caught her as she reached for her keys.

She looked like herself.

But she didn't feel like her.

Because the woman in that reflection?

She'd cried in Malik's mouth.

Begged under his hands.

Climaxed so hard she forgot her own name.

And still...

Still, she didn't know if she could trust this quiet.

The office smelled the same.

Old coffee. Paper. Recycled air. Jasmine from the front desk girl's diffuser.

"Zariah," someone said brightly. "Good to see you back!"

She smiled. It didn't touch her eyes.

"Thanks, Gina."

Her heels clicked down the hallway. The walls were too white. Too narrow. Her breath shallow.

She got to her office. Closed the door behind her. Sat down. Breathed.

Checked her phone. No messages. No missed calls. No Malik. No Jared.

Just... silence.

But silence didn't mean safety anymore.

Malik's hands were deep in an engine before the sun hit noon.

He liked it that way--flesh in grease, sweat dripping down his chest, no time to think.

But today, the socket wrench felt heavier.

His body moved like muscle memory.

But his mind?

It was still in their bed.

Still tangled in Zariah's thighs.

Still hearing her say "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."

And now here he was--covered in oil, rage simmering just under the skin, waiting on a past that hadn't learned how to let go.

He hated that she went back to work alone.

Hated that he hadn't driven her, walked her to the damn door like a soldier on post.

But he also knew--

She didn't need a bodyguard.

She needed to walk into that building like she owned it again.

Still, his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Not until she texted.

Not until he knew she made it through the day without a shadow.

Lunchtime came. Zariah sat in her car with the air blasting, the radio off, one hand gripping the wheel.

She stared at the cracked screen of her phone.

No new messages.

She wanted to text Malik.

She wanted to say "Hold me later."

But that felt like weakness. And today... she didn't have room to be soft.

Her boss walked by, nodded. She nodded back.

Smiled again. Again it didn't reach.

Something about being back here, after all that intimacy, felt like emotional whiplash.

She'd screamed in ecstasy forty-eight hours ago.

Now she was typing emails and sipping bitter coffee.

The disconnect was dizzying.

At the garage, a man stopped by the edge of the lot--suit too crisp, smile too thin.

Malik saw him from the corner of his eye.

Didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

Just waited.

The man didn't come closer. Just smirked. Tapped a cigarette from a silver case. Lit it. Watched.

Then left.

No words.

Just presence.

Just enough to make Malik's neck itch with warning.

Zariah got back home before Malik.

She dropped her keys in the dish. Toed off her heels.

Stared at the couch where he'd eaten her out like prayer.

At the wall where she'd sobbed against his chest.

The house was too quiet.

She sat down. Exhaled.

Her phone buzzed.

Malik:

Shop's quiet. You okay?

Zariah:

I'm home. But everything feels louder now.

Malik:

That's how you know you're alive, Z.

She stared at the screen.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

I missed you today.

Malik:

I missed you harder.

She smiled.

This one reached.

He got home an hour later.

Didn't knock. Didn't call out.

Just came up behind her on the couch, pulled her back against his chest.

They didn't speak for a long time.

But this silence?

This one meant safety.

A Knock That Shouldn't Have Come

It was Sunday.

That slow, heavy kind of quiet. The kind that made every creak sound louder. The kind that made coffee feel sacred. The kind that made you think maybe the world was finally giving you space to breathe.

Zariah stood in the kitchen, barefoot in Malik's boxers and her favorite tank.

The sunlight hit the floor like honey.

The kettle hissed.

She stirred her tea with a slow rhythm, already imagining the heat of Malik's arms around her neck as he came up behind her.

He was outside--washing the car. Shirtless. Locs tied back. Music playing low from his phone in the window.

Safe.

Still.

Simple.

Then came the knock.

Not the doorbell.

Not a friendly tap.

A knock.

Heavy. Singular. Final.

Zariah froze.

Every muscle in her body turned to wire.

It wasn't fear. Not yet.

It was recognition. Like her soul already knew something her mind hadn't caught up with.

She moved to the front door.

Didn't open it.

Looked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Jared.

Standing on her porch like he belonged there.

Black sunglasses.

Gray slacks.

That damn smirk.

One hand behind his back like this was a presentation, not a confrontation.

She didn't open the door.

She didn't speak.

She just stared through the glass.

He saw the movement.

Tilted his head.

And smiled wider.

Malik didn't hear the knock.

Not at first.

He was rinsing the roof when his phone buzzed from the windowsill.

Zariah:

Don't come in yet. He's at the door.

He dropped the hose.

Didn't dry his hands.

Just walked around the side of the house.

When he got to the porch, Jared was still standing there--posture relaxed, sunglasses still on, like this was a goddamn business meeting.

Zariah opened the door just enough to wedge her body between them.

She didn't look back.

Didn't need to.

She felt Malik's heat rising behind her like a storm about to break.

"Leave," she said.

Jared smiled. "That's no way to talk to an old friend."

Malik stepped closer.

Zariah raised a hand behind her, palm out--not yet.

Jared's eyes flicked to Malik and back to her.

"You traded up," he said. "Cute."

Zariah didn't flinch.

"You came all this way just to measure dicks?"

"No," Jared said. "I came to give you one more chance to explain."

"To who? You? Your blog readers?" She laughed. It was a bitter, gorgeous sound. "I don't owe you a single word."

Jared's jaw clenched. "You disappeared."

"You stopped being someone worth staying for."

Malik stepped onto the porch.

Jared took one half-step back. Subtle. But she saw it.

"You need to leave, bro," Malik said. Calm. Low. Lethal.

Zariah didn't move.

"I'm not scared of you," Jared said.

"Good," Malik said. "But you should be scared of what you're bringing out in her."

Zariah stepped forward.

"Last warning," she said. "Show up here again, and it's police. It's court. It's orders. You hear me?"

Jared's smile cracked. "You wouldn't--"

"I would," she said. "And I'll still sleep like a baby after."

She stepped back inside and closed the door slowly, deliberately.

Click.

Deadbolt.

Then turned.

And collapsed into Malik's chest.

He held her there.

No words.

Just the tightest hold he'd ever given her.

Because that kind of rage? That kind of courage?

It costs something.

And right then, her body was trying not to fall apart.

Her breath was shallow.

Her hands were shaking.

He lifted her. Carried her to the couch.

Laid her down. Sat behind her. Wrapped her in his arms like a weighted blanket made of heartbeat and breath.

"I wanted to hit him," she whispered.

"I know."

"But I didn't."

"You didn't need to."

"I felt so small," she said. "But I didn't act small. That's new for me."

He kissed her shoulder.

"You were massive."

They stayed like that until the sun dipped low.

Until her breath steadied.

Until her phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

No message.

Just presence.

She blocked it.

Deleted the blog from her bookmarks.

And whispered to herself, just once, before she fell asleep in Malik's lap:

"He doesn't get to keep me."

Zariah Fights Back (With Witnesses)

The café smelled like cinnamon and wood polish.

Zariah had always liked this spot--cozy, sun-drenched, filled with plants and whispers. It used to be her Friday safe place. Before Jared made it his territory too.

But today?

Today she walked in different.

Black jeans.

Soft green crop top.

Curls wild and free, like her silence had caught fire and decided to style itself.

She wasn't here to sip.

She wasn't here to hide.

She came to reclaim something.

She stood in line like everyone else. Ordered her chai. Waited.

Then she saw him.

Back table. Same one as always.

Typing on a laptop like the devil writing a sonnet.

Sunglasses perched on his head. That damn notebook open beside him.

The same one she used to write in. The one he used to read behind her back and call "inspiration."

She could've left.

But instead?

She walked over.

Not quietly.

Not cautiously.

But deliberately.

He didn't look up until she was standing at his table.

When he did, his eyes lit with that practiced calm. "Zariah."

"Delete the blog."

He blinked once. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Her voice was steel covered in velvet. "Delete the blog. The posts. The photos. The poems. All of it."

Jared leaned back in his chair. Crossed one leg over the other. "I have the right to write about my experiences."

She laughed once. Loud. Sharp. Unforgiving.

The café hushed a little. Conversations paused.

"You didn't write about experiences, Jared," she said. "You wrote about ownership. You turned my body into metaphor and my pain into mood lighting."

He tilted his head. "People love those pieces. They say it's my best work."

"I don't care what people say," she said. "I care about what I never gave you permission to take."

A barista nearby stopped wiping a table. Her eyes were wide, focused. Listening.

Zariah stepped closer.

"You wanna be a poet? Write about your guilt. Write about how you stalked my life after I left. How you showed up at my job, my apartment, my grandmother's funeral."

"That's not true--"

"You showed up at my door last week," she snapped. "Do you want me to show the security footage? Or would you prefer a printed copy of the police report I'm filing?"

Jared's mask cracked.

And now... the whispers began.

A man in the corner looked up. Someone at the counter turned.

Witnesses.

Perfect.

Zariah turned her voice up. Not shouting--just loud enough to echo.

"You're not a romantic, Jared. You're a predator who wraps his manipulation in pretty words and calls it passion."

His nostrils flared. "You're doing this here?"

"Damn right I am."

She planted her palms on the edge of the table.

"You made me afraid to answer my phone. You made me second-guess every word I said. You tried to write me into your version of the truth--and when I wouldn't play along, you made me the villain in your stories."

Her voice trembled, then solidified.

"I've been quiet for too long. And now? I want you to know that every word you wrote about me was fiction. Because the real Zariah? She's here now."

Jared stood suddenly, face tight. "I never hurt you."

"You tried to own me," she said. "That's enough."

The café was still.

Silent.

No one looked away.

"I'm done being your muse," she said. "I'm my own goddamn masterpiece."

Then she stepped back. Looked around the café.

Everyone was watching. Waiting.

And Zariah?

She felt the silence hold her up instead of pressing her down.

Jared grabbed his laptop. Stormed past her. Shoulder checked her on the way out.

She didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

She stood there in the aftermath, heart pounding, hands steady.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The barista stepped forward, a steaming mug in hand.

"On the house," she whispered. "And... that was the bravest shit I've ever seen."

Zariah smiled.

Took the cup.

Sat at the table Jared left behind.

Opened her phone.

Typed a single text to Malik.

I burned the ghost today.

It felt fucking glorious.

He responded in seconds.

You're the fiercest woman I've ever known.

And I get to love you?

Fuck, I'm lucky.

She didn't reply right away.

She sipped her chai.

Looked around the café.

Felt her power settle on her skin like new perfume.

For the first time in a long time...

She didn't feel like she'd survived something.

She felt like she'd won.

What We Almost Lost

Malik didn't answer her text.

The one that said: I burned the ghost today.

She expected celebration. A call. Maybe even flowers.

But there was nothing.

No read receipt. No reply.

Just silence.

And for the first time in weeks, it scared her.

She found him at the garage, hours after closing, still sitting in the driver's seat of a gutted Impala.

No music.

No tools.

Just the hum of the overhead light and the engine that would never start.

He didn't look up when she walked in.

Didn't flinch when she said his name.

She climbed in beside him, into a seat with no cushion, with grease on the armrest and dust in the cupholder.

Still, she reached for his hand.

He gave it to her.

Not tightly.

But like a man surrendering a weapon.

"I didn't want to take this from you," he said.

She looked at him.

Confused.

Quiet.

"What do you mean?"

He stared forward. Voice low. Barely more than breath.

"I didn't want to be the reason you had to go that far. Be that loud. Burn that public."

"You weren't."

He turned his head, finally looked her in the eye.

"I watched the video, Z."

Her blood ran cold.

"What video?"

He pulled out his phone. Clicked play.

There she was--standing at the café table, fire in her voice, her hands flying, her chest heaving, Jared shrinking.

Someone had filmed it.

Uploaded it.

Captioned it: "She Went Off On Her Ex and I'm Living."

Thousands of views.

Hundreds of comments.

Half of them cheering.

Half of them dissecting her.

And Malik?

He looked like he was holding back a scream behind his teeth.

"I should've protected you better."

"From what?"

"From all of it."

She touched his face.

"You're not here to protect me," she said. "You're here to stand beside me when I protect myself."

He swallowed hard.

"Still feels like I failed."

Zariah climbed into his lap. Straddled him in the dead car like they were sixteen again--but this time, there was nothing playful in her movement.

She grabbed his face in both hands.

"You didn't fail," she said. "You loved me."

He cracked.

Right there.

No warning.

The first tear slid down his cheek like it had been waiting years to fall.

Then another.

Then he was full-body shaking beneath her.

His hands clung to her waist like a lifeline.

And Zariah just held him.

No sound.

No soothing.

Just presence.

"You ever been held when you cried?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Let me."

He nodded once, jaw trembling.

She kissed his forehead. His cheek. His throat.

He clung harder.

Whimpered once.

And she felt it in her soul.

The man who never broke finally breaking.

When he finally quieted, her hands were under his shirt.

Soft. Slow. Not asking. Just touching.

He let her.

Because this wasn't about permission.

This was about being seen.

She kissed his chest, over the tattoo near his heart.

"I want you," she whispered. "But not because I need anything from you. Just because I love what lives inside you, even when it hurts."

He nodded.

Tears still fresh.

Zariah unzipped his jeans. Slid her hand in. Pulled him free.

He was hard--halfway. Hesitant. But real.

She pulled her panties to the side.

Guided him in.

No teasing.

No buildup.

Just connection.

They moved together in the skeleton of that old car.

No rhythm.

No pace.

Just need.

He buried his face in her neck.

She whispered his name like a prayer.

His hands held her like porcelain.

Her hips rolled with reverence.

When he came, it wasn't loud.

It was a broken exhale into her shoulder.

And when she followed--trembling around him--it was with a quiet whimper and his name on her lips.

They didn't move for a long time.

Later, in bed, she lay curled against him.

Both of them naked.

Both of them clean in a way that had nothing to do with soap.

Malik's voice was rough with sleep.

"I love you, Z."

"I know."

"You scare the shit out of me sometimes."

She smiled.

"Same."

They laughed once.

Then slept.

And when the sun rose the next morning?

They didn't flinch.

They opened their eyes, looked at each other...

And for the first time in forever--

There was nothing left to hide.