Act VIII - The New Normal

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?

He looked up and caught her watching.

"You gone just stare?" he asked, smirking.

"I'm studying the man who turned my whole damn life inside out."

He chuckled. "Better be takin' notes."

Zariah set her journal down.

Stood.

Walked over and sank onto the floor beside him.

Rain tapped the windows.

The kind of rhythm that could lull you into remembering who you were before the world hardened you.

"You remember how we used to chase storms?" she asked.

Malik raised an eyebrow. "That code for something filthy or literal?"

She smiled. "Literal. Back when we were kids. That summer it rained for a week straight."

"Ohhh," he laughed. "You made me ride my bike to your porch just to sit there soaked like an idiot."

"You showed up with a towel and a bottle of cherry soda," she whispered.

He nodded. "You were the only storm I ever wanted to be inside of."

Zariah blinked.

Then laughed.

"Did you just turn my childhood into an innuendo?"

"Baby, I turn everything you touch into poetry."

A pause.

Then, quieter:

"I don't want to chase storms anymore," she said.

Malik leaned back, arms resting over his knees.

"Me neither."

"I like this," she said. "Boring shit. Dishes. Receipts. Sunday rain."

"Us."

She nodded.

"Is it okay to not crave chaos?" she asked. "To want this and not feel guilty?"

Malik turned to her fully, slid one hand into her curls.

"Z, we been baptized in chaos. What we're doing now? This is the miracle. This is the prize. We get to stop running now."

She breathed that in.

Let it settle in her bones.

They stayed like that for a while.

Quiet.

Safe.

No need to fix anything.

No urge to fuck something broken just to feel alive.

Just there.

Eventually, Malik stood and extended a hand.

"Come here."

She took it.

He led her to the window.

The rain had slowed to a mist.

The yard shimmered.

"Look at that," he said.

Zariah pressed her cheek to his arm.

"What?"

"No storm left to chase."

She looked up at him.

"I love you."

He smiled.

"I know."

And for once?

That wasn't a smug line.

It was the softest truth she'd ever heard.

Fade to Flesh

The house was dark, except for the flicker of one candle.

Rain had dried into memory.

The only sound was the low hum of Billie Holiday on vinyl, crooning like she'd seen everything love could do--and still chose it.

Zariah stood in the bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but Malik's old white tee.

He lay on the bed, propped on one elbow, watching her like she was the last poem he'd ever want to read.

She didn't smile.

Didn't tease.

She just looked at him. Open. Unmasked.

He reached for her.

She came without hesitation.

They met in the middle of the bed.

Knees pressed.

Hands grazing.

Foreheads touching.

Neither spoke.

Because silence had finally become safe between them.

Malik's fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, pushing it up inch by inch, eyes locked on hers like every part of her was a question he knew the answer to.

Zariah lifted her arms. Let him take it off.

Let him see her.

All of her.

Stretch marks. Soft belly. Breasts full and heavy from time and truth.

Malik cupped her face. Kissed her gently.

"You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said.

She didn't blush.

She believed him now.

They lay back.

Zariah straddled his thighs, letting his hands settle on her hips.

She reached for his waistband, pulled it down slow, released him from cotton and tension.

His cock was hard, thick, warm against her palm.

But she didn't rush to ride it.

She just stroked him--slow, deliberate, loving.

He exhaled like the weight left his body through her touch.

Then she leaned down.

Took him into her mouth, one slow inch at a time.

Not to impress.

Not to dominate.

But to worship.

Malik's hand slid into her curls.

Not to guide.

Just to feel.

Her tongue moved like memory--familiar and electric.

He gasped.

And that sound?

She swallowed it.

Like prayer.

But he didn't let her finish.

He pulled her up, kissed her, gripped her thighs, and flipped her beneath him.

Positioned himself between her legs.

Pressed his forehead to hers.

And pushed inside.

They both moaned.

But soft.

Low.

Like a door creaking open.

Malik moved slow.

Deep.

Zariah wrapped her legs around his waist.

Not to pull him deeper--but to keep him close.

They didn't talk.

They moved.

He thrust with rhythm, with intention.

Rolled his hips in slow circles that made her breath hitch.

Ran his hands along her sides like he was learning her all over again.

And she let him.

Let him love her slowly.

Let him look into her eyes without looking away.

Let him kiss her mouth while he was inside her.

When she came, it wasn't a scream.

It was a whisper of his name.

Repeated.

Ragged.

Wrecked.

Malik buried his face in her neck and let go seconds later, spilling inside her with a deep groan, his body trembling like something sacred just passed through him.

They stayed tangled.

Breathing together.

Malik kissed the corner of her mouth.

Then her shoulder.

Then her hip.

Then her hand.

Zariah smiled.

That slow, post-storm smile.

The kind that only comes when you know there's nothing left to survive.

"Was that... our last first time?" she whispered.

Malik brushed her curls back.

"Nah," he said. "Every time with you feels like we're starting over."

She curled into his chest.

He wrapped around her.

The candle burned down.

And in the dark?

They didn't fade to black.

They faded to flesh.

Her Final Journal Entry (Epilogue

Journal Entry

August 14th - Light rain, honeyed tea, clean sheets.

I used to think healing would feel like fireworks.

Like some grand, cinematic moment where the ache vanished and all the doors opened.

But this?

This feels better.

It's the hum of the washing machine down the hall.

It's Malik humming under his breath while he changes the oil.

It's me brushing my teeth in the mirror and not flinching at my reflection.

I still write.

Not because I need to survive it anymore.

But because I want to honor it.

The bruises.

The fuckups.

The love I didn't know how to receive.

The love I tried to give without condition--even when it cost me my damn breath.

Last night, I woke up to his hand on my thigh. Not grabbing. Just resting.

He didn't say a word.

Neither did I.

We just laid there.

And the quiet didn't scare me.

The quiet held me.

I used to fight to be loved louder.

Now I get kissed softly and often.

He still licks his thumb and smooths my eyebrows when I'm ranting.

I still put cayenne in the collard greens and call it a compromise.

This is the new normal.

And I love it here.

Today I held space for a woman in my workshop who read a piece about choosing herself for the first time.

She couldn't finish the last paragraph.

Her voice cracked. Her hands shook. Her truth choked in her throat.

So I took the page from her trembling fingers.

And I read it for her.

And after, I walked over, bent down, and whispered something in her ear before she sat back down.

She started crying again--but this time it wasn't pain.

It was release.

I told her:

"You don't get to touch the woman I became... unless you earned her."

And the moment I said it, I realized I wasn't just saying it to her.

I was saying it to myself.

To my ghosts.

To the version of me that stayed too long.

To the one that left just in time.

To the one that came back not softer--but clearer.

I used to think survival was the prize.

But no.

It was the path.

This is the prize:

Waking up next to a man who doesn't flinch when I flinch.

Walking barefoot across floors that don't shake.

Laughing with a mouth that no longer tastes apology.

Loving without making myself smaller.

So if I ever forget how far I've come--

If I ever think I owe my softness to anyone who didn't help build it--

Let this entry remind me:

I didn't survive to be touched out of memory.

I didn't stay to be handled like a favor.

And I damn sure didn't come back to be claimed by anyone who didn't bleed beside me.

This love is earned.

This body is sacred.

This life?

Mine.

And tomorrow?

We begin again.

Not broken.

Not bitter.

Just different.