Chapter 8
The second I stepped into that dim hallway, I knew I’d already lost whatever edge I thought I had. Sanaa didn’t flinch. Didn’t second-guess. She let me have her—and I fucking did. Took her like I’d been dying of thirst and she was the only thing that could touch it.
Because she was.
Now she was beside me, silent. That kind of silence that always came when her mind was loud. I knew it well. It used to come right before she’d say something that split me wide open.
We made it to my place in under ten minutes.
Second floor walk-up. Two bedrooms—though one was more of a graveyard for paperwork, a weight bench I barely touched, and a pair of dusty dumbbells that hadn’t seen movement in months.
The living room was clean, stripped-down.
Dark leather couch. Grey walls. A single photo of my grandmother framed above the entryway table. She used to call Sanaa my good thing.
The second I locked the door behind us, Sanaa turned, eyes scanning the space like it still held something of her. Maybe it did.
“You still collect them?” she asked, nodding toward the shelf above the TV.
I followed her eyes to the row of vintage firefighter helmets.
Twelve now. Each one gleaming. The first—hers—was a battered black leather lid with a cracked brim and the number 19 burned into the front shield.
She found it in some antique shop on Butler Street.
Told me I needed a hobby that didn’t involve cheap bourbon and sleepless nights.
“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “Still do.”
Her smile came slow and soft, like it was tugged from some old memory. And for a breath, just one, I felt steady again.
But I didn’t let that last. I crossed the room, curled my hand around her wrist, and tugged her gently toward the hallway—toward my bedroom.
The bed was king-sized, platformed low to the ground with deep black sheets pulled tight. I liked the weight of it. The size. Like it could hold the worst of me. Like it could hold her.
Clothes came off quick—hers first, then mine. She stripped with no hesitation, no shame. And I drank her in like she was made just to tempt the strongest parts of me.
That ass. Those thighs. Breasts that bounced when she stepped out of her dress, light brown skin gleaming in the low light. Her body had always done something to me—made me hungry in a way I never fully recovered from.
I backed her to the bed and pushed her down slow, watching her head hit my pillow, the rise of her chest, the wet between her thighs already catching the light.
When I entered her again, it wasn’t like earlier. No rush. No frenzy.
I eased into her. Deep. Controlled. My palm cradled the side of her face as I kissed her—long, slow strokes of tongue and breath and heat.
She clung to me. Arms tight around my neck. Legs locked around my waist. She met every thrust with a roll of her hips, every kiss with a moan that slipped out soft and broken.
“Tariq,” she whispered, voice high, body trembling.
I bit her shoulder, licked the salt from her skin, whispered how good she felt wrapped around me. She arched, eyes wide, mouth open, helpless to the rhythm I gave her.
When she came, she clenched tight—around me, against me. Nails dragging down my back. I didn’t stop. Kept going until the tension eased, until she went soft and loose beneath me, boneless and quiet.
Then I followed her. Gutted myself with one final thrust, buried deep, her name caught in my throat like a blessing I had to hold onto.
We collapsed together, a tangle of sweat and heat. Her hand rested flat on my chest, fingers splayed like she was reminding herself I was real. That I hadn’t disappeared again.
“I’m not gonna ask what this is,” she said, voice still breathless.
I stared at the ceiling, lungs trying to slow down. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t have the words.”
Silence wrapped around us again. Heavy. Familiar.
“I still love you.” I didn’t even mean to say it out loud. It just… fell out.
She didn’t speak right away. I felt her swallow, felt the tension tighten her limbs.
“I get why you won’t say it back,” I murmured. “But I need you to know it’s still in me. Has been.”
She shifted, resting her chin on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. “You missed a lot.”
I dragged my fingers along the line of her spine, memorizing her all over again. “So did you.”
Her eyes softened in that way that always made me forget how to lie. “What’d I miss?”
I turned toward her and brushed my thumb over her bottom lip—still swollen from kissing, from whispering my name like it was a truth she’d buried too long.
“Tyson’s still married,” I said. “He brings your name up every time I see him—like he’s trying to nudge me back into the light.
Ty’s still out there sowing his royal oats.
Ma’s still cooking too much. And my old man…
” I paused. “He started using a cane last year. Still too proud to say anything about it.”
Her fingers paused against my chest, then started moving again—slow circles, like she was writing her name in my skin.
“Started my own practice as you know. My mom is still meddling in my business every chance she can get. My dad’s still yelling at the TV like he’s coaching the damn Steelers from the couch, and Jada had another baby—a boy.”
I smiled into her hair. “I know you love being an auntie.”
“I love it. I can send them home.” She laughed softly, and for a second, the weight between us lifted.
She didn’t say anything. Just kept tracing lazy lines across my chest, then down my arm, until her hand found the scar curling from my elbow up to my shoulder.
Her thumb moved over it carefully, reverently. I stilled out of instinct. That scar held a memory written in the fire.
She rubbed the ridged skin gently. Not scared of it. Not pitying either.
“You never told me the whole story,” she said.
I swallowed, the image already back in my head—smoke, heat, the weight of a collapsing ceiling, the sound of a woman screaming for her babies.
“It was the duplex,” I said. “I wasn’t on shift. Just nearby, grabbing takeout. I heard the call come through. Knew the address. Got there before the engine. Smoke already pouring out. Kids trapped upstairs. No time to wait.”
Her fingers tightened around my arm.
“I went in. Pulled out the boys first. One in each arm. I should’ve stopped there… but I didn’t. I went back for her. And on the way down… the ceiling gave.”
Her breath caught.
“When I came to, I was on the lawn. Back of my neck burned. Couldn’t move my left arm for weeks. Doc said I was lucky to keep full function. But all I kept thinking was—if I’d died… what would that have done to you?”
I didn’t say the rest. I never did. Didn’t say that she didn’t make it out.
Didn’t say that sometimes, in the seconds before sleep, I still saw her hand slipping from my grip. Still heard the sound the house made when it decided who it was keeping. Still smelled that mix of melted wiring and smoke that never quite left my lungs.
There were nights I woke up convinced I’d left someone behind. Nights I couldn’t touch Sanaa because my hands remembered fire instead of her skin.
That woman didn’t just die in that house. Part of me stayed there with her.
And for a long time, every time Sanaa looked at me with love, all I could think was, I don’t get to keep people.
She blinked slowly, eyes shining. “It would’ve wrecked me.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say goodbye, Tariq. You just… left me in the silence.”
“I thought I was protecting you. I thought if I stayed close, I’d pull you into the darkness too. So I tried to push you away before the nightmares did.”
“They did anyway,” she whispered. “They pulled us both.”
She sat up on her elbow, her fingers moving to the scar again. Then she leaned in and kissed it—soft and deliberate. Then higher. My jaw. My cheek. Her lips brushing over me like she was rewriting the story with each touch.
“I used to dream about this,” she said. “Coming back to you and kissing every place you tried to hide from me.”
Her body slid over mine, straddling me slowly like she had every right to. Like she remembered everything.
She guided me back inside her, slow and certain, and we both exhaled like we’d been holding our breath for six years.
Her pussy clamped and clenched around me, tight and trembling, as her lips returned to my shoulder—kissing the scar as she took me deeper. Her breath stuttered against my skin. Mine caught somewhere between the ache in my chest and the fire in my spine
I held her hips, let her move—deep, grounding rolls. Not fast. Not showy. Just need. Just closeness. Her breath hitched every time I hit that spot deep inside, and her pussy gripped me like it never forgot who it belonged to.
She leaned forward, forehead pressed to mine.
“I never stopped,” she said.
I didn’t ask what she meant. I didn’t need to. I kissed her instead.
We moved like we were making something sacred.
Like we were undoing the damage with every moan, every kiss, every slow, hard thrust. My hands roamed her back, her ass, her thighs.
I worshipped her the way I should have always done.
She broke first, coming with a cry that cracked me wide open.
I followed, groaning her name as I came deep inside her, body shaking, heart full.
Later, she curled into my side, her breath soft against my chest.
“You’re different,” she murmured.
“So are you, but I still love you.”
She didn’t say anything after that. Just reached for my hand and held it tight.
I didn’t know what morning would bring. But tonight, I had her in my arms again.
.