15. YAHMARIA #2
“No! No! Get off me!” His voice was hoarse, broken, barely recognizable.
“Syx!” I crossed the room in three strides and grabbed his shoulders, trying to hold him still. “Syx, wake up!”
He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, his face contorted in terror, sweat pouring down his temples. His hands clawed at the air, pushing against something invisible.
“Get off—I can’t breathe—Mama—”
My chest tightened.
“Syx, it’s me. It’s Yaya. Wake up!” I shook him harder, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He jerked violently, his elbow catching me in the ribs. I gasped but didn’t let go.
“Syx!” I leaned closer, my voice sharper now. “You’re dreaming! Wake up!”
His breathing was ragged, panicked, his chest heaving like he was drowning. His hands shot up and grabbed my wrists, squeezing hard enough to hurt.
“I can’t! She’s—she’s on top of me—I can’t breathe—”
“Syx, look at me!” I yanked one hand free and cupped his face, forcing his head toward me. “Open your eyes! You’re not there. You’re here! You’re safe!”
For a moment, nothing changed. He kept thrashing, kept fighting, his grip on my other wrist bruising.
Then his eyes flew open.
Wide. Unfocused. Terrified.
He stared at me like he didn’t know who I was, his chest still heaving, his body trembling.
“It’s me,” I said softly, my thumb brushing against his cheek. “It’s Yaya. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
His breathing slowed—just slightly—but his eyes were still wild, still searching for something that wasn’t there.
“Yaya?” His voice cracked on my name.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
He blinked, and I watched the terror slowly drain from his face, replaced by something worse.
Shame.
He released my wrist and sat up abruptly, pulling away from me. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, his locs falling forward to hide his face.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Fuck.”
I sat on the edge of the bed beside him, close but not touching. My ribs ached where his elbow had caught me, but I ignored it.
“You’re okay,” I said quietly.
“I’m not.” His voice was flat, hollow. “I’m not okay.”
I didn’t argue. What was the point?
We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Finally, he lifted his head and looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted.
“When does it stop?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What?”
“The nightmares.” He swallowed hard. “When do they stop?”
I wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him it would get better, that time would heal it, that one day he’d wake up and the terror would be gone.
But I couldn’t.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
He laughed—a bitter, broken sound. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
I studied him for a moment, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were still trembling slightly.
“What do you see?” I asked. “In the nightmares.”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, and I thought he might shut down completely.
But then he spoke.
“Her.” His voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. “My mama. She’s-she’s on top of me. Dead. Her body’s heavy, and I can’t move, can’t breathe. I’m trying to push her off, but I can’t. And I’m suffocating. Every time. I’m suffocating.”
My chest ached.
I’d known Syx’s mother had died when he was young. I’d known it was traumatic. But I hadn’t known the details—hadn’t known he’d been the one to find her, that her body had fallen on him, that he’d been trapped beneath her weight.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it.
He shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
“I know. But I’m still sorry.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something shifted in his expression.
“You ever lose someone like that?” he asked.
I hesitated.
“Not like that,” I said finally. “But I lost my mom. And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.”
Syx’s brow furrowed. “How’d she die?”
“Cancer. Ovarian. It was fast—six months from diagnosis to the funeral.” I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “But I wasn’t there when she died. I was at a business meeting with my father. He didn’t tell me she’d taken a turn until it was too late.”
Syx’s jaw tightened. “That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah. It was.”
We sat in silence again, the weight of our shared grief settling between us.
“I don’t know what I’d do if I had to experience my mom’s death the way you did,” I said quietly. “I think I’d be bat shit crazy.”
Syx let out a short, sharp laugh—unexpected and raw. “You think?”
I smiled despite myself. “Okay, I know I’d be bat shit crazy.”
He laughed again, and this time it was real. The sound broke something open in the room, easing the tension just enough to breathe.
“You’re already halfway there,” he said, his mouth curving into a faint smirk.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m just saying.” He leaned back on his hands, his posture relaxing slightly. “You married Amai. That’s some certified crazy shit right there.”
I snorted. “Fair.”
We both laughed then—dark, bitter humor that only people who’d survived trauma could understand. It wasn’t funny. None of it was funny.
But we laughed anyway.
Because what else were we supposed to do?
When the laughter faded, Syx looked at me again, his expression softer now.
“Thanks,” he said.
“For what?”
“For waking me up. For not leaving.”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna leave you like that.”
“Most people would.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No.” His eyes held mine. “You’re not.”
Something passed between us in that moment—something unspoken but undeniable. A recognition. A connection.
We were both broken.
We were both trapped.
And we were both trying to survive in a world that didn’t give a fuck about our pain.
“You should try to get some sleep,” I finally said as I stood.
“Yeah.” He nodded, but he didn’t move. “You too.”
I turned toward the door, but his voice stopped me.
“Yaya.”
I looked back.
“Stay,” he said quietly. “Just for a little while. I don’t—I don’t want to be alone right now.”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve walked out and gone back to my own room.
But I didn’t.
I walked back to the bed and sat down beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay.”
He didn’t say anything. Just leaned into me slightly, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my camisole.
We sat like that for a while—silent, breathing in sync, the weight of our shared grief settling between us like a third presence in the room.
I could feel the heat of his body through my silk camisole, the solid strength of his shoulder pressed against mine. His breathing had finally evened out, but I could still feel the tremor in his muscles, the aftershocks of the terror that had gripped him.
“Thank you,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.
I turned my head to look at him and found him already watching me. His eyes were still red-rimmed, still haunted, but there was something else there now.
Something raw and vulnerable and achingly human.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I said softly.
“I do.” His hand found mine where it rested on the mattress between us. His fingers were warm, calloused, strong. “You didn’t have to come. You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavier than they should’ve been.
His thumb brushed across my knuckles—once, twice—and I felt the touch all the way down to my bones.
“Yaya,” he said, and my name on his lips sounded sweet as honey.
I don’t know who moved first.
Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was both of us at the same time, drawn together by some invisible force we couldn’t name and didn’t want to fight.
His mouth found mine in the darkness, and I gasped against his lips.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, questioning, like he was asking permission I’d already given. His hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
I kissed him back, my fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepened, and I felt the shift—the moment when comfort shifted to lust. When grief and vulnerability twisted into need and desperation and a hunger that had been building between us for longer than either of us wanted to admit.
His tongue swept into my mouth, and I moaned softly, my body arching toward his.
“Yaya,” he breathed against my lips, and I heard the question in his voice.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Please don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
His hands moved to my waist, sliding beneath the hem of my camisole, his palms hot against my bare skin. I shivered at the contact, my body coming alive under his touch.
I pulled back just enough to yank the camisole over my head and toss it aside. The cool air hit my skin, but I didn’t care. I needed this. Needed him. Needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of loneliness and loss.
Syx’s eyes darkened as he took me in—my bare breasts, my silk shorts, the way my chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You’re so beautiful.”
I reached for him, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. His body was all lean muscle and dark skin, his chest rising and falling as rapidly as mine.
I ran my hands over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him, his solidness of him. He was real. He was here. And for this moment, he was mine.
He kissed me again, harder this time, his hands moving to my breasts. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, and I gasped into his mouth, my back arching.
“Syx—”
“I got you,” he murmured against my lips. “I got you.”
He laid me back on the bed, his body covering mine, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down. His weight was perfect—grounding me, anchoring me, reminding me that I was alive.
His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw, down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He kissed the hollow of my throat, the curve of my collarbone, the swell of my breast.
When his mouth closed over my nipple, I cried out, my fingers tangling in his locs.