Intricately Intrigued #2
Because I know what that man’s life looked like. Secrets and anger, intertwined with shame and damage he never took responsibility for. I will never model myself after a man who destroyed everything he touched because he was a coward.
So I sit there, engine off, watching Zaria step outside and I make a decision.
If I want them—both of them. I’m firm and unapologetic in my yearning.
It has to be open, full, and unconditional.
No hiding and no shame. Because anything less than that isn’t love.
If nothing else, they’ll learn that I don’t do anything halfway.
I snap out of my thoughts when I notice the same drunk idiot from earlier staggering from the shadows. His eyes lock onto Zaria as she owes him something. And he’d been waiting to collect. I watch his shoulders square, his mouth moving too fast, his hands too loose at his sides.
He corners her near the brick wall by the side entrance, too close, crowding her space. I see her hands come up, palms out, hear her voice sharpen.
“Get the fuck away from me! Don’t fucking touch me!”
He doesn’t listen.
Men like that never do.
He sneers, words slurring, voice loud enough to carry. His hand lifts—trying to make it way underneath her shirt to cop a feel.
Men like this are always peculiar because while he’s trying to take what doesn’t belong to him—he’s also yelling transphobic slurs and telling her nobody will every love or claim her.
The belligerent entitlement is thick in every drunken word.
Zaria shoves at his chest, panic flashing across her face as he presses closer.
I’m already moving. He was so busy trying to harm a woman for not wanting him that he didn’t realize I was now feet away from him. When my eyes connected with Zaria she knew she was safe and her body relaxed.
I’m now standing behind him with a .357 pointed at his head.
“Bitch ass nigga I’d hate to have to leave your brains on the sidewalk for trying to touch what’s mine,” I barked with a low and menacing growl.
At that moment, the drunk fool manages to sober up and throw his hands up in surrender.
“Nah. Don’t surrender now. Be the same piece of shit who was going to assault my woman because she said no.”
I didn’t miss the shock on Zaria’s face when I called her my woman. I smirked before pistol-whipping the loser and leaving him lying on the pavement as a gash bled out
“She’s already claimed and love. Well protected too,” I add before kicking him in the stomach.
“You okay, gorgeous?”
She nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I think so.”
I don’t miss the way her hands are still shaking.
“Where’s your car,” I ask gently.
She exhales. “I don’t have one. I was waiting on my Lyft. I just needed some air.”
“Cancel it,” I say without hesitation. “I’ll take you home.”
She hesitates, pride and caution warring on her face.
“I’ll feel better getting you got home safe,” I add quietly. “Please.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
I walk her to my car, keeping my body between her and the street, opening the door for her without comment. As she gets in, I catch the look on her face.
Surprised and grateful but still guarded. And something else. Something that tells me she heard what wasn’t said out loud.
I start the engine, already knowing one thing with absolute clarity. No one gets to scare or harm her and walk away untouched by consequence. And no one gets to treat her like she’s disposable while I’m standing in the room.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
The car ride starts in silence, the kind that hums instead of presses. Streetlights flicker across the windshield as I pull away from the bar, checking my mirrors out of habit, not fear. She’s curled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely, breath still evening out.
I clear my throat, aiming for light. Normal. “You’ve been bartending a while?”
“Six years,” she says. “Give or take.”
“That long?” I glance over. “You don’t look tired of people yet.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “I am. I’m just good at hiding it.” Then, more thoughtful, “It paid my way through college. Still does.”
“What did you study?”
“I’m finishing my master’s in social work.”
That gets my full attention. “Seriously?”
She nods. “I’m saving every dime I make. I want to work in advocacy. Young adults who are transitioning and don’t have support. There are so many who get pushed out of their homes with nothing but a backpack and fear.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “That’s… ambitious.”
“It has to be,” she says simply. “I want to buy a building eventually. A safe living community. Housing for unhoused trans and transitioning folks. Access to healthcare. Legal help for name changes. Therapy. Stability. All of it.”
I’m quiet for a moment, stunned by the scope of it, by the clarity. “Is that because you’ve experienced some of that yourself?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No embellishment.
I nod slowly. “Family?”
“Estranged,” she says. “For years now. They wanted Zaire. They refused to love Zaria.”
The words land heavy, precise. I feel something settle in my chest, an ugly familiarity.
“I get that,” I say after a beat. “Awful families have a way of shaping you whether you want them to or not.”
She turns slightly. “How much has Lena told you about my father?”
“Not much,” I admit. “She’s… respectful. She lets people tell their own stories.”
I smiled briefly. The thought of having someone I could trust with my pain wasn’t a comfort I was used to.
I exhale—long and measured. “Caleb Black Sr. was abusive. To my mother. To all of us, in different ways. Control disguised as discipline. Fear masquerading as faith. We’re all in therapy now.
Together and separately. Trying to unpack what it means to heal from someone like that. ”
She listens without interrupting but I can see the horror flickering across her face as I share just enough to be honest. I don’t look at her when I finish. I keep my eyes on the road. For whatever reason the victims of abuse always sit on the side of shame and embarrassment. Never the abuser.
A moment passes.
Then I feel her hand slide over mine, warm and comforting. Her fingers thread through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.
Neither do I.
I let the silence sit with us as I drive. There was an understanding settling in where tension used to be.
It’s an understanding that knows the strength it takes to be whole when the people who should love you try to rip you to pieces. We seem to both know that weight. In this quiet and shared knowing, our dynamic shifts. Where Zaria once saw me as a threat—I hope she was now seeing me as an ally.
I wasn’t here to take from her joy and comfort.
I was here to add and multiply their happiness in ways they never thought imaginable.
I wasn’t here to take Lena possessively and occupy her love.
I was hoping for a chance to show them both they were worthy of everything they desired.
Respect.
Desire.
And most importantly—their trust.
We pull up in front of a modern duplex tucked neatly into the block, clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of place that feels intentional. It fits her. Thoughtful. Quietly confident.
She reaches for the door handle.
I clear my throat. “I dare you to touch that door handle when there’s a man sitting right here who can open it for you.”
Her hand freezes midair as she turns to look at me. Stunned into silence—lips parting slightly before she catches herself. Slowly, she brings her hands back to her lap. I chuckle under my breath and step out of the car, rounding it to open her door.
She climbs out while shaking her head. “Thank you. Really. But you don’t have to walk me to the door like it’s the end of a date.”
I shut the door and fall into step beside her anyway.
She stops, glancing over. “I said you don’t—”
“What if I want it to be,” I ask calmly.
She frowns, face scrunching in confusion. “Want it to be what.”
“The end of a date.”
I don’t smile. I don’t soften it. I let the words sit exactly as they are.
She doesn’t respond. Just unlocks the door and looks back at me. “Do you want to come in.”
I study her for a moment. “Only if you’re sure. After tonight, the last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable.”
She nods once, decisive. “I’m sure.”
She pushes the door open and steps inside, leading the way.
The place smells like peaches and papaya, warm and inviting. The space is modern but unmistakably feminine, clean lines softened by texture and color. I take it in quietly, cataloging details the way I always do when I’m trying to understand someone.
She turns and catches me looking around. “You work tomorrow.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t teach on Fridays. I usually enter grades and lounge around pretending I’m productive.”
She smiles. “You want something to drink.”
“Water,” I reply. “I want to stay clearheaded.”
Something about that earns me a look.
“I’m going to change and get comfortable,” she says. “I’ll grab your water.”
She disappears down the hall. I stay exactly where I am, hands in my pockets, reminding myself to breathe.
When she comes back, my brain stalls.
She’s wearing a cut off tank that shows a toned stretch of her midsection and a pair of tiny gym shorts that look like they were designed to test a person’s discipline. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, heat pooling low, attention snapping sharp and undeniable.
I tell myself to look away.
I don’t.
She crosses the room and hands me the glass. That’s when I realize I’ve been staring.
She notices too.
Her mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk as she raises a brow. “You good?”
I take the water, forcing my gaze back to her eyes. “I am,” I say honestly. “Just adjusting.”
She chuckles softly and settles into the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. The room hums with something new now, something deliberate.
And I realize, standing there in her space, water cold in my hand, that whatever this is, it’s already moved past curiosity.
The question now isn’t whether I want her.
It’s whether I can keep pretending I don’t.
“Do you mind if I sit,” I ask, gesturing toward the couch.
She lifts a shoulder. “Sure. Make yourself comfortable.”
I do.
I sink into the cushion, legs spreading naturally, posture relaxed, grounded. I take a slow drink of water, letting the cool settle me. When I glance back up, I catch her staring.
Not casual.
Not guarded.
Focused.
Her face is freshly washed, skin glowing soft under the lights. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun high on her head, curls escaping at the nape of her neck. No armor. No performance. Just her.
She doesn’t ease into it. Zaria never does.
“Calil,” she says plainly, “What games are you trying to play here?”
I hold her gaze.
“Because from what I’ve gathered,” she continues, voice steady but edged, “You’ve never been with a transwoman in any capacity. And I’m not about to be a dirty little secret for you to get your rocks off.”
The room is still.
I don’t shift. Don’t rush. I let her say it all.
My voice is calm when I speak. Filled with certainty.
“I’m not asking you to be,” I say. “You’re right. I’ve never been with a transwoman. But I know how to love and adore women.” I pause. “And you’re a woman, correct?”
Her brows lift just slightly. Surprise flickers across her face. Warmth immediately following. Hunger. I clock it.
I keep going.
“The trans portion of your identity doesn’t prevent me from treating you like the beautiful and driven woman you are. I’m a grown ass man, Z. I’ve never answered to another mothafucka about my desires or who I love. I damn sure don’t seek approval on who I lay with. And I’m not about to start now.”
Her breath changes. Subtle but I hear it.
“I want to get to know you the way I know Lena,” I continue, honest and unflinching.
“Protect you the way I protect Lena. Learn you. Respect you. Care for you.” My voice lowers, not threatening, just real.
“And yes, learn how to please you, the same way I learn any partner. But none of that comes without consent, clarity, or care.”
Her chest rises, falls. I don’t look away.
“Most of all,” I add, “I want to give you the respect, kindness, and love you deserve. No conditions. No hiding. No non-disclosure agreements.”
She swallows. I notice the way her shoulders ease, even as tension coils somewhere deeper. Desire hums beneath her skin, visible in the way she presses her thighs together, in the faint tightening of her nipples beneath her tank.
Still, she stays on course.
“And how do you think this works,” she asks quietly, “with the three of us.”
I don’t hesitate.
“However we want it to.”
The words aren’t flippant. They’re intentional.
“Nothing forced. Nothing assumed. We decide together what this looks like. What the boundaries are. What the pace is.” I lean back slightly. “Nobody gets left behind. Nobody gets reduced.”
Silence settles between us again, but it’s different now. Heavy. Expectant.
She studies me like she’s measuring truth, weighing risk against longing.
And I know, without needing her to say it yet, that something irreversible has already shifted.
Not because of desire alone.
But because she’s not used to being seen without sacrificing and settling for less.