Chapter 38:The Unspoken
1245 Words
Waiya’s P.O.V
The wind had quieted. The spirits stilled. For once, the night wasn’t a warning — it was a hush.
Waiya felt the rough wood of the porch behind her, the warmth of Justin in front of her, and the tension between them finally unraveling into something neither of them could hold back anymore.
They had kissed before — tension-fueled brushes, hesitant touches. But this time, there was no stopping halfway. No pretending they weren’t past the point of return.
The porch faded. The night disappeared.
She felt everything in that moment: the weight of what they’d survived, the ache of what still waited, and the soft, impossible hope blooming between them.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, a sound slipping from her throat that wasn’t fear, wasn’t pain — just want. She didn’t remember how they got inside, just the warmth of his hands beneath her shirt, the reverence in his touch as if her skin told stories only he knew how to read.
Clothes fell away like old walls. Every touch was permission. Every sigh was a confession.
They didn’t rush. They took their time — like they had all the time in the world, even if they knew they didn’t.
When he entered her, she gasped — not from pain, but from everything they’d been holding back. She held onto him like he was the last piece of home she had left. He held her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
They moved together like a prayer, like ceremony, like something sacred passed down between souls.
And when it was over — when they collapsed into each other, breathless and clinging — Waiya whispered his name against his neck, and he pressed his lips to her forehead like a vow.
They didn’t speak much after. Words felt too small.
She curled into him, skin to skin, heart to heart. His arms wrapped around her from behind, hand resting low on her stomach without thinking — like he already knew.
Outside, the wind picked up again.
But inside, it was quiet.
The kind of quiet where things take root.
The kind of quiet where something new begins.
Justin’s P.O.V.
Justin woke before the sun did.
Waiya was still wrapped in his arms, her back tucked snug against his chest, her hand resting over his. Everything about her — the steady rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin — made the chaos of the last few weeks feel distant. He hadn’t known peace like this in years. Maybe ever.
He didn’t want to move.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he buried his nose in her hair, memorized the rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest, and let himself rest in her softness.
She stirred a little, humming low in her throat before murmuring, “You’re staring.”
“Can you blame me?” he whispered back.
She smiled — eyes still closed, voice still hushed from sleep. “You always this mushy in the morning?”
“Only with you, Wolf.”
Her body pressed closer. His arms tightened. They laid there like that — in the hush between night and day — until Granny knocked softly on the doorframe.
“I made cedar tea,” she said, without stepping inside. “Y’all should drink some before it cools.”
Justin sat up, careful not to disturb Waiya too much. She grumbled and buried her face in the pillow. He pulled the blanket over her and met Granny in the hallway.
She handed him two cups without a word.
But her eyes lingered on Waiya’s sleeping form.
Longer than usual.
There was something in her gaze — not alarm. Not worry. Just… a knowing. A weight she didn’t name.
She said nothing.
Just turned and walked back to the kitchen.
Justin stared after her for a moment before stepping back into the bedroom. He placed the extra cup on the nightstand for Waiya, even though he knew she probably wouldn’t touch it until much later. Her breathing had already settled into that deep, even rhythm — the kind that only came when she finally felt safe enough to surrender.
He stood there, watching her sleep.
Her hair spilled across the pillow like ink in water. A faint glow pulsed just beneath her skin — barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. Her tattoo shimmered now and then, responding to whatever she was dreaming. Or maybe… whatever was reaching for her.
Justin sat on the edge of the bed, but his eyes never left her. He took a sip of the tea Granny made. Bitter. Strong. Grounding.
His fingers itched to reach out, to run through her hair again like he had the night before. But something about that glow held him still. She needed rest. And he needed to figure out what that shimmer meant.
Granny had seen it.
That’s why she looked at her like that.
And Justin had felt it too — right before Waiya passed out in his arms days ago. Right before the Grove. Before the pain. Before her scar pulsed like it was trying to split her open from the inside.
She was changing.
Not just recovering — evolving.
Coming into something.
Or being claimed by something.
He set the tea down, stood, and walked out of the room, leaving the door cracked open behind him. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he made his way down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Granny was sitting at the table, already lighting a bundle of herbs over a small clay dish. Mug beside her. Eyes distant, cloudy — like she was seeing more than what was in front of her.
“You saw it too,” Justin said as he took the seat across from her.
Granny didn’t look up. She pinched a bit of something—mullein or mugwort maybe—and dropped it into the smoldering bundle. Smoke curled up slow and spiraled above her head.
“I been saw it,” she said softly. “It’s just louder now. Harder to ignore.”
Justin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What is it?”
“She’s waking up,” Granny murmured, stirring the smoke with her fingers. “But not just to her gifts. To all of it. The pain. The memory. The truth. That scar ain’t just a wound. It’s a doorway.”
“To what?”
Granny finally looked at him.
“To what’s been waiting.”
Justin swallowed hard. “For her?”
Granny nodded. “For all of y’all. But mostly her.”
There was silence between them, save for the occasional pop of the herbs burning. Then Granny leaned back in her chair and looked out the window.
“You think I don’t notice how she curls into you when she’s scared?” she asked, voice light but thick with meaning. “How you don’t sleep unless she do? This ain’t just some love story, baby. It’s prophecy.”
Justin felt the weight of that word settle on his shoulders like wet earth.
“She gon’ need you strong,” Granny continued. “Steady. Not just for the fight. For the choice.”
“What choice?” he asked.
But Granny didn’t answer.
She just took another sip from her mug and said, “Let her sleep. It’ll be the last time in a while she gets peace like this.”
- Writer
