His Soft Obsession

Chapter Nineteen: Show Me You Care

Lyric

The ride was quiet, but it wasn’t cold.

Zay had one hand on the wheel, the other on his lap, eyes on the road like nothing just happened.

But my mind was still spinning.

Her voice.

That comment.

“So now you with a fat btch?”*

I sat with that.

Even though he shut it down. Even though I knew better. It still hit somewhere deep.

“You gon’ say anything?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Zay glanced at me. “About what?”

“You don’t think it was crazy what she said?”

He sighed through his nose. “That girl don’t exist to me.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t affect me.”

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just drove slower, turned down the music.

“You want me to start a war every time somebody say something dumb about you?” he asked, voice even. “You give ‘em attention, they win.”

“It’s not about them. It’s about you seeing me.”

He pulled into my street, parked the car, and finally looked at me. Really looked at me.

His eyes? Heavy. Gray. Focused.

“I see you,” he said. “Been seeing you. Ain’t nothing about you regular. And if I ever hear you shrink yourself for them again, we got a bigger problem.”

My throat felt tight. But I didn’t want to cry.

I just nodded.

Zay stepped out first, came around to my side, opened the door like it was second nature. Walked me up to the porch in silence.

Then stopped right in front of me.

“You gon’ be good?” he asked.

I nodded again, voice soft. “Yeah.”

He stepped closer, one hand sliding under my chin. Tilting it up.

Then kissed me.

Deep.

Slow.

Soft.

But firm.

Like he was claiming territory he already owned.

When he pulled back, he said, “Go inside, Lyric. Before I change my mind.”

I stood inside my room, door closed, heart wild, fingers touching my lips.

I wanted to text him something. But I didn’t.

Instead, I called Janiyah.

No answer.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

Sunday Morning

My phone rang at 9:42am.

Still half-asleep, bonnet barely hanging on, I squinted at the screen and answered.

“Bout damn time,” I mumbled.

“Girl,” Janiyah said, voice hoarse. “I’m calling you from heaven.”

I sat up. “What happened?”

“I got my back blown. OUT. Like… I can’t even walk right.”

I busted out laughing. “You was mad last night.”

“And now I’m just sore and in love.”

“You so stupid.”

We stayed on the phone for a while — gossiping about the party, the drama, the fight she almost started. She swore Smoke whispered something to Zay right before they left, but she didn’t hear it all.

“I saw how he looked at you, though,” she said. “He gone, bestie.”

I smiled. “He been quiet.”

“You know Zay don’t blow up phones. That man pulls up.”

Later that day

The house was quiet.

My mom had left a note on the fridge:

At Pam’s. Playing cards. Don’t wait up.

Classic Black mama Sunday behavior.

I was in the kitchen, cooking. Chicken seasoned to perfection, mac and cheese already in the oven, greens simmering low on the stove.

Something told me he might come.

But the silence from him was louder than usual.

I wiped my hands and finally sent a message:

“You good? If you want, you can come by. I cooked if you hungry.”

No response.

I sighed, took the chicken out the air fryer, and started plating.

Then I heard the knock.

Two short taps.

I froze.

Walked to the door.

Opened it slow.

And there he was.

Zay.

Gray sweats. Hoodie. Fresh cut. Face unreadable.

“You ain’t text back,” I said.

He looked down at me.

“I didn’t need to.”