Chapter Thirty-Five: He Didn’t Say Much… But He Ain’t Have To
957 Words
Lyric
The mall had that tired, end-of-the-week smell — waxed floors, cheap perfume, and a hint of stress.
It was almost 9 PM.
I clocked out with my back aching, my hair frizzy from all the damn restock runs, and my apron crusted with body butter smears. All I wanted was food, a hot shower, and silence.
The night air hit different as I stepped outside.
Cool.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
I scrolled through my phone, opening the Uber app—
But then I saw it.
That car.
Low. Black. Clean. Parked under a broken streetlight like it was waiting for me.
And I knew exactly who it was.
Zay was leaned back in the driver’s seat, window half down, hood up.
One hand rested on the wheel. The other held a styrofoam cup.
Music played low — something dark and slow, with a beat that sounded like heartbreak and lust mixed together.
He didn’t wave.
Didn’t call out.
Just nodded toward the passenger door.
And I?
I got in.
The smell hit me before I even closed the door — hot food, fried and sweet and everything I didn’t know I was craving.
“You ate?” he asked, voice deep, calm.
“Nah,” I mumbled. “Wasn’t hungry.”
He didn’t say anything.
Just reached into a paper bag, pulled out a box, and handed it to me.
Loaded wings. Cajun fries. Lemonade.
From that late-night spot down on Belmont. The one I mentioned once, forever ago.
I took the box and looked at him.
“You remembered?”
Zay shrugged. “I ain’t deaf.”
We drove in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
His hand stayed on the wheel, thumb tapping in rhythm.
That scent — cologne and fried food and something uniquely him — wrapped around me like a blanket.
Halfway through the ride, I spoke.
“You going to Janiyah’s pre-game tonight?”
He scoffed, low and soft.
“Why would I do that?”
“Smoke’s gonna be there.”
“That’s Smoke.”
“His your right-hand man, right?”
He glanced over, eyes cool.
“Ain’t gotta go places just 'cause people expect me to.”
Silence.
Then...
“You want me there?”
I didn’t answer.
But the way my chest tightened?
That was the answer.
When we pulled up to my house, the porch light was off — my mama must’ve still been out playing cards at Miss Renee’s.
Zay parked like he always did — smooth and slow, engine humming low.
I didn’t get out right away.
Neither did he.
He looked at me then, really looked. Eyes gray, unreadable, but soft in that dangerous Zay way.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“I’m tired.”
“You eating first.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He smirked, but didn’t say anything.
Just grabbed the food bag, nodded toward the porch, and got out.
Inside, the house was dark. Quiet.
I turned on the kitchen light while Zay dropped the food on the counter.
He moved around like he belonged.
Tossed his hoodie on the back of the couch.
Unlaced his sneakers, leaving them by the door.
Opened the fridge like he lived here.
“Your mama ain’t home?”
“Nope. Probably at Miss Renee’s.”
“She like wine coolers, right?”
“Yeah…”
He reached into the bag and pulled one out, placing it on the table.
“Got her a pack. Left it on the porch.”
I blinked.
Zay always had this way of doing things without saying he cared — just action. Just showing up.
We sat at the table.
I ate slow, mouth full of fries, while he scrolled his phone like he wasn’t watching me out the corner of his eye.
“You want anything else?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You tired?”
“Dead.”
“I’m staying.”
I looked up.
“You what?”
He didn’t repeat it.
Just stood up, walked down the hall, and went straight to my room.
Like that was that.
By the time I finished eating and cleaned up the wrappers, he was on my bed — hoodie off, t-shirt tight, tattooed arms behind his head, phone resting on his chest.
Shoes off.
Comfortable.
“Zay,” I said, standing in the doorway.
“Hm?”
“Why are you really here?”
He looked at me.
Long and slow.
“Cause I ain’t like how we left things.”
I didn’t answer.
He sat up.
“You mad at me?”
“A little.”
“You done being mad?”
“Maybe.”
He smirked.
“Good. Come here.”
I stood there.
And then I moved.
Sat on the edge of the bed, close but not close enough.
He reached out, fingers brushing my thigh — light, soft, barely a touch.
“You know you mine, right?”
My heart stuttered.
“We not even together, Zay.”
“Still mine.”
I shook my head, but didn’t move.
His hand slid to my waist, pulling me closer — slow, gentle, but firm.
“I ain’t perfect, Lyric. But I ain’t letting nobody else get to you first. You feel me?”
I nodded.
Because words?
They’d fall apart.
But my body?
It already knew the truth.
Later, we laid in the dark.
Me tucked into his chest.
His breath slow and steady.
That soft hum in his throat when he’s drifting to sleep.
No promises.
No titles.
Just that quiet safety only Zay could bring.
And I knew then — even without saying it —
I was his.
And he? He’d never really left.
- Writer
