It started small.
Malik offered her his seat one Thursday night during joint fellowship.
> "I know you like sitting near the fan," he said, smiling. "And I don't sweat much."
Angela laughed, surprised he noticed.
> "Thanks… Malik, right?"
> "Yeah. You remember."
---
The next week, he handed her a cold bottle of malt after prayers.
> "You prayed like you hadn't just returned from the global stage."
Angela raised a brow. "You know about the podcast?"
He shrugged.
> "Yeah. But I liked your blog first. Back when it was just you, heartbreak, and Bible verses. The raw stuff."
She smiled.
That part of her — the raw, unfiltered Angela — hadn't been complimented in a long time.
---
Malik never flirted.
Never hinted.
He just… showed up.
He'd ask:
> "Have you rested this week?"
"What Scripture carried you today?"
"Do you ever miss the version of yourself that didn't have to be strong?"
Angela didn't know how to answer that last one.
Because nobody — not even Peter — had ever asked.
---
Tamara noticed.
> "That boy is walking soft-soft, but it's giving Psalm 23 vibes."
Angela blushed.
"I don't want to rush. I'm not ready."
Tamara smirked.
> "No one said date him. But maybe… just maybe, you can let someone love your calm, not just your fire."
---
Later that week, Malik sent her a voice note.
> "Hey Angela. I was rereading your old post — the one titled 'I Lost Myself Loving Someone Who Spoke in Tongues.'
And I just want you to know…
You were never wrong for loving.
You just gave it to someone who wasn't built to protect it.
And if no one's said it loud enough…
You are worth gentle.
You are worth rest.
Even when you roar, you deserve someone who'll whisper back peace."
Angela listened. Twice.
Then pressed her palm to her chest.
Tears rolled — not out of pain.
But release.
---
That night, she prayed:
>>> "Lord, I'm not asking for a new man.
I'm just asking to stop punishing the next one for what the last one broke."