Aunt Linda's voice rises like a siren in the dark.
"Oh Lord, my God! Deliver my daughters from the spirit of Jezebel! From the spirit of harlotry! From the ways of iniquity! From the works of the flesh! From—"
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something.
Miracle and Mary sit stiffly, hands clasped, pretending to be deep in prayer. They're used to this performance. Every few nights, Aunt Linda goes on a rampage, speaking in tongues, slamming her hands against the walls like she's wrestling demons herself. The demons are imaginary, of course. The Jezebel she's battling? That would be me.
"Holy Ghost fire consume every agent of darkness in this house!"
She means me.
"My daughters shall not be led astray! No weapon fashioned against them shall prosper!"
I stretch out my legs under the table. I am the weapon. And I am prospering.
Minutes later, the fire-and-brimstone show ends as suddenly as it began. The house falls into silence. Then, soft, rhythmic snoring fills the air.
Jezebel is free to go.
I move quickly. The moment Aunt Linda is fully out, I slip on my hoodie, grab my phone, and ease out the door. The night air is humid, thick with the scent of dust and distant cooking smoke. I move through the quiet street, my heart steady, my feet sure. This is routine. I know the path. I know the door. I know him.
Zion lets me in without a word.
The first thing I notice is how tired he looks. His face is shadowed in the dim light, but his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—are heavy. With something unsaid.
I close the door behind me. Neither of us moves.
Last time, I slapped him. His fault. He had looked at me like I was her—the girl in the sex tape. Like I was a spectacle, something to gawk at. It had burned. My palm had burned against his cheek. Then I left.
Now, we are here again.
"I shouldn't have come," I say, because I feel like saying something first.
Zion exhales, running a hand over his head. "But you did."
Silence.
Then, his voice, low, edged with something sharp: "You've been with Stephen a lot."
I blink. "And?"
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "I'm just saying. You've been laughing with him. Letting him be around you."
"So?"
Zion's jaw tenses. "So nothing."
We both know it's not nothing.
There's a thick, unspoken thing in the air between us. Heavy. Loaded. It's been there for weeks, growing like a storm cloud, restless, waiting to break.
I take a step toward him. Just one. He doesn't move.
"I slapped you," I say.
He nods.
"I was mad."
Another nod.
"And now?"
I don't know who moves first. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's me. But suddenly, I'm against him, hands gripping his shirt, and his lips crash against mine. It's messy, heated, almost desperate. His hands are everywhere—my back, my waist, my face—like he's trying to pull me apart and hold me together at the same time.
This is not sweet. This is not gentle.
This is starved.
My back hits the wall. A sharp breath escapes me, but I don't stop him. He tilts my head, kissing me deeper, his mouth trailing heat down my jaw, my neck.
"I hate that you let him near you," he mutters against my skin.
I let out a sharp laugh. "You hate a lot of things."
He grips my waist harder. "I hate that you slapped me."
"No, you deserved that one."
His lips graze my collarbone, and I feel him smirk. "Maybe."
The air between us hums, thick with everything we don't say out loud.
I push him back just enough to look at him properly. His lips are red, eyes darker than usual. There's something unguarded about him now—raw, open, like he's giving me something he won't admit to.
"Say it," I whisper.
Zion exhales, his forehead resting against mine. "I miss you."
That should not make my heart stutter the way it does.
I pull him back to me.
We don't stop.
Tonight, there are no ghosts. No memories. No shame. Just heat. Just need.
Just us.