The Neighbor Next Door (Part 5)
Previously…
I let Malik in- fully, unapologetically.
What started as a touch turned into worship. He kissed parts of me no one had bothered to notice. Took his time like he had something to prove… and he did. Not just that he wanted me, but that he saw me.
We didn’t just burn. We unraveled. I let go in his arms of fear, of pride, of every lie I told myself about why this couldn’t be real.
But morning always comes. And now I have to face what this means…if it means anything at all.
It had been three days since that night.
Three days since Malik made me breakfast and kissed my shoulder with the quiet confidence of a man who knew he was welcome. Three days of me trying to act like I wasn’t affected. Like I hadn’t been replaying the way he touched me… whispered to me… looked at me like I was more than just someone to pass the time with.
I thought the space would clear my head.
It didn’t.
I hadn’t expected to find myself standing in front of my bedroom mirror that evening, in nothing but a silk wrap and perfume. I hadn’t planned to unlock the door and wait for a knock that may or may not come.
But my body knew what it wanted before I could put the need into words.
The knock came at 9:47 p.m.
Two short raps. No hesitation.
I opened the door slowly, my breath already caught in my throat.
He stood there, hoodie zipped halfway, jeans low on his hips, his braids freshly done. Clean. Intentional.
His eyes moved over me with heat, but he didn’t smile. Not right away.
“You weren’t gonna call me?” he asked.
“I figured you needed space,” I lied.
He stepped in, closed the door behind him.
“Nah. What mi needed… was you.”
I backed up instinctively, but he followed. Not aggressively. Just… certain.
“Fe, why yuh a pretend?” he said soft. “Mi know yuh feel dis. Mi feel it too… strong.”
My fingers curled at my sides. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is. You just scared.” He reached for me then—fingertips grazing my wrist. “Mi not here fi play games, Fe. Mi nuh one o’ dem man just lookin’ a taste. Mi deh yah fi real.”
I searched his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“Then tell mi,” he said, voice low. “Tell mi who yuh are, Fe. Every piece. If is fire yuh want, mi got it. If is calm, mi have dat too. Just don’t act like mi not real.”
The emotion caught me off guard. The conviction. The way he wasn’t asking for my body- he was asking for my truth.
I took a step back, and then another. Not to run. To lead.
He followed me down the hallway to my bedroom like he knew the way.
When I untied my robe, he didn’t rush.
He just exhaled… like he’d been holding his breath since the day we met.
“You look like a woman who know her worth,” he said. “Mi love dat.”
He undressed slowly, watching me the whole time. His body was lean, strong… and young- but it wasn’t the youth that held me. It was the way he looked at me like I was the prize. Like I was the flame, and he’d burn every time for the chance to touch it.
When we came together, it was different than before. Slower. No urgency. No proving.
Just… surrender.
He kissed my collarbone, my stomach, my thighs—took his time like he had nowhere to be but with me. His hands were reverent, his mouth worshipful. When his lips found the heat between my legs, he didn’t flinch at my moans-he chased them. Learned them. Lingered until I was trembling.
And when he rose above me, sliding into me in one long, deep stroke, we both gasped.
This time, we didn’t speak much.
Just breathed. Just felt.
My hands clutched at his back. His forehead rested against mine.
I met his rhythm, hips rising to meet each thrust, and when we both unraveled-his name on my lips, mine on his-we stayed locked together. His body heavy on mine. His breath shaky. His arms wrapping around me like I was something worth keeping.
We didn’t move for a long time.
The sheets were damp with sweat and need. My heart pounded, but it wasn’t panic. It was peace.
“Mi mean it, Fe,” he murmured, tracing circles on my bare hip. “Mi not going nowhere.”
I looked at him, my throat tight. “You’re too young to make promises like that.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But mi still keepin’ it.”
I smiled then. Not because I believed it fully. But because… maybe I wanted to.
Maybe I needed to.
Three Weeks Later
He was still around.
Still showing up. Still holding my hand in public like he wanted people to see.
Some days, I woke up wondering if I was dreaming.
Other days, I woke up with his lips on my shoulder, whispering, “Good morning, Goddess.”
And every time he said it?
I believed him.
The End
… maybe 🤔
