Cracks beneath the surface

POV: Zina

The kitchen felt quieter than it had moments ago, though the silence was far from comforting. My gaze lingered on the closed door, the echo of Trina's heels against the floor replaying in my mind like a haunting melody. I should have felt victorious—watching her crumble under the weight of my words should've been satisfying. But as I stood there, the adrenaline ebbed, replaced by a hollow exhaustion that pressed on my chest.

I sank into the nearest chair, rubbing my temples. The fight had drained me more than I cared to admit.

From the corner of my eye, I caught the tea kettle on the stove. The sight of it brought a sliver of comfort, so I busied myself making tea. As the water boiled, the steam curling upward, my thoughts wandered to a time long before Trina and her perfectly curated chaos.

---

Xaden's laughter echoed through the kitchen, rich and unrestrained. I had been trying to teach him how to make pancakes, and his clumsy attempts had resulted in batter smeared across his shirt and a misshapen mess in the pan.

"You're hopeless," I teased, swatting him lightly with a kitchen towel.

"And yet, you married me anyway," he shot back, his smile as warm as the morning sun streaming through the windows.

It was a simpler time. A time when our problems were minor, easily solved with a kiss or a shared joke. But that warmth, that light, had dimmed over the years, until it finally flickered out entirely.

The flash of laughter faded, replaced by another memory—one far darker.

Xaden sitting in his office late into the night, his phone screen glowing as he hastily swiped away a message when I entered. The tension in his shoulders, the way he avoided meeting my eyes.

"You're working late again," I had said, my tone laced with suspicion.

"Deadlines," he replied curtly, the lie dripping from his lips as effortlessly as the truth once had.

I hadn't realized it then, but that was the beginning of the end.

---

The whistle of the kettle jolted me back to the present. I poured the tea, my hands trembling slightly as I set the cup on the table. The weight of those memories pressed down on me, threatening to suffocate.

The door creaked open, and I stiffened, instinctively bracing for another intrusion. But instead of Trina's sharp heels or Xaden's demanding presence, it was Jared who entered, his familiar stride immediately putting me at ease.

"Hey," he said softly, taking in my expression. His concern was palpable. "Rough day?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice to hold steady.

He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room before settling on me. "What happened and what's wrong?"

"Trina," I confirmed, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "She had the audacity to show up here, acting like she's the victim in all of this."

Jared frowned, leaning against the counter. "What did she want this time?"

"Xaden," I said simply, shaking my head. "She thinks I'm using Asher to punish him. Can you believe that? After everything they put me through?"

Jared's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "She has no right to come here, Zina. None of them do."

I met his gaze, finding solace in the steadiness of his presence. Jared had been my rock through the chaos—my tether when the storm threatened to pull me under.

"She said I'm bitter," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "That I'm stuck in the past."

Jared crossed the room in a few strides, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You're not bitter, Zina. You're a mother protecting her child. There's a difference."

I exhaled, the tension easing slightly under his reassuring touch. "Sometimes, I wonder if she's right. If holding on to all this anger is just... keeping me trapped."

"You're not trapped," Jared said firmly, his voice low and steady. "You're healing. And healing isn't linear. It's messy, and it takes time. But you're stronger than she'll ever give you credit for."

I managed a weak smile, grateful for his unwavering support. "Thank you, Jared. For always being here."

He shrugged, his expression softening. "You don't have to thank me, Zina. I'll always have your back."

I set my cup down and stood, facing him fully. "I don't deserve someone like you," I said quietly.

"Don't say that." He stepped closer, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. His touch lingered, warm and reassuring. "You deserve more than what they've given you. And I'm not going anywhere."

The intensity of his gaze stirred something inside me, a spark of something I hadn't felt in a long time. He leaned in slightly, hesitant as if waiting for my permission.

I didn't pull away.

His lips met mine in a kiss that was both gentle and firm, grounding me in a way nothing else had. For a moment, the chaos, the pain, the weight of everything disappeared, leaving only the quiet comfort of his presence.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. "You're not alone in this, Zina. Not anymore."

A small smile tugged at my lips, but it didn't last. His hand reached up to gently cup my face, tilting it just enough for him to kiss me again—this time with more urgency, as though he could taste the years of pain and longing in the space between us.

I gave into the kiss, not needing to think about anything else, just feeling the warmth of his lips, the steadiness of his touch. This time, the kiss was an answer to the questions we hadn't spoken aloud. I wasn't trapped. I wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for me to heal.

When he finally pulled away, his breath came in slow, steady waves, mirroring my own. "You're stronger than you realize," he murmured.

I smiled softly, my heart racing in a way it hadn't in years. "And you make me feel like I can be."