Chapter Four: I'm Not His Girl

The night before had been tender, warm, and a reminder of why she loves him so much.

To the world, he's Beacon, but for La'niia, he's Malik, the man she loves. 

He's the man who rubs her feet while they watch a movie, not because she asked but because he loves to touch her, always in private. He started drinking tea to share in everyday activities with her, even though he'd never owned tea bags, let alone a kettle and loose leaves, before she moved in. He's the guy who brings her back a mug when he's saving the world and has time to go into special shops to find them for her. 

These are the little details, the makings of the daily moments she gets to share and love about him and with him. These moments were missed last night when he didn't say her name, and they're also missed as she stretches out to embrace him this morning, but his place is empty. 

She frowns a little before she opens her eyes. 

Suddenly, the warmth of the previous night doesn't feel like enough in the freezing room. 

He must have turned the AC on; he hates when it's too warm. 

She gets out of bed and grabs her robe for warmth, still unclothed, and hurries to turn off the air. La'niia tries to think about where he has gone and knows it's more than likely some interview. She wishes he would have woken her up, said goodbye, or something, but she tries not to let it mean too much.  

There isn't much time to linger; she has engagements of her own for the day. 

La'niia heads to the kitchen, her body feeling deliciously stretched from the night shared with Malik. She hums a little melody to herself as she clears the mugs off the table from last night and rinses them before placing them in the dishwasher. Then, retrieving the mug Malik first gifted her, she places it on the single-cup machine to brew her coffee. She leans her hip against the counter as the kitchen fills with the aroma of her favorite dark roast.

Her phone buzzes on the counter, and she smiles a little, with a brief hope that it's Malik. 

It's rare for him to do little check-ins.

She doesn't reach for the phone quickly. La'niia sits in the buzz of hope that it may be a sweet little line, a picture, or maybe even a voice note. She already imagines what may have prompted him to think of her, what he wants to share with her. 

Maybe it's a new mug; he hasn't found a unique one in a while. 

He only gives them when they feel one of a kind. 

With a hesitant touch, she brings her thumb to her lips, the soft flesh yielding slightly to the pressure of her teeth. A small, almost imperceptible sound escapes her as she flips the phone over, her eyes scanning the screen with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. The moment her gaze lands on the message, a link from an unknown contact, a subtle shift occurs in her demeanor. She clicks it with practiced ease, her fingers moving with a newfound speed. Her initial softening of expression, a fleeting glimpse of hope or curiosity, is swiftly replaced by a visible downturn, a cascade of disappointment as the photograph bursts onto the screen, painting a stark and unwelcome reality.

No, no, no. 

The moment she sees the table, the lights in the back, and the black and gold around, La'niia knows where this is. She's wearing the green dress, her hand is on Levi's shoulder, her face scrunched in mid-laugh, he'd said a joke. He's pretty funny, and many people don't remark on that. Levi looks close, and her heart is pounding as she wonders if this is the closeness; the way Malik expressed he doesn't like the way Levi looks at her. The picture looks like Levi, and she definitely knows one another. 

The caption: 

It's a bird, it's a plane: No, Firebrand sparks possible romance with mystery woman at gala? 

La'niia scrolls back to the photo. Her thumb is quick and frantic as she pinches the screen and zooms into the picture. Her head is slightly turned, so her face is not entirely visible. She sets the phone down, rubbing her hands over her face. Her head turns, and she stares out of the larger, floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining area, the view overlooking the city. She knows this gossip blog; everyone who's anyone hates becoming a target of their posts. This story will be trending by the afternoon, and La'niia is not here for it. 

She hates being seen in a way that isn't true. 

This isn't bad, it's just how they're framing it. 

I don't need to dwell on it. 

She locks the screen, not deleting the message, just hoping to keep it out of sight and out of mind. 

________________________________________________________________________________

La'niia takes in a deep breath. 

The bookstore, only a few minutes from the apartment, smells like fine paper and coffee. 

It's always so quiet in the mornings. 

And she loves that, it's partly why she still comes in person. The staff is friendly, but not the type to intrude or bother her much. She appreciates that she isn't one for small talk, while being able to keep up with it; she'd rather not, and the thought makes her remember another thing she loves about Malik. His silence isn't always a bad thing, and it works in a lot of cases. She's able to decompress and be herself; there is no need for performance when around him. 

She pulls down her sunglasses, placing them in their case and into her tote. 

Today, she's hoping to find the book she's been searching for, but the name is suddenly escaping her. So she pulls out book after book, putting them back in place as she looks at the covers, hoping each one is the one. 

She twists her lips. 

Yeah, I don't think they've gotten it. 

There's a voice that calls out to her from the front counter. The counter where they have all four of her books stacked. She suddenly feels panic, and she realizes that there is her author's photo on the back of each one. 

"Hey, you're her, La'niia Pierce?" The kind young lady prods. 

She nods, clearing her voice before finding her words. "Yeah, that's me." 

The young lady is maybe twenty-one. She smiles, still wearing braces. It's the kind of smile that only someone who's read the books would wear because it has the light of a pride only someone who feels connected to you could wear. 

"Everyone always talks about your novels, but I read one of your short stories: The Day The Sun Dissappeared, and it scared the hell out of me." 

La'niia feels a little awkward, not having anticipated a fan this early in the day. 

"It's personally a fave of mine. I didn't know anyone knew it." 

Her eyes sharpen as the girl's lips pull to one side and her fingers reach to twirl the end of her curly ponytail. The posture sends La'niia on edge because she's become quite brilliant at noticing when someone is about to pivot the conversation into something that has nothing to do with her job. 

It's rare they truly have something to say about the job. 

"It's you, isn't it?" The girl's voice goes into this cautious inflection. "There's a picture from the gala, Firebrand with a woman...is it you?" 

La'niia makes no visible reaction, but she's sweating. 

The girl makes that long face: the one where the lips are parted, the corners of the mouth tug down, and the teeth touch. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. It's just, you're like one of my favorite authors, like, you're definitely beautiful enough to be with a superhero." 

La'niia weighs the situation. 

She's just a girl, of course, she doesn't mean anything by it. 

So, she smiles, folding her hands and leaning into a bit of a shrug. "Yeah, I was at the gala, but you know the press." 

"Omg, omg, omg!" The girl attempts to hold back excitement. "So, is it true at all? Do you guys know one another?"

"No, we've met in passing a few times." 

"You guys looked really good together in that photo." 

That makes La'niia cringe inside. 

"I have a special someone." She replies warmly. The warm approach always works when they push a little too hard. "It wasn't that kind of photo, but it comes with the territory." 

The clerk turns a little red, in a manner La'niia is used to when she's outwitting someone. There is a 3-second beat of silence between them. 

"I hope it didn't come across wrong." 

The beeping of the scanner takes up the space as the clerk scans the book La'niia handed over. 

"It's fine, trust me, it's alright." She chuckles a little. 

The clerk doesn't meet her gaze, and La'niia leaves the shop. 

When she stands outside, the world feels different than when she's exited the apartment. She feels seen in a way she would never ask for. She places her shades as a subtle hope for buffer. 

________________________________________________________________________________

I've been stalling on this one. 

The pages of her newest novel are before her, but the words are few. She hasn't been able to gather focus. She began with an idea, but somewhere in the midst, she lost the voice of the characters, the story she's wanted to tell. 

La'niia hopes to escape into a world of her making and even disappear into a life that is so different from her own.  Yet, since she's opened the laptop, the page still holds more white blank space than the black words. She's been stuck here, on this page, for maybe two weeks. 

The two weeks it took to lead up to last night and now this rumor that's spreading...

No, she shakes her head gently. 

That's not what she wishes to think about. She scrolls back a couple of pages, reading the previous work. She hopes that getting this part read will suddenly inspire a flood of words when she gets back to the page with only one skimpy paragraph. 

She reads a line: 

He's in the walls. It isn't something she needs to see; his breathing is barely audible, but moving the space in a manner that doesn't happen when one is alone. 

La'niia thinks about the character who's internalizing the moment of suspense. It doesn't feel the way she believes it should, like a terror. She makes note of that in the notepad next to her, then questions why this part of the story 'must be' terrorized. So, she decides to go with it. 

Maybe the character is no longer afraid. 

Maybe she accepts the presence is here, because she no longer feels alone, invisible. Maybe not the character longs for the subtle presence?

So she types: 

He finds one of the drilled holes he's made. His chest heaves with deep, controlled breaths as he waits to spot her. He loves to watch her, and now he waits, waits for her to fold first. He waits for her to invite him.

La'niia looks at the typing and decides to stand in this direction. 

Then she writes: 

When they hear the gentle creaking of the floor, neither moves. The sound is not caused by careless pressure, but from patience and the subtle reminder that he's here. 

She doesn't love the new direction, but it feels real. 

For weeks, she's hated that the character didn't seem authentic. She's hated that the story didn't have something that made it move forward, and now she feels she's given something. It's a start, and she doesn't intend to squish it by being overly critical. 

The switch from survival to something more vulnerable, emotional even, isn't something she anticipated. She doesn't usually write this type of character, but it's something... She considers that maybe she's no longer simply writing a story but trying to process the things she doesn't have answers for through this. 

Closing the laptop with a sort of bittersweet emotion, she doesn't like it. 

She hears the door. 

He's home. 

He's entering the threshold, untying his tie. 

So it was an interview. 

Malik wouldn't wear a tie without necessity. 

"Hey." His voice trails. 

She's nervous. 

Did he see the vlog? 

Should I say something first? 

"Hey." She says. 

"Do you wanna order in?" He isn't looking at her, but he isn't avoiding her either. "I don't think I have another social event in me this week." 

She finds herself smiling at his tone. 

"Sure, baby." She grabs her tone. "You want pasta?" 

He always wants pasta; it's one of the foods Malik is always in the mood for. 

He nods. "Sounds great. I'll wash up and open a bottle." 

When he disappears into the bedroom, La'niia lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She uses the app to order the meal from one of their favorite places. She has so many notifications on her media and almost decides to delete the apps. She has more text messages than usual and knows it's loose acquaintances trying to get the scoop. 

Malik returns after a brief while. 

He smells fresh, shower fresh. His hair was tightly curled against his head, and wearing some all-cotton sweats and a plain tagless T-shirt. He opens the wine drawer and takes out a bottle of red, he gets the bottle opener out of the drawer over it. He opens it, pouring two glasses. 

She gets up, deciding to meet him. 

He passes her the glass, and their fingers linger a moment. 

She sips the glass in silence before her phone goes off. 

She looks down. 

"I'll go." She offers, knowing Malik probably doesn't want to deal with an adoring citizen. 

She runs down to the lobby and takes the food, giving a generous tip. When she returns, Malik has plates out on the coffee table, the wine, some glasses of water, and silverware. He likes for them to eat out of dishes no matter what. She's brought up how it's unnecessary, but he says, 'That's what the dishwasher is for. ' 

They plate the food, and it smells wonderful. The tomatoes, basil, and garlic fills the room, giving the impression that it was cooked in the kitchen. It's easy to tell everything was made fresh or close to it. They don't turn on the television or play music. They sit on the carpet, silently eating and at peace. 

Malik speaks after he finishes eating. "Did you go to the bookstore?" 

La'niia wonders why he asks. She doesn't know if he wants to know if she went to the bookstore or if she found out about the news and changed how she went about her day. 

"I went." She grabs her glass, taking a hefty gulp. "You know, a lot of people are still talking about the gala." 

He nods, but offers nothing to that. 

"Thank you." He blurts. 

She tilts her head. "For what?" 

He shrugs. "I left earlier, and I didn't get to say good morning. Thank you for not making me talk about it." 

La'niia had forgotten all about the minor disappointment felt at his disappearance this morning. The moment was lost as soon as the post came to her attention. 

"It's not my job to interrogate you. The press does that enough for both of us." She takes another sip, wondering if the mention of the press will prompt him to say something about the post. 

He knows; he has to know about it. 

She stretches her legs out, and as she does so, Malik pulls them over his lap, rubbing her feet. They sit in a comfortable silence. He watches the wall, and she looks out the wide window, taking in the night view of the city. One of his hands holds onto her shin, under the hem of her sweats, and the other rubs her foot near his stomach. 

They used to sit, just like this, all the time in the simpler years. 

Eventually, she reaches for her phone and finds a message pushed through at the same moment. 

Levi Sloan. 

It isn't a knee-jerk reaction she has, but there is a slight elevation in her pulse. She stills a little bit, tucking some hair behind her ear. She hadn't expected to hear from him in the midst of the media-made scandal. 

She opens the message:

The press are assholes. Don't let it get in the way of the interview tomorrow. That's all, stay safe and enjoy your night. 

She doesn't respond, and she doesn't delete it. 

Something feels unsettled by the message. 

She watches Malik's phone vibrate on the table. He looks at it, but doesn't reach for it right away. La'niia knows he will; he never ignores this tone, the one that says it's time for Malik to become him; Beacon. 

She feels the tension enter his body before he shifts beneath her. He moves slowly, but she sees the way his body and mind begin to prepare for whatever emergency calls for his attention. 

He glances at the screen. 

His eyes fall on her. 

"Be safe, please." She doesn't mean for it to sound so small, so needy. 

"It's a high-rise fire; fifteen floors." 

She nods once. 

He moved to the bedroom, and she heard the mechanical sound of his vault opening behind the closet wall. The vault holds his suit, and when he returns, he's Beacon again. She marvels at the black and gold that never seems to feel old. His jaw is set, and he adjusts his gloves. They share a look, but it's brief and not a good-bye. 

He steps onto the balcony, and she holds her breath as she witnesses him blast off, disappearing into the night. The type of quiet that wraps around her now isn't the same cozy, sincere one they shared. This quiet feels numb, and this quiet stings her eyes. 

She quickly swipes at the mist in her eyes. 

La'niia's frustrated by what she's feeling and pulls her knees up to her chest, not bothering to close the balcony door behind him. 

Who's breaking into Beacon's apartment? 

She grabs the remote, turning on the live news, and waits to see his face show up on screen. He's not there yet, but he will be soon.