Page 11 of Rose
The apartment was two stories, three bedrooms—far too big for one person, but she needed the space. Needed the silence.
Her bedroom upstairs held her safe place, her master bathroom where she could cry unseen. The guest room remained untouched. The third room belonged to Ace—his bed, his toys, his refuge.
She loved this place not for its beauty, but for its safety. Twenty-four-hour security. Keycard access to her floor. High enough off the ground to make her feel unreachable.
After what happened, she couldn’t bring herself to live in a house again. Too many walls. Too much silence. Too many shadows waiting to burn. But here, in the sky, she could breathe.
Or at least, pretend to.
Ahzii climbed the stairs to her bedroom, the familiar quiet wrapping around her like a blanket she couldn’t shake off. Her room was soft and muted—shades of warm brown, monotones that matched her numbness.
She peeled off the sweat-soaked Nike tights and thermal shirt, tossing them aside before catching her reflection in the full-length mirror.
For months, she avoided mirrors. Couldn’t face the woman staring back at her.
Even now, she hesitated.
The tattoos covered most of it—her neck, her arm, her thigh—all marked with ink to drown out the scars from the fire. A bleeding rose across her throat, an intricate design down her sleeve, a large floral piece wrapping her thigh.
But some things couldn’t be covered.
The burns still crept along her inner thighs, the angry scars that even ink couldn’t hide. The c-section scar, resting low on her stomach—a cruel reminder of where her baby lived and died. Her golden brown eyes, once filled with light and laughter, stared back hollow and tired.
The real scars weren’t just on her skin. They lived in her chest, carved deep into her heart, where love used to bloom. She didn’t recognize herself anymore. The woman William used to kiss, the mother her baby girl never got to see—gone.
She tore her gaze away and moved to the bathroom, its clean white and gold decor doing little to soften the ache inside her.
The shower was quick, practical. No long, soothing escape. Just heat washing over scars, steam rising in the silence.
Summer in Miami was unforgiving, so she threw on a graphic tee and a pair of jean shorts that hugged her frame. She slid her freshly polished toes into her Birkenstocks, tousled her pixie cut, and left the room.
When she came downstairs, she froze for a second.
Kyre was there. Sitting on the couch, head buried in her phone like she belonged there—which she did.
Ahzii hadn’t even heard her come in. But Kyre had a key. Emergency contact, best friend, lifeline. She came and went as she pleased.
The soft creak of Ahzii’s steps made Kyre look up. A smile broke across her face, small but warm.
“Hey boo,” Kyre said, standing up and pulling her into a hug without hesitation.
Ahzii melted into it, wrapping her arms around her best friend, breathing in her steady presence.
When they pulled apart, Ahzii saw the tears Kyre was holding back. Barely.
Kyre had been there for everything.
She was there when Ahzii gave birth to her stillborn daughter, holding her hand as her heart broke in real time. She was the one driving her to therapy appointments when Ahzii couldn’t bring herself to touch the wheel. She stayed over when the nights were too dark and the mornings too empty.
Kyre even stepped back from her cases, turning down opportunities at the law firm to be here. And no matter how many times Ahzii told her she didn’t have to, she stayed anyway. And when Bianca, Ahzii’s mother, packed up her life in Houston and moved to Miami after the tragedy, refusing to be apart from her children any longer, Kyre was still there.
She never left her side. Ahzii didn’t know how she’d repay her for the way she showed up. But she knew one thing for sure—she didn’t have to say a word.
Kyre already knew.
“Hey girl,” Ahzii finally spoke, her voice low, tired.
Kyre met her gaze, searching for something—anything—that wasn’t pain. “You sure you’re ready?”
