Page 17 of The Spark

Still hanging in the shadows.

Still waiting.

Still mine.

I didn’t touch it, though I was tempted to, out of comfort, out of want. But I didn’t. I just looked at it for a second too long… and kept moving.

I didn’t know why I was nervous.

It wasn’t like this was a real date. Not really. Amir and I had been out together a hundred times, just the two of us. Movies, concerts, bars, restaurants—it was nothing new.

And yet, as I stood in front of my closet, staring at the scattered options I’d pulled, I felt like I was preparing for something… different.

I sighed, running my fingers through my braids before settling on a fitted, long-sleeve mini dress. It wasn’t much—not the kind of dress that clung to every dip and curve, the way I knew Amir’s exes used to wear. But it flattered what I had. My frame was more slender, legs long, and while I wasn’t stacked like the women he’d dated before, I still wanted to feel good in my skin.

I adjusted my glasses, then hesitated. Instead, I popped in my contacts, giving myself one last look in the mirror. Not doing too much, but enough. Something that saidI didn’t get dressed for you, but if you notice, I won’t be mad.

I swiped cherry gloss over my lips, slipped on my favorite Steve Madden heels, and checked my phone. 8:02 PM.

Amir was already outside, waiting. Not texting to say he was pulling up—just there. Always moving like he knew exactly what he was doing.

I grabbed my purse, took one last look in the mirror, and headed out, heart beating a little faster than I cared to admit.

When I stepped outside, Amir was leaning against his car, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the roof. The streetlights cast a glow over his deep brown skin, highlighting the sheen of his freshly shaped beard, the sharp cut of his jaw. His lips curved into that lazy smile, teeth white against his dark complexion, his presence thick, effortless. And when his gaze landed on me, something flickered across his face, something raw. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

I felt that look everywhere. He looked good. Too good. A fitted black tee stretched across his chest, jeans sitting low on his hips, chain glinting against his dark skin under the streetlight. His beard was freshly shaped up, waves were immaculate, like he already knew he was a problem.

His eyes ran over me slowly, a flicker of something dark and heated crossing his face before he masked it with that lazy smirk. "Damn. You trying to show out?"

I lifted a brow. "You said we were celebrating. I dressed for the occasion."

He let his gaze linger a second longer before pushing off the car and opening the passenger door for me. "Good. 'Cause I plan on spoiling you tonight."

I swallowed, sliding into the seat, and was immediately wrapped in the scent of him—warm sandalwood and smoky spice, threaded with leather and something quietly addictive.

I recognized it as Santal 33, the cologne I helped him pick out while we shopped for Christmas gifts for our parents.

He rounded the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, fingers drumming against the wheel as he pulled off. "You trust me?"

I smirked. "Hell no."

He laughed, deep and rich, the sound sending a ripple of warmth through me. "Fair. But I think you’ll like where we’re going."

We drove through the city, the tension between us settling into something comfortable, familiar. The playlist running through his speakers was a mix of our favorites—Erykah Badu, D’Angelo, Lauryn Hill. I let my head rest against the seat, soaking in the vibe, trying not to overthink what this night felt like.

But I couldn’t lie to myself. It felt like adate.

When Amir finally pulled into the parking lot, I looked around, frowning. "Wait… The Blue Room? This is a speakeasy."

His smirk deepened. "You caught on quick."

I blinked, taking in the crowd outside. The place was alive—young Black professionals mixed with older couples, everyone dressed in a way that felt both effortless and intentional. Men in tailored blazers, women in silk dresses and heels. It was unexpected, seeing this many people our age vibing to jazz. And yet, the energy was electric.

He shot me a look, lips twitching. "You got a problem with that?"

I turned toward him fully, arching a brow. "Amir, you hate jazz."

He shrugged, cutting the engine. "I hate boring jazz. This place is different. I think you’ll like it."

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