Page 23 of The Spark

The second we started flipping through records, I felt it. The shift.

Amir pulled a vinyl from a crate, the sleeve worn at the edges, and flipped it between his fingers before glancing over at me. "Tell me you’re not about to just grab one and call it a day."

I rolled my eyes. "Tell me you’re not about to buy up every soul album like it’ll ever go out of style.”

He gave a low laugh. "That used to be your thing. I was strictly boom bap and breakbeats, remember? But I’ve been converted."

I paused, surprised.

"You converted yourself," I said, softer this time. "Started sampling Donny and Minnie like you were raised on it."

He smirked, but there was something else behind it—something reverent. "That’s because I was listening to you, Amaya. Always have."

My throat tightened. I turned back to the crates, pretending to be engrossed in the rows of vinyl. My fingers hovered over an Earth, Wind & Fire album before sliding past it. The speakers overhead crackled lightly—and then it came on. Golden Time of Day.

Maze.

The opening chords drifted through the shop like sunlight pouring through a window. Warm. Sensual. Lush.

I froze.

Beside me, Amir stilled too. His head dropped slightly, his fingers tapping against a crate—not randomly, but with purpose. Like he was working out a rhythm in his head. Constructing something. I didn’t have to look to know his brain was already mapping a beat, dissecting the layers, finding what could be flipped.

"You hear that bassline?" he murmured, almost to himself. "That’s crazy."

I nodded, something tightening in my chest. I knew that voice. That concentration. He was in the zone, even here.

The teasing, the casual ease—that had just been foreplay.

This was the real Amir.

Then Mr. Reggie passed by, grumbling under his breath. "Y’all still fussing over records? Ain’t nothing changed."

Amir and I both paused, catching each other’s eyes—and we grinned.

And then, the music shifted again.

The soft, sultry opening chords of Mel’isa Morgan’s “Do Me Baby” poured through the speakers, thick as honey and just as dangerous.

I inhaled sharply—suddenly, too aware of Amir beside me. Of how close he was. Of the heat radiating from his body, curling into mine like smoke.

Of how my breath caught when his fingers brushed mine at the edge of the crate.

“Let’s dance, A,” he said, voice low. Velvet-wrapped intention.

I looked up at him—my heart hammering against my ribs. “What?”

His hand slid gently around my wrist. Warm. Sure. Familiar.

“Come on,” he said, lips curling just slightly. “Just one.”

I looked at him. Really looked.

And Ifeltit.

The memory of his mouth between my thighs. His hands anchoring me. My whisper—please—still hanging somewhere between us.

His eyes held mine, steady and dark, pulling me into that current we never quite swam out of.

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