Page 26 of The Spark

She froze, breath catching, her pulse hammering against my thumb. When she turned to look at me, our eyes locked—and it was all there. The heat. The uncertainty. The need neither of us wanted to name. Her eyes held mine like she was afraid I’d see too much. Maybe I already had.

“We good?” I asked, quieter now. Slower.

She hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Another lie.

But I let it ride.

Inside, she tossed her bag on the couch and drifted toward the dining table where her tablet was already lit up, stylus beside it, screen waiting. I watched her the entire way, the way she moved like she couldn’t get far enough away from what we’d just shared.

She reached for her glasses on the counter, but I beat her to it. Held them in my fingers.

“Don’t strain your eyes staring at that screen,” I muttered, passing them to her.

She took them without a word, sliding them on like armor. A soft barrier between her eyes and mine. Like if I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t call her out.

But I knew those eyes. Better than most people knew their own reflection.

I’d watched them dance when she felt free. Flame when she was mad. Flicker when she was uncertain. And right now, she was hiding. Tucking it all behind those clean, curved lenses like they could shield her from what just happened.

Like they could shield her fromme.

For half a second, I wanted to tilt her chin up. Make her look at me. Make herfeelthis thing with her chest, her mouth, her damn breath—whatever she was trying to deny.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there, fighting every urge to touch her again. Fighting the memory of how her lips felt against mine. How she tasted. How her body trembled when I held her like it wasn’t the first time.

I dragged a hand down my beard, exhaled slow, and stepped back.

“I’ll be back later,” I said.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up.

Just tapped her stylus against the screen like I hadn’t kissed her in the middle of a damn record shop like I meant it. Like I hadn’t held her like I remembered the weight of her on my tongue. Like we hadn’t just ripped through the line we’d spent half our lives pretending wasn’t there.

11

By the time I got to the studio, I was still wired.

The bass from the track thumped low through the speakers, vibrating through the floor, pulsing through my veins. My fingers moved over the board, adjusting the levels, layering the sound, molding it into something hypnotic. It wasn’t just work—it was instinct. This was the only place my thoughts slowed down. Where I could control something. Shape it. Build it from nothing but emotion and noise.

Across the booth, Taraj "Raj" Ferrell stood in front of the mic, head bowed, pen moving fast over his notebook. He was locked in, barely glancing up as the beat carried through the room.

Raj had that thing—presence, voice, an energy that made people stop and listen. He wasn’t just some industry plant or a manufactured star. He was the real thing. Raw talent and sharp focus. He had built his career from the ground up, shaping a sound that was finally getting the recognition it deserved.

And now, the world was catching up.

His label knew it, which was why they were already crafting his image, surrounding him with women, painting him as the next heartthrob. But Raj barely paid them any attention. He was here for the music. A little mysterious, a little dangerous—and if I was honest, I respected the hell out of him for it.

He reminded me of myself when I first started—before the pressure, before the fatigue of trying to prove myself over and over again. Back when it was just me and a beat I couldn’t get out of my head. Like I couldn’t getherout of my head.

“This beat is crazy,” he muttered, pulling his headphones down, running a hand over his goatee. “You really did something with this one.”

I smirked, leaning back. “You know I don’t play when it comes to the sound.”

He nodded, tapping his pen against his palm. “That’s why I came to you.”

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