Page 39 of The Spark

I huffed, annoyed. Mostly with myself for not just leaving the damn keys on the counter like a normal person. But I didn’t walk out.

The beat kept me there.

It was... different. Evolved. A slowed, stretched version of what I’d heard the night before, but fuller now—layered with something lush and deliberate, the kind of sound that lived in your bloodstream.

I let out a slow breath, moved to the corner, and sank onto the worn leather couch with a soft exhale. Fished my iPad from my bag. Pressed play on my sketch app.

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

But the music made me stay.

It pulled me under, deep into the haze of memory and need. The echo of last night’s filth flashing behind my eyes—the slick heat of Amir’s mouth between my thighs, the sharp stretch of him filling me, the wild way he’d said my name like it was a song only he knew how to sing.

My thighs pressed together.

I tried to shake it off. To focus. To draw.

And I did.

Because that's what my art did for me. It grounded me. Even in chaos. Even when the boy I swore I wouldn’t fall for was ten feet away, making the kind of music that sounded like he’d been inside my body.

The sketch came fast—sharpened lines, instinctive swipes of color and shadow. A man. Fragmented. Beautiful. Haunted. A body built of chaos and brilliance. A heart buried but aching to be known.

I didn’t notice how long I was lost in it until a voice broke through the air, smooth and thick like smoke.

“Damn.”

I looked up, blinking like I was waking from a dream.

Taraj Ferrell stood over me, tall and unreadable, arms crossed as his gaze locked on my iPad. He had that presence—the kind that didn’t announce itself, justwas.Mysterious. Still. Dangerous in the quietest way.

I felt Amir before I saw him. The air shifted first—warmer, heavier—then came the sound of his footsteps, the scrape of the stool as he pushed back from the board. I didn’t have to look to know his eyes were on us. On me. Onhim.

"This yours?" Taraj asked, tilting his head.

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just something I was playing with."

Taraj’s gaze flicked from the iPad to me. "Nah. This ain’t justsomething." He gestured to the screen. "This isit."

My breath hitched. "It?"

Taraj nodded, his expression serious. "I’ve been looking for the right cover. Something thatfeelslike the album. And this? This is it."

His words landed heavy. Deep. I should’ve been floating, high off the compliment, off the opportunity sitting right in front of me—but instead, I felt something else rising in my chest.

A pressure.

Like I was beingwatched.

I looked up, past Taraj’s shoulder.

And there he was.

Amir.

Standing behind the board, posture locked, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking at the side of his face. His arms were crossed, his chest rising and falling like he was trying hard to stay still, but his eyes—those deep, dark,dangerouseyes—were fixed on me.

Possessive. Heated. Direct.

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