Page 44 of The Spark

On the sheets beneath me. On my skin. Deep in my lungs, tangled up with the remnants of my moans from the night before. The weight of sleep clung to me, thick and slow, but my body was alive.

I felt him before I even opened my eyes.

The slow drag of fingertips down my spine. The deep, steady rhythm of his breathing. The warmth of his body, so close, so solid. I wasn’t used to waking up to him like this—to the intimacy of it. It was one thing to fuck like we had no business doing, but waking up tangled in the heat of each other?

That was something else. Something dangerous. Something I should’ve pulled away from.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stayed still, soaking in the quiet moment, the warmth of the sheets, the way my thighs ached from the way he had taken me over and over last night. The memory of it sent a pulse of heat between my legs, a low ache curling at my core. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the way he’d growled my name into my skin, the way he’d made me beg for it.

I bit my lip, eyes still closed, heart knocking against my ribs.

Then I felt him shift behind me.

A deep, sleepy groan rumbled against my back. A heavy arm curled around my waist, his hand splaying over my stomach, pulling me into him.

Fuck.

I should have moved. Should have slipped away before he fully woke up. But my body had a mind of its own, melting into him, pressing into his warmth, breathing him in like he was the only thing keeping me grounded.

A lazy murmur brushed against my neck.

“Morning, A.”

His voice was pure gravel, thick with sleep, curling around my name like a promise.

I swallowed, hard. “Morning.”

He didn’t let go at first. Just held me there, breathing in sync, his fingers splayed across my belly like they belonged there. And for a second, I let myself believe they did.

Then, slowly, he pulled back.

The space between us felt too wide. Empty.

But I didn’t run. Not this time.

I sat up, the sheet slipping down my chest, cool air brushing my nipples. Amir propped himself up on one elbow, watching me in that quiet way of his, like he could read all the words I hadn’t said yet.

He didn’t press. Just watched.

Later, in the kitchen, I wore an oversized tee and still felt the echo of his hands on me. I poured myself a cup of coffee, trying to feel normal, steadying myself with the ritual.

The sound of eggs cracking broke the silence.

I blinked, turning slightly.

Amir was at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, like the most intimate dream I’d never let myself have. He dropped a pat of butter in the pan, then cracked another egg, moving like he did in the studio—focused, unbothered, in his element.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

That shouldn’t have hit me the way it did. But it did.

I slid onto the other side of the counter, wrapped my hands around the coffee mug, and just watched him. There was something about seeing him like this—quiet, present, making me breakfast—that made my chest tight.

He plated eggs and toast, slid it toward me with a fork, then leaned against the counter with his own cup.

I took a bite to cover the fact that I suddenly didn’t know what to say.

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