Page 46 of The Spark

And then something hit me—right between the ribs—as I looked around again. The rooftop. The glow. The soft music swirling through the air like a current.

“This would be the perfect backdrop,” I murmured, almost to myself.

Amir raised a brow. “For what?”

I smiled. “For your music. And my art. Side by side. Something intimate. Something that matters.”

His eyes held mine, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just reached across the table, lacing his fingers with mine.

We talked. Ate slowly. Laughed. There were no awkward pauses, no tension—just this stretch of easy, sensual calm between us, like something inside had already settled.

But even as I soaked it in, part of me still needed to ask.

I leaned in slightly. “Why now?”

Amir’s eyes flicked to mine.

“You’ve known me forever,” I continued, voice soft but steady. “Why now, Amir? What made you finally see me like… this?”

His thumb brushed over mine. “I always saw you, A.”

“But—”

“I didn’t think I was ready. Didn’t think I deserved you. Not with the shit I was chasing. Not with the shit I was trying to heal from.” His jaw flexed. “But something shifted when I started spending nights with you. Hearing you breathe in the next room. Watching you move around your space like you weren’t trying to impress anyone. I stopped pretending.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it slipped out in a shaky exhale.

“I’ve always wanted you,” he said simply. “But now, I know I can love you right.”

Something inside me cracked wide open.

We lingered after dinner, letting the rooftop lights flicker around us, suspended in something sweet and too real.

Eventually, he reached for my hand again. “Come with me. Just for a minute.”

He drove us across the city, his hand resting on my thigh the whole ride. His touch was steady, but I could feel the tension humming under his skin.

We pulled up to his condo—still under renovation. From the outside, it looked mostly finished. But inside, sawdust lingered in the corners and faint traces of paint clung to the air. The floors gleamed beneath the soft lights, windows wide open to the city skyline.

“Just wanted to check in,” he said casually, unlocking the door and stepping aside for me. “They’re ahead of schedule.”

I stepped in slowly, taking it all in—the open floor plan, the clean lines, the possibility.

“You’ll be moving out soon,” I murmured, before I could stop myself.

He looked at me. “Yeah.”

And in that one word, everything between us shifted. Stretched. Tightened.

We stood in the middle of the space, the silence thick with everything we hadn’t said.

“Show me your bedroom,” I whispered.

He walked me down the hall, but I barely saw the space. There was no bed. No sheets. Just plastic draped over the frame. Clean, unfinished. But I didn’t need the room.

I neededhim.

He turned to say something, but I was already reaching for him—hands pressed to his chest, my mouth on his before the words could form.

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