Page 57 of The Spark

He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me on the couch. The silence around me felt louder than the water running behind the door.

I stared at the bathroom like I was waiting on a sign. Something to say,we’re still us.

But nothing came and I hesitated. Minutes passed.

Finally, I stood and walked to the bedroom. The door was open. Moonlight draped across the bed.

He was lying there, fresh from the shower, one arm flung over his face like the day had drained every last drop out of him.

I lingered. Waiting. Watching.

Then—he reached for me. Not with hunger. Not with heat. But with something else. Something raw.

I eased into the bed beside him, and the moment I did, his arm hooked around my waist, anchoring me to him. He held me like a man afraid of letting go. Like he didn’t want me slipping through the cracks we were both trying to ignore.

His lips grazed my forehead.

“You good?”

His voice was thick with sleep and something else.

I closed my eyes, breathing him in. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but in that moment, it was enough.

We lay there in silence, the rhythm of his breathing lulling me.

Then—his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

His body tensed. Just slightly. But I felt it.

He reached for it, screen lighting up the room for a second. He swiped to answer, his voice low and flat.

“How did you get my number, Tasha?”

A pause.

“Don’t call again.”

He hung up and set the phone down without looking down at me.

I stayed still. Eyes closed. Breath shallow. Pretending I was asleep.

But I wasn’t.

And even though I tried not to read too much into it, the shift settled into my chest—quiet and cold.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That what we had meant more than one late-night call from someone clearly trying to push us apart. He didn’t give her his number. His words made that clear. So I should erase all of the bullshit from my mind. Amir was here with me. Lyng so close I could hear his measured breaths turn deep and slow as he drifted off to sleep.

Still… I couldn’t ignore the way my body had gone still in his arms. Or the small ache blooming beneath my ribs.

24

The last few weeks had moved like a blur.

Taraj’s album was buzzing across the industry. Leaked snippets had caught fire, and suddenly, the names in my inbox weren’t just hungry indie artists. They were top-shelf. Big budgets. Bigger expectations.

It was everything I’d worked for. Everything I thought I wanted.

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