Page 60 of The Spark

Instead, it settled into my bones, becoming part of me.

The nights were the hardest. The silence in the apartment stretched, no longer broken by his deep voice, his laughter, the sound of him moving through my space like he belonged there.

Because he had belonged here. And now, I was alone.

I lay in bed most nights wide awake, staring at the empty space where he used to sleep, remembering the weight of his arm draped over my waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. I had gotten so used to him curling into me, pulling me close even in his sleep, as if even then, he had needed me.

Now, there was only cold sheets and emptiness.

I told myself it was for the best. That I was doing the right thing. That I knew better than to believe our friendship could be more.

History had taught me otherwise. It had taught me that, when given the choice, he always picked something... different.

And while I absolutely loved myself—loved my long braids, my caramel-brown skin, my nerdy obsession with digital art and sci-fi—I’d be damned if I let a man send me spiraling back to those childhood insecurities.

To the girl who used to hate her glasses, her skinny legs, her petite breasts, her small ass.

To the girl who once thought she had to look like someone else, be someone else, to be wanted.

I had worked too damn hard to love myself as I was.

And I refused to let Amir Barkley—a man who had spent years proving that I wasn’t his type—make me forget that.

So I ignored his calls. I let my phone ring.

And when he stood outside my door, the scent of him wrapping around me through the walls, I stayed still.

Unmoving. Even when every cell in my body ached to let him in.

But then I’d pass by the couch and remember how he had stretched out there, eyes half-lidded with hunger, gripping my hips as I rode him slow.

I’d walk into the kitchen and see the counter where he had bent me over, spreading me wide, filling me so deep I had sobbed his name.

I’d step into the bathroom and remember how he had fucked me in the shower, his mouth hot and hungry on my skin as the water ran over us.

The laundry room. God, the laundry room.

I had sat on the washing machine, gripping the edges, my body shuddering as he fucked me slow, teasing me, holding my chin so I had to watch the pleasure take over his face.

I still wasn’t sure how we had gotten away with that one. I swallowed hard, blinking back the heat pricking my eyes.

Enough.

I had spent weeks crying over him, smelling the hoodie he left behind like some heartbroken teenager, watching the door and hoping.

I had to move on. I had to stop waiting for him to come back. I had almost gotten through the night without thinking about him.

Almost. Then my phone buzzed.

Amir: I know you’re home.

My breath caught.

I hesitated before tapping the message, reading the second one that came through right after.

Amir: I could smell you. Your skin. Your sweet pussy. I need you, Amaya.

A shiver rippled down my spine, my thighs pressing together.

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