Page 68 of The Spark

She led me to a tucked-away space off the main gallery. Somewhere quiet. Intimate. As soon as she closed the door behind us, the noise of the night melted away.

And all that was left… was us.

We stood in silence for a beat, the door clicking closed behind her. The music from the gallery faded to a soft hum outside the walls, and now, it was just us. Her back pressed to the door, my heart somewhere between my throat and my knees.

Her eyes didn’t meet mine at first. She looked down, arms folded across her body like she was holding herself together.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

Those three words hit me harder than I expected. Not because I hadn’t longed to hear them. But because I had missed her too—with a kind of ache that never dulled.

I stepped closer, careful with her, like if I moved too fast she might slip away again.

“I missed you every damn day,” I said, voice thick.

She lifted her gaze to mine then, and it was all there—her hurt, her hope, her hesitation.

“I wanted to call you so many times,” she admitted, “but I didn’t know if you still wanted me to.”

I swallowed hard. “Amaya, there wasn’t a second I didn’t want you. I just didn’t know if I still deserved you.”

Her breath hitched, and her arms fell to her sides. “I didn’t know either. But I realize now that we had to go through this to understand each other better. To learn how to love each other better.”

I closed the distance then, slowly, giving her time to stop me if she needed to—but she didn’t. My hands found her waist, her breath caught, and I rested my forehead to hers.

“And do you understand me better.”

She nodded quietly. Her voice came just above a whisper. “Yeah, but so much time passed between us that it felt like it was too late.”

“I’ve only been waiting for you to let me back in, Amaya.”

She nodded, swallowing hard while pinning me with her beautiful brown stare.

“I’d be lying if I said I was okay,” I murmured. “Being away from you—it messed me up. Everything felt loud except the one voice I needed.”

“I tried to be okay,” she whispered back. “I tried to move on with my work, my life, but nothing felt right. I didn’t feel like me without you.”

I kissed her then. Slow. Deep. Like I was relearning the shape of her mouth, the sound of her breath, the way she melted when I touched her just right.

She pulled me closer, hands gripping my shirt. The heat between us flared—urgent, consuming—but something in both of us knew we couldn’t fall all the way in. Not tonight. Not yet.

Her dress was too beautiful. Her art too sacred. And she deserved to remember this night for everything it was—not just what happened behind a locked door.

I leaned back, breathless, my hands still cradling her waist. “Tonight is yours,” I said, brushing my thumb over her plump lower lip. “And I’m not gonna take that from you.”

“You’re not taking anything. You’re giving me everything I didn’t know I needed.”

30

We stepped out of the private room different than how we went in.

No big declarations. No dramatic announcement. But everybody in the building could feel it.

Something had shifted.

She stayed close—her arm brushing mine, her fingers skimming along my wrist like she couldn’t help it. Like her body remembered mine and didn’t want to let go again. I kept a hand at the small of her back. Gentle. Protective. There.

We didn’t hover in one place. She moved through the space, greeting guests, thanking people for coming, slipping into conversations with curators and creatives, her voice soft but sure. And I was right there beside her, giving her room to shine.

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