Page 69 of The Spark

Because that was the thing about Amaya—she didn’t need a spotlight.

She was the light.

People were drawn to her, naturally pulled in by the ease of her presence, the depth behind her eyes, the vulnerability in her work. I watched her laugh with an older couple standing in front of her “Mosaic of a Man” piece, watched her press her hand to her chest when a woman said it made her cry. I saw the way she paused when someone younger said they’d never seen themselves in art until tonight.

And my chest? It cracked wide open.

Because this wasn’t just a good night. It washernight.

And I got to witness it.

“Yo.” Taraj appeared at my side, holding two glasses of champagne and handing one to me like we were celebrating something bigger than either of us could name.

I took it, nodding toward the speakers as a bassline dropped. Low. Sultry. Unmistakable.

The room shifted with it.

The track playing through the gallery was“Night Things”—the first single off Raj’s upcoming album, Heavy Soul. A slow burner with haunting vocals and a beat that wrapped itself around you before you even knew what hit you.

“You put your whole foot in that one,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes gleaming.

“You brought it out of me.”

He chuckled. “They don’t even know what’s coming.”

A couple guests nearby overheard and turned, recognizing the track. “Is this the new one?” one of them asked. “Who produced it?”

Raj nodded toward me. “This man right here.”

Just like that, I was surrounded—questions, compliments, conversation. I answered politely, offering short responses and tight nods, but my eyes kept drifting.

Back to her.

Back to Amaya.

She was across the room talking to Stephanie—her girl from art school who’d flown in from Chattanooga just to be here tonight. I recognized her from a few FaceTimes they’d had, but now I got to see her up close, see her beaming at Amaya like a proud sister. She caught me watching and gave me a look. One of thoseyou better not mess this upkind of looks.

I gave her a nod likeI won’t.

The crowd kept asking questions about the album, the rollout, the visuals. I gestured toward Amaya.

“She’s the one who brought the whole thing together,” I said. “The art? The emotion? That’s all her.”

But she smiled and shook her head, mouthingtake thislike she wanted me to bask in it, just this once.

So I did. But I never stopped touching her. A hand on her lower back. My fingers on her wrist. Her palm brushing mine every time she walked past.

We were in our own gravity.

And we were never far apart.

Her mother found her just before they left, hugging her close, whispering something that made Amaya tear up and smile at the same time. Her dad gave her one of those long looks—the kind that saidI see you now,and maybe always had.

Stephanie slid over after, tugging her into a side hug. “We need a full recap before I fly back,” she said with a pointed glance at me. “No skipping details.”

“I’ll text you,” Amaya laughed, cheeks warm.

Then she turned to me, eyes dark and hungry.

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